Danger Kid

Chapter 2

I awake from a shallow slumber, and glance over at the clock. It's six o'clock in the morning. Sitting up, I can't tell if it's the crouch that creaks, or me. I slap myself myself awake with stinging pain. Standing, my back, legs, and arms mutually protest, cracking with disdain that I won't give them a break for even a day.

I realize with a jolt that today is a significant day. A year has passed. I fart audibly to celebrate, and head towards the shower.

With a gushing sound, water begins to flow down me, washing off the previous day's thick jacket of sweat. It oozes off of me and down onto the shower floor. I can see it swirling into the drain. Gross. It looks like that scene from Psycho, except with grime instead of blood. Or chocolate syrup, I guess.

Toweling off, I exit the bathroom, and stand in front of the mirror. I run my hand over my smooth head. I realize with mild dread that I could be permanently bald, considering how many top overs I've been subjecting myself to. Pity, what are the ladies going to run their fingers through now? I have a brief moment of silence for this tragedy, and then exit the bathroom, sitting at the kitchen table to have at a salad bowl of Fruity Crunchies.

I pull out my BEAD. It's a step down from my old government issued BEAD, considering its reduced functionality and lack of internet. However, the small, marble sized metallic ball does have music, which I set to play with a voice command. It's an old mix from the 21st century.

I pull out the newspaper from yesterday. Headlines announce "Foreign Relations at a Boiling Point!", "Anonymous Crime Fighter Strikes Again," and "Royal Marriage Touches Hearts of All." Ugh, nothing of interest.

Slurping down the dregs of my meal, I pour myself a second bowl and observe my surroundings, needlessly reminding myself of my setting... The apartment is on the high end. It's quite spacious, has wood floors, and a large bathroom. I've equipped the apartment with a TV, but except for that, a bed, kitchen table and chair are all it has as far as furnishings.

The place isn't dirty, but it somehow seems grimy. I notice cobwebs up in the high corners of the ceiling. They complement the lonely musty smell that permeates the air. The air seems to plead for light.

I suddenly feel even more lonely than usual, and decide to split.

As I drive away from the inner city, I prep mentally for the first part of the day. I'm heading to the country, somewhere far away from public. Stopping on the edge of the road, I run for a solid sixty minutes. I speed at nearly one hundred miles an hour, crossing rivers and forests, transitioning from soft yellow fields to green and brown forests, all the scenery passing in a kaleidoscopic blur. I always like how the ground sounds under my feet. My favorite part of the symphony is the forested areas, where the sound is a vicious crunching of leaves and growth. My least favorite is when I hit mud, the ground exploding in dirty splits and splats, flatulent noises that seem anticlimactic to my vicious pace.

Eventually the sound changes to a steady pif paf, pif paf. It's the sound of dry dirt, and the rhythm is accompanied by a trail of dust which stretches out behind me.

I've reached my destination. It's a large clearing, scorched, and devoid of vegetation. Blackened rocks are scattered about, and occasionally you can see clots of glass that used to be sand. All of it is covered with a modest layer of dusty ash.

It's almost ten, and the sun is bright. But things are about to get brighter. This is where I practice in a way that I was never allowed to at Gauntlet.

I've brought with me a backpack. I set it well away from the clearing. Then, I find my way to the middle of the burnt circle, and sit, cross legged, setting my hands in my lap. Sometimes, just to be dumb, I hold them up with my forefinger and thumb making a circle. It looks mystic, but really, even just holding up my arms is a distraction.