Ragos was not intimidated by the Castella's gym. Ragos didn't get intimidated but there was something about it he didn't trust. Everything was the highest standard of quality possible. Brand new weights, clean new mats on the floor, chit the weight machines were so modern they provided real time accurate readings of the user's physical condition and adjusted themselves accordingly, which was a convenient trick to formulating a workout plan. It was all so…sterile, so streamlined, so fething soulless.
Back on Coruscant Ragos owned a gym of his own and it weren't nothing like this. The weights were rusted –but still heavy– the mats were worn, torn, and stained and the few weight lifting machines were decades old, under maintained and most likely a health hazard but there was heart. There was an intangible feeling you got stepping into his gym.
The place he was now was bright, polished and smelled like cleaning solution. Ragos' spot was dim and stank of sweat and blood. A gym like this was the kind of place that created the finest athletes in the galaxy, no doubt about it but Ragos' spot was where fighters were born.
Ragos stood facing one of the heavy bags. He ran his hand along the surface. Not a single crack, tear, bump or flat spot, it must've been brand fething new. So we're the gloves he had managed to borrow. They were a touch too tight having not been broken in –but he preferred too tight to too loose– and he struggled awkwardly to pull them over over his wrists because of the sweatshirt he was wearing.
It has been a while since he wore sweatshirts to the gym, he hadn't done a weight cut in ages but his choice of outfit today had nothing to do with weight he was trying to lose but the weight he had already lost. He's grown so thin, so frail, he hardly recognized himself.
Once his gloves were as secure as they were gonna get, Ragos squared up with the bag and popped it with a flat-footed jab.
Lazy.
The voice of Joran Del-Finn chastised.
Ragos began to bounce on the balls of his feet, slowly at first but it didn't take more than a moment or two for him to find a familiar rhythm. He popped the bag with two jabs in quick succession.
Sloppy.
Captain Joran Del-Finn was a smuggler.
The smuggler that had rescued Ragos and his family from Haruun Kal. Joran was also Mandalorian and when Ragos started getting into trouble on Nar Shaddaa with fights and chit, it was Joran who had been asked to teach Ragos the right way.
He continued bouncing. Three jabs thrown at the bag with a snap, head movement — slipping any counterpunch that would've been sent his way if the bag could punch back — his bouncing feet slid him to his right — away from the power of an orthodox boxer's right hand — Ragos ripped a wicked right hook. The bag almost folded in half before snapping back to normal, the sound of the chain rattling throughout the gym.
Fuxkin pathetic.
Ragos winced and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the pain in his side.
"Hey Ragos, you look like you can box. How do you fancy getting into the ring and going a few rounds? And don't worry about the whole throwing a punch at your boss thing.... I'll make sure to go easy on you." Mai laughed and raised her eyebrows a few times in encouragement for him to join her.
Someone called out to him. Rag cursed under his breath. He'd thought he was alone. He was exactly mad that he had company; it was just that Ragos probably shouldn't be in the gym at all. He was supposed to be resting. It was only little over a week ago that he had nearly died from a shooting and only a couple days since his "recovery" from a nasty infection that had come even closer to taking his life than the cowards that shot him from behind.
He looked around the bag toward the boxing ring that was in the gym. Leaning against the ropes, covered in sweat and teasing him about a fight, was a gorgeous woman. She knew his name and felt comfortable enough to poke at him so he probably knew her too but how? If they had gotten together Ragos wasn't likely to forget her…ah, he remembered.
"
It's Mai right?" He asked, remembering her from a nightclub on Coruscant. They had shared a couple drinks and a couple of dances that night but nothing else. "
It's Ghost. Nobody calls me Ragos." He said with a grin.
"
Chit, I ain't got no boss, Gorgeous, but I'd be happy to give you a go if that guy couldn't get the job done." Ragos said trying to match her energy and playful tone despite him not being sure he could whip her if she was blindfolded.
Ragos climbed in the ring with Mai.
"
Nothing below the belt, yeah?" Ragos said smirking, holding his gloves out for Mai to tap her's against, a common sign of respect between combatants. He would let her either touch gloves or decline before backing a few feet away and out of her range and bouncing on the balls of his feet again ready to begin.
Mairéad Solus
Ragos Terrek
