legionworld | fight fight fight

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fight fight fight

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.

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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?"

"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.

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.

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.

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.

Focus.

He pivoted on his heel as Tucker swung in again, this time cutting across rather than down. Left him with no choice but to step back or step low, and rather than lose ground he ducked. He stepped closer and moved under the swipe of the blade, driving an elbow towards Tucker's ribs, before pulling past and whipping around to face him once again.

Still hadn't activated the sword. But his eyes were tight. He was taking him seriously, just not using the sword if he didn't have to.

Focus. That wasn’t exactly Tucker’s strong point, at least not on the right things. Case in point: how he was focused on the fact that Locus hadn’t even turned on the sword yet and was fucking with him rather than really fulfilling what Tucker’s idea of sparring should be. More blade clashes. More successful anything. Tucker actually getting a hit in.

The elbow to his ribs drove the breath out of him, sent him staggering back a few paces as he clutched his arm around his chest. Fuck, that hurt! He gasped, rubbing the strike, backing up until he could get his lungs working again, the annoyance coloring his eyes.

“Oh my fucking god, will you just fight me already?!” Which probably wasn’t the wisest thing to request, really, but focus, control, those were all things he needed to work on still, things he had a tenuous grasp on the best of days. Sparring with the asshole who made his life a living hell just sent it right out the window. He launched himself at him again, trying to get in fast, another swipe from low to high and come on, dammit. And if he was going to dodge that, well, Tucker was going to try to follow through with his left fist because punching the s.o.b in the face was probably going to feel good, too. You know, if he could actually get anything to land.

Which wasn't actually seeming possible right now.

It really wasn't fair to Tucker, when Locus's powers set him just above the average human for strength, speed, and reflexes. It probably did look like he was just yanking him around, though he didn't look pleased by his failure to land a hit, as Felix might have. There was no boasting, no smugness, just a look of deep satisfaction.

If that's what he wants, fine.

Another dodged swipe, jerking his head back to avoid the punch? And then Locus returned it, aiming for the solar plexus. Not with full force, no. He's not trying to defeat Tucker, here. If he were, this would have all already been over.

Well, this sucked, didn’t it?

Tucker had hoped - hoped - to land at least something, anything, just one fucking punch at least, but it wasn’t looking to be in his favor at all. Locus wasn’t something to fuck with, he knew that when he set it up, but it didn’t make this any easier to his confidence when every time he punched or swung, he was met with empty air.

Asshole made it look easy.

Tucker felt that attack knocking him back again, and it hurt, hurt, driving the breath out of him once again. Instinctually, his hand loosened his grip on his sword, but he gripped it again before he could drop it, tighter, refusing to let his weapon go ever. Air, air, okay, he had air, and now he stood on the edge of the mats, glaring.

“Come the fuck on!” he snapped.

"You wanted a fight."

Locus's nostrils flared as he straightened. Not sweating, not nearly out of breath, just calmly surveying Tucker as he wound himself up tighter and tighter. Eventually, he was bound to snap.

Then, he might need to draw his own blade.

"Would you prefer I stood still for you?"

“Something tells me that it wouldn’t make much of a fucking difference.”

It was bitter on his tongue, a dawning realization that this was going to be a lot harder than he thought. “And don’t be a dick; of course I don’t want you to stand still. I just want you to actually fight me.” Stop making him look bad. Stop making him look pathetic. Give him something!

“At least whip it out.”

Not even a bow chicka bow wow in sight.

"As you wish."

And his stance shifted again, the blue light of the energy sword flaring to life at his side. Held low, not up and aggressive, but certainly at the ready. And once it was, Locus started to move inward, watching Tucker's own posture and stance while steadily closing the gap, a step at a time. There was no rush, no hurry, just watching for an opportune moment.

Of course, with the sword, a landed blow would be a great deal more painful. Now, he needed to show more restraint than ever. Scowling, Locus finally swept in with a sharp, upwards arc.

Finally!

Of course, Tucker needed to be a million times more careful, needed to play defensive as much as offensive now, smarter not harder. Moving back one step, two, he tried to gauge how fast Locus was going to be, to see if there were any tells first, but it was Locus; he wasn't expecting any. Then again, people in and out of their armor were very different, weren't they?

Tucker didn't have to wait long for the first attack, which boded well for his impatience. Instinct said to move away from the sweep; the Sim Trooper pressed into it with his sword instead and pushed hard. Fucker had more raw strength than him, but he hoped the sudden in, the sudden drive into the center of it swing might throw him or at least occupy him. And if he could get in for a second, Tucker sure as hell was going to try to kick out at least one of Locus' legs.

At least if Tucker got cut, at least he healed fairly quickish.

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.

The weight of that push kept the sword from carving too close to Tucker's face, but it wasn't far enough out from him to step in for that kick. Not easily. When Tucker's leg swung, Locus was already moving, drawing to the side and narrowly escaping that kick.

He was taking some good initiative, but Locus wasn't going to make it easy for him.

Another swing, this one aimed at Tucker's mid-section, and with a heavier weight behind it. But an easily telegraphed move. The trouble wasn't seeing it, it was stopping it.

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."

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.

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.

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?"

Grif cheerfully takes a handful of popcorn with zero grace, some of it ends up on the floor.

"I don't know dude, stupid-uneven matchups are kind of our thing," he says to York.

He may not be on friendly terms with Tucker right now, but you don't go through everything this crew did together without thinking in us terms. They're from the same ragtag pack of losers and that still counts.

It also helps that Tucker's too busy to notice Grif being on his side about something. Otherwise that just wouldn't be cool.

So maybe calling him out on his lack of sword use wasn’t such a good idea in hindsight. The leg caught nothing and Tucker wasn’t sure if he was going to get another chance any time soo—

Nope. None, because Locus was swinging again, this time at his core, and Tucker was too close to be able to get out of the way in time. Bracing himself with both hands on the weapon, he tried to block with his own sword, weapon pointed down when it connected. It was immediate, but not well-planned, and he could feel Locus’ strength the second they connected. Feet slipped for all of a heartbeat before he lost it completely and went flying.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He went rolling across the mats, groaning as he lost his hold on his weapon. Sonofabitch, that had gone shitty, but at least no one was here to—

“…are you fucking kidding me?”

He blinked once, feeling the burning of embarrassment in his ears over the newfound audience, an audience that was watching him thoroughly get his ass handed to him. And audience with beer and popcorn. God, just shoot him now.

"Ignore them."

Locus certainly was. He moved across the mat, sword lowered to his side, until he was but a few feet from where Tucker was starting to take his feet once again.

And he planted himself between the Sim Trooper and the view of their now rapt audience, gaze fixed steadily on his.

"You're allowing too much to enter your mind. You are distracted. Focus."

Wash shamelessly grabs the whole bag, firmly tugging it out of York's grasp. Dibs.

"Yeah, but Tucker's at a severe disadvantage. For one, if he's been on vacation for ten months, he probably hasn't trained for that entire time, so he's rusty." He glances at Grif - hey, future buddy, you want to confirm that? - before continuing. "Two, Locus has an enhanced physique thanks to the Time Trapper, which gives him a leg up on physical competition." And three, Tucker is impatient on a good day and already frustrated, but Wash doesn't feel the need to point that out.

"Also- Sam's got Tucker beat on reach and force. He's also..." york squints for a second, judging distance and pisture. "...telegraphing his attacks. Huh. Self induced handicap."

Looks like he showed just in time for the commentary. Seeing as the popcorn's already being hotly contested, North stoops and takes one of the beers, cracking it open and taking a sip. Juxtaposed against the familiar 'watching agents fight and possibly bullshitting' that's become a familiar pastime, getting to do it with refreshments feels positively indulgent.

"So yeah, York, it sounds like no one's taking you up on that bet," he concludes drily. "Anyone know why they went for swords this round?"

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