You Must Kill to Love Death

01 KIERAN

The feeling of sand and dirt sneaking into my freshly formed callouses was inevitable. The military base floor was always covered with the outside world, an abnormality amidst other uncommon forces. Countless men and women trudged in and out, their dirty boots leaving behind the infectious soil and grime from beyond our walls, coating the cold cement flooring that had become our home.

I couldn't have cared less. The grit and filth, the constant presence of the outside clinging to us—I didn't care. 

I don't care. 

I was so good at not caring that I lost count of my reps. But if the tremble in my arms and the sting in my hands signified anything, it was that I was nearing somewhere around eighty push-ups. Although, the sting was hardly noticeable now. It was a part of me, just like the callouses and the constant ache in my muscles.

This was merely the start to my day, so I couldn't afford to feel the sting...and I didn't–there was no sting. 

Each push-up, each bend of the arm, was meticulous and calculated. My form couldn't be anything below exceptional. The bludgeoning voice in the back of my head wouldn't allow it. So I started back from forty, counting up to my finished set of one hundred.

Passing bodies of countless men swarmed past me, almost like a flowing stream of water. No one batted an eye at me. This routine was as familiar to them as it was to me, a daily testament to my endurance. 

Sergeant Nick Reyes was in charge, and since I was his kid, there was always a concern he might favor me in the name of his platoon. But this daily performance proved their worries wrong. In fact, most days, it felt like Nick pushed me harder than anyone else.

But, I didn't care.

That's why once I reached one hundred push-ups, I moved on to crunches–my spine arching and crashing into the cold cement floor - now damp with fluid from my calloused hands.

I had learned early on that pain was just weakness leaving the body. At least, that's what Nick always said. I'd been shaped by his relentless drills and unyielding expectations. Every scar, every ache was a badge of honor in our twisted father-son dynamic.
Although, it was tough to label Nick and I anything more than 'superior and trainee'.

My eyes never wavered from the ceiling above me; I used the metal vaults as a pillar, keeping me in check. I listened to the ruckus around me, but I didn't watch. I listened for one distinct step pattern that I knew would come.

One man, or rather—a kid, who never followed the casual flow of moving bodies... Alyn Clarke.

"Dude. Your form sucks ass," he said as he peered down at me, hands on his hips as if inspecting like a sergeant would, an unhealthy habit he probably procured from his father.

I pushed through the disturbance and responded with more crunches, feeling the burn in my abs intensify with each movement.

Alyn sighed and plopped himself down on the ground beside me. "How many are you at?" he asked, passing me an inquisitive look.

I focused harder on my breathing, counting each inhale and exhale. In-hold...out-hold, repeat. Talking would involve exerting unnecessary energy. Energy I needed because it was 4 AM, and I had only finished half of the forty-five-step morning regimen.

But against my will, my eyes betrayed me and glanced over at Alyn beside me. I couldn't stop myself when a subtle, "Twenty-four," slipped out.

My voice sounded harsher than intended, a byproduct of the strain and my natural demeanor he had learned to ignore years ago.

"Only twenty-four?" he teased, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Come on, man. I thought you'd be up to a hundred by now."

"Shut up, Clarke," I muttered, my breath coming out in ragged puffs.