Third Person - Complete

Sparring

Lewis stepped in, ducking under the lazy right hook, throwing jabs at her padded opponent. Her padded fists thumped against the figure's forearms as they blocked her punches. It felt like she was hitting a padded stone wall, but she ignored the feeling of futility, weaving away from several slow punches before darting back in to jab at her opponent again.

"Faster, harder," The deep rumble broke through her concentration. "You're slowing down."

Lewis snapped her head, flicking the sweat from her face without taking her eyes from the massive figure of her opponent. She stepped forward, forgoing jabs for full strength punches, trying to get through her opponent's guard.

Finally Lewis stepped back, gasping, dropping her hands down to let her opponent know that she needed a break.

She wiped off her brow with her forearm, breathing deep, trying to control her breathing and slow her heartrate. She spit out the mouth guard, letting it smack against her skin.

"Your distracted, angry," Monkey rumbled, moving over to the desk and picking up a bottle of Gatorade. "It's slowing you down, dividing your attention."

"Yeah," Lewis grunted, shaking out her hands.

Hitting Monkey was basically like hitting stone, leaving her hands tingling and aching. The big man wasn't even winded, wasn't even sweating.

"It's OK, Berserker," Monkey said, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He took a long swig off it, capped it, and tossed it to Lewis. "Whatever's bugging you, we'll keep going, let you work some of that anger and frustration out."

"Thanks," Lewis said, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. It tasted sweet, her body telling her that she was running low on electrolytes and other important trace minerals. She took another drink, capped it, and tossed it back to Monkey.

"You need to learn to go hammer and tongs no matter how you personally feel, Berserker," Monkey said, setting the half-empty bottle on the desk. "Even if you're tired, sore, or secretly want to lay down and die. You get in close and keep slugging. Put the hurt on your opponent, take the hurt they offer back, and give them every bit of pain you're feeling."

Lewis nodded, grabbing the thong the mouth guard hung on and putting it back in her mouth. She bit deeply bringing her hands up.

"Come at me like you mean it, Berserker," Monkey said, bringing his hands up.

Lewis moved back in, jabbing and moving. Monkey had a good foot of reach on her, forcing her to back up, weave out of the way of the slow moving blows, then come in fast, strike, and fade back. Monkey started calling out shots. Right cross. Left hook. Combo. Uppercut. He kept deflecting them, taking the punches on his forearms, slapping them away, or just letting them hit his ribs, which seemed to Lewis like it didn't even have any effect.

"You're telegraphing too much. Stop rolling your right shoulder before you throw your right," Monkey growled after slapping away a right cross. "Break."

Lewis stepped back, spitting out the mouth guard.

"Your hand work is going well, but your footwork is for shit. You keep over-extending, keep going off balance," Monkey said, tossing her the Gatorade.

Lewis took a long drink, capped it, then tossed it back. "I keep going to kick. We've been training out at Atlas."

Monkey nodded. "Miranda's an expert. She's forgotten more about fighting than I know," He admitted, shrugging. "You should have said something."

He moved over to the duffle bag, digging in it and then throwing pads toward Lewis. "Put that gear on. We'll pad your shins and knees, go at it again. You're still really angry."