2013.05.24 - Chess Strategy

The Brotherhood of Mutants- so long in the shadows, so long quiet- is preparing itself for war. Hidden in plain sight, in an opulent mansion in the Upper East Side, the Brotherhood's self-designated warriors hone their skills- with guns, and knives, and empty hands and raw power. 
Clad in a black catsuit, Erik supervises it all, arms folded across his chest. His presence is more notable for his lack of weaponry or equipment- his silver hair bound back by a leather thong, and a stern expression overseeing the dozen or so mutants working in the gymnasium-sized basement.
Since her return from Genosha, Olena has been experimenting. Mystique suggested, in a roundabout way, that diversifying her weapons skills might be a good idea, and who is Olena to argue? She's quickly discovered that, once taught the proper grip and technique, she's as much of a natural with firearms as she is with a bow -- the primary difference in her skill level between them attributable to the fact the bow is deeply embedded in her muscle-memory, while the guns aren't... yet. She had some practice with them on the run from the Ukrainian army after Poznyar, so she's not starting completely from scratch, and her natural affinity for trajectories and momentum makes her hard to beat. But, she'll not pretend for a moment that she's an 'expert' with them, by any means. 
She's also spent some time learning new hand-to-hand skills... mainly because it was a productive way to spend her downtime in Genosha, in between her trips to the various local watering holes where she gulled various regulars out of their drinking money over a pool table or in front of a dartboard. Hey. She had to keep her skills sharp, somehow? And she was only run out of two or three places permanently. Really! 
At this given moment, however, she's practicing with various sorts of throwing knives and blades, learning how the differing shapes affect the cast and sail through the air towards the target. It's a little different than throwing darts or shooting arrows, but the overlap is certainly there.
"You're improving rapidly," Erik congratulates Olena. He smiles approvingly at the Ukrainian girl. "It pleases me greatly to see you applying your unique talents into other venues." He makes a gesture, and a silver-bladed knife comes winging into his hand. He runs his thumb along the edge, which grows visibly dull, and spins the blade once on his palm with consummate ease. "Care to try your hand at a bit of fencing?" he asks, saluting her with the blade and holding it easily in front of him, in a low guard position. "I shan't cheat overmuch, I assure you," he adds, with a wink at the girl, waving the knife blade at her. "En guarde!"
Olena's brows rise some, not at the display of power, but at the request. "Fencing? I have not learned much swordplay." She's an archer. Still. She'll take the instruction and, so, takes the offered blade. Studying him, she immitates his stance. It's not a bad immitation, but it's still evident she's out of her comfort zone with it. 
Erik steps forward with a deliberate motion- not an attack- and lays the point of his blade against her inside wrist. "I'm familiar with the theory of swordplay, but more importantly, I'm highly educated in medicine. Here's the median vein and medial nerve," he says. The dull tip of the blade flicks towards his inner forearm. "A long and shallow cut here along this point can easily disable an opponent's striking arm, and potentially exsanguinate them," he explains. He stands en guarde again, a half step back, and waves the knife at Olena. "Attempt to hit my striking arm as I engage," he says. With a surprisingly fluid and deceptively fast motion, he takes a half-step and thrusts the knife forward in a classic stabbing motion.
Olena's eyes flick to the anatomy lesson. She looks at her own forearm, noting the pale play of veins under her own skin and then those along his. Nodding slowly, she readies herself for his advance. She's not initially expecting him to move quite that fast, but once he's in motion, she knows exactly which way his body is going to move. Usually, though, she has used that knowledge, in the past, to avoid being hit, not to make a hit. So, because she automatically began to dodge when he began so surprisingly fast, she is a little slower to thrust her blade in to strike where he would wish. It's not a bad effort, though.
Erik nods once in approval as the blade passes over his skin without parting it. "Excellently done. Furthur lessons- knife fights rarely end with a single strike," he states, his tone as dispassionate as if he were discussing the weather. "Typically, such fights take at a minimum several minutes to conclude- depending, of course, on your aim and skills." 
In short order, Erik outlines for Olena multiple locations that will cause someone to bleed quickly, incapacitate them, and if skillfully done, kill them outright. "Of course, you should really speak with Mystique for more on technique," Erik says thoughtfully, tapping his chin with the knife blade. "I can only tell you the most efficient way to kill someone. She's more of an expert than I at the subtleties of armed combat." He steps back and comes to the guard position again. "Shall we try again?"
Olena is an attentive student, to be sure. Comes with her Eastern Bloc training and discipline. That, and the driven realization she has that the better she learns to defend herself, the less likely her opponents will be to take things from her again. While she doesn't believe that a good defense lies solely in a good offense, she's willing to say they make a winning combination. Thus, as Erik finishes showing her the opportune places to strike, she takes up her 'en garde' position once more. "Mystique has shown me some things," she admits. "But, I have a long way to go, yet." She knows this.
Erik fences and spars with Olena for a few long passes, moving with a swift surety that requires the utmost of Olena's skills to combat him. He's far from an expert with a knife, but there's a certain easy grace and surreal liquidity to his motions that more than makes up for a lack of technical skill. 
"Enough, enough," Erik finally relents, holding a hand up. A bit of sweat dusts his brow, and the older man's shoulders rise and fall with deep, steady breaths. "I'm afraid youth and virility will quite trump age and wisdom, today," he announces with a wry smile. He salutes Olena with the knife, then casually tosses it onto the table it had come from. "Well done, my girl, well done," he says, adding soft applause. "You will lead us to certain victory come the morrow," he tells her approvingly.
Olena may not be an expert, yet, but she takes the compliment with a certain flush of pleasure. She likes to know she's done well. "Thank you," she replies, a thin sheen of sweat on her own brow. She's still pretty sure he could beat her, but she's also realizing her abilities do make things easier for her than others in this regard. "Pan Lehnshurr, what are the Sentinels. Mystique told me they are giant robots. If so... what is the best way to attack them?" Because, she has visions of dodging live fire and trying not to get stomped.
"Carefully," Erik says with that dry wit. "They have some vulnerabilities. The eyes, for instance. Certain articulation points, such as behind the knee and at the hips, where the pistons engage." He purses his lips. "The neck is rather vulnerable- armored, yes, but not impregnable. Precision, then, is your ally," he explains. "I have the technical schematics about here, somewhere. But do not concern yourself overmuch with them. We must give them a show, Olena- only a show." He puts a hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes with utter gravity. "We must return to Genosha and strike into the heart of our enemies. The Sentinels will be our ticket there. You- and you alone- know of my intentions. We must struggle, and valiantly, but as in chess, we risk the king- and sacrifice a knight-" he pats her cheek affectionately- "in order to draw them out."
Olena cants her head some at Erik's words. So, they're not going to try to truly stop the Sentinels? And then it dawns on her. "Trojan horses," she says, her brows rising, even as he's patting her cheek. "You mean to use them as Trojan horses, da?" Now she frowns, slightly, as he talks about sacrifice. "You want me to... allow them to take me?" She's kind of guessing, here.
Erik spreads his hands. "If you're able," he says, finally. "Ideally, they will focus on me. Likely, they will attempt some kind of inhibition protocol that may even render me powerless. You, however, they may very well overlook. You, however, they may think pose no threat. You will be my ace in the hole," he informs Olena. "Thusly positioned- king in check, knight out of play- we may be able to turn their trap against them, and strike out decisively where they least expect us."
Olena nods slowly to what Erik says, wrapping her mind around the plan. "I can do it," she tells him firmly after a moment or two. "I will certainly try." And she's pretty good at most everything she tries. "Do you know how I might best manage it"
"Secreting a few weapons about yourself would be a good idea," Erik says after a few moments. "Perhaps security supplies. Again- this is really more Mystique's area of expertise," he says with a frown. "I'm quite engaged with planning our operations once we're actually in Genosha. You'll have to come up with your own contingencies."
Olena nods to that and makes a note to go find Mystique when she's done here. "Then, that is what I shall do," she tells her mentor firmly. She wonders that the Sentinels won't be able to detect weapons, but there may be ways around that, just as there a ways to circumvent TSA security guidelines. Yes. She will indeed make a point to speak with Mystique. If anyone will know, she will. 
Erik squeezes Olena's shoulders and gives her an approving smile. "Do that, my dear. If you need any supplies, simply take what you need from the shed. Be careful and be wary- we must conceal ourselves until the reclamation screws arrive. Until then, prepare your team as you see fit." He turns and takes his leave, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
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