QM 38 - Old Age
Nov. 20th, 2007 03:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcher38 - "Old age. It's the only disease... that you don't look forward to being cured of." - 'Citizen Kane'
OOC Note: Takes place in the same me-created future timeline as this prompt response.
Wesley's progress through the gymnasium is, for a man of nearly sixty, more than brisk, but to him it's painfully slow and awkward. Though he was never what one would term athletic, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was still a man who led a highly physical existence, and the inescapable truths of time were the worst concessions he forced himself to make.
The class is only twelve or fifteen strong, all young men and women. Exceptionally young, as Wesley notes to himself. They get younger every year.
There is a slight stir amongst the youngsters. Until now, the only time any of them has even seen the Chairman of the Watchers' Council is at assembly time and, on occasion, at meals in the dining room. That he was there, now, a near legend in their young minds, is terribly exciting. Wesley knows there are a number of them thinking so, and an equal number of them wondering what the doddering old fool with the slate gray hair and cane is doing interrupting their hand-to-hand combat practice.
Wesley nods to the instructor. "And what, Mr. Harris, is today's topic of study?" asks the older man. The instructor, one Peter Parker Harris, a solidly built young gentleman, responds with deference.
"Leverage and balance, Mr. Pryce."
Nodding sagely, Wesley turns to the students. "A vampire possesses a physical strength that has been estimated to fall between six and ten times an average human being. Many demons multiply that factor by as much as ten again. Brute strength will never win the day."
Quickly, as it is a demonstration he and Peter have rehearsed dozens of times, three of the burliest male students are selected to face the Chairman. When they attack, Wesley demonstrates that he has lost only a step or two of speed, but has gained even more cunning. An elbow finds one young man's solar plexus. Rigidly extended fingers strike a nerve bundle. Still-strong hands grasp an arm and twist, using the third young man's momentum to send him crashing to the floor.
With a nod to the student and Harris, Wesley exits the gymnasium. It isn't until he is safely ensconced in his office that he begins to pant and groan with the strain. A few aspirin are downed, and in a few minutes he is right again.
There is a knock at the door. Two of the senior class of Slayers have arrived to discuss being assigned a new Watcher. They're dressed to flirt to get their way, even with the older man behind the desk.
Wesley sits through their performance, appreciating the effort. Age, he supposes, does have its privileges.
(440)
OOC Note: Takes place in the same me-created future timeline as this prompt response.
Wesley's progress through the gymnasium is, for a man of nearly sixty, more than brisk, but to him it's painfully slow and awkward. Though he was never what one would term athletic, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was still a man who led a highly physical existence, and the inescapable truths of time were the worst concessions he forced himself to make.
The class is only twelve or fifteen strong, all young men and women. Exceptionally young, as Wesley notes to himself. They get younger every year.
There is a slight stir amongst the youngsters. Until now, the only time any of them has even seen the Chairman of the Watchers' Council is at assembly time and, on occasion, at meals in the dining room. That he was there, now, a near legend in their young minds, is terribly exciting. Wesley knows there are a number of them thinking so, and an equal number of them wondering what the doddering old fool with the slate gray hair and cane is doing interrupting their hand-to-hand combat practice.
Wesley nods to the instructor. "And what, Mr. Harris, is today's topic of study?" asks the older man. The instructor, one Peter Parker Harris, a solidly built young gentleman, responds with deference.
"Leverage and balance, Mr. Pryce."
Nodding sagely, Wesley turns to the students. "A vampire possesses a physical strength that has been estimated to fall between six and ten times an average human being. Many demons multiply that factor by as much as ten again. Brute strength will never win the day."
Quickly, as it is a demonstration he and Peter have rehearsed dozens of times, three of the burliest male students are selected to face the Chairman. When they attack, Wesley demonstrates that he has lost only a step or two of speed, but has gained even more cunning. An elbow finds one young man's solar plexus. Rigidly extended fingers strike a nerve bundle. Still-strong hands grasp an arm and twist, using the third young man's momentum to send him crashing to the floor.
With a nod to the student and Harris, Wesley exits the gymnasium. It isn't until he is safely ensconced in his office that he begins to pant and groan with the strain. A few aspirin are downed, and in a few minutes he is right again.
There is a knock at the door. Two of the senior class of Slayers have arrived to discuss being assigned a new Watcher. They're dressed to flirt to get their way, even with the older man behind the desk.
Wesley sits through their performance, appreciating the effort. Age, he supposes, does have its privileges.
(440)
