fight fight fight

[agnominal]

Who| Locus and Tucker, and any onlookers
What| Working out past aggression in the healthiest way possible: Sparring.
Where| Training Gym
When| After this conversation, Post Mind Slayer
Warnings/Notes| Violence, obviously. Probably mention of death.


It occurs to him, sometime after the fact, that this might not be the best way to handle the situation.

Tucker had every right to hate him. Most people did considering the sort of person he was, but Tucker had been there on Chorus. He had known the people who died as a result of Locus's actions, and lost someone very dear and very close as a result. Allowing him a weapon and an opportunity to use it against him? There were all the signs of a situation primed to go terribly wrong.

He'd just have to prepare for that possibility. And it was only a possibility. Tucker was determined, admittedly, and as the Simulation Troopers went he was likely the best fighter of the lot. But that wasn't saying much. At all.

A place had been cleared out on the mats, and Locus had relieved himself of his armor once again, arriving only in clothes meant specifically for training (tight, but breathable, allowing for proper flexibility) and his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Armor would not be needed for this. All that was really required was the sword, the one he'd avoided using thus far unless necessary. It had purpose, after all, and wielding it without that purpose seemed sacrilegious in a way. But against another 'chosen one'?

That seemed fitting.

Comments

[lovernotafighter]

Fuck if this was the best way; it felt like the best way, and sometimes that was the only prerequisite. This was a powderkeg waiting to go, and Tucker was the spark.

Yeah. Probably not the best attitude for what should be a potentially harmless spar. And maybe he was psyching himself up a little, but there wasn't that much pressure that was required; for as much as he wanted to lay all the bullshit of Chorus at Felix's feet, even Locus had owned up to his part. And he knew about Epsilon, something that Tucker was careful to keep away from certain other people here. If Locus slipped backwards, if that second chance was fleeting --

(Wash's wasn't, though)

-- then he needed to be able to take that former merc the fuck out. So Tucker needed to get better. He needed to get better than Locus, and it wasn't going to happen today. It wasn't going to happen this week. This month. But Tucker was going to keep coming back until it did. Because like hell would he lose another friend, another person he cared about because of someone like him.

Tucker came in with all the swagger and arrogance he approached everything, the sword glowing already in his hand as he marched to the mats. He had toyed with the idea of armor but left it back in place of a tight black tank and loose pants; casual, nonchalant as if this was easy. Determination flared deep in those brown eyes.

Look, Tucker was taking something serious for once.

"Ready for this?"

[agnominal]

"Of course."

Locus surveyed him a moment. His stance, the tension in his frame, the way he was holding himself. He wasn't an amateur, he'd obviously trained to a point, but there was too much anger in him. Too much distraction.

Locus held the handle of the sword in his right hand, unactivated. His left? Lifted into the air and gestured for Tucker to come towards him.

He was going to illustrate a point. He didn't need the sword for that. Or, more specifically, he needed to not need the sword for that.

[lovernotafighter]

It was hard to train when no one really used swords; the closest he got was Wash's knives and those still made him uneasy for very, very good reasons. He avoided them if at all possible, especially while spouting that knives and swords were nothing alike; look at the reach on this thing! Totally different, so don't pretend otherwise.

But training? Endurance? Reflexes? Yeah, (un)fortunately Tucker had been through all that, even if it wasn't as bad as he liked to pretend. Retirement had softened him a bit, but he still had a handle on shit, on laps, on speed.

Separating himself from the emotion, now that was something he was never even remotely close to mastering; it might not ever be.

He rolled his eyes because dude, come on, he was supposed to be the arrogant one here, but he charged at him anyway, fast and with a too-wide swing of his sword.

[agnominal]

Sloppy.

It was too widely telegraphed, and Locus had little trouble in swinging his mass aside and grasping Tucker's wrist, using his momentum against him and throwing him forward. Whether he fell or not? That was up to whatever reflexes he had.

But Locus was already squaring off, preparing for an even angrier Tucker to rush at him.

[lovernotafighter]

Goddamnit, that sonofa--

Tucker didn't fall, not completely; he stumbled forward, caught himself on his knee and his free hand, then immediately pushed back up off it again, not even giving himself a second to breathe. Teeth were grinding hard, and yeah, the anger was there, not boiling but simmering.

"Asshole," he muttered, but he ran at him again, this time keeping the swipe of the blade in tighter, going for something horizontal rather than vertical. The lack of armor was freeing, made him feel faster, but fuck if he wasn't going to hurt tomorrow.

Peanut Gallery

[unrecovered]

Wash has just come off a monitor shift that was a lot more hectic than he'd been expecting. He's on his way back to his room, to play with DC and decompress for a while, when he passes by the training gym, glances inside, continues on-

-stops short when he processes what he's just seen-

-and backs up to take another look. Yep, that sure is Locus and Tucker, sparring. He types out a quick message (tucker v locus, training gym), sends it out to every Freelancer on the ship, because watching people beat each other up is a time-honored Freelancer tradition, and sidles into the room, leaning unobtrusively against the wall.

He fully expects to have to break up this fight at some point. He sincerely hopes he's wrong.

[short_changed]

The message has Connie finishing up whatever job she was in the middle of to make her way to the training gym. She'd been more than a little curious to see how the two men fought or trained individually- outside of nightmare scenario Locus, and this seemed like a perfect way to see what they could do.

Stepping up along the wall the energy swords catch her attention immediately. As she stops to lean against the wall to watch by Wash she lets out a low whistle.

"Okay, those swords are pretty cool."

[whyarewehere]

Grif was.... does it matter what he was doing? Is it anyone's business? No. It's not like he was coming down here to try and work on some things on his own time, alone. Who does that? Losers who put in effort, obviously. It's not like he's actually pretty worried about how temporal fluctuations have affected him physically, or about how he's lost some of his progress with his speed powers as a result. It's not like he feels like a liability again. That would be stupid, because he doesn't care.

And, when he notices Wash and Connie hanging out around one of the rooms, he definitely doesn't bolt to hide his bag before anyone can question why he has one or what he's doing with it. He just strolls down here and happens to pass by a spectacle, one time, like a normal person.

"They're alright," he says.

Along with all the other things he's not doing today, he's not taking a dismissive tone out of a little jealousy, either.

[goddamngrenades]

Locus v Tucker and, damn, that's...probably gonna end either great or badly and while York is trying to wrap his head around 'support my bro' like back home he's also trying to distance himself from that behaviour-

But he's gotta go support his bro.

To truly get into the proper mindset he slips in with a sixpack of bear and a bag of popcorn, offering both around before cracking into it himself. The swords- he'd seen some of them before. But this is?


Is...


Christ this isn't what he needed today. Locus all. Sweaty. Sexy. Lethal. "Ten on the big guy."

Because bros support bros.

[short_changed]

Connie snorts a soft laugh at Grif's tone, giving his arm a light nudge in greeting before reaching for some of that popcorn York brought in.

"What, no love for the underdog?"

Aftermath

[whyarewehere]

Things are winding down. A bunch of adults got ridiculous at one another in a training room for stupid reasons, but it's over. It's been very homelike in here for a little bit.

Grif's brow furrows as he thinks about that. He may not know them all well, but these guys are from home. It makes sense he'd get a little homesick.

It makes sense, but he doesn't like it. He doesn't want to miss the rest of his team, or Chorus's moon, or the nonstop rush of stupid antics their lives seem to be these days. This is his home now, right? People are nicer to him, entertainment's crazy, the only freelancer bullshit is imported. He shouldn't be getting sad about that absolute shithole of a universe they came from. It's just so much cleaner if he can write it all off. He hates home, home hates him, the relationship is nice and simple. He should not care about it, he quit, it's over.

...But all these nice, sound, logical arguments still aren't making him stop.

Perhaps that's why he takes a parting shot at Tucker as the group disperses out into the halls of Legion World. Tucker, the guy he's still kind of mad at, the nearest reminder of everything he was pissed off about.

"What was that all about?" he asks, arching an eyebrow significantly. Tucker was off his game and they all saw it.

[lovernotafighter]

Homesick. Yeah, that had been happening a lot to Tucker lately. His extensive talk with Connie about Carolina and the bullshit they used to do only made it worse, the fond memories of shit he was missing. Caboose. He was so worried about leaving Caboose and his kid and the fact...that Church was still this ominous thing out there, an is he or isn't he that wasn't ever answered.

Homesickness sucked; Tucker could attest to it. The thing was, Tucker was also pretty sure he was the only one feeling it out of the two of them because Grif quit home, Grif quit all of them so of course he was free and clear, right? But just because Grif's dumbass quit them didn't mean that Tucker did, and while the anger still brewed and was simmering down below, he couldn't just pretend he didn't exist. Or ignore him. Or not care.

Fuck, he wished he could not care, though. Guy didn't deserve it.

Still, he didn't want admit to any of that, and it was easier to play the Pissed Off At You Until You Fucking Apologize You Asshole game. Having Grif watch his rather humiliating defeat by Locus didn't exactly help with any of that, however, and he rolled his eyes at the question. Thank god for fucking healing abilities because he'd be bruised otherwise.

"Um, pretty sure it looked like training. You know, work and shit that doesn't involve either quitting or sleeping." Just with one of his least favorite people where he himself was actively sucking. No big deal. "So what, did you just come out to watch him kick my ass?"

No. He wasn't bitter at all.

[whyarewehere]

"It looked like you being pissed off at Locus and letting us watch," says Grif. "So yeah, kinda?"

It hadn't been the original plan, Wash hadn't even included him in the heads up he sent out. But it's a chance to jab Tucker in an apparently sensitive spot, and like hell is he going to admit he was coming down here to train himself. If Tucker finds out he's worried about where he is with his powers and the weight he gained back, it's all over for Grif's dignity.

"Did he do something I don't know about?"

[lovernotafighter]

He rolled his eyes at all of it, too busy being stuck in this landmine of bullshit to know what to do. He was still so fucking mad, but now there was this complex layer of embarrassment and stupid protectiveness and this shit wasn't what he signed up for. Being a leader sucked; they never told you about these emotionally compromising parts.

"Dude, you were there for what he's done." He shook his head, waving one of his arms around; god, all this stuff was so confusing with time and how long everyone was somewhere else. "I get it; you guys had all this time to become BfuckingFs with him, but I haven't, okay?"

He was still part of the reason Epsilon--

"Look, this badass right here is going to beat that badass over there. I am. And if it takes awhile and you want to sit and fucking laugh at me every day I try, do it. It's just going to make me do it faster."

CT VERSUS YORK

[goddamngrenades]

"No shirt, No powers-" York strips his off with one hand, coding in a round with cudgel sticks for them with the other. The shirt's tossed off, he walks to the center of the ring with a distant echo of the 'agent fucktruck york' swagger and pivots on his heel, falling into a ready stance as easy as breathing. Nevermind the scars from his exitwounds where Reggie shot him, the glowing node at the base of his skull, or the thin lines that still follow his shoulders where there'd been that unfortunate incident during the Silent Horizon. He's here, he's shirtless, he's gonna kick ass.
There's a little bit of a flourish with how he rolls the pole around his shoulders; showboating is occasionally a thing. "No mercy."

Well.

"...You sure you're cool with me keeping D in to mind my left?"

[short_changed]

Really, York? Connie stares after him for a moment, rolling her eyes at the showing off before she steps up. Easy enough to shuck off her jacket and pull off her tank, leaving her in her sports bra with her own violent history across her skin on display. There's the odd scar here and there across her back and arms, but the most prominent ones are the two thick, vicious looking things across her chest. Of course, having them is better than the alternative.

Connie gives her own pole a test spin, gauging the weight of it in her hands as she stops across the mats from York.

"So long as he doesn't give you any extra help, yeah. I trust D to be fair."

With a slight bow of her head she settles into a ready position.

[goddamngrenades]

"Nah, no extra help." Delta flickers behind his eye for a moment before receding. Left Side Observation and Report only- though this is one more tick in the 'get a damn bionic eye already' column. He shrugs that off for the moment gauging her stance, the distance between them, and how long it's been since he's gone up against her.

Literal years. Yikes.

The computer counts them off and rather than diving in swinging like he would've when he was younger? York starts circling to the right, looking for an opening.

[short_changed]

Likewise, Connie hasn't had the chance to really go up against York in training since she got stuck off the Leaderboard a ways back. Add in Delta and even if it's simple relaying Connie's not sure what to expect from him. Connie circles opposite York for a few steps, flexing her grip on the pole before she makes the first move. Given his momentum it would make more sense to target his left side.

Spinning the pole arm to brace in her right arm she dashes forward, aiming to York's left and past him when she pivots to swing the pole towards the back of his knees.

CT VERSUS YORK : Peanut Gallery

[agnominal]

Watching Freelancers fight has always been something of a curious hope for Locus. Even if they no longer seem the illustrious elite he once believed, their skill was undeniable. And watching skilled combatants do what they did best was always a pleasure to watch.

Connie had excellent form, aggressive and swift without being cocky or overreaching herself. Each strike was confident, certain and precise. York, meanwhile...

Well. He'd like to make commentary, but it turned out it was much more difficult to formulate an unbiased opinion. His thoughts kept wandering, despite his best efforts to lock them down. What should be an objective observation of his skill turns swiftly into a much more personal assessment, one that has him occasionally glancing away.

That's going to be problematic, isn't it?

[unrecovered]

Leave it to York to lean into the dual meaning of exhibition match. Wash sighs and rolls his eyes at York's declaration. Some things never change.

The match is fascinating - it's been a good long while since he's seen his friends go at it, and it's always impressive - but Wash's attention wanders once he catches sight of Locus glancing away. And looking back. And glancing away again.

Oh for God's sake.

He sidles in close to Locus, lowers his voice, and-

"Get a room."

[agnominal]

Oh good. A distraction, helpfully provided in the form of Washington being as patently irritating as ever. Locus's eyes immediately shoot in his direction, brows digging low is obvious displeasure.

"Go away."

Post-fight

[nofortunateson]

If North felt like making a point, he could say a lot of things about York and CT's decision to take a turn on the mats next - especially York's half of that. But, probably mercifully, he's the referee for the upcoming round. That means a little more watching and a little less commentary - and that he's already on the edge of the mats when the first pair are coming off.

"Hey, Tucker, right?" He offers a hand in greeting, smiling affably. Rough match? Sure. But from what he's gathered already, the guy is a sim trooper, while Locus is . . . Locus. Throwing down with him with swords was gutsy, if nothing else. "Heck of a fight."

[lovernotafighter]

Tucker hurt. It wasn't as bad as it could be, and Locus had definitely taken it easy on him, but a bruised ego was pretty much as bad as anything physical (barring a nutshot). The fact that the beatdown happened in a room full of Freelancers and Grif? That made it even worse.

The hand caught him off guard; where he's from, most hand gestures involve middle fingers. He takes it slowly, brown eyes looking around for the punch line because he was pretty sure this guy was a Freelancer. "Yeah, more like 'heck of a time getting my ass kicked'." Forgive him if he sounded a little bitter about it; this wasn't the way he wanted to show off. Hell, he hadn't wanted to show off at all because....well, because he knew it was going to happen like this.

"So, which little piece of America are you?" Dude, seriously, he was going to get a map and just cut out pictures of everyone in their shape states and glue them down.

[nofortunateson]

"North Dakota. North is fine." He chuffs a laugh at the blunt assessment of the match-up, gesturing back at the impromptu viewing gallery. "And it happens to the best of us. How's about a beer to take the edge off?"

Even in the top chunk of the leaderboard, there was no escaping the occasional ass-kicking, inevitably with an audience watching the entire thing unfold. He can empathize a little with the frustration.

[lovernotafighter]

Okay, a Freelancer that didn't try to either assign him a workout regimen or kick his ass? Hell, he even offered him a beer? Why the fuck didn't they pick up and adopt this guy, huh?

The frustration eased a little, his shoulders sagging because at least one person here wasn't going to laugh at him (like he was fairly certain Grif would) or develop new ways to torture him with additional training (Wash). The resentment was still there, internalized, swirling because he needed to be able to take Locus, dammit, but it wasn't happening today. It couldn't. He...just needed to fucking deal with that shit.

But drinking could happen. "Dude, let's just go straight to two beers; he nailed me on the chest and I could really use one there." And the other? Oh, the other would be toast in no time flat. Still, Tucker was waiting for the catch, the other shoe to drop; there had to be something more, right?

"So, are you going after York and Connie?" He looked back at the rest of the peanut gallery, already figuring that Grif wouldn't set foot up there. That just left-- "Going against Wash?"