Parahumans: The PRB IC

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  1. Parahumans Chapter 2: The PRB
    Rain feel down upon the streets of London. Some complain, others just call it the Great British weather. The pavements are bustling with people, a canopy of umbrellas above them all, providing a shield against the falling water. It’s all business as usual.
    That is, if one were to only look at the surface. should you look deeper in - inside warehouses, underground, within security fences, dwells the government’s Parahuman Regulation Bureau - the PRB, for short. In recent years, parahumans had begun to appear, first a few in London, then more and more across the globe, until it became a threat to be handled.
    Sure, some used their powers for good - the very first Parahumans, in the boroughs of London, were the ones to defeat the deliverers, who would seek to destroy them and all those with powers.
    Others, though, did not have such good intentions. Many who attained their powers would go on to become villains, using their powers to rob banks, hack security systems, and kill others.
    Hence why the PRB was founded, to stop those who would use their powers to do harm to the land of Great Britain. It not only had elite personnel, from the military and other walks of life, but also parahumans themselves, who wished to use their powers for the good of others. Even a few of the first parahumans are now among their ranks, their powers having developed and changed as they trained and become more powerful, making them arguably the most experienced people there were in parahuman affairs.
    Now, the PRB had begun its latest recruitment, but this time it was different. Skilled personnel who could be useful to them were accepted as always, but this time, minor criminals on parole were also taken in among them, to serve their penance to their country.

    |PRB Headquarters|
    |Main Hall|​

    The large, open area of the site was like a decently-sized school gym, with a wooden floor, and bleachers to the sides. The main difference was the lack of sporting equipment - no basketball hoops, no football goals, no lines upon the floor. Any equipment needed would be moved onto and off of the hall floor as was needed.
    In the middle at one end was placed a stage and podium, where stood a tall man, with greying hair, wearing a dark suit, a crimson tie, and a white shirt. He had a clean-shaven, handsome face, with a strong jawline, but tired, blue eyes.
    Those assembled were the newest recruits to the PRB. They’d gone through the selection process, been accepted into the organisation, and today was their first day on the site at which their new training would be conducted.
    “Welcome, all, to the Parahuman Regulation Bureau. As you should now, today we begin your training, and I believe that if you’ve been accepted, then you’ll all be sure to progress, and become great at what we do here - stopping all parahuman threats in their tracks.
    “Now, your first training session shall begin shortly. We currently have three trainers waiting to see what you can do in terms of hand-to-hand combat, and your performance will let us gauge what level of skill you’re all at. Please, come into the centre of the room, and our trainers will pick you out one-by one for evaluation.”
    As they would come down from the bleachers, the man surveyed them, wondering who would make trouble, who would do well, who would fail, and who would top the class. It was part of his job to know looks could easily deceive, but they could often paint a general picture.
    six sparring mats, two for each trainer, were laid out around the group, as each one chose their first subject.

    (The trainers will wait for everyone to make their introductory post before choosing individual subjects. Signups are still open!)
    #1 The_J, Jan 25, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 25, 2015
  2. |Scott Samuels|
    |PRB Headquarters|

    Even the thunderous downpour, normally a sure-fire killer of spirits, couldn't put a dampener on Scott's mood as he climbed out of the jet-black taxi that had brought him to this street. As he stepped out onto the street, he opened his umbrella and pulled his old trenchcoat more tightly around him. The coat was one he'd got from an old military surplus store - one of those funny shops that you never see anyone buying anything in, yet there seems to be one in every decent-sized town. Scott had bought it shortly after his discharge, to remind him of his military days, and of comrades both living and departed. Truth is, he'd never fully adjusted to civilian life. All the people he worked with had cared little for others, only looking to their own advancement. It was an attitude you rarely came across in the military, and those who had it usually found themselves isolated pretty quickly. That, or they died in a vain rush for glory.

    The rain beat a drummer's tattoo on his umbrella as he walked up to the security gate. His leg protested at the cold, but he paid it no mind, used to the complaints of old wounds on days like these. After confirming his identity, Scott was directed towards the Main Hall, where the initial training was to take place. Limping along the entry road, Scott thought back to the day that he'd first applied. It'd been a rough week at work, clients were putting on more pressure than was even remotely sensible, and some had even requested he lie in order to help their PR. He'd been horrified by some of the things these executives thought they could get away with, but that's what you get when people can walk into a top role within an organisation. Unlike the military top brass, they hadn't worked their way up, and no empathy for those lower down the rungs. It was a culture shock, and one that never ended. The discovery of the recruitment advert had been a light at the end of a tunnel, and Scott hadn't even thought before completing it. He'd needed a change from all the corporate bullshit.

    And now, here he was, a new recruit once more, walking into the Main Hall surrounded by future comrades. Scott found it hard to keep a smile off his face as he gave his coat and umbrella over to the cloakroom and limped into the hall. As the welcoming speech began, Scott observed the man at the podium. He looked like any other corporate suit, but something about him suggested experience and insight, as opposed to the brashness of the true businessmen. The eyes especially seemed to take in every bit of information about what he was watching. As the speech continued however, Scott felt the first touch of nerves creep down his spine, as if an ice spider was running from his neck down. Hand to hand combat? He'd been pretty good at it, but that was before his leg injury. Now, against someone who knew how to handle themselves in a fight, he knew he didn't stand a chance. His leg restricted his mobility, and prevented him kicking with any great force.

    Scott cast his mind back to his training, desperately trying to glean anything that might assist him. The voice of Sergeant Peters washed through his mind. Unlike the stereotypical drill sergeant, Peters had been slight and mild mannered. He never raised his voice, because he never needed to. After the first few lessons, they'd seen enough to know that he was a man to be respected. Scott clung to the voice and tried to pull as much out as possible.

    "You aren't always going to able to fight at full strength. If you're wounded you're automatically at a disadvantage. If you are in that situation, you need to reduce that disadvantage. Arm injury? Keep them far enough away that their punch can't reach you. Leg injury? No-one moves well when they're lying on the floor in a grappling match. Body injury..."

    Scott sighed, thankful that his training had given him something. He never was much of a wrestler, but he probably was a better grappler than anything else right now. Shifting more of his weight onto his good leg in order to rest the injured one a little, Scott prepared himself for when he would be called out.
    #2 RJS, Jan 25, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 25, 2015
  3. One of the new recruits walked into the middle of the hall. His steps were many, but small; a clear indication to a deductive observer that he felt that this short trip was worth neither his time nor his energy, but the expression gave nothing away of the sort. His reddish eyes were still and hard, his thin eyebrows barely at an angle at all, and his mouth was being tightly forced into what was practically straight line. Even an educated fool could identify the man as having albinism, a genetic disease that prevented the production of bodily pigments, but the sight problems that had come with the disorder were long since surgically corrected.

    Luciel had his hands folded behind his back, holding back a number of remarks that had already occurred to him. He was aware that he was more agile than was average, but having not had training, he couldn't confidently say the same for his fighting ability: he'd barely honed it from his teenager years, when he had attracted a lot of brawls from brainless thugs with a biting comment or two. He still regretted none of it; it had been entertaining at the time. Nonetheless, he wasn't sure of his potential performance here. Examining the other recruits, he came to the realisation that he had never actually fought an opponent who could be indisputably classed as a sentient being.

    It was a chance to either show off or be shown up. But more than anything, it was a taster for the kind of thing he'd be doing from now on. No matter his analytical prowess, he was nothing if he couldn't actually counter a parahuman like he was supposed to. Now he was here to see if he could.

    Game on, he mused to himself.
  4. Strict, borderline perfect posture -- mouth shut tight, chin angled flawlessly, hands folded behind his back: Christopher kept hearing the head officer's words with close attention, without questioning a single misplaced comma. The same speech, for almost five full years -- it'll never get old, will it? Christopher wore a somewhat tight white shirt, hiding it, however, with a leather trench coat, and some pretty beat-up jeans -- nothing fancy, nor too flexible -- he never found it necessary, nor never need it. He inhaled, adjusting the height of his chin once again -- exchanging constant eye-contact with the new recruits.

    He kept examining the new recruits, one by one, attempting to analyze and mentally list their every ostensible physical trait. As Alexander, the Head Officer, finished his speech and did his familiar "go get 'em" hand gesture, Christopher, with an almost static expression, sighed, walking slowly, almost rhythmically, towards the recruit on the far left of the room. His smile was confusing, misleading, to say the least. "Marks on his hands, injured leg, mixed reaction to the speech -- he's been in the military, the lack of obviously semblant dark circles around his eyes suggest that he has been out for quite a while, months, most likely, considering his age." Reading too much Sherlock Holmes drowns Christopher in these types of thoughts. Coming closer to the recruit, he stops, a few feet away. He sighs, beckoning the recruit in a nearly instantaneous action, causing the air around him to shift slightly.

    -"Whenever you're ready"-He said, almost monotonously, displaying his lack of interest.​

    "His leg", he thought to himself, sighting internally -- he glances quickly back at Alexander, which understood Christopher's concern almost immediately. He nodded, as if saying: "Go ahead".

    OOC: That's you, by the way, @RJS.
    #4 ThomazM, Jan 25, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 25, 2015
    • You Get a Cookie You Get a Cookie x 1
  5. Luciel was staring at Christopher now, watching the movements of his eyes. He was picking apart and analysing the man with the limp, that much he could tell. Not that he particularly cared for either of them. He himself would save his mental stamina for the person he would fight. Wasting deductive ability on those who had nothing to do with him was a waste of a perfectly good breakfast.

    Not that the trainer had the luxury of being able to disregard his students, he noted with a mental smirk. The man was being paid to analyse people and teach them, even the mass of incompetence that he was certain that everyone that was standing in the hall for the first time were. What a truly fascinating job that must have been. It was without doubt, this type of vocation that built character and developed an interesting personality. Truly, the man with the eyepatch must have had so many stories to tell.

    Luciel silenced the sarcastic train of thought that was echoing through his mind. Wasn't he supposed to be saving his mental stamina instead of wasting it on witty remarks that nobody would end up hearing? He steeled his focus again, inhaling deeply by force of habit as he did.
    • You Get a Cookie You Get a Cookie x 1
  6. Simon took a quick look at the guy who was visibly thinking something. For some reason, Simon couldn't stop associating the man with Dante from Devil May Cry - the old series, that is, not the reboot. Simon knew how to read eyes and eyebrows, it was one of the basic parts of his training - unlike the rest, he wasn't nervous: rather, he was being sarcastic. He probably didn't notice the fact that one of the guys who looked like he had just gone out of a game convention was on the recruiter's side, not the recruited one.

    Despite being built like a total nerd, which meant that he was slightly tall, lanky, and had little to no muscles showing, Simon walked to Dante, and grabbed him by the back of his coat, and started pulling. A plan started formulating in his head. Simon had seen some stuff, and the one thing he knew about people with that look in the eyes and the eyebrows was that they underestimated everyone else.

    "You're coming with me, lad, and I reccomed you don't pretend you're a smartass."
    #6 GPuzzle, Jan 25, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 25, 2015
  7. OOC: Oh my god. I didn't even notice that. Probably because I've never actually played any DMC.

    Luciel glanced over at the man who had just grabbed at him. Now, there were a number of things Luciel didn't approve of. One was manhandling. Another was forcefully asserting authority. Yet another was people telling him to shut up. But despite all of the above having actually occurred all at once, he didn't get angry. Rather, a faint, barely noticeable smirk crossed his lips.

    He did want to say something, very much so, but considering the trainer had been... well, trained, and Luciel had decidedly not, he reasoned it was probably best to keep his mouth shut until he was in a position to actually say anything. Nonetheless, the aggressive little stick-man was clearly in possession of at least a frontal cortex, so it seemed that he might not have been as bad as the rabble that Luciel had walked among on the way in. This could potentially be an education. Provided that his teacher was someone worth listening to. Silent still, he obliged to the trainers wishes, moving with the tug of the man on his coat.
  8. Simon pulled the young lad a few meters away from the group - far enough so hearing was a bit hard. Simon released "Dante" from his grip, and a slightly condescending look formed in his eyes. Dante seemed to have one facial expression, the sarcastic smirk. Simon prayed internally a little bit - if the guy was going to always have a snarky smile on his face at all times and do absolutely nothing useful, the training was going to be a bit hard. Considering Simon was far from being Sergeant Hartmann, in fact, considering Simon had watched Full Metal Jacket enough times to memorize Hartmann's lines by heart, he needed a different approach.

    Unfortunately, he had to stop theorizing and actually apply a bit of action. Grabbing a pair of office chairs - those with wheels on the bottom - and a notebook with an incredibly complex and nonsensical mix of notes as well as a pencil, he slid one of the chairs towards the white-haired fellow before sitting on the back of the other, notebook and pencil in hand, and sliding himself towards the man he had decided to instruct. Simon put on his best psychoanalyst face, readied up the notebook to get as much info as he could from the guy and focused on the young man's face. This was going to be an interesting training, to be honest.

    "Now, I want you to know that the reason why I called you to follow me this far was to not end up pissing anyone off - this place will be hell if everyone thinks you're a smartass and does their best to focus on you. From the look on your face, you are indeed a smartass, so I want you to say what your first impression of me was, and I want you to throw as much shit as you can at me."
  9. Scott watched as the trainer moved towards him. Already he was being called out? Well, maybe that was for the best. The trainer seemed disinterested, but that was probably an ennui born of repetition; how many times must he have gone through that same speech, the same routine? He felt the one eye roaming over him, picking his secrets apart. Another shrewd one. Clearly the PRB were no fools, unlike some other governmental organisations he had worked for in the past.

    As the trainer came closer, Scott felt the air shifting around him, as if agitated by the mere presence of the one-eyed trainer. A feeling of unease gripped Scott, squirming in his belly, yet it did not wipe the slight grin off his face. The writhing of his guts told him one thing: he'd made the right call coming here. No matter how safe he'd been in his old job, there had always been something missing and now he knew. The unease mingled with anticipation, and Scott felt adrenaline start to take action around his body. This was it. This was living!

    And yet this man standing in front of him was capable of inspiring the same feelings as a full military operation. "If this trainer is an ordinary human", Scott mused, "then I'll eat my trenchcoat." As he walked onto the mat, he made stretching movements with his bad leg, trying to squeeze as much functionality out of it as possible. Catching the trainer's look back to the man on the podium, Scott halted for a second.

    "Before we start, there's something I'd like to say. I'm here because I chose to be, in spite of whatever injuries I have. I know I can't fight too well with my leg, but I hope you're the kind of man who won't hold that against me in a fight. If I get creamed as a result, then that happens, but I need to know honestly where I am. I ask for no pity, and will make no excuses."

    That said, Scott walked up to the trainer, stopping just outside of his reach. That was one of the first skills they had been taught by Peters. In the absence of sand, loose stones or any of the other items in the long list of soldier's tricks, this was as close as he could get. To go any closer, hampered by his leg, was asking for pain. Scott raised his hands in front of him and pushed them slightly forwards, before turning his leading hand and making a slight beckoning motion to the trainer.

    "Scott Samuels, reporting for training, sir!"
  10. For a moment, Luciel was totally silent, looking completely dumbstruck. He looked at his trainer, the pad he was holding, and the chair he was supposed to sit in. He gave himself a moment to go back over the words that had just been said.

    "...I want you to throw as much shit as you can at me."

    And then he laughed.

    It was a loud laugh, one that had clearly formed in the throat on the way up, but it was sincere: the man was actually asking to be snarked at. He had clearly never even been in Luciel's presence before. Who did he think he was, a school bully? Still, he'd been caught off-guard by the skinny man, which was not a common thing, and he sat down in the chair.

    "You know, I've got to admit I'm impressed already," he mused. "It's been a long time since I laughed this hard at someone who wasn't a total idiot. I can tell you've got some kind of brain in there, unlike some of the amoebae I've met in the past. But that attitude of yours is probably compensating for something, and I can tell that you've got some kind of power just by knowing that stick insects tend to get crushed underfoot on a battlefield. I don't suppose you could tell me what it is? Maybe head inflation?"
  11. Christopher couldn't hold a small smirk on his face as the recruit started speaking -- there's something, "interesting" about him. He couldn't quite tell what, nor why it's interesting-- maybe it's the small stain of naivety in his smile, or the way he acts, he wasn't ready to label it just yet-- I mean, he'll have more than enough time to get to know his new trainees, so, that's not really a concern. Christopher sighed, the smirk still displayed in his face, he shook his head negatively. Shifting his position again, in a quick movement, he makes the air around himself shift with him once again-- now, he was ready to start.

    -"Wasn't planning on it".​

    Dashing diagonally to his right, Christopher used both hands to grab Scott's right arm, rounding his position to behind his future trainee's back, immobilizing him without much trouble. Twisting his arm just slightly made the recruit go down on his knees in an instant. Classic immobilization technique, theoretically easy to avoid, if you know what you're doing -- however, Christopher's agility made it all happen in less than a few seconds, making it nigh-impossible to avert. He let go of Scott's arm, kneeing him on the back enough to make him lose a bit of balance-- not enough to make him fall onto the ground. However, while analyzing his moves, Christopher noticed that all the defense techniques Scott used were in the right place, timed just right -- nothing incredibly advanced, hence why he found a way around them so easily -- he did well, just not well enough, which was to be expected, really. He stretched his neck, cleaning his coat with a few swipes of his palms. His expression swiped back to it's static, uninterested self.

    -"Come on-- get up"​

    He could almost feel Alexander's look-- he's always excited this time of the year. He couldn't blame him, though he didn't share the feeling.

    OOC: Quoeting J when I asked, "how strong is Christopher, exactly? So I don't start godmoding, and stuff", he said:
    "[16:52:03] The J: well, he's gonna beat the shit out of them
    [16:52:22] The J: no question"
    So, welp.
  12. Scott picked himself up, stretching his neck from side to side. He'd expected to be put down easily, but he hadn't quite anticipated the speed shown by his opponent. The trainer's movements had been so fast that Scott had barely followed them, and any defense had been surpassed before it could be put in place. So this was a PRB elite fighter. If he was a parahuman, Scott hadn't noticed any power usage, leading him to believe that this was solely the physical prowess of his opponent. Scott felt he was truly in the presence of a master. Nevertheless, with his nerves singing with long-forgotten sensations, Scott had no intention of giving up so soon. Although his leg still pained him, he found himself feeling like a young man again. Desk work had made him feel prematurely old and, coupled with his bad leg, he'd almost viewed himself as middle-aged sometimes. Now, with some of the cobwebs shaken off, Scott felt refreshed. The slight smile that had been playing over his face returned; no matter that he was being resoundingly beaten. He'd expected that.

    One thing was clear from that exchange: there was little hope of trapping him and getting him on the floor with his agility. Scott shuffled closer, leading with his bad leg. As he reached the limit of his opponent's reach, he kicked off with his good leg, using his bad leg as a mere fulcrum. While a crude technique, it was the best method Scott had come up with during his physical rehabilitation. His left hand shot towards the trainer's face while the right hand reached down, aiming for Scott's true objective: the trainer's leg. If he could disrupt his opponent's stability, he may able to hamper the trainer's agility just long enough to do something to put him on the floor. Assuming of course, that any of this worked.
  13. Simon kept scribbling notes. The laugh was sincere - it was the sheer absurdity of the situation that was making him open up. Considering that the guy standing right in front of him probably wouldn't warm himself to Simon and therefore it would be hard to figure out what the hell was he thinking, throwing the absurd right in one's face was a good way to deal with it that. After listening a bit, Simon came to the basic conclusion Dante thought highly of himself, he could see, and he had little to no regards for others.

    Alongside the obvious narcisism, he also had a total and complete disregard for authority, as well as trying to place Simon in a passive position. This was rather expected from the barely interested in what exactly was going on, but rather what could he create. Grabbing a tennis ball from his backpack, which he used in case anyone wanted proof that he had powers, Simon did an underhand throw to the lad in front of him, before giving a slight smirk - it always caught people off-guard.

    "I want you to throw that ball at me as hard as you can."
  14. Caught a bit by surprise, Christopher was startled by the disobedience of such direct orders-- funnily enough, he didn't see that as a bad thing, not at all. It shows determination, a core feature to a recruit, in Christopher's eyes. Dashing backwards and leaning his back in the same direction was enough to avoid most of the recruit's attempts of reaching him. However, Scott was close enough to grab his leg-- in that instant, a loud alarm echoed inside Christopher's head, indicating danger, that's not a comfortable position in combat, he knew that by experience, but then again, experience usually speaks for itself-- he spun abruptly to his left, using his right leg to step over the recruit's arm, immobilizing it once again. Christopher sighed, with a somewhat smug expression, limiting itself to it's own lack of interest, as if saying: "You tried". Forcing the recruit's arm just a bit before finally releasing it, he stepped a few feet away from him, sighing.

    -"Perseverance..." -He mumbled silently to himself, nodding, before speaking up again- "Now... Get, up." - He emphasized the two last words, getting close to shouting- "Follow me, we aren't done yet".​

    Christopher cleaned his clothes once again and started heading towards the far back side of the room, more precisely, to a closed door-- where the next step of the evaluation would take place.
    #14 ThomazM, Jan 25, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 25, 2015
  15. Luciel caught the ball, looking at his would-be interrogator with an eyebrow raised. His expression had gone beyond idle deductive smugness and become genuine curiosity. What else would it be? Luciel enjoyed witnessing and identifying a parahuman's abilities; it gave him a sense of superiority that transcended his usual arrogance, especially since others found it as difficult as they did.

    "I half-expected you to say 'I'm asking the questions here'," he muttered. Nonetheless, he took the ball in hand, pushing his chair away as he stood up and cutting the sardonism for a brief, rare moment. "I don't know what you can do, but I do know that I probably don't want to be this close when you do it." He took a few steps backwards, then pulled back his throwing arm and aimed with the other. It would be embarrassing to miss, after all. As requested, he launched the arm forward, releasing his grip as he did, tossing it with as much strength as he could reasonably put into that light an object.
  16. Simon's ears were expecting the snarky remark of the white-haired guy who was probably an year or two younger than he was. What his eyes were not expecting was the genuine interest in what exactly was Simon's power. He made a mental note that the guy in front of him was driven by curiosity. That would be useful.

    Following the natural curve that the ball did due to the throw "Dante" had just made, Simon tilted it just so slightly, as well as accelerating it just the necessary for it to hit the target.

    The target being, of course, Dante's head. The ball hit the white-headed guy with a slight "thunk" sound, before bouncing on the floor towards Simon. Giving a playful smirk, the 20-year-old Japanese descent put the ball back on his backpack. Everything was going to plan with his philosophy that you can figure out how one thinks based on what they react to absurdity.

    "Turns out, I don't need to be close to screw up with other people. And frankly, I don't need to ask questions to get reactions, and that's what I'm going for. Nevertheless, what is your name?"

    Pulling out a New3DS from his backpack, he turned it on and looked at Dante with an eyebrow raised.

    "You wanna play something?"
  17. The ball hit Luciel square in the forehead. Normally, he'd have been humiliated, but this was such a useful learning point that he didn't care. As it hit, a large amount of information was processed in his mind, the timing so similar that one could consider it being caused by being smacked in the face. In reality, of course, this was simply his reaction time, slowed by sudden astonishment, ending up at about the speed that was required for him to commit tennis-based quasi-suicide. This processing gave him a chance to demonstrate his own talents (no matter how insignificantly unimpressive they might have been compared to an actual power).

    Blaster-Class ability: alteration of velocity from a distance in moving objects, otherwise...


    Luciel's expression carried the faintest hint of anxiety all of a sudden.
    If it was exclusively in moving objects, and could only preserve necessary speed, that was 2. If he could control it freely, then where did the extra energy come from? His target? Class 3. Himself? Class 4. Sub-space. Class 6. Could he influence individual sections of the ball if he'd wanted? Maybe it wasn't restricted to moving objects, and the trainer was just screwing around? Class 10, if not his homebrew EX Class, which he had dubbed the "banlist" for Class 10 abilities. Not that he'd actually seen any, but he'd thought of a few theoretical ones.
    Luciel had spent a long time considering the potential applications of various applications of the kinesises, and all of a sudden this trainer had gone from being an egotistic twig to what was potentially a physical god.

    Having said that, grovelling at his feet was hardly a way to for Luciel make his first impression, even if it was best to tone the usual sarcasm down until he was certain that it wouldn't irritate his trainer to the point of snapping his neck.

    He was returned to the rest of the world when the man began to speak to him.

    "Bergljot, Luciel," he replied after a moment, which could be mistaken for him trying to remember it. "If this is another test, I'm perfectly happy to go with it," he continued, glancing it the handheld console. "Do you have one, by the way?"
    #17 Random, Jan 26, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 26, 2015
  18. Scott climbed up onto his feet. Although he was sore from the various holds and grips he'd been put in, his racing heart blotted out the pain. Scott could barely believe it had happened - for the briefest of moments, he had caught the trainer. His fingertips still held the faint sensation of the trousers of his opponent, a tactile memory of his small victory. Although it had been nowhere near enough to be successful, Scott was willing to take the smallest of bonuses from that spar. It was like their sessions with Sergeant Peters - the first glancing blow was considered on the same level as a knockout when facing a true titan of hand-to-hand combat.

    Once on his feet, Scott paused, breathing in deeply as the waves of adrenaline that had surged through his body subsided. A slight sheen of sweat could be seen on his face; although Scott had never forgotten the lessons of his rehabilitation and had kept himself fairly active, there was a vast difference between exercise and fighting that had slipped his mind. Rotating his right arm around the shoulder joint in order to ease the soreness from the hold, Scott finally registered the trainer's instruction to follow. He hurried after the trainer as fast as his leg would allow, wondering what on earth lay behind the closed door.
  19. Glancing behind him, Christopher checked out of the corner of his eye if the recruit was, in fact, following him. Gladly, he was. The trainer continued strolling his way towards the door, stretching his neck again, in a small twist supported by his hands, making a small snap sound. He approached the door, and waited for the recruit to catch up, opening the door afterwards, that after a switch was toggled, revealed a pretty decent sized room, almost bigger than the main saloon, in fact-- with a considerable amount of training equipment. Gazing over it, Christopher sighed.

    -"Follow me".

    He continued walking through the room, eyes half-shut, hands still folded behind his back-- the cast feeling of a wasted day simply wouldn't cease: "I could be training right now", the thought echoed through every corner of his mind as an array of explosives, combustion every single time the thought dwelled throughout his mindset. Christopher approaches a machine that resembled a small cannon of sorts, regarding it's size and format, it appeared to shot decently sized circle projectiles: tennis balls, more precisely. However, the difference between this one machine and the one tennis players use to train is: this one is mobile. Christopher approached it, grabbing the machine with it's right hand, before tossing it Scott's direction, expecting him to grab it. Without further explanation, he proceeded to walk to another door, now metallic, more resilient, unapparent, almost hiding over at the corner of the room. Opening it, the rooms reveals itself to be smaller than the previous one, though still big enough for the next step of the evaluation: "Parahuman Handling". After Scott followed the trainer into the second room, the heavy, metal door closed automatically. Christopher positions himself near the far back wall of the room, before saying:

    -"If you didn't notice by now-- I am, indeed, a Parahuman. And as a trainer, I'm in charge of seeing how you deal people like me, people with powers. Though specific, this step will show me how you handle difficult, complicated situations" -Christopher toggles the light switch next to himself, revealing rumble on the floor, a few barricades, and a decent amount of tennis balls spread around the room- "The machine you have in hands is the most advanced of its type in the market today, in the way it's setup at the moment, it'll shoots these balls at around a hundred and twenty meters per second, feel free to use the ones spread around this room as ammunition, that's why they are here after all" -He leaned against the wall behind him, sighing- "Passing this step is extremely easy: Hit me once, and you're done, you're in-- feel free to use whatever technique you want, there are no rules to this"- He paused, cleaning his throat- "Come on, I'm ready when you are".
    #19 ThomazM, Jan 26, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 26, 2015
  20. The cannon felt heavy in his hands as Scott faced the trainer, running through everything he had said. 120 meters per second? That was nearly half the speed of sound! No way he'd be able to avoid a shot like that! Even though he did have a power, there was no way he'd be able to respond. Scott reached for a tennis ball, and prepared to load it.

    "No way they'd trap the buildings they're currently in! They're not that crazy!"

    Scott started at the memory of a voice from the past. The headstrong lieutenant who had seen nothing but an easy victory, and found nothing but death. 120 meters per second was a hell of a speed to deal with, and a ball at that speed would certainly inflict serious injury. Scott was certain that the trainer had no intention of being injured, which meant he was confident in either withstanding or avoiding the impact.

    No, wait. If the trainer was planning to withstand the impact, the game was still excessively easy to win. So it was likely that he had been given a weapon that the trainer was confident would not hit.

    The biggest unknown here was the trainer's power. Clearly he was confident at avoiding a high-speed shot - superhuman acceleration? The room didn't seem to lend itself to that, what with the barricades and balls over the floor. Either the trainer intended to show off, which seemed unlikely given that the trainer didn't seem to care about anything, or his power instead revolved around the ball itself.

    A classic example of the Legal Trap! Offering an outcome so tempting that the opponent seizes it immediately, failing to notice the jaws of checkmate. Scott chuckled to himself slightly. This trainer was trying to get him to fire a high-speed missile which would most likely be used against him!

    Scott carefully laid down the cannon, before pulling back his right arm and hurling the tennis ball at the trainer's head.
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