Abagael Zellan
Jun 11th, 2003, 09:00:17 AM
OOC: I’m not sure where this is going specifically, only that it’s leading to some insight into a part of Abagael’s past that has been blanked by her subconscious to protect her body from shock. It is part one of a three. That is all. :)
IC:
Three days. She’d been at the Greater Jedi Order for only three days now, and yet it seemed to her that every minute crept forward with agonizing slowness. Abagael had told herself that for the first few days she would not, would not, go to the office. The psychological repercussions of this personal decision were mind numbing. It seemed as if legal infractions were just popping up everywhere, cruel taunts that brought her thoughts back to the corporate job that she’d knelt in for ten years now.
Cooping herself up in her quarters hadn’t done any good. In fact it had worsened the situation, and her sons constant noise had driven her up the wall. If the truth were to be told, Abagael Zellan was one woman who wasn’t cut out for parenting. She was completely lost in the monumental task and instead of trying to tread water, Abby had resigned herself to floating aimlessly. Trent didn’t care, or if he did, the child didn’t show it.
Finally, on this third day, she could take it no more and had ventured out of her spacious room to the training facilities. Abagael didn’t have a Master yet—a fact that she paid little heed to—but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t shape herself up. And that was how she came to be wearing the boxing gloves.
The punching bag had been hanging in a corner of one of the gyms, and for some reason Abagael had the sudden irrepressible need to go and try a whack at it. As far as she knew she’d never tried one before. But if that were true, she shouldn’t have been able to tape her hands so expertly, to select and slide on the gloves with such ease.
Holos. I’ve seen it done on holos.
It was the only line of reasoning that fit, that explained away her doubts. And so Abagael accepted it and took a swing at the bag.
She was good. She was very, very good.
One hand stayed constantly in front of her face at all times, protecting it from the invisible opponent as the woman struck out against the bag again and again, never letting it rest. Abby had expected the gloves to feel heavy and awkward on her hands but instead they became an extension of her appendages, becoming red blurs as the erratic strikes became an intricate, orchestrated dance. Muscles she hadn’t known she had were put into play, becoming more compliant and flexible with every move. Her footwork was a frenzy of steady hops, allowing movement in all directions at a seconds notice. The transformation was incredible. Abagael, the tense lawyer-Padawan, had become a machine, both fluid and precisely calculated in her moves.
“Bastard!”
She didn’t mean to bark out the word. It flew from her mouth on it’s own accord, and suddenly it seemed the right thing to have been spoken.
“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!”
Each procured profanity was punctuated by a punch, louder and harder every time. And as the blows continued to rain down on the innocent piece of equipment, hot angry tears slipped from the corners of her bright blue orbs. A weaving was occurring between the present and past memories that she couldn’t see, but rather felt; the desperate clinging hold of entrapment. As the feeling of panic grew Abagael broke her reign of hooks and enthroned a roundhouse on the flailing bag. But her stride was beginning to waver, her punches striking just off slightly. Abby didn’t notice. She was lost to it all.
“God, please. Please stop it.”
The words were whispered in a jerky plea, for her breath was coming quick. They weren’t directed at the bag, but rather at herself. Something was happening to Abagael. She was remembering.
***********
A pile of credits, on a desk. The room was shadows upon shadows.
“I don’t have it all yet…”
Her voice, and then she saw a glimpse of herself. Younger, years younger…maybe only twenty. Her hair was short and there was an appealing naivety about her.
“Our agreement was for reimbursement in full.”
Couldn’t see, who was talking?
“I know, and I swear I’ll pay you back ju—“
Do you know what shockboxing, is Miss Zellan?”
The memory jerked suddenly and ran together, like a bad reel of film. And then it faded.
************
“No!”
Crack!
The leather seam of the bag split a good three inches. But even that could not snap Abagael out of her furious attack. It seemed as if she were determined to go until she collapsed.
A far cry from Abagael K. Zellan, attorney at law, who avoided breaking a sweat whenever she could.
IC:
Three days. She’d been at the Greater Jedi Order for only three days now, and yet it seemed to her that every minute crept forward with agonizing slowness. Abagael had told herself that for the first few days she would not, would not, go to the office. The psychological repercussions of this personal decision were mind numbing. It seemed as if legal infractions were just popping up everywhere, cruel taunts that brought her thoughts back to the corporate job that she’d knelt in for ten years now.
Cooping herself up in her quarters hadn’t done any good. In fact it had worsened the situation, and her sons constant noise had driven her up the wall. If the truth were to be told, Abagael Zellan was one woman who wasn’t cut out for parenting. She was completely lost in the monumental task and instead of trying to tread water, Abby had resigned herself to floating aimlessly. Trent didn’t care, or if he did, the child didn’t show it.
Finally, on this third day, she could take it no more and had ventured out of her spacious room to the training facilities. Abagael didn’t have a Master yet—a fact that she paid little heed to—but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t shape herself up. And that was how she came to be wearing the boxing gloves.
The punching bag had been hanging in a corner of one of the gyms, and for some reason Abagael had the sudden irrepressible need to go and try a whack at it. As far as she knew she’d never tried one before. But if that were true, she shouldn’t have been able to tape her hands so expertly, to select and slide on the gloves with such ease.
Holos. I’ve seen it done on holos.
It was the only line of reasoning that fit, that explained away her doubts. And so Abagael accepted it and took a swing at the bag.
She was good. She was very, very good.
One hand stayed constantly in front of her face at all times, protecting it from the invisible opponent as the woman struck out against the bag again and again, never letting it rest. Abby had expected the gloves to feel heavy and awkward on her hands but instead they became an extension of her appendages, becoming red blurs as the erratic strikes became an intricate, orchestrated dance. Muscles she hadn’t known she had were put into play, becoming more compliant and flexible with every move. Her footwork was a frenzy of steady hops, allowing movement in all directions at a seconds notice. The transformation was incredible. Abagael, the tense lawyer-Padawan, had become a machine, both fluid and precisely calculated in her moves.
“Bastard!”
She didn’t mean to bark out the word. It flew from her mouth on it’s own accord, and suddenly it seemed the right thing to have been spoken.
“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!”
Each procured profanity was punctuated by a punch, louder and harder every time. And as the blows continued to rain down on the innocent piece of equipment, hot angry tears slipped from the corners of her bright blue orbs. A weaving was occurring between the present and past memories that she couldn’t see, but rather felt; the desperate clinging hold of entrapment. As the feeling of panic grew Abagael broke her reign of hooks and enthroned a roundhouse on the flailing bag. But her stride was beginning to waver, her punches striking just off slightly. Abby didn’t notice. She was lost to it all.
“God, please. Please stop it.”
The words were whispered in a jerky plea, for her breath was coming quick. They weren’t directed at the bag, but rather at herself. Something was happening to Abagael. She was remembering.
***********
A pile of credits, on a desk. The room was shadows upon shadows.
“I don’t have it all yet…”
Her voice, and then she saw a glimpse of herself. Younger, years younger…maybe only twenty. Her hair was short and there was an appealing naivety about her.
“Our agreement was for reimbursement in full.”
Couldn’t see, who was talking?
“I know, and I swear I’ll pay you back ju—“
Do you know what shockboxing, is Miss Zellan?”
The memory jerked suddenly and ran together, like a bad reel of film. And then it faded.
************
“No!”
Crack!
The leather seam of the bag split a good three inches. But even that could not snap Abagael out of her furious attack. It seemed as if she were determined to go until she collapsed.
A far cry from Abagael K. Zellan, attorney at law, who avoided breaking a sweat whenever she could.