Since retiring from the NFL after faking an Achilles tendon injury, Tug has set a routine to keep himself from going out of his mind with boredom. Today is no different. He wakes up at five in the morning and makes himself a banana-berry'n'egg-super protein smoothee. He touches his arm, feels how easily his flesh yields without the Supernal woven into it, and sighs. He walks over to the home's small Hallow, located in the large back room with enormous bay windows.
The previous owner had been a kind middle-aged woman who ran a child-care facility out of the home, and the Hallow's resonance had taken on a joyous, child-like quality that always put him in the mind of candy and toy fire trucks. Tug has filled the room with plants since it gets so much sun, some of which are fairly exotic. He breathes deeply, then speaks in Atlantean and initiates a day-long Shield with his Life magic, and feels his skin tighten slightly as it becomes as dense as a rhinoceros' hide.
Organic Resilience
Then he jogs up to a county rec center track, where he alternates between wind sprints and body-weight plyometric exercises. At six a.m., he jogs back home to use the weight machines in his basement. Today, it's lower-body work; he could always be more explosive. Afterwards, he hits the showers and reads the paper, making a face at how his stocks are doing.
He's been checking out local boxing and MMA gyms on-line, but nothing has really caught his eye. He knows how important the right coach is. He walks back to the Hallow and tries a Fate spell he's only used occasionally to find the 'right' place...
Winds of Chance
...eventually, he gets it right. He goes back to his computer, tries the search again, and chooses a random search page. At the top is one he hasn't seen before, just a name, Red Rock Gym, an address, and a phone number. It isn't in the best part of town, from what Tug can tell, and he smiles. I want to learn from someone who's had to use it, right?
The neighborhood isn't totally bleak, but it's not the kind of place you'd want to get caught after dark. Tug parks his Escalade behind the large one-story building, which appears to be a converted warehouse. It's clearly in need of repair; as he walks in, he notices the white paint is peeling off the facade.
An elderly, heavy-set Spanish man leans back in his chair behind the short desk, watching boxing on a small television. His hand freezes inside his Cheeto bag. "Can I help you?"
Tug takes in the dingy, windowless excuse of a gym and wonders if Fate is just messing with him, and he'll go back outside to find his truck on blocks. "Hiya. I want to learn boxing. This the place?"
"Yeeaah," he says cautiously, as if it were a secret. "Why you wanna' learn?"
That's an odd question. Looks like they could use as many members as they can get. "Umm...I just finished watching Rocky? Does it really matter? I can pay. Cash, if you want. But I want to get started right away. Are you the teacher?"
The old man burps. "Thas me. Humberto," he nods heavily. "Ok, Mr. Cash, you wanna learn to fight? You follow me, we gonna whup your big ass into shape..." He pushes his chair away from his desk and rises, breathing heavily, and leads Tug past the ring in the center of the back room, toward a black heavy bag...