(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.