(no subject)
Who: Hallelujah Haptism (bloody_hymn) & Lyle Dylandy (dara_snipeir).
When: Let's say two days from now? Enough to be a bit more than a week after Operation Chaos.
Where: Gym
Rating: Proooobably R
Summary: A go at the punching bag somehow evolves into a friendly(?) fight.
Warnings: Violence, though not sure how much. Language for both, likely. Hallelujah in general.
Operation Chaos 2 had taught Lyle many things. One was that the sound of many tables crashing down on the heads of a gaggle of Grunts and a couple of nurses was absolutely disgusting, but ultimately satisfying. The second was that it was a good thing he was forced to quit smoking, since his mad dash towards and up the stairs put enough strain on his lungs as it was. The third was that the doctors probably had cameras around the place, since he was intercepted by a Grunt on the landing of C floor and dragged the rest of the way to his room. Nothing had been broken, he didn't think, but the feeling of the supposedly healed bruising and his manhandled, probably twisted ankle weren't going to be forgotten any time soon.
The fourth thing he had learned was that he had let himself get a bit out of shape. He realized a little too late that he probably didn't stand much chance against what the asylum had to throw at him if he didn't prepare. Which was why he was now throwing a volley of punches at the bag before him, trying desperately to ignore the aching soreness of his phantom bruising as well as remember anything and everything the phys. ed. department of his old boarding school had taught them about boxing form. His stance was off somehow, he was pretty sure. Bugger it. At least he was doing something.
When: Let's say two days from now? Enough to be a bit more than a week after Operation Chaos.
Where: Gym
Rating: Proooobably R
Summary: A go at the punching bag somehow evolves into a friendly(?) fight.
Warnings: Violence, though not sure how much. Language for both, likely. Hallelujah in general.
Operation Chaos 2 had taught Lyle many things. One was that the sound of many tables crashing down on the heads of a gaggle of Grunts and a couple of nurses was absolutely disgusting, but ultimately satisfying. The second was that it was a good thing he was forced to quit smoking, since his mad dash towards and up the stairs put enough strain on his lungs as it was. The third was that the doctors probably had cameras around the place, since he was intercepted by a Grunt on the landing of C floor and dragged the rest of the way to his room. Nothing had been broken, he didn't think, but the feeling of the supposedly healed bruising and his manhandled, probably twisted ankle weren't going to be forgotten any time soon.
The fourth thing he had learned was that he had let himself get a bit out of shape. He realized a little too late that he probably didn't stand much chance against what the asylum had to throw at him if he didn't prepare. Which was why he was now throwing a volley of punches at the bag before him, trying desperately to ignore the aching soreness of his phantom bruising as well as remember anything and everything the phys. ed. department of his old boarding school had taught them about boxing form. His stance was off somehow, he was pretty sure. Bugger it. At least he was doing something.