Post by The Remedy on Dec 12, 2010 4:33:35 GMT -5
It was getting to be bitter cold this time of year, well below freezing. The frost was deeply rooted by now, every exhalation of a human breath or an automotive exhaust was made visible in the frigid air. Believe it or not, some people actually went jogging in this unforgiving weather. Bruce Bryant was one of them.
He had found himself with a need to wander as of late. He had a lot on his plate and he wasn't very hungry. His new-found ability to run long distances, in a bitter irony, was one of them. Something about his body was changing, and although he found himself growing more athletic every day, he was in truth a bit frightened. Normal people didn't make the type of gains he was making at the rate he was making them. He'd started the month pressing two hundred pounds. It had been four weeks and he was already lifting all the weight the bar would support, close to five hundred.
Then there was the matter of his running. Four weeks ago he'd jump on a treadmill and turn in an easy nine minute mile. Nowadays he was hardly trying and yet deep into the fours. Despite the layers he was wearing out in the brutal winter night, he found himself keeping up with bicyclists.
Not least of all was the matter of where exactly he was going at night. For an hour at a time he would run, his endurance seemingly growing with each passing day. But on several nights, within the twenty miles he'd cover, he would come across the scene of some emergency, or sometimes a tragedy. Too often he would find himself trotting past the gnarled remains of two former steel beasts, or find himself warmed by the blazing ruins of someone's home. Once he'd even come upon a mugger hard at work. His reaction had left him with even more to think about.
Bruce had mashed the guy at top speed, using his shoulder. It was becoming obvious that his physical prowess left him in a very rare human elite. With his strength and speed, he was a tiger. He actually had the capacity to make a difference out here. The mugger he had checked with his shoulder went halfway across the street and before he slid to a stop. His body was quite obviously limp and he had never seen Bruce coming. Though Bruce had the power to make a difference, what kind of way was that to live?
What kind of difference could he make, anyhow? Sure, he could knock a mugger out every once in a while, but he was just as likely to catch another slug in the process. Back at the soup kitchen he'd learned exactly what happens to heros: They die. Or at least they lie bleeding until the paramedics arrive.
He grimaced and pressed harder, so distracted by his thoughts he didn't take much note of where he was going.
He had found himself with a need to wander as of late. He had a lot on his plate and he wasn't very hungry. His new-found ability to run long distances, in a bitter irony, was one of them. Something about his body was changing, and although he found himself growing more athletic every day, he was in truth a bit frightened. Normal people didn't make the type of gains he was making at the rate he was making them. He'd started the month pressing two hundred pounds. It had been four weeks and he was already lifting all the weight the bar would support, close to five hundred.
Then there was the matter of his running. Four weeks ago he'd jump on a treadmill and turn in an easy nine minute mile. Nowadays he was hardly trying and yet deep into the fours. Despite the layers he was wearing out in the brutal winter night, he found himself keeping up with bicyclists.
Not least of all was the matter of where exactly he was going at night. For an hour at a time he would run, his endurance seemingly growing with each passing day. But on several nights, within the twenty miles he'd cover, he would come across the scene of some emergency, or sometimes a tragedy. Too often he would find himself trotting past the gnarled remains of two former steel beasts, or find himself warmed by the blazing ruins of someone's home. Once he'd even come upon a mugger hard at work. His reaction had left him with even more to think about.
Bruce had mashed the guy at top speed, using his shoulder. It was becoming obvious that his physical prowess left him in a very rare human elite. With his strength and speed, he was a tiger. He actually had the capacity to make a difference out here. The mugger he had checked with his shoulder went halfway across the street and before he slid to a stop. His body was quite obviously limp and he had never seen Bruce coming. Though Bruce had the power to make a difference, what kind of way was that to live?
What kind of difference could he make, anyhow? Sure, he could knock a mugger out every once in a while, but he was just as likely to catch another slug in the process. Back at the soup kitchen he'd learned exactly what happens to heros: They die. Or at least they lie bleeding until the paramedics arrive.
He grimaced and pressed harder, so distracted by his thoughts he didn't take much note of where he was going.
