Laura's cadence picked up naturally as she grew more accustomed to their brawling style. She loved the danger room for its endless possibilities and scenarios, but sometimes (like now for instance) she missed her claws striking true in a real target. Robot or flesh, flesh preferred. She had a feeling that want would never go away. Even as her blade licked across necks and danced over arteries, it was nothing compared to the rush of sinking into someone's flesh. 

That only pissed her off. 

A circle of hamstrung or simply dead sailors lay huddled over one another, laying at the feet of a particularly flamboyant ship captain. It was almost impossible to tell from a distance what she was feeling, but the moment had taken her much more than she thought it would. Very real blood mixed with the mock-up on her knuckles, she'd edged her claws out to give herself a sense of real pain. She could smell it, could basically taste it. Better yet? She could feel it. Her dress was torn already, exposing only brown pseudo-cloth and soft leather boots beneath. Somewhere along the line she'd picked up a nicer rapier, a French blade by the look of it. Simple, but elegant and precise. 

Her eyes bore into the Captain, but she didn't want to make this one quick. For some reason she was tired of efficiency, she wanted to enjoy herself for once. To dance. 

And so, they danced...