| PHD #296: Hands Up |
| Summary: | Khloe vents some steam in the athletics center, with Constin offering advice in a way only a Canceran could. |
| Date: | 19 Dec 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Khloe-Andrea buddy-RP |
| Players: |
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| Athletics Area - Deck 12 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| A large pair of mats dominates the center of this room, their centers taped-out for a small area to practice boxing or other martial arts. Around the outside are treadmills, bikes, weights, and an impressive variety of gym equipment to help tone and shape the bodies of the crew. To one side of the room is the locker room while at the rear is a hatch that leads back to the oversized swimming pool. Off to the side is a rack that holds boxing gloves, pugil sticks, and the associated pads for the sticks. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #296 |
Whatever the reason, the twenty four hours following the Air Wing's engagement yesterday has left Constin with a whole lot of energy to work off, and he seems intent on doing it within the confines of beating the stuffing out of a heavy bag. The marine is a regular sight at that position, but typically his form is much better. Today it's all about making the bag dance, and to hell with the rest.
Khloe shows up to the athletic center, which in and of itself isn't a rarity as the Knights SL spends at least an hour a day in here already. But what's off is that she's dressed in her off-duty greens, and is carrying a leather satchel slung over her shoulder, with her flight suit helmet to boot. She espies a usual heavy bag partner and heads over that way. "Sergeant," she calls out. "Leave some stuffing for me, eh?"
Constin turns a look aside at the greeting, shoulders heaving with drawn breaths, and sweat splattering the floor between his boots. "..sir.." he grunts in acknowledgment. One last telegraphed hook to send the bag careening on it's mounting, and the big man sucks some air for several seconds, before he adds, "What's the word?"
Khloe plunks her gear down, kneeling down to rummage through the bag and produce her hand wraps. "Homeless, at the moment," comes her cryptic response. "You mind holding that thing still while I give it a round or two? I could use the outlet." Well-worn strips of cloth get wrapped around her hands in the meantime.
The 'homeless' quip draws a frown. Some people look childlike or intruiged when they are confused, but Constin just looks annoyed. "How's that?" he prompts at the first before nodding to the second. "Sure thing. You gonns kick, too or just run hands?"
"Hands," comes the Captain's reply. Standing up and flexing her hands, she's got her hands wrapped properly in practiced time. "Self-imposed exile, Sergeant. I'm not sure I wanna bother you with stick drama. Fair warning given." She steps into the ring, rolling her shoulders and stretching arms across her chest. "Sixty seconds. Ready?"
"Somebody frak with your shit?" Constin supposes aloud to the subject of 'stick drama', positioning himself at the far side of the heavy bag (but not removing his own gloves- always useful to avoid rapped knuckles) and nodding once. "Sixty seconds, go."
Khloe launches into a one-two, one-two, one-two-three routine, switching up the originating hand with each grouping. She's rather coordinated, athletically; this would be a great reactionary drill with the bag swinging around, but it seems the Captain is interested in just power. "The Knights… have a history… of being difficult to manage," she explains, apparently fair warning given and ignored. "I've… a few pilots… who insist on… getting me to… open up and talk about my emotions!" That last part, at the sixty second mark, given the last push of her current energy. She steps away in a loose circle, allowing herself to catch her breath after the set.
Constin snorts flatly at the notion of talking about emotions. Enough pressure is exerted on the bag to keep it from moving more than a few inches after each impact. "Don't get where all this touchy-feely shit comes from at the end of all days. Just frakking sloppy is what it is. Hands up, above the shoulders," he prompts at the sixty second buzzer, to improve the pilot's breathing.
"Right." And so Khloe launches into another set, adjusting her stance as the Sergeant advises. And it helps. "Frakking Hosedown…" Referring to Lieutenant Demarcos. "Has this thing… with pranks. Thinks… that if I act… the way she does… I'll open up… and we'll be best friends forever… or some other huggy crap." One-two, one-two, one-two-three. "Tired of it. Need… time away… from the berths. Frakking… drama queen!" Buzzer.
"I don't give two rusty bolts for who it is, sir. Don't need to hear names," Constin begins, one of his mechanisms of avoiding having talks stray into the 'gossip' zone. "Same shit all over, though. Everybody's too damned quick to just bend the regs when they get inconvenient. And then they got the frakking balls to wonder why discipline goes to downtown Hades. Mix in a lead uppercut once in a while, sir," he advises.
"Sorry." As to whether she means the names, or the uppercut, it's not clear. But Khloe rolls her shoulders and waits for the new clock, and moves in again. "I do… my job. Everything I do… is to be a better… soldier. She thinks… I work too much. What… the frak else… am I gonna… do!" Uppercut. Powerful, for her frame. "The Navy is… my life… that's apparently… not good enough… for some… and don't… know when… to quit!" Another one, coming with a small yell. She's definitely channeling her frustration, but if she keeps hitting the bag like that, she'll pull something. She gives the bag a few more love-taps after the buzzer, almost pushing it away into Elf's grip.
"These days make some folks stupid," Constin decides in answer, after a moment. "Hell, just after the boat took that hit? Had some damned civvie wander into Deck Six trying to ask whether one of her friends got hurt. Then gets all pissed off and screamy when I say 'Everyone has friends out there' and tell her she has to wait for the official dispatches like everyone else." A drawn breath. "Everybody's gonna make shit personal, sir. Only way most of 'em know how to operate. Hands up."
Khloe grunts in frustration as she takes the bag again, hands higher once again. She's attacking the bag out of anger in relaying her story, and focusing less on her technique. But it seems to be helping. "All I want is to be able to… do my job… and be left alone. Is that… so hard… to ask?" One-two, one-two, one-two-three-uppercut is her new routine. "Damn touchy-feely sticks… seem to think that… when I'm off-duty… I shouldn't 'fly alone'… Stupid… stupid… touchy-feely… crap!" She doesn't make it through to the buzzer this time, instead stepping away and holding her right shoulder. "Frak. I'm fine. Just not paying attention."
"Apparently," Constin mutters to the rhetorical question of 'is that so much to ask?'. As she strains the shoulder with those overhard swings, the marine just nods once, and watches to see whether she stretches it out. "They need people, and can't wrap their heads around the notion that some folks don't," he observes, instead. "Sir, you gotta remember that most officers didn't come from the kinda World you and me did. Shit, they prolly had shrinks for their damn pets." A moment later, he asks, "How's the shoulder?"
She rolls it twice; "Fine," Khloe says. "One more go. I'll pay attention this time. But I think this is my last set." She steps up, and at the sound of the buzzer, starts in her routine again, but with a bit less angry zeal. "Bottom line… I should've… been… a Marine…" She says, finishing her set in more or less silence. She only pushes it towards the end, more out of fatigue than emotion - seems the punching bag did its trick. "By the way, Sergeant," she says, walking away and heading to her satchel to retrieve a towel. She's worked up a good sweat. "If you see Lieutenant Vandenberg, tell her I need to speak to her. Something about titanium walls."
"Sir, some things go without saying," Constin returns predictably to the line 'should have been a marine'. "Uh-huh," he grints to the bit about titanium walls. "Will let the El-Tee know, sir. Good luck and good hunting, Captain."
"Thanks, Sergeant. Believe it or not, that helped." And with that, the Captain's off as soon as she came, bag slung over her shoulder, towel draped around her neck.