Post by Selina Kyle on Jul 8, 2010 1:25:39 GMT -5
The sound of a beating echoed off the stone walls within the dark, nearly abandoned building. Grunts followed, and the sound of fists burying themselves into fabric and padding. The sound of a foot lightly spinning on a tile floor that was lightly dusty seemed louder than life thanks to the intense silence around it, and then the jarring sound of a bigger blow. The punching bag vibrated in it's stand, and the small woman beating it to a pulp stopped, chest heaving, to stop it's wiggling with both bandaged hands.
"Saw your little shenanigan on T.V." came the gravelly voice of an onlooker. The woman's light green eyes jumped up, spotting the familiar outline of the salt and pepper haired fighter, still musclebound despite his years creeping up on him. And still nimble, apparently. "What?" he asked, "You think you're the only one who can sneak around when you want to? Or did you think I wouldn't recognize your..." His eyes wandered to her derriere, as if he was going to be crude, before he finished, "Personal style." Smirking at his own supposed cleverness, he began to wrap his own hands in bandage, while she only shook her head at him and leaned an arm across the top of the punching bag to catch her breath.
"I need a weapon," she finally stated, musing aloud. Now that the cat was out of the bag there was no reason to deny it; Ted could see through her B.S. faster than anybody anyway, and she needed his advice.
"Not my area of expertise," he quickly and succinctly told her. He was the former unarmed fighting champion, he seemed to be reminding her. He thought weapons were for sissies.
She ignored it, though. He knew more than he let on and she knew that if she kept at it he would help her. "I've been holding my own, but I don't know that I could keep it up. Cops have guns and, well... I didn't exactly calculate on running into the Bat." She was still a little disconcerted from the meeting, and though she claimed cops had something to do with it for reasons of pride the truth was being set down by Batman had proved to her that, much as she thought of herself, she needed to step up her game another notch.
"Kinda looked to me like he saved your ass," Ted told her in that short, pointed way he had. Her green eyes narrowed as he walked to the punching bag she had been using, wordlessly instructing her to hold it for him. Instead, she punched it hard and he had to catch it before it hit him in the face. His dry laughter echoed through the room like the sound of lips busting.
For a few moments the conversation seemed dropped, and he began to punch the bag with surprising power and speed. She waited patiently. It took a great deal of strength to even hold the bag for him, so she had enough to be getting on with, but she knew that if she just waited he would come through for her. He always did.
After a few beatings, his punches paused. "You thinking about going ranged?" he asked. He punched the bag once before adding, 'You don't really need a weapon for close quarters."
"No," she quickly agreed, "I don't." It was a testament to his tutelage that the statement was as true as it was, but it was also key to convincing him to help her. He immediately seemed satisfied that she wasn't abandoning his philosophy of fighting, and she wasn't. She was modifying it to her purposes. She could see the cogs in his mind turning.
"Don't know how to shoot a gun myself," he finally stated. She knew his feelings about guns. They took no finesse, no knowledge, and did too much damage. It enabled people to kill without thinking too much about it, without getting their hands dirty and experiencing the death themselves. Murders wouldn't be half so numerous, he was convinced, if they had to do the work themselves.
She had her own reasons for not wanting to carry a gun. "No guns," she explained. "Anyone can use a gun against me if they get their hands on it, and they wouldn't stay on me when I'm climbing anyway."
His hands slowed a moment as his eyes landed on her, and though they were fathomless she could tell that he was studying her for a moment. Then he looked again to the bag and his speed resumed. "You been thinking about this a lot," he stated rather than asked. She looked mildly embarrassed.
She wasn't sure there was a way to explain it to him. Once upon a time, she had got her thrills by competing. The was something about the hush of the crowd as she twisted and twirled through the airs on the high bars, the vault, and the rings. They all waited with bated breath, and she realized once she was injured that they didn't watch because they thought the movements were beautiful. They watched because there was this inherent risk in the sport, because it was so difficult to do without screwing it up and injuring yourself permanently, the way she nearly did. She had liked the danger. Now, she had found something that afforded so much more of that, and she no longer just was a thief. It completed her.
At last the silence had gone on too long and he put his hands on either side of the bag, training his waiting gaze on her. She glanced away and then back, shrugging her slender shoulders. "I like it," was the only explanation she could give. He seemed unconvinced, and turned away.
"It's not exactly legit," he stated, more as an obligatory protective reminder than a chastisement. She lifted her dark eyebrows at him.
"And beating people to a pulp for a living is?" she asked dryly, and he chuckled because she was right. He walked over to the sparring mat and motioned her over, and she obediently followed. She could tell he was still thinking the problem through. As they squared off on the mat and she awaited his move, he broke the silence.
"You could use a whip," he offered, the suggestion sounding more like wishful thinking than anything else. She ignored it, and easily deflected his attempt to trip her up, sidestepping and awaiting a more serious effort.
"I wasn't talking about the bedroom," she replied, watching his face now intently. He was really considering the problem now, and she knew that if help was to come now was the time. His dirty smirk was just a mask.
"No, I mean it," he continued his teasing, still feeling her out. He held his hands out to either side of his waist. "Wonder Woman uses one."
"That's a lasso," she corrected him, dryly. She appreciated everything he did for her, but he did have kind of a wandering mind. She would prefer he got back on topic and stopped imagining her naked.
His stance, however, changed slightly as he put his hands on his knees, clearly no longer in sparring mode. His eyes lifted to the ceiling and he seemed to be remembering something. "Knew a girl with a whip once," he stated, the tone of reminiscing coloring his words. "In China. Used to put out candles from thirty feet away." He shook his head once. "Quite a girl."
Immediately suspicious, she looked at him seriously. "Was she a hooker?"
A roguish smile split his face, and he shrugged. "I didn't have to pay." She rolled her eyes, but the entire thing was a part of the game they played. He continued, counting off on his fingers, "Look, it's a weapon light enough to carry on you, it gives you some range, and no one's gonna turn it against you. Fits all your requirements." He tilted the hand and gestured to her. "Don't act like the innuendo doesn't appeal to you, Princess."
Looking scandalized she leveled a punch at his waist. "I'm not vain," she said, emphasizing the word 'vain' with her shot. Back on his form now that the dilemma had been averted, in his mind anyway, he quickly turned the strike against her, grabbing her arm easily and twisting until she fell unceremoniously on the mat, face first.
"Right," he told her, immediately walking off the mat. "And you're not out of practice, either." He hit the light switch as he passed by, leaving her to pick herself up on all fours
"Dick," she threw after him, and his chuckling reply only winked at her from the shadows.
"Saw your little shenanigan on T.V." came the gravelly voice of an onlooker. The woman's light green eyes jumped up, spotting the familiar outline of the salt and pepper haired fighter, still musclebound despite his years creeping up on him. And still nimble, apparently. "What?" he asked, "You think you're the only one who can sneak around when you want to? Or did you think I wouldn't recognize your..." His eyes wandered to her derriere, as if he was going to be crude, before he finished, "Personal style." Smirking at his own supposed cleverness, he began to wrap his own hands in bandage, while she only shook her head at him and leaned an arm across the top of the punching bag to catch her breath.
"I need a weapon," she finally stated, musing aloud. Now that the cat was out of the bag there was no reason to deny it; Ted could see through her B.S. faster than anybody anyway, and she needed his advice.
"Not my area of expertise," he quickly and succinctly told her. He was the former unarmed fighting champion, he seemed to be reminding her. He thought weapons were for sissies.
She ignored it, though. He knew more than he let on and she knew that if she kept at it he would help her. "I've been holding my own, but I don't know that I could keep it up. Cops have guns and, well... I didn't exactly calculate on running into the Bat." She was still a little disconcerted from the meeting, and though she claimed cops had something to do with it for reasons of pride the truth was being set down by Batman had proved to her that, much as she thought of herself, she needed to step up her game another notch.
"Kinda looked to me like he saved your ass," Ted told her in that short, pointed way he had. Her green eyes narrowed as he walked to the punching bag she had been using, wordlessly instructing her to hold it for him. Instead, she punched it hard and he had to catch it before it hit him in the face. His dry laughter echoed through the room like the sound of lips busting.
For a few moments the conversation seemed dropped, and he began to punch the bag with surprising power and speed. She waited patiently. It took a great deal of strength to even hold the bag for him, so she had enough to be getting on with, but she knew that if she just waited he would come through for her. He always did.
After a few beatings, his punches paused. "You thinking about going ranged?" he asked. He punched the bag once before adding, 'You don't really need a weapon for close quarters."
"No," she quickly agreed, "I don't." It was a testament to his tutelage that the statement was as true as it was, but it was also key to convincing him to help her. He immediately seemed satisfied that she wasn't abandoning his philosophy of fighting, and she wasn't. She was modifying it to her purposes. She could see the cogs in his mind turning.
"Don't know how to shoot a gun myself," he finally stated. She knew his feelings about guns. They took no finesse, no knowledge, and did too much damage. It enabled people to kill without thinking too much about it, without getting their hands dirty and experiencing the death themselves. Murders wouldn't be half so numerous, he was convinced, if they had to do the work themselves.
She had her own reasons for not wanting to carry a gun. "No guns," she explained. "Anyone can use a gun against me if they get their hands on it, and they wouldn't stay on me when I'm climbing anyway."
His hands slowed a moment as his eyes landed on her, and though they were fathomless she could tell that he was studying her for a moment. Then he looked again to the bag and his speed resumed. "You been thinking about this a lot," he stated rather than asked. She looked mildly embarrassed.
She wasn't sure there was a way to explain it to him. Once upon a time, she had got her thrills by competing. The was something about the hush of the crowd as she twisted and twirled through the airs on the high bars, the vault, and the rings. They all waited with bated breath, and she realized once she was injured that they didn't watch because they thought the movements were beautiful. They watched because there was this inherent risk in the sport, because it was so difficult to do without screwing it up and injuring yourself permanently, the way she nearly did. She had liked the danger. Now, she had found something that afforded so much more of that, and she no longer just was a thief. It completed her.
At last the silence had gone on too long and he put his hands on either side of the bag, training his waiting gaze on her. She glanced away and then back, shrugging her slender shoulders. "I like it," was the only explanation she could give. He seemed unconvinced, and turned away.
"It's not exactly legit," he stated, more as an obligatory protective reminder than a chastisement. She lifted her dark eyebrows at him.
"And beating people to a pulp for a living is?" she asked dryly, and he chuckled because she was right. He walked over to the sparring mat and motioned her over, and she obediently followed. She could tell he was still thinking the problem through. As they squared off on the mat and she awaited his move, he broke the silence.
"You could use a whip," he offered, the suggestion sounding more like wishful thinking than anything else. She ignored it, and easily deflected his attempt to trip her up, sidestepping and awaiting a more serious effort.
"I wasn't talking about the bedroom," she replied, watching his face now intently. He was really considering the problem now, and she knew that if help was to come now was the time. His dirty smirk was just a mask.
"No, I mean it," he continued his teasing, still feeling her out. He held his hands out to either side of his waist. "Wonder Woman uses one."
"That's a lasso," she corrected him, dryly. She appreciated everything he did for her, but he did have kind of a wandering mind. She would prefer he got back on topic and stopped imagining her naked.
His stance, however, changed slightly as he put his hands on his knees, clearly no longer in sparring mode. His eyes lifted to the ceiling and he seemed to be remembering something. "Knew a girl with a whip once," he stated, the tone of reminiscing coloring his words. "In China. Used to put out candles from thirty feet away." He shook his head once. "Quite a girl."
Immediately suspicious, she looked at him seriously. "Was she a hooker?"
A roguish smile split his face, and he shrugged. "I didn't have to pay." She rolled her eyes, but the entire thing was a part of the game they played. He continued, counting off on his fingers, "Look, it's a weapon light enough to carry on you, it gives you some range, and no one's gonna turn it against you. Fits all your requirements." He tilted the hand and gestured to her. "Don't act like the innuendo doesn't appeal to you, Princess."
Looking scandalized she leveled a punch at his waist. "I'm not vain," she said, emphasizing the word 'vain' with her shot. Back on his form now that the dilemma had been averted, in his mind anyway, he quickly turned the strike against her, grabbing her arm easily and twisting until she fell unceremoniously on the mat, face first.
"Right," he told her, immediately walking off the mat. "And you're not out of practice, either." He hit the light switch as he passed by, leaving her to pick herself up on all fours
"Dick," she threw after him, and his chuckling reply only winked at her from the shadows.
