As he steps into the camp to become familiar with the place it seems he'll be stationed for the foreseeable future, his eyes scan the tent to take a a rough inventory of the training equipment before finally landing on the board. Rude stands right in front of it to compare his own mental notes with what's been pinned and highlighted there. Information regarding height and arm span are useful, but would take more hands on practice to master before fights. That is, if he will be doing it or if Tseng found some desperate meathead from the slums who would take money to assist them in their..
"Play my part?"
As soon as he sees what barely looks like an undergarment it clicks for him. He would be the one to train and fight by day and infiltrate their social circles by night. Rude isn't surprised at what's asked of him. The mission is sound, Tseng's made sure of it. What he has trouble accepting is the costume, if it could even be considered as much without much more covering than women's lingerie. Rude closes his eyes behind darkened sunglasses, hoping that when he opens them again, the spandex will have doubled or tripled in surface area.
It doesn't.
"Yes, I have a question." He starts, drawing off his shades to glare at the man smirking at him for only one imaginable reason. "Who designed the getup?" Rude won't even bother asking who came up with the name. That much was obvious from their last bit of quality time together. "And what role will you be playing?" Punching bag?, he thinks, but doesn't dare to say the words.
"This is fairly standard," he asserts. "You do not want to hand your opponents more to grab on to. As I understand it, wrestling is all about control." Perhaps a demonstration is in order. This one is simple enough: Tseng quickly snatching at Rude's tie, reeling him into a conspiratorial closeness. "The less variables you have to mind, the better off you will be. After all, you're already at a disadvantage."
Which brings him right to the next question. Tseng should relinquish the tie now, but he's enjoying wrapping it around his fingers a little too much.
"I will function as your trainer and handler. In earnest as well as for the sake of subterfuge." It's very kind of Rude to offer Tseng a glimpse behind those glasses. He very much wants to see how it affects him when he draws in close and hisses, "I believe that you will find me an adequate enough punching bag." He still is, after all, wearing some faint discoloration from their previous exploits. The entire left side of his face doesn't quite match the right just yet, and this close, it's easy to pick out the faded ring Rude's hands left around his throat.
Standard? Standard for who? Rude frowns, barely able to keep his commentary to himself. There's being insubordinate for the sake of doing the right thing, or helping Tseng despite his protest. Doing so because he doesn't like the plan laid out for no other reason than optics was not excusable grounds for complaints, so he clenches his jaw shut to keep quiet on the matter. He'll do what needs to be done, as he always does.
Wrestling was something he worked on in his free time, but he was hoping there was the possibility this might be more of a mixed martial arts variety of fighting ring. He should have known, though. With names like that and costumes as flashy as the ones in the files, he really should have seen this coming.
Just like he should have seen Tseng coming at him to grab his tie. He's practically cheek to cheek with him before his reflexes catch up. Rude isn't sure whether he likes the part Tseng will be playing in this operation of theirs. It might have been better to know he'd be leaving Rude to fend for himself until he got to the target, but again, it was entirely about the optics of wrestling in that abomination while Tseng enjoys the fight from the sidelines. He can foresee it already.
"Understood." His eyes do see the marks and bruising left behind from close up. The underside of Rude's jaw is still in a similar state if anyone ever looked close enough. Rude sighs, still scowling as he puts his hands gently around Tseng's neck to verify there hadn't been anyone else choking him, and when the bruises fit his fingerprints like a glove, he lowers his hand, nodding. "I'll do it."
For all that they go back and forth, Tseng would never leave Rude in a pit of vipers like this. He can tell himself all he likes that the training expenses for new Turks practically compelled him to attend to this mission personally, but the truth of the matter is and always will be that Rude has more than earned his place among their ranks, that he is as invaluable as he is irreplaceable. That is the unspoken truth of it.
He is about to relinquish Rude's tie when his fingers close around Tseng's throat. Gently—Rude can be so very gentle when he wants to be. The others must love him for it. All it does for Tseng is leave him with a sharper smirk once Rude fits his fingers into all the old bruises and nods, as if that was what sealed the deal. He wonders if anything would have changed if he found them unmatched.
As if Tseng would ever let anyone else put their hands around his throat.
"Very good." He lets the ensnared bit of fabric go and gestures with the spandex again. He's not heartlessly consigning Rude to be mostly naked for his entertainment, though. "Your training begins now. There is a trunk of athletic gear for you—" He gestures toward the trunk in question. Track suits and joggers, all perfectly tailored to suit his measurements. Tseng is always thorough when it comes to their apparel. "Dress yourself and meet me by the mountain trail."
No matter how questionable a situation it might have been, Rude feels that he can do well enough on his own. He's got both the training and experience to make sure their objectives were carried out one way or another. More hands on deck would just enable the process to go more smoothly, but it could have also been his ego contributing to this thought process.
Despite his misgivings about the situation, he's slowly starting to feel as if this whole thing was not simply constructed for Tseng to get his revenge. The purpose of the mission checked out and background work to set it all up used enough resources that revenge was an impossibility.
Rude nods at the next set of instructions, unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches the trunk to take what athletic wear he needs. He's already starting to strip before Tseng leaves the tent, no reason to be shy around someone whose seen it all before. The next time he glances over his shoulder Tseng is gone. Rude examines the clothing choices like he'll have any say in the matter, and tries not to think too deeply into it as he hauls on the odd mixes of cotton, polyester, or whatever synthetic fabric was used to make the fitted breathable material. Maybe more spandex?
While it does pain part of him to go out in clothing that wasn't name brand, this was part of the deal when he sold his soul to the Turks. Doing the work no one else is paid enough to do was what he was there for.
Not even 10 minutes later, Rude turns a corner to meet Tseng a the foot of the nearby mountain. It wasn't a well-worn walking path, but he figures there were enough people who traveled it so it didn't ever become overgrown like the areas around it. "How seriously should I be taking this training?" It's a fair question, and he doesn't notice anyone else around besides his "trainer"...yet. "And, I'd prefer if we stayed together at all times. For your safety."
"Very seriously." Tseng doesn't bother to dignify the rest with an answer. Even among his fellow Turks, he is an outlier because he has never truly had a partner. Any trouble he's ever been in, he's had to see himself right back out of again, alone. He has never had the luxury of one dedicated pair of eyes on his back, but Rude is a grown man and can do what he likes.
Rude won't be making this trip alone. Tseng has switched to jogging pants and a dry-fit tank, along with more suitable shoes. His hair is fastened neatly atop his head, and in Rude's absence, he's begun stretching. He still is, because if he is to lead, then of course it will be by example.
"Have you ever tried to fight at this elevation before?" he asks, wracking his mind to try and remember. Hard to do, when he's bowing into a split, stretching a leg that seems to bend impossibly far, folding his entire body in half with ease. "You are at a severe disadvantage. Men train for months to compete here. We have one night."
Rude has trained with Tseng only a handful of times. A lot of his training happened alone, and usually with either a literal punching bag, or a figurative one. The latter tended to be unsuspecting targets or sometimes just unlucky drunk guys at a bar who wanted to have a go at him. He never really had much of a shortage of people to fight.
If Tseng wanted to get technical, then sure, he can make the case that maybe the practice Rude is getting isn't good enough to get him through this mission without issue.
"No," he responds honestly, watching Tseng stretch at first before he's suddenly on the ground with his legs pointed in two very different directions. Rude clears his throat as if to suggest the sight was inappropriate (despite being alone with Tseng with no one watching but mother nature herself). "You're right. I might need practice holding back." He's just full of jokes today, despite the stoic expression on his face.
This isn't one of the times he's going to play his insubordination card, either. He starts stretching (MODESTLY), working his shoulders and arms out to get them warmed up followed by his legs. No splits today.
The glare that Tseng levels at Rude is cold enough to put a chill in the air.
"It bears repeating," he says, slinking back up to his feet, shaking out his ankles, "that you are to take this very seriously. This is no official circuit, Rude. These men fight dirty. The crowd loves blood and they know it."
He was almost not sold on this being worth it. But his faith in Rude superceded that risk. Now, he steps forward as Rude stretches, pressing his weight down on his back to help him really push the boundaries of the burn here.
"We'll start with a run to get you acclimated to the thinner air. It's going to be painful." Now his eyes are glittering, though he does not allude to why. He doesn't have to, does he? "Let me know when you start to pass out."
Rude clears his throat again, this time straightening up his posture and reaching for a tie to fix that isn't there. He knows how much Tseng hates to repeat himself, and how lucky he was that he didn't feel like asserting his power then and there. He'll keep any further commentary on the mission to himself and do what's requested of him. As usual.
"I understand." The least he can do is prepare properly and try not to get ahead of himself. And then here comes Tseng to make life more difficult. Rude grunts at the push, but doesn't complain since he doesn't want to upset the man any further. Although it is getting a bit more tricky to breathe, more likely due to Tseng not easing up at all than the thin air.
Rude twists away from him to escape the assisted stretch and hops up and down a couple of times to show that he's all limbered up and ready to go. Or a cry for "no more help for the love of god". It was free to interpretation. What wasn't up for any discussion is the look in Tseng's eyes. Rude doesn't know what he has planned, but he can't get out of it, so the only way is through.
Maybe he'll get a hint? Rude begins to jog down the path, glancing over to Tseng beside him. "Why would I pass out?"
Tseng tilts his head as he jogs beside Rude. The mountain path is steep right at the beginning, so they are already beginning with a disadvantage. Tseng is lucky that he's been keeping up with his PT; after that less than stellar display at Modeoheim, he's been very particular about visiting the incline machine at the gym as often as he can. Not that it's going to do him much good here.
"Less oxygen," he says, clipped short because, well, he's in the process of explaining exactly why. "Means you need to breathe faster. Heart needs to pump faster. If those two things don't align..."
Which is precisely why they're here. If Rude can't take it, then they're going to have to pull out of this mission. Or Tseng will have to do it himself, a contingency he's not looking forward to. Either way, his faith in Rude is unwavering; any backup plans are for the sake of thoroughness only.
The path before them forks—one into a gentle path off to the left with a lovely view of the mountain and a bordering lake, the other climbing terribly high, the path scattered with gray rock. Tseng nods, indicating for Rude to veer right.
"Do not push yourself. This is—just to get you acclimated to the difference in pressure." Tseng is still smirking, though. "But do not let me down, either."
The reason Rude asks the question isn't because he doesn't understand the physiology of how elevation can effect the body in extreme conditions or when oxygen demand is increased, he just didn't suspect that this quaint little jogging trail would be so physically demanding of him.
Still, he listens to Tseng speak and when he indicates that they'd be taking the steep uphill route, Rude understands. Tseng is trying to kill him. Or at least choke him out in as hands-free a manner as he can manage. Rude glances at the man a couple of times like he expects him to admit that he said that in jest, but they're jogging up the incline now and it's past the point of where the reveal would have been funny.
His heart is beating a bit faster now, but he maintains the jog even after he feels a little dizzier the further they jog uphill. It might be a placebo effect mixed with anticipation for what inevitably will not be a fun training session, or he really isn't cut out for altitude training.
"What are you-- going to do if I--can't breathe?"
The way he keeps himself from panicking into a frenzy is the same way he remains calm in the field. Focus on the now. Not the future, not the past. Just right now. All he has to do is keep up with Tseng. They've just started so he has stamina on his side, and he doesn't really feel too light headed yet. Maybe this was a test? If so, he's decided he's going to win.
Rude picks up his pace, surpassing Tseng, jogging a little faster to hopefully clear the incline more quickly but it seem it just keeps going.
"Panic, I suppose. I've planned for nothing but your flawless success."
Yes, he's being a dick. Yes, he knows it. But Rude's already picking up the pace and probably knows that Tseng had a thousand backburner plans in rotation before either of them ever even clamored into their respective choppers, so can you really blame him? What works, works. Spite can be a truly efficient motivator sometimes.
He lets Rude surpass him. Slow and steady is key here, but he's not going to say anything about it. His subordinate will learn for himself well enough. The incline stretches far, about a mile and a half upwards, culminating in an even plateau with an even better view of the mountain ranges, the glittering lakes and cloud-spotted valleys, the long, snake-like tracks that route through the old mines. This is where Corel has the nerve to look beautiful when it was only ever meant to look rugged, impassive, and colorless. Tseng stops them there, quickening his pace to return to Rude's side.
"Break," he commands, tossing Rude a water bottle from his pack. While he's occupied with that, Tseng draws in close, pressing his fingers to Rude's pulse as he surveys the various read-outs on his wristwatch.
At some point during the first stretch, Rude is either enlightened or has a mild case of hypoxia, because he comes to realize that no amount of pushing from Tseng could even come close to how far he's willing to push himself. This wouldn't be easy, but it wouldn't be impossible either. The only difference is that now there's someone there to witness him struggle rather than help him through it. He wonders what Reno's doing back home.
The thought leaves his mind as soon as they reach the plateau and he has a hard time catching his breath. When Tseng offers him the water, he manages to grab it, but feels a little light-headed. The serious kind of light headed, not like his mini panic attack when they first started. The scenery must have been beautiful, but the periphery of his vision is blurring too much for him to even appreciate it.
When Tseng approaches, he almost crumples into him, leaning against his superior for support. "I can't... I can't breathe." Well, there was nothing physically stopping him from breathing. He's taking in air just fine, but the air doesn't seem to be enough to feed his body.
Whatever reading Tseng is getting from his pulse, whatever he thinks about Rude's sudden admission of difficulty, it does not show on Tseng's face. Might as well be any day at the office, in the board room, Tseng just as dark a void of emotion as ever.
"Yes you can," he says, guiding one of Rude's hands to his chest. There is a very specific way that he's breathing; it's his hope that Rude will follow along the moment that he gets out of his own head about it.
His voice goes low. "Your body is adjusting. You've been here many times before. Your flight training, your dive missions. You've been chosen for this mission because you are more than capable."
He helps Rude uncap the water bottle and lift it to his lips.
Rude catches on quickly. For one it's rare Tseng would invite any meaningful amount of contact with him if it wasn't actually meaningful. He understands but still hates how he feels so much more short of breath over something that he would usually rebound from in a couple pants or a few deep breaths. This wasn't easy.
Had he more oxygen going to his brain he might have asked why the hell Tseng decided to do this on a whim. Participating in a fighting ring was definitely reasonable, he's not complaining about that. He still stands by his opinion that he could make it to the final fight at the very least. This training might be useful to him at some point in the future, but he doesn't know why he has to learn to breathe in thin air for a fight unless..
"Tseng," he pants, taking a drink and gradually composing himself to the feeling of maximizing the duration of each of his breaths for better oxygen circulation. "Where is the fight being held?"
Rude gradually lefts his weight off his makeshift trainer and looks him dead in the eye.
Tseng's hands close over Rude's shoulders, slowly turning him. Just behind him, there is a battered old warehouse sitting at a left-leaning cant. It barely looks stable enough to provide shelter from the rain, but Tseng knows it for what it is: one of the most popular underground fighting rings this side of the continent. Behind its dilapidated façade is a reasonably well-constructed stadium with bleachers that stretch all the way up to the ceilings, a glittering ring sat in pride of place that must have cost millions in gil to establish. Outside, there are no markings to give it away, no signage, no evidence of any life but for the well-worn path leading up to it.
"Right here," he says. His hands slide away just as quickly, and he takes a step forward, joining Rude at his right-hand side. "Color me surprised that you've never heard of this place."
After all, this is what Rude does, isn't it? He knows all those exciting muscles and dazzling moves were tempered just for places like these, but it's been awhile, he supposes. Oh well. What a grand re-entrance for his quietest Turk.
Rude is apprehensive about the contact when Tseng's hands fall onto his shoulders, but he turns easily to see the warehouse in the middle of a decent sized clearing. They must have meant business if they went out of their way to secure a location this secluded. It could only mean one thing. People died in these fights, and they had to keep it quiet. So aside from the match fixing and betting there was that to worry about as well.
Back in his day he had to worry about the first two and some violence outside the ring, but Tseng might have been right to keep insisting that he take this seriously. At first it's a little nerve-wracking, but he's killed and subdued men with little more than his bare hands, he doesn't doubt himself in that regard. And he's come a long way from the fighter he once was when he was knocking people around for money. Well, more often than not he was getting knocked around for money. This time would be different. He's not going to lose.
"Come on, let's keep training. I want to get used to this."
He wonders if they'd be able to go inside and scope out the competition? Was anyone even in there now? They were undercover enough that it wouldn't seem suspicious. Maybe.
Tseng nods resolutely. That's more like it. Rude keeps himself veiled, but Tseng is his director; he can sense the conviction in him, feel the rise of his determination as surely as he can clock his pulse and pressure. There are things one just has to know to command men, and Tseng knows his men better than himself most days.
"Stretch," he says, lowering his pack to the ground. The terrain here is hardly conducive to what he has in mind now, but that's better. Let Rude learn to account for multiple variables now. Later, it will help him focus. The bag opens with zipper purr, and Tseng pages through its contents until he produces a pair of focus mitts—custom-made, black as night, drafting the scent of rich leather across the buffeting gales of the mountain top. They fit his hands like a second skin, despite how unwieldy they are.
"Then square up," he says, waiting, watching. This time, he'll make no move to assist Rude with his stretches. He wants to see how far the Turk will push himself now that he realizes what is at stake.
Rude takes his time, going slowly through the major muscle groups, and then the finer ones afterward. His eyes watch what Tseng is doing while he moves, brows raising when he slips the fitted focus mitts onto his fingers. It slowly becomes clear what he's readying himself for.
He gives a final roll of his neck and shoulders before he nods. Rude misses his own pair of leather gloves. That barrier between himself and the people he hit was usually a safety blanket, but Tseng was special. He doesn't mind direct contact with his superior, and they were only just sparring. It wouldn't be necessary, he hopes.
Both fists raise up in front of him to show he's ready for whatever Tseng can throw at him. "Whenever you're ready."
Tseng is watching him too, impassive as ever but undeniably transfixed. Rude really is exquisitely composed. Watching him stretch is a fascinating display of how powerful and potent the human body can become, and one by one, he watches those massive muscles shudder as Rude holds them until they burn. Impossible not to feel a swell of pride, seeing him like this, knowing that it is his command that Rude follows. It reminds him of why it is important to do all the best and most terrible things to deserve that command.
And then he's squared and waiting. Tseng lifts his hands in kind.
"Let's start with a drill," he says, moving his mitts to illustrate the actions he wants as he goes along. "Jab, cross, jab, uppercut, uppercut. One, two, three, four, five."
His hands return to their stations. The rush of thrill tingles in the pit of his throat; Rude is wearing no gloves, this could hurt or go south quickly if Rude loses focus. Tseng could not be more excited to begin this dangerous dance.
No gloves is a risk, and he knows that Tseng knows this and is likely to exploit the choice at some point down the line, but at the moment he lets the anxiety of what that might be get shoved out of the forefront of his mind so he can focus completely.
Rude watches the instruction and only needs to see it once to have the drill down, but watches the second repetition example to humor Tseng.
The first go-round Rude hits his mark perfectly, taking his time to ensure his form is right and his body is comfortable with it before he picks up the speed. He's working the way he normally would at whatever altitude Midgar and Edge were at, not accounting for the lack of oxygen supply here simply as an experiment. He wants to see the effect it has on him if he doesn't do anything to try to mitigate it. This is the control.
As he repeats the movements over and over again, his body falls into a rhythm and it feels like a dance. Rude loses himself in that 5-move combo and doesn't notice when he starts to get light headed again. The final uppercut of the set lands, but catches Tseng in the jaw before he realizes what he's done.
Tseng knows. The issue is that this is necessary, but boring. Rude will not excel if he does not have this repetition to guide him, if he does not train himself to make these minute adjustments to his breathing and his movements. The only thing that will separate him from the chaff here is drills and learning by rote what it means to tangle savagely this high above the clouds.
Without gloves, it isn't so boring anymore. Tseng does not need to look beautiful to complete his half of the mission. Rude hits him so swiftly that he doesn't feel the ache until halfway through the next round. He sees stars belatedly, and his stomach drops. His eyes come alive.
"Focus. Square up," he insists, lifting his hands to start them over. "One..."
This go around, Tseng is hitting back harder. He offers more resistance, more pushback. He moves faster and turns the angle of pressure odd ways, trying to throw him. He's a good trainer—it's good practice. It's better begging for more.
Nothing's ever really come easy for Rude, and he doesn't suspect that it would suddenly change now that they are working with a small window to get their preparation in. Even though fighting came naturally to him, it was something he had to work at to get to this point where he can do complicated moves with so much ease. He remembers crying when his (now deceased) father told him to stand up and fight back instead of soaking up punches like a sponge. Taking a punch was his only real skill when he finally got over his fear of hurting anyone and it turned out he was a natural at martial arts, boxing, you name it. Naturally talented, sure, but not without learning, practicing, and busting his ass to get there.
This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.
"Good... Good... Good— Fuck." Rude hits like the Midgar bullet train, screaming fast and hard enough to crunch a lesser man's skull. The only thing that's keeping Tseng on his toes is knowing how to take a hit, how to dodge them, what to do when you see it coming too late. He's a pro at turning momentum against men ten times his weight, but Rude's not just some scrappy mark who got into this gig because he's big and beefy. When he gets like this, Rude's practically a monster.
"Focus, Rude," he hisses, but it's clear that's not breaking through whatever hazey shit is happening in Rude's head right now. Tseng's chin is bleeding down his shirt, lots of spill for how small he suspects the cut is. Either way, they can't afford this. Rude's got to sober up, Tseng has to make an executive decision.
He's pretty sure Rude's actively trying to tag him now. Tseng decides to use that against him. Sure enough, Rude's cutting up and Tseng is there to meet him with a guard, tapping his forearm against Rude's wrist to spin him off. It's the space he needs to throw off one mitt and let it clatter dully to the ground. He knows that if he blocks with one arm, Rude's gonna go for his open side, so he anticipates that too, lifts his leg for a high snapping kick to buy him more time, more space to throw off the remaining pad. Then they're back to start, both squared up and faced off, Tseng tense and ready for whatever Rude wants to pull next.
Funny, he's feeling a little dizzy too. Not because of the air or all the blood he's losing. It's like a pavlovian response to pain when it's Rude dishing it out, a druggie daze that settles over him and makes his guts twist sharply. But dammit, he's holding it together for the sake of the job, Rude can too.
"This is good," he says, taking one slow, methodical step to the side. "Don't lose this. Breathe. Focus."
Tseng's voice is distant. He's aware he's being spoken to, but nothing registers for some time. The red of the blood only worsens his state like a bull looking for something to charge at. He goes for Tseng like an animal that picks up the scent of a potential partner in heat. Only the scent is blood, and he doesn't want to fuck Tseng (right now), just make him bleed more, and again.
Maybe part of him refuses to back down because he knows that Tseng can handle him even at his worst. Rude sees the opening and right away he takes the bait, knee raising for a kick when there's a kick thrown to his open side. His ribs are much better now, but the memory of when Tseng had crushed them before with his thighs and then Reno reinjuring them again during their fight after that. It yoinks him right out of his happy place.
His hands are still up like he's still going to fight, but at least now he has better things to worry about than thin air. Rude doesn't know when Tseng had started bleeding or lost the gloves, but this has turned into a proper training exercise somehow. He does need to focus. "Don't hold back. I can take it." He's a little short of breath, but he reorients himself to fix his breathing.
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"Play my part?"
As soon as he sees what barely looks like an undergarment it clicks for him. He would be the one to train and fight by day and infiltrate their social circles by night. Rude isn't surprised at what's asked of him. The mission is sound, Tseng's made sure of it. What he has trouble accepting is the costume, if it could even be considered as much without much more covering than women's lingerie. Rude closes his eyes behind darkened sunglasses, hoping that when he opens them again, the spandex will have doubled or tripled in surface area.
It doesn't.
"Yes, I have a question." He starts, drawing off his shades to glare at the man smirking at him for only one imaginable reason. "Who designed the getup?" Rude won't even bother asking who came up with the name. That much was obvious from their last bit of quality time together. "And what role will you be playing?" Punching bag?, he thinks, but doesn't dare to say the words.
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"This is fairly standard," he asserts. "You do not want to hand your opponents more to grab on to. As I understand it, wrestling is all about control." Perhaps a demonstration is in order. This one is simple enough: Tseng quickly snatching at Rude's tie, reeling him into a conspiratorial closeness. "The less variables you have to mind, the better off you will be. After all, you're already at a disadvantage."
Which brings him right to the next question. Tseng should relinquish the tie now, but he's enjoying wrapping it around his fingers a little too much.
"I will function as your trainer and handler. In earnest as well as for the sake of subterfuge." It's very kind of Rude to offer Tseng a glimpse behind those glasses. He very much wants to see how it affects him when he draws in close and hisses, "I believe that you will find me an adequate enough punching bag." He still is, after all, wearing some faint discoloration from their previous exploits. The entire left side of his face doesn't quite match the right just yet, and this close, it's easy to pick out the faded ring Rude's hands left around his throat.
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Wrestling was something he worked on in his free time, but he was hoping there was the possibility this might be more of a mixed martial arts variety of fighting ring. He should have known, though. With names like that and costumes as flashy as the ones in the files, he really should have seen this coming.
Just like he should have seen Tseng coming at him to grab his tie. He's practically cheek to cheek with him before his reflexes catch up. Rude isn't sure whether he likes the part Tseng will be playing in this operation of theirs. It might have been better to know he'd be leaving Rude to fend for himself until he got to the target, but again, it was entirely about the optics of wrestling in that abomination while Tseng enjoys the fight from the sidelines. He can foresee it already.
"Understood." His eyes do see the marks and bruising left behind from close up. The underside of Rude's jaw is still in a similar state if anyone ever looked close enough. Rude sighs, still scowling as he puts his hands gently around Tseng's neck to verify there hadn't been anyone else choking him, and when the bruises fit his fingerprints like a glove, he lowers his hand, nodding. "I'll do it."
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He is about to relinquish Rude's tie when his fingers close around Tseng's throat. Gently—Rude can be so very gentle when he wants to be. The others must love him for it. All it does for Tseng is leave him with a sharper smirk once Rude fits his fingers into all the old bruises and nods, as if that was what sealed the deal. He wonders if anything would have changed if he found them unmatched.
As if Tseng would ever let anyone else put their hands around his throat.
"Very good." He lets the ensnared bit of fabric go and gestures with the spandex again. He's not heartlessly consigning Rude to be mostly naked for his entertainment, though. "Your training begins now. There is a trunk of athletic gear for you—" He gestures toward the trunk in question. Track suits and joggers, all perfectly tailored to suit his measurements. Tseng is always thorough when it comes to their apparel. "Dress yourself and meet me by the mountain trail."
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Despite his misgivings about the situation, he's slowly starting to feel as if this whole thing was not simply constructed for Tseng to get his revenge. The purpose of the mission checked out and background work to set it all up used enough resources that revenge was an impossibility.
Rude nods at the next set of instructions, unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches the trunk to take what athletic wear he needs. He's already starting to strip before Tseng leaves the tent, no reason to be shy around someone whose seen it all before. The next time he glances over his shoulder Tseng is gone. Rude examines the clothing choices like he'll have any say in the matter, and tries not to think too deeply into it as he hauls on the odd mixes of cotton, polyester, or whatever synthetic fabric was used to make the fitted breathable material. Maybe more spandex?
While it does pain part of him to go out in clothing that wasn't name brand, this was part of the deal when he sold his soul to the Turks. Doing the work no one else is paid enough to do was what he was there for.
Not even 10 minutes later, Rude turns a corner to meet Tseng a the foot of the nearby mountain. It wasn't a well-worn walking path, but he figures there were enough people who traveled it so it didn't ever become overgrown like the areas around it. "How seriously should I be taking this training?" It's a fair question, and he doesn't notice anyone else around besides his "trainer"...yet. "And, I'd prefer if we stayed together at all times. For your safety."
Yes, it was very necessary to clarify.
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Rude won't be making this trip alone. Tseng has switched to jogging pants and a dry-fit tank, along with more suitable shoes. His hair is fastened neatly atop his head, and in Rude's absence, he's begun stretching. He still is, because if he is to lead, then of course it will be by example.
"Have you ever tried to fight at this elevation before?" he asks, wracking his mind to try and remember. Hard to do, when he's bowing into a split, stretching a leg that seems to bend impossibly far, folding his entire body in half with ease. "You are at a severe disadvantage. Men train for months to compete here. We have one night."
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If Tseng wanted to get technical, then sure, he can make the case that maybe the practice Rude is getting isn't good enough to get him through this mission without issue.
"No," he responds honestly, watching Tseng stretch at first before he's suddenly on the ground with his legs pointed in two very different directions. Rude clears his throat as if to suggest the sight was inappropriate (despite being alone with Tseng with no one watching but mother nature herself). "You're right. I might need practice holding back." He's just full of jokes today, despite the stoic expression on his face.
This isn't one of the times he's going to play his insubordination card, either. He starts stretching (MODESTLY), working his shoulders and arms out to get them warmed up followed by his legs. No splits today.
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"It bears repeating," he says, slinking back up to his feet, shaking out his ankles, "that you are to take this very seriously. This is no official circuit, Rude. These men fight dirty. The crowd loves blood and they know it."
He was almost not sold on this being worth it. But his faith in Rude superceded that risk. Now, he steps forward as Rude stretches, pressing his weight down on his back to help him really push the boundaries of the burn here.
"We'll start with a run to get you acclimated to the thinner air. It's going to be painful." Now his eyes are glittering, though he does not allude to why. He doesn't have to, does he? "Let me know when you start to pass out."
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"I understand." The least he can do is prepare properly and try not to get ahead of himself. And then here comes Tseng to make life more difficult. Rude grunts at the push, but doesn't complain since he doesn't want to upset the man any further. Although it is getting a bit more tricky to breathe, more likely due to Tseng not easing up at all than the thin air.
Rude twists away from him to escape the assisted stretch and hops up and down a couple of times to show that he's all limbered up and ready to go. Or a cry for "no more help for the love of god". It was free to interpretation. What wasn't up for any discussion is the look in Tseng's eyes. Rude doesn't know what he has planned, but he can't get out of it, so the only way is through.
Maybe he'll get a hint? Rude begins to jog down the path, glancing over to Tseng beside him. "Why would I pass out?"
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"Less oxygen," he says, clipped short because, well, he's in the process of explaining exactly why. "Means you need to breathe faster. Heart needs to pump faster. If those two things don't align..."
Which is precisely why they're here. If Rude can't take it, then they're going to have to pull out of this mission. Or Tseng will have to do it himself, a contingency he's not looking forward to. Either way, his faith in Rude is unwavering; any backup plans are for the sake of thoroughness only.
The path before them forks—one into a gentle path off to the left with a lovely view of the mountain and a bordering lake, the other climbing terribly high, the path scattered with gray rock. Tseng nods, indicating for Rude to veer right.
"Do not push yourself. This is—just to get you acclimated to the difference in pressure." Tseng is still smirking, though. "But do not let me down, either."
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Still, he listens to Tseng speak and when he indicates that they'd be taking the steep uphill route, Rude understands. Tseng is trying to kill him. Or at least choke him out in as hands-free a manner as he can manage. Rude glances at the man a couple of times like he expects him to admit that he said that in jest, but they're jogging up the incline now and it's past the point of where the reveal would have been funny.
His heart is beating a bit faster now, but he maintains the jog even after he feels a little dizzier the further they jog uphill. It might be a placebo effect mixed with anticipation for what inevitably will not be a fun training session, or he really isn't cut out for altitude training.
"What are you-- going to do if I--can't breathe?"
The way he keeps himself from panicking into a frenzy is the same way he remains calm in the field. Focus on the now. Not the future, not the past. Just right now. All he has to do is keep up with Tseng. They've just started so he has stamina on his side, and he doesn't really feel too light headed yet. Maybe this was a test? If so, he's decided he's going to win.
Rude picks up his pace, surpassing Tseng, jogging a little faster to hopefully clear the incline more quickly but it seem it just keeps going.
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Yes, he's being a dick. Yes, he knows it. But Rude's already picking up the pace and probably knows that Tseng had a thousand backburner plans in rotation before either of them ever even clamored into their respective choppers, so can you really blame him? What works, works. Spite can be a truly efficient motivator sometimes.
He lets Rude surpass him. Slow and steady is key here, but he's not going to say anything about it. His subordinate will learn for himself well enough. The incline stretches far, about a mile and a half upwards, culminating in an even plateau with an even better view of the mountain ranges, the glittering lakes and cloud-spotted valleys, the long, snake-like tracks that route through the old mines. This is where Corel has the nerve to look beautiful when it was only ever meant to look rugged, impassive, and colorless. Tseng stops them there, quickening his pace to return to Rude's side.
"Break," he commands, tossing Rude a water bottle from his pack. While he's occupied with that, Tseng draws in close, pressing his fingers to Rude's pulse as he surveys the various read-outs on his wristwatch.
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The thought leaves his mind as soon as they reach the plateau and he has a hard time catching his breath. When Tseng offers him the water, he manages to grab it, but feels a little light-headed. The serious kind of light headed, not like his mini panic attack when they first started. The scenery must have been beautiful, but the periphery of his vision is blurring too much for him to even appreciate it.
When Tseng approaches, he almost crumples into him, leaning against his superior for support. "I can't... I can't breathe." Well, there was nothing physically stopping him from breathing. He's taking in air just fine, but the air doesn't seem to be enough to feed his body.
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"Yes you can," he says, guiding one of Rude's hands to his chest. There is a very specific way that he's breathing; it's his hope that Rude will follow along the moment that he gets out of his own head about it.
His voice goes low. "Your body is adjusting. You've been here many times before. Your flight training, your dive missions. You've been chosen for this mission because you are more than capable."
He helps Rude uncap the water bottle and lift it to his lips.
"This will not be what breaks you."
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Had he more oxygen going to his brain he might have asked why the hell Tseng decided to do this on a whim. Participating in a fighting ring was definitely reasonable, he's not complaining about that. He still stands by his opinion that he could make it to the final fight at the very least. This training might be useful to him at some point in the future, but he doesn't know why he has to learn to breathe in thin air for a fight unless..
"Tseng," he pants, taking a drink and gradually composing himself to the feeling of maximizing the duration of each of his breaths for better oxygen circulation. "Where is the fight being held?"
Rude gradually lefts his weight off his makeshift trainer and looks him dead in the eye.
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"Right here," he says. His hands slide away just as quickly, and he takes a step forward, joining Rude at his right-hand side. "Color me surprised that you've never heard of this place."
After all, this is what Rude does, isn't it? He knows all those exciting muscles and dazzling moves were tempered just for places like these, but it's been awhile, he supposes. Oh well. What a grand re-entrance for his quietest Turk.
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Back in his day he had to worry about the first two and some violence outside the ring, but Tseng might have been right to keep insisting that he take this seriously. At first it's a little nerve-wracking, but he's killed and subdued men with little more than his bare hands, he doesn't doubt himself in that regard. And he's come a long way from the fighter he once was when he was knocking people around for money. Well, more often than not he was getting knocked around for money. This time would be different. He's not going to lose.
"Come on, let's keep training. I want to get used to this."
He wonders if they'd be able to go inside and scope out the competition? Was anyone even in there now? They were undercover enough that it wouldn't seem suspicious. Maybe.
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"Stretch," he says, lowering his pack to the ground. The terrain here is hardly conducive to what he has in mind now, but that's better. Let Rude learn to account for multiple variables now. Later, it will help him focus. The bag opens with zipper purr, and Tseng pages through its contents until he produces a pair of focus mitts—custom-made, black as night, drafting the scent of rich leather across the buffeting gales of the mountain top. They fit his hands like a second skin, despite how unwieldy they are.
"Then square up," he says, waiting, watching. This time, he'll make no move to assist Rude with his stretches. He wants to see how far the Turk will push himself now that he realizes what is at stake.
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He gives a final roll of his neck and shoulders before he nods. Rude misses his own pair of leather gloves. That barrier between himself and the people he hit was usually a safety blanket, but Tseng was special. He doesn't mind direct contact with his superior, and they were only just sparring. It wouldn't be necessary, he hopes.
Both fists raise up in front of him to show he's ready for whatever Tseng can throw at him. "Whenever you're ready."
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And then he's squared and waiting. Tseng lifts his hands in kind.
"Let's start with a drill," he says, moving his mitts to illustrate the actions he wants as he goes along. "Jab, cross, jab, uppercut, uppercut. One, two, three, four, five."
His hands return to their stations. The rush of thrill tingles in the pit of his throat; Rude is wearing no gloves, this could hurt or go south quickly if Rude loses focus. Tseng could not be more excited to begin this dangerous dance.
"One..." he begins.
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Rude watches the instruction and only needs to see it once to have the drill down, but watches the second repetition example to humor Tseng.
The first go-round Rude hits his mark perfectly, taking his time to ensure his form is right and his body is comfortable with it before he picks up the speed. He's working the way he normally would at whatever altitude Midgar and Edge were at, not accounting for the lack of oxygen supply here simply as an experiment. He wants to see the effect it has on him if he doesn't do anything to try to mitigate it. This is the control.
As he repeats the movements over and over again, his body falls into a rhythm and it feels like a dance. Rude loses himself in that 5-move combo and doesn't notice when he starts to get light headed again. The final uppercut of the set lands, but catches Tseng in the jaw before he realizes what he's done.
"Hand slipped."
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Without gloves, it isn't so boring anymore. Tseng does not need to look beautiful to complete his half of the mission. Rude hits him so swiftly that he doesn't feel the ache until halfway through the next round. He sees stars belatedly, and his stomach drops. His eyes come alive.
"Focus. Square up," he insists, lifting his hands to start them over. "One..."
This go around, Tseng is hitting back harder. He offers more resistance, more pushback. He moves faster and turns the angle of pressure odd ways, trying to throw him. He's a good trainer—it's good practice. It's better begging for more.
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This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.
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"Focus, Rude," he hisses, but it's clear that's not breaking through whatever hazey shit is happening in Rude's head right now. Tseng's chin is bleeding down his shirt, lots of spill for how small he suspects the cut is. Either way, they can't afford this. Rude's got to sober up, Tseng has to make an executive decision.
He's pretty sure Rude's actively trying to tag him now. Tseng decides to use that against him. Sure enough, Rude's cutting up and Tseng is there to meet him with a guard, tapping his forearm against Rude's wrist to spin him off. It's the space he needs to throw off one mitt and let it clatter dully to the ground. He knows that if he blocks with one arm, Rude's gonna go for his open side, so he anticipates that too, lifts his leg for a high snapping kick to buy him more time, more space to throw off the remaining pad. Then they're back to start, both squared up and faced off, Tseng tense and ready for whatever Rude wants to pull next.
Funny, he's feeling a little dizzy too. Not because of the air or all the blood he's losing. It's like a pavlovian response to pain when it's Rude dishing it out, a druggie daze that settles over him and makes his guts twist sharply. But dammit, he's holding it together for the sake of the job, Rude can too.
"This is good," he says, taking one slow, methodical step to the side. "Don't lose this. Breathe. Focus."
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Maybe part of him refuses to back down because he knows that Tseng can handle him even at his worst. Rude sees the opening and right away he takes the bait, knee raising for a kick when there's a kick thrown to his open side. His ribs are much better now, but the memory of when Tseng had crushed them before with his thighs and then Reno reinjuring them again during their fight after that. It yoinks him right out of his happy place.
His hands are still up like he's still going to fight, but at least now he has better things to worry about than thin air. Rude doesn't know when Tseng had started bleeding or lost the gloves, but this has turned into a proper training exercise somehow. He does need to focus. "Don't hold back. I can take it." He's a little short of breath, but he reorients himself to fix his breathing.