all of my blood bleeds
Who: Sarah Connor & _____
Where: Gym/Showers
When: Backdated 5am-12pm Thursday. December 2nd
Warnings: (if necessary) Connor mouth, dark thoughts, screwed-upedness, general 'dealing with recent events'.
[Music. It's been in my head all day.]
She was free from the infirmary, free to move by her own choice, but she wasn't free from the prowling restlessness that had settled in--the one that drove her to her cabin in search of her rapier, her dagger, her gun in its ankle holster. Sarah was winded by the time she'd changed, strapped shit on, and got herself into the gym. But it didn't matter.
She fell into the rhythm of pull ups on the bars with her hands taped and wrapped, warming up, pulling her body back from the idleness. It hurt and it was difficult to force herself to ride over the weariness that tugged at her shoulders and worried at her arms. She did it because she could, because pushing herself was what she did, because it was better than sitting, and because she was angry. Sarah eventually picked up the rapier, her lips curling unpleasantly when her arm shook as she lifted it. Again.
And again.
Again.
She swept back into a classic opening stance, her expression completely concentrated. Sarah knew the steps, knew the dance, knew it, and made her body remember. You could lose yourself to it, the ebb and flow, the sting and burn of your muscles until there was nothing left but the feeling of it. Her anger was fuel to burn until the tip of her rapier drooped even as she tried to raise it again.
Where: Gym/Showers
When: Backdated 5am-12pm Thursday. December 2nd
Warnings: (if necessary) Connor mouth, dark thoughts, screwed-upedness, general 'dealing with recent events'.
[Music. It's been in my head all day.]
She was free from the infirmary, free to move by her own choice, but she wasn't free from the prowling restlessness that had settled in--the one that drove her to her cabin in search of her rapier, her dagger, her gun in its ankle holster. Sarah was winded by the time she'd changed, strapped shit on, and got herself into the gym. But it didn't matter.
She fell into the rhythm of pull ups on the bars with her hands taped and wrapped, warming up, pulling her body back from the idleness. It hurt and it was difficult to force herself to ride over the weariness that tugged at her shoulders and worried at her arms. She did it because she could, because pushing herself was what she did, because it was better than sitting, and because she was angry. Sarah eventually picked up the rapier, her lips curling unpleasantly when her arm shook as she lifted it. Again.
And again.
Again.
She swept back into a classic opening stance, her expression completely concentrated. Sarah knew the steps, knew the dance, knew it, and made her body remember. You could lose yourself to it, the ebb and flow, the sting and burn of your muscles until there was nothing left but the feeling of it. Her anger was fuel to burn until the tip of her rapier drooped even as she tried to raise it again.