Progress Report (for CyanDimitrick)

For God's sake, it was just a simple drop kick. Carmen groaned as she tried to land it for what had to be the hundredth time - and failed spectacularly.

Her and her brother, Army, were using the Tension's training ring for the day, hanging out in the gym. Now that Carmen was getting it back together from her big bout with Lorenza Saldano, she felt good enough to start taking up matches again, get back to work doing what she came to Japan to do in the first place. But she didn't want to come with the same old stuff - no, she wanted to polish her moveset even more. She had made some good gains on integrating wrestling in her style, but as her fight with Clyde showed, there was still room for much improvement. Her fists would always be her fallback in any fight, but to survive in the AFW, she would have to start building up the other areas, too. And a good way to do that would be to start mastering some simple but effective moves - like the dropkick.

In theory, anyway. In practice...well...

"Fuck!" She hissed out as she flat on her back from another failed attempt, her dropkick barely hitting Army's pad before she came down. It looked like such a simple move on TV - you jump up, you kick out, you fall. Easy, but with a lot of power from both legs. It just wasn't working out, though. She couldn't get the right height, couldn't get the timing, couldn't get the power in her legs - it was all wrong. It was like the antithesis of everything she learned as a boxer. She was trained to fight on her feet, the drop kick brought her up. Trained with to do damage fists, the drop kick needed her legs. Trained to never go down, the dropkick demanded it.

"I don't think you're doing it right." Army threw out one of his usual quips as he got back into position. On a good day, it would irritating. Today, it was grating.

"Shut up." She rolled her eyes and got back up, dusting off her back. "Not helping, jackass."

"Yes, good, use your aggressive feelings." He rattled off an Emperor Palpatine impression and did a rather good job of it despite the accent. "Let the hate flow through you."

"God, you are a giant dork." She bent down, bracing for another try, maybe if she bent a little before take off, got more of her leg power into the act.,,

WHEN SUDDENLY!

The door to the gym is opened, and in strolls someone who might be a little familiar to Carmen - if passingly. The dark-haired teen is currently wearing a pair of simple sweatpants, silver and black cross-trainers, and a gray t-shirt. He's well on his way towards some of the peripheral equipment, though which in particular he has in mind is left to question, as he halts as soon as he recognizes the woman in the ring. Path diverts, and in no time, the young model is resting his arms over the ring apron, head tipped up at her in innocent wonder.

"What'cha doin'~?," drawls his voice in a sweetly playful manner. Oh, he saw her take an awkward dive just as he came in. But it hadn't registered to him until a few seconds later. So rest assured, he's fairly certain he knows what she's up to. He'd just hate to assume and be wrong.

Plus, it's an icebreaker.

And another fall, right on her ass, with zero impact to show for it. Carmen swore her butt was starting to become numb from the repeated abuse.

She was busy giving it a good rub and working her way back up when she saw Army turn around, addressing some guy that came up to watch the show. "We're practicing for Cirque Du Soleil." Besides being impressed that Army could pronounce that correctly, Carmen couldn't help but growl under her breath - her brother was getting a weird habit of antagonizing every guy they came across in the AFW. First Clyde, now this... "You want to watch? Watch from a distance."

"God, Army, stop being an ass." She straightened back and turned towards the onlooker, pausing for a moment as she registered his face. "...oh. Hey. It's you. Domino, right?"

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine," chides the teen to Army. His gaze lifts back up to Carmen, and her apparent hesitation earns a little smirk. "Forgetting me already? Breakin' my heart."

He paces along the exterior of the ring, drawing a couple fingers along the mat. "Yeah. Domino. But we're not in the ring and in front of any fans, so you can call me Drake. It's cool." Once he reaches the corner of the ring, he saunters up the steps and folds his arms around the turnbuckle, chest leaning into it. "It does look like training, though. Decided to take my advice and learn s'more wrestling techniques?"

"Drake, right. I got to get me a ring name." She gave Army a smack in the back, startling him. "Drake, Army, Army, Drake. My brother's got this whole macho-territory chest-thumping thing going on, he'll get it out of his system, don't mind him."

'Yeah, yeah." Army's eyes went into a full roll as he laid the pad to the side. "It looks like training because it is training."

"I don't know, training sort of implies that improvement is involved. Not much of that, here." She rubbed the back of her neck. "And yeah, I've been working on that. Still use punches, but I got a mix in, now. Had a good match with Clyde Gastin, believe it or not."

"Lost a good a match with Clyde Gastin..."

"Not. The. Point." She poked him in the stomach with each word.

Army gets a renewed smirk, but Drake ignores the brother's barbs in favor of focusing on Carmen. "Sounds like you're on the right track. Just... that transition's rocky." Obviously. "Only way to get better is doing what you're doing."

As he talks, the teen slips between the ropes to approach them. "And try not to let it bug you. A lot of us have been doing this for at least a year already. Your edge'll be in that it matters more to you. That each little move you make will be important - paid attention to. No toss-outs, no half-assed attempts. Follow me?"

Army just stepped back and sized Domino up, like he was trying to get a read on him as a future opponent. Carmen didn't really blame him for that - it's just the way their father taught them, Always stay in that space, always be thinking about the future fight. Carmen did the same thing, she was just better at hiding it.

"Think I do." She folded her arms. "Right now what I'm doing is falling on my ass, though - having trouble getting the drop kick down. You got any points?"

"As a matter of fact-"

Drake pauses, noting the look from Army. It's evidently a look he's seen many times before. Smirk renewed, he deviates from what he was going to say in favor of, "Settle down, fella. This is Tension. Guys don't wrestle guys, as far as I'm aware. The fans like mixed action."

The teen leans back against the ropes, straining them across his shoulders. One foot kicks over the other, oh-so-casual. "Try this, Carmen," he begins, attention adjusted back onto the female. "Do a dropkick without the kick part. Keep curled up. Try just hitting the target with your heels in ball-shape. When you start to bump into the target the way you're supposed to, then it's just a matter of thrusting those feet out."

"They do, actually." Carmen looked between them. "Straight matches are rare, but I've caught one or two them with John Mitchell. I mean, nobody watches them, but they happen. And they're usually hentai-ish, which I don't think anyone in this ring wants to see."

Army's face scrunched up. "What, like, yaoi?"

"I don't know your weird Japanese comic language." Army sometimes forgot that Carmen didn't share in his love of anime and all things geeky. It was always amusing to remind him. "Does 'yaoi' mean gay sex?"

"Yeah."

"Then 'like yaoi', yeah."

Sure enough, her big, macho brother looked all sorts of uncomfortable. "Yeah, thanks for that mental image."

"You're welcome." She gave him a hard pat on his overly muscled shoulder, then rubbed her chin as she pondered what he was talking about. He was explaining it simple enough, but her mind didn't want to register it, for some reason. It was like trying to taste the color purple. Just didn't make sense.

"Eh." She ruffled up her hair and stepped back, motioning for Army to bring his pad up. "Mind giving me a demo?"

The revelation concerning Mr. Mitchell's matches seems to come as a surprise to Drake as well. And it looks to be a little distasteful. "Yeah, no, I'm pretty sure those matches are few and far between," he concurs. After a beat, he adds, "And not something I'd be down for. I'm not a perv' or anything, but my career in Tension's built on wrestling girls." The thing he figured the point was. But the bob of his shoulders says, "Who gives a crap?"

Once the bag is in position and Drake is asked to give a demonstration, he slips forward to take position. "H'okay, but if I make an idiot of myself, it's because I'm not used to reverting training!" A guy has to cover his bases, you know. Giving advice and then failing sure would make him look like a putz, otherwise. Nevertheless, the teen quickly backs up, straining the ropes against his back. They snap him forward, feet thumping along the mat until he's within range. He pops into the air and curls up... and stays curled! He simply rotates in the air, the soles of his feet aimed to bonk against the padding.

Unless Army punks him and moves the target.