Blood Ties

Chapter 9 -Remanicence-

Welp, the people have spoken, two small chapters coming your way!

Renegade exhaled as he lowered himself closer to the ground. His feet were high in the air and beginning to bend over closer to his face, his body in an arch one might call 'unnatural'. He straightened his arms and legs slowly as he drew a breath, his own form of a acrobatic push up.

His forehead was slick with a thin sheen of sweat, but he hadn't been doing nearly enough taxing exercises to be counted as a workout, this was more of a warm up. He had wanted to start jogging, in his training room back home he had a full track, but the closest thing the mountain had was a pathetic tredmill. He could see the metallic abomination from his upside down position, he glared at it, it was mocking him by existing. No one ever got to his level of training by running on fake terrain, going nowhere fast.

Treadmills were stupid, they were great for shaving off a stomach, but not as efficient in building muscles in places a real run can give. Treadmills lacked reality, there was rarely a time the ground would be that smooth and straight. Nothing would change on a treadmill, terrain always changes, a treadmill was no challenge.

The young acrobat deduced he had warmed up enough, he put his foot on the ground in front of his face and stood up, heaving the rest of his body with him into an upright position. The ebony haired boy went over to the punching bag, it was still up from another use. He could tell it had been used by the dents and worn fabric where the fists would hit, the fact the bag was still up infuriated the young mercenary. Didn't they know how to take care of their training equipment?

He decided to put the bag out of its misery. He found some tape and wrapped it around his gloved hands before he started pounding on the bag. He danced around it, adding kicks and dodging indivisible backlashes, at one point he rolled under it and gave it a nice thwack to where a head would be on a person. Renegade was increasing speed, chest beginning to heave with the need to take in more air to accommodate his increased activity.

He paused for a moment, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He glanced up through his matted hair, his mind fuzzy with the work out, blank until reality crashed down again. The red punching bag inoccently swayed in place, mocking him.

The fight wasn't over.

"Never turn your back on an enemy that could stab your now exposed backside." Renegade mumbled breathlessly, Slades voice echoing in his mind.

With a growl, Renegade kicked it twice in a flipping cartwheel and gave one last jarring punch. The bag exploded and the sand rained down onto the floor, emptying out onto the training mat and across the ground over his steel-toed boots.

He sighed and checked his hologlove, it was nearly 7 in the morning, the other kids in the mountain would probably be waking up around now. He honestly really did not want to see any of them again, he wasn't used to this much constant companionship and it was starting to get on his nerves. As well as the fact he barely got any sleep that night. It was a miracle he got any sleep at all, having the knife helped but every time he closed his eyes a frightful scene replayed in his mind, jolting him awake. After having a few hours of on and off sleep he decided to do something productive without the interference of a hero. Solitude was his friend in his situation, one very rarely seen. He found himself in the training room to clear his mind, trying to pretend it was his own and Slade was just around the corner doing something Slade-y.

It sort of worked, he was more calm now, routine always helps. But everything about his situation seemed to laugh in his face, taunting him, saying how much he shouldn't be here. It all felt so wrong, like fur brushed the wrong way, nails on chalkboard, floral and stripes.