"C'mon, Blaine! That all ya got?"

"You know better than that, Jo-Jo" Blaine replied with a smirk, dodging a punch and delivering one of his own to the bald guy he was sparring with, which landed square on the jaw.

"I thought they called you Painless Blaine because you seemed to feel no pain, not because you hit like a pansy~" Joe teased back; he stood right at Blaine's height, but was a good ten pounds lighter, attempting to hit Blaine's knee, but the long-haired fighter was too quick, catching the knee, taking him down, and then delivering a rain of blows.

"Okay, okay," he sputtered as Blaine reached down to help him up. "Shame they didn't let you fight in the big leagues, bro."

"Yeah...But even if they did now, I'm gettin' too old for all that. I do good to hang like I do in the underground."

"Yeah, but I'll bet on ya til the day you die. Let's go hit the punching bag."

"You know I hate those. They can't hit back..." He hopped out of the sparring ring, making his way over to a large punching bag and delivering punch after punch, then sidestepping and unloading again. He didn't realize that in their sparring, he'd accidentally caught an elbow under his eye, and his cheek was bleeding. He kept punching, not even noticing. Maybe it was one of the blessings of being unable to feel; or maybe it was more of a curse.

The bruise under her eye and up her cheek was still a lovely shade of purple and blue. The ice the night it had happened really hadn’t done much to head off the effects of a glancing fist and mild internal bleeding. Quin looked at it as a statement piece around the office, and a reminder every time she looked into the mirror that dedicating 18 years to a single style of defensive martial art probably hadn’t been the best idea.

It wasn’t that Quin was ungrateful for the many times that aikido had saved her butt in the field. She was...when you were in situations where you had to be attacked in order to fight back, defensive arts were excellent. Things had changed though. Now Quin found herself the aggressor at times and simply knowing how to defend and deflect wasn’t enough.

Dammit. Michael had been right. Quin had thought about looking him up and asking for more lessons, but “The Ranger’s” object lessons tended to be tougher on her pride than the redhead liked. To that end, she’d began to seek out training opportunities in various gyms and dojos across the city.

This particular gym had caught Quin’s eye and she’d been back a few times. They had a variety of people who knew a variety of skills from a variety of different disciplines. It was just the kind of place where you could learn enough to get into trouble...and that’s what Quin needed.

Hands wrapped, red hair in a ponytail, she’d made her way from station to station, mostly working on her own. There were a few folks she’d made connections with, and they were getting her some of the training that she needed. Things were going well. People generally kept to themselves too, discretion was the better part of valor.

Finding a bag to work on, Quin tried out some of the strikes and kicks she’d been focused on during her last few training sessions. As she worked, someone else parked at a nearby bag and proceeded to beat the living hell out of it. Quin couldn’t help but be curious and she frowned slightly at the blood running down the man’s face.

”You might want to get that looked at.” she called out, hoping he could hear her over his pummelling of the bag. ”It’s bleeding pretty badly.”

Blaine was caught up in his training, albeit begrudgingly; as he'd said, he preferred hitting things with the ability to hit back. Then again, when one couldn't feel, I guess things like being punched in the face--or cut by an elbow--didn't really matter so much.

"You might want to get that looked at..." Eight words that Blaine had heard countless times over the past twenty-four years, and every time they were said in his vicinity, they were aimed at him, so his ears picked up on the phrase rather quickly. As he looked over to the redhead to say a thank you, he noticed the blood on the floor, and all over his white muscle shirt.

"Well, ****..." he grumbled, taking off the shirt. Then, his free hand reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a small mirror not unlike the kind most women kept in their purse. With one hand, he looked in the mirror, while the other hand put the shirt on the wound, pressing it against his face. Even after all this time, it was a weird experience. All he could do was press down and hope he was pressing hard enough. Then, he made his way over to a nearby bench and sat down, still applying pressure.

"Hey, thanks for the heads-up," he called to the redhead, giving an appreciative nod.

Well. That was one way to deal with a cut quickly and practically, Quin thought as she stopped working the bag for a minute and watched the man go to work on his face. It was a bit strange that he had to pull out a mirror to see the cut, considering it must have hurt like hell. Whatever though, some of these MMA types had been hit in the face so much that they had nerve damage and didn't even know when things had gotten out of hand.

That or he was on drugs. Quin smiled a slight internal smile, she didn't have to care about things like that anymore. Sometimes it was so nice not being a cop anymore...

The man thanked her for the heads up and Quin shrugged her shoulders with a smile, "It looked like you were pretty caught up in what you were doing, I thought you'd like a heads up." she couldn't remember if she'd seen this guy here before, so she went back to the bag. The punches and the kicks still felt new and a bit awkward, and again she cursed herself for spending so much time on defensive skills.

"Yeah, let's go with that," he replied, though maybe not loud enough for her to hear. Once he finished his face, he tossed the shirt in the trash and went to clean up the blood that had spattered on the floor--after all, he didn't want management getting mad at him. Again...

Looking up once he'd finished, he saw the stranger still attempting to go to work on the bag. Something looked...off about it, but he watched her form; it looked as if she wasn't comfortable.

After a few moments, he walked over to her. "Hey, uh, if you don't mind me saying, you seem a little...uncomfortable there. A big part of striking is confidence. Feel it in your soul. Strike quick, then move back, ready to do it again. Pretend the bag's an ex-boyfriend, if you have to. Or that annoying guy who just walked up and started telling you how to do it," he gave a light chuckle, but he stood back, arms folded across his chest. He sort of wanted to return the favor for helping him, and honestly, this was the only way he knew how.

Nodding her acknowledgement to the bleeding guy, Quin decided that in situations like this it was best to mind one’s own business rather than prod the guy with the scalp laceration for information on how he’d failed to notice his blood spilling everywhere.

A few moments passed and Quin lost herself in trying to hit the bag in the rhythmic, effective way that she knew would actually improve her coordination and strength. It was more difficult than she wanted to admit and the redhead had to work to keep self-doubt from sneaking in to bother her.

A voice sounded and Quin reached out automatically to grab the bag, turning her head slightly to listen to the offer being made by the bleeding guy. He wanted to help her with the bag?

The stubborn side of ex-detective Archer wanted to curtly inform the man that she was just fine and didn’t need any help thankyouverymuch. The practical side, however, urged the redhead to take help where it was offered. The guy had done well in the ring and could probably show her a thing or two. If training sessions with Michael had taught her anything, it was that diversity was key to being successful in a fight.

”I am uncomfortable.” Quin admitted candidly. ”I’m trying to diversify my skill set. I mostly practice aikido and striking isn’t even something you learn. Recent events convinced me that a bit of offense would be helpful.”

Today might be productive after all.

He nodded as she spoke, his arms folded across his chest. "I see. I never really paid much mind to defense, then again life blessed me to where defense isn't as necessary," he said with a slight shrug as he watched her. "I'm trained in kickboxing, so I can help you fill in the gaps there. In fact, if we can mix that with your akido, you'd be a force to be reckoned with."

He moved so he was standing in front of a bag next to her, demonstrating with a few mixed punches, occasionally following through with an elbow. Then, he stood back and landed a few kicks on the bag, then stepped back. "See? You want to mix it up to keep the opponent on their toes, but sometimes it's also smart to target certain limbs or areas to wear your opponent down. Especially if you know their style. If they're quick on their feet, that's no good if you take out a leg. Though you can never go wrong attacking the midsection. And never give a full-on punch to the face. Easy way to break your hand. If you want to hit the face, use a palm, he demonstrated, "Or an elbow," he demonstrated again.

"Or if you're flexible enough--and I'm not--you can always do some good with a well placed kick." He paused a moment. "As you perfect the technique, confidence comes. But you need both of those to be effective."

Heh. A world where defense wasn’t necessary. Quin supposed if you were built like a small truck, defense wasn’t very important. Quin was almost obscenely tall for a woman and always had been, but she’d been willowy growing up and it had become obvious pretty quickly that she wasn’t going to be able to overpower most people. When she’d first started taking martial arts lessons, her teacher had recommended aikido. It had served her well in the force, considering the fact that Police were always expected not to take the offensive against perps. Now that she wasn’t a cop anymore...offense was an option.

Her impromptu teacher did some demonstrations with the bag and Quin watched intently. Kickboxing looked a bit more...graceful than some of the other styles she’d been working with, even with someone as large as her new friend working the bag. Quin was quick and she could see some ways in which the offensive style could work with the holds and throws she already knew. Punch, follow-through with a forearm and elbow. Do the same, but follow through with a kick.

Turning back to her bag, Quin mimicked the movements slowly. It felt right somehow. ”I like this.” she said, going through the movements a few more times.

”Do you know of any gyms in the area that exclusively teach this style?” she asked. It was all well and good to fumble about on your own, but having a teacher definitely helped. ”Or anyone who teaches?”