Cage of Fur and Claws
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Her forms, more theoretical than practical, were no match for those of the stronger, experienced marine. Through her skills and quick wit, she could occasionally score a blow, but in turn the big man, Richard, consistently was able to fend off her best efforts while striking past her defenses.
A cut in her forehead drained into her right eye, and her knee was badly hurt after taking a kick to the side. None of her most recent efforts had found purchase on her opponent.
She felt one of her compiler optimizations struggle to patch and mend her hurts, crawling under her skin like ants. She knew it was a lie. She was still stretched out, immobilized in the little tube of a cabin. Through the pain she wondered if the ship enhanced the discomfort of the glamored injuries. She wouldn't be surprised. Its spirit seemed perversely unkind. She didn't dwell too long in these thoughts.
Sharon watched, learned, felt. Richard fought strangely. He didn't seem to be learning or fighting her in particular, yet he was competent, and more than a match for her. It was irritating, like fighting a dull machine.
She hit him until he came into the present. Made him see her, as her elbow connected with his temple, the side of her hand to his neck. He was finally there! He kicked her off the mat into the wall.
She slumped down onto the floor. Her head hurt, her back hurt, it was difficult to breathe. Sharon looked up at Richard. When he returned her gaze, she felt satisfaction that he was no longer seeing her with distracted eyes.
She returned to her room, aching and exhausted. She had skipped her Bible reading that morning. She had hoped to feel up to it after the workout, but didn't. Though it was afternoon, she collapsed into bed and slept. In her dreaming, she was fur and claws and muscle, but trapped in a cage. Cramped, musky, dank. She raged against the unyielding walls, she raged and hated and burned.