Left hook.
Right cross.
Straight jab.
Uppercut.
The staple blows were routine to him by now. He performed them almost as casually as taking a breath of air, each knuckle thudding into a black punching bag with precision. The punching bag had the evidence of him practicing his form over the years–it was torn and duct taped back together, various animal leathers stitched over the holes, and then with more duct tape taped over the holes in those.
It was always wise to go back to the basics, even after you became a master. All the advanced techniques used them as a starting point.
He clenched his hands together and swung with as much as he could, striking the bottom of both of his fists into the punching bag.
The chain snapped and the bag scattered across the floor, rolling away a short distance.
Well.
Looks like training would end early.
He heaved a disappointed sigh.
He reached over to the table next to him and plucked off the white towel he’d placed there before even starting to train, wrapping it around his pale shoulders and tucking it under his brown ponytail. He gave one final look at the collapsed punching bag, then hiked off over to a couch on the opposite side of the room. To his left was another table, a half-empty plastic bottle of soda occupying it–soon no longer claiming occupancy, however, as he snatched it up and started guzzling the remnants down.
His home wasn’t exactly a dojo or a gym, but it was comfortable. It was where he liked to be, when he wasn’t working. Training and exercise weren’t exactly things supposed to be comfortable, mind you, but it was a lot more comfortable than being in a cramped building with a lot of other shirtless sweaty guys grunting and groaning.
But here he was. Practicing his technique. Alone. In the confines of his home.
He pulled the now-empty bottle from his lips and heaved a sigh.
Honestly, he liked it that way. He didn’t much like interacting with people. Over the years, society had generally grown…selfish. There were still plenty of nice people out there and he was far more proud to be a human than, say, a cat; but as the years went by, he found it harder and harder to listen to people’s grievances and not see them as self-inflicted in some way or another.
He lifted up one arm to toss the bottle behind him, without even looking. It soared through the air and landed in the recycling bin on the other side. It was an impressive shot–too bad nobody was around to see it.
It was the same thing, every day. Wake up, work, come back, train, sleep. Never a varying moment. Never anything new. It was a grind, in the worst sense of the word.
He sighed and grabbed the remote off the table and flicked on the television.
Nowhere
The wheels on the train go ‘round and ‘round.
‘Round and ‘round.
‘Round and ‘round.
The wheels on the train go ‘round and ‘round.
All through the …
Rain, mud, and fog. That’s all there was, in this part of nowhere. A thick and blinding fog, giving nothing but a view of pure white through the entire scenery, atop the layers of muddy ground and underneath the torrents of hissing rain.
A moan pierced through the fog. Mournful and low, the cry was not born of some strangled anguish, but rather more reminiscent of a single woman who was quietly lamenting…whatever misfortune. Whatever begat this groan, the sound lasted a straight minute and then stopped.
Silence.
No other sound followed after, aside from the soft hiss of fog. There were no living creatures around, humanoid or otherwise, that could provide anything to break the silence. All that remained were the sounds of nature’s own forces: The clouds grinding against one another, linking hands to form an impenetrable wall of gaseous muck.
Another moan. That soft sound, just like last time, pierced through the thick fog. The sound was followed by more sounds, a reluctant squeal as long-aged gears and metals stretched and pulled. They started slow at first, always with breaks in between; over time, the breaks became shorter and the metals started working harder.
Chug. Chug. Chug. Chug. Chug.
The clouds split bit by bit, drawn back like a curtain as a train pulled out. A dark train, covered entirely in shadows and driving on air. The whistle blew, providing the same moan once again. The wheels continued to squeal in resistance, but the train continued moving forward across the muddy plains without any need for tracks or rails or anything of the sort.
The inside of the train was not at all like its shadowy exterior, with everything coated in a dull grey or white, and black leather across the seats. All of the cars were empty sans for one near the middle…and this one only had one passenger in it. A tall girl, a thin girl, a frail girl—easily setting in at almost six feet of height, with pure-white skin and black hair, and a youthful face, it was impossible to determine her age. She sat perfectly still, swaying only with the movements of the train and shifting whenever there was a bump, only the rise and fall of her breathing chest and the occasional blink identifying her as even conscious.
She sat on the leather with her hands folded together, her delicate fingers wrapped around each other. Her gaze was directed out the window, where it lingered and where it stayed—even though there was nothing to see outside and even though only the fog was her company, she kept her gaze out from the train and into the world that surrounded it.
The train whistled once more, punctuating the creak of metals with another moan.
She blinked once more.
