ArchivedLogs:At One With Himself
|At One With Himself|
Jackson checks in on his Team. His Team does not so much check back.
Bright, bright, bright; the lake glitters wide and expansive here, stretching off into the distance. Sunlight, moonlight, starlight, it catches them all. Lapping at the rocky shore, its deep waters are frigid in winter and cool even in summer. A stone pier stretches out a ways into the water, wide and smooth, though often icy in winter.
The water teems with life nevertheless, home to myriad species of fish that provide for ample fishing or just lazy watching on a slow summer day, for those who want to take a boat from the boathouse out to the center of the lake, or perhaps lounge on the pier and try their luck.
It's edging on towards late afternoon, and with classes not in session this gives the students plenty of time to spend on the grounds. With the weather getting milder as spring approaches, many have taken advantage of this; there are a few playing frisbee on the lawn, an impromput basketball game underway, but down by the lake it's quieter. Except for one colourful figure -- glittery purple makeup, bright pink-and-purple hair, silver-edged black jeans, a purple corduroy jacket worn over a red t-shirt that reads 'All my heroes have FBI files'. Jax has a bulky backpack on his back and is currently crouched at the edge of the pier, frowning off towards the water thoughtfully.
From somewhere near the treeline, there is the sound of wood striking wood... over, and over, and over again. Interjected between the irregular thwacks one might also hear grunting, gasping, cheering and, well... the occasional yelp of pain.
There are five figures in that direction - all of them dressed in comfortable clothes for outdoor activities, as well as some padded leather arm and leg-guards - and they spar furiously with each other, using bokken (or wooden training katanas).
More specifically, four of the five are students, and they are are trying to attack the fifth person - who is Logan. The warrior-mutant moves like an animal, wielding a single bokken in his hand and deflecting every strike with relative ease. The sparring match would appear to be on its way to ending, given the weariness evident in the four students (1 girl and 3 boys - all in their mid-to-late teens), and the frequent whacks they receive, courtesy of their instructor.
The sound of the thwacks draws Jackson's attention upwards and over. There's a while where he stays crouched, one hand braced against the stone, but after a pause he stands. Slow, and a little stiff. He is limping, noticeably but not as badly as he was in days past, as he heads down the pier back towards land, drifting slowly closer to the fighting. He stays at a short distance, just watching the quintet move, tracking the blows from behind his large dark mirrored glasses.
Logan is grinning.
Well, smirking at least.
As if calling the match to a close with a single move, he ducks beneath two attempts to strike his upper body and promptly trips three of the four students (all three boys) with a low sweep of his blade. The boys each land on their rumps amid cries of dismay and 'not fair!', and the laughter of the girl - who alone jumped the sweep.
Logan lowers his blade and takes a step back; he is not even panting. "Not bad - better than last time."
"Yeah right," retorts one of the boys (the eldest from the look of him). The others smirk, groan and nod obediently to the older man.
"Head in then," Logan instructs. "Ya look like ya need a break." Then, as the students slowly pick themselves up and start walking together back toward the mansion, Logan turns his attention to the colourful fellow who is limping closer. He arches an eyebrow.
"Don't tell me you're here for a lesson, bub. You can barely stand as it is." His grin turns crooked, lopsided, and wry. "You're Jax, right?"
"Jax, sir, yes. I'm managing aright, though, and I ain't no student," the brightly-coloured man answers in a heavy Southern drawl with a quick upwards curl of shimmery lips. This, despite his limp, and despite the deferential sir, and despite the fact that he looks young enough he almost could be. He straightens, shifting his bag up higher onto his shoulder, looking Logan over with his glasses shading whatever expression he might be wearing past the small smile. "Though I don't doubt I could learn plenty from you anyhow. But nosir. I was here to check up on folks." He gestures back towards the mansion, but is still looking at Logan. "You included."
THAT makes Logan blink.
"You... wanna check up on me?" he asks with no small amount of dubiousness lacing his tone. A hand goes up to his jaw and itches the side of his beard while he works his mouth around, stretching his jaw muscles. Habit.
"What are ya, the camp counsellor?" The bokken gets draped across his shoulders so he can rest his arms on it, either side of his head.
"Somethin' like that, maybe," Jackson says, quiet amusement buried in his warm voice. He lifts a hand, absent-habitual scuffing at his colourful hair, and shrugs one shoulder stiffly. "I make a habit of it, whenever I lead my team anywhere -- rough. Some time to decompress, let the chaos ease -- well, a little, anyway," is kind of wry, given that the school and the apartments of several of the raid team are still pretty teeming with rescuees, "then check in and make sure everyone's doing alright, or something close to it." It's possibly the dubiousness in Logan's tone that puts a bit of a blush in his cheeks as he adds, somewhat -- sheepishly, "-- I brought cookies."
"Ooookay," Logan breathes without actually saying the word. His lips move with exaggerated emphasis. "That's a first," he explains further, speaking aloud this time. "Coulda used cookies on Liberty Island; I remember being hungry at some point."
He shrugs and puts the bokken down, while still holding onto the wooden hilt. "I'm fine. Got in, got the good guys, killed the bad guys, got out." He gestures dismissively to either side of himself with his hands. "I'm all... whatever - 'at one with myself'. Thanks for askin'."
His tone would suggest he is anything BUT grateful, despite his words of thanks. He takes a step past Jax, then - only to pause, frown, and mouth-shrug a little. "Cookies, huh? Alright, why not. What kind?"
Jax is still watching Logan, quiet, but after a moment he shrugs. "S'good to check. Kinda stuff gets to people sometimes." Jackson swings his backpack down off his shoulder, unzipping it to extract a small plastic tub. Full of cookies. "Army marches on its stomach, so they say." From the looks of his bag, it is not the only cookie-tupperware he is carrying. "Espresso chocolate chip. S'like sugar /and/ caffeine together. Basically how I fuel my entire life."
Shrugging his shoulders in a 'what the hell' gesture, Logan reaches for a couple of cookies and sticks one of them in his mouth. It take a moment for him to decide if he likes it (or would rather spit it out), but one crunch becomes two, becomes three... then it is gone.
The second cookie is quick to follow.
"Not bad," he mumbles, brushing crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. Then he wipes his hands on his jeans. Jerking his chin in the direction of the mansion in a 'let's go' manner, he slowly starts walking in the same direction.
"Gotta set up training courses for tomorrow," he explains.
Jackson closes the container, tucks the cookies away in his backpack. "Yeah," he says, shifting his bag back onto his shoulder and turning to follow along beside Logan, quick as his slight limp will allow, "might want to get in on that myself, soon enough. Be embarrassing if I was out of commission long enough for my /kids/ to take me on." Even if the shark-twins are haaaaardly slouches in the sparring department.