Proving Theories Wrong...[Open]

[William Fletcher]

A fist slammed into the concrete wall beside him as he stood in the gym, having just taken a short moment to sip some water from a bottle he had kept in the zipper bag he kept to hand for when he came here, holding a towel and other amenities that he needed after his workouts...

"Fuckin' little runt stole that win fae me, even if it w's down tae bein' faster and mair skilled...."

A tentative voice spoke up nearby, one of the older males who trained in the gym yet still maintained a cautious nature around the fierce Irishman, and dared to speak against him in whatever capacity for the circumstance...

"Well, you -have- bulked up so much that your speed is almost non-existant, Will..."

"Aye, but who gie's a fuck about speed when power rules..?"

"Will, you're probably the biggest guy here, and definitely the strongest, there's no doubt there, but think about it, if you can't hit someone, what -can- you do?"

Not the best thing to say to him at the moment, Will immediately pushed away from the wall, tossing down the water bottle before standing head and shoulders over the other man, his enormous form towering over him before he spoke, calm-sounding but with a malice laced in it, and his words so clearly pronounced that only the faintest hint of his accent lingered...

"Destroy them when I can catch them. Would you like to test that theory?"

Careful not to aggravate the superior combatant in front of him, even with his own speed advantage, the man took a step or two back before tilting his head down in a subservient motion, incandescently ironic and unintended, "You've got the most potential I can imagine, Will, I just suggest that you remember your weakness against your immeasurable strength."

Narrowing his eyes, he turned from the older male with a snort from his nostrils, zipping the bag again and turning to stride clearly into the main area, bypassing the apparati that sat around them and instead walking into one of the 'boxing' rings that sat in the centre for the more interactive training patrons. Those who lifted weights increased their power, those who sprinted and things increased their speed, Will had endurance and absolute power, he lacked speed, but to him, it didn't matter. He needed to know if a fluke had occurred in being unable to beat the guy he'd fought in the tournament. The race for the captainship depended on it.

Clearing his throat without an audible sound, he spoke loudly to every patron in the gym, "Right, I'm lookin' f'r a fight, so if one o' ye is quick oan yer feet, come oan up here and gie's a run!"

It was obvious what he aimed to do. He wanted to prove to himself that speed wasn't the aim of the game. That power could surpass all, as he had believed and still did, and if someone in this gym could step up to that challenge, then all the better for him.

[Ayal Nissim]

OOC: Please, tell me if I'm jumping on this thread a little late.

IC:
"I'm not sure what "gie's a run" means, but I would love an oppertunity to practice some skills if that's what you mean."
Ayal said as he walked into the gym. He heard some people snicker a little as he said that, but this was all lost on Ayal; he wasn't making a joke, he just plain didn't understand it. To him, this was a new American expression he hadn't learned yet.

It was also obvious that Ayal was being serious. The limber Middle-Eastern Israeli showed no hint of emotion, as was his typical custom. He'd seen large power-fighters in Israel, but usually they had guns. For some reason, Ayal though, this large American had no intention of shooting him.

For some reason, however, Ayal was not going to relax just because of that.

Ayal, stepped into the boxing ring in his normal training gear; a hooded sweatshirt he had cut the sleeves off, a pair of long combat pants, a pair of black combat boots with the steel toes removed, and a set of white hand wraps around each of his hands.

"Ayal Nissim here, and I would like to practice a little. Are you up for it?"

[William Fletcher]

ooc: Apologies. I've been somewhat busy. It's also quite short compared to what I'd usually put out. Sorry.

ic:

The youth who stepped into the ring was subjected to the usual scrutiny of the burly Irishman, and the obvious discerning factors leaped out....He had a near-foot height advantage, clearly around a hundred pounds in weight, maybe a little less, and above all, he was a lithe appearing fighter. An appropriate opponent considering his intentions. Disregarding the verbal faux pas the smaller youth made, he gave a short, curt nod at the remark made and paced out from the corner he'd been leaning in, slowly stretching his neck to each side and cracking it.

"Jus' so ye know, I'm no' much f'r pullin' mah punches in a 'spar'. Thus, the question should more appropriately be, are you up for it?"

His muscles twitched slightly in anticipation of the upcoming ruck, continuing to take in what the youth was wearing. Wraps on his hands suggested something like Thai boxing or another close-quarters style. The boots suggested similar, considering they weren't conventional footwear for training...Forgoing any need for small-talk, he raised his hands, the fists half-clenched to permit him to shift between punching and grappling if the need arose, and shifted back somewhat onto his right foot.

"Submitting or knockout only. I play f'r keeps, hope ye don't mind too much."

[Ayal Nissim]

"I might have to hold back a little, considering i'd kill you if i didn't." Ayal stated, matter-of-factly. It was true; every strike Ayal had learned had no in-between stance between "stop" and "mutilate". Groin shots, eye gouges, joint crushes; this style wasn't taught to the Israeli Military for nothing.

Ayal instinctivly reached for his right leg and his left shoulder to remove his weapons. Feeling around and finding nothing, however, he quickly transitioned it into wiping some dust off; Ayal was still adjusting to live in San Francisco, sans his Beretta or combat knife.

The Israeli stepped into the ring, running over the details in his head.
This guy's big, I can expect power, not speed. As such, the game is more blocks, more shots. Ayal also looked over at his opponent and the faces of everyone else in the gym.
He also seems beligerant.

Ayal spaced his legs, toes facing his opponent, and placed his hands up, palms open, fingers facing his much larger opponent.

"Anytime you're ready."

[William Fletcher]

His eyes narrowed at the remark, causing an eyebrow to flick up. This kid, he had some real superiority going on in his head, and that would make smacking him around all the sweeter.

"An interestin' little remark. That ego o' yers better no' be all ye've got goin' for ye, because if ye're bankin' on 'dirty' tactics tae help ye win, I'd no' be so brash."

Frank and simple. Guys of this size had two main tactics. Speed in bucketloads, or sneaky fighting. He was no beginner to it, and had experienced both in several occasions. It was a simple question of waiting to see which would be the employed method. Despite the size he had, and the power he could employ as a result of it, he was no fool. He'd been beaten by quick fighters more than strong ones, and was careful about it. When he stepped into the ring and took his stand, a penny dropped to Will as he examined his positioning.

'Hold on...That's a Thai boxing sort of stance...But there's no way this guy uses that style. Those boots would slow his feet down too much. It's a head-on method, so he's not likely to be much of a dodger, he'll just try to counter me more than anything....'

The observation would pass in his head in barely a half-second, the time it would take him to reply to the affirmation that the smaller youth was ready. Pacing in towards the centre, his hands lowered down to his waist instead of the higher hold he'd had before, he raised them again for a brief moment as his wide arc of movement eventually brought him within his striking range and fired out a sudden left jab, testing the waters with this cocky opponent.

'Lets find out just -how- you fight, shall we...?'

[Ayal Nissim]

Ayal looked up and saw his larger opponent close the gap into his punching range, which was ironically Ayal's kick range. Suddenly, in the presence of danger, Ayal's mind lit up with targets, targets that seemed to glow flourescent yellow in his mind.

His eyes lit up, particularly aiming at his opponent's groin, a common area to launch a good flat foot to dissuade an attacker that he had unfortunately had to use on attackers in Israel. When someone puts a knife in your face, you don't usually think about what people think, just as long as you can get out alive. Besides, the opinions of religious fanatics and murderers weren't exactly on the top of his priority list.

However, America was different than Israel; killing this guy in a sparring match would not set a peaceful precedent to his stay in San Francisco. After all, that was the reason that Ayal had to leave his home (and, much to Ayal's discomfort, his weapons), because of him getting involved with an Iranian and an AK-47.

So, Ayal grudgingly ignored his instinct to smash his larger opponent's groin, and instead threw a simple block at the punch his opponent threw, aiming his right wrist at his opponent's striking wrist in a good push inward, powered by a simple rotation of the body, dodging the threat, before jumping back, still in a ready stance, analyzing his opponent.

Let's see how Americans fight....