03. [Spam for the gym]

[totesafightinggrace]

[Po has been more than a bit frustrated that none of his own brothers visited the barge. He would have liked a simple note, even if that would have meant having to fight with his communicator again to make it read the note out to him. Spending all of this time among strangers in a constantly changing atmosphere has begun to make him feel very lonely indeed. He knows he shouldn't feel lonely, for there are those who have been aboard the vessel far long than he has; that just makes him feel worse.

And now there's the fact that he finally has an inmate of his own. Flemming. It is a relief, on the one hand, to have already met the man that he is to work with. But now... now he has been given Flemming's file. Now he knows what happened to the man, and why he has done what he has done. It seems unfair that he should know so very much about a man that he has only just met.

But he can't talk to anyone about it. He can't talk to anyone right now, not willingly, for it makes his head hurt. The area behind his eyes aches as if it has been dashed against a wall, and his head swims. He needs a break. He needs some peace.

Which is what has driven him down the hall, toward the gym. He hasn't set foot in there since arriving; he's been too frightened to test his limits and find himself handicapped. But he knows now that fighting, moving, being on his feet clears his mind, makes him live in the moment. Gives him the stability he so craves. So here he is, stepping foot into the great chamber, unsure and nervous, but unable to leave.]

Comments

[buildindreemz]

[Ariadne is continuing her little project, now that the flood is over and everyone has switched back to their correct bodies and personalities.

The project in question being to draw all the different people she encounters on the Barge, or as many of them as will allow her to, anyway. And a really good place to find people to sketch? The gym!

So she's going to slip inside, sketch pad and pencil in hand, her eyes seeking out a worthy subject.]

[totesafightinggrace]

[Po can sense eyes on him. He can sense the small figure of a young woman, and he can tell that she is appraising his looks. He can also sense a pad of what must be very thin parchment in front of her. He's seen artists draw people before, or sketch scenes within his father's city. But he's fairly certain that all of those people are paid to draw and paint for the good and glory of the city. Why would someone want to draw people on a prison ship? He turns his head so that he is facing her and tries to focus his eyes on where her face must be. He can't quite make out where her own eyes are focused yet, but he can estimate.]

Excuse me? May I ask what you're doing?

[buildindreemz]

[She looks up, and tilts her head curiously at him.] Ah, sorry. Just wandered in, looking for someone to draw.

I'm Ariadne, by the way. Do you think I could draw you? I wouldn't get in your way, just... do whatever you were planning to do. I need practice.

[totesafightinggrace]

[He bows his head in a formal greeting.]

I'm Po. It is good to meet you, Ariadne.

[He's a little confused about the drawing. He's had portraits done of himself and his family a number of times since he was a child; that's part of being a prince, after all. But one always has to sit or stand very still for hours, where he's from. He's never met an artist who can draw people in motion. Even the Graced artists from his father's city, the men and women who can draw or paint people and places so lifelike that you could barely tell them apart from the real thing, couldn't do that. He shrugs.]

But I may be fighting or practicing. Is that alright?

[buildindreemz]

Yeah, that's exactly what I'm looking for, as a matter of fact. I'm pretty good at drawing stationary objects. What I need practice on is bodies in motion.

[She finds a chair to perch on, and pulls a pencil out of her bag.]

[totesafightinggrace]

[He can't say he entirely understands how she might go about drawing a person in motion, but she sounds sure of herself. So he nods.]

Draw as much as you like, then.

[He begins to stretch his arms and legs, all too aware of her watching him.]

[buildindreemz]

All right, thanks. I know some people don't care too much for being watched. [She smiles and finds a seat on the floor, opening her sketch book across her lap. Then she does - watch him, that is. She watches him to get a feel for how he's built, and to decide what kind of pose she should put him in for the sketch.]

[have a Ror!spam?]

[wemaketheworld]

[Po isn't the only one who uses moving, acting, as a coping mechanism. Occupy the body and free the mind, distract it. It's why Rorschach spends most of his waking hours stalking the halls, why he's here now. He isn't sure whether he's glad he didn't have a replacement for the recent flood or disappointed; he doesn't really want to face Daniel in any incarnation anyway, and he's the only one who would have appeared if suspicions about the flood are correct. He can't face him yet, still holds too much against him. Too many grievances.

He's found one of the bags to take his frustrations out on, a big one suspended from the ceiling that's nearly as large as he is, and he attacks it viciously. Left, right, left, left, right, duck and lean and circle then press on, right, left, right, right, left. Practiced movements. Fluid, though he makes no effort to quiet them; the harder he hits the better he feels, or at least the more he can quiet the flood of thoughts with grounding pain, and he'll take that. Pain is passing, anyway. Fleeting. A product of the weakness of the mortal shell. Inconsequential.]

Re: [have a Ror!spam?]

[totesafightinggrace]

[The first thing Po can feel as he enters the gym is a great storm of movement from one corner. In the void that is the enormous room, the man fighting in the corner burns like a star. He can sense other things in the room, all of strange, alien shapes aside from the vague impression of some target dummies off to one side. He finds himself lost here, completely without context as he has been so many times in the past few months. His heart sinks horribly: even the fighting ring cannot ever revert to what it once was for him. Almost against his will, he finds himself drawn toward the stranger's bright explosion of movement, if only to try and understand the exercise enough to be able to set up one of those large sacks for himself.]

[wemaketheworld]

[There's motion in his periphery, motion he hadn't been anticipating, and he checks the last punch, slows the bag to a stop before regarding the other man curiously. Breathing a shade or too more ragged with the expended energy, rivulets of blood trailing down fingers and dripping to the floor from knuckles split open by the abuse, he watches him warily before speaking, voice filled with gravel and broken glass.]

Help you?

[totesafightinggrace]

[He's a bit surprised when he registers the blood running off the stranger's hands; he hadn't been able to pick it out among the movement he had felt a moment ago. He can also sense the defensiveness in the man's voice. It's not as if he hasn't felt such a thing before, but the sense is very strong here. The man must be constantly wary. He gives a small smile.]

I was just curious about what you're doing. I've never seen equipment like this before.

[wemaketheworld]

[Rorschach's never been much for protective gear, never saw the need; it's more instructive when you can feel, easier to maneuver when not weighted down with extraneous material. He watches the other carefully, taking his measure. Evaluating.]

Training. Would spar, but usual partner is indisposed. Bag is decent substitute, if predictable.

[totesafightinggrace]

[He can feel the man sizing him up, deciding how much skill he might have in a fight. A few months ago, he could have truthfully said that he could beat almost anyone in a fight easily. Now, he's probably an easy opponent. He's weaker than he used to be, and his shoulder is still stiff from its old injury; and more than anything, he can't see. His sense of balance is rarely trustworthy, especially when he is moving quickly. His sense of people, their physicality and their intentions, allow him to make his way around the world. But they don't allow him to do it quickly.

The man is clearly considering offering to spar with him. All of Po's reason tells him to refuse. He's just met the man, and what little of him he knows so far is that he's mad enough to injure himself during a practice. He hasn't fought with anyone in over two months, and he has every reason to believe he'd fail miserably in a fight right now. And the stranger seems very strong.

But desperation drives his thoughts as well. No, he hasn't fought in months - and he craves it. He craves the focus it gives him, how he must set aside all his cares and worries to stay on his feet, how it lifts the stress of the world and forces him to live just for the next moment. He needs that. He desperately needs it. Isn't that what he came in here for, anyway?]

Will you spar with me, then? A friendly battle, to stop as soon as one of us says the word.