Who: Teagan and Sarge Where: Where the sparrers go. What: Sparring. When: late afternoon, of September, 2
Guess we’ll go outside, and face the slaughter. Of a dead end life, and a world getting smaller. Shortly you’ll be here, my little darling. All the birds can crow, and the winter doesn’t matter.
If there was one place someone could find Teagan Morgan when she was in a dark place, it was beating the shit out of a punching bag. This term is used loosely. In this case, said 'punching bag' is in fact a punching bag. Other times it's been a prospect/patch/bitch/old lady who'd run his/her/hir mouth about Teagan's position at the Dog Park. Or, a CHUD could be a punching bag. There were also DoR chumps who were not always as heroic as they were made out to be. There was that one DoR agent that she loved to mercilessly taunt. Yeah, he was a fucking brilliant punching bag.
Right now though, she only had the bag. A 150 pound monstrosity that wasn't at all too heavy for her size. She had the focus and strength to work on it, punching and kicking relentlessly until she was out of breath each time.
Her skin glistened in the torchlight with a thin sheen of sweat she'd earned through hours of exertion. It had only seemed like minutes. Her fists flying, a blur to anyone watching her and there was just one face she saw in place of the bag. It was the last punch that her skin gave way, the skin Marcus had patched a few weeks back. The blood splattered on the vinyl but it was obscured by its color and the time of day.
A few more punches, just to work through the pain, to practice with an injury and she stopped. She'd have to re-tape. It was only them that she noticed Sarge. "I'm not done." she growled through all of that anger that she hadn't yet pounded out yet, unwinding the ripped tape from her knuckles, ready for more.