(Untitled)

[dean_o_dell]

Cyrus once again works the heavy bag under the warm June sun. He's gotten used to his new face but not the boxer's body. Not to the stamina, not to the relative speed. It's like getting a new car. The principles are the same as with the old, but there subtle differences. Only moreso

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[milkbonesoldier]

He's not alone; Wells can really only go through the Brichester papers for so long before he has to come out and have a look around. It's been a while since he's seen anyone else using the punching bag, so he's going to settle back on his heels and watch for a bit.

[dean_o_dell]

Cyrus sticks with patterns. What would be left uppercuts to the human body, then right, left jabs, then right, and so on. There's power to the punch but not any particular grace, muscle memory but not skill.

He doesn't see the man behind him till he moves around the bag. "Good morning."

[milkbonesoldier]

"Morning," says Wells, hands in his pockets. The wind's about right to catch a whiff of the man without having to move from his current position. "Don't think I know you, do I?"

[dean_o_dell]

"No, I don't think so. Though," he adds as he stops his workout, "I don't have the same form or body I used to. Cubefall.

"Cyrus O'Dell." He removes his right glove and extends his hand.

[milkbonesoldier]

Wells grunts. "Harry Wells," he says, and shakes the offered hand. It'd be hard to find a more calloused and work-marked palm without the owner being involved in the construction trades. "Nice t'meet you. Getting the hang of the sport, are you?"

[dean_o_dell]

"I'm a lifelong fan, and I got made over to essentially be Jack Dempsey, the old-time heavyweight champ. But I've never been in the ring, and the last fight I was in that involved more than words would have been in second grade." He takes off the other glove.

[milkbonesoldier]

"Ah," says Wells; the monosyllable's served him well in the past, and it works pretty well now. "I'd been wondering. Seems a fair number of people around here've taken to using this bag since I first put it up. You're not doing too bad, for a beginner."

[dean_o_dell]

"Oh? Thanks. For the bag and for the compliment." Certainly Harry has the look of someone who might be a boxer of some sort. "I take it you do a lot of boxing?"

[milkbonesoldier]

"Took a few prizes for it when I was in the Army," Wells says, examining a patch on the bag that probably could do with replacing. "These days I teach hand-to-hand at a boarding school. Branches off from the same skill roots, more or less. Though most of my students're pretty damn young by comparison t'yourself, of course."

[dean_o_dell]

"I was 59 when I died, so they're even younger. My sympathies." After a lifetime of teaching, it's almost an automatic response. "Mind giving me a few pointers?" Cyrus is quite open to any and all offers of help.

[milkbonesoldier]

"Eh, I've done worse. Two years as a DI after Iraq," says Wells cheerfully. "'Course, I didn't have to watch my language as much then, that was something... right, let's start with the feet, shall we?"

The player, alas, has not read up properly on boxing in years; please excuse the likely prevalence in any future poses of advice that stems more from the Asian fighting arts than the Western ones.

[dean_o_dell]

"First or second Iraq?" Not that it matters much, but he's curious.

Cyrus puts the gloves back on and nods that he's ready.

[milkbonesoldier]

"First. I've been out of the Army since '01." For various reasons.

"Right, then. Start off sideways to your target- you're right-handed, yeah? Left shoulder towards the bag, feet shoulder width apart, mind your fucking knees, let's see the right toes in line with the left heel..."

Don't mind the language. As far as he's concerned it's the typographical equivalent of hitting the space bar.

[dean_o_dell]

"Clearly the army's still with you," Cyrus notes with a small grin at the use of language. Such words were never in Cyrus' vocabulary, but he envies being able to use them with abandon, never afraid of who would be offended.

Feet and shoulder shift appropriately. "How's that?"

[milkbonesoldier]

"I joined up when I was sixteen, mate. You don't get out of it that easy," says Wells. "Right, that's not too bad. Turn the feet, you want 'em about this much of an angle to the bag. Back heel up, elbows in, remember your only protection here's your fucking forearms, palms towards your face- all right, now put these two inches-" He indicates the distance between the base and second knuckles of the middle finger of his right fist. "Into the bag as hard as you fucking well can."

[dean_o_dell]

WHAM! The form might be off, but the punching power is there. Whether the legs supported it properly is another question.