driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Coil Lenn
Broadcast: Text (and not anonymous, for once)
Action: Iskaulit, in the gym
When: Morning

[it is a rare day indeed that Coil sends out a message with his identification attached to it, but he figures it's probably hard to convince someone to fight with you when they don't know who's asking. and he takes time to write the thing up properly, like putting an ad in the paper.]

Looking for sparring partner-- hand-to-hand or melee weapons. Experienced combatants only. Iskaulit Gym.

[and he just tosses the communicator off to the side for a bit, after that. he'll return to check his messages after he's beaten the shit out of a sandbag for a while.

and whether or not they've caught his message, anyone can find him haunting the gym--either moping around like he doesn't know why he's there, or whirling a quarterstaff around and clobbering a sandbag with single-minded focus. just a combat-oriented teenager in a bad mood.]

(ooc: and for anyone who isn't really into tagging fight threads, but still wants to spar with him, we can handwave or gloss over some things.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The provocation does nothing. Steve's not impossible to goad, but once he's drawn a line in the sand it takes nothing short of a miracle to get him past it. He keeps the rest of the match very keenly refereed, and blows he lands are done to non-essential areas and well away from any organs, and when the two minutes is up (he doesn't bother with a watch or a clock, his grasp of passing time is just one more thing the serum flawlessly imparted) he steps back and away, gives Coil a short, respectful bow.]

Thank you for the match.

[It's maybe a little formal, but he thinks there haven't been many people in the boy's life to treat him with actual respect, and it costs him nothing to give.]

[what should be taken as respect seems to only be read as patronizing, as a brief flash of anger crosses Coil's face. before the abrupt end of the fight, he'd at least been holding onto some hope that the match could be dragged out, without some obvious way to keep track of time around them. he hadn't guessed that his opponent basically had a clock in his head.

not winded but at least breathing heavy, and perspiring from the exertion, he can't hide the fact that he's tired now. but, it's apparently still not good enough.

another huff of frustrated breath, and he motions for the man to come at him again. forget his earlier agreement. just a little bit more.]

[He shakes his head.]

I understand wanting to fight your way into exhaustion [he doesn't add, with someone who'll beat you bloody, but he's thinking it.] but I'm not going to be that guy for you. I'm sorry.