[She nods in understanding at that smile, and those words. Men of Vision. The same thing, different colors, different justifications for the ruin they leave in their wake, but it's always the same. Lives stripped down under their expansive plans to save the world.
She might ask later, at another point where she can take more of it, more of the words, more of her own vulnerability, different things offered in different pieces, small enough to be able to bear. Back home she'd stripped herself of everything, down to the quick almost, and her attempts to build it up again hadn't felt like they were enough with so many shadows over her.
This is more important. The sparring, the feel, pushing it. Pushing herself. She tosses the bottle off to the side, easy, letting it roll out of the way as she rolls her shoulders. She backs up, gives herself a little bit more room, and there's a look about her like she's not playing nice. Not that she usually does, exactly, but she hasn't tried one of her takedowns since it had failed so badly on York the first night she'd been here.
She knows, objectively, that the big part of it had been that she had still been adjusting, wasn't used to how much effort she had to put into things. The way she had to handle her weight differently, be a lot more careful about velocity and leverage. She thinks she can pull it off now, though. And she wants it. It'd be nice to have at least one thing back, even if it wasn't the same. Whether it works or not, she figures Wash will probably be game for another round.
Punching definitely helps more with the tension.]
Good.
[She gives him a few breaths once he's in position and then she's moving, using that bit of extra distance for momentum. It's not a hard throw, because she's not actually trying to hurt him here. She's taking in how he moves, adjusting so she can get the timing right when she pushes off her back foot, legs around his neck and she more or less turns her body into a fulcrum as she tries to bodily throw him off his feet with her own.]
no subject
She might ask later, at another point where she can take more of it, more of the words, more of her own vulnerability, different things offered in different pieces, small enough to be able to bear. Back home she'd stripped herself of everything, down to the quick almost, and her attempts to build it up again hadn't felt like they were enough with so many shadows over her.
This is more important. The sparring, the feel, pushing it. Pushing herself. She tosses the bottle off to the side, easy, letting it roll out of the way as she rolls her shoulders. She backs up, gives herself a little bit more room, and there's a look about her like she's not playing nice. Not that she usually does, exactly, but she hasn't tried one of her takedowns since it had failed so badly on York the first night she'd been here.
She knows, objectively, that the big part of it had been that she had still been adjusting, wasn't used to how much effort she had to put into things. The way she had to handle her weight differently, be a lot more careful about velocity and leverage. She thinks she can pull it off now, though. And she wants it. It'd be nice to have at least one thing back, even if it wasn't the same. Whether it works or not, she figures Wash will probably be game for another round.
Punching definitely helps more with the tension.]
Good.
[She gives him a few breaths once he's in position and then she's moving, using that bit of extra distance for momentum. It's not a hard throw, because she's not actually trying to hurt him here. She's taking in how he moves, adjusting so she can get the timing right when she pushes off her back foot, legs around his neck and she more or less turns her body into a fulcrum as she tries to bodily throw him off his feet with her own.]