Martin walked into what could be called a yard, for lack of a better term. It was more than one yard in every dimension - the plaster-coated brick walls limited an area of about fifty by fifty yards, while no ceiling limited the area's height - from the concrete paving stones up, there was more space than anyone could've used. Martin needed about 85 inches at most, since that's how high he could reach with a raised arm without jumping up. He didn't take much space in the other dimensions, either, being fairly thin, neither fat nor muscular. He had his moderately long hair tied up, as to secure it, and hidden below a cap. The other two main pieces of his outfit were a blue windbreaker and sweatpants, neither particularly notable. What was notable was his pair of boots he had on - likely taken from a grandfather's locker or a specialty store, they were hobnailed military boots.

He came to this place, apparently the back of some abandoned factory or other on the outskirts of the city, to get self-defense lessons. Or just throw down. Be thrown down and learn to roll so that it doesn't hurt as much. Whatever would meet him, it'd be a valuable lesson. At worst it'd be a muggery, but then he had nothing with him save for an old phone - old enough to be non-smart, and wrapped in a small bubblewrap pouch hidden in an inner pocket of his windbreaker. Which was probably redundant for the Nokia, but it could pay to be careful.

Martin was worried, though, as he was slightly late, and so the person he agreed to meet was nowhere in sight. At best, they were waiting inside, at worst, they already left.

Psssssss.

The sound of his slightly yellow urine, a symptom of too many sodas and not enough water, drew him from the deep trance the beginning of a too long held piss often put him into. That moment was like a trance, but the high pressure of nature's call always interrupted it.

That, and well the eerie feeling that someone had just entered the backyard of the makeshift factory Old Man Yamaguchi used as a martial arts training ground.

"Another new guy, Old Man, another new guy." Ferron said, turning his attention to the left of him, where a decomposed skull sat atop a shoddily carved spike. It had been a long time since anyone had come calling, long after Ferron had shot and killed the Old Man. "Well, let's not be rude then."

Ferron shook himself off, and tucked himself in, before opening the door to the outside. The light seared his eyes for a second before they afjusted and he could see the man standing no more than forty-five yards away. "Hey there! You must be new here! Looking for the Old Man? Well, he's out at the moment." A lie. "I'm his nephew, Ferron. He asked me to help out while he's gone."

An easy smile graced his face as he began to close the distance, hands easily sliding off the small black t-shirt that hid a hardened body, built to take an immense amount of damage. For the sake of any women or children that happened to peer over the fence, he kept his pants on, as well as his steel toe boots. When the distance closed to ten yards, he slowed his approach, adopting a brawling style of boxing. Arms out to the side, right foot forward, knees slightly bent.

"I don't know what kind of training you've come for, so I hope you're in for a fight."

Martin tried his best not to shudder. The man standing before him - supposedly his opponent - looked *tough*. Seeing him pull his shirt off, Martin unzipped his windbreaker - this way he could try to worm his way out of it, putting some balance to the fact there was no garment to grab Ferron by. The unimpressive look of his own torso kept him away from the idea of exposing it.
"A fight. Sure. My name's Martin. Given I haven't an idea how to start, feel free to begin with something. Maybe I can try the same move on you once I've picked up my teeth." With these words, Martin raised his right hand to his sternum and stood firmly, left foot slightly back, left arm to his side.
Preaching his own weakness was something of an overexaggeration. Martin had perfectly serviceable legs and back, product of years and years of walking, running and carrying. It was his arms which worried him - he never had to lift more than a heavy pack, and that only for long enough to swing it onto his shoulders. While it was never too late to begin, he suddenly wished he'd chosen to spend the last few months with a set of weights to lift. Still, he was only as much of a weakling as he was a shortarse, and he was 5'7.

Which put him in a good place when compared to most women, children and maybe even in an average crowd, but not next to a sports team where it mattered.

Ferron's mind clicked on as he watched his opponent from, now, sevn yards. His opponents upper body was okay, but the way he positioned himself told Ferron that he was more capable than he was attempting to let on. Either way, the killer would play along.

"So, you really did come here to train? Well, what better way than to fight someone whose sole intention is to harm you?" A glimpse of a smile flashed across his face. With his hands out to his side, his fists finger side out, arms angled diagonally from the body, his brawling style was still in effect. It was a style that allowed for more unpredictable, and powerful, blows, but displayed obvious weaknesses when it came to defending against them.

The first course was action was to get in the optimal strike zone, twenty one feet not being nearly close enough. The brawling stlye worked best in an in fight, basically face to face. He edged closer, his goal was to get within a few feet of the man who deemed himself Martin, and who was resigned to the fact he was going to lose some teeth.

BAsed on the look of his opponents arms, he was capable of reaching at least two feet away from his body to connect with a hit. Three feet was his goal then. Step after step, he slowly made his way forward - prepared to stop and defend as needed, or launch an attack if his opponent tried to rush towards him.