All the better. The empty darkness gives me the needed space that allows me to run and push myself to my physical limits. It’s a sure way to recharge and erase the gory events from the nightmare earlier.
Or more like a memory.
Despite the bright moonlight in the middle of the sky, it’s freezing. The cold air hits me deeper in my bones with every passing minute, but I’ve always found solace in the freezing weather.
Something about harsh natural circumstances allows me to blend with them and see myself as part of the ecosystem.
I’m an entity of destruction with no qualms about stomping on everything in my path.
My choices are unlimited, and everything I do will be labeled as a natural disaster.
I didn’t choose to be this way, but it happened, and instead of fighting it, I embraced it. Fully.
Without any questioning.
Either that or I would’ve been collateral damage in a bigger and more dangerous game.
A groaning sound reaches me from the other end of the track, and I stop.
It comes again as a low “Ugh” in a very familiar voice.
I follow it discreetly, without making a noise. The night serves as my camouflage and the silence is my cover.
Sure enough, when I reach the source of the noise, I find a dark figure doing push-ups against the soil.
Only, it’s not all dark.
The arms that peek through the T-shirt are pasty-white in the night, and his face is red with exertion.
His movements are disoriented, uncoordinated, and his limbs shake uncontrollably.
“109, 110, 111, 112…” With each whispered number, he grows weaker, his rhythm, breathing, and impatience all spiking up until he’s a myriad of turbulent energy.
I lean against a pillar, legs and arms crossed. “You’re doing it all wrong.”
Lipovsky lifts his head to look at me, then stumbles and falls sideways, his frail muscles finally giving up on him.
For a second, he observes me from his position on the ground as if I’m some twisted form of salvation that got thrown in his path.
He did it a week ago, too, when he asked—begged—me to take him as part of my team with his nonexistent skills.
That was a bold move. And he’s an insolent little fucker, considering the way he’s staring at me without a hint of a salute.
This guy either has a death wish, or he simply shouldn’t be in the military—as I previously tried to convince him.
It could be because of my stare or, although it’s a very slim chance, that he realized his insolence because he finally stands with great difficulty and salutes. “Captain.”
He looks rough at best in unflattering cargo pants and an oversized T-shirt that’s soaked in sweat at the front and the back.
“If this is your way of proving yourself, then you might as well give up. My men do 200 in a steady rhythm without blinking an eye. No limbs shaking, no groaning or whining or looking like an amateur.”
Lipovsky’s eyes widen, appearing alarmed for a moment before he remembers to school his expression. “I’m improving compared to my previous record, and I only compare my achievements to myself, sir.”
No clue whether I should laugh or smack him upside the head.
I’ve met a lot of types in my years in the special ops, but he’s the only one who’s had this infuriating habit of talking back, even to a superior.
“That’s a foolish way of saying you’ll never improve. The past you isn’t a measurement of success, and if you only do self-comparison, the world will move by you before you know it.” I straighten. “On the ground, Private.”