Parahumans: The PRB IC

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"Alright, you, come with me." the purple haired trainer said clearly motioning toward Wallis. "Got it." he replied following her.

'Alright, Alright. This is the trainer that sparred Sam. None of her hits should have connected... But they did. Distance. I need distance...' he thought as he followed the trainer up to the mat. She immediately took up a combat stance. 'One meter about... That's not far enough, I need to keep my distance figure out what to do next--' before Wallis could move back the trainer began to move in her position, no movement toward Wallis at all.

'I'm so fucked' he thought, a hint of panic in that tiny voice you hear in your head as he tried to bound backwards, 'She's fast.' Wallis was simply hoping he was a tiny bit faster.
 
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Watching as Serena parts her way in the recruits direction, Christopher takes a step back to look towards the main hall in its entirety: "Empty.", the trainer though, exhaling heavily. Finally, it's over. It was surprisingly quick, compared to past recruitment weeks. What was is? Four, five recruits? Last year they were around the dozens, if not more. "Lucky us?", Christopher pondered, making his way towards the training grounds with a slight grin on his face. Peace. If focused, Christopher was capable of experiencing the most pure form of silence, only corrupted by the faint muffled sound of rain, drizzling against the thin areas of the rooftops. Luckily, at this point, it's become a familiar enough sound for him not to be bothered by it-- it "enhances the experience", really.

It wasn't too long of a walk before he reached the training grounds. Just a few corridors and there it was. One of the biggest rooms in the entire facility, surely. A closed space, with several training machines, and a few obstacle courses, a few extra rooms for specific types of training, but not much else. The armory, located to the right, containing a decent amount of cold weapons, reaching from knifes, to full-fledged swords from an extensive range of materials, and a few guns and general firearms, bows and whatnots. To the left, the "advanced" hall, linked to a few more rooms, specifically designed to train Parahumans recruits or trainers, that means: Rooms made entirely out of steel, reinforced training dummies, advanced dexterity training system, and much, much more. Seven, maybe eight rooms total, Christopher wasn't too sure.

The training grounds was empty too, for that matter. Recruitment week was awfully slow, people are either taking care of paperwork, or preparing the training rooms-- not many people decide to take time out of their "busy day" to train. "Lucky me", Christopher though, in a slightly sarcastic tone. Strolling through the first obstacles, the trainer reached the "changing room", located next to the armory. A few lockers, showers, and a coat rack, nothing extravagant. Christopher removed his trench coat, leaving it in the coat rack, and before exiting, he stretched. Just the basics, the "boring part" of the training process. Stretching done, Christopher stood up, sighed, and left the room, finally prepared to train, wondering what he'd do first. Ultimately deciding to train combat techniques, "room four", and there he headed, prepared to spend a few hours enclosed in the steel walls. The door to the room opened in a shift of mechanical noises, closing back in, right after Christopher passed through. A small red light on top of the door signified that it was being used, it would be a few more hours before that light would turn back off again. From the outside, the sound of the impacts against the training dummies was just barely muffled, but still audible.
 
No wooshflashrun kind of trainer? Alright. This was fine. Yeah! Expected, even. No big deal. Only one guess left. No pressure. Nope. Not one bit.

Reaver caught his hand mid-drift to the king. Damn, that was an annoying habit. Nearly a tell at this point.

Samuels, on the other hand, wasn't quite so open. Again. Man, this guy was a wall! Alright. You want to be that way, Scott? Two can play at that game.

"I... Took a deep breath. Really preparing myself for that next move. Yep."

Sam turned back to Mount Inksheet, teeth stepping up their offensive on the pen cap. Medical hist- What? On page forty-one? Jeez, not again. This should have been in the first section! Why didn't they number these things? The secretary had to be messing with him.
 
Scott laughed out loud at the incredibly closed statement. It seems someone was feeling the pressure a little following their first guess! The opening gambit of the sparring had wiped out one of his opponent's chances, and the insistence on parting with minimal information told him that there was going to be something useful coming up. All he had to do was keep doling out the information in miserly portions, ratcheting up the stress. And on that note, if we were doing useless statements...

"I stretched and rotated my shoulder joint as I walked out of the hall. That arm bar had left it quite sore."
 
Samuels laughed and vividly described... His shoulder joint. Great. Sarcasm. Bad. Reaver'd go bust on information soon, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing- if Scott wasn't a jerk about it. Hesitant to do a probability check on that one. He'd just prepare for the worst.

What could Reaver put up next? Shit had hit the fan after he took a breath. He wasn't prepared to give that kind of information away, especially when Scott was heading somewhere else with the trainer for who knows how long. Could he have had a two-stage exam? Three, even? It seemed likely. Solid 70%. Why else would he be following his examiner? Yeah. Probably. But... Gr. That didn't make Sam's choice any easier.

'Based on the essay written earlier, what are the core valu- What?!' Had he somehow missed a whole essay section earlier?! Unless... Sam flipped a few pages forward to confirm his suspicions. Yep, there it was: A prompt followed by an extensive blank space. This stupid paperwork! It was jumbled up, out of order, and unnumbered. Why?! It made no sense. Whatsoever. You'd think the secretary wouldn't be such a b-

It was jumbled up.

It was out of order.

And it made no sense.

No... Would that work? Could it? Would his rival catch on? 60%. King could halve that chance if he was clever about the delivery. Alright. He had to maintain his nervous manner, like he was giving away something big. Bluff. Right. Here goes.

King's fidgets with the card increased in frequency. Eyes darted to Scott's face, never staying in one place for too long before moving on. The pen cap was dented beyond repair. Anxiety. Textbook nervousness.

"I... I, uh, hmph." Quick cough. Where was he in the story? Stooped down at the edge of the mat. Right. Good. That would work in his favor. "I... Grabbed my cards, and began dealing a hand of Texas Hold 'Em."
 
What!? That was it? All that buildup for a deal? Seriously? Reaver looked like he could deal a hand of Poker whilst blindfolded, hung upside down and missing an arm. Maybe he was feinting the trainer? Maybe he was feinting Scott? He looked like he was letting something key slip, but the pieces didn't fit together. Had he said pretty much anything else, Scott might have bought it, but a hand of Poker was not something key. No way. This had to be bait. Right?

Either way, Scott could deduce a couple of things. He'd suspected it since the dice, but it with the card dealing it seemed likely that Sam's opponent did not have a telekinetic power. The stalling for time plus this non-sequitur? Unlikely that his trainer was just running off physical prowess during this section. Though it was deliberately emphasised, Reaver was nervous. If he bought the card dealing then that likely eliminated speed- and strength-based powers, as no-one would risk taking their eyes off their opponent. Hypothesis 3 was looking more likely. Unfortunately, it was the most amorphous of the hypotheses.

"I left the training hall, having completed my assessment."...in hand to hand only, Scott added mentally.
 
Sam blinked. Having completed... He was finished?! There wasn't enough to go on, he needed more. There had to be more. How could he have passed so soon? Thinking back, he had been stretching out the information towards the end. It was possible that he'd told the whole story already. Definitely not optimal, though.

Reaver's nervous movements slowed. "Interesting assessment, Samuels. I've never won a fight by kneeling and being put in an arm bar."

He needed Scott to talk more. To do that, Sam'd have to keep up his end of the game.

"My game was rudely interrupted by an outside force. I prepared to attack the interruptor."

He grinned. "Your play."
 
"Never said I won it. Unless you're telling me you won by dealing a card game in the middle of a fight, I'm guessing that you didn't win yours either, you simply lost well enough to be accepted."

Another round with zero information. Reaver was very keen to hide something, and Scott was very keen to find out what it was. Even once they got to the tennis balls, the chances of Sam figuring out his trainer's power with one guess were very small. Might as well keep the story rolling.

"I went into a side room, and was given a tennis ball launcher." See how that makes him react.
 
'I'm so fucked' Wallis thought as he bounded backward. "Did I make it...?" he said under his breath in disbelief as he bounded backward, the trainer still carrying out her move.

'I did it! Ye---' the trainer took a slight step forward and Wallis could feel his entire body being lifted by arms that simply didn't exist. "Oh shi---!" was all Wallis managed to get out as he was flipped around and thrown to the mat. Hard. He lay motionless for a second before taking a large gasping breath and tilting his head back to look at the trainer. "You fight dirty... I like it..." he said panting from the hit. Slowly he rose to his feet, wincing at a slight pain in his shoulder 'If I stay down they probably won't like it, and I never was one to back down from a good fight... But this isn't exactly equal grounds..'.

"Mind telling me about your superpower, maybe how it works..." --- 'No way she won't give it away that easily'---" or maybe how you figured out you had it?" he said, still panting and with an intrigued look on his face. --- 'Better that might work. Although I really have no clue where I am going with this... Just need to hold out long enough.' Wallis thought as he watched the trainer for the slightest movement. 'Maybe I'll learn something as well as getting my ass handed to me' he mused to himself, a small smirk apparent on his face.
 
After an extraordinarily long pause, Scott recalled entering a side room and being given... a tennis ball launcher? Why the hell did a top secret government agency store a ball launcher in its side rooms? Was it, like, a weaponized launcher? Were they rocket-propelled tennis balls that exploded into fire and death on impact? Sam made a mental note to look out for more assorted sporting equipment scattered around the compound. Maybe he'd accidentally take off someone's head with a frisbee one day. Hm.

Career goals aside, there wasn't a whole lot Reaver could do with the information until Samuels did something with the Serena Williams of Death. Maybe his trainer just wanted to unwind after a long day of beating up trainees. Maybe one of them just had an affinity for balls. Who knew? Bottom line, he'd have to wait before drawing any solid conclusions.

"I firmly grasped the training mat in both of my hands, preparing to pull it towards me in a mad rush of adrenaline. Probably."
 
Alright, now we're talking! It seemed like Scott was about to get something useful out of this guy for the first time in god knows how long. Reaver had presented an impenetrable front for the last few turns, although Scott had admittedly pulled the same stunt. Sam had not been as impetuous with his last remaining guess, and hadn't fallen for the trick. Time to see how he'd fare with round two.

Logically, Scott still had the upper hand. There were so many things that could be done with projectiles, and the combination of absorption/emission would be very hard to guess if Scott played his wording correctly. With one guess, Reaver was in a poor position. Ramping up the pressure on him would only harm his odds even more.

"I went into another room, taking the ball launcher with me."
 
Reaver now knew that the mystery ball launcher could be moved. Hooray! Sort of. Not really. Samuels was quite the wall when he wanted to be. Which was weird, really. The guy with "wall" in his name was more open! Honest, too. Mmm. Man, they'd have to get back together later to finish that match. Isaacs owed him a wallet.

Also, against his better judgment, Reaver considered whether Scott had really picked up the ball launcher from one side room before moving it to another. Hmm. 80% chance of unneccessary storage spaces.

Next on the agenda: Sam time! Trainer time, really. Reflecting back on the events of the past few hours, Sam realized he had never learned the purple-haired trainer's name. Hm. That, uh, yes. Fun. Where was he?

Reaver turned back to his paperwork and scribbled an answer. "I continued to grasp the edge of the mat, all the while fantasizing over the portable tennis equipment of my colleagues."

Well... If nothing else, it would earn a chuckle.
 
Scott grimaced. This was starting to take the piss. Providing trivial information was one thing, actively providing fuck all as a stalling tactic was another. If he allowed this to continue, Reaver would take control of the game and, if Scott had nothing left to say, may even refuse to continue providing statements. This had to end. Direct confrontation? Dubious at best. Scott had no idea how Sam would respond to a direct challenge. Well, when in Rome...

"I held onto the ball launcher reaaaally carefully, whilst imagining how sore my colleague's back must be after all that time spent bending over."

Continuing down this path may result in a stalemate, but Scott didn't figure Reaver as that kind of person. He played for the thrill, and constant stonewalling would sap the fun out of him. Sooner or later, he'd relent.
 
Reaver frowned. Was Scott pressed for information too? It seemed likely; Otherwise, he was just messing with Sam's head. Didn't seem the type, though. Samuels's back was against a wall. If this information dearth continued, eventually he might succumb to pressure and show his hand. All Sam had to do was draw it out.

Just keep it slow. Extend. Amble.

This... may be more difficult than anticipated. King felt alive when adrenaline pounded through his chest. He needed a thrill. A continued stalemate would work, sure, but it'd be too... Easy. Not that he cared about playing dirty, but it'd just be so boring. He'd have to relent soon.

...That being said, Scott didn't know Sam's lack resolve. Probably. Perhaps Samuels was closer to his breaking point than formerly believed? Hm. Perhaps... Well, it would bore him to tears, but Sam may not forgive himself if he lost later when his opponent was just one turn from spilling now. He had to go for it.

"I worried at great lengths that my collegue's sweaty palms would loose his grip at a critical moment, before stopping to appreciate the well-being of my spinal column."

Low hanging fruit, right? Why not?
 
Scott quietly muttered an expletive under his breath. Would this route even work? Was it worth wasting this time? Well, it seemed like nothing else was going on. Besides, to do anything else would be effectively surrendering the initiative to Reaver. Time to fight smartass with smartass again.

"I silently thanked my parents that I don't have a predisposition to sweaty palms, whilst marveling at the extraordinary resilience of my colleague's spine."

If this didn't make a point soon, then nothing would. Still, stalemate beat a loss, any day of the week. If Reaver thought he could sit back and weather it out, he was wrong. Scott was sure he was on his last legs, to have taken such dramatic measures to avoid revealing new information. Just keep squeezing, just keep squeezing...
 
Reaver felt the most peculiar mixture of boredom and amusement. On the one hand, this was a stalemate. No question. Because no information was being given out, the game would never advance. Ever. They could be sitting here until the building collapsed and nothing would change until one of them made a move.

Plus, such a safe game bored him out of his skull. It was like playing checkers on opposite squares. Or playing Blackjack with only face cards. Or, you know, punching a wall. You can keep going as long as you like, but your opponent sure as hell isn't moving.

On the other hand... This was hilarious. As if the wall hurled obscenities back at you with every punch. How long could they go on like this? Well, Scott could probably go on for a while. Sam was another story.

He grinned. "Flashback: I audibly thanked Mrs. Samuels, noting her extraordinary resilience and unnaturally sweaty hands."

Well... What could a few more turns hurt?
 
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