WHO: Haley Williamson and Terra Wade WHERE: Camelot Training Rooms WHEN: Early evening Thursday WHAT: They're...getting out their frustration.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The punching bag that Haley was attacking had seen better days. It had worn patches all over it where thread was bare and material was puckering up, and she couldn’t be certain that most of the damage hadn’t come from her. She’d been at it for hours, stopping occasionally to drink, eat, and take a breath. Her knuckles had seen better days; they were red, a few of them cracked and bleeding. For normal people, that would mean stopping. For Haley, it was a challenge. How much longer could she go before her body couldn’t take it anymore? How far could she push it before she was physically exhausted?
She’d never been good at feelings. She felt them, sure, she wasn’t a sociopath, but dealing with what she was feeling wasn’t something she was particularly healthy about, and since Rachel was the same way it wasn’t like the other girl was much help with coaching her through this. She supposed she should have been used to it, being in Camelot. As much as they all joked, as much as they were all friends, at the end of the day they were warriors in a war, and war always had casualties. Rachel’s war with the Animorphs had casualties. Hell, Rachel was one of them. But instead of dealing with feelings, Haley preferred to be violent. Hitting things was concrete. Hitting things she could deal with.
And this felt new. Even with all of the loss, all of the set backs, Rachel had never lost her leader. Jake hadn’t died, at least not while Rachel was still alive. Charlie wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t there either. It still felt like a loss. Not just felt like one, it was one. He’d been her boss, sure, but she’d liked Charlie. He was a friend.
Haley let out a growl, and quickly sprouted brown fur. Morphing into a bear had been a spur-of-the-moment reckless decision. It served no purpose other than letting her strike out a powerful clawed arm to sever the punching bag off of its perch and send it flying across the room, gashes in the side where her sharp claws had ripped into it. She immediately morphed back into her normal self, and collapsed into a seated position. Morphing that closely together was exhausting, but it was a satisfying exhaustion, a productive exhaustion, that felt exhilarating. She grabbed her towel and pat it against her forehead where beads of sweat had collected, and let out a slow breath.
“Crap,” She whispered, looking over at the destroyed bag. “Jess is going to kill me.” Or Lucas if Jess didn’t get to her first. They weren’t thrilled when people abused their training equipment.