Silent Depression

Well, at least he agreed with most of it. Ambrose's disagreement was received with nothing much more than a shrug. Well, he did have a point. But humans did have all those cool inventions - like televisions and computers though! But somehow, the point didn't seem all that convincing. Who needed technology when you had kick-ass superpowers?

"That's a nice way of putting it," he muttered. "I've been fighting with one of 'em for months now. Y'know what? I lose. Every single damn time." He seriously didn't like admitting it, but it seemed to fit into the topic of humans being overshadowed by whatever other freaks lived out there in the planet.

"Look--" he held up his left hand to display the scarring on his hand - like claws had scraped straight across it, although it appeared to be healing. "And this--" he gestured to his right foot, which not only appeared to be a little crooked, but displayed what looked like hideous scarring - scarring that would never go away. "Got a burn on my back too. And what does Leon have to show for it? A scratch! A tiny scratch between his fingers." A claw met his hair in frustration. "That's it, that's all I can do to him. Humans -- they don't stand a freaking chance."

It was the truth-- 'nice' had nothing to do with it.

"That doesn't mean one has to lose, though," Ambrose informed Owen as he got a good look at the scars. Those did seem pretty bad. Oddly enough, though, Ambrose could not relate to such things; They had made sure of it.

Just making sure your body's perfect, darling~
Most people would have an involuntary shiver run down their spine. Ambrose simply ignored the comment; he was all too familiar with such talk. That's just how Disaster was.

"Being human does mean that there are disadvantages while in a fight," Ambrose admitted, "but, one can overcome that with using what a person has. Focusing on the negatives will not help."
Yes, Ambrose was a bit insecure about his humanity, but he had never once thought of it as a disadvantage in a fight. He kicked ass: plain and simple.

Owen was more than ready to bite back with a scornful 'yes it does', but quickly managed to bite back his words to allow the boy to continue. Maybe he would have a good point.

And his advice - while insightful - could be of no use to Owen. Let's face it, not focusing on the negatives would be a lot more easier if negatives weren't the only things there. It's like these freaks had been engineered to completely own any ordinary human in any one-to-one battle. The only time Owen stood a chance was if he was anything but a complete human - even then, he'd failed.

"What if you don't have anything," he huffed. "What then? What do you have - plastic forks or something?" He snorted in disbelief. "What chance do they stand against magic."

"You don't understand just how powerful a plastic fork is," Ambrose argued back, pulling one out of his pocket and showing, not giving, it to Owen. "All things are potentially deadly, depending on how you use them. The plastic fork just so happens to be the most adaptable: three prongs for stabbing, light enough to throw, nimble enough to store conveniently in a pocket of some sort . . . It's perfect." Why was that so hard for people to get?

"As for magic . . . There's always dodging," Ambrose noted with a shrug, unphased. He won against Leon, regardless of the means; he felt reasonably confident he could win against anyone in this castle.

The Powers merely sighed, not even going to bother with correcting all that was wrong with this logic. . . .

"It doesn't matter what you are. but rather what you do," the boy concluded for Owen, crossing his arms.

Owen put visible effort in trying not to crack up as Ambrose described the efficiency of a plastic fork. His lips tried to twist up into a smirk, and he tried to force it back down into a frown, biting his bottom lip. It was almost painful suppressing the chuckles that tried to bubble up. Eventually, his expression settled back into seriousness (or an unconvincing attempt at it).

"Yeah.. perfect... 'Cept for actually using it to eat, y'know," he snorted. "Seriously. Those things are like - flimsy as hell. They're not weapons..." The last sentence was grumbled under his breath.

"Dodging?" he huffed. He gestured to himself with a frustrated wave. "Do I look like a freakin' acrobat to you?" Pulling his legs up close to his face, he rested his chin atop his knees. "Ain't nothin' I can do."

Ambrose's frown deepened the more Owen spoke. Why must everyone insist that the plastic fork was not the ultimate weapon? It was so obvious.
"You haven't seen it in action," Ambrose defended, not going to bother educating those not willing to learn. "The plastic forks aren't for eating, either. Do swordsmen use their weapons as utensils?"

Sighing, the red-haired boy stared down at the large boy. No, the boy was certainly not adept for dodging. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't try.

"It's all in how you dodge; for instance, if one is fighting in a forest, then strategically use the trees for cover and get behind your opponent. One does not have to be fast or nimble to avoid attacks." Although, it did help. . . . How in the world did that boy get so big, anyways?

"I think seeing it an inch from my eye is 'nuff action for me," he defended himself, throwing a bit of a remorseful look at Ambrose. Ahh... he was still a bit mad about that. Especially from the severe lack of apology - but on that thought, he wondered if merely saying 'sorry' would satisfy him at all. He supposed not.
"That wasn't what I meant anyway," he continued. "They still break really easy..."

He did look a bit thoughtful as Ambrose described possible tactics, and he stared off for a few moments. Well, he supposed he was sort of right... But then again, his previous fights had been on open terrain. Nothing to use as a shield. He frowned. "Except that you kinda do," he huffed. "'Cause if there's nuthin' to hide behind, then you're pretty much screwed, right."

'An inch from his'. . . ? "When did that happen?" Ambrose asked, genially perplexed by such a claim. Yes, he didn't remember every time he threatened to kill a man, but he would have at least recognized the face. When had he tried to kill this boy? He was clearly no threat; he didn't even know how to properly fight.

"The frailty of the weapon can pose as a slight problem," Ambrose admitted to the large boy, shrugging, "but its pros vastly outweigh this one con. Besides, the plastic fork is stronger than one would guess." It had served him well over the years. . . . One plastic fork versus an entire asylum. Yes, the plastic fork had proved its sturdiness to Ambrose quite well.

As for fighting: "Not having anything in the environment to use is an impossibility; there's always something-- a crest in a hill, longer blades of grass . . . Yourself, even. Your own body can serve as a block for an incoming weapon or attack." How had Owen survived for so long without knowing these things?

"Like, two minutes ago." Okay, so maybe it was more than that. But his point still stood - he'd seen more of plastic forks than he ever wanted to see in a lifetime. But still, Ambrose seemed conveniently unaware that he'd done any harm - physical, mental or otherwise. Maybe he shouldn't pin too much of the blame on him. "Look, I remember what I saw, don't question it..." he mumbled.

A slight problem? Owen was disbelieving. But the boy seemed unwavering in the philosophy that the plastic fork was the most superior weapon of all. Owen decided not to argue any more at least - unwilling to be subjected to any sort of brutal demonstration. His arms raised in defeat. "Fine, fine. Maybe they're the best weapon that ever existed. Whatever."

His brow raised at Ambrose's comments though. Longer blades of grass? What good would that do? It was the final one that made him crack up in a small chuckle. "Doesn't that kinda miss the whole point of dodging," he scoffed. "C'mon. I've done that last one enough times."

Two minutes ago, the two of them were talking just like they had been for a good half-hour. Ambrose understood the gesture of time well enough, though he still failed to understand it. He didn't remember a thing. He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember, willing to remember . . . Nothing.
"I don't doubt your memory," he assured Owen. "You wouldn't be the first to tell such things."

Nor will he be the last, Disaster noted solemnly, to which Ambrose said nothing. He didn't need to.

The red-haired boy cheered up when Owen admitted to what Ambrose had known all along. "There's no 'might'-- they just are." To this, he gave a little grin. It wasn't at all twisted, but pleasant and calm. He had been enjoying this talk thus far, even if the beginning of it was foggy.

"I'm not merely talking about dodging anymore," Ambrose informed the large boy, "but fighting in general-- strategy. Minimizing damage is almost a form of dodging; knowing which vitals to block, when to block, and so on." At this point in the conversation, he had to ask: "Didn't anyone tell you about this before?"

Owen wasn't quite sure if Ambrose's words were meant to be reassuring. The very fact that he wasn't the first was a cause for concern. Had it happened before? How many times? But he could only offer a small nod, as means of showing that he'd understood his assurance.

And at last, the boy seemed satisfied at his reluctant approval of the plastic forks. Still, he couldn't see what was so glorious about them, but he didn't have the heart to rain on his parade. Plus, although he certainly wouldn't admit it, seeing Ambrose smile like that was a bit... warming. He didn't often get them. He smiled back.

Of course, it was all too quickly ruined at his later comments. He frowned unsurely, trying to recall if anyone had told him this before... well, of course they hadn't. He'd barely had fighting training before. He shook his head. "Uh... No. I took offence/defence but he didn't teach us nuthin'..." He did, but you were slacking off, his conscience reminded him.

Then an idea came to him - an idea which he surely knew was completely stupid and would be rejected on a whim but... he felt the need to ask. "Do you..." he started, hesitating a bit. "Do you think you could... teach me? To fight?"

Offense and Defense: such a useless class. He never saw the point in it. Still, if the large boy had taken it, then why hadn't he learned anything? It was a bit puzzling, but Ambrose did not dwell on it too much.

Owen's request surprised the red-haired boy. He then chuckled. And giggled. And soon went into a full-on laugh, not able to contain his joy at such an offer. He didn't know just how great of a teacher he would be, but if it was to help one of the remaining humans on the island . . .

"Hell yes," he smirked, immediately pulling out a plastic fork but thinking otherwise. The large boy had been behind such a weapon before, and it was far too powerful to use against him. An alternative choice, then. Ambrose's brown eyes searched the forest floor-- there.

The boy picked-up a small stick from the tall blades of grass, swinging it experimentally in his hands. Yes, this would work well.
"Shall we start," Ambrose 'questioned,' turning towards Owen and grinning his usual worse-than-the-devil grin.

Not only had Ambrose accepted his request, he did so with a certain amount of zeal that Owen had not expected. He blinked at him as he laughed, almost maniacally, suddenly uncertain about asking at all.. What had he dragged himself into? He wasn't at all certain if he liked this side of Ambrose - not when he was actually being friendly before.

Don't be such a wuss-bag, he reminded himself. Okay, so maybe Ambrose would get to see first-hand how much he really sucked, but that was the point of training, right?

Although his choice of weapon - a stick - was even more questionable than the plastic forks. He did honestly doubt their potency - he found himself scoffing without realising it.

As the boy grinned expectantly towards him, the boy scrambled onto his feet, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, sure..." Oh God. How was he supposed to begin? Was he meant to pick up his own weapon? But he didn't really want to resort to the sticks - he had a feeling that his claws would be more powerful than mere twigs. Yes, he didn't need them at all...

Gathering his breath, his eyes narrowed as he tried to plan how to approach Ambrose... Well, he didn't know much of his fighting style. Might as well go straight in and give it his best shot. He started into a run towards the red-haired boy, eyes focused entirely on his face. A good punch right there would nail it... While running towards the boy, his arm reached out, aiming to punch his face in the moment he was close enough.

Ambrose suppressed the urge to yawn. He knew the large boy didn't know much about strategy, but . . . wow. Couldn't he think of anything else besides a frontal assault? Owen would have to learn the hard way, then.

He readied the stick. As the large boy approached predictably, Ambrose leapt with ease into the air, aimed two swift and piercing strikes on the boy's back along his way. He then landed safely back down, twirling the piece of wood like a baton. The Powers That Be did the usual 'ooo's and 'ahh's. The usual.

"Rule one: never use a frontal assault." Ambrose was going to have to whack a lot of these rules into the poor boy, wasn't he . . .

As Ambrose evaded his attack with a leap, Owen found his first swinging lamely in the air, making contact with nothing, especially not his target.... Well, had he expected it to? Ambrose was supposed to be the expert here after all.

He did wince as the stick whapped at his back. He hadn't expected blows from the twig to actually hurt, but they did. Groaning slightly, he looked over his shoulder at Ambrose, squinting as he spouted his little lesson. Okay. No attacking from the front... Then how else was he supposed to attack?

His mouth twisted into a forced, frustrated smile. Stuff just got real. He tried to plan his next move again - maybe this time, he'd do something a bit more impressive rather than just throwing himself in. He hesitated in thought for a moment, before running forward at a bit of an angle towards Ambrose. And this time, his gaze was focused on his calves. When he was close enough, he would try to swing his foot out and try and sweep Ambrose's feet from under him. Although, the move itself was heavily under-practised by Owen and like with most of his movements - he was undeniably not a fast runner.

Ambrose watched with interest as the large boy charged once more. He was learning pretty quickly, but still . . . Owen lacked the speed to support such an assault. It was nice to see a change, though.

The red-haired boy decided to give the large boy the benefit-of-the-doubt-- as in, let Owen precede with his attack and see where it lead. The audience didn't like this plan, however . . .

Kick 'em in the shins!
This is BORING. Give him a lesson he's sure not to forget!
Why did you even offer to teach the boy in the first place!?

Ambrose ignored Them as much as he could, shoving the voices as usual to the back of his mind. It was an automatic process now. With Owen's sweep at the feet, though, the red-haired boy automatically lept up once more. Too many automatic motions for his tastes. He, of course, landed as gracefully as ever, twirling the stick absentmindedly.

"That was better," Ambrose informed Owen, attempting a grin despite all that was on his mind. "Again."

His eyes squinted. Was his attack going to be a success or was Ambrose being easy on him? Of course, Ambrose once again invaded his little move, but at least it didn't come with the same deflation of dignity that his last miss had brought him. Likely because Ambrose hadn't retaliated this time.

He grinned back automatically, but was too concentrated to make much of a reply. Again. He could try again. The last one was close enough... maybe if he was just that bit faster. Maybe.

He surged forward again, but this time, he put as much force as possible into his start. His clawed feet thudded heavily at the ground, tossing up crumbs of mud behind. And yes, there was indeed a burst of speed that was surprising from the normally slow boy... But somewhere along the line, he forgot that he was meant to be pulling off some impressive, complicated battle maneuver. Kicking... He was meant to kick something, right? The moment he was close enough, he would thrust out his foot, hoping to strike something at the very least. Probably Ambrose's shin.

Ambrose was determined not to miss this one. He wanted to see just how hard the large boy could hit. And so, the red-head dug his white shoes' heals into the slightly-softened ground, preventing the automatic response. There. He observed calmly as Owen gained speed-- he had lost all purpose in it, though. A shame.

. . . Darling? Disaster pried-in as the Others continued their watch, Their voices merely buzzing in the background.
Ambrose reluctantly replied with a quick glance upwards and back down. Busy.

I know, I just . . . thought you might want to dodge JUST this one more time? the deity grinned sheepishly, despite the boy not being able to see his face.
Why the hell would I--?

WHAM.

The boy's brown eyes widened at the hit. Ow. Yes, it wasn't nearly as hard as a hit as it should have been, and Ambrose had a high pain tolerance, but . . . it was a solid hit regardless. Stung a little, too. Still, why all of the warning?

. . . Did I fail to mention that They're not going to heal any and all wounds you sustain, as They usually do?

Ambrose's eyes narrowed. Of course They weren't . . . Such a simple lesson wasn't entertaining enough. The consequences did not surprise him-- but, it did raise the stakes considerably. The shin was still stinging.
The bright red-haired boy twirled the seemingly-harmless stick around in his hands, thinking carefully . . . Yes. Yes, this would do.

"Let's practice some defense now," he grinned, charging towards Owen. He would just tap the large boy's shoulder's again, jumping at the last possible moment for air and flipping over his presumed 'opponent,' but it was best to look as intimidating as possible.

Again, Owen wondered whether it was his own prowess of skill that landed the hit, or that Ambrose hadn't bothered to dodge at all. Either way, a smirk made its way onto his face as the kick made contact - proud, that for once in his hopeless encounters, that one of his attacks actually landed at all.

Though, Ambrose's words effectively translated in his head as 'that hurt and now I'm going to get you back'. For a moment, he panicked, unsure how to react as the boy charged towards him. He stood there dumbly for a moment, considering his actions. He could run - no, the boy was far faster than him. Maybe dodge-- ahh, time was running out. There wasn't enough to think about dodging at all.

So he did the best that he could possibly do at that moment: cringe his eyes tightly shut in fear and flail out his arm towards the boy to... slap him away? But the tap on the shoulder hadn't failed to meet, and Owen was almost surprised that he hadn't been torn to shreds right then. He blinked his eyes open, looking to see Ambrose on the opposite side of him. He smiled meekly, his head hanging in embarrassment. "Can I try that again."

Slapping was an interesting way of defense (it had gotten quite a few laughs out of Them), but no, it was hardly effective. Ambrose could not help but wonder for the un-tenth time how this boy was still alive.

"Do so," Ambrose merely replied with a tap of the stick, walking back to the front of Owen, the exact same distance apart. He planned on the exact same attack, for the large boy's sake. He was just staring to figure things out-- it wouldn't do him any good to become confused. Repetitiveness seemed to be his best bet right now.

How does that one phrase go? Disaster chimed with a grin. Ah, yes: repeating the same thing over and over while expecting different results is the definition of madne--

Shut up, Ambrose ordered, charging once more at Owen.

This time, Owen had been slightly better prepared for the following attack. He knew he'd have to actually defend himself this time (instead of that lame excuse for a retaliation before). He knew what Ambrose was going to do... Or at least he did. Who knows, Ambrose might've decided to be sneaky and try a different sort of attack.

His eyes narrowed in concentration as he approached, preparing to get the timing right. When he was near enough, he jerked his shoulder backwards. What would've been a tap instead narrowly brushed by the fabrics of his shirt. Thank God he was doing the same maneuver again.

Though still, he couldn't recall what he would do afterwards. His eyes had been shut the first time after all. A counter-attack... Maybe he could try a counter-attack. Quickly, he flailed his arm out. At least this time, his hand had garnered more shape than a mere slap - it was bundled into a tight fist. He swung it out towards the boy, aiming to hit... No, he wasn't aiming anywhere. He was just hoping to get a hit on the boy, anywhere at all.

Ambrose's eyes lit up at the near miss. He was improving! Then again, that was merely the same move as before-- it would truly be improvement if the large boy retalliated.

There it was. Owen was fighting back.
The sparkle out of the redhead's eyes diminished, however, when he found no aim in the punch. An attack without purpose failed to be an attack at all; if the large boy could not fight with intent, then how could he actually fight back? It was frustrating, if only because the human was capable of so much more, so much better.

Ambrose faced the punch head-on, it about to land somewhere on his torso, miraculously enough. He attempted a catch of the fist, then solemnly shaking his head.

"Better, but not enough. Again."
He stepped back the same distance as before, planning to feign the familiar maneuver he had been performing but instead go for a direct attack, swooping down low and tripping Owen with his right leg. A harmless trick-- nothing more.

Again, Owen wasn't really expecting the attack to hit, regardless of whether he'd put some aim into it or not. It was a sort of pessimistic air that followed most of his attempts. However, as his fist was captured, he looked up to the opposite boy in surprise.

...Of course. It was never enough.

With 'again', Owen had every suspicion to believe that the last two attacks would be merely repeated. It was the same run-up. His eyes squinted with steady determination, and act the perfect moment, he would swerve his shoulder out of the way. Successfully dodging nothing. It was a different attack.

He didn't have time to dodge the incoming sweep to his legs. He fell forward, a claw flailing out to latch onto something, anything, to regain his balance. But there was little to grab onto, save for Ambrose before him. Maybe he'd be able to grab onto his shirt to hopefully drag the other boy down with him. Regardless if his maneuver was a success or not, Owen likely would've ended up landing on the ground with a face-full of mud,

Ambrose watched with an internal sigh as Owen fell for the ploy. The large boy had gotten too comfortable. The Powers were cheering at such failure, though, whooping and hollering for the two to fall into the mud together. Not if Ambrose had any say in it.

Unfortunately, though, he didn't: the large boy's claws rather neatly grabbed hold of the redhead's chest, digging into not only the shirt's fabric but also the skin. The pain etched into his frame; there was the sickening sound of skin breaking, and then the fall.

The two fell face-first into the mud below, the Powers taking it upon Themselves to make the mud deeper and more liquid-y than it was as the two boys first fought. Ambrose's brilliant red hair was drenched in the brown, along with his usual pair of pants and a decent shirt. Great. Great. The Powers applauded more than ever, louder and louder--

"Shut the f*ck up," he growled, attempting to pick himself up before realizing that Owen was on top of him. The hell, he was heavy. Ambrose didn't bother with the attempt any further, waiting instead for the large boy to pick himself up.

Owen wasn't aware that his claws had done anything more than grab the boy's shirt and drag him down with him. He was too busy focused on the quickly approaching ground to notice details beyond that. His eyes cringed shut and hoped for the best.

The land wasn't painful at all. It was soft. Particularly soft. The boy simply couldn't suss out why though, until the moment he heard a voice beneath him, feeling some struggling beneath him. Oh... He'd landed on him. More than just a little embarrassed, Owen quickly shuffled off him, raising his head from the ground... which for some reason, was a lot muddier than he remembered it being. How...? He was temporarily blinded by the liquidy mud, so he raised his wrist to rub at his eyes. Not that that helped - his entire arm was exactly the same. It was nothing new being covered in mud, but it didn't stop him from feeling pretty gross.

It was around then that he registered Ambrose's words, and his brows furrowed angrily. "I didn't say anything," he retorted, before finally pinching the edge of his shirt to rub his eyes with. Ah, finally he could see. It was around then he noticed the tip of his claws were tainted with an odd colour. Red. How did it...?

Suddenly realising, he looked down at the boy again. "Uhm.... Hey. You... okay?" Was he even meant to ask? Ambrose was the teacher after all. And now that he thought about it, had it been an actual wrestling match, Owen would've won by now. But he couldn't be so sure if Ambrose would see it that way... Idly, he continued to try and wipe some of the mud off his arms and his face, albeit unsuccessfully.