Post by Daimon Darren on May 29, 2018 23:31:52 GMT -4
It was one of those summer afternoons when the sun decided to take a break and hide behind the clouds for a god damned second. In other words, it was a cool Saturday afternoon, just the right weather for a bit of exercise.
When he woke up this morning -- 11:30am is still ‘in the morning’, fuck off -- he could feel it was gonna be a fun day. He was full of energy -- sleeping for hours on end helped -- and ready for anything, or at least it seemed so to the young delinquent. He decided not long after he woke up over a bowl of cereal on his desk that today, he was gonna train.
As a regular delinquent student, Darren never really took training seriously. He’d been in a few clubs, mostly -- almost exclusively -- martial arts: boxing, karate, judo jiu-jitsu, aikido, wushu, but none of his former sensei managed to teach him the value of exercise. The reason was simple: Darren was, thanks to his extensive experience and a quirk very suited to the task, an excellent brawler and he rarely lost. Thus it was lost on him, until now.
It all changed when he got himself into UA and became a regular heroics student instead. There was Blondie and her explosions. The memory of the first PE class was still fresh in his mind. Aki, the wildling walking hurricane. Mister Freeze. That Evian-ass girl with the Megaman-ass water cannon arms. Yumi, the living battery. UA was full of strong people, and while he didn’t get himself a major loss yet, part of him was keenly aware of the possibility. Even possibly afraid.
That is why, at 2:30pm, Darren was uncharacteristically wearing his sports uniform and heading out of the dorm building and towards the training area. He broke into a jog, remembering his boxing coach. Maybe he ought to give the coach in Tokyo another visit soon. The last time he was in the gym was to give that girl he probably saved from being raped a lesson or two in kicking ass and most importantly, not getting your ass kicked. What was it that the old man said? ‘Most people think a boxer’s job is to fight, but it really is to run.’
Yeah, right, miss me with that boring shit, thought the blonde shithead. Running bored him, so he started occasionally blasting himself forward with quarter strength blasts of his quirk, leaping low and hitting the ground running. To him, it was like taking a bigger step, but to an observer, it looked like someone was yanking him with an invisible rope each time he activated his power, like a bad sentai show with obvious wirework.
When he reached the outdoor P.E. fields, he saw something unusual. It was like someone was driving around on a small racecar. As he got closer, he realized it was no racecar but his classmate Jisa, in the special wheelchair they talked about in the class chat once. It seemed like he was practicing driving it around.
Or was it a racecar? An idea suddenly germed in the adolescent’s mind, and it sounded like a very good idea to him, which meant it probably wasn’t. He slowed his pace as he approached the chair-bound boy with a smile and a handwave.
“Yo, whassup J? That the super wheelchair you talked about in chat?” Without waiting for an answer, Darren was already walking around his interlocutor, examining the personal hovercraft he was forced to sit on. It was a bit loud, but nothing unbearable. The delinquent had the spark in his eyes that people who were getting dumb, but potentially very fun ideas had.
“So listen, I have a great idea...”
When he woke up this morning -- 11:30am is still ‘in the morning’, fuck off -- he could feel it was gonna be a fun day. He was full of energy -- sleeping for hours on end helped -- and ready for anything, or at least it seemed so to the young delinquent. He decided not long after he woke up over a bowl of cereal on his desk that today, he was gonna train.
As a regular delinquent student, Darren never really took training seriously. He’d been in a few clubs, mostly -- almost exclusively -- martial arts: boxing, karate, judo jiu-jitsu, aikido, wushu, but none of his former sensei managed to teach him the value of exercise. The reason was simple: Darren was, thanks to his extensive experience and a quirk very suited to the task, an excellent brawler and he rarely lost. Thus it was lost on him, until now.
It all changed when he got himself into UA and became a regular heroics student instead. There was Blondie and her explosions. The memory of the first PE class was still fresh in his mind. Aki, the wildling walking hurricane. Mister Freeze. That Evian-ass girl with the Megaman-ass water cannon arms. Yumi, the living battery. UA was full of strong people, and while he didn’t get himself a major loss yet, part of him was keenly aware of the possibility. Even possibly afraid.
That is why, at 2:30pm, Darren was uncharacteristically wearing his sports uniform and heading out of the dorm building and towards the training area. He broke into a jog, remembering his boxing coach. Maybe he ought to give the coach in Tokyo another visit soon. The last time he was in the gym was to give that girl he probably saved from being raped a lesson or two in kicking ass and most importantly, not getting your ass kicked. What was it that the old man said? ‘Most people think a boxer’s job is to fight, but it really is to run.’
Yeah, right, miss me with that boring shit, thought the blonde shithead. Running bored him, so he started occasionally blasting himself forward with quarter strength blasts of his quirk, leaping low and hitting the ground running. To him, it was like taking a bigger step, but to an observer, it looked like someone was yanking him with an invisible rope each time he activated his power, like a bad sentai show with obvious wirework.
When he reached the outdoor P.E. fields, he saw something unusual. It was like someone was driving around on a small racecar. As he got closer, he realized it was no racecar but his classmate Jisa, in the special wheelchair they talked about in the class chat once. It seemed like he was practicing driving it around.
Or was it a racecar? An idea suddenly germed in the adolescent’s mind, and it sounded like a very good idea to him, which meant it probably wasn’t. He slowed his pace as he approached the chair-bound boy with a smile and a handwave.
“Yo, whassup J? That the super wheelchair you talked about in chat?” Without waiting for an answer, Darren was already walking around his interlocutor, examining the personal hovercraft he was forced to sit on. It was a bit loud, but nothing unbearable. The delinquent had the spark in his eyes that people who were getting dumb, but potentially very fun ideas had.
“So listen, I have a great idea...”
