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CHARACTERS: Ilde, Mara, Batman
WHERE: Concordia
WHEN: DAY 33
SUMMARY: This is a training montage
WARNINGS: There's some violence and a tad bit of gore.

She has to go digging in Angel's clothes for 'athletic' wear. It is not a term Ilde particularly understands or even agrees with, but it seems that it would be best to follow Mara's instructions, for the time being. Still, any fight she gets in to... she is likely to be wearing a dress, why not practice in one? She only grumbles a little as she pulls into one of Angel's pairs of stretchy leggings with its panels of mesh. She pokes around for a shirt as well, but finds it more difficult to find a fit. She finally determines something that will have to do and goes to meet Mara on the rooftop. The rooftop of their building was the best compromise to be found. Perhaps somewhere isolated in the industrial district, but then it would have been the pair of them isolated on the far side of the industrial district. If something went wrong it could be troublesome. Besides, others have already used the rooftop for their fights. She's already had to move some of the plants into safer locations.

It's her turn. She is not so much nervous as excited. She has never had anyone like Mara in her life. There had rarely been other women, at all, once she began to live in the palace.

Even fewer, after Camille had been found a witch.

The blast of cool air as she comes out onto the roof removes that thought from her. It also catches her hair and blinds her for a moment as she moves to take control of all the long blonde locks and tie them up. She uses the same bit of twine she's always used to knot off the end of the braid.

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Bruce feels it nipping at his heels, that stewing anxiety creeping into his chest. It's familiar to him, a double-edged apprehension that he often turns outwards, detaching it from himself. But this time it doesn't truly belong to him; it's a foreign dread, intermingling with a mental link that reveals faint glimmers of deadly shadows and unyielding wastelands.

He has long learned that while his body works on instinct, already threatening to eke adrenaline into his system, his mind is what he can control. His will is abnormally petulant, a steel wall holding in his own experiences, while blocking anything trying to worm its way in. He brings up this barrier tenfold, setting his jaw. His mouth curves into a frown, looking at her, deflecting.

"You're fast to offer a demonstration," he says, though his tone lacks flippancy.

"We have powers which words are often inadequate for," she answers evenly, she looks off at nothing, her face pale and eyes glassy. Her fear is like a sickness, and it always has been. The symbiote knows her far too well, is all too clearly indeed meant for her. She is a superstitious girl, grew up in a world ruled by a mad Godking who spoke about his great and terrible destiny in wild hypnotic oration. Sometimes it soothes her to think that she is indeed where she should be. Sometimes she still doubts, although that lessens with time, lessens as she looses her sycophancy for Dreus, as she her dependence upon the intoxicating nature of his magic lets her mind be free. She is, in steps, taking control of herself; though what that means to her may be troublesome to others.

"I have much more room to grow into this power," soft but determined. She intends to be a terror one day, she intends to eclipse her mad Godking who had burned their world to nothingness, who had promised to truly turn it into nothing but ash when the day finally came.

Power and control, her weakness, her longing.

Bruce knows all about wanting to hold tight to the notion of control. It's his own sort of double-edged sword, a merit and a failing both at once. For circumstances that lie beyond his control -- like being pulled from his world to the station, for one -- are utterly unacceptable, and he often does all he can to crush it into something resembling order and predictability.

So yes, he could understand the implication, though she makes no mention of it verbally. He continues to steel himself against the fear, feeling the waves beginning to ebb.

The next question he asks is an obvious one, as anyone who knows the power of fear might inquire the same. "And what do you expect it to grow into?" What would she expect to do with it once it could be wielded as a tool, or as a weapon?

Such a question. She isn't entirely certain. Sometimes she thinks she might delight in giving in, in becoming a monster, but then... perhaps she could be a beautiful one, perhaps even tempered and in control of herself. Did such depth of power imply madness, as it most certainly had in Dreus Fenn, Godking of a world he himself burned. She doesn't know. There is much she does not know, and she is willing to take it in with time.

"As strong as I need to be."

Strong enough to keep herself and her brood alive. Whatever that meant. Whatever that took.

That's an opaque answer if Bruce has ever heard one, one that leaves him uncertain. He hasn't time to fret over everyone's sense of responsibility in the Nest, taking into consideration how they use their powers and to what purpose. But that doesn't mean that this very controlling man won't make the absolute best attempt that he can.

"Then I would be careful that you're the one who remains in control of your abilities, not the other way around."

Whatever it may be she's trying to become strong enough for, he wonders how far she may be willing to take it.

She smiles sadly, the upturn of her lips is clearly not an expression she makes often, but the sorrow in it all fits her to a tee. She clearly has some experience with that: with losing control, and it inspires something bittersweet inside of her. She radiates it, all she's hurt and sacrificed while in the thrall of a man possessed by his power, and not the other way around. That one man and his insanity had framed her entire world, her experiences, her sense of self.

"We will see where my strength carries me," she doesn't argue with him, but neither can she promise that she will not change. In fact, it seems terribly likely that she will. It was what had caused the witches of her world to turn so ugly, so depraved, they had dared to reach, had tried to challenge Dreus.

Ilde too would dare, would overshadow. A terrible glory.

"Hopefully not far enough to slit any more throats," comes the response, this time quick and prepared. Yes, he had been eavesdropping enough to catch that much (even if he hadn't intended to, it was difficult to not hear their conversation from where he stood), and he sees little need in attempting to hide it.

And yes, there is judgment in his tone, though it is masked by uncertainty. The way his lips transform into a frown, paired with cinched brows, reveal that easily enough. The implied question of the circumstances surrounding such an event hangs in the air, though Bruce does not bother voicing it.

This line of questioning irritates her, she has been subject to everyone's censure and opinion on the subject, all of it contradictory. She is quite tired of the discussion.

"It has been requested by my broodmate that I refrain," a shrug in her tone. "And so I will."

Although it is very temporary in her mind. One day Steve will understand things as she does, Death always finds its way in. One day they will need her skills, whether they realize it or not.

The spike of irritation is certainly felt, though he does not let its recognition show on his features.

"Good," he says, frankly. And though he does not truly know her, and therefore cannot say whether or not she'll hold steadfast to it, it would have to do for now.

And besides, perhaps there was an addendum to be had.

"There are other ways of immobilizing an enemy without resorting to spilling blood," he continued, having more than a fair share of experience on the subject. The right kind of pressure points, or the right kind of force, methodically applied. "If you're willing to learn, I'm willing to share."

It's a big if, he thinks, but the offer is sincere enough.

"It is to my benefit to learn all that I can."

An answer with no value judgment whatsoever on 'resorting to spilling blood'. She has no moral objections to killing, if she killed someone and they could not stop her, they deserved their fate. It was that simple, it reflected nothing about her personality. That was her opinion, anyway. And she finds those opposed to the act more cowardly than virtuous, except perhaps for Steve, but then as her broodmate she forgives him nearly anything.

Though that may be the case, Bruce believes that if one possesses the skill set to disable threats non-lethally, they may be more inclined towards doing so, by mere principal of knowing how. Regardless, it is a possibility, and that's honestly good enough for Bruce.

He crosses his arms, assessing in his mind the best place to start. "What's your prior experience? Barring your session with Mara."

"Some time with the Prince as well, for similar instruction," and as she says it, she realizes this gentleman reminds her quite distinctly of their elder mentor. Not necessarily a good thing. Prince spoke to her in a way that she did not understand, paternal and disappointed, with expectations that made no sense to her. She has this underlying feeling that perhaps he is a good man, but there is something in his manner that frustrates her as well.

Yes, her eyes narrow slightly. She has a very similar feeling about Bruce.

"My name is Ilde."

It's irony, then, that Bruce does not hold the Prince in higher regard either. His conversation with the man, brief as it was, only underlined how utterly unprepared everyone was in regards to fighting the Enemy. It was an unacceptable answer to Bruce, and he had come away with an unfortunate first impression of the man, though it may have been unfair. Neither did the Prince's demeanor do much to ease Bruce's misgivings, though they were indeed more alike than dissimilar, if anyone was truly observant enough to notice.

Alike enough to eagerly offer training to those who may need it, or wish it, it would appear.

Still, it's hard to miss Ilde's change in disposition. Bruce could ignore it, but they both would need a clear mind to successfully teach and be taught; if there was something lingering in the air between them, he would rather bring attention to it than pretend otherwise. But first, his name in return.

"Bruce Wayne," he says, and he finds with each introduction, he expects less and less the Wayne name to mean anything. Not that it mattered. Old habits merely died hard.

"Is there going to be a problem?" comes second, purposefully bringing any tension to the forefront.

"No," an immediate and relaxed response. She may not particularly care for his personality, but it was his to have. She was actually quite patient with the faults of others, except in some very... specific and notable cases. Petre Dodrescu is a monster and she wants to see him flayed alive. Her vague irritation with Bruce Wayne's manners is absolutely nothing compared to her violent burning disgust for that creature, and she is aware of that perspective.

"I am a dedicated student."

Regardless of her feelings for her instructor, she needs to learn all that she can if she is ever to meet the lofty goals she has set for herself.

Perhaps, then, that is all that he needs to hear. That despite whatever annoyances she may be harboring against his character, and for whatever reason it may be, none of that matters if she's truly dedicated.

He'll be quick to give Ilde the chance to prove it, at any rate.

"Good. Then we'll start now."

He moves a reasonable distance away, enough room to give her leeway to build up momentum to strike.

"Come at me as if you mean to disable me."

Normally 'disabling' someone would be to kill them, but she has had little choice but to accept what others mean when they say such things. So she shakes off her weariness and focuses. It honestly doesn't bother her at all to move from Mara's lessons to this, endurance is a thing she is more than practiced in, and continuing to exercise it is nothing she will complain about.

According to Mara, disabling is an attack somewhere along the center: groin, stomach, throat, eyes. Some of those seem inappropriate for just meeting this man, she also knows that it is pointless not to dedicate to the attack, so she choose the most central point, fist to the solar plexus.

Bruce had left his wording intentionally vague, to see how Ilde may interpret it; he's fought many who might translate the word "disable" more to their liking. A heavy hit to the head, or a forceful fracturing of the ankles. It often revealed much about the person, where they chose to focus on first; in this case, her choice is straightforward. Safe, effective.

Before her hit can connect, he twists to avoid it. It isn't to show off, but to simply avoid the force of impact; he cannot rely on his body armor here, and he would be a useless instructor if he allowed the wind to be knocked out him so swiftly.

"Again," comes the brusque command, and the implied now rings through their mental connection. If her opponent had dodged much like he had -- and now standing, shifted slightly to her right side -- how would she attack next?

She understands that basic concept, of not committing solely to one strike and hoping it hits. She was a scrappy little fighter, more intent on survival than skill, more focused on speed and surprise than on power, but she feels his insistence that she keeps up the movement. She quickly re-calibrates her intentions, this is not like when Mara had wanted to show her something a strike at a time. Different still from the Prince's methodical repetition of movements without attacking the partner at all.

So she lines up a series of targets in her mind, careful to keep her body loose so that she can follow him as he dodges. A strike up towards the throat, a kick down towards the knee.

This is good, this is what he had in mind. There was little point in reiterating what Mara had already taught her; perfecting technique was critical to learning how to fight, but stringing the knowledge together, refining the rhythm and flow was just as important. There was something to be said about being adaptable, and Bruce believes that the best way to learn is to do.

So there's the faint flicker of approval as she strikes immediately for his throat, though the move is blocked, pushed out and forward by his forearm. Dodging the kick requires more footwork on his part, twisting his weight so that it merely grazes him. However, the maneuver leaves him open.

But this session isn't merely for the sake of observing what she knows, it's just as much for teaching. Faintly, images may appear in her mind of the more practical places to strike an open opponent -- the sternum, or again, the solar plexus. Or if she's feeling particularly bold and brisk, a hook to his jaw, or his temple.

She's almost surprised that he feeds her ways to attack him, but that fades quickly. She knows very well that much of this is about muscle memory, about practice. It reminds her distantly of playing chess with their littlest Sam. One did not start out with much skill, but as you learned the rhythm of the game, one improved a step at a time. Bruce has his own rhythm. Mara hers. Each enemy.

For a few rounds she lets herself fall into what he feeds her, letting her breathing fall in line.

And then with a sharpness she deviates, pivoting on her back foot and bringing a leg swinging around in a rough kick to the ribs. A good move in terms of power, momentum generated from the twist of her hips, but a spin kick almost always telegraphs.

She was following his instructions well enough, but Bruce's twinge of satisfaction is swept aside by an unyielding focus. Because he knows where she will attack, he knows where to block, where to dodge. But that was hardly the point. This was indeed an exercise in muscle memory, in repetition. Like most, she would likely learn more readily when presented with nothing short of good old fashioned practice -- and a hint of hardheadedness.

The rhythm and flow is stable, and the session continues without complications. That is, until she twists her body to aim a kick at his ribs; Bruce sees it for what it is, he can see the shift of her weight that indicates something more than just the right hook that he had telegraphed her.

His forearm comes up to block it, taking the brunt of the hit. The contact is forceful and enough to form a bruise later, but he's had much worse.

"Anyone who knows how to fight could see that coming." Not so much a criticism as a stated fact, a consideration for her to take into account in the future.

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i am such a slug

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