Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

[shineinside]

Who: Anyone who wants to come by! Tag in, thread with Yuka, thread with each other, whatever you want.
What: Combat training/practice.
When: Sunset, each night for a week minimum.
Where: East end of Islet 1.
Warnings: Possible blood if things get out of hand, implied 80s training montage songs

Yuka chose this location because the ground was level, there was enough space for people to move around, and nobody was really using it for anything else. No wild beasts, no fish people to disturb, no strange psychological effects... the ideal place for people to gather for an hour or two and get some good-natured fighting in. The snow on the ground wasn't ideal, she supposed, but that stuff was everywhere, so they'd just have to make do. It'd probably be snowing during the invasion, anyway.

Each evening, as the sun inched towards the horizon, Yuka set her other tasks aside to come out and wait. Jug of wassail sitting at the edge of the space, bundled in warm clothes and scarves, Yuka paced, wondering if this was really going to be worth the time. Are there people willing to spend that much time to train others when there's so much else that needs doing? Can someone even learn enough to make a difference in this little time? For that matter, are these shadow monsters something you can even fight with your fists? If nothing else, it would be good to do some physical activity in just to get her mind to stop going in circles.

For those who arrived early, there would be less to do, but even just talking through what different fighting skills people had would be useful for later on. Once more people arrived, those who use similar weapons could work together, and those with more combat experience could work with those with less. Or, people who know each other or are curious about each other's abilities could seek each other out for a sparring match.

So: Fight, teach, learn, take breaks, drink, chat. Bring your own wassail if you can - Yuka's can only stretch so far.

Comments

[postictal]

Alex. None of it happened until I met Alex. Him, and the first - the first real friends I remember ever having. The first people I really let -

[A sound very much like a hastily-stifled sob bursts out from his throat, prompting him to pace back several steps, as if by shying away that might prevent him from saying what comes next.]

You think it was just him and me?

We were just the only two left.

[ratsinadaze]

None of it happened until - how the hell does that not make it Alex's fault? How is it not him who triggered this chain of events? If anything, it sounds like you were getting by just fine until he came along.

[There's. There's got to be some vital piece she's still missing.]

[postictal]

Because he didn't start seeing It until I met him. I've been seeing It my entire life, Gobbet, how else am I supposed -

["I thought it was me, but you're the source."]
[You're the source.]

I thought It wasn't real. I thought It wasn't fucking real. [He - ]

[Fuck.]

[He's going to cry. He knows he's about to. He can feel it in the way the words tremble, in the thickness in his throat, in the way he can't clip the sentences out properly, in the way he's trembling like the sun's already set. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Not now. Please. Not now.]

[ratsinadaze]

[Gobbet flinches as she realizes he's about to cry. There's that sinking feeling one gets when they realize they're about to see someone at their most vulnerable. It is both a burden and a privilege in her world.]

Look, my shack is over there. [She indicates a largely un-repaired shack with a hammock (lined with fresh snow) out front across the islet.] Come inside, have a hot drink, and tell me what "it" is. I'm getting closer to understanding, I think. And when I do, we're going to figure out what to do about this whole clusterfuck.

[postictal]

[And then...this.]

[It always happens like this. He starts to crumple, and then he's made of fragile, red-stained glass, needs to be handled with kid gloves, needs to be gently and carefully let down so he doesn't hurt anyone, so he doesn't start bawling like some fucking infant. If he could be grateful for anything, he could be grateful for that, with Jay; he never switched tacks in a way that was obvious, never felt the need to rush in and pat someone's ass for something that wasn't even really an accomplishment. His comfort was awkward and stumbling and imprecise and weird, but - ]

[Maybe that's why it felt almost genuine, in its own stilted, Jay way.]

[So wipe your nose, Tim, try and swallow it down like the pathetic, scared little boy you never really stopped being, and answer.]

I'm s - I've said...

[Words fail.]
[It's what they do.]

[Breathe, please. Breathe. Don't break down, please.]

Do you really wanna...do this? Right now? [There's an unspoken plea there, couched between the nervous upward dart of his eyes and the concave bow to his spine, the way he keeps trying to shrink down.]

[Do we really have to do this?]

[ratsinadaze]

[Her shoulders relax from a tension she didn't realize she'd built up. No, no they don't have to do this right now. She's not going anywhere and neither is he, she hopes.]

...Tell you what. My shack's over there. [She folds her arms across her chest, offers a sympathetic grin. Layering on the "embodiment of chill" act piece by piece.] Go inside, take a hot drink, and I won't follow you or ask you any more questions. I won't come in until you leave. Then, one day, after this bullshit with the sun is over with, you can tell me what I need to know. And I'll listen for real that time. That gives you a week without me bugging you to decide what you do and don't want to say.

For the record, this ain't pity. It's respect. Do we have a deal?

[postictal]

[A week where he's liable to be more preoccupied with fighting for his life than he is thinking about what the hell to say to her. A week to get his story straight. To figure out just what pieces of the story he's going to lay down without summoning too many questions.]

[It isn't liable to be much.]

[The back of one hand goes to the corner of one eye. Pressing, pressing, as if by applying that weight, he might force it all back.]

I'll...I think I need to pass right now.

[For all that she's not like Jay, sometimes he can be grateful for that fact; for how she won't push him for answers at his most vulnerable, because he's more likely to yield.]

But, uh - I wanna...yeah.

We can talk. After this is over.

[ratsinadaze]

[Gobbet eyes him for a moment, her expression unreadable.]

[She's thinking about how she should have pressed him. Answers, but at the cost of his trust, probably. Thinking about how after the week is up, he's going to cop out. Tell a satisfying story that's less truth than it is "don't ask".]

[Gobbet can't help but feel she's made a mistake.]

Yeah, sure. I'll see you in a week, then, yeah?

[postictal]

...yeah. Okay.

[It's not a perfect solution. He told her too much. He broke down. He's not - none of this is ideal. But she skimmed the edge of a memory off his head, through no fault of her own, because that's just what the world decided to do that go around.]

[It's the closest thing to a solution he has.]

In a week.

[Assuming the world's still intact by then.]

[Assuming a lot of things.]

Probably wrapped unless you have more to add?

[ratsinadaze]

[She's already made up her mind that they'll win the battle. Losing isn't an option. It barely occurs to her. So she's betting on a week. Counting on it.]

[Gobbet reaches for her sickle, gently petting the head of a black rat who poked its nose out of her knapsack along the way. She's still got a lot of practice to do. Besides, she has the feeling Tim's done talking.]

[It's not in her nature to pity someone, but that doesn't mean she can't feel...sympathetic. He was struggling, to put it lightly, and she was a wall of questions and confrontations that he made the conscious decision to throw himself against. Even if he regretted it now, she still respected him for trying.]