Preparing For Future Fights

Guest

Voltaire came here because he had not previously seen anybody else out here before and this skill was going to be a secret, a trump card that he was going to use on the off chance that anybody tried to get past the terrifying offense of his puppets.

He got down on his haunches and pressed his knuckles against the soft sandy ground.
He felt the heat and the movement on his skin, was this what people meant when they talked about hard work? It was uncomfortable, but he was probably going to have to learn to get past that. He leaned forward and raised his fist. There were a few large pillars to denote where the ring ended and where it began, and he felt he should charge one of them at full speed to practice his punches. He got some really good speed in, moved faster than he had remembered doing so before, and had to really admire his own stride for a moment.

He admired his own stride for too long, and collided face first with the pillar. Lesson number one, pay more attention to the surroundings than your own juvenile running accomplishments. He picked himself up, brushed himself off, and then threw a few fists at the pillar. It hurt, and he sighed.

Guest

Voltaire took a few several yard steps back, getting himself to nearly the center of the ring so that he could get another good running start. He leaped up into the air when he was a couple of yards from the pillar, lifting up his leg in an attempt to do a flying kick into the construct. He had no idea how to tuck the other leg and quickly found himself stretching out his muscles and then landing hard into the ground, sliding forward with the entire right side of his body sinking a bit into the sand and being roughed up as he slid. By the time that he had stopped sliding he was still quite far from the mark,
in fact his jump had carried him less than a foot and a half of the intended distance.

Voltaire responded by flying into a rage, not that he was in so much pain from the horrible way that he had landed, but that he was going to have to acknowledge a failure. He flew up to his feet and started kicking the pillar. He flinched in agony with each strike, but adrenaline, it is one hell of a drug.
He kept kicking and kicking and kicking. He would frequently miss and be knocked off of his other foot from the inertia, but he would get back up and keep at it.

Guest

Voltaire was pleased with his training so far but he was now swinging his fists at the pillar. It was not particularly graceful and it was far from having any real form, just wide right and left hooks with no real patterns. Right hook, left hook, left hook, left hook, right hook, right hook, violently and randomly slamming his weak knuckles into the hard surface. It was horribly painful, and it got worse and worse with each strike but he also found himself more and more capable of dealing with the pain with every strike. The human body, he reminded himself, built itself up just as well as it tore itself down from everyday wear and tear. His bony knuckles crackled with every strike, but he kept swinging, and the more he went the better he was getting at swinging. After half an hour or so of the nonstop punches tears were streaming down his pale face, something that he had not seen coming but yet another reason that he was very glad that he was doing this in private.

The hooks were less wide than before, less telegraphed, he was starting to figure out how to do a proper jab, he was getting a bit of control over the direction and even the angles of his strikes against the pillar. His knuckles were now riddled with what looked like cuts but were actually tears in the flesh caused by the impact. His blood meant nothing though, it blended in with the dark pillar and when it landed on the sand it quickly was blown away or soaked down to a lower layer of the never ending bed of grains. He kept going and going, but then his body fell forward with his swing and he no longer had the strength to keep his knees steady. He fell head first into the pillar and then slipped to the side, landing in the sand barely conscious from exhaustion. He curled up into the shadow of the pillar for a short while that felt like a very long while, and then returned to his lonely apartment to wash off his injuries with pride.
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