Tyrant

(𝟷𝟶) 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙱𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜

The punching bag meekly tilts to the side as my shin connects with it.

I look to Sarnai, my assigned Overseer, with a grimace—she throws me a strained smile and shakes her head, white hair dancing along her back.

With expert hands, she adjusts my posture, pushing my shoulders back and my torso forward. For balance, she says.

I throw another meager kick to the bag, failing even worse this time and losing my balance.

"No. Watch me." Sarnai says from my right, nothing unkind in her words. I move, her slender frame replacing where I'd been.

"You're not shifting your body with the kick, Phoenix." She takes up a battle stance, her feet perfectly parallel to each other, her back straight. 

She bends her left knee slightly, and her body flows in an elaborate symphony as she kicks her right leg upwards—landing a direct blow onto the punching bag.

The poor bag snaps to the left like a broken neck, swaying from its thick rope attached to the ceiling. "Like that. Now try again."

I take position. And breathe in. And kick.

The bag doesn't sway much. 

"Again." Sarnai commands.

I obey, attempting to bend my left knee as my right leg slams into the bag. It sways a bit more this time, but pain explodes inside my leg.

"Again."

I purse my lips and take the battle stance yet again, exhaling roughly through my nose. The kick itself isn't too bad—it's the moving the one-hundred pound sandbag that proves to be a bit daunting.

Centering my focus on the large bag, I kick again. My shin connects with the rough leather of the bag, and I yelp in pain, stumbling back onto my bottom. 

"Use your lower shin, above your ankle." Sarnai states simply, no mockery in her eyes—on the contrary, encouragement shines there like a newly earned medal. 

Nodding, I rub at my throbbing leg. My eyes snag on a woman clad in in black lifting herself upwards on high black bars. Beads of sweat drip down her face as her arms lift her, over and over.

Arm workouts may end up being more of a struggle for me than kickboxing.

I stand, the throbbing in my leg now a dull pulse. Sarnai crosses her slender arms over her black shirt and jerks her chin towards the bag. 

Positioning myself correctly, I inhale as if I am breathing in fresh autumn air.

"Balance, strength, confidence." My Overseer states, reciting her motto for training. Although she bears the position of Retriever, she had accepted Darcio's request to train me while he was unavailable. I was immensely grateful to her. 

There are many like her that bear multiple duties, she'd claimed when we'd met nearly an hour ago in this Defense Practice room.

Balance. Strength. Confidence. 

Training means physical strength, and physical strength means power and increased endurance. Both of which are necessary for me to assist the rebels in achieving a goal that has been unattainable for fifteen years. 

I stare at the black sandbag, imagining the president's villainous face upon the worn leather. 

Anger heats my blood like a volcano. 

The One is the reason we are all living as we are. 

The One is the reason we cannot speak freely.

The One is the reason we cannot dress freely or love freely or feel freely.