2012-11-11: What Rusty Looks Like

The time: Midday. The place: The chest cavity of a twenty-story robot on a collision course with Fawcett City's town hall.

"With the Big Red Cheese down for the count, /nothing/ can stop my greatest creation from bringing this hokey hamlet to its knees!" Dr. Thaddeus Sivana crows as he gleefully works a console set in the middle of the cavernous cavity. Fawcett City's mystically-powered champion Captain Marvel lies unconscious at his feet, felled by some miraculous feat of diabolical science. Joining them in the control area are two of the X-Men, the savage Wolverine and the weather-witch Storm.

Oh, and about a dozen shiny, humanoid robots, bristling with a variety of deadly weapons: guns protruding from chests, whirring blades attached to arms, missiles from shoulders, and so on. If the mad scientist's machines aren't stopped soon, the people of Fawcett will learn that Dr. Sivana is the one man who /can/ fight city hall--and win.

"There," Wolverine mutters as the robot guards begin cocking and revving up their plethora of armaments, and he draws his hand away from a wall of the chamber; it ripples slightly, and smooth, unfeatured metal fades in to conceal the Danger Room's control panel. "Somethin' simple." The session was his idea: a chance to catch up with a teammate with the added bonus of keeping them both as sharp as their service to the X-Men demands they be.

"Does he /really/ talk like that?" Storm wonders quietly, then shakes her head with a 'never mind' motion. Before Logan has a chance to answer it she extends her arms outwards, and once-still air begins to swirl about her, oh-so-dramatically blowing the wing-like cape of her uniform about. The scent of ozone builds up in the air for a few seconds, just before several focused bolts of lightning heed her mental commands to strike at the robots.

"Once again, Sivana," she says, as an expertly-gold-manicured hand directs several more bolts into his mechanical minions, "you forget that none of us fight /alone./" There's a very slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. Very, very slight. Which is, in itself, impressive, since a normal person would have trouble keeping a straight face when speaking in such an exagerated, melodramatic tone. "You may have defeated a man empowered by the gods, but how do you think you stand against a goddess?"

Yes, she knows exactly how she sounded when she first served as a member of the X-Men, and she's willing to poke fun at herself about it, too.

Logan is, indeed, on the verge of responding when lightning leaps from her fingertips to arc from machine to killer machine, each throwing a shower of bright sparks and white smoke from its electrified chassis as the goddess' rage flows through them. He watches the light show for a moment before glancing sidelong to his teammate and dryly muttering, "Ain't any bonus points for--"

"Ah-ah-ah--not so fast, mutant!" Sivana cackles, even as his mechanical soldiers' weaponized limbs twitch and shudder. "You didn't think that the Maestro of Machines would be unprepared for a little electricity... did you?"

A cursory glance at the robots would suggest that they /are/ in fact unprepared, but a cautious eye might reveal something a little different: jerky, gradual movement as a couple of the robots struggle to lift their arms. One gets far enough to start firing beams from the ray gun replacing its hand at Wolverine, while another casts a web of glowing purple energy at Storm; it rapidly expands into a full grown net as it flies.

"Son of a--!" Wolverine exclaims when the first beam catches him dead on in the chest and knocks him onto his ass. The next few, he's able to roll away from, but between the first and the Doctor's initial interruption, he is scowling.

Storm dives to the side to avoid the net- but not /quite/ far enough. Her legs wind up being caught, and disentangling herself takes a few moments of focus. She calls up an even stronger wind to swirl about her to protect her until she can stand again.

Once she's on her feet, her eyes glow a brighter white, and she focuses. The temperature of the air surrounding the robots begins to fluctuate, hot-to-cold and back. With luck, he's not prepared for condensation on circuit boards.

More summoned winds crash into the foes attacking Wolverine, aiming to at least slow his opponents down to make the process of turning them in to scrap metal at least a touch easier.

Each dodged laser brings Wolverine a little bit closer to the mechanical guards, though as more of them join the first two in trying to bring the X-Men down, his progression grows increasingly erratic.

Luckily, Sivana really /isn't/ prepared for the shift in tactics - he's far more used to lightning-wielding foes. The man himself is clutching his console as Storm wrecks havoc on his forces, perhaps hoping that the weather-witch's winds won't send him flying into the walls of his creation. His machines do try valiantly to fight on as their systems are compromised, but it's no use; one after another, they fall inert to the ground when they can take no more. Logan makes it amongst their ranks just in time for the last one to go down, and while he initially frowns at missing the chance to have at a few of them himself, he looks over at his teammate to give her an appreciative nod once the disappointment passes.

"You--" Sivana gasps as he struggles to pull himself back up on weak, wobbly legs, "--have not defeated me yet! I shall /truly/ make 'ex'-men of--"

Wolverine's head snaps towards Sivana, and after springing over the heap of broken soldiers, he delivers a sound right cross to the bald scientist's jaw.

"I /hope/ he doesn't talk like that," he mutters Sivana crumples.

The wind dies down, and the temperature returns to something less chaotic, and more suited to the high-tech basement currently masquerading as a city street, once she's sure most, if not all of the robots are downed. "I don't know, it /would/ make fighting his ilk much more simple if they were prone to monologues like that," she notes, with a spark of amusement in her eyes, which are now returning to their usual blue. "Cheesy dialogue- my own included- aside, this /was/ a good idea. Thank you, Logan."

"Does a lot to make you feel good about poppin' 'em one, that's for sure," Logan dryly agrees as the illusory control center gives way to the sparsely featured Danger Room lurking just beneath its surface. He scratches at his chest - still stinging from that first blast - as he glances over at the control panel and adds, "Thinkin' I went a little light, at that, but no harm done, I guess." Dropping his hand, he turns his attention back to Storm. "Any time," he adds, "I figure the better prepared we are for nutjobs like that, the better the rest'a the world can sleep at night." Beat.

"Quips could use a little work, though," he tacks on with a faint grin.

"I only give as bad as I get," Ororo replies, with a warm laugh and a genuine smile. "And at least I only use lines like that ironically, now," she adds, then quickly corrects herself, "or, at least, I try to. Old habits and all that." She tries not to look too long at the burn mark on his chest- she knows she'll just end up looking worried, which she knows there's no need for. Logan is the last of the friends to require any fussing over.

Indeed, if Ororo /were/ to watch long enough, she might notice the burned skin gradually knitting itself together, retaking its natural color, and even - eventually - sprouting a new tuft of thick black hair. Logan himself doesn't pay it much more mind, despite the irritation; today is hardly the first day he's come out of a training session with a nasty looking wound of some kind.

"Hell, as long as you keep performin' like that, you can quote Monty Python at 'em, for all I care," he says as he turns his eyes back to the panel to idly skim through that scenario's programming. Lord only knows who put it together--or where they pulled the Doctor's speech patterns from.

"I... think I should leave the quotes to Kurt and Kitty," she replies, chuckling just a touch. "Thank you, I appreciate the compliment. I've been working on developing more subtle attacks using my powers. It's good to know the condensation trick could actually work- I had been hoping for something to test that on before anything came up in the field," she admits. "If you have time in the near future, I wouldn't mind honing my hand-to-hand skills a little more, too. I'm worried I may be a little more rusty in that area than I'd like."

It only takes a couple seconds of fruitlessly squinting at code for Logan to decide he's had enough, and - guided by Ororo's talk of hand-to-hand training - start digging through archived scenarios for something new. He catches himself ticking through them a little too quickly, too /eagerly/ after the first few, prompting him to slow himself down.

"Knowin' how to handle yourself in a fight's as valuable as any mutant power," he agrees, nodding as he continues tapping at the console. "Subtle's great, but sometimes, a punch to the face just gets it done better." On that note, the room ripples again, and a small, sparse, bamboo-lined dojo replaces the spacious Danger Room.

"You been around, though," he adds, looking up from where the console was. "Sure I don't gotta tell you that."

Ororo nods at that. "Some women might take offence to that particular phrasing," she says, with a touch of amusement in her tone, though her expression and body language grows less jovial once their surroundings change again. She un-links the fastenings that hold her cape to her costume, so that she won't have it getting in the way. She takes a moment to fold it, and then pulls her hair back with a tie she'd been wearing around her wrist. Not that she doesn't trust Logan not to fight dirty and grab her by it, it's simply easier to fight without hair in one's eyes.

She moves to stand on the opposite side of the room from her friend and team mate, and gives the traditional formal bow before they begin, more of a sign of respect to him and the traditions he draws upon than any ingrained training habits on her part.

"An' some men might mean somethin' offensive by sayin' it," Logan shoots back with a faint, fleeting smirk. Like Ororo, he is all business once the scenario kicks in, though; unlike Ororo, he doesn't have much further to go to make himself ready for training: his cowl is already pulled down, and he has never in his life voluntarily put a scrunchie in his hair. Rather than worry about himself, he keeps his eyes trained on Ororo until she bows, at which point he steps away from the wall and returns the gsture.

"Alright, 'Ro," he says as he straightens and sticks an arm out to beckon her. "Let's see what 'rusty' looks like, eh?"

She advances, and while her skills are probably better than her estimation of them, she also knows she's outmatched in both strength and skill against him, so the attack is a careful one, with the focus on speed. A quick jab, with her body kept in constant motion to try to avoid being in his reach for too long. Her style reflects the training she has, but the young woman on the streets of Cairo can be seen in her as well when she fights, though she's quite firmly reigned in by the woman she is today. Some may argue those reigns are a little too tight, even. Logan is probably one of the few people she knows with the knowledge and awareness to spot it, and also one of the few people she trusts enough to /allow/ hints of her past to show through in the presence of. Like the way she darts her foot out in a sweeping kick in an attempt to trip him, right after feigning a movement in the opposite direction. [Wolverine viewed your +sheet information.]

It's hard - not impossible, but hard - for Logan to properly pull his punches; claws or no claws, there's still a layer of unbreakable metal coating his knuckles. Ororo is a tough woman, but for today - for now - he concentrates on providing his teammate with a capable defender on which to hone her skills--one adroit enough to intercept her punch against his wrist mere inches away from his face and brace himself against her leg sweep. He does throw a jab of his own after slipping his legs free of hers, but it's wide--/fast/, but wide. It's more to keep her on her toes than anything,

"Felt that," he appreciatively notes, shaking out his parrying hand a little to let her know he means the jab. "Anyone else'd be on their back right now, I reckon."

In contrast, Ororo has a hard time /not/ pulling her punches, and likely would have the same issue, even with someone who wasn't her friend. Her fear of killing is one that runs deep, making it hard for her to do anything that could even cause someone else pain. She moves quickly to dodge the swing, though not entirely out of its path. Enough, though, to make it a glancing blow that she can easily move with to take the sting out of it.

She smiles, every-so-briefly at the compliment, knowing enough about him to know he doesn't offer praise unless it's genuine. It's good to know she's not quite as out of practice as she thought.

She does her best to quickly dart to his side to kick at the side of his knee. Again, it's not as brutal of an attack as she's truly capable of, and she frowns a bit to herself as she realizes how much she's holding back, even with someone she knows she can't truly harm. Empathy (of the total mundane, non-psychic sort) is kind of a b.

Logan grimaces when his teammate strikes at his knee--and not because it's particularly painful, or even discomforting. His feet are firmly planted when he's struck - his senses and reflexes make truly catching him off guard in a situation as controlled as this one difficult, to say the least - to keep him from buckling, and as soon as Ororo puts her foot on the ground he responds by trying to slide the leg she kicked further towards her, to get it tangled up with hers so that he can, much as she attempted to moments ago, trip her up.

He isn't terribly committed to the attack, though; a little evasive maneuvering would be plenty to remain upright.

"You try something like that on someone like me - someone stronger, tougher'n you are - you gotta give it all you got," he cautions, stepping away regardless of whether she avoids him or not. "'cause they ain't gonna give you another shot, I promise you."

She avoids it, but is set off balance for a few moments. "I know," she admits, arched brows furrowing for a moment. "It's easier for me to attack with a bolt of lightening, or a freezing wind," she says, as she regains her footing and advances again, trying another jab with her dominant hand again, this time aiming for his solar plexus. She manages to put more force into it this time. "Not because it takes less effort, but because of the distance it allows me when my strikes are indirect."

"I--hnf--get that," Logan gruffly replies, hand snapping down to snatch Ororo's wrist before her fist gets too far away from his midsection. They're already reasonably close, but he moves nearer still to push his teammate's arm behind her back with /just/ enough force to hold her fast for a second.

"But distance ain't always an option, 'Ro," he lowly notes. "Wouldn't be doin' this otherwise." With that, he breaks contact, holds his hands up and takes a step back, rather than crowd her any further. He gently holds a hand to his solar plexus once that space is given and takes a moment to fill his lungs.

"Better," he quietly allows upon exhaling.

For a moment, a pang of adrenaline spikes in her, enough that he can probably smell the reflexive panic that comes with a claustrophobe being restrained, though it's a weak impression of genuine fear, mostly drowned out by shea butter moisturizer and beginings of a good, healthy sweat form the workout. More a remembered fear than true panic.

It is, however, enough to make her move faster once he releases her. Putting her on edge, perhaps, is a good enough distraction to keep her from thinking too much about the attacks, and simply following through with them.

Another strike, this one using her elbow. "Better?" she asks as she attempts to drive it into his ribs.

Logan hops back at the last moment, and Ororo's elbow stops /just/ short of his chest--mostly to spare her the discomfort of smashing barely protected bone against unbreakable metal. "Almost felt like you meant it," he explains as he brings his hands back up before himself. Rather than throw a counter-attack, though, he just circles a step towards her right, and with a tilt of the chin towards her arm he notes, "Good move--with someone else; you crack a couple'a ribs, an' whoever you're against may as well have fire in their lungs."

Storm nods, once again appreciating his assessment. "Thank you," she says, and bows at the waist, as she did at the beginning of the session. "As much as I'd like to continue the lesson, I have essays I need to grade before tomorrow morning. Unless, of course, you'd like to help me out with that as well." Ninth grade Social Studies. /Riveting/ stuff. Truly.

"I would," Logan mutters as he reaches back, jabs a finger into thin air, and brings the scenario crumbling down, "but I got some homework'a my own to take care of. tonight" 'Homework', of course, being his pet name for the case of Canadian beer chilling in his mini-fridge.

"Good work today," he continues with a small smile and an offered hand. "You wanna continue sometime, you let me know." Assuming that he's actually on campus, and not in Asia or something, anyway.

Maybe even if he is. It's not like Ororo doesn't have reasons of her own to visit Asia.

"Homework," she repeats with a nod of understanding. After grading a dozen essays by (at best) half-interested teenagers, she'd almost be tempted to do some of that herself, if she were one to drink more than the occasional glass of wine. "Just remember to put the finished 'homework' in the recycling bins." One day, she will figure out who is responsible for the (American) beer bottles that show up from time to time in her compost bins. And then, that person will be very sorry.

"Goodnight, Logan. Thank you again." She picks up her cape and headpiece, and gives him a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out of the room. Once the place starts looking all basement-y again, she tends not to linger.