[SSV Mashhad] Time for a break

"There's a treadmill or two in the exercise room. I prefer running on those, less chance of injury. On the Citadel, however, I'd run around entire blocks in the wards just to try to see something new." She seperated her legs and leaned forward, with her elbows on her knees and fingers now locked together.

"I had to lose a LOT of weight after having a baby last year, so I'm on a strict regiment. Almost insanely strict. Look at this."
She peeled her short sleeve back, flexing her toned bicep. "I can lift 55 kg off the ground, after nearly a year of zero exercise."

The newly arrived Marine nodded to Freh'ya, "Yup." he flung himself down to sit beside Rajapaske, jostling her a bit. She glared at him but he just grabbed at a controller, "Alright, time to let me murder your asses."

"In your dreams," Thullier-Wright muttered, picking up her own controller, "Prepare to be destroyed."

At the conversation between the Navy officer and the asari commando, Rajapaske spoke up, "I wouldn't advise running around the ship, ma'am," Speaker was an officer rank right? It sounded like it was. Crap, should she have saluted? "The corridors aren't that wide and you might run into someone."

"You're starting to sound like a regulation handbook," Thullier-Wright said sadly.

Rajapaske turned her glare onto the other woman, "Someone has to remember them."

"I'm going to just ignore that," Thullier-Wright replied, chucking a controller at the other Marine, who barely managed to get her hands up in time to catch it and stop it hitting her in the face.

"Alright then."

A moment of silence. Of relaxation. Of careful, unconscious calculation. It was a science; an art expressed in the medium of biological mechanisms. Muscles coiled. Weight shifted. The first strike was a fluid thing: a lean became a lunge became a piercing stab driven by limbs of whipcord and rawhide. Controlled without being chained. Focused without being oblivious. His coat fanning around his legs, hair ruffling in the wind of his movement.

Extend. Withdraw. One single motion. Telegraphed. Choreographed. All just so. Basic and unadorned. Provoking.

And provocation would become judgement; and judgement would become a critique.

It was a learning process after all

Freh’ya noted the ‘advice’ by Rajapaske had been given in a more formal tone, she looked as if she thought about saluting for a second. The small woman probably was a very reliable marine, taking formalism and duty seriously at all times. Freh’ya nodded in reply, but keeping eye contact.

“Thank you for that hint, PFC, I know who to turn to should I ever need advice on the Alliance rulebook then.” she said, announcing the proper rank this time.
“Treadmills sound safer. Although they are terribly boring, don’t you think? There’s nothing that beats running on a beach, sand and waves under your feet in my opinion.”

Freh’ya let out a surprised “Oh” at the announcement of Sarah being a young mother, smiling.

“Congratulations! Not much visible really, I would not have suspected the pregnancy - nice arm.” Of course, mass wise it was not the same class, as Freh’ya was much taller in built. “Carrying a baby is another form of weight lifting, maybe the most important one. So, do you feel you’re on a good way back to where you came from?”
She rolled up her sleeve even further and showed her own bulging biceps. With a laugh she let a tiny wave of biotic crawl down her arm when she rolled down the sleeve to her elbow again.

She recognized a testing move when she was one and shifted, gliding backwards as the stab moved towards her. She wondered why he was wearing a coat and ejected the thought from her mind as soon as it appeared. The stab came close but only as close as she wanted it to come. Well, for now at least. There was little doubt in her mind that this man could easily deal with her if they were actually trying to kill each other with swords.

Oddly though, Palmer did not choose to respond. The defensive part of her mind was telling her that it would be a far better course to take right now and she was listening to it.

"Pause."

Taps of the sword adjusted the angle that Palmer was holding the mock-blade, her stance, the set of her shoulders. Simple, clinical, a few snippets of advice here and there; "shift your grip a bit", "relax," "don't keep all your weight on your back foot", "Relax, it's not going to fly out of your hands if you don't throttle it".

"Alright again."

A few more slow, pretty damn clearly telegraphed, spearing strikes and then he settled back. False sword brought up into a guard position, relaxed. Easy. Everything about him was relaxed and easy honestly. And really, why not? This was fun.