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Horace had gone out for a run early that morning. It was difficult to get up, but he enjoyed the kind of quiet peace that seemed to only exist in the early mornings and soft twilights. He hadn't been able to get ahold of Peyton, but instead ran alone, pretending he was being chased by a horde of zombies. (A fate which, since coming to the island, was actually and distinctly possible.) After that came breakfast and really, where in the world did the organization get sausage from? He guessed some hapless tech on KP duty got shafted into buying them in the 'human' world. And after breakfast came kitchen duty. Horace scrubbed a lot of plates.

And then infirmary rounds.

Then lunch. (No scrubbing pots this time.)

Then, he snuck into his room for an hour to read and shoot Jan a text inquiring after his plans. He had leave and he was itching to use one day with the other man. Doing anything, nothing, whatever. Finally, he set down his book and stretched, heading out. Horace left his coat in his room and wandered out to the sparring fields dressed in a black, sleeveless sweater with a deer's skull on it and cargo shorts. Dummies or person? Tying up his hair, he looked across the field and pursed his lips.

And looked again. Was that-? A grin crossed his face and he jogged over to Claude.

"You look better with all that glorious hair down, cabin girl." He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Once, twice, he clacked the barbell in his tongue against his teeth, eyeas scanning her slowly - head to toe and back again. One dark brow arched up. "You waiting for a date all prim and proper?"

An eyebrow arched up. "Waiting for me - wow, I'm flattered, but I'm happily taken." He cocked his head at her, blatantly ignoring that Claude's pistols was pointed at him. He knew some French, but had no clue what sanglier meant, but he could not let the odd phrase pass without comment. "However, I can assure you, I'm not a little anything." His voice dipped down just a bit, turning very suggestive. For some reason, Horace enjoyed trying to ruffle her feathers. His hands were still in his pockets and finally, he removed them, waggling his fingers at her.

"Guess I shouldn't disappoint a lady." He darted forward, Jannisari streaking onto his fists as he went. One arm shot out, trying to knock her gun off target and then Horace was body-slamming her back into one of the practice dummies that littered the field.

HP: 40/40
DMG: 8

"This dummy is only coming between us." Horace made a very exaggerated frowny face at Claude. It actually did come between them quite effectively - she had all the advantage because of her long range weapon... Wait. Horace had an idea. He flung his hand out and sent one of his tekkos sailing at her. And missed entirely. It flew right over her shoulder and off into the grass. Sighing, he desummoned and resummoned. He was going to get an earful from Jannisari tonight; he could tell.

Still, he pinned a grin on and looped one of his arms around the dummy's shoulders. "So, what's sanglier mean, anyway?"


HP: 38/40
DMG: nope

"Oh, ouch, buddy - you alright?" Horace frowned with concern at the dummy and patted the spot where she'd shot it. He looked back up at her. "Or I could buy a French dictionary. Though I guess besting you is cheaper. Can I call it 'mastering' instead? Sounds more lascivious." He winked, just to be annoying. Personally, he thought Claude looked to more of the ',mastering' tyope than being on the receiving end. She was like something out of a pirate-themed romance novel. The Pirate Queen & the Gunner, maybe. Some dramatic title.

Patting the dummy one more time, he moved past it, half-circling her. His blue eyes remained not on the gun, but on her shoulders - each movement telegraphed first by the subtle movements of her shoulders. Not that he was an expert at reading such movement - knowledge of a thing did not ensure skill. Ducking in, he feinted lefty, then stumbled. His fist went wide, but still connected with her hip. After the punch, he brought his hand back to pinch that same hip, too. Because why not?

HP: 38/40
DMG: 3

He jerked his hand from her hip and shook it daintily. "I swear, it's like I'm talking to a wall," he said to no one in particular. An odd look flickered over his face and Horace slowly moved so he was very close to her. He tapped her cheek with two fingers and grinned.

"I know you can hit harder than that, Sun. Do it." And he did not move.

HP: 37/40
DMG: nope

Horace rolled his eyes so hard it felt like they were trying to leave his skull. They could pop right out, roll across the sparring field, have kitchen duty, go for a picnic and roll their merry way back to Horace before Claude would give into bantering with him. This much was abundantly clear. And clearly disappointing. But Horace was a sucker for people who didn't talk much - and trying to make them talk. The pistol slapping was annoying, like a gnat's bite, and he narrowed his eyes.

And slammed his fist into her gut, twisting it on contact. The good thing about his tekkos were that-they sported several sharp pikes on them. And it made Jannisari very, very pleased if she was able to draw blood.

HP: 35/40
DMG: 7

The shot slammed into him with a satisfying force and he jerked, a harsh grunt escaping his mouth. "Now that, o Captain, is more like it." His finger probed at the spot. Energy bullets - so weird, but infinitely better than having to go empty his body of lead slugs after a spar. It reminded him vaguely of paintball.

"You can always be as rough with me as you like. I promise I won't break." Without the dummy between them, he could see her more easily. Horace narrowed his eyes and charged forward, reaching out to rake the blades of his tekkos down one of her arms.


HP: 29/40
DMG: 2