2013.04.21 - Lesson One

Weishel House has continued to evolve since One took it over as his base of operations. The loosely portioned clinic, gymnasium, and apartment spaces have been refined. More equipment, more appliances, and a small generator in a sound-baffling box to support it all. Right now the doctor is at ground level. With no patients and no pending client rescues, he's training. That's a clear sign that he's hit a wall in his research. A wooden striking dummy has been covered with a thin layer of steel plating. After destroying several similar dummies, One realized that he needed to give them a little extra reinforcement. All the same, the steel is dented from numerous impacts, and one of the 'arms' has been twisted into a decidedly off-kilter angle. *WHAM* A straight punch to his target's torso leaves the largest dent yet, and comes complete with a roar of effort. One is dressed informally, as he always is when he's at home. Unbleached linen pants that tie at the waist, a black undershirt, and soft climbing shoes that protect his feet from the cold concrete floor.

It seems that Fern is determined to visit old haunts of late, this time her feet leading her to the place she feels most likely to catch One. Not guaranteed, of course, but it's a chance she's willing to take. There's something of a purpose to her steady pace as she approaches the building, making her way to an entry door. She knocks on it, reaches for the knob, and remembers his methods of home defense. Instead she knocks again, then steps back. Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie as she looks around, one boot scuffing lightly on the ground. There's almost something of an agitation about her manner, fidgeting, taking her hands out of her pockets to brush across the faded denim of her jeans at her hips, before being slipped back away, clenched into light fists.

There's a HUMMM and THRUMM from One's pocket as his personal transmitter vibrates. It's the base unit for the button-sized pagers he gives to his preferred customers and associates. He pulls it out and glances at it, then picks up a towel and crosses the room to stand in front of a computer terminal. Once the screen is warmed up, it shows the displays from several CCTV units, including one above the door that Fern's knocking on. A few seconds later, One has disarmed the various traps and explosives that protect his hideout with a few clicks of his transmitter. When he reaches the door, several bolts can be heard retracting before it finally swings open. "Hey," he says, bobbing his head briefly and then standing aside. The towel is hanging around his neck, save for one end that he uses to tousle his hair dry. "Want to come in?"

The scrape of the first bolt being drawn has Fern's attention darting back to the door, the lightly pensive crease of her brow easing as her face takes a neutral cast. "Hi," she returns, eyes settling on him. "Yeah, if it's not a bother." She takes his step aside as further invitation, and slips in past him, turning. "I wanted to talk to you about something, if you have a few minutes?"

"More minutes than I know what to do with," One replies. As before, he meets Fern's eyes squarely and unabashedly. When he's done with his towel, he tosses it across the room into an ever-growing pile of laundry, then re-locks the four bolts that secure the door. "C'mon in." As they cross each threshold of protective barriers, mines, demolition charges, and mechanical traps are rearmed with clicks from his transmitter. Once they've left the entryway and moved to the main floor, One turns to face Fern again. "What's on your mind?"

Fern holds his gaze more easily on this second meeting, perhaps for it having been intended, then follows his lead into the building. She watches him move, the fluid ease of his stride familiar, and looks directly to his face again when he turns. "I have a business proposition for you," she begins, her manner not exactly brusque, but purposeful. "I've been thinking a lot about it, and I need to learn some self defense. I know I could find classes and stuff, but I'd like to learn from someone I know and trust. I could pay you," and here a faint smile touches her lips, "And if you cut me a deal I'll even do your laundry once a week."

This elicits a low, rumbling chuckle from One. "I think we could work something out," he agrees. "At the very least, I can show you a thing or two about swinging a hammer. I'm glad you asked. We live in a crazy world. Knowing how to defend yourself is a useful skill." He takes another few steps and crosses his arms over his chest thoughtfully. "Was there something in particular you wanted to learn? Firearms, close-quarters combat, swordplay? Or are you looking for something a bit more generalized?"

"I know a bit about guns," Fern offers, her eyes staying on him as he moves. "Daddy had a few and educated us instead of just hoping we never got our hands on one. And it's not that likely I'd have a gun myself, I'm not gonna start 'packin' heat'." Her grin comes with this, and a one-shouldered shrug. One hand comes up, gripping the pull and unzipping her hoodie, revealing the expected t-shirt below. "I'm only gonna get so far with kicking and biting. And some hammer tips would be appreciated."

One nods agreeably and rolls his shoulders. "We'll start with the broad strokes and then color by number," he confirms. "Either way, the foundation of self-defense is kicking and biting. To use a weapon, you have to carry it. If you become a weapon, you're never vulnerable." Ignatius Rasmussen's words coming from One's lips. There's even a cold edge to his features, but it's dispelled with a blink-blink-blink and a shake of his head. "Ahem. So. Sound good?"

With her eyes on him and their familiarity, the subtle hardening of One's face isn't lost on Fern, and her eyes narrow slightly as he dispels it. But her nod comes readily, face immediately back to neutral. "At least I have a good start, and I didn't even know it. You're the boss, so I put myself in your hands."

"Then we'll turn you into a scrapper," One confirms. "But I'll push you hard. There will be bruises. There will be times you hate me. All part of the process. As long as you're good with that, we can start whenever you're ready." There's a hint of challenge to his words, but it's not unfriendly. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he tips his head to the side as he studies Fern.

The challenge is taken up as Fern quirks an eyebrow. "I'm already a scrapper. I just need honing." Eyes remaining on One, she shrugs her jacket off, letting it slide down her arms and catching it. She turns, finding somewhere to toss it aside. "I'm here. You were already working out."

One walks a slow circle around Fern. While he's behind her, he reaches in to nudge the inside of her calf with his toe. "Widen your stance," he says. "A fight comes down to three basic principles. Base, angle, and leverage. If you control all three, you control the outcome of the fight." When he's in front of her again, he demonstrates. His stance is slightly offset, with his feet roughly shoulder-width apart. "Try this. You'll change your base as you change your angle of attack, or as your attacker changes his. In a neutral position, you want to be stable, but still be flexible."

While she doesn't turn to watch him walk, Fern tries to keep an awareness by listening, attempting to keep a sense of his position. Her foot slides at the touch, coming to rest again a comfortable distance from the other. She shifts her weight experimentally, getting a feel for it. Having also had ample opportunity in the past to observe him training and actually -in- situations, the stance isn't totally unfamiliar. "Better?"

"Much," One agrees. "From this position, you're prepared to meet attacks from multiple angles. I fight open-handed rather than with a closed fist. I like having options when it comes to hurting people. Raise your hands like this." He demonstrates, keeping his open hands close to his face and his elbows tucked close to his body. "Now you're ready to strike, but you also have your hands and arms in place to protect yourself. If I come in low--" he mimes a strike at Fern's ribs. "--you just sway out of the way, or absorb the hit on the outside of your arm. See what I mean? Same if I come in high. You just sway, or bat it aside and create an opening."

Fern does her best to mimic the way One holds his arms, but not being relaxed in the position, she holds her arms perhaps a little stiffly. Still, with the feinted rib strike she moves instinctively to put her arm in it's way, twisting her shoulders slightly. "Now if only someone would come at me in slow motion, I'd be golden. Kick some ass." The words are light, but she remains serious in demeanor.

One lets out a low chuckle. "It all starts out with slow motion. First you learn technique. Speed comes with time, once you develop your instincts." He takes her through a series of defensive drills first, moving her arms and legs to show where her body should be positioned for different occasions. "Quit lifting your elbow," the doctor orders, reaching out to jab Fern in the ribs with one finger. While he's there, he slaps her hip with the back of his hand. "And you're listing a bit. Other than that, you're doing well."

It's going to be a lot to learn, but Fern is determined to be able to do more if these weird situations are going to keep happening. And, with the company she keeps, that's highly likely. She makes a face at him as he pokes, dropping her elbows as instructed. Her jaw tightens slightly with the hip slap, and she mutters, "Listing. What'm I, a boat?" Still, she shifts her weight, contrary but not stupid.

One quirks an eyebrow and one side of his mouth tugs upward wryly. "When you list, you make about as good a target as a boat. Base, angle, leverage, remember?" He dusts his hands off, halting another circle right in front of Fern. "I think that's enough for the first lesson. Gives you something to practice between now and lesson two."

"Yes sir," Fern responds. There might be just the smallest hint of amusement in her tone. As he calls it good, she relaxes, letting her hands fall. "Thank you for helping me." She absently tugs the fabric away from her stomach, fanning some air against her skin. While it wasn't a great exertion, it was still enough to warm her up, and she finally lets her eyes drift and comments, "Love what you've done with the place."

"Sifu. The term is Sifu. Although Sifu One sounds a little strange. I think we'll keep it informal." Grinning, he gestures to the ground floor of his converted meat-packing plant. "It's starting to come together, isn't it? I can finally fit all my equipment into one space, which makes it easier to treat patients. And I have room for my personal projects."

Fern's brows lift at the term and she offers, "Bless you." It's a struggle but she keeps the smile off her lips, turning her attention immediately back away from him. "That's good, you were always on top of yourself in the apartment." She lets her thumbs hook into the belt loops at her hips, asking, "So what do I owe you?"

One shakes his head. "No worries. Like you said, I was already working out. And taking on the occasional student keeps me from getting sloppy." There's a fresh pile of towels a few steps away. He retrieves two and tosses one of them to Fern. He doesn't say anything else, he just watches her while he rubs himself down and then adds his towel to the laundry pile.

The towel is caught short of fluffing into her face and Fern doesn't hesitate to swipe it around her hairline. She doesn't have to worry about looking 'presentable', One's already seen her at her worst more than once. "Maybe so, but I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage." His eyes are usually so intense that it's hard -not- to get that feeling when he's looking at you, and Fern glances over to him, then moves toward him. The towel gets tossed back at him lightly, "I'll do your laundry then. You're really not very good at it."

Another chuckle from the doctor. "That's a trade I can live with. I always keep the clinic spotless, but the rest of this place could use a woman's touch. I'm willing to trade services if you are." As always, One is unflappable. His icy blue eyes bore into Fern's while he speaks. The small smile he's been wearing for most of her visit is still playing at his lips. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"I accept your offer," Fern allows grandly, using her fingers to quickly comb through her messy hair. She pauses, a dozen thoughts vying for attention as his eyes hold hers, none of them chosen for examination. "When would be good? For me to help out here and get a lesson."

"Come back in a day or two. We'll pick up then," One replies. He's still smiling when he turns his back on Fern. He's dismissing her, but not unkindly. "It was good to see you," he says without turning around. "I'll use my remote to disarm the traps for you on your way out."

"Alright. Call me if you still have the number." Fern steps over and reaches to snag up her hoodie with her fingers. "Thanks, Doc. Making it out of here alive would be a good first step," she tosses back over her shoulder to him. She doesn't linger, only pausing to pull her jacket on once she's outside of the building. Squinting, she glances up at the sky, then heads for the subway station.

Once the door closes and the traps are rearmed, One glances over at his phone. "Yeah," he murmurs to nobody but himself. "Yeah, I still have the number." Another blink and a headshake, then he's off to his next bit of business. Just another day in the life.