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[Excellent question, actually. William contemplates this momentarily.]

Shooting, [he decides. He'd had a good drill instructor, who'd observed he was considerably more confident when people weren't close up enough to see how he was faring-- that was, how he was healing, and bullets do have the advantage of distance. Even if confidence will get you only so far, nerves will fuck your combat right up.] Took to it better, somehow, and the tests was always on about our marksmanship.

Best to stick to my strengths, then?

[ stick to his strength? — anderson shakes her head, not quite smiling. ] Better try to balance the scales.

[ which means they'll work on footwork rather than shooting. ]

[But mom. William looks exasperated in the way that people do when they figured they'd have to do something but didn't want to, breaking from a very mundane sort of optimistic denial. Hhhh.] Awright, [he says.] I've got some basic grapples, breakaways, striking, defense.

But I ain't cartwheeling a kick upside anybody's head in the foreseeable future. How do I start? [He glances at the punching bag, and back to her again. THAT SEEMS RELATIVELY EASY. Y/Y/Y?]

Try to hit me.

[ anderson is very much in favour of optimism, but not when it comes with denial — her own idealism comes with a firm dose of realism. she knows life isn't perfect, rather the opposite, she just wants to make it better.

having him hit her (or try to) will also give her an indication of how good or bad he really is, and where they need to start. ]

[He doesn't protest, bring up her gender, anything as idiotic as that.

He puts his feet into a front stance, one foot forward, the other back. Puts his fists up, takes a shot at her chin. It's quick, deft, by the standards of a civilian; she probably could have written it down on paper in the time it took to read the telegraph and his fist to start moving, but y'know.

At least his guard is there.]

[ plenty of people have done that, and she appreciates that he doesn't even though the thoughts might flick through his mind.

it's better than she expected, given that he identified it as his weak point. it's better than expected, but it is certainly not fast enough to actually connect; anderson combines a block with side-stepping the punch, arm connecting with his to further misdirect his fist. ]

Try again.

[gdkslhgls fgmslg hhh fine. William gets his feet back under him, his balance not-- terrible but nothing about this, any of this, screams muscle memory. He gets his guard up again and then he's darting forward again.

This time, he thinks better than to stop at one blow, supposing that she is taking him seriously, in the expectation that he is serious about not wanting to die of manticores. This train of logic is not completely unreasonable. So he comes at her, left fist first, right fist second, and then--

Now, is Guangtou, sibilant in his mind's ear,

--and it's half distraction, half inspiration that jack-knifes William's arm in the air, throws his elbow into the side of her frame as fast as a flinch.]

[ for someone with seemingly no muscle memory of fighting, he does it well enough. muscle memory only comes with practice and repetition and she understands that he has neither.

she evades the first punch, blocks the second — and the third is faster, harder. she twists, neither blocking nor evading entirely, his elbow catching her side but with less force than if she had remained still. it might leave a bruise, but she is used to those. ]

Good.

[ there was someone or something else in his mind. she's curious, but not enough so to ask just yet. ]

Whoops, [is no doubt exactly what you want to here from your hardened military. At least, the tattoo in his wrist says SCI and not SEC. He might say 'whoops' less around the operating table.

William centers himself again. He looks a little tired already, his guard beginning to drop, but that's what happens when you're new-- even if the activity isn't long or forceful enough to be strenuous, there's a funny waste of burned-off adrenaline.

It speaks volumes about his character, that even though she isn't hitting him at all, he hasn't gone full throttle. There's no angry flurry of testosterone-fueled head shots, no mad tackle, war cry, anything like that. He stays -- cautious, on the defensive, conservative about his attacks. It's long minutes in before he starts cutting loose a little more-- and then the hits come more frequent, head shot, head shot, then a sudden knee.

Through it, the other presence in his mind remains relatively discreet. Perhaps it knows she's watching. She picks up a fleeting image here or there: a whiff of stale meat, a faint fresh hue to the Tranquility's lights, a scab of old blood ghosting over the wall, obviously references to a world that is not here. William doesn't seem to find the hallucinations disturbing at all. If anything, it seems to set him more at ease.

She knows a thing or two about casting illusions. Why people do it.]

[ she certainly hopes that there will be no moments requiring 'whoops' around the operation table. he will have to work on his stamina, but for now it's a good start to learn about his skills and what she has to teach him, where to begin actual training.

they continue, sparring more than training for now, anderson blocking and letting him advance at first before turning tables and testing his defense, moving from slow attacks to faster ones when he manages to block them.

once she is satisfied, she steps back. ] Not bad.

[ a beat, and a moment later: ] What's on your mind? [ it's neutrally said, the question ambiguous enough that it might seem she isn't asking about the hallucinations, the presence in his mind.

she is, though. ]

[William sits down. He is pretty much done right now, sweat laking on the back of his neck, shiny on his forehead, exhaustion seeping through every sinew in his lanky frame. Fights don't last longer than a couple minutes at absolute best, in the real world, and he's of half a mind to complain about that, except she's asking him something now.

He blinks wearily at approximately the height of her hip, an exhausted msile flickering over his face like a guttering gas flame.

He doesn't suspect anything behind her question, and Guangtou doesn't point it out to him.] If the Commander doesn't let me go on this fuckin' safari, I'm going to be gutted, [he tells her. He is thinking of the far-off hallways, repeating walls that give way to poorer-kept floors, odd tracks in the dust, the crawling fear that waits-- along with the novelty of regions finally unknown. He doesn't have illusions about finding paradise about the Tranquility, but he certainly lacks the imagination the ship doubtless has. He pants.] --maybe not by manticores, though.

[In his head, manticores are green. And have scales. Anderson has the impression of a smile, fleeting.]

[ she thinks about commenting that walking it off rather than sitting would be better, but doesn't. he likely knows that himself and still chooses to sit.

his answer isn't what she asked for, but her question was vague enough that she does not mind it. ] Why do you want to go?

[It's the right question.

His thoughts gutter, return to the creature in his head, as if he'd forgotten until just then that it was there. Whatever it is that he's carrying around in his head, it doesn't bother him enough to be a frequent preoccupation. Less like a latent tumor waiting to burst a crucial artery, more like something inherent to the shape of his brain. Even schizophrenics aren't much bothered by the shape of their ventricles. He is under a little pressure.] Oh. Well.

[He stretches his feet out on the mat in front of him, so at least there is that nod to sensible cooldown.] To be honest, mostly 'cause I'm fucking bored. When I enlisted back home, it didn't turn out as bad as all that and I s'pose you might say it whetted my appetite for adventure, give back a little. [All true. Guilt hangs like a stale smell off him.] And back home, I wasn't cooped up inna ship wifout windows. [He squints up at her.] And I'm--

[Guangtou is--]

--more'n a little curious. Why ain't you goin'?

( guangtou.

she still doesn't have an answer, but she does have a name now and that means she can ask more specific questions. she's interested in the answer to this one, though, genuinely so. )

I have things to do here.

( her classes, gunnery — and anderson, for all that she is capable and wants to make a difference, is also cautious. more so than dredd had been; she likes being on the safe side. she likes some semblance of certainty in a world that is anything but. )

Who's Guangtou?

[The disc scratches. Bzzzrrghk.

William blinks, surprised. He glances up at her, retracts his feet back to his person, stretching exercises apparently falling to the wayside. Internally, his reflexes are good: somebody taught him something of basic telepathic defense, the fact that fighting back a thought direct is the best way to rear it in greater and greater strength. So he attends to the present, instead: the sturdy, aerodynamic lines of her armor as he stands up, the feel of the floor under his shoes, the quality of light coming down her hair.

Of course, it only works for about five seconds before the word leaks out, self-conscious, more than a little paranoid, and for good reason:

demon] Wha-- [he lifts a finger, scuffs a backward boot, catching the thought even as it's said. It'd be funny, if she couldn't smell the fear crawling off him rancid and real.] --but not like that. Bloody Hell, ma'am, ain't nothing like a telepath, is there? He's-- not evil. He's, uh.

A friend. [It's close to the truth, no intent to lie. In his mind, Guangtou rolls over like a dog waiting scratches, wallowing comfortably in the walls of William's head. Peers at Anderson upside-down. A vague presence, still; nothing violent, nothing clear. No clean line of communication, certainly, even if she would want one.]

( it's disconcerting, the incongruity between the association that comes with the word demon and the mental image of guangtou rolling over, upside-down and belly-up. all that is missing is the equivalent of a tongue lolling out.

anderson never had pets growing up, certainly no dog, but she can still read friendly well enough off the movement. she's not certain she would want a clean line of communication. perhaps out of interest — but her curiosity is no reason to push too far, to really get into william's head and see if she can't reach the demon. )

How did he get into your head?

( ma'am. she's not higher ranked than he is; she has no rank at all. she notes his fear and part of her wants to alleviate it, wants to assure that she isn't going to do anything bad, that he has no reason to be afraid.

another part of her presses on instead, neutral and without judgment, but knowing full well that keeping her face passive is an interrogation strategy in itself. )

No idea. [Some idea, is the guilty thought, a half-conscious whisper like the fumes off the surface of a very old, very sick bog. William came from a world that was terminal, and she has a flash of an image in her head: poverty and squalor, corruption, infrastructure rotted from the inside out in so many places. Yet a minority that persisted, still, in perverse opulence.

Maybe I was weak. But it's not a damning notion, exactly; it carries with it the tired, almost indifferent knowledge, that everybody was weak. Earth was dying.] He can't get at anybody else direct, [he reassures her.] Asks me to do shit sometimes, but it ain't ever been to hurt anybody else. [The opposite.

There's a trembling memory of watching a girl in an unfamiliar uniform with her hand gashed open, cut to the bone, the terror on her face; the feel of her shoulder under his hand, and then the wound closing up like the surface of syrup after a dipped spoon. It took him half an hour, but the memory is a split-second.] Are you gonna--

[And this image is not memory of experience, but the impressionistic scrabble of remembered imagination, cut together with a vid clip or five somewhere. The terror hadn't stayed long, but there had been there. Burnings, lynchings. Hunts in the street, government experimentation that was so imperatively secret that everybody knew it, between the United States of America and the Royal Parliament of Cambodia. Not all of the demons had fought back, but it was their carriers, really, who had paid the price. Some part of William has already guessed that there are far stranger creatures aboard the Tranquility, and perhaps none so frightening as the Tranquility herself, but.

Some worlds teach their denizens to be careful.] --raise some sort 'f alarm?

( he thinks and thinks and anderson follows his trail of thoughts, sees the poverty and the corruption, sees the crumbling infrastructure and is reminded in many ways of her own world.

sees the image of the girl's wound healing, too, and makes her decision. )

No.

( anderson is not a judge here, and even if she was: there is no law to cover this and anderson would not consider it justice to condemn him for something that does not appear to be a crime, when he has not done anything bad but only something she cannot quite comprehend or grasp.

people fear what they are ignorant of, that is true, but anderson has always been curious and a quick study. ) Unless you give me reason to.

Awright.

[Through the conduit of her ability, Anderson can feel it when relief lifts off him like steam off water, good riddance of uncomfortable heat and excess energy. To those of us with ordinary eyes, though, he keeps a good game face. Nods, straightening, folds an arm briefly behind himself. It's a good burn, the stretch of muscle.] Thanks.

[For most people, he'd say more. To be polite, mostly; elaborate about the reception he was anticipating, the kind that he would have expected if he were the first of his kind ever discovered in the times back home. Anderson, though, warrants a sidelong glance, a vague understanding that words need not be said. If nothing else, he thinks of himself as vastly harmless.]

I'm gonna fuck off to the showers, I fink. Thanks, ma'am.

[The shapeless glare off the chromed walls looks like a demon's smile.]

( he's right — there is less of a necessity to speak, when your conversation partner is able to pick the thoughts and emotions out of your mind instead.

she inclines her head, agreement and acknowledgement. )

You're welcome.

( both for the training and for not telling on him. )

Night. [William's smile not only looks genuine but is genuine, goes all the way up to his eyes.

He inclines his head, turns away. His anachronistic sneakers squeak a little as he lopes on out into the hallway, vanishes into the labyrinthine spaces beyond.]

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ffwd or stay with particulars? <3

gently handwaves stuff and things

your hand waves so gently

very gently i try

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