goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

Nuh uh- that's not working. He squirms enough to get a leg around malcolm's and the leverage across his shoulders to hold him down. Getting into the grapples- that's hard. Once they're down and he's got physics on his side? It's all good. "Wanna keep trying, or is it my point?"

"One one. Not bad for someone who's been out of the game for a bit." Yes, he gives the point. With a tiny bit of humility.

"I work out." He rolls off Malcolm and to his feet, offering a hand down easily to pull him up. "Usually with people that treat me like I'm gonna break so this? A big improvement."

"I don't treat anyone with kid gloves," he says, taking the hand gratefully. "No matter what these wannabe rockstars might say." He does not say that this man has already broken; he shouldn't break again just from sparring. "I think when our training truly begins, I'll teach you more agility-based moves to counterbalance the power you can drive home."

"Lockup could turn on a dime but-" He shrugs. The Jeager was a nice blend of raw power and absolute precision but the driver hadn't ever really been him. Carolina handled that much. "Wasn't my side of the pod that handled that."

There's a huff of affectionate exasperation that he knows only he can hear and they never told you how the ghosts linger. Then again one half doesn't always live. He squeezes Malcolm's hand before stepping back into position arms up. He got a pin. He'll count that as a win for the day.

"Still, I find it better to be rounded out. Just because you'll have someone to be your left hand in the pilot seat doesn't mean you shouldn't learn to compensate in your life."

All right, settle into something more comfortable for him, then. He's loose but geared up, ready to strike, with a little bounce. Come on, Mr. Murray. See if you can't do it twice more.

There's some laughter and whispering after he mentions his Jeager. Yeah, like the scarring and the blind eye wasn't clue enough. Now it wasn't just ex-pilot. Now they knew who he was- and more importantly what happened. How badly he failed. Shoving that down is second nature by now.

he's got a target. A very pretty- no not like that damnit- target. Hands up, shoulders loose and he's darting forward- down and right and up, snapping in with two jabs before ducking to the left- herding rather than an all out assault.

"Good," praises Reed, moving, blocking, moving, "good, vary it up, keep me guessing, use your good side to your advantage." He sees the herding but doesn't necessarily stop it, encouraging. He wants to see where this is going without making it too easy. Malcolm's mostly on the defensive this time, throwing out a few testing jabs himself.

Back and to the right, even if they're on the mats and there's nothing to get him to. Good, he's doing good and he can keep pushing. Right and left, bobbing and blocking the hits as they come and it feels right. Everything goes quiet and there's no solid pattern. Not yet. Busy learning the way Malcolm's shoulders go tight when he's swinging a left, how they bunch when he blocks.

The tiny microseconds of warning he gets before he's hit. The next jab comes in on the left and he can't see it, can't block it- tries to hook his arm over Malcolm's to haul him in close. To pull him down.

His one arm is clumsily locked but locked all the same, but his other arm is still free to keep on hitting. Which he does, with zeal. Even bring a knee up, if it'll help York loosen his grip or give him any advantage.

Okay maybe he DOES need to gain weight back the padding that used to be along his ribs that would normally cushion the blow? Kinda gone. So it makes the blows hurt and it's a beat before he tries for a leglock, which tangles with the knee that's up and it's not- graceful. The tipping over.

It means more grappling. He ought to start trying to avoid those; York seems to like them. Or aim for them. It's both of them on the floor with tangled limbs both trying to untangle and tangle further.

He could make this dirty if he wanted to, draw real injuries and then brush it off as a lesson (to the students, the would-be rangers) that the kaiju will not go easy on them either. But that would be petty.

He's playing to his strengths. Which right now is the grappling. Wrestling Kaiju wasn't entirely orthadox but it's easier to get leverage up close after you've cracked their skull with a knee and an elbow. This absolutely would not fly in a real drift test and maybe that's what he's avoiding.

Anything other than the brawling that kept him safe back before all this mess. Which isn't conductive to improving but- issues. man. Issues.

It's not wrasslin' kaiju, but Malcolm is in his own ways tenacious, and he hardly goes down without a fight. So it might be an odd sight seeing two grown men grappling each other on the mats like a high school wrestling team.

But the point is to both see what York has learned, what he's comfortable with, and to see to compensating for his blind spot. And Malcolm is happy to exploit the hell out of that spot to prove a point.

And to win.

They wrestle on the mats for another thirty seconds before Mal does something sneaky and pins him. Two one. He still got that one point and that's good enough for him. Takes Mal another three minutes of jabbing his left side over and over before he manages to get York down and pinned on his back, breathing hard and laughing even if he technically died.

Jesus.

"...I think I pulled something."

"That's why you stretch and warm up beforehand," he says easily, practically sitting on York's chest. "Which," he is quick to point out to anyone lingering, "the kaiju will not give you a chance to do, but to be fair you also aren't going to be this active inside the cockpit." Well, yes, active, but not flinging themselves across rooms or twirling like ballerinas.

Time to help him up. "Good show, Mr. Murray. Get yourself to the infirmary if need be."

"I'm not that sore." He mutters, taking the hand to haul himself up. Without thinking cuz, hell, why would he think anything of it he peels his tanktop off and uses it to wipe his face, scars in geometric patterns all down his left side where the suit burned into him. He's lost some muscle in the months since the fight, lost more fat since you dont' eat much when you drink too damn often leaving him lean and tightly defined muscle all right there.

Also leaves the ink on his back there for anyone that's looking. Two wings, one eastern bluebird, one cardinal red. State birds. Carolina had them too. "Kinda hungry though. You do'n anything after this? I'd like to go over what we did. What I need to work on, that stuff."

He considers this--he considers all of this--for a few moments before stomping his foot and standing as tall and stern as a drill instructor. Which, essentially, he is. "The show is over; you are dismissed."

The kids--some are nearly his age, but he has their respect and occasionally their fear, and he is their superior, therefore he feels free to think of them collectively as kids--start and gather up their things and file out.

It's hard to say that Malcolm relaxes when he pulls himself out of instructor mode, padding over to his own things, but he does seem to ease up. Towel. Water bottle. These things first. "Quick shower first or straight to food and a dressing down?"

"Well since you are gett'n me dinner I guess I can let you dress me down." It feels a little odd, flirting, even if he doesn't mean a word. He doesn't. He can't. It's- expected. Delta's watching from a distance, he knows he's watching, waiting for any sign of derivative behaviour and the flirting is expected, somewhat warranted, and probably enough to earn him a little free space.

He slows, not initially sure if he heard right, and glances curiously over at the former ranger. (Once a ranger always a ranger.) Blinks, a surprised and confused crease in his brows.

That--he was not expecting that, certainly, and he doesn't know what to do with it. So he finishes mopping the worst of the sweat off and eases his shoes back on. Barrels ahead. "Food it is, then." Let him just. make a few notes here on the notepad. "Shall I show you the way?"

He takes the time to finish mopping his face and walking back to where he'd shucked his shoes, pulling them on while ignoring the kids still sort of milling about. Let them talk. he's heard it all before. "Please. I'm new to the Dome and haven't really gotten around much. Last time I tried to find the mess I ended up on a catwalk above a mark 2."

"I have a feeling that was something more subconscious than you might be comfortable admitting." He motions for York to follow with a nod of his head. "Drawn to our great metal beasts. And who could resist, really."

"They're beautiful." Engineering at it's finest- every last one of them works of art. He misses Lockdown Delta more than he can say, but there wasn't any salvaging what was left- or so he was told. He wasn't in a good place to pay attention.

"Lockdown, was he a Mark 2?" He glances back at York, frowning more at himself than anyone else. "I probably shouldn't ask, should I. Bad enough I've got a quick shakedown of your profile."

"She." It depended on the pilot and sure, the engineer always called Lockdown he, but Carolina, Delta, and york knew better. She was a lady. A valkyrie. An avenging angel. "Yeah. She was a Mark 2. One of the fastest, you know?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject