Zoldyck
Present
Lightning isn't powerful. It's ambitious. In the eyes of science, mythology, whatever understanding we have of it, lightning represents a force unlike any other.
I never felt that way about it. To me, lightning is a flawed process. The sky formulates its anger into a deep seated voice. Then, in a fit of rage, even if you can't feel it, the sky will make sure you hear, see it for miles on end. Anger gains a palpable medium in the form of lightning.
And lightning flows through my veins.
Another hit to the AI and it decelerates, backing away. My father designed these computers himself. They generate barely physical copies of themselves in the form of light, like holographic enemies. Tonight, I fight a single one coded to represent an enemy I'll soon face.
It's easily predictable. I've already knocked it over more times than I can count. The thing has horrid footing when it comes to combat.
The room is practically pitch black except for the easy glow of the AI's form. Delivering hit after hit to it only tires me. I've gone through the process of a hand to hand fight, quirkless, against it twenty-two times since this morning. Every time, it loses. Yet, somehow, after every simulation is complete, I'm the one who feels it's beaten me.
This is the twenty-third round against the computer that's built to learn to fight against me. It will lose again. Every single ounce of training that's been poured into me knows that fact as I kick it in the ribs and use its lack of balance to my effect. Then, once it collapses for the twenty-third time, I'm barely breaking a sweat.
The lights in the training room turn on, harsh things. Make your eyes squint if you aren't used to them, like a car's high beams. I've been privy to this room since I was a child. As such, I'm used to its aggressive nature. Once the computer shows the stats on the screen ahead, footsteps sound behind me. My shoulders straighten, my feet square, my chin faces forward.
My father circles me with patience in his step.
"Report," He orders, hands behind his back, heels casting rhythm on the stone.
"Two miscalculations. One misstep," I say, sure to keep my attention on the screen ahead. Even if you've won, imperfections are to be perfected. I did make two miscalculations. Though I compensated, my father likes to point out that compensation is an excuse for mistake. When the time comes, compensation won't be an option.
I'll have to be perfect in every way.
"Wrong," My father says.
I don't react. Reaction is a form of disobedience.
"On what counts?"
"The misstep." My father snaps, twirling his forefinger afterward, telling me to start again. "Redefine."
I think, going over the last twenty-three fights.
"Misstep. Redefined: Error in judgment."
"Wrong again." My father's voice gains an edge, like a knife scraping against the circular edge of the platform.
"Error in judgment, redefined," I say, my middle finger tapping against my thigh, only once. Anxiety is another form of disobedience. I've been disciplined for less. "Hesitance."
"And where is this hesitance coming from?"
"Unreadiness."
"You're deliberately giving incorrect responses, Zoldyck."
