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[h2]Frequent Fighters gym, two blocks east of LHPD Central[/h2]
[h3]11:12, June 12th[/h3][/center]

Darya fell against the ropes after a heavy blow and barely caught her arms around the top rope, preventing her from falling on to the mat. She tried to get herself back up into some semblance of a ready stance, but her arms refused to do anything more, and her legs wobbled unsteadily. She heard the coach call it and cursed under her breath in Farsi, sweating dripping from the tip of her nose and all over her. She let herself drop, and her opponent held his hand up from the other side, where he too had collapsed. She winced as she held her own lightly padded hand up in salute before letting it drop and relaxing her neck enough to see the coach climbing into the ring next to her.

"You know, every time you come in here for a couple rounds, I end up thinking I might have to call an ambulance." He tossed a towel over her face, which took her a moment to actually grab and use. Her arms felt like limp noodles.

[color=aquamarine]"Yeah, well,"[/color] she said, [color=aquamarine]"at least I'm keeping your boxers in shape."[/color]

"In shape? They're as half dead as you are by the time you guys are finished! It takes [i]months[/i] to get these guys in hsape for a bout, Kama!"

The shortening of her surname had been a matter of her refusing to listen to the coach and owner of the gym mangle her full name any more than she had to. In the month since she had been coming to this gym, most of the men and women had taken to calling her 'Kama', which meant she wasn't getting rid of it now.

[color=aquamarine]"They know that, Jazz. That's why the ones with upcoming bouts don't fight me."[/color]

"The way you heal up, girl, when am I gonna get [i]you[/i] to fight for the gym?"

Darya shook her head like she had every time he asked that question.

There was no doubt that Jasper "Hard Jazz" Godfried had been a hell of a boxer in his day, though a staunch refusal to go pro still mystified sports reporters even to this day. Fighting for his gym was seen as a sort of prestige honor in the area, and Darya was certainly glad of the opportunity to spar at the gym. She had even learned several hard lessons about her superhuman strength and toughness not being equal to someone like Icon, and in fact she was just barely above human unless she "accelerated" herself, something she wasn't prepared to do in a friendly bout.

But she wasn't here to win accolades, or even to earn things. She was here to work herself like a dog, distract herself from the vile images that haunted her nightmares about that hellish night a month ago, and to drive out some of the anger she had felt at her uselessness in the whole fiasco of the Hounds. She had grown a dark core at the center of her heart, and the new captain of her unit had put her on leave until there was an emergency,. Although she was welcome to sit in on situation reports, she was not allowed to see mission briefs, not updated on wanted individuals, and wasn't allowed to train with the team until her psych evals said otherwise. She was effectively benched.

Sarah's situation hadn't done Darya any better, either. On top of the other damage she had taken, the doctors had found fractures in her skull, and her hamstrings had been severed. One had been salvaged, but the other had proven more difficult, and Reeves had been discharged from the FBI on medical grounds, though given a hefty severance package and full benefits as though she had retired. But she remained in outpatient therapy, would never run again even with Holliday's help, and after a month, would barely speak over a whisper.

Darya didn't know why the former agent's condition effected her so much, but it did. Maybe it was spillover from her feelings about her friend Broadway's gruesome end, or the other violence she had seen. The agency psychologist had given her the number of a local therapist, but she hadn't called yet. Her agency pay managed to get her half an apartment in LH, one she shared with Reeves as the only person the woman had okayed to live with her, and one day walking back from her own brooding meditation spot further north, she had spotted the gym. 

Jazz knew she was a metahuman, had tested her behind closed doors, and then okayed her to fight with some restrictions in his gym. She couldn't let loose completely, so she had to hit the bags with him before any sparring match so she could gauge her own levels. And she wasn't even allowed a water bottle while in the ring, though that was for the others more than her. He had required her to divulge, to any sparring partner, that she was a meta, so she had cut through the middle and announced it to the whole gym. There were around fifty men and women who came in on a regular basis, and the place now offered boxing, MMA, and kickboxing. Darya was in the kick boxing class and loved it, but she knew she wouldn't be able to fight for the gym any time soon.

Despite her misgivings about seeking therapy, she knew something was wrong inside. Any time she was in the ring, or even just hitting bags or working out, she could feel something bubbling within her, trying to get out. During those times, she could fly off the handle at any little thing, and while the gym members might've given her no passing thought at her size, the damage she had wrought on several of them in the ring meant she was a known danger when angry and was left alone. Some of them usually attempted to calm her down, which led to her going for runs to cool off and go home.

Yes, she knew something had broken, but she couldn't fix it, and wouldn't show it to anyone else, so she drove herself as hard as possible into her workouts. She fixed Jazz with a level gaze from her spot on the mat.

[color=aquamarine]"You know I can't, you stubborn geezer."[/color]

"Yeah yeah. Maybe they'll make a meta league or somethin'. You could be the start, you know." He grabbed her under the armpit and lifted her easily to her feet, where she swayed for a few seconds and then managed to get her bearings and find her way out of the ring and to the gym floor.

[color=aquamarine]"Sure, coach, right after I join the Olympic swim team. I gotta get home, I'll see you on Tuesday."[/color]

She collected her gear, changed in the locker room, and made her good byes before heading out the door and onto the summer street. She wished something would happen, a mugging or something, but schooled herself immediately for such a thought. It required someone having the worst day of their life, and she didn't want that kind of karma.

She thought about heading down to the river and getting some of her other practise in, but the water wasn't calling to her today. It hadn't in weeks, in fact, though she knew her powers still worked. She had pondered the idea of her having some sort of danger sense that made her get near water, and hadn't ruled it out, but there was a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with her state of mind than anything else. She didn't want to address that, however.

Since the water was out, she hefted her duffel and limped home, a mere block away. The building wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible, either. Six stories of pale brickwork with iron fittings, forming an L-shape around a small playlot. The local kids already knew her by sight and waved as she got to the front door. She gave a half-hearted wave back, punched in the secruity code, and made her way through the building to her shared apartment on the third floor. Noting Sarah sitting in her wheelchair staring out of the window, she muttered a hello, wnet to her room, and flopped out across her bed. She fought back tears for some time before she managed to pass out from the exhaustion of the morning's work.