Wax on, Wax off (Smith)

[Scott Hutchinson]

Once upon a time there was a hall and a boy and the hall was very empty and the boy was very bored. What did the two have in common? Not much, really, other than the fact that the both possessed the same relative geographical location and neither of them had much interest in the other. The boy was short and blonde while the hall was fluorescent and vast, but that wasn’t particularly important. What was important was that the boy was called Scott and the hall smelled like bologna which inspired Scott to walk a bit faster. He never did like bologna.

By the time Scott reached the end of the hall he knew that there were exactly 552 tiles on the floor and that there were 31.5 lockers (.5 because locker 26 had been busted up by some idiot and now only counted as half a locker). For whatever reason the counting had not alleviated his boredom in the slightest, but it did give him an idea. A grin stretched across the boy’s face. Without warning or any apparent purpose he sprinted back down the hall in the opposite direction with his hand outstretched, slapping every lock in the row of lockers as he went, raising a noise that wasn’t unlike the sound made by a spoon caught in a garbage disposal. Moments later Scott was wheeling around the corner, laughing manically, as he was pursued by no less than three teachers and a prefect. If they had gotten close enough to catch the boy he would have noted that the prefect also smelled like bologna, but, whether through some divine act of mercy or sheer dumb luck, the kid managed to give the pack of disciplinarians the slip as he turned down a random hall, burst through a pair of double doors and flung himself behind a large piece of something.

Holding his breath, Scott crouched behind the something as the four authority figures followed him breathlessly into the gym. A few students frowned at the interruption before focusing back on their respective work-outs. None of them gave any indication that they noticed the boy at all. Scott’s smirk widened as the four sniffed around, losing interest with every treadmill they passed. Finally, they all gathered in a huddle in the middle of the gym and seemed to collectively decide that they had better things to waste their time on. As soon as the gym door closed behind them the boy began laughing hysterically.

[Smith Ardor Knight]

Commands were shouted through heavy breaths as a prefect and three teachers followed suit of a boy in a red hoodie, passing the rather large blonde haired Smith in the hall. This didn't concern the gym bag toting smoker in the slightest. Smith entered the gym after another good minute of walking through the bologna scented hallway, finding that half of the gym wore varying crimson sweatshirts, jumpers, and hoodies as per custom Ashfordian gym uniform.

The four, rather worn demerit hounds walked out, past Smith. Mrs. West glaring up at the boy who was often found blowing smoke out the classroom window when she wasn't looking as she passed with a "hmph" of disapproval.

Smith kept on his way, ignoring the old bat who had just ran her better years away as he made it to a treadmill. He set his bag aside, coughing a little before setting it on the lowest setting, intended on working his way up to higher speeds.

[Scott Hutchinson]

The boy was still laughing when he spotted Smith from his hiding place on the other end of the gym. Suddenly very excited, Scott popped out from behind the wicked-looking piece of gym equipment he had been hiding behind. “Hey!” he called out as he scrambled over to the much-taller Smith. “What are you doing?” the boy asked, despite the answer being quite clear: Smith was running. The treadmill’s belt hummed under Smith and a soft thud was audible with every fall of his heavy feet. Someone with a more acute sense of social conduct or personal safety would have realised that the jogging boy did not want to be bothered. Unfortunately, Scott was rather lacking in both of these areas.

“You know you’re not going anywhere, right?” Scott tilted his head to one side as he watched. “You’re just running and running in the same place. That’s kind of weird. Usually when people run they’re trying to go somewhere like away from the teachers. Did you see those teachers? There was a prefect with them, too! I made them run. But no one’s making you run. You’re just. . . running. Do you like running? I like to run, but only if I’m going somewhere. I don’t know why you’re running like that if you’re not going anywhere.” The words spilled out of the boy’s mouth at a rapid pace, leaving no room for interruption from Smith, the unfortunate object of the boy’s attention. By now it was likely that Smith was used to Scott’s loquacious tendencies, but it still seemed that every interaction must be a test of the bronze-man’s patience. Naturally, Scott was utterly oblivious to his friend’s annoyance.

The hyperactive boy opened his mouth to continue his one-sided conversation, but at that very moment something caught his attention: a fat red button on Smith’s treadmill. It seemed to float tauntingly just out of the boy’s reach as he crept a few paces forward. “What does that do?” he asked, but then before Smith had the chance to respond the boy’s hand flashed out impulsively to give the button a hard smack. The treadmill died under Smith’s feet.

[Smith Ardor Knight]

The bronze man kept his pace on the tread mill, bumping it up a bit every nowand again as Scott rambled through a conversation, a rather long one at that. Smith had gotten used to the majority of the topic being questions and what was left, commentary on how weird everything is.

Interestingly enough, the treadmill was a good distraction for the conversation and the conversation was a good distraction from the running. Smith's mind wandered to a limbo state, as if not paying attention to either. It was perfect for the activity.

Unfortunately Smith had built up quite a bit of speed on that treadmill. And if he had been paying attention to his friend's little tendency to press shiny red buttons maybe Smith wouldn't have ran straight into and over the treadmill's computer and handrail. The conveyor belt's sudden hault had thrown him forward from the machine leaving him out of air and short a treadmill.

His eyes rolled to Scott as he sat up, an acusatory glare landing on the young boy.

[Scott Hutchinson]

Scott didn’t notice Smith’s lack of interest in the one-sided conversation. If the boy had the attention span he might have reflected on how much he enjoyed talking to Smith, but it was really more likely that he just enjoyed talking and Smith was unfortunate enough to be within earshot. The bronze man’s luck ran out the moment Scott’s eyes landed on the button and the following events seemed to unfold in slow motion. Frame-by-frame, Smith overran the treadmill’s computer. His body tumbled over the handrail and sailed through the air before the bronze man crashed in a heap on the ground. Scott’s hands flew to his mouth in horror as he watched. The bronze man’s glare settled on the boy whose eyes darted around the gym in desperate search for an escape. No luck.

“Sorry, Smith!” he cried, lowering his hands, “It was an accident, I promise! I didn’t know the button would make it stop and that you would keep going and then you would fly over the-- the-- thing and then fall on the ground!” Scott paused for a moment and squinted at the treadmill’s handrail. “What is that thing called, anyway?” he puzzled over it for a moment before his attention was whisked away once more. A handful of the gym’s patrons had spared the two an irritated glance, but now that the excitement was over they had returned to their activities. A pair were sparring on a nearby mat and Scott turned his head to watch. They exchanged blows; punching, kicking, diving and dodging as the boy watched wide-eyed and, for once, silent. The two fought unapologetically, neither one holding back as each tried to gain the upper hand. Sweat dripped like rain and both participants were pale with exhaustion beneath their pads, but neither were willing to admit defeat.

The boy watched, mesmerised, as the fighters sized each other up, heaving heavy breaths. Finally, the one on the left exploded forward and floored the other in a flurry of blows and just like that the fight was over. “Whoa,” Scott breathed. In awe, the boy turned back to Smith and blinked as if surprised to find him still where he’d left him. “I want to fight like that,” he said, “can you teach me? That would be really cool.” Scott fidgeted restlessly, but his demeanor seemed to have taken on a serious tone. He’d meant what he said, and as if to prove it he kept his mouth shut as he waited for Smith’s answer.

[Smith Ardor Knight]

He sighed. Had the boy learned nothing? Scott could hardly focus on anything at all, he switched between subjects too fast to keep track of.

Smith followed his gaze to the spar that had happened, that had easily gotten out of hand as the faster opponent took the other's bad stanch to his advantage. The fight had ended with an inner step past an over reached swing and three blows: one to the gut followed by a sweep of the leg, and as he fell a precise hit to the jaw.

The speed of one and that lack of training and endurance in the other made for an unfair match.

Scott beamed to the fighter. He'd been the smaller of the two but the more aggressive one. He was a brutal looking young man, clever and cunning looking. Which made Scott's next statement a bit of a surprise.

"Fight like him, huh?" He looked to Scott and then to the boy, now walking away from his beaten and unconscious opponent.

". . ." He looked at Scott, he was not going to teach him to fight like that. . . But he was sure Scott had to be taught right. Smith nodded, "yeah, I can teach ya." He groaned a bit as he picked himself up cracking his shoulders as he stretched, silently walking to the punching bag, picking up his bag as he went. He was not going to try to explain anything until he was good and ready, and talking over Scott would be wasted breath.

[Scott Hutchinson]

Scott’s mind had already reeled around to the next topic when Smith spoke. Blinking up in surprise at the taller boy, Scott tipped his head to one side. "Really?" he jogged after Smith, coming to a stop beside him as he stood in front of the punching bag. "I've never fought anyone before. Have you fought someone before? I bet you have. Did you win? Are you good at fighting? I'm not good at fighting. Sometimes I used to get beat up but then I got good at cards and they stopped beating me up but I still want to know how to fight. Do you think I can be good at cards and fighting? That would be cool. I'd like that." He took a breath and looked expectantly up at Smith.

Shifting in excitement, Scott found it difficult to stand still. He wriggled and fidgeting as he waited for Smith’s response. In all reality the smaller boy had no business fighting anyone. He had always been small for his age in both height and weight and he could only dream of the when the impending growth spurt promised to him would take effect. Standing beside Smith, a hulking student who was practically a grown man, Scott appeared comically small. Still bouncing around, the boy had one last comment to make. “Can we start now?”