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[Jasmine]

W E A R I N G

The taste of blood had become so normal, so everyday that it hardly startled Jasmine to taste it so heavily on her tongue the very moment she began to stir. It would have been more abnormal to her, had she not tasted the satisfying tang of copper in her waking moments. What did surprise her, however, was that the taste was of her own blood.

A low groan left her as she tried to move, and found every inch of her body wracked in an aching pain. Her arm felt like it weighed a ton, resting outstretched above her head. The shoulder opposite burned fiercely, her foggy brain slowly registering that that arm was twisted around, behind her back. Her face was pressed into a canvas-covered surface beneath her, and every twitch brought a stinging pain to the inside of her mouth.

Slowly, Jasmine opened her eyes, and had to blink several times before what she could see was no longer a blurry mess. Blood coated the floor next to her face, and several teeth were scattered across the grey surface. Her brows furrowed, and that only brought a stab of pain to her already aching head, but she focused on a small “u” shaped piece of rubber that she saw lying on the ground. Slowly, things started to come together, and she gave another pained groan as she twisted her arm from behind her, remembering too late the glove strapped to her hand, its heavy weight dragging her fist across the canvas.

“Uuungh, ****…” she just barely managed through her haze as she pushed the flat of her fist against the floor and lifted her head. Pain-stricken glare turned on the woman leaning in the corner, the emerald eyes flaring to life as she slowly pushed herself into a seated position, her other gloved fist lifted to press against her face, feeling the swollen bruise that was already going away, the broken teeth mending themselves inside of her shredded mouth. “****. I’m going to kill you, Sara, you ******* skank.” From her seated position, she found herself close to a corner of the boxing ring her memory coming back to her in a flurry of images.

She remembered inviting the Thrall to the gym for a little spar training, that she really needed to vent the frustration, and she remembered the lithe little redhead dancing around her like a feisty little pixie. She only just barely remembered the black leather of the other woman’s glove before it smashed her face and sent her twirling, crashing to the mat like a felled tree.

It was a lucky shot, Jasmine told herself as she grabbed hold of the middle rope, managing to pull herself into the short stool that rested in the corner, letting her lean frame collapse into the turnbuckle. Her green eyes met the matching stare of concern of the tattooed redhead in the opposite corner.

“****, Lacie, are you okay? I thought for sure you were dead…”

The redhead had her hands up in a defensive posture, already cringing away from the recovering vampire. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. It just happened… I told you I don’t like to fight. I told you I didn’t want to do this. You made me do this. You made me do it anyway, you remember that, don’t you? You told me to do it. You told me not to hold back, that you’d be the one kicking my ***, to just worry about me… remember?” The mortal woman was like a rabbit, ready to bolt the second her mistress released her from this duty. Instead, Jasmine turned her head and spit into the floor. Blood, and several shards of broken teeth littered the floor next to her before she ran the back of her gloved fist across her mouth and laughed.

“Shut the **** up, Skittles. You barely made a dent.”

She could see in the girl’s eyes, though, that she had been truly concerned that she had done much more than make a dent. Shaking her head, Jasmine pulled herself to her feet and walked across the dirtied ring, booted feet gingerly avoiding the splash of blood and bits of broken teeth as she recovered her mouth guard that had apparently flown from her mouth at some point in the fight. It wasn’t going to do her much good if she couldn’t keep the damn thing between her teeth where it belonged.

Jasmine would be the first to admit that becoming a vampire was nothing like what she had expected, the night that River had explained what she’d done to her. She wasstronger; faster; smarter, even if only a little bit of each… but she couldn’t control even the most simple of those attributes. She was uncoordinated, and almost completely useless at the first sign of a fight, even if she had the spirit. She was the first to bare her teeth and to jump into the fray, ready to go down swinging, but that was just about it. She hated it, and she hated herself for it. River was important to her, and she wanted more than anything to protect her, but no matter how hard she tried, she was always the one waking up on the floor with the victor standing over her. It had always been that way, and, it felt like, it always would be.

With a shake of her head and a grimace, she made a quiet growl and shoved the mouth guard between her teeth again and lifted her fists. She shrugged off those thoughts, and clenched her fists tight inside her gloves. She would make herself better. Eventually, she had to get better.

“Again. And this time, don’t hold back or I’ll snap your scrawny neck.” She gave a growl, then, as she ran at the woman and just barely managed to dodge a last-second jab from the scarlet-haired human. She let that sting of defeat push her to be better. She would be better.

[Clover]

Sometimes, late at night, when she had a free moment, when she had time to herself, Clover missed Logan. Whenever she read Sol’s words. Whenever she heard Sol’s voice. Whenever she saw Sol’s face. She thought of Logan. Oddly enough, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Mariah. She couldn’t bring herself to blame the one woman responsible for Logan’s death. Instead, she blamed Marisol. She blamed the one person not responsible. Clo just had misdirected rage, and she knew it. Did that even make it misdirected anymore? She was well aware. She made no effort to change her ways. Clover didn’t even know anymore. She did know that she had no one to talk to, when it came to her feelings about Logan. Not romantic feelings. Not feelings of desire. She simply missed the man, as one would miss a friend, as one would miss blood. Clo could have imagined him as a limb, and she’d gone on to regrow the limb, but it was never the same, it’d never be the same. She’d been gifted with Marisol. Jesse had saved Marisol. Clo should have treasured the woman, but she chose to despise her. Jesse didn’t understand, maybe he didn’t even try to understand. And where was her standing with Jesse, where was it really? That’s what drove her to the gym, to the boxing ring where she and Logan had once physically fought away their thoughts. She’d pounded on insecurities, on feelings, on anything she could to fit the square peg back into the square hole.

Her black gym bag over her left shoulder, Clo just stood outside of the entrance to the gym. She had three steps to ascend. She had one door to open. And then she’d smell the sweat, the blood, the tears. She’d be witness to some of the ordinary and some of the extraordinary. She hesitated. She had nowhere to go. She had no one to talk to. She had nothing, and she expected to start over at the gym, as if beating on a bag, beating on a body, would solve every problem that plagued her. Deep down, she knew she could have turned to Jersey, to Athena, to Raegan, even -- she could have turned to someone -- but she forced herself to retreat, to take refuge in the loneliness she once thought she’d owned. Clo skipped over the first step as she ascended the stairs. She yanked open the door to the well-sized gym. The place had never been a popular place, at least not after dark. The people went home. The people went on to other things. And Clo gravitated back to the past, back to a place where she felt secure, where nothing could really hurt her, where everything could hurt her. Dressed in her training gear, her boxing gloves the only thing in her gym bag, Clo made her way over to the locker she usually used. Finding it empty, she unpacked her gloves. She prepared her hands for battle. She tied her hair back in a ponytail. She pretended that she had someone coaching her, talking to her, being there with her.

In the ring, two people circled around. And then one stood, victorious. Clo barely noticed when one took the fall, laid out like a fallen warrior. Maybe the woman had been afraid; maybe the woman hadn’t been afraid. Clover had been there though. She’d been laid out in the ring, her cheek plastered against the floor, black blood running from her nose, black blood spilling from within her mouth, where she’d taken such a sharp shot that she swore she almost saw stars. Logan had been a better fighter. No, not better. Faster. That’s what he’d said. Smarter. Faster.

"It's not about being stronger than your opponent, but about being faster. It's about thinking two steps ahead."

Clo heard his voice in her mind. She saw him there, coaching her, guiding her. His voice pulled at angry tendrils, drew on the loneliness as if reeling in every emotion she ever felt, every doubt and insecurity. His voice tied everything into a beautiful bow, presented her with such a gift she stared on in awe. She just missed someone, something, somewhere. Clo noticed when the woman in the ring finally got back to her feet. She looked a mess, but she stood there, ready for round two.

"If you're afraid of getting knocked the **** out, you're going to get knocked the **** out."

And yet the woman looked fearless. Clo had been fearless. No, Clo had to be fearless -- she wasn’t yet fearless. Close didn’t count. Almost didn’t count. She approached one of the punching bags and knocked her gloves together. They fit well. Her hands were secured in the gloves.

"Keep your arms up.”

Clover raised her arms.

”Protect your face.”

Clover made sure that she did just that. She made sure her stance only added to her defenses. She followed along to the echoes of his guidance, to the coach that had long since passed away.

”Protect your chest at the same time."

But she’d failed. She’d left her heart unattended and someone had given her the one shot she’d been unable to dodge. One. Two. And she was on the ground. Bleeding. Damaged beyond repair.

Clo let her eyes wander back to the woman in the ring. She’d gotten back to her feet, yes, and she looked stronger. The woman looked prepared to fight a war, to stand, victorious, over her opponent. They were both fighting opponents bigger than the ones before them, or so she liked to believe. They were so small, so very small. They stood like giants though. They had to stand like giants. They fought with strength they’d borrowed from someone else, from somewhere else.

One. Two. And the punching bag rocked. One. Two. Three. And Clo protected her face. And Clo protected her chest. And she told herself she was unafraid, that she was fearless.