2237-11-25 - Throwing Punches

Jacob and Aldrich meet outside the boxing ring. Jabs are thrown. Somehow, it comes down from the judges as a split decision.

Date: 2237-11-25

Location: Gym

Related Scenes: 2237-12-02 - A Bit Of Peace

Plot: None

Scene Number: 1589

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The after supper rush was absolutely the time to do a variety of things around the new post. Most of the inhabitants of the nearly abandoned base used it as an opportunity to wind down, flirt, or fornicate. Jacob, though, wasn't most of the people on the post. He'd dedicated several of the precious hours to something a bit different. Rehab, or whatever counted for it in his mind. He, perhaps wisely, currently finds himself in front of a heavy bag, turning and shifting to the side as the hung leather sways. Marx looks for his angle like a man used to such things. He was dressed in basic PT attire. A tank top displays no shortage of bright and colorful tattoos on his arms, chest, shoulders, and back. They were in a Hibernian style, slightly reminiscent of old gangster movies that used the location as motif. Other than that? It was shorts and running shoes for the big man. Those and a massive pair of boxing gloves.

Aldrich arrives in the gym looking ready to work out. Though he's starting out in sweats, and his hands are taped instead of gloved. He heads first for the punching bags, and then notices Jacobs presence. He considers for probably a moment shorter than he should have, and then continues to a spot next to Jacob's. "Hey." A polite, but somewhat distant greeting, as he lines up to start his workout.

The new appearance is noticed over the top of waiting gloves. It actually earns a bit of a confused expression before the big marine shakes his head and rocks the bag a bit more, continuing his shifting. "Chaplain." He offers by way of impartial greeting, content to bob and weave out of the bag's path rather than throw punches. In all honesty, judging by the amount he was moving his core? It may actually have worked as a rehab plan.

Aldrich is apparently here to actually punch the punching bag, though he starts out light, in deference to the fact that he's not wearing gloves. "So..." he remarks, casually, without taking his eyes off what he's doing. "Cate came to visit me yesterday. She was crying." He glances to the side, to catch Jacob's reaction to that.

"Seems to be the effect I have on her these days." Not a beat. That's the reaction Jacob offers him at the news. He doesn't even miss a beat. He continues moving, shifting, and flexing, throwing faux punches at the bag and shifting a bit more over to the side.

Aldrich stops after the first punch, places a palm on the back, and turns toward Jacob, with a very obviously annoyed expression. It makes the scar that bisects his eyebrow crease slightly. "Well, can you cut it the frack out? If you need to take your temper out on something, do it on punching bags and Cylons, instead of a person who is supposed to be your friend. Cate deserves /far/ better."

"Funny. I'd say Cate deserves better than some self-righteous little prick fighting her battles for her." Jacob actually glances up at that, his eyebrow slightly arched in questioning attention. He, somehow, doesn't deem it worth his attention, though, because he looks back down to the bag. "She deserves an opportunity to fight them herself. Catey is a capable woman."

Aldrich smiles a flinty smile, and gives a slight shake of his head. "Expert deflection," he replies, "But minus 2 points for lack of originality. She shouldn't /need/ to be fighting battles with her friends. What's the /point/, anyway? Are you trying to push her away? Because I don't think it's going to work."

"It probably runs along the same point as you trying to start something with me, kneeler." There's a frigid tone in the big man's voice. At long last, he puts out a gloved hand to steady the bag. When Jacob exits that boxer's stance to rise to his full height, he emerges from his partially obscured view behind the hanging leather. "But? Yeah. Big bad man is trying to hurt the sensitive young woman. That's how a lot of your stories go, isn't it? Makes sense that it'd be one of your go tos."

Aldrich shakes his head again. "More deflection. Ad hominem. This isn't about me or my religion," he points out, calmly. "This is about /Cate/. The woman who, if you put a gun to her head, would probably lie down and let you shoot her. Even though she's perfectly capable of stopping you. Because she'd think that's what you need from her, and a part of her would think she deserved it. So I'll ask again. /Why/ be intentionally cruel to someone like that? What's the purpose?"

"You know. It speaks a lot to who you are as a person to try to establish intellectual superiority by chastising my comments." Jacob's own smile is glacial. "But? Thankfully, I didn't need further proof that you're probably an asshole. Let me try to break this down for you like I do our new marines, Chaplain. I'll speak slowly." His head tilts to the side, those gloves crossing over his chest and that dull little smile glowing darkly. "I'm not intentionally cruel. I'd say I'm not, honestly, cruel at all. I had a frank conversation with a woman who I'd call a friend, who I happen to know rather well, and now I'm standing in front of a pissant while he tries to carry a potato chip. No part of me means to upset Catey. The fact that I do? That's something I'm sorry about. But I'll never lie to the girl to spare her feelings. That's the marking of a shitty friend, mate."

Aldrich presses his lips together, one brow raised slightly as Jacob continue his little tirade. When he's finished, Al takes a long moment, then replies, "I don't believe a word of what you just said. You know what I think? I think you're a sadist who gets off on hurting people who've already been traumatized enough. Perhaps it even adds to the experience that she /could/ fight back and chooses not to. But in any case, I think you know exactly how pointless what you're doing is. I think you enjoy it, just like you enjoy trying to insult my religion, however uncreative your approach may be." He glances Jacob down and back up again, unimpressed, and remarks, "Or perhaps you're just an idiot. I'm willing to allow that as a possibility. I have a habit of giving people more credit than they're due..."

At that, Jacob actually laughs. It's accompanied by the gentle strain of a wince, but the motion does nothing to cease the sound of his amusement. "I see how pointless what I'm doing is? Do you need glasses, Preacher? I think you are tilting at windmills because you've determined that they absolutely must be dragons." The amusement stays on his features in the form of that dark little smile. Marx's head does move to the side a bit, though, as if trying to study the man from a slightly different angle. "Easier to be the hero if you have a villain though, right? It makes things so much more... finite. Call me what you want, you pathetic little excuse for a man. Shake your finger at me. Call me a fool. Me? I know that Catey isn't served well by assholes like you. She doesn't need someone to coddle her and tell her how bad her life sucks. She needs someone who will get her ready, because you know what? This shit ain't done sucking. And it's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better." Apparently, the chaplain wasn't the only one who had brought a soap box. "So. Is there anything else you'd like to feebly accuse me of? Or can I keep talking to the bag. Honestly, it's a better conversationalist."

Aldrich allows Jacob to continue until he's run out of things to say. "Actually, I'm doing my job," he replies, mildly. "Believe me, I find no more pleasure talking to you than you do with me. But let me be very honest with you, since you claim to be a man who values 'tough love': you are a danger to yourself and everyone around you. I've given you a chance to demonstrate that you care about the well-being of your fellows in arms, and you've refused. I don't know /what/ precisely is going on with you, but luckily, figuring out the specifics /isn't/ part of my job. So. Do you want to go talk to Dr. Anders willingly, or do I need to write up a report and let the brass order you there?"

"I want you to write up a report to the brass. Since, obviously, your views on the subject are pigeon holed due to your relationship with Cate. I think that would be a fun conversation to have in front of a board authority, actually." Jacob chuckles a bit and gives the chaplain a once over. "Your job is to counsel those who seek you out, preacher. I don't know of any regulation that makes you an authority of mental health or allows you to force your opinion on others who don't share in your belief system." He pushes the bag again, watching the sway of it with careful eyes. It allows him to, for a moment, take his eyes off the man standing on the other side of him. He doesn't duck and bob. He merely watches with those icy blue gaze. "As for Catey? She's a grown woman. She can make her own choices into what kind of shitty company she wants to keep." He pointedly looks at the other man. "But my suggestion is that you don't seek me out to offer any more unsolicited 'advice'. It isn't wanted or appreciated. If I need any more of your wisdom? I'll read the back of a cereal box."

Aldrich smiles faintly. "You just called an officer a pissant and a pathetic little excuse for a man. I don't like calling rank, but I would like you to imagine behaving toward any /other/ officer in this outfit with the crass rudeness you've slung my way from the moment we met. Exactly how well do you think that would have gone over? The Wolves are casual by military standards, but... not /that/ casual." His smile tightens a little, and he adds, "I'm trying to be nice, believe it or not. But so be it. If you'd rather I report you, I can do that. But I can guarantee you that it won't go well for you."

"Do you? Guarantee it? Because I think an officer and a chaplain just called me a sadist, and idiot, and a few other unkind things that may speak more to his rank than that of the salty ol' NCO. This probably isn't something you want to drag in front of other people, sir." Jacob smiles at the last word, offering an almost insignificant glance back over to the Chaplain. "It'll be an interesting review board. You know, since I was in here, minding my own business. Since you approached me. Since I tried, a few times, to suggest you leave the conversation while the leaving is good." He pauses. "And since you seemed hell bent on accusing me of purposefully trying to hurt a friend of mine. You've lost, sir. So, please, crawl back to your hole. If you want to risk your career? Sure. I'll see you at the other end of the table at that review board."

Aldrich smiles faintly. "You're doing a terrific job of convincing me that you are completely in control of yourself and not at all behaving erratically," he comments, mildly. "So be it. Have a nice day." He taps the punching bag a time or two, turns on his heels, and walks away. Funny, he is not walking like a person who believes himself to have lost.

Jacob chuckles to himself, watching the first few steps of the man's departure. "Who the hell cares what you think, Chaplain. But yeah. Until next time." His attention turns back to that bag, to the swaying, and to the right hook that connects with it as it comes back. It, suffice to say, changes the course of the bag. If the Chaplain didn't look as though he lost? Marx was waiting to crowned the king of Caprica.


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