Joseph Wilson | JERICHO (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eyecontact) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-08-12 10:44 pm
eyecontact) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-08-12 10:44 pm
all work and [OPEN]
Date & Time: 8/11-8/14
Location: Training area(...s...)
Characters: Jericho, others
Summary: donny osmond softly sings in the background
Warnings: whatever comes of spar/train/fightytime encounters that doesn't involve donny osmond
Like with any blank canvas ready to fall under pen or paint, starting was always the hardest part. The training hall was an intimidating structure as much for what it stood for as for how it felt to be there; expectations lingered in the air almost as prominently as that gross, inescapable gym smell. Sweat and breath and coarse materials and mats that pretended to be easier to fall against even when thrown hard enough...
Not that Jericho was intending on being thrown around or anything. That...that didn't seem very proactive, where training was concerned.
But beyond the basics and regimens he knew well enough before, there was plenty more to explore. More often than not, it began with observation. Seeing before doing was sensible, and given the wide array of people in the Initiative's care, Jericho was in a pretty good place to learn something new. And if he was going to be stronger, more capable (and less likely to get crushed by half a ton of building again), he had no better place to give it a shot than there.
And when there's no one around? He could at least run through his old, familiar sets. For a so-called superhero, he wasn't terribly brilliant when it came to combat...at least, not as his gangly, still-short self. Even so, he liked to imagine he'd improved a little, at least where footing and endurance went.
He'd keep at it, in any case, hoping somehow all this hard work would get whatever was all bogged up in his system good and gone, and that maybe those other blank canvases would fill up again.
You train creative blocks away, right?
Sure...
Location: Training area(...s...)
Characters: Jericho, others
Summary: donny osmond softly sings in the background
Warnings: whatever comes of spar/train/fightytime encounters that doesn't involve donny osmond
Like with any blank canvas ready to fall under pen or paint, starting was always the hardest part. The training hall was an intimidating structure as much for what it stood for as for how it felt to be there; expectations lingered in the air almost as prominently as that gross, inescapable gym smell. Sweat and breath and coarse materials and mats that pretended to be easier to fall against even when thrown hard enough...
Not that Jericho was intending on being thrown around or anything. That...that didn't seem very proactive, where training was concerned.
But beyond the basics and regimens he knew well enough before, there was plenty more to explore. More often than not, it began with observation. Seeing before doing was sensible, and given the wide array of people in the Initiative's care, Jericho was in a pretty good place to learn something new. And if he was going to be stronger, more capable (and less likely to get crushed by half a ton of building again), he had no better place to give it a shot than there.
And when there's no one around? He could at least run through his old, familiar sets. For a so-called superhero, he wasn't terribly brilliant when it came to combat...at least, not as his gangly, still-short self. Even so, he liked to imagine he'd improved a little, at least where footing and endurance went.
He'd keep at it, in any case, hoping somehow all this hard work would get whatever was all bogged up in his system good and gone, and that maybe those other blank canvases would fill up again.
You train creative blocks away, right?
Sure...
no subject
"It's nothing. Just... got hurt during the last big fight, that's all. It's no big deal."
She didn't say anything for a moment. Then she thought it might be a better idea if she changed the subject, "What have you been doing? Still playing the guitar?"
She's not that interested, but it was better then being asked stupid questions.
no subject
His mouth opened and closed after a moment of blank-faced silence, thinking on the question before having any answer. He shook his head, mouth tugging in a dubious line as his shoulders shrugged up.
Somewhat following the flow of an inaudible reply, his hands lifted, curling into fists, held loosely in front of him as he gave her a certain nod. They're in a training room, after all; he came here to do that, not play.
no subject
"...you want to train? That's weird. I didn't think you were that much of a fighter."
She's not trying to be cruel. But... well, it's Asuka.
no subject
Couldn't be helped, could it? At least, not by just standing there looking like not much of a fighter. It was as encouraging a thought as anything, spurring him to move past her to a bench so he could unlace his boots; he didn't like stomping all over the mats in them. With shoes set out of the way, he continued his journey to an open mat and began to stretch.
no subject
"What are you going to do, play music at people?"
She cares more then she lets on, really.
no subject
Moving smoothly with a single forward step, he slid into a fighter's stance, lifting hands. Fingers bent – a beckoning, offering gesture as his eyebrows lifted in inquiry. It was a question accented by a quirk in his mouth, giving it a fairly light-hearted air.
You wanna see what I can do?
i'm so late
"OK, sure. Let's go!"
no probs :]
...Well. He had a fair idea of what winning would look like to her.
Either way, he shifted to best suit her own stance, readying to absorb any incoming attacks. That was his way – moving energy, not overusing his own. But he'd have to offer a little to coax her to strike first; Jericho rocked up to the balls of his feet and shifted, moving forward just enough to imply a headon strike–
no subject
He moves and she darts forward in a lunge, right hand cocked back and telegraphing the blow.
She's naturally athletic, a fast learner and light on her feet.
But none of that is really a replacement for practice.]
no subject
his foot slid forward, waiting for her ankle to make contact.]
no subject
Lucky shot.
no subject
he simply slides back into form, positioning himself and waiting to see what trick she has next.]
no subject
no subject
he swats the front of her foot with his hand while he rocks to his side and turns again, rocking his weight to one foot while he watches to see how far her own momentum will take her.]
no subject
This time she's broadcasting her punch the entire way in.]
no subject
he grimaces, seeing that punch come a mile ahead, having to make a decision.
he brings a hand down, snatching her wrist, twisting and pulling her with him, tucking himself down and sending her over his back in the last, quickest rotation.]
no subject
It's not fair, she thinks. She should be good at this, how come he's beating her? How come it's not coming naturally? How come nothing is ever easy anymore?
She swallows the urge to snap and snarl and spit and instead slowly clambers back to her feet, expression pinched.]
So, you can fight.
no subject
he nods slightly, shoulders lifting up, making it a fairly noncommittal reply.]
no subject
...who taught you that?
no subject
so instead, he reaches, as if for a handshake, to take her hand. when offered, he can trace the letters on her palm.
m-o-m]
no subject
She must've been pretty good at that stuff.
no subject
no subject
...what happened to her?
[She like to think she can read that sort of thing from a million miles away.]
no subject
well...nothing. he shakes his head, not really sure why anyone would think something's automatically happened.
he hasn't watched Eva, he just doesn't know.]
no subject
Everyone she knows has one (or two) dead parents, after all.]
Oh. My mistake.
[Not that she sounds happy about admitting it.]
no subject
he stares for a beat longer before shifting back another step, looking about the mat before back at her with his eyebrows lifted.
his hands, too, lifting with the faintest suggestion of his stance. again, or...?]