ArchivedLogs:Less Dwelling, More Action
| Less Dwelling, More Action | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2015-10-25 "Then /bam/. Guess we going back to DC." (Part of Flu Season TP.) |
| Location
<BOM> Training Center - Main Lodge - Ascension Island | |
Down a short flight of stairs off of the common room, this room is a departure from the homier stone and wood upstairs. Its bare concrete walls are clearly basementy in feel, though its floor has been refurbished in gleaming synthetic flooring marked out like a basketball court. This spacious gymnasium includes a variety of punching bags -- of several compositions (for normal strength mutants or mutants on the high end of the spectrum) -- a boxing ring, a wall for climbing, several lengths of rope, and many, many training dummies for people to practice their powers on. Someone's dressed up one of the training dummies as a police officer, and scrawled a dopey smiley face on it; the sign on his chest declares him to be 'OFFICER SHITS-HIS-PANTS'. Officer Shits-His-Pants has seen better days; by the look of him, he's been set on fire and lost at least one of his limbs. In the back room is more training equipment -- everything from boxing gloves, medical tape, sports equipment, and even some unusual customized equipment for the more 'physical' mutants. The infirmary door stands near the stairway leading back up. Not-so-freshly out of his sickbed and working on his centerwork this afternoon, Jewel concentrates on technique. Taking up very little of the room, the dancer faces forward as he does various small, repetitive movements. His ankles flex and bend, while his wrists extend gracefully and pull back towards his body. Most of what little he must weigh is supported by the very tips of his toes. Others come and go -- their workouts completed -- but Jewel remains, nitpicking himself into oblivion with tragedy airs and woeful sighs. On occasion, kicks at the wall or the floor. His movements are lovely to any unrefined eye, but don’t measure up to his standards. The frustrated young mutant wears a lightweight black boat-neck sweatshirt, and tight nylon athletic shorts of a similar color that stop just above the bandaged wound on his thigh. His pointe shoes are a dusky nude, and only a fraction of a degree darker than his own complexion. Tearing out his earbuds a final time, Jewel prowls away from his center point to loosen his legs. With a deep frown, he runs his fingers through his hair and swan-dips to retrieve his water bottle. Ion has been fairly scarce around the island, since the return from DC. Popping in and out here and there but -- mostly out. Avoiding the bulk of the GRUMBLING about frying the island's power. He's here today, though, in jeans and boots and a white sleeveless undershirt -- that counts as workout clothes, right? -- and he's come down here not long past to claim a punching bag. Hands wrapped in black, jaw tight, his fists thud-thud-thud against the heavy bag interspersed with occasional whacks of elbow. A lot more vim than style, no particular /form/ in contrast to the elegance of Jewel's graceful technique nearby. Slam. Thud. "-- Something," he finally speaks, words punctuated with the thud of fists, when Jewel takes a break, "wrong? You moves look on point to me." He -- likely doesn't really realize the pun. Regan is just coming down the stairs, a large cardboard box tucked beneath one arm. She's in lycra capris, a racerback tank, sneakers, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail; she doesn't head for the workout floor at first, though, disappearing into the infirmary. She returns in short order, now empty-handed. Quiet, her eyes skipping between Ion and Teague thoughtfully. Upon closer inspection, the sheen of sweat over Jewel's brow and neck is more in the way of clammy than the perspiration brought on by a good workout. The boy is pale, not flushed. After drinking what could be the majority of his 23 oz water bottle, with water trickling out from the corners of his lips, he coughs into his fist and turns his heavy-lidded eyes to Ion. "It's sloppy," he explains in a quiet, hoarse voice. He has to clear his throat before he can speak normally, "I can't concentrate." He tightens his jaw, scuffing his pointe shoe on the ground beneath him. "Could come trade places with me," Ion suggests, mouth curling up into a broad grin. His elbow slams hard into the bag. "I dance. You hit. Easy to focus on /smashing/ shit, yeah? Bam-bam-/bam/, who have a problem concentrating on that? Whap. Then you watch me dance a little, make your work look like fucking goddamn /aces/. Gold. Rock-/solid/." Regan's head tips down, shoulders briefly shaking in a small chuckle. She slips around towards the back, returning shortly from the storage room with a pair of forearm shields tucked beneath her elbow as she wraps her own hands. "In all fairness, you could stand to be a touch less sloppy yourself." There's not a lot of /reproach/ in her tone, though it is a little bit wry as she passes by Ion. "And while I more than understand wanting to do your best --" Now her brows have lifted, head tipping towards Teague, "I imagine being sick isn't going to have you at your peak. How are you feeling?" Slapping the bottle against the side of his leg tiredly, Jewel rolls his shoulders, “If I had to stay in bed a moment longer with my thoughts, I was going to impale myself.” Now, his eyebrows have lifted. “On a diamond.” He brushes away a curl of hair that sticks to his temple, “I’m better than I have been, I’d say.” Which isn’t to say that he’s actually better. "Know /that/ feel." Though Ion's smile is crooked. "Though I think me, I probably wouldn't die half so pretty." He scowls at the punching bag, then hooks an arm up around it as he leans in. Jerks his chin up to Regan and her forearm shields. "You gonna de-sloppy me, then? I ain't feeling messy. Just ready to fucking /go/." "I'd much prefer no impaling." Regan finishes wrapping her hands, sliding the forearm shields on to strap them, then grip their handles. "I'm not trying to begrudge you the workout. Just might be best not to be /too/ hard on yourself your first day back out. If you're on the mend then tomorrow," she says lightly, the corner of her mouth twitching, "there'll still be plenty of time to beat yourself up over imperfect form." Her eyes linger on Jewel a moment, though. Mind invisibly brushing against his in pensive assessment. "Remind me to send you some books, though. For when your thoughts are just too much." Her brows have hiked back up when she addresses Ion. "Not /feeling/ messy? And -- yet. B and Dusk have had to scrub footage of you off of surveillance at three difference NYPD stations. I wouldn't call that /neat/." Jewel could say it was proximity to Ion that has his surface thoughts wandering to Kay, but the man was on his guilty conscience well before that. A few nights of fever dreams made the connection between losing the pyromancer during battle, and the abandonment of Jewel's brother under similarly high pressure circumstances. "Tomorrow," he nods his head in a single bow, lowering his eyes in submission. Soon enough, the teen flicks his gaze back up to Ion. "That was -you-?" He asks, a twinkle in his eye. The teen back-steps to lean against the wall, giving the pair the floor. It's entirely possible a different person might feel guilty about this; at the least chagrined at having been /caught/. Ion just grins, though, fierce and bright, /rolling/ in off the bag to throw a (sloooppy!) elbow towards one of Regan's forearm shields. "That's why them nerds watching my /back/, huh? /Hah/! They seen me?" He throws up /both/ middle fingers at Regan. "They seen me say /fuck/ them goddam tin cans? For /real/ though." The next punches he throws are kind of shadow-boxed in Jewel's direction. "Like you /say/, man. Only so much sit-around-in-bed you can do, yeah? You gotta roll up /on/ them motherfuckers." "You're only lucky B is extraordinarily punctilious, or you might be in a good deal more of a bind now." Regan's arm stays steady through the smack against the shield, head shaking afterwards. "If you're going to throw a sideways strike like that, twist more sharply from here," her other arm taps lightly with the shield at Ion's wrist, "and come in directly. Straight line. Less flail. And certainly --" Her words may be directed to Ion, though her mind is still focused elsewhere, listening to Jewel's, "you want to get out. Do something. But surely you know there's no end of willing /help/ on this island. There's some middle ground to be found between being alone with your thoughts and -- well. Rolling. Up. Alone." Jewel's eyes widen as Ion starts flipping Regan the bird. /He/ thought he was being overly impertinent when he raised his eyebrows at her. Perhaps still feverish, the Londoner simply tries to keep up with Regan and Ion's sparring match. The impulsive, unpredictable blows bring flashes in his mind of the night a couple weeks ago in D.C. and then, another evening in D.C. much longer ago -- using a diamond shield to block similarly rash, impetuous blows from a bloody, emotional-ravaged boy, augmented with diamond armor -- using a diamond shield to block Sentinel's darts -- being thrown from his brother, and leaving him to the S.W.A.T. team -- being thrown from Kay...
Regan's small curt nod at Ion's following strikes is just one of approval. "Or maybe what you both need is --" She slides a foot back, setting up in a more stable stance and just weathering the series of jabs without offering correction. "Less dwelling. /More/ action. But not on camera, I hope, Ion. -- Your brother," she's only glanced briefly at Jewel, brows lifting, "he is still /in/ D.C.?" Showing only the tip of the iceberg, Jewel blinks in mild surprise. “I believe so,” he answers, blinking more to sharpen his awareness, “Probably shut up like that maiden in Rumple-fucking-stiltskin.” A small amount of color returns to his cheeks, and he begins to perk up, “Are you suggesting-?” "More action?" This contrarily halts Ion's current action; he stops where he stands, giving Regan a brighter look. Hopeful! "You know I'm down, what we doing?" His eyes shoot over to Jewel, head tilting. "Brother? Rumpole? Whazzat? We goin' /back/ to D.C.? I got /hella/ shit to blow the fuck up there." Regan manages to only wince a /little/ bit at Ion's last comment. "We'll see how much exploding is necessary." She inclines her head in affirmation to Jewel. "What happened to him was not your fault. You survived; if you hadn't, perhaps you would both be shut up there and for good. But you're here, now, and we have the resources -- and certainly the /will/ --" There's a small glimmer of a smile afforded Ion's enthusiasm, "to help him. I -- imagine," she allows, more cautiously, "that the time there must have been rough on him. I can't promise /our/ home will be the best suited -- but certainly the one he's /in/ isn't, either." Brow furrowed, Jewel can't stop looking at Regan. "My brother," he finally turns, explaining in a breathy tone to Ion as he fights through his cloudy mind. He clears his throat to avoid coughing, "He has powers like mine. Our father, the Congressman -- should you blow him up, there'll be no love lost -- is using him for funding." Jewel sips from the last few drops of his bottle of water, "I had to leave him behind, before. Like Kay." "Fuck, man." It's an oddly sympathetic /fuck/, Ion's head shaking at this news. "But not for good though, huh. He your family, he /our/ family." But this is followed by a swift baring of teeth in sharp grin: "Well. /Though/. You find me any-damn-fucking /politician/, I blow /them/ sky high." "As Ion says." Regan lowers her arms, dropping the padded shields to her sides. "What you had to do then is far different from what you -- what we -- /could/ do, now. If you wanted." With a subtle upturned nudge of his chin, Jewel nods, "I want to save him." Squaring off his shoulders, the teen looks slowly from Regan to Ion. Sickly as he may be, he seems invigorated by them. Ion drops lower, hooking one arm in to throw a low punch to one of the dangling shields. Lazily. More bap than punch. "Then /bam/. Guess we going back to DC." | |
