fandomtownies | Atlas Gym, Fandom Fight Club [Sunday Evening]

There was a poster tacked up on the door to the main gym, with the following text written in alternating handwriting, as if the marker had been shared between two people:

Rules of Fandom Fight Club
1. What happens here, stays here. We can't keep the squirrels out, but if somebody tells you something on the mat, you don't repeat it off the mat.
2. No weapons or powers unless everyone knows in advance and is fighting within their weight class.
3. No shoes.
4. If someone says "stop" or goes limp, the fight is over.
5. Two people to a fight.
6. Fights go on as long as they have to.
7. No tourists. If you need to take a week to see what this is like, cool, but no coming back just to watch. You wanna watch, get a TV; here, everybody fights.
8. No fighting if you're sick or injured. You wanna screw up your body, you do it on your own time.
9. The organizers reserve the right to remove you from the club at any time for violation of these rules.

Underneath the sign was a table with a sign-in sheet, where people could print their name and if they'd fought before ~~which is handwavey since y'all already did it~~, which would be collected once the meeting started.

Inside, Tyler was pacing, barefoot and holding himself so erect he looked about three inches taller than he normally did. He clapped his hands in a way designed to silence anyone still talking.

"Welcome to Fight Club," he began. "In this room, you are not a teacher or a student or the guy who works behind the bar at Caritas. You are not what you own or what you wear. You are not a special, unique snowflake. You are a body. You hit, you bleed, you feel pain, you cause pain, you come back for more. You get better. You might even find redemption."

He glanced at the group as if daring anyone to argue with him on these points.

"The purpose of this group is catharsis and self-improvement through unarmed combat," Ghanima said briskly. For once, she was not wearing her usual ornate gowns, but a simple woven tunic and slacks and was barefoot like Tyler. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with therapeutic violence - no matter what the armchair shrink of the week says - and this place is here to provide you with that option."

"That said, should you wish to have a friendly spar with someone using practice weapons, you should feel free so long as both parties agree. Please refrain from using actual weapons until you've worked with someone more than once."

"And while we're being the buzzkill jerks with all the rules," Tyler said, "here's a quick gym tour. Padding's over here -- beginners, wear gloves, everyone else, it's at your discretion -- practice weapons are there, and these soft blue things? These are mats. We fight on the mats."

"Speak for yourself," Ghanima murmured, bemused. "I may occasionally be evil, but I am not a jerk or a buzzkill."

"Now, my favorite part. We're going to randomly pick some fights." It was possible Ghanima looked a bit too gleeful about this. "You and you. You two. You two too. You and you, and hrm, you, and ... you." There was practically a halo over her head as she pointed at Tyler. "There. Get to know your new friends, then get to know the mat. Anyone I didn't just pair up, find your own partner."

[Up early for massive SP! ~~Wait for the~~Massive OCD is massive and up.]

ETA:You people are breaking my browser! Mingle | RNG Fights | Open Sparring | Ghanima and Tyler | OOC | Next Week's RNG

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I've had worse." Algren inspected his sleeve for a moment, and then shook his head faintly. "It's nothing. Yours?"

He was going to have raccoon eyes for the next few days thanks to this. The boy put up a good fight.

Sokka shrugged. "I'll be okay. I'd be BETTER if my sister were still here, but what can you do, right?."

"What can you do, indeed."

It seemed as though at least half of the people Algren ran into on this island just so happened to be missing a sister, somewhere. He was going to just brush that off as another quirk of the island, and then he was going to wipe the blood from his hand onto his shirt before offering Sokka a handshake.

"Nathan Algren, by the way. In case we find ourselves in another situation involving hair-pulling or broken noses in the future."

It wasn't the ache of lost family that Sokka was feeling, just... ache. And Katara and her magic glow-y water were good for that sort of thing.

"Sokka." He took the hand and shook it. "Pleased to meet you. You're the... history teacher, right?"

"American History, yes, along with Mister Durden, there." Algren nodded toward Tyler.

Clearly, History was a very hardcore class.

Sokka looked at Professor Durden, and then back at Algren. "You blow stuff up in history class?"

There was a long, thoughtful pause, there.

"Not yet," he replied, at length. "But we're getting into the last century, now. I wouldn't be terribly surprised if we did."

Sokka raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it kind of your call?"

"I taught the first half of the semester," Algren explained. "My portion of the lessons mostly had students trying to chase other students off of their imaginary land. What Professor Durden does with his half is partly my call. If he wants to blow something up, should I stop him?"

The eyebrow stayed up. "Heck, no! Blowing things up is FUN!"

"Well, then you should have taken history class," Algren replied, clearly amused as he pressed his sleeve against his face and then turned to collect his jacket. "Have a good evening, Sokka."

Atlas Gym, Fandom Fight Club [Sunday Evening]

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Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka

Re: Fight Three: Intermediate: Algren/Sokka