paradisalogs | train in vain

Entry tags:

train in vain

Who: Ben & Brock
What: Punching away your feelings, eg. a training log
When: Right now!! Whoa!!!
Where: Archery range, thereabouts
Rating: probably harmless

Brock's seriously beginning to suspect the castle has it out for him. Well, maybe more than usual -- the castle appears to be a largely malevolent force, so it's difficult to deny that it has it out for everyone.

But he thought he was getting shit together. He lined up a couple of tutors and trainees for learning the ropes in self defense, and everything was going fine.

Then the castle sent about half of them home in one fell swoop. This place.

Still, he's got Ben. He guesses that's... something. Maybe. The kid's got potential, maybe, but it's hard to tell sometimes with these suburbanite kids who never got in a fight in their lives.

Brock's setting up the obstacle course -- which is really just a series of hiding places and some dummies scattered around -- because hell if he can remember what he assigned himself to train this kid on. Might as well just teach him how to be a spy, right? He's setting it up near the archery range because that place happens to have the best dummies, and not many people use it anymore, anyway.

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Ben honestly considered not showing up today. To spend another day hiding in his room, waiting for...something. Maybe for the castle to have enough of him and send him home, maybe if he was boring enough, it'd do that. Make this whole mess end.

Of course, that plan didn't work, and here he still is. So, in a split decision he think he'll probably regret later, he heads off towards the archery range, hands in his pockets, head bowed. He pauses on the periphery of Brock's setup, taking it in. Dear God what was he even going to be doing?

"Uh...hey."

It's a good thing Ben decided to show up, because Brock probably would have hunted him down. And most people don't really need a huge guy knocking on their door in the middle of the afternoon -- or anytime, really.

Brock's setup is actually pretty ridiculous-looking, it's true. The dummies are spread out in the area, but so too are piles of hay and stacks of crates and other makeshift hiding places that he dragged out here. There was already a tree here, but judging by everything else lying around, it's a pretty easy connection to make that Ben is gonna have to climb it eventually.

Brock pauses in tying the last of the dummies to a stake in the ground, and glances over his shoulder. "Oh, hey. You made it."

Ben grimaces at the tree. Great, high places that are easy to fall from, those are the best places to be. Still, he asked for this, and he knows he needs to follow through. It's what the others would have wanted.

That and Tess would probably break his legs if he didn't turn up to this thing. That too.

"Yeah," an awkward pause. "So...uh. What have you got planned today?"

Yeah, that's right, Ben. Do it because a woman is scary. That's never a bad reason to do a thing in Brock's experience.

Brock gestures at the dummies. "Just some training exercises. Here."

He tosses a pocket knife -- folded, thanks -- underhanded in Ben's direction. First, secret test: if he actually manages to catch it.

It's a damn good reason, especially when aforementioned woman has the sort of battle skills that would make the best cagefighter thing twice about picking a fight with her.

Of course, Ben does not catch it, rather he fumbles with it awkwardly, before it lands on the ground with a dull thud. Ben winces, bending down to pick it up. He was going to fail so bad, he just knew it.

"Uh...ok."

Wow, Ben... wow...

Maybe this isn't going to be as easy as Brock thought.

He suppresses a sigh, trying to be encouraging, maybe. Or at least not outright disappointed. Teenagers have fragile egos, he knows.

"Alright. Open it up and go stab that guy in the throat," he says, pointing at a dummy a few yards away. Welcome to training with Brock Samson.

The rest of his group are literally the reason he lived as long as he did. Yep. Ben's ego has already been damaged beyond repair (thanks, Lily and Kenny!) but he seems to appreciate that Brock hasn't completely chewed him out.

"...That sounds too easy," because as pathetic as he is, he's still one of those pesky zombie apoclaypse kids, he smells a trap.

Still, he'll start towards it, at a jog, glancing around him for possible dangers. He is so gonna get his butt kicked, he just knows it.

Luckily, Brock has experience with completely useless teenage boys. (Hi, Dean.) Which isn't to say he won't snap at him eventually... he's patient, but not a superman.

For his part, Brock just folds his arms and watches. Totally normal. Nothing weird here.

No, really, there is nothing here but a dummy for Ben to stab. And Brock squinting in silent judgment... why is this kid looking around like that...

"What are you -- kill him!"

To his credit, Ben doesn't look at Brock while he's spoken to, instead, he continues, moving a little faster, but still looking for danger.

"There could be anything waiting to jump the fuck out on me, I'm making sure the coast is clear."

Whoa, Ben! Language!

"It's not a trick murder, just stab the freakin' thing in the face."

Never, he's Telltale, he has a cussing quota to keep to. Ben lets out a huff, doing as he's told, of course, he aims the knife at an angle, to try and go upwards into the brain. Once you know how to kill zombies, it seems a hard habit to break.

Okay, well. That's a thing. Brock raises his eyebrows and watches this kid's technique, then comes over once he's done, like, stabbing the thing in the brain? What the...

"Honestly, I was expecting you to drop the thing. Maybe cry. So... you got potential, I guess."

Pep talks from Brock Samson.

Thanks, Brock, thanks. Ben frowns, folding his arms.

"I'm not that bad, I've just...seen some shit."

You're welcome! It's what he's here for. Guidance and, you know, encouragement. Kinda.

"Yeah, you and everyone else in this place," he says a little dismissively. Not that he's dismissing the so-called shit that Ben's seen, but there's no point in dwelling on it. Nobody's going to give him points for throwing a pity party.

"So, alright. Next, go hide in that pile of hay," he continues, pointing to the hay. Like this is a normal thing to request of someone.

But he likes his pity parties. He has a pity piñata and everything. Ben looks from the hay, to Brock, then back again.

"...What am I hiding from, exactly?"

Only if the piñata is full of, like, those little packs of tissues that women keep in their purses. You know, for his tears.

Brock looks at Ben like maybe he's being difficult just for the sake of being difficult. Which he probably is. Teenagers.

"What, you want me to tell you a story? Look -- you're gonna need to learn to attack from a hiding spot. Basic defensive tactic if you're under siege."

That's exactly what it would be filled with. And yes, Mister Training Man, he does indeed want a story. Let him visualise it, god. He casts Brock a dubious look, before sighing and skulking off to hide in the hay.

This is gonna play hell with his allergies.

God. Sometimes he misses hanging out with the Venture twins, but that's probably because he doesn't spend enough time with teenagers anymore. This is reminding him how annoying they can be.

Once Ben's inside the hay, Brock grabs a dummy and moves it over there, plunking it down nearby before taking a few steps back, lighting another cigarette.

"Okay. There's a dummy in front of you -- try to see him through the hay without disturbing any of it. You don't wanna tip him off."

This is weird. And probably stupid. How is he supposed to be stealthy in HAY? Ben exhales, trying to move without disturbing the hay, and of course, dropping a huge clod of it right on top of the dummy.

"Aww, shit."

It's a little stupid, yes. Has Brock ever mentioned that the man who trained him to be a spy was a complete psychopath?

"Yeah, see, now you just got shot in the face," he says, miming some shooty gestures with his hands next to the dummy. Bang bang.

"If you have to breathe, take shallow breaths. But the first thing you do whenever you find a hiding spot is find a line of sight, so you don't wind up sitting around blind until some guy's too close."

Ben just..stares, for a moment, before exhaling.

"Okay, okay, but how do I do that without disturbing any of the hay?"

"You do that first," he says. "'cause when you jump in there, you're disturbing it anyway, right? So first thing you do, jump in there and position yourself so you can see."

Ben still doesn't look all that sure, he frowns between Brock and the hay pile.

"...Ooookay."

He'll try getting in, more gingerly this time, still disturbing hey with his big, clodding feet.

Ben. Ben. Ben, no.

Brock sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Okay... maybe we'll try something else."

Ben pauses, half in and half out of the hay pile. He knew he'd suck super bad at this, he just knew.

"...Okay? Like what?"

No more stealth dear god no more stealth.

Unfortunately, that's pretty much all Brock is good at. Sneaking around, cutting dudes' throats, punching guys' faces in. Ben doesn't seem great at sneaking, and he doesn't seem like the kind of kid who'd be cool (or capable) with breaking some bones just with his fists, so...

"Well, you were pretty good with that knife," he says slowly, then pauses and frowns. "Why are you so good with a knife?"

Ben looks down at the knife, before exhaling. This is...probably something Brock needs to learn eventually, if he's going to keep training him.

"It's kind of the end of the world, for me, back home," he says. "As in, dead walking the earth end of the world."

Ben mentioned something like this before, how he was from a world in a similar situation to Tess's. Unfortunately, he didn't really know what Tess's world was like either, apart from some post-apocalyptic police state sort of thing.

Though there was that giant fungus thing in the hall that had killed Molotov. Tess knew about it. She knew what it was because it came from her world.

Brock frowns again, dropping his cigarette to the ground and putting it out under his foot. "Like... zombie apocalypse kind of stuff? Jeez. That's pretty rough. But it must be a nice vacation being here, right? For the most part."

Ben always found it fascinating, how two worlds could go through such similar, yet different disasters. It makes a rag-tag group for them here at the castle, at least. Bonded together via living through suck. He gives a small nod, to answer that first question, before fixing his gaze downward as the second comes up.

"I don't think it really counts as a vacation. You ususally go back from vacations."

Brock's found a lot of worlds to have similar situations to his own. A lot of comic book-level weirdness; superheroes and costumed villainy and mutants. He'd make some guesses about alternate realities and all that bullshit, but he doesn't really care.

He squints at Ben's reaction, because that's... a weird thing to say...

"Yeah, that's the running theory about what happens when people leave. They go back home."

Ben gives a shrug, still staring at the ground, wishing for all the world his loss would just change, so he could give Brock a half-assed lie instead. Of course, it doesn't.

"I'm dead back home, so not so much, for me."

Oh. Well, that's... a thing. Brock's known a few people who were alive pretty much only because Paradisa, but that doesn't really make it easier to think of something to say.

He sort of awkwardly puts his hand on Ben's shoulder, though, all manly-llike. There, there?

"That's rough, man. How do you... know?"

God that is so awkward, and Ben casts Brock a half-confused-half-terrified look for it.

"Because I got here the second it happened. There's some shit you don't walk away from."

Like a bullet to the head.

Look, he's not very good at this thing, Ben, don't hate.

"Oh," he says slowly, because what else do you say to that. Jesus christ. Though if Brock knows his zombie lore properly, and he does because his next-door neighbor is a necromancer, getting killed during a zombie apocalypse isn't really the worst case scenario.

"Well, on the other hand, at least you didn't... you know."

Get zombified? Is that insensitive? Well, anyway. Brock lights another cigarette.

"That why you're all twitchy all the time?"

At least he's trying. Ben grimaces, knowing exactly where Brock was going with that, and shakes his head.

"One of my group made sure that wouldn't happen."

Brock can take that as he will. The teen looks again at the pile of hay, and the dummy.

"I'm better than I was, I've lived here a year now. But you still get used to jumping at shadows and noises, you never know, back home, when that sort of thing is gonna kill you."

Ah. Well, at least someone had the same idea and took care of it. He shakes his head anyway; it's a hell of a way to go, regardless.

Maybe Ben was expecting some pity or sage words of advice or something, but neither of those things are really up Brock's alley. What he does is this: he laughs -- not in a cruel or mean way, but that sort of short, monosyllabic ha! that comes out when someone says something particularly ironic or just damn profound -- and slaps Ben on the back.

"You're halfway to becoming a spy, in that case. Only difference is, a spy doesn't jump -- we make sure we kill the other thing first."

Ben starts at the laugh. He wasn't especially expecting it, the slap on the back does little to calm the teen down, as he takes a jump out of Brock's reach. Halfway is still a whole long way, it seems.

"I thought there was more to spying than that. Like, y'know, being super smart and being able to get into parties and stop ambassadors getting kidnapped and stuff."

Yes. Because real life is just like James Bond.

Whoa, touchy kid. Well, whatever; Brock holds a hand up in front of him to indicate he didn't mean any harm, then drops it to his side. With his other hand, he ashes his cigarette casually onto the ground. No big deal.

"Yeah, well, that's part of it. Most of it is honestly just killing guys. You can't really teach that kind of instinct, but you got the... hyper vigilance down okay already, so. You'll be alright."

He's so super touchy. Sorry, Brock.

"That's only because I didn't have a choice. You're vigilant or your Walker food."

He is assuming a Walker is a zombie... because what else could it be. Context clues!

Still, he shrugs. "You're right -- you didn't have a choice. Here, it's a little different. I been here, like, four years and we've never had a zombie yet."

There was that mushroom thing that killed Molotov, but it didn't really translate as zombie to him. Go figure.

"Point is, you can get a fresh start here. Turn all that jittery, scared crap into an advantage, you know what I mean?"

"We got a bloater, though. That thing nearly fucking killed us."

There you go, Brock. A lesson in infected-things and the naming of them. Feel learned in this area. Ben gives a soft shrug, casting his gaze downwards.

"Yeah, I hear a lot of that fresh start stuff around here."

They pretty much get nearly killed every other month, Ben. Of course, that sort of thing is old hat to Brock -- the world he lives in, the people he surrounds himself with -- so he could be a little more blasé than most people. He sort of snorts, but doesn't really say anything about that.

Fresh starts, though. That's a different thing. "It's definitely true. You just need to be open to it, is all."

He continues to look at the ground. That's the crux of it, isn't it? He's never truly been open to it. He wanted to die back home, to gain some sort of...karmic redemption for all the trouble and death he's caused. And he got what he wanted, he died, and then by some horrible twist of fate, he was brought here, forced to carry on when he'd been ready to just stop.

"I hear that a lot, too."

"Listen," he says, thumping Ben on the back again and then moving on toward another dummy, gesturing vaguely in the air with his cigarette as he goes. "Let's just keep training. Who knows, maybe you'll stop being bad at it and you'll find a niche or something, I dunno. Either way, sometimes it just helps to stab stuff."

Ben winces, because, well, let's face it, he's a skinny little nothing and Brock is strong. Still, he sighs and nods, picking up his knife again.

"Okay, I guess it does."

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