Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
"We... we ever... ever gonna mix it up?" I asked, growling at a stream of sweat as it rolled down into my eye. "This is... kinda..."
"Do ziz." Antonio kicked my left leg back into place. "You vill drill until you verk your vlabby muzclez into zhape. Zey are too zmall for a proper boxer."
"I've... I've seen small boxers before," Jeffrey gasped. He dared to droop a little, earning him a swift smack to the ass. "OW! Fuck! Quit it!"
"Yez, zome boxerz are zmall," Antonio agreed, clearly unphased by the anger. "But they ztill have muzcle. Zey are lean, und virey, und compact. You two are vlab. You may remain zmall if you vizh, but you vill be taut und dangerouz. And until you are..."
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
Boxing sucks.
Antonio kept us practicing for five hours today. He didn't add a whole lot to the previous day's lessons, instead focusing on honing what we already knew. Stance is important; jabs are important; covering your face is important. I stood in the same posture for so long that I fear I'm fuckin' stuck like this for life.
Yet for all the irritation, I can see why martial skills would be helpful. I've been caught up in so much dangerous shit in the last three years that being able to fight back would be, on occasion, nice. I usually just run away from trouble and let other people deal with it. Granted, boxing isn't exactly the kind of training I'd pursue to use something like the Crimson Catastrophe, which kinda resembles a two-handed sword, but... better than nothing, right?
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
At least Jeffrey seems to be enjoying himself.
Lessons aside, our journey continues. I've made a point to implement greater security measures so as to avoid unpleasant surprises in the future. Someone is always on watch atop the Dauphine, no matter the time of day, and we now regularly conduct inspections of the transport's hull and living quarters to ensure that no one unwanted has slipped into our ranks. Doc sticks out in this sense, 'cause the little bastard keeps finding us somehow... I don't think Bora was tipping him off, but... who knows.
Should probably think up a way to root out Non saboteurs, as well. They clearly have long-lasting transformative abilities. Maybe if you cut 'em they bleed green blood, or something...?
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
We're closing in on our destination. I can feel it. Iko... that bastard... you're not far off. And when I find you... will you teach me what I need to know? Or are you just going to tell me things I'd rather avoid...?
Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.
Repeat.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Wanderer
I could've sworn I remember reading that Drags couldn't learn to box because the gloves kept falling off his hands. Could be wrong though. Maybe it was just in the comments section where we talked about it.
ReplyDeletePossible. A retcon may be in order.
DeleteCould he have forgotten that these could be considered a weapon? The disarming could be mental based as well.
Deletethere's been evidence that it may be at least partially mental. i seem to recall drags chopping wood or shoveling or something with no problem until he thought about using his tool as a weapon and could no longer pick it up. perhaps this is similar?
Delete