Jason Retters (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} jasonretters) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rrinitiative,@ 2012-09-07 18:42:00 |
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Characters: Jason and Reggie
Setting: Gym, possibly other places later, around 2am.
Jason had spent most of his day after leaving Brady's room holed up in his own room. His room. And shit, that was still a mind-blowing thought. He had spent probably an abnormally long amount of time on the computer - and that wasn't even a luxury he'd realized he had missed until there was one right there - trying to figure out more about this place. After that, he had taken advantage of the private bathroom, enjoying finally getting to shower in private before changing into some of the clothes he had been given. Plain black t-shirt, jeans, black tennis shoes, and the black bracelet from earlier, and it was amazing how much more he felt like normal.
It wasn't until much later, late enough that it could actually be counted as early, that he ventured back out of his room. It was equal parts his curiosity finally getting the better of him, and a simple case of finally being once again allowed to indulge his tendency to be more active late at night. As he wondered through the main courtyard, his eyes once again fell on the gym. He had been planning on going exploring, but... Well, he couldn't help himself.
Letting himself into the gym, he wasn't surprised to find it empty. He really hadn't expected to see anyone else around at this time of night. There was no question about where he was headed once he got inside; he went straight to the large bag hanging in an open corner. Circling around it, he was pleased to see that it looked to be in very good shape. Glancing around, he found a couple pairs of boxing gloves, but decided against them. He hated the gloves, preferred instead to just use handwraps and tape when he was working the bag, so it looked like he'd be going bare-handed until he could get his hands on some.
Stretching quickly, he turned back to the bag, curling his hands into fists and bringing them up into a loose defensive position. First he started with a series of light punches, alternating hands, just trying to get back into the rhythm that had been so easy to fall into before he'd been arrested. He'd have to watch it, he reminded himself, if he didn't want to end up with busted knuckles. Finally though, he found himself getting back into that familiar rhythm, everything else just sort of fading away. Left, left right, left left right, right left, right left, left, right, right left right...