come_sailaway | Pack it up, pack it in,

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Pack it up, pack it in,

CHARACTERS: Darcy, and YOU?!
DATE: First half of September prior to the event
LOCATION: Sports deck
SITUATION: A pirate-sponsored fight club for the sake of ~~beating the shit out of each other~~ bettering each other
WARNINGS: It’s a fight club. Violence is to be expected.

I came to win

Fliers go up around the ship, as they so often do. This time put up with a reasonable amount of tape and written in a much less flowery hand than people would expect, the announcement ‘FIGHT CLUB TUESDAY EVENINGS SPORTS DECK: MAKE FRIENDS AND THEN HIT THEM’.
Anyone going to the sport’s deck after 7pm for the Tuesdays before the excursion will find tennis court set up for an impromptu fight club. There’s a notebook with a pen off to one side as a sign-in sheet, and a small list of rules written in the same handwriting as the fliers.
-No killing or dying
-Respect tapping out
-If you’re learning, respect your teacher/s
-If you’re teaching, respect your student/s
-Cause problems, get kicked out

Off to the sidelines, Darcy can be found supervising, keeping an eye out for any issues.

Battle me that's a sin

In one corner is supplies for fencing and swordplay. Three protective jackets, mesh masks, and blunt training sabers in a loose pile, plus whatever weaponry people themselves supply. There’s a circular arena drawn out on the ground, with a narrower fencing piste drawn through the middle of it.

I won't ever slack up

For those more inclined to hand-to-hand combat, a couple of the punching bags from the gym have been dragged out onto the court, along with focus-pads and a couple of long strips of bandages bandages to wrap one’s hands with. An arena has been drawn out, about the right dimensions for a boxing ring.

Punk you better back up

Over on the furthest side- deliberately angled to face off the ship- there’s a makeshift shooting range consisting of a bunch of water bottles and some mannequins from the Tommy Bahama laid out as targets to shoot at. A line has been drawn on the ground, presumably to stand behind when shooting.

Try and play the role and yo the whole crew'll act up

Right in the middle of everything is an arena marked out for no clear purpose, with no equipment nearby. It can probably be presumed that this is somewhere for people to spar, or more likely, show off in front of everyone.

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"No. Fighting is something that was programmed in me." Which of course means it doesn't need to train at all. Right?

Right. Construct. Still -- "You've never had any training? At all?" There's a pleading edge in Dimitri's voice. Come on, SecUnit, you're breaking his brain here.

"It'd be a waste of time and energy to train each of us. We're expendable. CombatUnits even moreso. Sure, yes, our loss is expensive, but no one needs to write a letter to our mothers when we die or justify it to the media, like with human troops."

Shrug. Clearly not a big deal.

Expendable.

Every hair on Dimitri's back and arms stands on end.

His voice drops to a growl. "And so you were ... programmed ... with only the barest, inadequate essentials, and given no training whatsoever. Not even," in a snarl acidic enough to curdle milk, "to protect your creators' profits." The barest fucking minimum of impersonal pragmatism.

"If it was a real fight, I'd be in my armor. Does that make it any better?"

It doesn't actually think that it would. It also...just doesn't know what to do with Dimitri's anger. Because yes, that's not directed at it, but it's about it.

"It doesn't excuse sending you to fight and die unprepared! Instinct and aptitude are no replacement for training and experience!"

Dimitri understands systems. He understands that there's no single target on which to exact his wrath. He doesn't remotely have the frame of reference to understand a corporation. And yet, he would really like to entertain fantasies of tearing those responsible for this apart barehanded.

That's not helpful. Instead, he rakes a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, visibly marshalling his temper. " ... I'm sorry. I would have approached things differently, had I known. In that case, please -- allow me to correct their negligence. I can't promise to be much of a teacher," more incentive to keep his own skills sharp, "but I can offer you something."

Murderbot is very quiet and very still, not sure how to wrap itself around that righteous anger on its behalf. This isn’t the first time, not by a long shot, and every time it just...cannot comprehend it.

“Why?”

Dimitri does not know what to make of that so-uncharacteristically-small voice. He backs down a step further, unruffles his feathers and lowers his hackles.

"If you're going to fight for others -- to risk your life on their behalf -- you should do so with the best resources and abilities at your disposal. There is neither sense nor virtue in wasted life, my friend."

... the phrase is just part of Dimitri's speech patterns. It's fine. Don't overthink it.

Most of that makes sense, actually. It’s fine until those last two words, where it...blinks a couple times, and then turns so it’s not facing Dimitri because looking toward him and being looked at is suddenly way too much to handle.

“You might be right.”

That broken gaze is good for both of them; Dimitri wouldn't have noticed if SecUnit hadn't taken initiative. Despite the disparity of their settings, they're united in 'no context for autistic.'

" ... I enjoy fighting, when it's not for my life," Dimitri begins slowly. Hesitantly. He's worried, now, that he might be a lot more fucked up than he'd thought he was. "The pursuit of skill for its own sake. The technique, the ... art of it. It can be a way to meet someone without language interfering. To speak without words or faces." He pauses. "It helps me to feel there's some worth to it, besides doing harm to others."

“It’s a form of communication? I don’t understand.”

But from the way it’s head tilts, it might just want to. It’s intrigued, engaged by the idea.

"Action, and the response to action. The way someone moves expresses their experiences, the way they were trained. I fight differently from a prizefighter, or someone whose experience is in bar brawls rather than the battlefield." Dimitri hesitates. "I could tell you had no training, even before I asked."

A longer pause. This is the part Dimitri's suddenly unsure of. "It can be ... fun. I enjoy sparring with Darcy, the way some enjoy chess, or cards, or dancing -- as an expression of skill. That's why I asked to spar with you. I thought you would also enjoy it. I stopped when I realized you weren't."

"I don't know chess, or cards, or dancing, either." Not that it's given much thought to learning those things specifically, but. Murderbot's main mode of leisure is sitting on its ass watching serials.

And now, art. Drawing, painting. One small thing for itself that it wasn't made to do. One might make the observation that Murderbot doesn't know how to play, though. It was not made to.

But that's irrelevant to the topic at hand. "Would you like to train me?" Because that's the important bit here, right?

Dimitri brightens. This is not going nearly as badly as he'd feared. "I would. Knowing what I do now ... if something like the diner happens again, I couldn't live with myself, knowing there was something more I could have done to help. So."

Dimitri steps back and bows formally.

"If you'll have me, I would like to train you. Hand-to-hand isn't my area of expertise -- I favor the sword -- so I can't promise much as a teacher, but I know enough to defend myself. And I'm probably the only human on-board who can match your strength." He's not boasting; it's just the truth.

"Usually, I'm using my energy weapons, not fighting hand-to-hand, either."

It doesn't know how to respond to that formal bow--how does one respond to that formal bow?

"But. It sounds like it's important. That I learn."

Wait what.

"Energy weapons?"

Dimitri hasn't actually seen SecUnit fight (really fight) before. He'd seen the ports at the diner ~~and SecUnit in the dress is still giving him some feelings he's resolutely not processing~~, but hadn't asked.

SecUnit doesn't have to respond to the bow. It's habit on Dimitri's end, and he's gotten used to people not knowing how to respond. "It's a useful skill if you're caught off-guard, or at the wrong range. And ... "

He falters, unsure how to continue.

"Energy weapons. Uh, laser guns? Not actually an accurate term, but that tends to translate well enough."

Surely, surely Dimitri is from a world that has guns.

Right?

Dimitri's seen guns -- he's been keeping a curious eye on the shooting range, though he's never been a distance fighter and has no desire to become one. On the other hand ... "La ... sers?"

Murderbot gestures for Dimitri to follow it to the shooting range, where it's careful to check that the field is clear before it totally just shoots three beams of light through a single mannequin (and anything behind it).

"Lasers."

Lasers! So that is new, and fascinating, and Dimitri is starry-eyed; he is still fundamentally a teenager, and lasers are extremely cool.

He clears his throat and tries to act more composed about it. "Well. That's not something I'd anticipated. I'd compare it to spellcasting, but even the best battle casters can't strike with that kind of focus. And that's just a part of you? Does the ammunition run out?"

"They're powered from my internal battery. So yes, eventually, in theory they would run out. In practice, that'd require a fight lasting several days."

It seems amused by Dimitri's enthusiasm.

"Fascinating. I've known battles that lasted that long, but the fighting isn't continuous. So there's functionally no limit on their capacity ... That must be handy. You can't be caught unarmed."

There's a long pause. Then Dimitri presses a hand to his mouth, stifling a giggle.

"I'm sorry," muffled through laughter, "I swear that wasn't on purpose."

“No, but it sure is possible to dis-arm me. Don’t mention that pun in front of Peter Smith, by the way.”

Casual as you please about that.

The mental image of SecUnit's mangled body slams into Dimitri's humor, no survivors in the wreckage. He chokes on a sound like an asthmatic donkey caught in a rusty door, and has to thump his chest to cough out the fleck of spit that lodged in his throat. Indech help him.

He gasps in a breath and wipes his watering eyes. "Goddess. Should I apologize for laughing at that? Who's Peter Smith?"

"No apology is necessary. Peter Smith is...who I was working to defend at the diner. He is a competent man."

Weird compliment, Murderbot.

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prince_of_beasts - 2022-09-28 22:43 (UTC) - Expand

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