fandomhighdorms | Gym: Tuesday Morning

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Gym: Tuesday Morning

After waking up early for a five mile run through the Preserve, Worf spent an unusual amount of time having small furry creatures attack him from above.

While he found them to be of no consequence to deal with, Worf thought it would be better to continue his exercise routine indoors in order to eliminate any more interference with his routine.

Which is why anyone entering the room would find the Klingon practicing his mok'bara forms.

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"I went to school."

"Certainly not this one," Worf said with a small scoff.

"I've only been here for a few weeks," Ender said, focusing on the motion of his legs. He hoped that'd get Worf off the subject; the standard new-kid questions would be a relief right now.

"I see," Worf said giving Ender a suspicious look and then returning his attention to the punching bag. "I started here at the beginning of the summer."

Ender briefly shot him another look. Another new person, relatively speaking; he seemed to hold the paranoia of someone who'd yet to fully grasp why he'd have to be. He toyed with the idea in his mind, then let it lie. At least the subject had been dropped. "You seem charmed."

Worf didn't look up from the punching bag. "I was intending to attend another school," he replied tersely. "I was... sent here instead. I hardly find this place... charming."

Asking about someone else's background still seemed something of a foreign concept, but Ender pushed through his hesitation with ease as his movement gained all of his attention again. "It happens," he said. "Could be worse."

"True," Worf replied but his tone made it seem otherwise. "How did you come to be here?"

"My family sent me here," he answered. It wasn't a lie; Ender had watched and learned enough, both from the newsfeeds and Valentine's one letter to know that Peter had somehow been involved. He just didn't know how-- he guessed he had to be grateful he was still alive, away from a planet that didn't want him back. "Nothing fancy."

Worf threw a few well placed blows at the bag. "Interesting. Was your family aware of the... uniqueness of this island?"

"If they did, they didn't warn me." He put a little more force into his movements, his feet pushing against the pressure of the pedals. "I take it no one warned you."

"I was given the impression this was a preparatory school for a certain academy," Word said giving the bag a particular vicious punch. "However the person who put me here seemed to have my humiliation in mind."

"Humiliation how?" It wasn't a subject he was unfamiliar with; it was a bully's strategy, to do it simply for humiliation's sake.

"Well.. there was the week where I was a cat," Worf said gruffly before pummeling the bag a little harder. "And the fact that my classes seem bent to keep me from my path as a warrior."

Worf had been a cat. Somehow, that should have shocked him more than it did. This island was already getting to him: maybe that had been the point. Maybe they were just setting him up to expect the unexpectable all over again.

But that wasn't the most important part-- and now he was thinking of the girl at lunch. Temari. "You're planning on being a warrior."

"I am a warrior," Worf said stopping the pummeling of the bag for a moment to give Ender his full attention. "A Klingon is considered a warrior when they are first able to pick up a blade. However... there is still much to learn."

A Klingon. So maybe the flash of something he'd caught off Worf's forehead was-- he looked back. Hm. "And you're a Klingon?" He rolled the unfamiliar word around in his mouth.

"Yes," Worf said dryly. "I assume you've never heard of us?"

"I haven't."

He wondered if all Klingons were as thoughtlessly enthusiastic in the way Worf was; he wondered what Klingons were at all.

Worf turned back to the punching bag. "We're a warrior racethat originated from the planet Qo'noS. We are one of the major powers of the galaxy, and a tradition-bound people who value honor and combat."

So another species. Worf didn't remind him of the buggers in the slightest. He looked too human, even with his funny forehead, and he talked that way too, even if his sentences had a different rhythm to them, a different slang than what he'd encountered here before.

Honour and combat, though, reminded him of Bonzo. It was a reminder he didn't need. "Good luck with that," he said. "Finding honor in combat."

"You doubt that is possible," Worf said with a volley of punches. "Why is that?"

"You can be honorable about combat," he replied, thinking of Carn Carnby, "But there's nothing honorable in it." If you fought to win, you couldn't fight with honor, and if you fought with honor--

It made him think of Bonzo too much, and he had to close his eyes for the images. "It's just the first thing we learned." Or otherwise, we'd all be dead, and the tigers would rule the Earth.

"On the contrary," Worf said pulling himself away from the punching bag and walking over to Ender, "The only thing dishonorable in battle is running away from it. The highest honor a Klingon can have is to die in battle."

"Which means you lost the battle," Ender pointed out, keeping his voice under some measure of control. He shouldn't be agitating the other like this, but on the other hand, his naivety was getting on Ender's nerves. If his friends had been soldiers who looked like children, then Worf was a child who looked like a soldier. "There's no honor in that, either. You're just dead."

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