Training Exercises

August 09, 2014: Sara's training session with Slade gets rudely interrupted…

Random Dojo of Training

A place for learning to use a blade. For realz.



  • None

Mood Music:

"Again!" Slade says firmly as Sara goes tumbling away from him, her 'sword' arm pressed wide and the foot he planted in her middle forcing her into an unplanned roll. Slade moves towards her, an English longsword in one hand. He never once brought out wooden practice swords, stating that practice swords were for those that planned on beating people with clubs. It's been four lessons so far and they all end the same. Bruises, cuts, sweat, pain. Slade is a merciless instructor, he's unforgiving, brutal, and demeaning. Not unlike a drill saregeant. While she doesn't seem to /feel/ any more skilled with a blade, something about it is obviously working as Slade's sword now carries notches along it's length where the Witchblade weapon of choice has bit into the steel. "Get up, your foe will not wait for you to rise to continue the attack!" he says as he pounces the last few feet to where she lays, the point of his sword leading the way in a vicious downward stab meant to impale her. To be fair, he did warn her training with him would be difficult.

Sara may not be an expert, but she's stubborn enough for a hundred women. The Witchblade knows what it wants from its bearers, and it doesn't deal kindly with quitters. She learned that lesson years ago. So each cut, each bruise, each jibe, meets the same sort of steely determination. And sometimes a flash of rage, quickly stifled. When Slade lunges, she rolls to the side, kicking out toward his knee for the momentum to get back up again. "Depends on the enemy," she pants, managing a faint smirk. "Get a few monologuing types."

Slade's knee shifts possition brushing her kick aside and his torso turns that small motion into a spin that causes his blade to whistle through the air towards her neck, "Can't count on that." he says flatly, "If your enemy is using a sword, they're confident, took the time to train, to learn, that requires dicipline and effort. Assume your opponent is better then you, more diciplined then you are, more focused. Never assume the easy thing, that's where defeat waits."

"Yep," Sara grunts as she brings her blade up to meet his. "Monologuing." She's on her feet, though, and when her blade meets his, she steps aside with a slight twist, not even trying to take the full force of it. They've sparred enough now for her to know exactly how useless that is. At least without being fully armored. She counters with a slash of her own, across her body enough to cover a slight retreat at need. "How about you monologue on why Steve flipped his well-mannered lid when he found out this was how I was getting my ass kicked?"

Slade twists and arches his midsection so that her blade sweeps past his middle close enough to feel the breeze against his tight training clothes but not quite scoring a hit. Damn that was lucky, or impressive. One of the two. "Steve who?" he asks feigning innosence as he stalks after her retreating form.

Sara snorts indelicately, backing away toward a wall. Which is odd. She's usually smarter than letting herself get cornered would suggest. "Rogers," she clarifies. "There's not a lot of things I'd expect him to agree with Ian about, so we can probably safely say it was a little bit of a surprise to get my head bitten off over who I train with."

Slade understand the importance of misdirection and silently he approves of her attempt to lull him into a foolish rash attack, "Ah. Yes. That." he says flatly as he thrusts forward with a quick two step, only to offer no real power behind the strike as instead he uses the two quick steps to give him momentum that allows him to leap into the air, attempting to block off what he assumes will be some fantastic acrobatic move she plans to use to get herself out of the corner and block him in it. "Well, we've met." his tone is still flat.

"Bet that went real we- the fuck?" Acrobatics aren't really Sara's forte. She might have thought about trying it, but when Slade goes that route, she goes for what she knows well. He's in the air? Great, that limits his ability to go anywhere else for a minute, and she rolls with that, simply dropping to the floor and thrusting upward.

Slade hrms. That was unexpected. He twists mid air in a show of dexterity that is, frankly, stupid and plants his feet on the wall and pushes off, launching himself back over her the way he came, landing in a careful roll a meter or so past her, "Feignt." he says with a nod, which is just about as much praise as she'll get from him. "We have differences of opinions that define us as products of our ti-" and that's about the time the entire front of the dojo disappears in an explosion that turns the plate glass windows, the support beams, the walls, the doors, and 3 racks of weapons into nothing but hurteling shrapnel and a wall of physical force that is not unlike being hit by a car wrapped in pillows. And not comfy soft pillows at that. Still in his three point stance, the wall of force lifts Slade from the floor and bodily hurls him across the open training space. He clips the boxing ring on his way by, which sends him spinning and twirling, and he hits the far wall with a crushing THUD that leave an honest to god sideways 'him' shaped impression in the drywall that's deep enough to have required the breaking of at least three studs.

"Are you kidding me?" Sara is starting to say when Slade starts to land, right up until the front of the dojo turns into a death trap. The Witchblade is fast, but this isn't a demon attack. And they've been focused on matching up against Slade. So when the concussive force rips through the space, Sara barely has time to lift her right arm before everything goes flying. It certainly isn't enough time to shield, or armor up. Which means that when the glass and debris go flying, a fair bit of it finds a new home under her skin, despite the fact that she was already on the ground. One rather large piece in particular is sticking out from her shoulder.

Slade groans softly as the wall around him cracks, crumbles, and then frees his weight by simply spitting him back out onto the floor with a thud. He reaches up slowly with a hand and presses it against the floor, trying to push himself up so he can see through the smoke an… well that's not good. There are many many red glowing beams of light cutting through the smoke and dust of the explosion, the tell-tale signs of laser sights. Slade's eyes snake over towards where his duffel bag was… and he finds that section of the wall caved in. A press to ear his tells him the explosion knocked his coms free, so no calling in for an equipment drop from Peabody. He considers calling out for Sara, but figures if she's dead, he can't help, and if she's not, then his screaming is only going to give away his possition.

Men in full body armor and moving with purpose adn skill quickly enter the room, their short light quick steps carrying them almost through the cloud of dust before Slade finds a weapon. He grins slowly. A staff… excellent.

Sara grimaces as the ringing fades enough for the pain to actually sink in. Yep, that stings a little. That's…yeah, that's a fair amount of blood. Fortunately for Sara, she has a solution for that sort of problem. It takes a moment, but she works up the willpower to reach over and pull the large shard of glass out of her shoulder, though she can't quite bite back a pained sound as she does. Once she does it, though, Witchblade armor starts to creep over the wound, making repairs as it goes. And while it works, Sara watches. Professionals, obviously. Not the law, though. The law announces itself. Which means…fair game.

The law also doesn't begin firing without warning. P90's with long supressors sticking out of thier boxy fronts begin spitting rapid fire death into the dojo. There are no words of warning, no sort of demand for satisfaction, nothing. Just a hail of bullets. A literal hail. The high rate of fire, the high capacity, and the large number of men means that the walls, ceiling, floors, /everything/ begins suddenly sprouting pock marks, dents, and puffs of material as bullets begin to rain into the room. And still the wall of men approaches.

Sara hasn't been under this sort of fire in a long time. In fact, the first thing that comes to mind when the bullets start flying? Is the night she and the Witchblade found each other. A hail of bullets, a lot of pain. And an enemy that wasn't exactly full of shades of gray. Whether it's the Witchblade taking over while Sara's in shock, or if she's just too frustrated not to take advantage of an opportunity to cut loose, the next thing that happens can't be anything the invaders expected. Armor closes down tight around Sara, and as she extends her hands forward, blasts of flame fire directly toward the source of the gunfire.

The source of the gunfire is a 20 foot wide wall of heavily armed and armored men… Men who stop shooting quickly and begin running about in different directions, some deeper into the dojo, some back out again, some begin rolling on the ground to put out the flames. The react like professional soldiers would, falling back on training. Over the sound of the flames comes a 'woosh' noise and Sara's world goes topsy turvy again as an explosion rips into the wall behind her and the shock way blasts back her direction picking her up and tossing her in the opposite direction the last explosion did. That was an RPG fired more of less blindly from outside the building towards the source of the flames.

A moment later there's a wrapping sound on the back of her armored head and Slade's voice, muffled by the dual explosions in Sara's ears and the fact that he's pulled something over his face that looks like it's part of his skin tight workout shirt, says, "Use the cover to your advantage, think clear, don't panic." his voice is something of a growl, and then he's gone, disappearing into the new cloud of dust and smoke, smoke that's been made thicker by Sara's flamey blast of doom, which is happily gnawing away at anything flamable in the room. Like the ceiling and floor and that wall over there.

There are times when no matter how many smart-ass responses are going through your head, the reality is just too ridiculous to actually process. Which is probably why Slade is spared whatever is going through her head. That and shock. And the cadre of highly trained soldiers. Any of those things. And the fact that he walked away. It takes another moment for Sara to pull herself together enough to start standing, but she does it, rising to a crouch and forcing herself to focus on just what's happened. Right. Time to get out of this place. Carefully, she starts moving toward where she remembers the back exit to be. Away from the paramilitary sorts.

Gunfire has begun to cut down and now there is only sporatic bouts of muffled 'pfft'ing noises as a few rounds are fired almost exploratively into the dimness. The beams wave slowly this way and that, as if searching… and then a trio of them suddenly wave in frantic manners, pointing up and down and off to one side before all three drop to floor level and point at nothing, no longer moving. That's the point when the laser lights start switching off as men realize the danger. There's a shift in the smoke around Sara and then Slade is there, walkign towards her with one paramilitary man held almost casually against his chest. A jerk of his hand snaps the man's neck with a sound audible to her, the motion so sudden and fierce it nearly turns the man's head around, "Don't." he says as she nears the door, "They will have placed a claymore outside of the door, that's why all the fire power is up front, flushing us towards the real trap." His mask is a spandexy thing, apparently attached to his workout shirt, and it's split down the middle, black on one side without an eye slot, and hte other is an orange and it's from there he stares at her, "If I had known you would run from a threat, I wouldn't have trained you. I expect better." he says flatly before the long wodden staff in his hand moves in a blur so fast it stirs the dust and smoke around them, makes a whisteling noise, and then hits a stealthy soldier in the face plate so hard the plexiglass shatters under the impact. Moving almost as fast as the staff Slade's elbow slams into the man's throat. The blow is hard enough it also breaks the man's neck, which may be a mercy as the man won't have to deal with the slow death of a completely crushed wind pipe.

Slade shouldn't be able to move like that. It was… was a blur. A smear of motion. Ian /barely/ moves like that, and only when he's showing off. "You coming?" the ninja looking man asks of her as the corpse falls next to him in a limp heap, "Or you wanna find a new trainer?"

"Running looks a little bit different," Sara snorts, though she winces at the killing. No matter how much the Witchblade wants it, and no matter that she knows they're not good men, there's still a part of here that objects to it. "I was trying to avoid doing that." Bravado. Or something like it, at least. With the Witchblade, Sara could cut through those men without thinking twice. But that would mean giving over control. And that is something she isn't willing to do. His invitation, though, is met with silence. Briefly, her gaze flickers through the door as she considers walking through anyhow. She could handle a claymore. Probably. And maybe that would shut Slade up. But that thought is enough to convince her it's not the best idea, and she simply falls in at his side.

Slade waits for her to make her choice, though the mask pulls in a frown as she considers the door anyway, though he doesn't voice whatever thought ran through his mind. He nods once as she steps to his side and he makes a military hand gesture for her to go right while he goes left. And left he does go, moving with a silence and speed that's shocking for a man his size. Before he's out of sight she watches him pull a combat knife from a soldiers sheath and ram it up beneath his chin clear to the hilt in a motion so fluid and easy that it's instantly clear why everyone is telling her to be careful of Slade. He thinks nothing of killing a man. Nothing. There's no hessitation, no pause, not even enough of one to cause his motions to be sharp or jerking. He moves with Ian's intent, lethal, undaunted, but with Steve's power and grace, perhaps more of it. As the smoke swallows him from view, his black clothes causing him to disappear completely, one might consider a thought… what sort of 'security' does Slade Wilson offer his clients exactly?

Sara is due for so many more lectures after this. And possibly another visit from IA. She keeps up this life, and she's going to be in need of a position in private security herself. Stealth may not be the way she usually works, but she isn't incompetent. She steps quietly through the wreckage, the Witchblade providing something of a visor to help keep the worst of the dust and the smoke from her lungs. She's still bleeding at her shoulder, though, her arm hanging limply, and the myriad small cuts from the initial attack aren't getting any better. When she comes on one of the attackers, he gets a swift kick to the side of the head: less lethal, but no less effective than Slade's blade.

Slade engages a trio of the armed men, the tip of his staff snapping out to swat a P90 to the side as it's owner reflexivly pulls the trigger and empties two dozen rounds into his squad mate. The staff darts back jabbing the soldier in the center of his body and pushing him back, causing him to stumble into the third soldier who was bringing his weapon to bear, the pair of them tangle and go down as the 'shove' proves to be harder then it first appeared. Slade nonchalantly scoops up the fallen soldiers weapon and without even pausing in his walk simply empties the magazine into the two downed men with one hand. The SMG is then cast aside idly as useless. He never even broke stride. The dust and smoke is starting to thin, and Slade makes a series of quick hand gestures Sara can see, and silently he hopes NYPD training at least covers enough field craft to allow for silent communication like this, otherwise he'll have to give his possition away to warn her about the men outside the building that're just waiting for them to show themselves.

Sara doesn't exactly have the most standard NYPD training under her belt, and after a few operations with SHIELD and the Partisan, anything she didn't already know, she's figured out how to pick up. Unfortunately, there's no hand signal for 'whose cheerios did you piss in?', so that's going to have to wait. She moves toward her side of the door, keeping low as she tries to get a look at what she's facing. Anyone with this many men to spare probably has something big out there. She already knows they had a rocket launcher.

Big… yes. Yes they have big. Outside the dojo, parked in the middle of the street is a nondescript panel van, white on white, looking like every other service van in the greater New York area save that one single little modification. With the panel slid open Sara can see the Ma Deuce mounted to the floor inside the van and the man with his his hands wrapped around the grips pointing it at the front of the building and the hole it's made. A .50 mounted machine gun at this range wouldn't even have to bother with armor peircing rounds, plain ones would punch through armor… From the look of the belt of ammo sticking out of it's side it looks like they weren't taking any chances, they're color coded as tracer rounds. Every one of them.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Sara mutters when she sees what's waiting. "I have the worst taste in friends." Aww. You're a friend, Slade! Or something. She takes a deep breath, glancing down at herself for a moment as though weighing her chances. Apparently, she doesn't like them, because the next gesture she makes it toward what used to be a window several feet down from them, indicting an intent to provide some distraction.

Slade glances at the window, then out through the small space provided by his chosen bit of rubble to eye the .50. His eye narrows and she can see his eye darting this way and that, almost as if he were looking for something. Then he nods once. He looks at the staff in his hands, takes a wide grip on it and slides back a meter or so before placing his feet against the stump of what used to be a support pillar. She can visibly see his muscles tense under the spandex, and he nods a short jerky nod once.

Sara moves quietly through what's left of the cover, crouched low, until she's well clear of Slade's position. She takes what cover she can in the wreckage of the dojo, keeping down, before lifting her uninjured arm and taking a deep breath. It takes her a moment to call it forth, but once she has it, her eyes glow with an amber light that barely holds a candle to the glow in the palm of her hand just before she fires off another blast out the window, as though she were clearing a path for escape there - away from the truck.

Slade is patient, he's had to learn to be. Everything around him seems to happen in slow motion, has ever since Lynch did this to him, but it's worse in combat. People look like they walk through molasses, bullets slide through the air but he can follow them with his eye, explosions are a distorted wave of force he can almost reach out and touch before it reached him, like a giant expanding bubble blown by a giant child. And so, he's had to learn to be patient. Sure, the Witchblade makes blasties, but if he doesn't wait long enough, the men in the truck won't react and he needs them to react. He counts off a full second in his mind as time drags by letting out a slow breath…

He's a black and orange missle, one moment he was behind the rubble, foot pressed against the stump of the pillar like a runner on his starting blocks, the next he's over the rubble and in the air. The Ma Deuce spews rounds in Sara's direction, the bullets seemingly not bothered by things like brick, mortar, or concrete, they punch through the rubble around her as if she were hiding behind lumped pillows. The deafening WHUMPWHUMPWHUMP of the .50 only manages a handful of shells though before it goes deathly silent and a quick look shows Slade is inside the still rocking van and the barely smoking barrel of the large machine gun is slumping towards the floor. It's opperator is pinned to the back side of the pannel van, half a wooden staff through each of his shoulder and a very large, very intimidating man in black and orange spandex towers before him. "Sara." Slade says evenly, "You should go now." his gaze is locked on the soldier who's bleeding and groaning in pain, the wooden spikes that were driven through him and presumably the wall of the van quiver as he tries desperatly to hold still.

Sara reinforces her hiding place by making a shield of the Witchblade to crouch behind, but even that isn't quite enough under the onslaught of firepower. Through the concrete, through the shield, though the armor, one of the rounds bites into her thigh, another into her side. Without the Witchblade, she'd probably be in pieces. As it is?

"Yeah. Totally. Gonna be a minute," she calls back to Slade when her leg buckles underneath her as she tries to stand.

Slade turns around to eye her and his expression hardens, "You. Stay." he says to the pinned man and he steps lightly out of the truck to walk over to Sara. He takes a knee next to her as he eyes the wounds. He reaches to his back and pulls out a small black box which he quickly unfolds. There's a can the size of an eye dropper in it, and he presses the tip of it into each of the deep gouges made by the grazing bullets and the can itself hisses ominously. Then comes the pain. "Tracer rounds." he says as his grip on her keeps her from thrashing to much, "The coating was still burning into your skin from where they touched you but you didn't feel it, burns through the nerves fast enough they don't have time to send the pain signals sometimes. This will put out the fires and is an antiseptic. Stings a little." A LITTLE?!? It's like an iodine foam squirting into an open wound. 'Little' his perfectly sculpted ass! "Soon the police will arrive, not without ESU, but they will arrive, by my calculations given the nearest ESU launching point, we have roughly four minutes to get you off scene before they arrive. If you're here when they get here there will be problems for you." he talks in quick clear manner of someone used to this level of chaos, and while he calmly talks about the end of her professional career and her life as a whole, his hands continue to patch her wounds. He doesn't even seem to notice the cuts on his hands from where he's gripped the armor to hold her down, "Your life your call, but make it fast." he's none to gentle about wrapping up the wounds, not that he's vicious, he's just efficient, not bothering to be overly sensitive and sacrificing comfort for speed and effectiveness.

"I'll be fffffUCKING HELL, SLADE!" Sara exclaims before she clamps her teeth together at the sting from whatever is in that can, fingers gouging chunks out of the concrete beneath her. The other hand fists, eyes closing tightly as she tenses up against the pain. "Jesus Christ, I hate you right now." Because anger is a thousand times more useful than fear. At least in Sara's mind. "So much." The Witchblade is doing what it can, but she needs to get somewhere she can safely sleep it off if she's going to actually heal up after this. Once the worst of the red mist of pain fades, she forces herself to take a breath, glancing over her shoulder toward the van. "Four minutes isn't enough time to give you the full lecture on what happens if you go back there and disassemble professional asshole number twenty-eight when he's no longer a credible threat to your safety." She pauses, giving him a dry look. "If any of them ever were. Should be enough to get me to some cover, though."

Slade's head comes up and he stares at her through the mask, and for the first time… he's actually scary. Not impressive, because he's been that before, but actually registering as a true threat. It's something in the eye. Without the other features to lend context, the white goatee, the laugh lines around his eyes, his mouth, even the charming if somewhat arrogant smirk, without any of that, his eye is just… cold. Hard. Thousand yard stare gets used a lot to talk about men who's seen to much and lost their way, this man's clearly seen to much but never got lost, he simply kept pushing harder. After a long moment he offers her a nod, "You earned it." he says, his tone suggesting she just won something and should enjoy it as if it were rare. "I will get you to one of my safe houses," he scoops her up as if she weighed roughly as much as a back of marshmellows and cradles her against his chest, "I have back up transportation waiting around the corner," as if he had planned to be jumped by Spec Ops or something. "Brace yourself, this is going to be… bumpy." and then he's running. It's not a jog, it's a full out sprint while carrying her like a child complete with a couple of parkour like leaps from parked cars to clear congested sections of sidewalk quickly growing packed with gawking pedestrians. Good thing they're both 'masked up' so to speak.

Sara doesn't even think about it when her hand moves toward her ankle where her backup piece is usually holstered. She doesn't have it now; she didn't expect to need it. But it's an even older reaction to a threat than letting the Witchblade do its thing. Especially when she's already at the edge. She lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding when he agrees, starting to nod and reaching out with her good arm.

"Great. I just need a-" The sentence ends in a surprised yelp when he picks her up, and then a hiss of pain. A thumbs up is as much as he's getting out of her after that, body tense while he runs. Don't scream or cry in front of the scary super-soldier.

Slade carries her with a surprising lack of jarring, bumps sure, but nothing as jerky or shakey as one might expect, not even when he clears the heads of the looky-loos, cushioning the landing as much as possible. It's only a sprint of about a block and a half, but it's a whistle of wind, at one point he actually out races a bike messenger for a solid fifty feet before coming to a sliding stop at a sleek black sports car. He sets her down on her feet and then opens the door for her, because manners are still a thing, "Move it or lose it." he quips, and this time even through the mask she can see he's smiling. He's /enjoying/ himself. Once she's in a hop over the car lands him on the drivers side and the engine roars to life with the push of a button. Then… they meander away. No squeeling corners, no smoking tires, just… a sedate and very controlled drive off. He reaches up to pull his mask back from his face and once free it seems to collect about the neck of his work out shirt almost invisibly. "Try not to slice the seat up if you can," and yes in fact he /is/ grinning, "it's rich corrrrrrinthian leather." he rolls the 'r' in corinthian as he adopts a snooty European accent.

Sara drops into the seat more than anything else, skipping the buckling up step in favor of letting her head fall back against the headrest. "Working on it," she says hoarsely in regard to the leather. "I'd pack it up, but blood's probably not an improvement." The back of the armor stays fairly smooth, but there's a definitely scraping sound as her fingers clench and unclench over her thigh, distracting her from the pain. She watches him through a sidelong glance, grimacing. "I'd introduce you to the Partisan, but I've got a feeling the two of you would level city blocks."

Slade shakes his head, "Unlikely," he states cleanly, "I'm not big on collateral damage when it can be avoided… of course if those city blocks are abandoned…" now he's teasing. The car makes several turns and redirect paths, standard evasive tactics she would recognize, the kind that would give away a tail if they had one. At a stop light he pulls up a touch screen display hidden in the dash and with a few taps checks out some recorded footage and a skematic of some kind, "No one put a tracer on the car, and no one's following us, we're in the clear." he says before turning the car around by circling the block and heading uptown. "I have a penthouse, you can rest there and I can see if I can't figure out who's trying to kill me." he pauses and eyes her, "Or you." he nods once at her armored up form, it's not like he's the only one with enemies.

"Pretty sure Steve wasn't that pissed and it wasn't SHIELD, so my money's on you," Sara snorts softly, wincing as it jars her shoulder. "My enemies usually don't use rocket launchers or machine guns. Although, apparently, they ought to," she adds with a dry bark of a laugh. "Seems to be much more effective than the whole demons, monsters, and other assorted otherworldly hit men." She eyes him again, letting out a careful breath. "Probably not going to make practice tomorrow."

Slade shakes his head, "Nonsense, you'll be there with a smile on your face and bandages on your body. It will be the perfect opportunity to teach you about how to fight, or better yet, survive, when you are wounded. To many people merely flee or try to go to ground and cry a little while hugging themselves. That's fine if that's your coping mechanism, but only if you're safe. Tomorrow we'll work on your tactical accumen as it applies to surviving the unexpected while in pain, how to override your animal brain as it were." he shoots her a look, "Besides, it won't be out of your way," he points out as they head towards the Upper East Side and the $2,000 per sq ft apartments that part of town holds, "you are kinda crashing at my place." Yeah, Steve was totally off base getting mad she was training with Slade. One day after the arguement over it she's almost killed and now she's going to crash in his stupidly expensive Rich Guy penthouse with what is likely some insanely gorgeous view of Central Park.

Sara sighs, letting her head fall back against the seat again. "Somehow, I knew you were going to say that," she mutters. "But since you're saving that lesson for tomorrow, I'm going to indulge in some inside voice screaming right now. Just let me know when we get there." And on that note, she closes her eyes, all the better to focus on keeping the screaming inside. Ow.

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