Post by кεsтяεℓ on Aug 5, 2016 22:10:01 GMT -6
August 5th, 2016
11:48 PM E.S.T.
Meadville, Pennsylvania
The mental image of a class of nine-year-old girls, all in pastel pink and taupe, doing a floor work routine to White Zombie is enough to earn a snort of a laugh... but she can't focus on that.
Not when Eliza Dresden knows that she still has some serious work to do.
It has taken her almost twenty years of her life to earn the privilege of using the gymnastics space at the YMCA whenever she chooses, though a lot of her having her own key is born of her coaches being sick and tired of her finding her own way in. It was their fault for trying to confine her energy to limited hours... though she supposes she should be fair in admitting that part of it is her utter and absolute refusal to be contained. Holding things back has never been in her personality-- Hell, one can easily call it the dominant Dresden family trait. Her older sister taught her how to unlock the stereo and turn the radio station to 94.3:The Wuzz when she was still young enough to be wearing pigtails and the aforementioned generic practice get-up, not to mention how to sneak those bland articles of clothing into her brother's laundry so that all of the black he insisted on wearing would turn them dark as well. Only her mother's able to have any outward semblance of nuance and control, and even that has been worn down over the years after being surrounded by four Type A bulldozer-sorts that do as they want and damn the consequences. It's a right shame none of that tact was carried on the same genes that gave the blond her hair and the particular sort of smirk that looks like it can set a town on fire without needing a single match or drop of gasoline, but it is what it is. Eminem might've rapped about what happens when a tornado meets a volcano, but she knows that she's the answer--
Whoooaaaa...
...and the wave of dizziness she feels right along with that wobble tells her that it's time to stop hand-standing around.
That grip on the balance beam beneath her head tightens that little bit more as she slowly bends her elbows, the movement a graceful and gradual one that suddenly explodes upward and backward, Eliza throwing herself into a short series of backflips that pick up speed. Her feet come down on the end of the beam just long enough to push herself upward all the higher, gravity ignored for the second or two she can manage it as she twists her way through that final flip. There's no applause waiting for when she sticks the landing-- and there's also no one around to groan in dismay at how she overdramatically flops backwards to the blue mat beneath her, her gaze directed by default to the ceiling above her. She knows that the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, but she's close enough to basking in the sun if she closes her eyes partway. From there, imagining herself in a sunbeam that seems to only ever be itself at the peak of summer is easy as pie... and she needs that thimble's worth of relaxation, of what comes as close to calm as she gets. It's about the only way to contain herself when the thought that has repeated itself over and over again ever since she got the call informing her that her contract was finalized a mere six hours before.
My first pro match is happening. It's finally happening!
Even with that attempt to settle herself, she's not so much kipping up as she is bounding to her feet, immediately bouncing her way into a tumbling pass across the floor exercise mat that's to her left. Handsprings, backflips, no-handed layouts and front flips-- they all start blurring together, each movement connecting smoothly with the last. It's a good couple of minutes before she's stopping again, though this time it's not so much the head rush (though that's certainly present all over again) that has her taking pause. It's the sound of that radio's station being changed, the classic-and-more-recent rock dissolving into static that turns into the peppy, happy pop that her siblings have conspired to make her hate. A low groan leaves the blond's lips as her head turns to regard the more, ah... sardonic version of her family's infamous grin, gleaming white teeth and eyes as blue as her own about the only things that are clearly visible.
Hey, this isn't Musical Mats. Get back to work.
Oh shut up, Isaiah.
Eliza rolls her eyes as her brother emerges from the shadows with a chuckle, the male Dresden almost a foot taller than his younger sibling and just as fond of black as he was when they were kids. Shoulder-length hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, the array of piercings along his left ear gleam in the fluorescents overhead as he approaches-- though it's clear that Isaiah's smart enough to know that sassing his baby sister is best done with a large iced mocha from McDonald's. He offers it up as he gets within range, Eliza snatching it out of his hands to take a large swig.
I know you're only saying that because you're wound up tighter than my date's ass--
--on prom night, yadda yadda, other pig-headed jokes here.
An overdramatic gasp and Isaiah's clutching his chest over his heart with his right hand, his expression twisting into a histrionic expression of being in pain. It's outright comical, considering how he's delving into Shatner levels of ridiculousness.
Your assumptions wound me, Liza. How cruel and sexist you are to assume that all of my jokes are perverse. I have a few clean ones in there.
A few more sips of that coffee-chocolate elixir and Eliza's seeing fit to respond, her tone that prim-and-proper sort of prissy that has long since been as much of an annoyance to her brother as the pop music he had turned on solely to mess with her.
Yeah, mostly because of Grandma... and she's not here right now.
For a moment, Isaiah is content to keep that Dresden smirk upon his lips-- but then he's reaching out and snatching what's left of that treat from his kid sister's grip. Ignoring the sound of protest it causes, he leans down, his eyes meeting Eliza's own as his tone comes as close as it can to their mother's tone that never left any room for argument... not even for them.
You know what else isn't here right now? Your focus. So you should focus more on getting ready to do that while I do some...research on your potential opponents.
At first, it seems as if he's even managed to channel the utter and total obedience that the Dresden matriarch has been able to call into being ever since she brought her first child into the world... and if he had left off that last bit, then Isaiah may have had it. Since he broke the spell by not being able to resist the joke, though, Eliza's scoffing to herself, shaking her head even as she drops down to begin doing push-ups.
Translation: you're going to look up pictures and jerk off to anyone that's attractive.
A dismissive wave of his hand.
Same difference.
11:48 PM E.S.T.
Meadville, Pennsylvania
Yeeeaaaah, I am the astro creep.
A demolition style, Hell American freak, yeah...
A demolition style, Hell American freak, yeah...
The mental image of a class of nine-year-old girls, all in pastel pink and taupe, doing a floor work routine to White Zombie is enough to earn a snort of a laugh... but she can't focus on that.
Not when Eliza Dresden knows that she still has some serious work to do.
It has taken her almost twenty years of her life to earn the privilege of using the gymnastics space at the YMCA whenever she chooses, though a lot of her having her own key is born of her coaches being sick and tired of her finding her own way in. It was their fault for trying to confine her energy to limited hours... though she supposes she should be fair in admitting that part of it is her utter and absolute refusal to be contained. Holding things back has never been in her personality-- Hell, one can easily call it the dominant Dresden family trait. Her older sister taught her how to unlock the stereo and turn the radio station to 94.3:The Wuzz when she was still young enough to be wearing pigtails and the aforementioned generic practice get-up, not to mention how to sneak those bland articles of clothing into her brother's laundry so that all of the black he insisted on wearing would turn them dark as well. Only her mother's able to have any outward semblance of nuance and control, and even that has been worn down over the years after being surrounded by four Type A bulldozer-sorts that do as they want and damn the consequences. It's a right shame none of that tact was carried on the same genes that gave the blond her hair and the particular sort of smirk that looks like it can set a town on fire without needing a single match or drop of gasoline, but it is what it is. Eminem might've rapped about what happens when a tornado meets a volcano, but she knows that she's the answer--
Whoooaaaa...
...and the wave of dizziness she feels right along with that wobble tells her that it's time to stop hand-standing around.
That grip on the balance beam beneath her head tightens that little bit more as she slowly bends her elbows, the movement a graceful and gradual one that suddenly explodes upward and backward, Eliza throwing herself into a short series of backflips that pick up speed. Her feet come down on the end of the beam just long enough to push herself upward all the higher, gravity ignored for the second or two she can manage it as she twists her way through that final flip. There's no applause waiting for when she sticks the landing-- and there's also no one around to groan in dismay at how she overdramatically flops backwards to the blue mat beneath her, her gaze directed by default to the ceiling above her. She knows that the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, but she's close enough to basking in the sun if she closes her eyes partway. From there, imagining herself in a sunbeam that seems to only ever be itself at the peak of summer is easy as pie... and she needs that thimble's worth of relaxation, of what comes as close to calm as she gets. It's about the only way to contain herself when the thought that has repeated itself over and over again ever since she got the call informing her that her contract was finalized a mere six hours before.
My first pro match is happening. It's finally happening!
Even with that attempt to settle herself, she's not so much kipping up as she is bounding to her feet, immediately bouncing her way into a tumbling pass across the floor exercise mat that's to her left. Handsprings, backflips, no-handed layouts and front flips-- they all start blurring together, each movement connecting smoothly with the last. It's a good couple of minutes before she's stopping again, though this time it's not so much the head rush (though that's certainly present all over again) that has her taking pause. It's the sound of that radio's station being changed, the classic-and-more-recent rock dissolving into static that turns into the peppy, happy pop that her siblings have conspired to make her hate. A low groan leaves the blond's lips as her head turns to regard the more, ah... sardonic version of her family's infamous grin, gleaming white teeth and eyes as blue as her own about the only things that are clearly visible.
Hey, this isn't Musical Mats. Get back to work.
Oh shut up, Isaiah.
Eliza rolls her eyes as her brother emerges from the shadows with a chuckle, the male Dresden almost a foot taller than his younger sibling and just as fond of black as he was when they were kids. Shoulder-length hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, the array of piercings along his left ear gleam in the fluorescents overhead as he approaches-- though it's clear that Isaiah's smart enough to know that sassing his baby sister is best done with a large iced mocha from McDonald's. He offers it up as he gets within range, Eliza snatching it out of his hands to take a large swig.
I know you're only saying that because you're wound up tighter than my date's ass--
--on prom night, yadda yadda, other pig-headed jokes here.
An overdramatic gasp and Isaiah's clutching his chest over his heart with his right hand, his expression twisting into a histrionic expression of being in pain. It's outright comical, considering how he's delving into Shatner levels of ridiculousness.
Your assumptions wound me, Liza. How cruel and sexist you are to assume that all of my jokes are perverse. I have a few clean ones in there.
A few more sips of that coffee-chocolate elixir and Eliza's seeing fit to respond, her tone that prim-and-proper sort of prissy that has long since been as much of an annoyance to her brother as the pop music he had turned on solely to mess with her.
Yeah, mostly because of Grandma... and she's not here right now.
For a moment, Isaiah is content to keep that Dresden smirk upon his lips-- but then he's reaching out and snatching what's left of that treat from his kid sister's grip. Ignoring the sound of protest it causes, he leans down, his eyes meeting Eliza's own as his tone comes as close as it can to their mother's tone that never left any room for argument... not even for them.
You know what else isn't here right now? Your focus. So you should focus more on getting ready to do that while I do some...research on your potential opponents.
At first, it seems as if he's even managed to channel the utter and total obedience that the Dresden matriarch has been able to call into being ever since she brought her first child into the world... and if he had left off that last bit, then Isaiah may have had it. Since he broke the spell by not being able to resist the joke, though, Eliza's scoffing to herself, shaking her head even as she drops down to begin doing push-ups.
Translation: you're going to look up pictures and jerk off to anyone that's attractive.
A dismissive wave of his hand.
Same difference.
