[i][b]Hit Me[/b][/i] [i]"Now I'm shaking all over I'm a shattering mass But I'm gonna sit up straight I'm gonna take it with class Old man used to tell me Son, never look back, Move on to the next case. Fold your clothes and pack." - Warren Zevon[/i] [b]Hereford, England, Alternate Earth, Six Years Ago[/b] [i]The basement had been laid out plainly like a fighter's training room, a punching bag in the corner, a bench press, pull-up bars, weights, even the gear to train one to throw punches properly and dodge them just as well. Sparring weapons sat in their racks, bo staffs, unsharpened knives and swords. In the center of the room stood two individuals, one in his combat fatigues and boots, the other in an Under Armor athletic shirt and sweatpants. The man in combat fatigues stood taller than his opponent, and held a bo staff firmly in his hands, the boy before him held a dulled short sword. Nicholas Clarkson had been working now for nearly a year at teaching Jackson Wolfe how to fight, and the teenager had been steadily improving. Today was yet again another basic Saturday for the two of them, training. If Wolfe could match Clarkson blow for blow, he knew that the training had been having an effect. Eyeing each other, they soon snapped into action. Jackson brought the blade down towards Clarkson's stomach, and the SAS officer easily blocked it with his staff. Bringing it up, he pushed the boy back, and rushed in with the staff, swinging it towards the boy's sword arm. Moving skillfully to the side, Wolfe managed to glance the blow off with his blade, pushing himself around behind his teacher. Bringing the blade back around, he thrust it forwards towards Clarkson, who moved to the side enough to dodge it and smack Jackson in the ribs with his staff. The boy gasped in pain, and looked back up at Clarkson just in time to parry another blow from his staff. Seeing his chance to strike, Clarkson sent another jab in for the same place, the staff connecting with Jackson's torso again with a solid thump. Gasping again, Jackson grabbed the end of the staff and twisted it in an attempt to force it from Clarkson's hands. While he wasn't able to do that, he at least managed to avoid another hit. Pushing it out, he threw Clarkson off-balance, and swung for the man's shin. His sword made contact, and Clarkson swore under his breath. [/i] Bloody bast*rd... [i]Coming back around, he caught Jackson's back with the staff, and he sent the boy reeling from the impact. Staggering, Jackson took another blow from the staff in the arm, right in the funny bone. Holding his arm, he barely managed to dodge Clarkson's next two blows, but he could not avoid the third. Using the staff, Clarkson swept Jackson's feet out from under him, sending him to the ground fairly hard. Clarkson went to bring the staff down again over the boy's throat to pin him, but Jackson rolled sideways and out of the way. Standing back up, he rushed and kicked Clarkson in the ribs, staggering him, but as he went to bring his blade down to hit Clarkson's shoulder, the bo staff cracked him hard in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air again. It sent him into a coughing fit, and Clarkson approached yet again to knock him to the ground. He delivered a solid blow to the boy's shoulder blade, another to his hip, and soon Jackson was on the ground again, eyes clenched tightly shut in pain, his body aching. As Clarkson came down to pin him again, with what strength he had left, Jackson kicked up and nailed the SAS soldier in the stomach, hard enough to force him to back off. Standing back up again, he lunged at Clarkson while he was trying to breathe again, and tackled him to the ground, placing his sword over the man's throat, an intense and malicious gaze in his normally friendly eyes. With the blade at his throat, Clarkson smiled widely, and began to chuckle, that escalating into a full laugh. Jackson looked back to him, confusedly, as the man spoke.[/i] You're just like your dad, kid... Persistent little bugger, aren't you? [i]He said, laughing, despite the piece of metal at his throat.[/i] [i]Jackson stared back at him silently, the rage fading from his eyes.[/i] You've got the tenacity, I'll give you that, but we need to work on your dodging. [i]Clarkson said, smiling upwards with a sh*t-eating grin. He knew clearly that Jackson was in intense pain from the blows he had received, but he was learning, and he was getting good. Jackson stood slowly, allowing Clarkson to stand up, and he trudged over to the rack that held their sparring weapons. Clarkson stood up and did the same, putting his staff into the rack, the two of them heading upstairs. Jackson slunk away to his room on the second floor, Clarkson headed to the kitchen. His wife did not look to him, she couldn't. They'd had the discussion before, and knew that neither was going to budge on their position. Walking past her, Clarkson filled a glass from the cupboard with the faucet in the sink, and took a sip, looking out of his kitchen window. His body hurt pretty badly as well, age was catching up. He couldn't take the blows as well anymore, but that was part of life. A die-hard soldier, though, that thought always hurt him. Jackson had meanwhile climbed into his bed and laid down. He took an aspirin from his bedside table, and kicked off his shoes before flopping back onto his bed. Despite the fact that he wanted to scream from how much he hurt, he was proud of himself. He pinned Clarkson, for the first time since he'd been training, and that was no easy task given the man's background. Laying back, he stared up at the ceiling, a tired smile across his lips as he slowly succumbed to sleep.[/i] [spoiler]Closed, open for feedback.[/spoiler]