sixthiterationlogs | make the choice to choose

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make the choice to choose

WHO: Ashley Magnus
WHERE: South Village, by the water
WHEN: random Mornings throughout the month
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Updated as needed

un: magnus

One more day of this normal routine and I'm going to fucking lose it. South Village. By the mill. Sparring partners needed before I go fucking nuts without work. Any morning from dawn until lunchish.

Ashley never thought about how much of her life was spent constantly on the go. Even in her downtime, she realized she wasn't likely to sit around long, coming up with reasons to get out and move. It's a restlessness that she took for granted when she had the Sanctuary work to do, and an entire city to traverse. Not to mention abnormals to contain, especially with the uptick because of the Cabal before this place.

Now if this place is Cabal or not, she doesn't know, but if it is, they already know what she's capable of so there's reason to hide it.

Mornings start with a run, heading out further each day, taking new routes, trying to not only learn this place but learn every path she might need for any reason. Not to mention the creatures, the resources, anything to keep her on her toes and know what she might need no matter what happens.

By the mill she practices with the few weapons she's gathered, using them in various ways so she knows the heft and weight of them in case. Everything is in case, even if here she has no idea in case of what. There's only so much a person can practice alone, so she hopes sending out that message will draw a few people to practice against. Will keep her on point, not to mention meaning she could get a chance to know more of those here. It's already been eye opening, and she's curious what else this place holds.

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As many issues as they have, she might want to hurt him but it's less about him and more about doing whatever it took to take the pressure off how she's feeling.

All of those desires that she used up on the streets, seeking things in sewer tunnels, and in fighting whatever came at her. In this place, even fighting with others, it's still kindly. Sparring and not fighting. Even if she would hold back with him, she knows he wouldn't ask her to. It's the one thing they might agree on.

And so she throws herself into it. Taking blows that left her with tears in her eyes with a grunt, spinning and striking again and again. Every blow she takes driving her harder, faster, and with certainly more aggression than she's ever allowed herself.

His ploy certainly working, ever blow he makes driving her closer and closer to the edge, violent rather than sparring now and not even clearly thinking through what she's doing.

Her face red, lashes damp with tears that sting her eyes. Anger at never knowing the truth, at what he did to her mother, at growing up without a father because their experimentation had driven him mad. Not trying to think about it all, and yet all of it coursing through her head.

There is, he's often found, an almost cathartic nature to violence. Something that sparring, useful though it might be, never quite manages to touch. Not when they're both entirely too used to violence, to the sting of pain, and the ability to throw one's full self into a fight without having to worry about holding back. To say nothing of the fact that it's just as much a relief for him to be able to lose himself in the thrill of the fight without needing to worry about what his sparring partner might think of the overall shift away from the more typical sorts of sparring.

He has, admittedly, less to be immediately angry about than she does, but there's still enough lingering under the surface to spur him on. Nor do his own blows falter. Instead, they match hers pace for pace, and though he does still wince a little, when one of hers connects, he continues on, heedless of the pain.

(He knows that later, when the fight has come to an end, he'll feel the bruises all the more, given that he's ignoring them now. But right now that's unimportant.)

What he's done to her, and to Helen, are things that he can't change. But here and now, he can at least give her a place to work through some of that anger, even if it might never be entirely enough.

It's that channeling that Helen had used for years for help Ashley. Sending her into places most would never dare step, trusting in her training and her instincts to keep her alive against those that were bigger and more dangerous than she is. Well, thought to be more dangerous.

That she is still alive speaks volumes to her abilities. That she's not backing down now speaks volumes of her very nature, as much inherited from Druitt as her mother.

She doesn't flinch, grunting at the punches that land squarely, the hits she takes, the pain that courses through her body only drives her further, pushes her to do more.

"Do you know... the part... I hate... the most?"

Suddenly speaking, breathless, kicking and spinning to deliver each blow.

"You used me... against her! You used me!"

It's a stupid thing to be upset about, something that shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of everything, but it still hurts her. More so since their time in this place.

There's a certain value to being underestimated, and he can't deny it. It's not something he can use, not anymore. But he's not unaware of the fact, and if Ashley is able to use to her advantage than so much the better, as far as he's concerned. Their world is dangerous, and while he's uncertain if either of them will be able to go back to it, whenever they find a way out of the village and its surroundings the skills Helen has taught her should be just as useful elsewhere. As it will be here, should there be any reason for her to need to defeat one of the various monsters that lurk outside the village.

(He hopes, of course, that it doesn't come to that, for all that he knows that she take care of her self. But at the same time he knows better than to assume it won't, between the Observers' tendency to throw the unexpected at them and the bloodlust Ashley has inherited from him besides. Even if sparring will hopefully take enough of the edge off of that to keep it from being a problem for either of them.)

"We've spoken about this before."

Briefly, yes. But the topic has at least come up, for all that he doesn't entirely blame her for still being upset; isn't the least bit surprised that it's come up now, and he continues to match her blow for blow, the only outward sign of the effort involved that his his voice has dropped to low rumble.

"I could hardly-" a pause and a wince as he doesn't block a blow fast enough "- have threatened your mother. And she had something I needed."

That she had tampered with the same blood that had once helped had been something that should, perhaps, have foreseen. But he'd been more than a little desperate, and while that's still no excuse for his actions, he hopes that it can at least partially explain them.

Ashley bites back words. Ones about of course fucking not because everyone loves Helen Magnus and Ashley is just baggage to her mother's life. Not that she thinks her mother believes that but she isn't taking bets on those beyond her mother who may or may not feel that way.

And then here's Druitt. Someone who, by those very words, makes it clear how she fits into that equation. Expendable. Worth less than his life. Just something he mother cares about enough to use for leverage.

She's not even seeing the world around them in that moment. Zeroed in on Druitt, blind with rage and pain and an anger she pretends she doesn't feel within her so much of the time. Not even thinking about it in a logical fashion. All rage in every blow, every strike, pushing hard into an aggressive, violent offensive in a petty, desperate need to hurt him as much as those words hurt her.

While he'll admit that his actions then had, perhaps, not been his finest, it's somewhat less about how he feels about Ashley and more about the fact that threatening Helen herself would only have led to him very swiftly finding himself either imprisoned properly or on the receiving end of a very thorough asskicking. Or possibly both; in Ashley he'd had a bargaining chip. A means to force the most favorable outcome. Still, in light of the fact that he had used Ashley that way, he can't say he blames her for reading his words in a way other than how he'd meant.

And perhaps he could have phrased it better, too, but now that the words are said there's no correcting them. Not when he can absolutely tell that she's in no place to think about it. Instead, he meets her offensive head on, letting each blow of hers that lands, each new potential bruise pull him further into his own anger. His own rage, and when the fire fueling hers burns out perhaps they'll be better able to speak.

Right now, however, there's only this. Only the fight, the blows they're exchanging, and the rage hanging over them both as they both push themselves heedlessly forward.

While not as perhaps it might be, she does tire quicker than he may if not as quickly as most women of her size and training might. Of course, anger and pain can push a person far, and she lets it push her.

Taking every blow and knowing she'll pay for it later, but the pain and the force helps her, helps draw her back to herself. Though it's a sharp blow to the side, the flair of pain and then a flash of whiteness, of knowing she's likely got a separated rib perhaps, damage that she can only blame on herself because she wanted this, in a way she needed it. Glad for it, even as she bounces back, ducks under his swing and backs up further.

Hands still up and at the ready, expecting him to push on, to keep attacking because of how she sees him for his actions, and not the man himself.

He doesn't blame her for seeing him how she does. He might, eventually, see what he can do to at least improve her opinion of him, but just at the moment it's not even so much as a conscious thought. Right now there's only the anger and the pain left behind by each blow he doesn't manage to block, and he's more than willing to let that carry him forward. (He always has been, to be perfectly honest, and the fact that this had been meant to be a simple sparring session doesn't so much as make a difference.)

It's only once she does step back that he lets go of that anger a little. Lets himself step back - albeit more metaphorically than physically - as he takes in the situation as it stands; there's a moment or three of silence and then he speaks up.

"Feeling better?"

It's a question he'd last asked to someone very different, under very different circumstances, but it seems suited to the moment; while he knows they'll both be sore and bruised in a day or two that's very much not what he's asking about. Even if he can only hope she understands his meaning.

Ashley doesn't even try and speak at first, just staring at him as she tries to assess her situation. At first focusing on the physical because that's easier than emotions. Thinking about the way her ribs feel with every breath, the way her hands ache but it's familiar and comforting in its own right. She thinks about how her leg hurts, and that she might limping a bit though she'll fight through it so that others don't see that's she's weaker than she was.

After a time though she finally nods, slowly, because in truth, she does feel better. All the aggression that her work normally worked through had been building up for so long that she hadn't realized how much she's been holding in until having an outlet for it.

"Yeah, I do," she finally admits out loud, finding her words even if they're not as determined as they might normally be. Pausing a moment, her mind racing over a million things before settling on the only ones she can think of.

"Thank you."

Druitt doesn't rush her. After the fight they've just had, he's well aware that there's going to need to be a certain amount of assessment involved. And not just on the physical end of things, either - while he and James had grown very much used to their verbal sparring, he's not certain how used to the idea of violence as pressure release Ashley might be. Still, he's perfectly willing to put the anger he'd been drawing on on hold until she finishes thinking.

It's only when she answers that he finally lets go of that anger, letting it fade back into the quiet background hum it usually is. And for all that he notices that her words are, perhaps, not as determined as they would normally be, he doesn't say anything about it. Not when it would most likely just be counterproductive.

"Mmm." There's a nod, too, enough to make it clear that he means it as a sort of non-verbal 'you're welcome'.

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