#*katia;

     she’s not entirely sure how she dropped into this situation. legs apart, arms bent at the elbow, chin down, hands up; although she looks somewhat prepared, it’s still easy to tell from her stance that gemma doesn’t have any professional training in the ring. she grew up with street fights and gang brawls, and knows little of any official self-defence or martial art styles. she fights sloppy, fights dirty — given all that, she’s not quite sure how she’s managed to end up in a friendly sparring match with katia, of all people. she balances her weight on staggered feet, heels elevated. her hair is tied into a high but slack ponytail, and from the way her fists are so loosely curled, a keen observer can see her natural instincts kicking in — she is not above using her fingers to grasp, claw and jab. still, she keeps reminding herself: friendly match. there’ll be no desperate gouging of eyes, if she can help it. “fair warning,” she starts, with nonchalant honesty; it ends up making her next statement sound more like a hustle than the truth, but still she continues, “i’ve never done this before. i’m not saying ‘go easy on me’, but... you know, go easy on me.” despite the lack of confidence typically found in those words, however, her voice is playful, and her lips curl into a naturally cheeky smirk, ready (and maybe even eager) to see what comes next.

     gemma hasn’t had a night like this in a while. a drive down to the strip followed by several hours of barhopping seems like such a bygone era, for her; after joining reato, the few times she’d actually gone to get drunk was on the rooftop of the warehouse, and most decidedly alone. by now — almost two hours past midnight, and still gleefully taking advantage of vegas’ lax drinking laws — gemma can’t remember exactly why she’s at her fourth bar of the night, no doubt around her dozenth shot, and with katia of all people. she vaguely remembers seeing the other in the warehouse, upset and drinking alone, but she doesn’t remember insisting that they make a fun night of the misery, forcing katia to get changed and come out with her; nor does she remember driving them out to the strip... or where she even parked her car, for that matter. she’ll worry about that later, she supposes. “mmph, this place is crowded,” she mutters, voice slurring just a little bit; it feels like such a long time since she’s had this much alcohol in her system. she gestures at the now bustling dive bar — clearly this place’s clientele preferred the late hours. “i think i need some air. time for another walk?” she jerks her head toward the front door, slapping a few bills onto the table as she grabs her worn bomber jacket from where it’s slung over her chair’s backrest.

    the windows are down and the heat of vegas melds with the brush of the wind as her car streaks down the main road. one arm rests on the window frame while the other grips on the wheel, her eyes focused on the road ahead. beside her, katia sits in the passenger seat. she’s not sure what possessed her to agree to having the other girl along — perhaps it’s some quiet desire to get along better with her associates — but here she is, heading to her usual diner late in the evening, not exceptionally hungry but desperate to get out of the warehouse for a little while. she turns a corner and sees the diner come into view; all bright red interspersed with black and white checkers, surrounded by a smattering of small shop houses and the sea of desert sand. a backlit sign flickers overhead, advertising the 24/7 operating hours. it’s not the most glamorous, but it’s discreet, which is — at this point — the most gemma can expect. she pulls into a parking space and kills the ignition, casting a glance at katia. “here we are,” she says with a false lilt of enthusiasm, making half-hearted jazz hands as she steps out of the car. she walks toward the diner’s front counter, pushing past its glass door as she calls to the server, “a plate of fries, a cookies and cream milkshake, and...?” she gestures toward katia.