12587/Smthg idk
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| Smthg idk | |
|---|---|
| Date of Scene: | 26 August 2022 |
| Location: | Sublevel 2 -Training Facilities - The Roost |
| Synopsis: | No description |
| Cast of Characters: | Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin
|
- Tim Drake has posed:
It's either so late that it's early, or so early that it's late. Given that the training room is two levels underground it's kind of hard to tell which, but it's no surprise that Tim's awake. Sleep is for the weak, and he hasn't had a regular Circadian rhythm since he was like, twelve years old.
He rises to his feet at the end of his last stretch, though he goes briefly up onto his toes as his arms extend upwards, reaching, reaching, reaching--*POP*--"Ugh, finally."
Now there's just a sore spot in his lower back rather than an annoyingly sharp pain, and as he contemplates a blank spot on the ceiling Tim reaches around to rub at it for a moment. Then he blows out a breath through his nose and heads over to the rack on the wall where all the training (read: mostly non-lethal) weaponry is stored.
- Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie's particular combat style is a sort-of fusion. He favors the "modern" - but there's a healthy mix of take-downs and holds and striking, because you can't ever rely on just one thing. He cheats. Nerve holds, joint manipulation, as well as just punching somebody in the ear. Which is where he lands a hit on the practice dummy right now, using his knuckles. WHUMP. That would put just about anybody unlucky enough to be hit like that on the floor in agony.
Lonnie shakes his hand out, as he watches Tim, and then he grabs a towel, to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
He's wearing jeans, which are not really training appropriate attire, and soft sneakers, which means he's probably been at his computer all day and he's balancing out senecence with motion. He leaves the towel to hang around bare shoulders before he says "What've you been up to?"
- Tim Drake has posed:
The first thing Tim says is "I wish I could say I don't understand why you're wearing jeans right now," as he eyes Lonnie's choice of training attire with a particularly baleful gaze, then he shakes his head and takes a step backwards, towards the center of the mat. Wooden practice stick in hand.
"By the symmetric property, you definitely own workout clothes. Because what's yours is mine and what's mine is yours." He twirls the staff in his hand just so he can slam the tip of it against the ground to punctuate his sentence, but the corner of Tim's mouth lifts at the same time, so he's only probably something like fifty percent serious. With an error of plus-minus... let's say a solid fifty.
He stares down one of the other training dummies from a distance before he darts forward into a fencer's attack, which extends his reach just long enough to smack the dummy upside the head. "I've been neck-deep in an investigation for the past week that just dried up, so I'm playing catch-up with my workout schedule." Because for Tim, the concept of balance doesn't exist once something has drawn his focus in until it's honed to a knife's edge. "How about you?"
- Lonnie Machin has posed:
"Except that most of your clothes don't fit me." Lonnie says, easily, "So really it's 'My shirts are yours'. If I was in the middle of an actual workout and not just screwing around, I'd wear sweats." Lonnie leaves his towel slung around his shoulders before he casually approaches, and then says, "Besides, it's good to train in clothes with unfamiliar weights. You're not going to be in workout kit out on the streets, and your average goon sure isn't going to be. Don't tell me Batman didn't run you through the 'self-defense in a suit' course."
"Oh, the usual, seeding insurrectionist acts against tyrranical governments that've committed the grave mistake of thinking it's 1890 and you can just invade one of your neighbors. Nothing you could prove, though." He watches Tim manipulate that staff. "I always preferred a cane, easier to switch between one and two hands. But you do use it well."
- Tim Drake has posed:
"I have workout pants that would fit you," Tim fires back, though he does a quick glance down towards Lonnie's feet before adding, "...They might be a bit short, though."
He taps the training dummy again with the end of his stick, but Tim's clearly not committing to an actual training session. And in fact, when Lonnie approaches, Tim leans against said stick and tips his head to the side.
Somehow, he manages to no-sell through the entire acts-of-rebellion talk. "Easier to conceal a staff. Plus there's usually a minimum of 3 things within any room that can be repurposed as one, in a pinch."
- Lonnie Machin has posed:
"That would make them shorts, Tim." Lonnie drawls. "I built my first combat cane out of an aluminum cane I bought from a drugstore and stuff I scavenged from the school engineering shop." He leans against the wall and says, "It wasn't even really very hard." He tilts his head and says, "I can see you're not really feeling a serious three thirty AM workout. Maybe you're getting soft in your old age?" He rubs his chin with one hand.
"What drew you to the staff as a weapon in the first place? It wasn't something either of your predecessors were known for using."
- Tim Drake has posed:
Tim rolls his eyes. "I'm not that much shorter than you, you ass." The way his shoulders twitch upwards when Lonnie calls him old suggests he's about to rise to the bait, but instead he just shakes his head and turns away, facing the training dummy once again.
Still no actual training happening, though.
"Maybe I am. All I'm thinking about is the bag of potato chips I have stashed in the back of the closet and how much I'd rather be eating them in bed rather than sweating down here." His eyes have gone nearly closed, but he glances towards Lonnie in his peripheral vision. "Which I wouldn't do, because then you'd have to deal with crumbs in bed and I'm not a monster. Doesn't mean I can't fantasize about it, though."
- Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie snorts. "Stung, huh? I mean, people like us, they fit a lifetime of living in a very short time. So sometimes, you just feel... old. Seen it all, done it all, I'm tired. And yet the thought of actually stopping? Mmmm, nah. We end up addicted to the purpose, to the adrenaline, and so we keep going." He sticks his tongue out, briefly, and then he says, "Hold on." He walks over to his shoulder bag and takes out a packet of seaweed snacks. "These are actually good for you. And besides, if you're going to be working out, you need the salt."
He holds up a crunchy green square between thumb and forefinger. "Careful, I get the kind with a lot of wasabi."
- Tim Drake has posed:
The staff ends up back on the weapons rack, and Tim stands there after, like he's considering another weapon. "It's a good medium-range weapon. I know my weaknesses even better than I know my strengths, and it was a good fit." He doesn't reach for anything else, instead remaining where he is with his arms folded across his chest. "Also," he says, after a pause. "I used a staff the first time I put on the Robin suit. Unofficially. Guess it just kind of stuck."
He stares down the offering of seaweed, after. Which he's enjoyed on numerous occasions in the past, for sure, both as a snack on its own (like Lonnie has now) or around sushi. "No, thanks."
A moment later, he spins on his heel. "It's not what I want right now. What I want are those chips. BRB." Yes, he says that aloud. And yes, he pronounces each letter individually.
- Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie shrugs, and eats it himself. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose, and then he rolls it around in his mouth, before he crunches on it. He crosses his arms, and his feet at his ankles, and leans against the weapons rack, as he watches Tim trek out in search of chips. "Glad I decided not to eat them." He says, to himself. "He's in a fey mood. This should be interesting."
He takes out his phone, and begins casually checking on his various schemes to overthrow Slavic dictators while he waits for Tim to come back.
