The Runaway Bodyguard

by scifipony

Chapter 25 — Fight Fundamentals

We spent most of the next hour on a tour of the facility. When I realized he was going to explain why each machine, dumbbell, or medicine ball was important, I galloped back to grab my notepad and a pencil. No, I did not trip on the bar of soap the surprised mare dropped. I did kick it though, caught its trajectory in my magic, and slammed it with an unimpressive crunch against a tiled wall. It disintegrated in beige slivers. Strange how magic worked with throwing soap but not so well with throwing ponies. The pink notepad with lavender pages slipped into a hip pocket tailored for it. I jabbed the neon blue pencil into my mane.

I had plenty of notes by the end of the grand tour. Whistlebutt had to demonstrate the torture devices, though. Gym denizens tended to vacate the area as we progressed into it. Even in the aerobics class area, ponies abandoned the cycles and jump ropes when the unicorn instructor, in black tights no way as nice nor revealing as mine, called for a sudden break and cleared the rubber mats. He frowned at me as we approached.

Yay. No friends. Didn't need them; didn't want ones that would leave me when I wasn't needed, anyway.

I learned something interesting at the "free weights"—what an oxymoron considering gym dues and the sheer mass of iron plates and wheels stacked about. A unicorn was expected to lift her own weight installed on an iron bar with her forehooves, slightly more with the rear. This was twenty percent less that her stallion friend. Pegasi typically matched that with their wings and at least doubled that with their legs. The strongest earth ponies doubled that again, though some of the best weightlifters could lift eight to ten times their weight on their rear legs only.

Whistlebutt said, "Don't get bucked in the face."

"Duh."

"Not that a muscle-bound muscle-herd would make it as a fighter. No mobility. No flexibility. Excessive muscle mass interferes with your gait. It's a pegasus who's most dangerous in that respect. A pegasus can fly most of the fighting match, land suddenly, and clobber you. As a unicorn, you must avoid being touched. It's also why you weight-lift with your horn. Doing it often makes the spells more reflexive and improves your instantaneous pony weight score."

"Which is why you were interested in the sole stocker at Bite O'Kale Grocery?"

"Amongst other things," he said, trotting away with his chin slightly higher.

The tour ended with me running laps, a bakers dozen. The track proved to cushioned and nice. Strategically placed ceiling fans added a breeze to make it congenial as I sweat. Funny how the nose got used to that old gym funk.

My run ended with an intense stretch session. It felt like Whistlebutt was pulling my legs off. He'd push down on my posterns or pull one my rear legs fighting my need to flex. My spine even made crackling noises as I did "cat" stretches.

Mind you, this lifted my flank in the air. My consternation, okay pain, caused me to swish my tail a lot. When I looked, I discovered I'd actually drawn an audience. Mostly of stallions. You guessed that, right?

Immediately after, given a moment to chug a cold flask of water to "rehydrate," I realized the attraction was where and with whom I stood.

I approached a red teardrop-shaped bag the size of my head, made of lacquered fabric, hung by a spring. One of five. Just beyond hung massive cylinders of the same fabric. I'd seen a pony push one of those and I guessed by the lack of sway each weighed as much as a true horse.

I thought back to my notes and said, "A punching bag and a speed, um, ball?"

"Speed bag. Now we work on boxing."

"Hoof-ti-cuffs?"

"You sound like a nerd, sometimes, Gelding."

"Thank you, Coach!"

So, I would have an audience? Come one, come all! See the pink foal play fighting! I caught a snicker and turned my head to look, but I couldn't see who'd let loose. Even the aerobics instructor in his insufficiently tight tights had sidled up at the edge of the growing crowd.

I glanced at Whistlebutt who shook his head. I realized he was significantly older and greyer than most of the ponies haunting the gym.

Did they think he was going senile picking me to train? I turned briefly to the audience and gave them a vacant smile with a relaxed pose and a tail swish. One idiot clapped.

"So what are we doing here?" I asked innocently.

Whistlebutt demonstrated how to bat at the speed bag with the sides and tips of the hooves. He had to rear to do that, so it was a twofer exercise. He asked me to rear and touch the bag with the frogs of my hooves so I could feel its weight. He also asked me push it around with my magic. I took notes, standing, swishing my tail for balance, giving the audience a good view of my flank.

I kept standing. Funny how all that racing strengthened my hindquarters.

He then batted with his hooves and the springiness of the device allowed him to build a rhythm that brought the bag back at him as he batted it away. I found his tickity-tickity-tickity two-minute performance impressive. He was more fit than his stodgy character let a pony realize. He had knocked me down and sat on my chest in the alley, so I knew that about him.

When he finished, I returned to all fours and looked under and around the speed bag as if it were some sort of alien monster. That caused the audience to rustle a bit and I heard barely suppressed chuckles and some mutters.

I began prepping a spell as I reared to "address" the ball. That was the right word, wasn't it? I did some practice air boxing to either side, then adjusted my stance closer. That merited me a few more chuckles in the otherwise now pretty much silent gym. I could hear the fans whir.

I squinted, moved in close, then batted with my left hoof.

Predictably, the speed bag rebounded and struck my nose.

I stepped back with a dainty, "Ow!"

Somepony laughed and said, "Aww, did the pretty pink princess hurt herself?"

Princess!?

My ears twitched, ranging. Yes, I had prepared the prank as a show, but Princess?

Really?

I targeted by sound alone, spinning in time to see a beefy golden Clydesdale work pony jerk suddenly from his hooves in a cloud of blue-green nebulosity. I'd caught the stallion mid-guffaw. His jaw clacked shut as I shoved him about a pony length upward, my limit, spun him on his back, his bad-pony bouffant untying and his red mane trailing as I thrust him down. As I was beginning to understand was typical, my spell spun to bits before I could put in the full energy my flash of anger demanded, but he landed with a satisfyingly loud oof!

I leapt over and sat hard on his chest, side-saddle, before he found his wits. I batted away his fore hooves and pushed with my magic as he tried to kick me under the chin with his impressively muscular hind legs. The audience surged back, bowling over some of their brethren, providing me with another curse word to add to my dictionary.

"Enough!" bellowed Whistlebutt.

"Sorry," I said less than contritely.

When I looked up, Whistlebutt coughed into his postern, hiding his mouth. With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "Don't play with your food!"

"Aww," I said, imitating the buffoon I sat on even as I lifted my hindquarters off the stallion's ribs and swatted his muzzle with my tail. Remember. Braided. Ouch.

The annoyed stallion gasped for breath and rubbed his nose, muttering, "Princess Grim is more like it."

Author's Note:

Next: Starlight meets both a doctor she spars with and a dangerously strong sparring partner she finds sexy.

Comments

[scifipony]

10881394
Yep, prewritten sequel, baybay! Remember this is a first person unreliable narrator story—sometimes Starlight dictates events to me differently the second time as she remembers them, or maybe just to her advantage. (She's done that once in this story, already.) Yes, the sequel varies slightly from the prequel; that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it!

Btw, @bonrewaer né @CATBOI_: liking your catty avatars.