policier: 𝓭𝓷𝓽 (sixty two)
javert ([personal profile] policier) wrote in [community profile] logsinthenight2019-10-05 08:45 pm

combat training mingle log

characters: everyone
location: the village gymnasium
date/time: every wednesday & friday throughout october
content: at the town hall last month, javert offered to set up a place for combat training. this is him making good on his promise. as he mentioned in his bulletin ad, these sessions are open to absolutely everyone, not just those who want to learn how to fight. partner up with someone and spar. do whatever you want, just don't hurt each other too badlyβ€”or javert will have words with you.
warnings: violence

setup

The gym's certainly seen better days, with it's crumbling walls and lost ceiling tiles. Javert doesn't need it to be pretty, though. He only needs it to be functional. In the last week, he's been doing what he can to clean it up, washing the floors and making some minor structural repairs.

Once the first day of combat training begin, the day after the ferry sinks, it's as clean as it possibly can be without any sort of overhaul. There are mats set up along one end of the gym, for people to stretch or otherwise use for sparring, and a collection of swords near the door. Some are blunted and old, perfect for training β€” though they may still hurt β€” while others are sharp or unwieldy, and will need to be handled with care. Use them, Javert says, but return them when you are finished.

There's a tiny collection of knives, too, though there aren't any targets to practice throwing them at. It's a work in progress. For light, there's a torch set up along the wall, illuminating the room and allowing combatants to spread themselves out from one another.

meetings

For the sake of not being micromanagey, there isn't going to be any formal structure to these practices. Javert is available to teach hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship, should anyone wish it. He's also enlisted the aid of Jason Grace, who will teach hand-to-hand and swordsmanship, and Bucky Barnes, who is proficient in knife fighting as well as hand-to-hand combat. Anyone else, of course, may teach others as they please. Just this once, Javert's not going to be a stickler for formalities. He just wants to see everyone making productive use of their time, in some fashion.

Training will run from seven o'clock to nine o'clock in the evening. Arrive promptly, or Javert will berate you for being disruptive. No one is required to come to every single meeting, so come as often or as little as you like. If regular exercise is supposed to help combat the effects of total darkness, why not give it a try?
worthallthis: (knife)

OTA

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-06 02:21 am (UTC)(link)
I. Pre-Class

The first day, the Soldier is at least an hour early, inspecting everything there, testing the knives, looking very somber and even more subdued than usual. It's in its leather and kevlar vest sans the usual jacket it wears on top, metal arm fully on display.

The second class, after the flowers have started blooming, it's shakier, but still here. And maybe its voice has a slight Brooklyn accent to it, when speaking in English.

As for the classes once the hallucinations start, well, those are gonna be dicey and the Soldier might not always show up. But it'll sure try.


II. Actual Class

The Soldier doesn't give a lot of verbal instruction-- doesn't even introduce itself. Most of what it does is through is demonstration, occasionally directing a student's motions or stance for them with brief, careful touches. But it's slow and careful in those demonstrations, and has sharp eyes for when someone isn't getting something, needs a different kind of instruction, or is getting frustrated and needs a break. For those paying attention, its language (always understandable, translated through whatever magic is in this place) shifts from English and Russian apparently at random.

It prefers to take the most basic students, those with no experience at all. Its primary focus is on teaching people how to fall without hurting themselves, how to avoid being hit, and how to break holds and briefly debilitate in order to escape an attack: feet-stomping, groin-kicking, and eye-gouging are all fair game, albeit only allowed to practice on the Soldier, not the other students. Only people who show they already know that or have particular talent get to move quickly beyond that to actual offense.

Only those who already show some skill get to learn knives, at least for now. Targets for throwing knives at only show up after a full two weeks.


III. Post-Class

If you want to ask the Soldier questions or attempt to be social, you can certainly try now. After each class, it takes a very brisk walk around the inside of the gym, regulating its breathing and working on getting the flesh hand to stop trembling and the plates in the metal arm to stop shifting. It might talk while it does this.

It's actually, surprisingly, good at this. It likes that it's good at this. There is intense satisfaction in seeing someone properly dodge a swing or a kick, fall and roll back to their feet without hurting anything, or grab an opponent's incoming arm and twisting it away. There is even more satisfaction in thinking that this will help these people stay alive if there is trouble.

But it's also fucking hard. It feels familiar in an uncomfortable way, like it's done this before but doesn't remember it. It requires a lot of people looking at it and quite likely judging it. It requires giving a number of people instructions, and touching them, or letting itself be touched. It's hard.

But it's sure as hell not going to fucking stop just because it's hard.
savingthrows: ([.] black)

II as discussed

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-07 05:58 am (UTC)(link)
[ooc: CW for referenced abuse and related trauma/PTSD, claustrophobia, flashback.]

She looks, for all intents and purposes, like a normal child, just a 14 year old girl, shot up a little in height, almost coltish. She still favours one leg, having sprained her ankle on the ferry. But she's quiet, thoughtful, watches.

The truth is, Eleven looks a little intimidated by many of the things going on around her, here, and she keeps her distance to most people. This, clearly, is a girl that has no experience in actual physical combat.

Eleven wants to learn, though. Perhaps if she'd been better prepared on any level, the Mind Flayer wouldn't have...

That's nothing to think about now, though. She wants to learn. Her powers, she knows, can fail here - either through over-use, or just because this place is dark and wicked and cruel.

So she wants to learn how to hurt herself less, how not to be grabbed, how not to be a burden.

Liability isn't a word she knows, and if she knew it, she would want to avoid being it.

It goes well, at first. She has a certain bite to her, a certain determination to get things right. Watchful, attentive eyes. A tendency to repeat instructions, as if that will make them sink better into her mind and her limbs. She's not strong, has never even scuffled with friends her own age. But she tries, and she listens, and she begins to learn.

It's when she's supposed to learn how to break a hold on her that things go sideways, hard.

He doesn't do anything wrong, and she knew what to expect from the instruction before, and from seeing others do the stime. But knowing and feeling are different. It doesn't happen all at once, it's fine at first when he locks her into the hold she's supposed to break out of. She tries, and fails - it's normal, she knows. Not everyone breaks the hold on the first try, and she knows that without using her powers, she's weak. Not to use them when they are such an intrinsic part of her.

He's calm. He doesn't do anything wrong.

Despite that, when she tries again and fails, something tenses along her spine. Her lower lip trembles. This isn't frustration. Eleven's breath hitches, and she...

... she feels the orderly grab her. Papa looks at her in disappointment, and she cries, weak and weakened, and struggles, pleading, as he locks her into a secure hold and drags her like a doll towards the small, dark room, where they will close the door and leave her alone with no company but her half-formed, malnourished monster of a mind...

She makes a small sound like a scared animal at the back of her throat.

Nearby, a rack with training weapons wobbles precariously.

The air feels charged, like the sky before a storm break.
worthallthis: (cautious)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-07 06:07 am (UTC)(link)
The change in her breathing makes the Soldier let go immediately. That's not supposed to happen. That sounds like, smells like, fear-- and it isn't going to let any of its students be afraid of it, not here, not now. Not ever.

So it lets go, takes a step back, registers the frightened sound. The rattle of the weapons doesn't register except as background noise. The way the air feels is uncomfortable, but registers more as an unpleasant echo, an almost-memory-malfunction, than something to actively worry about. Because it doesn't know about her other abilities-- not yet, anyway.
savingthrows: ([.] gasp)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-07 06:17 am (UTC)(link)
She doesn't register that he let her go, physically, because her past hasn't let her go completely, and the hold lingers on her skin and, worse, in her mind - not his, but them, back then, large hands locked all the way around skinny arms, and she's afraid not of them, but of the room and the dark, and she cries out, then.

A pulse of force knocks into anyone and anything unlocky enough to be close by, grasp on her power slipping hard when she's this upset, and he will will it knocking into his chest like a hard, physical blow, stronger than a person.

Eleven comes back to the present a moment later, on her knees, panting, wild eyed with tears stinging. A trickle of blood under her nose, and she freezes when she comes back from the memory to find herself elsewhere, in a better and a worse place than Hawkins Lab, and she stares at him, horrified and afraid not because of him, but because of herself.
Edited 2019-10-07 06:21 (UTC)
worthallthis: (but i did it)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-07 07:08 am (UTC)(link)
Maybe if it'd been expecting a hit, it would have braced itself. As it is, the Soldier winds up falling flat on its ass on the gym floor, blinking in confusion for exactly 2 seconds before its eyes dart around to take stock. A couple students were knocked down, its lantern was knocked down (thankfully there are protections in the way it's made so knocking it over doesn't start a fire or douse the flame inside), and from the pattern of fallen things, the force came from the girl.

If it didn't live with a demon and an angel, if vampires didn't apparently exist, if they weren't all dead, it might not have been able to take that in stride. As it is, girls with the power to knock you over without touching you might as well exist. It waves the other students back, since it doesn't look like any of them were hurt by their fall.

It picks itself up, rights the lantern, then goes down on one knee in front of her. Out of reach, so she can't think it's going to grab her. Shit, she's bleeding. It'd been sure it hadn't actually hurt her, but maybe it was wrong. "I scared you," it says gravely. "I'm sorry. We don't have to practice that one."
savingthrows: ([-] sad)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-07 04:15 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'm... not scared of you..."

Eleven doesn't know quite why she feels the need to make the distinction. Guilt, perhaps - she looks around, sees the mess she makes, and her shoulders slump a little, as if she shrinks in on herself just like that.

She reaches up and wipes the blood away. The gesture is casual - she knows the blood is there.

A steadying breath, the fear slowly fading and giving way to a clench in her jaw - trying to shore up her grip on herself and her powers.

"I'm sorry."
worthallthis: (thinkingsad)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-07 05:12 pm (UTC)(link)
(Looks almost like somebody I know, there.. Busy right now, Sergeant. I am never gonna get tired of you calling me that.)

The Soldier regards the girl for a moment, working through what she said. She had been afraid, that was obvious. So either she was lying (didn't seem like it), or she was afraid of something not-it (which made very little sense). It glances at the others, waves them off again, says, "Go for a walk. So you don't stiffen up."

Then, once the handful of lookie-looers are gone, it offers Eleven a hand up. "Tell me why you were afraid. If you want to."
savingthrows: ([.] gasp)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-07 05:38 pm (UTC)(link)
She wants to withdraw, then, and her expression becomes a little guarded. She looks, for a moment, as if she wants to stand up on her own merit without taking his hand, just on principle, just for her own sake. But Eleven is exhausted by her own outburst, and still feels bad for it, so she places her hand in his. When nothing happens, when she remembers with a rush of hot shame that there is no reason to suspect punishment here, she rises to her feet with his help.

Eleven doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"I remembered... the bad men. And the dark place." Voice hushed. She doesn't quite know why she says it - she doesn't know him. Perhaps that's why. Perhaps it's because she attacked him. "I could never... I'm not strong," she offers. "Until I got so scared and angry. I broke them... I'm sorry... Did I hurt you?"
worthallthis: (confused)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-07 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)
The lack of eye contact is actually something of a relief, as the Soldier is not very good at eye contact, mostly focusing on faces in general or, in a bad moment, on a chest or shoulder. So it is patient with her looking away and taking a moment to gather her thoughts, glad for the moment itself to do the same-- especially once she does speak. Because that... wait. That sounds uncomfortably familiar. She remembered something bad and then lashed out. Because the memory frightened her. And now she's embarrassed.

(Okay, but I was joking about her reminding me of you. Now I'm kinda thinking I was right.)

"Memory malfunction," the Soldier says with a blink, letting her hand go. "You had a memory malfunction. I didn't to think anyone else got those." Fuck, is she a HYDRA experiment, too? That's just... that's so wrong to think about.

Yeah, it's kind of forgetting to answer her questions. Too surprised.
savingthrows: ([.] worried)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-09 04:45 am (UTC)(link)
"Memory mal... function...?"

She has to sound the term out, and is grateful for it - it gives her mind something to latch onto, pull herself away from the scent of disinfectant and cigarette smoke. Copper still clings under her nose, and she wipes it away.

Then she frowns and looks up at him. Worries her lower lip between her teeth.

"Did bad men have you, too?"
worthallthis: (cautious)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-09 05:09 am (UTC)(link)
The Soldier pauses, looks around... Javert is far enough away that he can't overhear. "When a memory comes back and it's not supposed to. And it takes over. And you come back and find out you did something," it explains once it's sure it's safe enough. "Memory malfunction."

It shifts its feet a little awkwardly. "And... yeah. This isn't a good place to talk about it." Too many people. Too exposed. But if her bad people were HYDRA... it has to know.
savingthrows: ([.] talk)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-09 05:16 am (UTC)(link)
Eleven nods. His explanation makes sense.

It's been a while since it's been so bad for her that she lost her surroundings. It's unpleasant to be reminded that Hawkins Lab still hangs onto her so tightly, like claws that have dug into her and won't let go. She thinks of Billy's hand around her throat, and how the phantom feeling of that had lingered, too.

Best not dwell. Eleven shoves it down, ever down, and nods at the man.

"Yes. We can leave?"

Suggestion and almost asking permission. She's still worried about having hurt him, but the slowly forming question whether or not he's a number, too... it lingers further at the front than her concern.
worthallthis: (lookback)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-09 05:25 am (UTC)(link)
That's the hundred dollar question, isn't it. The Soldier frowns-- though not at her-- and looks around the room again, this time less furtively. There are fewer people, and most of the ones left are doing cool-down activities. Even its own students are starting to wander off, without direction.

It has been almost two hours. They were close to finishing when this started. Maybe it can. "Sure," it finally says. "Outside. I'll have to come back to clean up, but." But. This seems important.

And it could really use some space, anyway.

It motions for her to go on, it'll follow.
savingthrows: ([.] gasp)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-09 08:43 pm (UTC)(link)
She hesitates visibly at the suggestion to walk ahead, and leave him at her back, and Eleven hates the instinct. Hates that part of her is so on edge, she has that animal instinct of not showing weakness, of not putting someone who could pose a threat at her back.

She forces herself to take a slow, deep breath, pushes the instinct down, and walks on, outside. Even on the way she keeps reaching for the blue hair tie on her wrist, fingers stroking over it or tugging on it lightly.

The hair tie is the same colour as her lantern, notably.
worthallthis: (but i did it)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-09 09:31 pm (UTC)(link)
If it helps her nerves, the Soldier actually doesn't follow immediately. It collects its lantern, tells the last lingering student or two that they might as well head out sonce everyone's concentration is gone and no it doesn't want to talk about it, and then waits a moment just inside to make sure it's arm plates aren't shifting and it's not going to walk out looking stressed out. Between its own anxiety about pretty much everything, its memories of its own malfunctions and the moments after, and the understanding that she'd been afraid too, a little breathing space for both of them seemed like a good idea.

So the Soldier comes out maybe three or four minutes after she does, scanning the dark for her blue lantern. (Its own is pale yellow, nothing fancy, looking like an antique army lantern if she'd recognize something like that.) When it spots her, it approaches slowly, expression not quite its typical neutral, but maybe a bit concerned. "Okay," it says. "You okay?"
savingthrows: ([-] sad)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-12 11:50 am (UTC)(link)
Eleven is glad for the momentary reprieve to just close her eyes and breathe, take in the scent of the constant night air around her, feel the chill in the air. She's not at the lab. She's... not free, either, but while everything is dark, she can move, she can breathe, she's not alone. Things... can't hurt her the way they used to.

At least she hopes so.

Memory malfunction.

She commits the term to memory.

Her eyes don't open until he approaches, and then Eleven just nods. Her eyes are a little wet, but no tears spill. "Yeah. Are you? Okay?"
worthallthis: (sheepish)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-12 05:32 pm (UTC)(link)
The Soldier manages a small, slightly wry smile. "Trying not to freak out, maybe. But otherwise, yeah. Walk while we talk?" Because walking might help keep things calmer. Focus on the steps at the same time as the words. It tilts its head at the space between the gym and the woods, plenty of room for two people to walk side by side without even being in touching range.
savingthrows: ([-] frown)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-13 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Eleven nods and walks with him. She has her arms loosely wrapped around herself - less a protective gesture despite how defensive it looks, more comfort. She's trying to solidify herself in the here and now, where the past is a shadow, and can't hurt her.

"Freak... out?"

She's not sure if he's calling her a name, or if it's an expression she doesn't quite get.
worthallthis: (look aside)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-13 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)
How do you even explain "freak out"? It's a slang term that, really, the Soldier's not entirely sure where it picked up. "Panic," it goes with finally, after a few steps. "Trying not to panic. Never thought about anyone else having memory malfunctions. Isn't easy to think about." Because it can understand that posture and sympathizes. It's like how the arm plates recalibrate when it's nervous or it has to walk around the gym to calm down after lessons. "Who were your bad men?"
Edited 2019-10-13 22:38 (UTC)
savingthrows: ([sad] tearingup)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-16 08:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Panic. Freak out. Memory malfunction. She puts the thoughts away. Words gained.

Eleven takes a breath. Slow, like Hop always tells her too when her chest is too tight and she struggles. Let's the cool night air drag over her tongue like a sip of water, and down her throat and expand her narrow rib cage. Holds it there. Counts Mississipis without know what that even is, and without knowing how it's pronounced correctly either.

Slow breath out.

"Doctors. Soldiers."

The memory is a wound. She doesn't know if it will ever fully heal, just knows that it always bleeds. Sometimes hot with anger, sometimes cold like white tiles and syringes and his eyes.

"Papa."

worthallthis: (frowny face)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-16 08:37 pm (UTC)(link)
The Soldier (wow, not going to share that designation with her, now) is patient while she works on the words, but frowns at the last one. Family is something it... doesn't remember, anymore. There's only a vague feeling that, for other people, it should be a good thing. Then that vague feeling, though, says that family shouldn't be torturing their children. So it frowns.

But it also doesn't push. It doesn't feel like it knows enough about families to say anything, even if the thought makes it want to punch something.

"I had doctors and soldiers, too. No parents, though." And because it definitely has to know, "Have you heard the word HYDRA?"
savingthrows: ([thinking] possibly)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-16 08:44 pm (UTC)(link)
She reaches a hand over, fingers of the right hand tangling in the blue hair tie. It's a tick, a nervoushabit. Comfort in the memories.

Papa was a bad man. Hop... Hop is good. Safe. Home.

Dad.

"Hy...dra?"

She looks at him then, the lantern illuminating a face that has no clue about the word. Still she shakes her head for emphasis.

"Hawkins Lab."
worthallthis: (thinkingsad)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-16 08:47 pm (UTC)(link)
It sighs. Never heard of it, not even in the distant "know but don't remember" way. "Probably not my bad men, then." Which makes it both easier and harder to think about her: easier, because it probably never knew her or knew of her, and so it's not its fault she had to go through that; harder, because now it doesn't have a baseline for what she went through. Poor kid. "They were pretty hung up on their name. Can I ask what they did? Or is that too hard to answer?"
savingthrows: ([powers] lab)

[personal profile] savingthrows 2019-10-17 10:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Eleven closes her eyes for a moment. THe darkness behind her lids isn't a reprieve of any sort. She can feel her words slipping away, as the scent of disinfectant hits her nose.

"Tests. Needles. Training for..."

The word gets stuck. She bites her lip, clings to what she's learned and gained. There's a tear clinging to her lashes. He might feel a tremble in the ground. The pressure in the air rising a little bit.

"... tele... kinesis. Sen--sory. De-deprivation. Spy. Kill."
worthallthis: (yikes)

[personal profile] worthallthis 2019-10-17 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)
Okay, nope, that's enough of that. Tests and needles and training to kill people is way more than any poor kid should deal with, and also absolutely close enough to shit the Soldier has dealt with for it to get the picture. Sensory deprivation even has an uncomfortable feel to it, like there is some of that in there somewhere that it hasn't remembered yet, too.

Also, it recognizes that feeling in the air around them, and tries to head it off as gently as it's capable of. Which is kind of gruff and vaguely panicky, but still obviously sympathetic. "Hey, okay, that's. Plenty. You don't have to tell me any more. Just settle for a second."

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