Winning Formula
They met once a week in an old, abandoned church on the edge of the park. Its roof had caved in and you could see a big ragged patch of sky above the altar. There was a low basement with a dirt floor covered by plywood boards – where they trained, Danny and his new mates.
They were all really good. Their wiry muscles defied the food shortages. It was like they were poured out of bronze, and, for the first six months, Danny got beat the fuck up every single evening. He felt like his body had been put through the washing machine – his limbs were heavy, his bones were bruised, but when he crawled into bed, he slept like a baby.
And slowly, agonisingly, he hardened up. He did calisthenics 3x a day and ate his rations mindfully, willing his body to absorb as many nutrients as possible. His grandparents didn't notice anything. They were so far gone they just drooled into their soup and Mags burbled away, happily guzzling another bottle of fat-rich formula, the half dozen cases of which their mother had practically given her life to secure.
Where was she now, he wondered. Digging iron out of some hillside or cutting roads through a forest up north? The stories they heard from those who returned made his blood run cold and he often wondered if he'd ever see her again. Not that he voiced his fears to Mags. To her, it was all a big game. He wished Dad was there to help. He hated having to be a man at 13.
But that's how it was. No use crying over spilled years. So he went to work in the factory, jacked into his workstation, processing raw data for 12, 14, sometimes 16 hours straight. It was such mindless work that he visualised fight moves, going over drills or mistakes he’d made last session.
Either that or he was imagining big plates of food – all his favourites on a table somewhere with no one watching and his big belly jiggling while he poured the wine in. But all he got was an ache in his tummy so he went back to training in his mind.
He remembered hearing somewhere how pro athletes visualised winning the big game. And slowly, painfully, his RW began mirroring his interior mindscape. He snuck out one night after giving Mags a bottle, closed the door quietly and ran the 6 blocks, using a route the trolls never checked.
Antony and Felix were already there. Tall Antony like an 8-limbed demigod. Felix the cannonball. Antony was on Felix’s back, wrapping him up his vines, searching for a choke. Felix laughed, playing for a while before standing up and diving on Tony’s ankle, chasing it around like a dog.
Danny watched, drinking in their movements, stealing techniques and pocketing them like gold. The others trickled in. Damien with his fucked-up leg. Cam grinning, cracking off jokes like a machine gun. Tall, ethereal Martin, somehow beautiful with green eyes and translucent skin.
For the next couple hours they rolled on the plywood boards, grunting, gurgling, occasionally laughing a little but not talking much. They weren’t there to chat. They were learning how to fight in a world that had evolved into a more chaotic, violent, threatening version from the one they remembered.
Now learning to fight didn’t feel like a luxury. More like a simple bare necessity. And so he improved. As did they all. One of the infuriating things was he never felt like he was getting any better as he still got his ass kicked every single time. But deep down, he knew he was doing things he’d never done before. His body felt different. And his mind was clearer than ever. It was like someone turned down the volume on the chatter and he went about his day feeling washed and scraped clean.
One afternoon, he changed the clock in their unit to show 2 hours ahead and when he got home the next day, he said, ‘Would you look at the time?’ and hustled his grandparents to bed. He felt kinda bad leaving Mags for so long, but he convinced himself it was for her benefit too. He had to be able to protect her now he was a man, a real man.
If only he could find more food. He knew his diet was restricting his growth and he still looked like a scrawny little kid. He asked the others at work. Nothing. He went scavenging for an hour after training, trawling through dumpsters and incin-bins but all he got was tireder and tireder.
So next time he got home from work and popped a bottle for Mags, he looked at the creamy liquid inside. Just a taste, he thought, a mouthful. She was just a baby and he was a growing man after all.
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