ArchivedLogs:Trainings

Trainings
Dramatis Personae Regan, Charlie Torres, Teague, J.C.	15 April 2015 '
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. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-/thwack/-grunt. The training room is occupied at the moment, if only very slightly. Mats laid out at one side, a pair of women evidently engaged for kind of Some Time already, judging by the amount of sweat and panting-breaths and flushed faces. At the moment, J.C. is launching herself off a wall /onto/ Regan, claws out and yellow eyes bright with the exertion. Regan meets the snake-girl's attack with her shoulder, not trying to avoid it so much as rolling with it to take the both of them down to the mat. In sports bra and shorts, sneakers, hair pulled back into a ponytail that is starting to come mussed and undone, her skin is flushed and her shirt damp with sweat. Scratches all down her arms and the stippled red beginnings of a bruise on her stomach. It's hard to /see/ what damage may or may not have happened with J.C.; her spread of green-yellow scales don't quite show injury the same way. Charlie has been in the back room with the free weights for some time, if one is to judge by the amount of sweat dampening her fur. Her brown hair is tied back and long ears are raised, not for catching sounds but for dispersing heat, as well. She is dressed in a great deal less than usual: navy tee with a sparrow's silhouette on it in white, lighter blue shorts revealing her oddly dense-muscled legs, feet hidden in what appear to be truly oversized sneakers. She makes her way over to where she left her water bottle (a dark blue Nalgene number that looks like it /might/ have been dropped down an entire mountain from the degree of scuffs and nicks on it), unscrewing the top to take a long drink as she watches the pair's match. Teague has sat outside of the room for some time, prepping his powder-colored pointe shoes and bolstering his courage. He can't imagine the room gets a lot of what he intends to bring, but he puffs his chest, walking in an odd duck-footed manner. With his long hair pulled up into a floppy bun, the teen isn't in anything so dramatic as a tutu but rather, in plain sweats. His eyes gleam at the combat display, and he saddles up beside Charlie to observe behind a stoic expression. He twiddles with the tiny headphones that dangle from his neck. Another thump (J.C.'s knee, Regan's stomach), a twist that locks Regan's leg through the other woman's and drags it back down. A slam of elbow to face, a press of elbow to /neck/. J.C.'s hiss comes with small flecks of spit that burn tiny holes into the mat where they land. Her head presses up against Regan's arm, but after a moment of struggling her hand thumps against the matt twice. Regan rolls off with a heave of chest, wiping her arm against her forehead. Her eyes lift to the others. Flit to Charlie's water bottle, dip to Teague's pointe shoes. Lift back. "Should I leave the mats out?" Charlie watches the newcomer enter with a mildly skeptical look before turning back to the match's end. At Regan's question, she shakes her head. "Not on my account. Was thinking to hit at one of the bags a bit after a little break, maybe. Dunno if Twinkletoes here has need." The nickname is given with a pleasant-playful smile, largely out of lack of another name to use in its place. She moves close to the mat, offering the bottle, a hand up, either or both. "I imagine you two could use a time out, at least. Cool off a second." Teague dips his head, leaning some on his hip and eyeing Charlie with amused confidence, "Twinkletoes doesn't need the mats, thanks." Though dry toned, the British teen doesn't seem too hurt. Idly, he arches one foot and then, the other, applying pressure to both. "-But I can help you put them away if you like," he offers after remembering his manners, "That is if you're even done." He noses his pointe toe gently against the floor - turning his foot in towards himself, almost cutely. J.C. is picking herself back up, rolling one shoulder and then another. The grin she gives the others is sharp, tiny needle-fangs glinting. 'Water'," she signs, hopefully. Regan stands, takes the bottle from Charlie, passes it along to J.C. "Thanks," she replies to Teague. "It'd be much appreciated." Her gaze dips briefly back to his shoes. "You have training." It's not really a question. "Were you planning on keeping up with it, out here?" Charlie is quick to hand the bottle over once it is reached for. Her eyes narrow thoughtfully at J.C.'s sign, very slow gears turning on that one. "Are you deaf or just using sign for the speaking part?" Another slow turn of gears produces inelegant signing of 'You deaf?' followed by a pause and a more uncertain 'Hearing?' "Had a kid come through--parents were with us, y'know?--stuck around a few months before their family moved on. Didn't speak so much verbally but signed more, 'cause of the way her mouth developed with her mutation. Man, I have /not/ tried in years and was never good to start." She adds the sign for 'sorry'. That one seems easily remembered enough. "I'm Charlie, by the way." The name comes with a finger directed to herself and painstaking finger-spelling. Her glance seems to include Teague in the introduction. "Know about nothing on dancing, myself." Intimidated, though how obviously is open to interpretation, Teague moves back to first position with his feet. "I just didn't want to be idle. ...I try to be my best." He wets his lips, like he might say or ask something else but he lets Charlie change the direction of conversation, "I'm Teague," he smiles quaintly, "Well, I don't know any signs. Seems a bit more applicable than dance." "Takes a lot of strength and discipline, coordination -- I'd say that's all fairly applicable. It's pretty high up there on good ways to train." Regan shrugs, watching Teague's shifting. "As a foundation, at least. It should make branching out easier." J.C.'s expression lights at Charlie's fumbling signs. 'Deaf, yes,' she answers. 'I'm J.C. I also -- don't know. That kind of dance. Only the --' She lifts her hands above her head, cheerfully miming the kind you might do in a nightclub. 'Not so pretty.' "Yeah, don't they always tell boxers and football players to learn ballet or something? For their footwork." Charlie nods, kind of /fixated/ on J.C.'s hands in the way of someone passingly familiar with signing trying to catch things. 'J.C.,' she echoes, slowly adding 'Nice to meet you,' with an expression on her face that indicates she /might/ be a genius for remembering how to sign that one. "Good to meet you," is added for Teague, as well. She laughs outright at J.C.'s dancing, which gets across much more meaning than the more complicated signs for Charlie, at least. "Ha, me, too." It takes her a moment to think to add the sign for 'same', again seeming overly pleased to know it. "Maaan, I am going to have to learn again. More. Seen other people signing around here, too." There is a little lost blinking before she points to herself and adds the sign for 'learn' and eventually 'more'. "The Spanish bloke, with the ...baby, said there were regular training sessions down here for fighting, and a ...fighting club?" Teague opens up at the mention of branching out, smiling with his eyes, "But I didn't know how much to take under advisement." After a moment of trying to follow the signing, Teague quietly 'ohs,' stepping forward and dipping towards the mats. He wraps his fingers under some, hefting it up to the side to start clearing them. 'Lots of people. Dusk signs,' J.C. says this brighter, although she doesn't /spell/ Dusk's name out. Just a namesign, sort of an amalgam of DARK+WING. Possibly the slight /heart-eyes/ she makes at his name help with further context, too. 'Lots of signing because zombies.' The somewhat-exaggerated pantomime sign for zombies, probably also easy to read even without much knowledge base. After this, not more talking from J.C. -- her hands get kind of busy with helping to pick up the mats as well, taking the other ends from Teague to help with folding them again and carrying them into a neat stack to one side. "Ion. Yes. There's regular training here. Daily, if you'd like it. The fighting club --" Regan's mouth hooks up at one side. "Is more of an extracurricular. Not really /ours/. Some kids run it at one of the safehouses, though. Less training, more – recreation." “'Spanish bloke's' not gonna narrow it down a bit, but the pause before 'baby' makes me think Ion,” Charlie says with a chuckle. Fortunately for her J.C. Adding the heart-eyes to 'wing' and the zombie pantomime gets the general gist across. Charlie /grins/ rather hard at the first and nose-crinkles impressively at the second. “We just did a lot of Spanish back home.” She finger-spells 'Spanish' very slowly before pointing to herself this time. “I been taking out a lot of my training on weights and bags here. Probably I should set up some sparring. Only person been offering at me so far is Daken and... I don't know. Don't like the idea of facing off on a guy who's such a loose canon when it's supposed to be training. Kind of have to trust the other person not to kill you.” With no way to properly communicate with her, Teague offers a quiet smile to J.C. from the other side of the mats. He breathes out a sheepish laugh when his shoes cause him to slide, and complicate the process for them both. "I want to learn," he says over his shoulder through a grunt, "I almost would have no idea where to even start." Absorbing the names being tossed around, his eyes shift between the three women in turn, "There seem to be a fair share of people here I'd sooner /not/ choose to get in the ring with." Present company included. "That's why there are teachers," Regan replies easily. "To help gauge where you're at and figure out where to start you. I can start scheduling you into the trainings. Would you prefer mornings or evenings?" The mention of Daken presses her lips together -- just slightly. "Training is not fight club. It's learning. You'll get practice intended to /help/ you get better, not to show off who already is. And," she adds with a slight nod to Charlie, "it isn't the kind of environment for -- loose cannons." She dips her head in a nod to J.C., signing a thanks for helping with the mats. "Thank you," is aloud, to Teague as well. "I think I need to go get some dinner in me." "Might should put me on there, too. Morning's better, but either's fine for me. Prefer this to jumping straight in at fight club. I'm fast and I'm strong but I don't hold up well against fire and laser beams." Charlie gives a half-smirk with this last, the expression pulled off in a way that only lagomorph features could. "Oh, man, food sounds like a good plan soon enough. I'm gonna go take out some anger issues on a heavy bag and head that way soon, myself." "Mornings would be perfect for me," Teague hefts his corner of the mats onto the stack and stands back, brushing his hands together with satisfaction just as much at the cleared mats as attaining training, "Maybe if all goes well, you and I'll be sparring before too much time," he eyes Charlie mischievously, fiddling with his earbuds and plugging one into an ear, fully intending to put the other in as well and take out some of his own aggression. Nodding to Regan, he loosens his legs and feet, "Enjoy your dinner."