Fight Club
Posted: Thu Dec 03, 2009 7:43 am
[Debut of Mirabelle Nesa]
Mirabelle Nesa stood near the back of the room, mainly because she felt guilty.
Not because of the fighting. Or at least, not directly because of the fighting. No, she felt guilty because she knew what Master Xiang would say if he saw her here, if he knew what she was planning: knew he would gently chastise her in that calm, faintly disappointed way that always threatened to break her down.
"Baguazhang is not an art to be flaunted so carelessly, Mira. It is a style based on flow, on balance: too much aggression and you will find yourself overwhelmed rather than your opponent. To be violent-"
Oh, enough! she cried in her own head, and the voice fell silent. She had too little opportunity to enjoy herself: Master Xiang taught her, trained her, made her master the forms, but never did he allow her to branch out, experiment on her own terms. She was feeling dangerous, aggressive, willing to fight, and--
Well, she was in the right place to do it.
McGuffin's Gym was an odd and extremely shady place. It was battered and seemed to tilt faintly, and it consisted of only two floors: the one was just a long stretch of mat with various pieces of equipment stowed in the corners, and an upstairs packed with old exercise tools and a few offices, where Alexander McGuffin lived and worked.
McGuffin had also taken to hosting these little competitions, sparring matches where kids could come down and test themselves. For a small fee, anyone could join in, long as their name was on the list: he provides gear to make sure things were safe, and even permission slips for the younger ones.
Of course, he never asked to see the slips, and never insisted that anyone took them.
Mirabelle wasn't sure she wanted to go first: while she was confident in her skills and quite athletic, she had never seen any of the other attendants of the town's little club and wanted to see what she was up against. She'd put her name down on the list for the second tier but, if no one else showed up.
She rubbed her hands together. She was wearing her Baguazhang uniform, complete with the Yin-Yang symbol surrounded by the I-Ching which was Master Xiang's own 'flag', as it were. It felt loose, flowing, good: she felt strong, ready.
A fight. She wanted a fight.
Mirabelle Nesa stood near the back of the room, mainly because she felt guilty.
Not because of the fighting. Or at least, not directly because of the fighting. No, she felt guilty because she knew what Master Xiang would say if he saw her here, if he knew what she was planning: knew he would gently chastise her in that calm, faintly disappointed way that always threatened to break her down.
"Baguazhang is not an art to be flaunted so carelessly, Mira. It is a style based on flow, on balance: too much aggression and you will find yourself overwhelmed rather than your opponent. To be violent-"
Oh, enough! she cried in her own head, and the voice fell silent. She had too little opportunity to enjoy herself: Master Xiang taught her, trained her, made her master the forms, but never did he allow her to branch out, experiment on her own terms. She was feeling dangerous, aggressive, willing to fight, and--
Well, she was in the right place to do it.
McGuffin's Gym was an odd and extremely shady place. It was battered and seemed to tilt faintly, and it consisted of only two floors: the one was just a long stretch of mat with various pieces of equipment stowed in the corners, and an upstairs packed with old exercise tools and a few offices, where Alexander McGuffin lived and worked.
McGuffin had also taken to hosting these little competitions, sparring matches where kids could come down and test themselves. For a small fee, anyone could join in, long as their name was on the list: he provides gear to make sure things were safe, and even permission slips for the younger ones.
Of course, he never asked to see the slips, and never insisted that anyone took them.
Mirabelle wasn't sure she wanted to go first: while she was confident in her skills and quite athletic, she had never seen any of the other attendants of the town's little club and wanted to see what she was up against. She'd put her name down on the list for the second tier but, if no one else showed up.
She rubbed her hands together. She was wearing her Baguazhang uniform, complete with the Yin-Yang symbol surrounded by the I-Ching which was Master Xiang's own 'flag', as it were. It felt loose, flowing, good: she felt strong, ready.
A fight. She wanted a fight.