Bane

November 15, 1993

David sat, panting, on the weight bench  in a blood and dirt stained off-white tank top, the tank top saturated in sweat, clinging to his newly built muscle. Behind him, Man in the Box played from his compact disc player, blasting what was easily one of the best songs he ever heard. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet locks back against his head.

Bart Walker stood a few feet away with a stopwatch, staring at David with a warm expression. "You're dad never appreciated a good coach, boy."

"Well," David caught his breath. "Maybe if he'd had one, right?"

Bart made a stern expression, not quite disapproving. "You sure got my boy's sass, didn't you?"

"I don't remember much about dad. He had maybe one serious conversation with me in my life."

"Which was?"

"Something about evil in the world. How beautiful evil could appear to be... that maybe the lesser of two evils was  good for a greater cause."

Bart nodded. "Be careful with the concept of any greater good, son. Good intentions have born up some of the worse things the world has ever seen."

David lay back on the weight bench, positioning himself under the barbell, and gripped the bar.

"Spotter?"

"If I drop the Damned thing, it's because I was too weak to carry the weight. No safety nets."

Bart shook his head. "You drop that thing on yourself, and there ain't no more sons to carry on our name."

David pushed against the bar, and lifted it. It teetered a moment to one side, tottered a moment to the other. Bart sucked in a sharp breath of air, but David steadied it out. "Oh, I don't know. I'm sure you've still got a few good genes left in you."

David lifted the bar up, and lowered it slowly, straining against gravity as the weight bore down. Bart ignored his comment. "What are you pushing?"

David grunted, pushing the bar back up, lowered it again, and pushed with a low growl. "Two. Two even."

"You're pushing yourself too hard, too fast. You ought to be pushing about half that."

David slowly pushed out another three reps. "Can we argue about this when I'm done?"

Bart grunted a half hearted disapproval.

David felt fatigue setting in, and ignored it. The enemy would not care if he was tired, weak, or sore. The enemy would beat down on him heavier than any weight he could imagine. They would pile on, and keep piling until they were dead, or he was. He pushed through another five reps. The bar teetered again to the left, then tottered again to the right. David closed his eyes, struggling against his shaking arms. "Stop!"

Bart, ready to rush to his side, slowed his advance.

David steadied out the barbell, and lowered it again. Down, breathe deep. Hold. Push. Up. Down. Breath deep. Deeper. Draw the strength. No rites and blessings. Not yet. This all had to come from him. He was strong over there - Taal's Realm - he could be strong here, too. He had no other choice. For all the Terrors, the Shadows stalking him with their razor touch. For the Face Takers. For Blanca, and Crimson, and Ammielle.

For Karen.

For he, and his own self.

David pushed up hard, screaming as he did. He held the barbell up a moment longer, and then carefully set it in its place.

"Five minutes that time."

"Goddamnit."

Bart furrowed his brow. "Language, boy. You got a rosary on hand?"