"Actually, I was thinking of going to go crash with some of the other campers and survivalists. More bodies means less watches. If nothing else, I have a Growlithe to start a fire, so that's an easy in, and I have my own food, so that's helpful too. Maybe Clancey will be fine with someone else crashing his fire."
He stretches slowly and languidly, massaging his right thigh. "Besides, I've been putting this off."
"Now is as good a chance to work on the basics again as any. Make sure I don't get lazy. You're welcome to join me if you want, Nathan. I was planning on working on my cane school, but if you want, we can do some basic boxing."
He takes a half step forward, assuming a stable position, then slowly lowers himself, bending his knees slightly until his stance just about matches his shoulders.
Oh Arcaeus, that hurts.
"CAN IT, YOU WIMP." The officer, is real now, palpable, prowling and predatory, walking back and forth in his mind examining him like a parade sergeant doing a line inspection.
Winston likewise takes a step forward instinctively, it's stubby little tail going stiff as the growlithe's hackles go up, as it broadens it's mouth into a snarl. It is a practiced motion, one they've worked on together for years, the growlithe instinctively matching his trainer's stance, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Moran, sensing the shift, scurrys over, blinking in confusion.
Winston glances at the bug, and cock's his head. You want in or not? His look seems to say. Vincent stares down at the bug as well.
"Come on little guy. Get ready to fight." The bug clacks it's mandibles in confusion, then turns around on the spot, eyes goggling at it peers around looking for a threat. "No, Moran. There's nothing here. We're just doing some basic training. Come on. Get into position"
The Paras blinks and lazily waves it's claws at him.
"Yes. You have claws and you know how to use them. No, you're not getting out that easily you lazy bum." It takes some cajoling and a lot of browbeating, but the Paras finally steps into line as well.
"STRIKE!
He lunges forward, the cane a blur in his arm, the butt of the walking stick aimed squarely at the midsection of the imaginary target before him.
"HEAD STRIKE! BUTT STRIKE! SIDESTEP! REPEAT!" The officer screams orders in his head, bellowing invective as he sorts through muscle stimuli and visual feedback. "ARM UP. I SAID ARM UP! YOU SACK OF FILTH! YOU THINK THAT HIT WAS FAST ENOUGH? DO IT AGAIN!"
He pushes forward, blotting out stimuli to focus on his own motion, making minor adjustments on the fly and steadily honing motion into muscle memory. Amidst the strain of his muscles singing, he is for the briefest of moments, at ease, as body and mind march in lockstep into synchronized purpose, synapses firing and muscles contorting to keep up the punishing volley of strikes.
I miss training with Jen. The thought somehow worms through his mental blockade, ploughing through his cognitive firewalls to arrive unbidden upon his mind.
The officer howls with rage and hurls the offending thought back into the recesses, directing his neurons to focus entirely on the punishing exchange of muscle motions.
Not today. Not the time.
He stretches slowly and languidly, massaging his right thigh. "Besides, I've been putting this off."
"Now is as good a chance to work on the basics again as any. Make sure I don't get lazy. You're welcome to join me if you want, Nathan. I was planning on working on my cane school, but if you want, we can do some basic boxing."
He takes a half step forward, assuming a stable position, then slowly lowers himself, bending his knees slightly until his stance just about matches his shoulders.
Oh Arcaeus, that hurts.
"CAN IT, YOU WIMP." The officer, is real now, palpable, prowling and predatory, walking back and forth in his mind examining him like a parade sergeant doing a line inspection.
Winston likewise takes a step forward instinctively, it's stubby little tail going stiff as the growlithe's hackles go up, as it broadens it's mouth into a snarl. It is a practiced motion, one they've worked on together for years, the growlithe instinctively matching his trainer's stance, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Moran, sensing the shift, scurrys over, blinking in confusion.
Winston glances at the bug, and cock's his head. You want in or not? His look seems to say. Vincent stares down at the bug as well.
"Come on little guy. Get ready to fight." The bug clacks it's mandibles in confusion, then turns around on the spot, eyes goggling at it peers around looking for a threat. "No, Moran. There's nothing here. We're just doing some basic training. Come on. Get into position"
The Paras blinks and lazily waves it's claws at him.
"Yes. You have claws and you know how to use them. No, you're not getting out that easily you lazy bum." It takes some cajoling and a lot of browbeating, but the Paras finally steps into line as well.
"STRIKE!
He lunges forward, the cane a blur in his arm, the butt of the walking stick aimed squarely at the midsection of the imaginary target before him.
"HEAD STRIKE! BUTT STRIKE! SIDESTEP! REPEAT!" The officer screams orders in his head, bellowing invective as he sorts through muscle stimuli and visual feedback. "ARM UP. I SAID ARM UP! YOU SACK OF FILTH! YOU THINK THAT HIT WAS FAST ENOUGH? DO IT AGAIN!"
He pushes forward, blotting out stimuli to focus on his own motion, making minor adjustments on the fly and steadily honing motion into muscle memory. Amidst the strain of his muscles singing, he is for the briefest of moments, at ease, as body and mind march in lockstep into synchronized purpose, synapses firing and muscles contorting to keep up the punishing volley of strikes.
I miss training with Jen. The thought somehow worms through his mental blockade, ploughing through his cognitive firewalls to arrive unbidden upon his mind.
The officer howls with rage and hurls the offending thought back into the recesses, directing his neurons to focus entirely on the punishing exchange of muscle motions.
Not today. Not the time.
