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FRICTION


                                                     
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#1 contender
Lucia Lynch, The Lone Wolf

 
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Yona "The Graceful Undead" Giovanni

 
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Bianca Garcia


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???


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Piper Sherwood

                                                         




TENSION  
                                                       


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Sierra Oasis
#1 contender
???

 
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Iris Takahashi
#1 contender
Giovanni "Gyro" Zeppeli

                               

Current date/time is Thu Mar 28, 2024 1:51 pm

Search found 1 match for 37

Iron Sharpens Iron

Thwump.

Despite the recent hot streak she'd been on, Abattoir was not feeling particularly good about herself or the direction her career had taken.  She was now, for better or worse, inextricably a part of WAR, and that meant she was tied up in all that it entailed - even if that meant the kind of things she would rather distance herself from.  Worse, there'd been that attack the other day, the mauling and rather unignorable insult by the mysterious hooded girl.  That'd started out as exciting - somebody new to play with - and then, when Abattoir had uncharacteristically dedicated a little bit of interest to the greater goings-on of AFW, she'd found out that it was just one of many similar attacks.  It'd had nothing to do with her; she'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Unrelated.  Unimportant, even.

Thwump.

She wasn't quite depressed - she'd been through a long dark night of the soul or two before and it was going to take more than this to get her back there - but there was something very discouraging about all of this. The more she dwelled on it, the more discouraged she became, and the more that happened, the more she obsessed.  And so she'd headed to her daily session at the gym an hour early today, determined to drill this rotting, lingering malaise out of her mind with another set of blows to the heavy bag.

Thwump.

The routine was simple.  Fifty knees on each side, then fifty teeps, then fifty round kicks.  Abattoir was on the thirty-fourth round kick for her right leg at the moment.  Almost done, and then it was on to increasingly-complex combos.  She'd been doing this for almost fifteen years now, and it could've been entirely muscle memory if she'd allowed it, but the nak muay preferred to focus on every individual strike.  No point in practicing if you let yourself get sloppy, if you let your mind fall out of the fight (well, the 'fight' in this case).  It was good to be reflexive on her strikes; with that said, they had to be thrown deliberately.  With intent.  

Besides, keeping her mind laser-focused on every kick helped take her focus away from the past week.

Thwump.

Her shin slammed into the side of the heavy bag, sending it trembling on its chain, and she drew back for #35.  Despite her reputation backstage, people didn't seem quite as eager to shy away from Abattoir when she was working out.  They didn't exactly approach her to say hi, but there wasn't any scattering, there was no thirty-foot radius of avoidance like there was when she strolled around backstage with her coat billowing and her eyes staring dead at anything in front of her.  It didn't occur to her to wonder why, but in all likelihood it had something to do with how much more relateable she looked in here.  In the gym, Abattoir was free of most of the usual accouterments, and for the most part, her gear (black shorts reading "Sriwarunyu MI", black sports bra with red trim, 4oz gloves embroidered with leviathan crosses in red) made her seem a little more like everybody else.  One of them.  Perhaps it was reassuring in a way.

Thwump.

Then again, there were two things that made it manifestly evident she was definitely not just like everybody else.  Given how much more skin the workout gear showed than her in-ring attire (which was to say, more than just her arms), it was impossible to miss the intricate network of tiny white scars crisscrossing her olive flesh.  Each one was a memento of sorts - memories from grotesque wars, from atrocities she'd partaken in, all the name of the glorious rush of combat.  There was a particularly large one at the base of her shoulders, as if someone had tried to blood-eagle her (which, to be fair, was exactly had had happened.  Long story).  The other, of course, was the mask.  Always the mask.

Thwump.

No hard plastic this time, she was training in a pulmonary resistance mask - a black neoprene sleeve cutting off about half the air she'd normally receive on an average-strength inhale.  Every time she breathed in, Abattoir had to concentrate on the motion, on the calculated push from her diaphragm, just to make sure she pulled in enough.  It kept her focus razor-sharp, and ensured every kick she threw at the heavy bag was as deliberate as the previous one had been.

Thwump.

Kick #37 returned to its holster, so to speak, and Abattoir drew a measured breath.  She'd get through this.  She'd gotten through everything else.
by rhapsody
on Mon Aug 08, 2016 4:55 am
 
Search in: Gym
Topic: Iron Sharpens Iron
Replies: 8
Views: 1086

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