Status
Nervous?
He was. A few light bounces on the balls of his feet, and a roll of the neck that sent the mop flailing. Jack's an Illusionist, not a fighter. But Avis was a stabber and an archer so that's fair, right?
The theatre that had been converted into a training area had thin, hard gym mats in one corner, along with leftovers from Asp -- a body bag, speed bag, weights. He'd used the weights recently. A lot. The arms that stuck out of the Public Image Limited shirt weren't the blood and sinew sticks they'd been a year ago, and the sweat pants didn't bulge obscenely at the knees. It's no beach body. Or even wet t-shirt material. But it was the sweat and tears (and screams of anguish when he thought he was alone) of two years worth of rehab.
Was it weird to be proud of finally having forearms as big as your partners?
"Okay. No dirty stuff." Seriously. He pointed. That's right. You. Nobody needs anyone going Tyson on Holyfield's ear. "And watch the teeth. Caps are crazy expensive."
He bounced again. Talking, still nervous, talking for nerves.
"...and no Shields."
Right. Because Kitty Kim.
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