fandomtownies | Atlas Gym, Thursday Morning

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Atlas Gym, Thursday Morning

She hadn't been sleeping well. She hadn't been sleeping well, and the noise wasn't letting up, and she couldn't stop thinking-- about Lee and his father, about Helen and those damn monks, about River, about Harriet and the Doctor, about all of it-- she was angry, she couldn't sleep, she had to--

Kerrigan found her way to Atlas early in the morning, picked a punching bag, and went to town. One punch for Helen out in the cold. One punch for Lee who didn't hear back. One punch for Harriet, dropped like a stone before her time. It was a noble list. Vengeance for the wrongs, the whole shebang.

But all of that faded with the steady beat of her movements, and the words lost their meaning, became anger, and the next time she struck it was Jimmy's face, and the damn thing near well went off its hinges. It wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.

With a growl, she resumed her assault, a little more muted in strength but no less pissed beyond all recognition, her wings flaring for something to rend. Not enough. It was not nearly enough.

For once, the buzzing was leaving her be. Small favor that was.

[ open gym, but be wary of picking fights with the zerg. she's not gonna be gentle. ]

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Tyler came to the gym for his usual run on the treadmill and weight circuit.

He failed. A green woman pounding the shit out of a punching bag was kind of hard to ignore, and he stood respectfully watching, before almost squeaking, "Morning."

She threw in a few more punches for good measure before she came to a very reluctant stop, her head practically swivveling as she threw him an annoyed look. "What now?"

"Public gym," he pointed out. "You were just tearing up that punching bag. I'd hate to be the guy who made you that mad."

He actually wouldn't mind it so much.

"Yeah, you would," she replied, sounding utterly unimpressed. Right. "Rejoice in the fact that you aren't."

She wondered if the punching bag could take it if she kicked it in the back. Probably better to avoid property damage.

"Whoo," he said, making a sarcastic little cheering gesture with one finger. "I'll order the party hats later."

Then another side of him started prodding at him until his mouth opened and words came out, even as he knew it was a very bad idea. "Don't suppose you want to spar."

She stared at him for a minute. "You gotta be kidding me," she said, with an almost amused twitch of her eye.

Not that she wouldn't like to kick the crap out of somebody right now, but she had a feeling the school's administration might look badly on this one.

He was going to regret this.

He knew that.

He also didn't fucking care. He'd been too careful, here, for too long, and she was obviously not a student.

And besides, she'd doubted him. He had to prove her wrong.

"Not especially," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been a while, and you look pissed enough to make it interesting." She also had claws and bone armor, but, well, that was almost to be expected in Fandom.

She should probably be saying no right now. She'd gotten in enough crap over the whole students-to-wall gambit, but the livid was still tangible in her veins.

The claws retracted as best she could. No casualties. "Fine," Kerrigan replied, pulling away from the bag, "But it's not my fault if you break anything."

Men.

"Same goes for you," he said, retreating to a sparring mat and starting to stretch, shoes off. "And just to have my cards on the table, I'm normal human. But I don't exactly faint at the sight of blood, mine or anyone's."

He glanced at the safety equipment. He usually didn't bother with it, but he would if she wanted to.

"'Cards on the table'," Kerrigan replied; she didn't bother to as much as follow his glance. "I used to be human. Special ops. Now I'm a walking can-opener. You'll deal." It wasn't a question.

She picked her own spot on the mat, then stood impassively watching.

"I wouldn't have asked if I couldn't," Tyler said.

Satisfied with his stretching, he moved to the center of the mat and took up a defensive stance, face wary, mind blank except for the blood pounding in his ears.

Her first instinct, carefully bred, was to go for the neck: and part of her felt an odd tingle of glee at the fact that Ghost reflexes hadn't left her with the change.

But that would spell death, and that wasn't the purpose of this. She just wanted to hit something. Within one moment and the next, Kerrigan was moving, bone wings carefully folded behind her, one elbow aimed at his face while her body was already twisting with anticipation for the kick that would probably soon follow.

Human still beat a bag of sand.

He ducked the elbow, at least. His arms shifted to guard his face and neck while, as she anticipated, he kicked hard at her right leg.

He was a little smoother than bulky marines, but then he wasn't weighed down with heavy armor. Jimmy flitted through her mind, but she ignored it, ignored him, following through with her movement, dancing out of the way by just a few inches.

Unconsciously, her lips twitched into a smirk. Lashed out again, kicking out at his other leg in one smooth segue.

He was off-balance already, and the kick connected, knocking him even more so. His elbow touched the mat, hard before he straightened himself.

Of course, he promptly followed the bobble with a hard punch aimed to her chin.

She danced out of the way again, lightening fast-- but not as fast as she'd like, the rush of air displacement telling her in no certain terms she'd been slacking off for too damn long.

Kerrigan was still a Ghost, dammit. They were supposed to be called that for a reason. With a snarl of annoyance, she threw her elbow back into it again, the head, the head, add enough force--

Reaching too much. No killing the poor bastard.

The elbow just grazed him, really, or that was what Tyler was telling himself so he didn't slump to the mat with his hands on his skull. He was standing and there wasn't blood and that was enough that he was starting to have fun.

He grabbed at her dominant arm, trying to yank her down.

As soon as she felt fingers on her arm, she yanked it up violently, snapping another kick up at his side on the other end. Enough with the slacking and self-doubt. Kick it.

It, or he, or whatever, was dancing backward to move with the force of the kick, odd exhilaration rushing through his veins even as a hand went to his ribs.

He needed to amp this up. She hadn't let him land more than a few fingertips yet.

He focused and put all he had into a single fast strike at her stomach.

The warning came in at point one seconds.

Just a little bit too late. She was already twisting, but the blow struck anyway. Bastard had practice. Definitely not a marine. It hurt, but not nearly enough: the lightest hint of a step backwards, a slight scrap of a wince, and her hand shot out for his arm as she barely repressed the reflex that would've driven her leg up at his neck.

Her other hand-- fist, now-- went for his head, instead.

The thing Tyler usually had on his side in a fight wasn't speed or even muscle: It was sheer, ruthless willingness to be hit and keep going.

Though even that was tested by the smash of her fist into his cheekbone, pain flashing through it as he twisted away.

He brought a leg up to sweep a kick at her upper thighs.

Kerrigan was a killer. Speed and power combined for a singular purpose-- sparring was never quite the same thing like the crack of someone's vertabrae under your leg, or the quick, methodical slice of a knife.

She'd never enjoyed it, but the reflexes were second nature by now, and with the first hit in, they kicked back in. Her leg came up to block at the same time she threw another punch, straight for the nose.

She might have growled something in the middle of it. Maybe a laugh.

He blocked the punch, but barely, and was breathing hard as he tried again to land a blow on her chin.

The noise like a laugh caught his ear. "Having fun yet?"

"You've got nerve," she said, and her arm was already there for a block, pushing his arm aside. Her voice gained an odd echoing quality, like there was something lurking at the back of it. "That's almost something."

Tyler recognized a compliment when he heard one, and he paused his blows, circling in a defensive posture. He could hit or he could talk; he'd never quite mastered the art of combining the two.

"Almost?" he asked, one finger going gingerly to his cheek. "You have me tasting blood."

He was not upset. Just ... stating a fact.

She fell back as well, despite instincts and anger urging her to keep going. The edge wasn't quite off, but it was getting there; so she was ready to give him the breather, just on this one.

With fluid strides, she kept her own circle. "I'm a Ghost," she pointed out, "You're lucky I'm not trying to kill you."

"Yeah, I'd rather not be beaten to death. I gotta teach tomorrow," he said, willing himself not to be startled at the 'ghost' terminology. "And you look pretty solid there, Casper."

Still circling, but he was ready to start up again. "Want to keep going?"

His only warning was going to be a smirk on her part; then she dashed forward, feinting to the left-- then she threw a punch at the tissue between biceps and triceps on his right arm.

Well, that hurt, and his arm was not going to be much good until it quit stinging. He cradled it closer to his body, wincing.

At least he was largely ambidextrous in a fight; he danced to his right, then tried to land a blow on the side of her head with his left hand.

Her hand flew up to catch his wrist-- deja vu to that fight with that irritating policewoman-- fully intend on twisting it if she managed to get it.

Her muscles were starting to remember this, and it was good: past moments of self-hatred in the face of death and pain got a little buried in the scuffle with her anger, which settled in her stomach, colder now.

She caught it, and now pain was flaring up his left wrist to match the fire in his right arm.

He tried to use the captured arm against her anyhow, shoving forward with it. The angle, he thought, was wrong to land a blow; he hoped only to get her to lose balance so he had that tiny advantage.

It was enough to let him go, one or two careful, graceful steps taking her backwards again, her head lowered, her eyes sharp. His move. She'd see.

His move, and, even as he stretched his arms behind him, he knew they weren't coordinated enough to punch with just yet. He brought a knee up to smash against her forward leg.

At this point, he was fighting largely on fumes, but he wouldn't stop until she gave up or knocked him down.

She let the blow fall to her leg, refraining from producing as much as a hiss at the sudden pain. It felt dulled, anyway, distant and nothing.

Then she moved again, fast as anything, one foot coming up to hook behind his leg while she threw her weight into her arms, jabbing at his chest.

Tyler wouldn't have given up, but the thud of his head and back into the mat as he was knocked over almost came as a relief.

He did a mental check: Head hurt. Arms hurt. Side hurt. Legs hurt a little. Copper film of blood still in his mouth.

Alive.

"I think," he managed, woozily, "I have to call that a round."

Dull but present sting in her leg. Something felt scratched on her cheek. Her muscles had been strained-- gleefully strained, working in the edges of anger that dissipated slowly-- and she was slowly becoming aware of a hurt of a bruise over her stomach.

It wasn't bad. For an amateur.

A few more steps, and Kerrigan loomed over him, her fingers brushing over her stomach for a moment. "Call it a round," she repeated, her mind warring over whether or not to--

Something human won out. She offered him a hand.

Something human won in Tyler, too, and he actually smiled as he accepted her hand up. He hadn't been aware of how much he missed fights -- real ones -- until he sparred again.

"Thanks," he said, once he was back on his feet, fingers going to the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. "I'm Tyler, by the way. Just in case you wanna do this again sometime."

"Sarah Kerrigan," she said, brushing her fingers across her temple as she began to realise, with some twisting edge of panic, that beating him around had actually made her feel mollified. "Don't call me Sarah. We'll see about that-- you've got a little more fight than a heavy bag."

And she realised she wanted to, too. She had no idea how to feel about that.

"And you're more interesting than the droids in the danger shop over there," he returned, with a jerk of his head (ow) to indicate the room with programmable opponents. "Anytime."

Once he healed up a little, at least, but he wasn't admitting that.

It took him a second to remember where he had heard her name recently. "The Kerrigan who River TA's for?"

"Yeah," she said, warily, "That Kerrigan. You know River?" She wound up sounding a little protective, but she didn't care.

"Old friends," he half-explained, and if River wanted to say more, Kerrigan could ask her. Some relationships were better left in the misty past.

"I was a student with her, a long time ago for me. She was in my office this week and mentioned you."

"That better be all," Kerrigan replied, with a narrow of her eyes. "If anyone touches a hair on that girl's head, they'll have me to deal with."

"We dated," Tyler admitted, changing course because he had the odd sense she was seeing his omission. "It didn't end well. We're fine now, you can ask her if you'd like."

"Good," she said, pacing away from the mat. "Sorry, she's a-- big-- thing." A pause. "Not that she's a thing."

"Or big," Tyler added.

Then, more seriously: "It's fine. She can take care of herself and then some, but ..."

But it didn't hurt for her to have a walking can opener looking out for her.

"But I get how she would make a teacher protective."

"People like she and I need to stick together," she replied, with a shrug that was just this side of uncomfortable. "Nothing more, nothing less."

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Atlas Gym, Thursday Morning

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