Celeritas [Jamie Bellafonte] (aimoboros) wrote in ofevil, @ 2009-10-01 22:09:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | celeritas |
WHAT: Training
WHEN: Forward dated to October 2, 2009; 4 am
WHERE: The training facility
RATING/STATUS: R/CompleteLorraine Wells was an enigma. She was a mutant with a power Jamie couldn't identify, but one that he was sure was incredibly useful. She also had nearly as much experience and training as Jamie had, limited only by the fact that she was half a decade younger. And she was very, very good, from what he could tell. What's more, Lorraine was cocky. Jamie was about ready to wipe that smirk off of her face, and today was the day. When she'd come into the facility that evening, Jamie had made a bet with her. Bets, of course, were entirely in his spirit. He'd once bet someone that he could tell the exact temperature of a pool of water using only the air temperature and his senses. He'd gotten within a single decimal point. Jamie was quite the gambler. Or so people might have thought. He tossed bets around like they were nothing, but he was careful only to bet when he was nearly assured of winning. This evening's bet had been as usual as always.
A burst of pain along his side made Jamie jerk back to the present reality. His senses were immediately taking stock, like the supersensors on a fictitious starship searching for hull breaches. One of her throwing stars had grazed him; perhaps his only saving grace had been in turning to the side as his memory played out. Two hours had passed already in their fight, and perhaps another two hours would remain. He estimated they'd be fighting all night, until finally they both collapsed from exhaustion. He was sure that sex was a possible ending scenario for this fight; with Jamie, it often was. And judging from her behaviour, she wouldn't find it awkward at all. Another snarl escaped him, and Jamie tightened up. Using a burst of speed and momentum borrowed from pushing off the wall she'd thrown him against, Jamie leapt at her. His knife was an afterthought, quickly snapped shut and deposited in a pocket while airborne. Everything was in slow-motion for him, though it was not the cliché that most might think it was. His awareness was so much faster than the average that to simply stand still in a room for an hour felt like he was being frozen in time. That, perhaps, was why it was a staple of his personal training. Patience was a virtue.
"I'll bet you that I can kick your ass in a fight," he'd said. She had accepted. He'd made but one rule. No weapons like guns, loud and cumbersome and painful. She'd agreed. Their fight had begun at two in the morning.
His hands made contact with her shoulders, knocking her down from proudly standing to flat on her back. Instead of merely lying atop her, however, Jamie used his momentum to force himself into a handstand upon her shoulders. He pushed off, feeling a break a moment before the reporting sound of a crack issued from her body. His senses took in the information as his body went from upside down on her shoulders to firmly planted on the mat behind her head. "Unless you think you can fight me with a broken collarbone, I think we're done," he said, not without satisfaction.
The redhead on the floor didn't move, and Jamie inched closer to cautiously peer down at her face. She was glaring up at him, and he could smell the tinge of anger permeating the room. He quirked an eyebrow upwards. The grin hadn't left his face, even as the various aches in his body began to report themselves anew. The denim of his jeans was rubbing a wound on his knee raw, and it was all he could do to avoid sucking in a pained breath.
Silence reigned supreme for a moment, broken only by the sounds of breathing rasping in his ears. And then she nodded. "You won," she said. Her voice, like his own, was heavily accented. But unlike Jamie, the woman's voice had a distinct Southern twang. He rolled his eyes at her, then shook himself.
"Give me one of your stars, then," he said. That had been the price of failure for her. If she lost, she had to surrender a throwing star to the older male. If he'd lost, he would have had to hand over one of his blades. A simple bet, and one he'd known he would have come away the victor of. She groaned, lying still on the floor for a long moment before one of her arms moved painfully down to pull a star up and lay it flat on her stomach. The Greek-Italian mutant didn't even wait a second before snatching it up off of her and simply striding past her. Blood was issuing from at least three outright wounds, and bruises and lacerations covered him nearly from head to toe. It was the ache of a well-worked day, of a fight earned. Despite the dishevelled appearance of his hair and clothes, and the blood dripping from a cut just under his hairline, one might have thought he'd just been crowned as winner of the Greek-style Olympics from the smile.