logsinthenight | combat training mingle log

Entry tags:

combat training mingle log

characters: everyone
location: the village gymnasium
date/time: every wednesday & friday throughout october
content: at the town hall last month, javert offered to set up a place for combat training. this is him making good on his promise. as he mentioned in his bulletin ad, these sessions are open to absolutely everyone, not just those who want to learn how to fight. partner up with someone and spar. do whatever you want, just don't hurt each other too badly—or javert will have words with you.
warnings: violence

setup

The gym's certainly seen better days, with it's crumbling walls and lost ceiling tiles. Javert doesn't need it to be pretty, though. He only needs it to be functional. In the last week, he's been doing what he can to clean it up, washing the floors and making some minor structural repairs.

Once the first day of combat training begin, the day after the ferry sinks, it's as clean as it possibly can be without any sort of overhaul. There are mats set up along one end of the gym, for people to stretch or otherwise use for sparring, and a collection of swords near the door. Some are blunted and old, perfect for training — though they may still hurt — while others are sharp or unwieldy, and will need to be handled with care. Use them, Javert says, but return them when you are finished.

There's a tiny collection of knives, too, though there aren't any targets to practice throwing them at. It's a work in progress. For light, there's a torch set up along the wall, illuminating the room and allowing combatants to spread themselves out from one another.

meetings

For the sake of not being micromanagey, there isn't going to be any formal structure to these practices. Javert is available to teach hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship, should anyone wish it. He's also enlisted the aid of Jason Grace, who will teach hand-to-hand and swordsmanship, and Bucky Barnes, who is proficient in knife fighting as well as hand-to-hand combat. Anyone else, of course, may teach others as they please. Just this once, Javert's not going to be a stickler for formalities. He just wants to see everyone making productive use of their time, in some fashion.

Training will run from seven o'clock to nine o'clock in the evening. Arrive promptly, or Javert will berate you for being disruptive. No one is required to come to every single meeting, so come as often or as little as you like. If regular exercise is supposed to help combat the effects of total darkness, why not give it a try?

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The Soldier (wow, not going to share that designation with her, now) is patient while she works on the words, but frowns at the last one. Family is something it... doesn't remember, anymore. There's only a vague feeling that, for other people, it should be a good thing. Then that vague feeling, though, says that family shouldn't be torturing their children. So it frowns.

But it also doesn't push. It doesn't feel like it knows enough about families to say anything, even if the thought makes it want to punch something.

"I had doctors and soldiers, too. No parents, though." And because it definitely has to know, "Have you heard the word HYDRA?"

She reaches a hand over, fingers of the right hand tangling in the blue hair tie. It's a tick, a nervoushabit. Comfort in the memories.

Papa was a bad man. Hop... Hop is good. Safe. Home.

Dad.

"Hy...dra?"

She looks at him then, the lantern illuminating a face that has no clue about the word. Still she shakes her head for emphasis.

"Hawkins Lab."

It sighs. Never heard of it, not even in the distant "know but don't remember" way. "Probably not my bad men, then." Which makes it both easier and harder to think about her: easier, because it probably never knew her or knew of her, and so it's not its fault she had to go through that; harder, because now it doesn't have a baseline for what she went through. Poor kid. "They were pretty hung up on their name. Can I ask what they did? Or is that too hard to answer?"

Eleven closes her eyes for a moment. THe darkness behind her lids isn't a reprieve of any sort. She can feel her words slipping away, as the scent of disinfectant hits her nose.

"Tests. Needles. Training for..."

The word gets stuck. She bites her lip, clings to what she's learned and gained. There's a tear clinging to her lashes. He might feel a tremble in the ground. The pressure in the air rising a little bit.

"... tele... kinesis. Sen--sory. De-deprivation. Spy. Kill."

Okay, nope, that's enough of that. Tests and needles and training to kill people is way more than any poor kid should deal with, and also absolutely close enough to shit the Soldier has dealt with for it to get the picture. Sensory deprivation even has an uncomfortable feel to it, like there is some of that in there somewhere that it hasn't remembered yet, too.

Also, it recognizes that feeling in the air around them, and tries to head it off as gently as it's capable of. Which is kind of gruff and vaguely panicky, but still obviously sympathetic. "Hey, okay, that's. Plenty. You don't have to tell me any more. Just settle for a second."

Eleven takes a stuttering breath, just lets it sit in her lungs for a moment. Hopper always tells her to breathe when she wakes up at night, something in her room broken and everything smelling like sterile labs, the weight of Papa's hand still on her too thin shoulder.

Those nights come less and less often. They never quite go away.

She keeps staring at the ground under her feet. Her lantern trembles a little, because so does her hand.

"Sorry. I'm... okay."

"No apologizing. I asked. Knew the answer would be shitty. My own fault." The Soldier gives itself a little shake, plates in the left arm rippling with a mechanical purring noise. Recalibrating, making a soothing noise and sensation at its shoulder jerves. It helps, sometimes. If it were feeling remotely steady, it might try to pat her shoulder for a little comfort-- sadly, it is not. Sorry, El.

Because she shared what was hard for her, it offers back, "Mine might not have been the same. But did a lot of the same things. I was their science experiment, and then pet assasasin." Still is, in a lot of ways, even if it hates them and never wants to go back. "Did you get out? Before. All this?" A head-jerk in the direction of the gym beside them, meaning Beacon as a whole.

It's likely for the better - touch, right now... Eleven has gotten a lot better about it lately. But she likely would not find much comfort in a stranger's touch when this riled up and jittery still.

"Yes. Two years ago."

Out, but in hiding.

"You?"

Out but in hiding is still worlds better than still in. This little girl managed to escape two whole years ago. That's just... brave. And really impressive, as far as its concerned. The Soldier has to take a moment before it can admit, "No. Didn't even occur to me that I could."

Which isn't quite true, but the moment of mission reset came seconds before actually dying, so it's all kind of... muddled, and there hadn't really been a chance for it to consider its options before oops, in a tiny cabin on the Beacon ferry panicked out of its mind.

"Me neither. 12 years."

Twelve years of not realizing there was much beyond the confines of the lab, that she had the capacity to fight back, that she didn't have to be at the mercy of bad men. And an uphill battle from there. Every word learned, every day outside, every centimeter of literal growth a victory she earned with her own blood and tears.

Eleven looks up at him then, something firm settling in her face. Too grown for a child her age.

"You are. Not a monster."

Because he has to know that, too.

The Soldier can just be stupidly proud of her for getting out and getting better-- in a distant sort of way, since it's not like it knows her and has the right to really feel that way-- because yeah, it knows about that. Even if it's still not a person with a name (and doesn't want to be, okay; it doesn't), it's still gotten better at interacting with them. Marginally. It has two whole friends, that is progress.

The statement makes it blink, then give her a baffled look. "No. I'm a weapon."

The Soldier may not have self-esteem as such, but at least it doesn't think quite that badly of itself. A weapon is at least harmless until it's pointed at someone.

Eleven frowns and considers the reponse for a moment.

She has to conclude with some thought that she can't protest the notion. Eleven doesn't believe in lying, so she won't do it. Instead, she thinks of herself. She's Experiment 011. She's a Number. She's a tool, a weapon. It's just that she can wield herself now instead of letting others point her sharp, deadly end where they want to.

She's also more though. She's Eleven, not just 011, she's El. Part of her is Jane. She's a number, and an experiment, and a weapon. But also a girl, and almost a person.

Carefully, keeping calm brown eyes on his face, she reaches out and puts a hand on his arm.

"Yes. And that's... okay. You're more than that, too."

Of course the only other person to go through something similar to what it did would understand. Everyone else would either just let it pass or protest. So many people protest, and that just makes it more uncomfortable than anything else. This stupidly brave girl, though, she gets it.

The Soldier stares down at her-- not her eyes, but her face too, which is actually pretty good for it-- for a long, silent moment before it realizes her face got blurry. It lifts its flesh hand to wipe its eyes. "Maybe a little bit. Not much more, though." It almost doesn't want to say it, not to her, but it has to. This time it kind of sounds apologetic: "I'm not a person, kiddo."

There was a time when she didn't have words, when her mind was just a malnourished, mangled little thing with little concept of self beyond what Papa imprinted on it. It's taken effort, and the right people, to pull her along until she found her feet.

Identity is still something she struggles with. Has gone back to El and Eleven after Jane was weaponized. Is still learning not to be a sharp blade in other people's hands, no matter how much she loves them.

She nods.

"That's okay, too. I'm still learning... how to be one."

Eleven worries her lip.

"It's... hard. It's okay if... you're not there yet."

12 years nearly ruined her, and the path to freedom and personhood has been brutal, and she still feels like she's barely got it. He's older, much older. Hop once said adults learn slower than kids. Maybe just an excuse while helping her learn, but... maybe it's true.

It's okay if it takes him longer. Things don't cry. Crying is for animals and people. So he's already doingbetter than he thinks. But it's okay. She'll know that for the both of them and let him learn at his own pace.

Anyone else, and the Soldier might have cut that off. There is no "yet". There can be no "yet". It's not allowed. And even if it was allowed, it doesn't want to be a person. Being a person means... a lot of things it's not remotely ready to deal with. Might never be ready to deal with.

But how can it say that to this kid? Experimented on, weaponized, pushed down and locked up and finally escaped, all on her own. She's still learning, she said, but she's trying. She's fucking encouraging it, like only a little bit of praise might get it to grow a sense of personal agency and a name. How can the Soldier tell her it doesn't want the thing she's trying so hard to be, herself?

It recognizes "shame" from the failed mission with the ferry. It didn't feel quite like this then, though. This is quieter and doesn't beg for punishment from an outside source, but it still feels close enough to fit the label. The punishment is knowing it's miles more cowardly than she could ever be. (Hey, no. Don't beat yourself up, pal. She doesn't know. I can't tell her. Didn't say you had to. Just don't do that. ... That's my job, anyway. Oh, fuck off, Sergeant.)

The jerk in its head does help get it more focused again, though. The Soldier wipes its eyes one more time, getting its tears back under control. Rather than addressing her words-- not sure it can without lying-- it finally asks, "What do you call yourself?" Not a name, in case she doesn't have one, either, but even the Asset has things people can call it that isn't quite a name.

Eleven waits. She can have patience, in moments like this. She feels a pull to him that's not dissimilar from the pull she felt towards Kali. He doesn't have a number, he's from something else, but...

They're still alike.

The word for that is brother, but she doesn't tell him that.

"I'm Eleven."

She hesitates, then holds out her left wrist so he can see the "011" tattoo there more clearly.

"I was Experiment 011. Sometimes... sometimes I think that was... easier. I tried to be Jane, but... I'm Eleven."

She nods, reaffirming her choices to herself. And then she offers something important to him:

"My friends call me El. You can, if you want to."

Not the nickname. But the choice to use it.

Does... that mean it has three friends now? She's a little small compared to the other two, at first glance, but whatever's in that little body is obviously bigger than what's in the Soldier's huge one. Besides, it's not about to turn down an offer like that.

Three friends, then. She gets a little smile, for that.

"El. Okay." It reaches over slowly with the flesh hand and covers the tattoo with palm and fingers for three seconds before letting her go again. Wrists are weirdly more comfortable to hold than hands. Possibly the increased ease of escape for both of them. A quick twist, and she'd be free. "I don't have a name. They called me the Asset. But in Beacon people don't like that much, so they mostly call me Soldat." If she ever actually learned Russian in all her spying on them, she'll recognize the meaning as "soldier". With luck it's far enough from the English word that it won't freak her out too badly, though.

If she were anyone else, perhaps her mind would make the connection from Soldat to soldier, either through language or just through the similarities in the words. But Eleven, while far from stupid, is not that kind of clever. She squints instead.

"Soldat."

She repeats it as best she can. Doesn't quite get the pronounciation right.

Still, she makes an effort. And she gives him a shy smile.

"It's nice to meet you, Soldat."

Eh. Close enough. The Soldier is not particularly picky about what people call it, as long as it isn't outright insulting. (And sometimes even then, it's okay. Depending.) "Right back atcha, El." It's capable of sounding casual and friendly, now and then.

This has been an exhausting conversation, though, on top of an exhausting time with a bunch of people staring at it and having to touch it. While its arm plates aren't shifting around, the internal workings are tense. Its handler is still in the gym, and might be looking for it. "I should go finish cleaning up. And get permission from Inspector Javert to leave." Then the idea occurs: "You wanna wait a little? And I'll walk you back?"

It's even petty sure it knows where she lives. It's seen those curls through the neighbor's window.

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