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[mindtricks]

CHARACTERS: cassandra anderson + you
LOCATION: gym
WARNINGS: none as of yet
SUMMARY: anderson offers self-defense classes. people who need no classes are welcome to come spar.
NOTES:



[ anderson divides the vast majority of her time between gunnery and the gym, where she gives self-defense classes both to people that she has a standing appointment with as well as to those who just wander by and express an interest.

in the moments between lessons, she can be found stretching, or having a go at a punching bag. ]

Comments

[mindtricks]

[ she told him before — she is reacting rather than anticipating, just like anyone else. it's just that her mutation gives her the means to start reacting to intent that need not translate into muscle movement already. it means she can start reacting earlier, it doesn't mean anything else than that. ]

No.

[ and she passes the ball back to him, with perhaps more force than necessary. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ She could tell him a thousand times in a thousand different ways and he’d warp and worry each of them into an exercise in speculative murder. Three months later, her judgment is still fresh in his mind. Not as a source of ire, but of persistent fascination.

Not just that she said she’d kill him, but that he believed her.

He’s delighted when she stiffs the ball back to him as hard as she does, teeth shown in a wicked arc -- half grimace for the effort involved in stopping it short of a punch to the gut. She can feel the way adrenaline seizes through him in time with a shrill shutter at his eyes, breath caught and forced out through his teeth. ]

I’ll behave, [ he promises, once he’s straightened upright. Earnest. The medicine ball rests easy at his middle, his hands splayed wide at the ice caps. ] No funny business.

[mindtricks]

Will you?

[ that is halfway between a question and a flat statement, voice barely lifting towards the end. she doubts that he will in fact behave, but she will take the promise.

at least the intention behind it is true; earnest. it's interesting that his reaction to her judgment should be interest. ]

[sorrycharles]

...If you do.

[ The up-and-down look Erik gives her rings skeptical that she’d do anything but. It’s also physical evidence of the fact that he’s now thinking twice.

Sweat flecks off the end of his nose when he exhales; he blinks hard against the sting of it in the corners of his eyes. Is this a trick question?? Uncertainty breaks out into another smile, enthusiastic about being punched by a beautiful mutant any which way.

Much better to think about that than -- say, the mystery woman laid out in a coma in medbay or the way Alex keeps flouncing about his periphery.


He looks like a German Shepherd waiting for a piece of bread. ]

[mindtricks]

[ perhaps she should talk to him about alex. it isn't exactly her place, but she considers alex a friend and for some reason, erik and her are moving towards something that is beyond mere acquaintance as well, despite everything starting with a statement that she would kill him.

so maybe she will. not to begin with, though. ]

All right.

[ nodding towards the mat in invitation. ] Show me what you remember from last time. [ and a second later she has advanced and is throwing the first punch.

he should remember that block. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ He remembers.

Violence comes naturally to him; there’s a grace and fluidity to muscle memory that belies long limbs and bony wrists. It’s a controlled deflection and redirection, of course. Professional.

No extras this time.

Even if there is a coin burning a hole in his pocket.

She gets to experience the sweat on his back firsthand when he rolls her up over it. ]

[mindtricks]

[ she could have evaded the throw — it wouldn't have been elegant or easy, but she could have done it. she didn't, because she wants to see him execute it.

still training, even now.

( he thinks of the coin and she suppresses the urge to kick out, mid-throw, catch his kneecap. )

she lands, rolls with it, gets back to her feet and advances on him, not with a punch but a kick this time, aimed at his mid-section. it's fast, but she's pulling it slightly. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ Rather than risk getting tangled into a deflection straight away, Erik springs back, both hands open on defense. Shoulders loose, he bounces in place a beat.

Then he closes the distance with a feint, grin peeled back into a snarl behind a strike that comes late, off rhythm until the one two that tests up high before hammering for her gut in earnest.

He doesn’t pull it.

He suspects he won’t need to. ]

[mindtricks]

[ if the punch connected, it would hurt — but she won't let it connect, won't let him hit her stomach. it's almost funny, to think back of how hesitant he was last time to throw the first punch, how determined he is now.

she knows the punch is coming even when he feints, reads it on his mind, and drops low, swiping at his feet with one leg. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ Erik’s knuckles make a solid whoof sound past her ear. Miss.

What he registers next is the latticework of scaffolding across the gym ceiling, bright lights, a dull ache in the base of his skull where his head snapped forward upon impact.

He’s fine by the time he’s wrested himself upright, trousers dusted at on his way to squaring up again. Arms up, glare warier than before.

An Erik-shaped span of damp mat continues to evaporate slowly behind him. ]

[mindtricks]

[ she waits for him to get up again, neither offering a hand nor following-up the take-down with an arm or leg across his throat, no move to disable him. instead, she stands back and watches him get up again, arms held in a loosely defensive position.

his turn to attack, again. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ His turn to attack, cat after a laser pointer.

This time there’s no feint.

Left, right, left. High, low, low, sweat snapped the backs of his arms off like blood off a whip. He’s protective of his head, less so about his middle, heavily reliant upon quicksilver (but not Quicksilver) reflexes. Footwork.

Aggression. ]

[mindtricks]

[ he leaves himself open and anderson exploits that openness, landing punches to his middle and side even if it means ducking under his arms or taking a punch to land one of her own.

he doesn't pull his punches and so she has to work not to let him hit her full-on. she's good enough to do it and her mutation gives her the edge, but it still means continuous focus and speed. both are exhausting, but better than the alternative.

he's aggressive, so she fights more defensively except to exploit the openings he leaves, unwittingly.

smaller fists to his stomach. ]

[sorrycharles]

[ Erik has to take a couple of solid shots to the gut before he’s driven to wise up. He edges back, haggard, turns a wrist down in time to deflect the next punch and promptly catches Cassandra’s opposite fist with his liver.

He hunches, splutters, successfully stifles the impulse to rear back and plow her skull off her spine with a haymaker, not that he would succeed.

He sinks to a knee instead, casually indignant. It doesn’t hurt that much. He’s just tired. Lost a contact lens, checking the mat for trip hazards, etc. ]

[mindtricks]

( she doesn't add insult to injury by asking whether he's all right. instead, she waits, patiently and calm — though the fight has left her breathing harder than usual, has pushed her as much as it has him. )

Do you want to keep going?

[sorrycharles]

Yes, [ Erik … rasps. Convincingly. ] Just -- time out, [ endorphins are taking their time, slow to flood out the ache in his side, ] for a moment.

[ He could repay the favor. The silver coin crosses his mind again.

As soon as it does, he looks at her and away, knowing that she knows. ]

[mindtricks]

All right.

( and then he thinks of the coin and the smile that was beginning to form drops off her face immediately, replaced with something that is not quite anger, closer to disappointment and disapproval. )