iprotectyou | OOM: Kidlets

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OOM: Kidlets

Young Baze was never the most patient of people. That award belongs to his friend, Chirrut--or so Baze thinks. So when the elders of the Temple of the Kyber told him that he would be the one running the children's martial arts class, he balked.

"Hello," Baze says, entering the class where the children--ages anywhere from six years old to nine--are waiting for him. He steps lightly despite his massive bulk, and stands at the front of the lined up students. "My name is Baze Malbus, and I'll be teaching you today."

"Hello, teacher Baze," the students say in unison. Sort of. There are a few stragglers.

"It's time to learn how to breathe. First, make sure you're standing up straight," Baze says, clasping his hands behind him to keep from fidgeting. "Next, we'll draw a breath. Pretend you're sucking air in from the bottoms of your toes to the tops of your heads..."

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"Brat," Baze mutters under his breath, not intending to be overheard by anyone except a certain someone with exceptional hearing.

He turns to the front of the class again, addressing the kids. "All right, now it's time to come at me. All of you, all at once--except you, Chirrut."

The children exchange glances with one another, looking vaguely uneasy. Baze reassures them that this is what he wants. "It's all right. I want you to show me what you know."

The first boy who attacks is taller than the others, and yelling, "hyah!" as he charges. Baze easily catches his punch and shoves him back--but not to the point where he falls over.

The boy's second charge emboldens a few of the others, and Baze is soon swarmed by all ten kidlets. He mock-roars at them, tripping a few and shoving others, but eventually allows himself to be brought down by a particularly adventurous girl who tackles him from behind. "Noooo," he says mournfully, buried under the throng of children, dissolving into laughter.

Edited 2017-04-04 05:41 (UTC)

Chirrut is intensely relieved Baze doesn't intend for him to join this melee. The odds of him tripping over a child are ridiculously high. They have a high propensity towards randomly falling over.

Left to his own devices for the moment, he kneels gracefully, listening to the sounds of the (very fierce) battle. Since he's not acting for kids at the moment, he giggles at the children's shouts of victory.

"All right, all right," Baze says eventually, after curling up in the fetal position to better shield his face from the kicks and punches. He straightens out and sits up, despite the children clinging to his arms and pulling him down. After a brief tickle-fight, he stands, hoisting one small boy under his arm. "I think it's Chirrut's turn now. Make sure you stand out of the way."

He sets the boy down and shoos the whole group off to the other side of the room, and then faces Chirrut. His bearing sharpens, going from loose and relaxed to taut and springy. He drops into a fighter's stance, bending his knees slightly and raising his hands in front of him. "Come at me."

Chirrut hears the cadence of Baze's movements shift, and he grins wolfishly. Leaping to his feet, he moves to mirror Baze's pose, known from long years of sparring.

Ruefully he acknowledges with a tilt of his head that maybe he shouldn't have been so dramatic in rising. He can hear the rush of whispers that move set off, and suspects the infirmary will be home to a wave of chipped teeth, scraped chins, and bloodied noses. The children probably won't try any of the proper fighting styles any time soon... but they'll figure that one just within their reach.

He lets the moment go, focusing instead on the creak of the mat as Baze shifts his weight, the rhythm of his breathing, the echos of the room giving him an idea of available space. There's a moment of stillness, and then he charges - silent and sure and deadly as an adder. He attacks in a flurry of punches, spending the last of the speed of his rush in a sweeping high kick aimed at the side of Baze's head.

Time seems to slow for Baze. Baze draws a deep breath as Chirrut approaches. He can see only parts of Chirrut: the veins in his temple, the curl of his lips into a smirk, the way he pumps his legs and arms in fast, economical movements.

Baze barely has time to register the gasps of the children as Chirrut goes on the warpath. The first punch grazes Baze's chest. The next, he blocks. And the next. And the next. He then tilts his chin up and his shoulders back, causing Chirrut to narrowly miss with his kick.

Then Baze attacks. His first blow feels sluggish. He knows as soon as he launches it that he'll miss. Powerful muscles honed from years of sparring snap into place as he throws another punch, aimed at Chirrut's face. "Hyah!"

Being punched by Baze is not a joke - Chirrut knows that if he gets caught in the face, he'll be waking up in the infirmary later. He also knows there is no way he's going to be able to manhandle Baze the way he can some of the leaner Guardians - it'd be easier to shove the city walls down. When the punch comes he doesn't have time to dodge to the side, instead choosing to bend back like a reed in the wind, bracing his foot behind him for balance. Its that same leg he brings up in retaliation, aiming to drive his knee into Baze's guts.

Baze lifts up on his toes, taking the hit to the stomach but lessening the impact of it. He coughs once, twice. And again. Then he drops to the floor. Rolls. Stands. And charges Chirrut with a jab aimed at his temple, followed up by a roundhouse kick.

He's a hair slow dodging the jab, sent jerking sideways by the force of the blow, but he gets under the kick and bulls into Baze, forcing that leg up and aiming to upset his balance.

Striking Chirrut always feels like punching flesh-covered steel. Baze staggers back, recovers, and roars. He rushes at Chirrut, using his shoulder to barrel through towards Chirrut's chest.

Chirrut's feet leave the ground in a rush, along with all of the air in his lungs, but he refuses to give up quite so easily. He twines his legs around Baze's chest, stabilizing himself so he can pummel Baze's head with vicious elbow strikes.

All the while trying very hard not to think about the wall that he's sure is rushing up behind him. It lends a special vigor to his strikes.

Stars flood Baze's vision. Pain floods his head. He keeps running. The children scramble to get out of the way as Baze slams Chirrut into the wall, headbutting his chest to knock the air out of him once again.

With Chirrut pinned against the wall by Baze's shoulder, he takes the opportunity to slam his fists into his friend's ribs and sides.

Yup, that's the wall. He grunts with the force of impact, digging his heels in when the shock of it tries to rattle him loose. His ability to draw a decent breath is further compromised by the beating he takes.

So he returns the favor, snaking an arm around Baze's neck and tightening, forcing his forearm under Baze's chin.

Baze struggles for air as dizziness overwhelms him. His punches become less intense, less focused. He tilts his head back, gasping for air. Finally, he steps back from the wall, supporting Chirrut at the small of his back.

"I yield," he croaks, nearly dropping to one knee and swaying on his feet.

Chirrut instantly releases Baze, dropping his hold on throat and chest, reaching back for the wall to support himself as he pulls away. There is none of his usual fluid grace at the moment as he staggers, finally ending up using the wall to hold himself upright.

"Your close-quarter punching has improved." He notes, breathlessly.

Baze grunts. "I still lost," he says ruefully, rubbing his throat.

The stunned children seem to move as one, shifting on their feet and regarding Baze and Chirrut with wide eyes. A couple cautiously approach the pair near the walls. "Are you all right?" one asks, distraught, and Baze isn't sure if that question is directed towards him or Chirrut.

"Are you... Are you friends?" asks another, and Baze feels guilt run him through.

"Yes," he croaks. "Even though we don't look it at the moment, we are the best of friends."

"Who else would I trust so much?" Chirrut asks, his shrug learned by knowing the feel of Baze's. "This is as close as we both can come to true fighting without it being a real fight - I know he would stop if I asked for quarter, as I did for him." He pushes himself off the wall, and pats Baze's shoulder in passing as he heads for where he knows he left his bottle of water.

The kids still look disquieted. A couple of them rub their throats, and one of the younger ones looks like he's about to cry.

Baze gulps some air. "It's time to meditate," he wheezes, his throat still sore. "Think on what we've learned today. Breathe deep from your toes. Know how to punch, and kick. Next time we'll work on proper forms."

Baze drops to the floor gracefully, folding his legs over one another in the lotus position. He rests his hands in his lap and closes his eyes after making sure the children do the same.

Chirrut sucks down a fair amount of his water before making to join them again. Halfway there, however, he pauses, tilting his head curiously.

Then, on silent feet, he pads over to one of the open windows, and gently reaches through.

A few minutes and a bit more careful maneuvering later, he's dropping to the floor with considerably less grace than Baze, still awkward from what will be a spectacularly bruised chest.

Ribbit goes the center of the room, loud in the calm silence.

Ribbit, the frog croaks, and Baze cracks open one eye. Ribbit. Ribbit, ribbit.

A titter breaks out in the room. The children shift in their positions. One of them is bold enough to crawl on her hands and knees towards Chirrut, inspecting his prize.

She crouches near him, and reaches a gentle hand out to tap his shoulder. "Can I see?" she whispers, loud in the quiet room.

Cautiously he opens his hands, revealing a brilliant green and gold tree frog, its wide eyes nearly as pale as Chirrut's.

"Would you like to hold him?"

The girl squeals, holding her hands to her face. The other students abandon their poses, and drift toward Chirrut and the new arrival. "Yes, please!" the girl says, making grabby hands for the slimy animal.

Baze chuckles, shaking his head. Trust Chirrut to make things lighthearted again.

"Ahh, what did teacher Baze say about your breathing?" Chirrut shields the tiny creature from over-eager hands, raising an eyebrow (another gesture he has stolen, whole-cloth).

"But that's just for fighting!" One of the boys huffs from the back of the pack.

"Not necessarily," Baze says, resting his hands on his knees. "Centering yourself with breathing exercises is good to do before and after fighting, as well as in your daily life."

He stands, abandoning the meditative practice, seeing as all the children have as well. Ribbit, goes the frog, and the girl who first grabbed at it sits back on her haunches.

"Please?" she says. "Please, teacher Chirrut? Can I hold him?"

"Well? Are you centered?" He asks in return. The girl stares at him, judging his stubbornness on this in comparison to her own, and thumps back onto the mat, crossing her legs almost sulkily. Chirrut doesn't wait for her fidgeting to cease, as will be expected further along. Instead, once she's managed to take a deep breath, he presents her with his prize.

"Hold him gently - he has allowed us to take him from his daily life for a time, and we must honor that gift."

"Oooh," the girl says, stroking the top of the frog's tiny head with her thumbs as she cradles him close to her chest. "Thank you!"

The other students surround the girl. "My turn next!" one says.

"No, pick me!" says another.

Baze wanders over to Chirrut and the children, getting a good look at the animal as he approaches. He watches for a little while as the kids crowd around the girl in the center, and then sits on Chirrut's shoulders, ruffling his cropped hair.

Edited 2017-04-04 08:14 (UTC)

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