Greg Veder vs The World

Lag 6.18a: Strike Hard

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

If you’d ever told Greg Veder he’d one day be stripping down to his skin for the benefit of his friend’s personal development, he’d have likely rolled his eyes and blown you off with a self-deprecating joke. But here he was, discarding his clothes like bad jokes at a comedy show, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the confusion dance across Sparky’s face.

A moment ago, they’d concluded the previous lesson. Sparky, all out of breath, was still gasping like a fish out of water. All things considered, it was understandable. For the past half hour, Sparky had been doing a one-man circus show, all twists and turns, trying to land a punch on Greg. Lesson three had essentially been a crash course in speed and agility, but for Greg, it was a devious amusement park where he could taunt his friend with an army of flying dodgeballs.

And let’s face it, he’d had an absolute blast.

That session had quickly evolved into a hardcore game of tag. The rules were simple. Sparky was "it" and had to tag Greg within the confines of the warehouse. Despite the former’s best efforts, he hadn’t come close to laying a finger on Greg. The blonde boy was like a shadow that danced just out of reach, a ghost that defied Sparky’s every attempt to touch.

Speed was one thing, sure.

But even when equalized, agility and experience were the real challenge. Greg moved with an uncanny ease that bordered on natural instinct. Compared to his acrobatic aptitude, Sparky was a little tiny baby learning to crawl.

After an intense training session of being on the receiving end, it was time for Sparky to dish it out, to release pent up frustration and give Greg a taste of his own medicine. A mild chuckle escaped Greg as he tossed away his tracksuit jacket, white under-shirt, and glasses. With a blink, he manipulated the digital blue energy at his command, causing the discarded clothes to pixelate and disappear.

Standing in the stark openness of the warehouse, a cocky grin on his face, he threw his arms open and made his bold declaration. "Hit me," he called out, the command echoing off the empty walls.

Sparky looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Wh-what?"

Greg laughed, a low sound that echoed through the cavernous space. "Lesson Four: Strike Hard," he clarified, the smirk never leaving his face. "Consider me your personal punching bag. You get to hit me as hard as you want. Get all your grievances out. Hit me as hard as you can for as long as you want to. Let loose, sparkplug."

To Greg's slight surprise, Sparky nodded quickly, a smile that sang with anticipation clear on his face. "Sure, wouldn't be the first time you've asked me to beat the shit out of you."

Greg let out a barking laugh, the sound echoing off the cold, hard walls. He recalled the times he’d asked Sparky to aid in resistance training, the memories vivid in his mind. It had been oddly enjoyable, despite the painful circumstances. Greg was mid-thought when a faint sensation tickled the base of his neck.

A pulse of danger.

The thought process came to a halt as Sparky’s knee was introduced to Greg’s face.

Staggering backward, Greg fought to regain his balance. Sparky had begun suddenly, without warning. Although, I guess I usually do the same, he reflected, shaking off the momentary disorientation.

No sooner had he steadied himself than another pulse surged. Sparky's fist hooked into his jaw with a surprising force. The momentum carried through as another punch caught him off guard, causing his face to swing the opposite way barely a moment later. Hand rising to rub his jaw, Greg felt a faint dull throbbing in his face, the familiar ring of pain clear as day. Wow, did that actually hur-

Without missing a beat, Sparky plunged into a storm of strikes. His fists hammered against Greg's skin like hammers, each punch carrying a weight that surprised even Greg, despite his durability. Rapid jabs connected with his ribs, imprecise and sloppy, but hard and heavy, all the same. The hits were more surprising for how much anger was in them than the actual pain itself, that fading rather quickly. They were bad enough but then came the kicks, high and low, aimed at his gut, his chest, his thighs. Each boot-fuelled strike was a resounding thud, a shockwave that radiated through his body, threatening to knock him over.

But Greg held his ground, arms spread out in open defiance, urging Sparky on. This was no game of dodgeballs or tag. This was raw, brutal, and apparently more necessary than he thought. He can’t keep this going for too long, anyway.

As the minutes stretched on, Sparky didn't let up.

He transitioned from fists and feet to elbows and knees, using every part of his limbs as weapons. The sharp stinging of elbows and knees slamming into his body nearly had Greg gasping, his teeth gritting at the sudden spikes of pain. Still, he willed himself to stay upright, to take it. This isn’t that bad, actually. Kinda like a very angry massage, he tried to joke to himself. Even still, the thought rang rather hollow when he saw the look on his friend’s face, empty and furious.

Ten minutes in, Sparky's stormy eyes were drawn to a pair of discarded iron pipes lying nearby. He sprinted towards them, his footfalls echoing throughout the warehouse, then dashed back, face set in a grim line.

The first swing with the pipe was a surprise.

It collided against his ribs, a stark contrast from the feel of Sparky's bare knuckles. It was cold, merciless, and jarring. The shock of the impact rippled through him, his body jerking back from the force. Greg could almost hear his skin protesting under the harsh onslaught, a numb hum beginning to resonate at the impact site.

The pipes were… different.

They hurt, sure.

But Greg had dealt with worse.

This wasn’t even all that bad. If anything, it was a familiar pain.

It reminded him of when all this was new, when everything was still more fun and exciting, instead of chaos and carnage. Sure, there was blood, but most of it was his, and he’d be fine in no time.

Now, though?

Now, there was a lot more and he didn’t know how to feel when it wasn’t his over everything around him.

The subsequent strikes were no less brutal. The pipes were wielded like bludgeons, a hailstorm of metallic fury. More than that, each blow felt like an unspoken statement, saying, "Take that, and that, and that."

The pipes connected with Greg's body in a constant, staccato rhythm, each blow strong enough to cave in a man’s skull five times over and full of a silent rage and frustration that the blond hadn’t realized his friend was holding back.

Greg's body began to respond to the relentless attack. Despite his superior physiology, he wasn't entirely immune to the effects. The impacts grew more painful, more intense, the rhythmic pounding beginning to leave its mark. A bead of blood, bright red against his pale skin, trickled down from his chest, evidence of the brutal punishment he was undergoing.

As the iron pipes continued to crash against his skin, Greg realized that he was bleeding from multiple points. A cut opened on his cheek as a pipe smashed into his face, a small river of blood tracing its way down his jawline. His chest, where the pipes had hit him the most, were painted a glossy red. He was a canvas of pain and blood, a messy art piece.

Despite the steadily increasing pain, Greg didn't back down. His posture remained unyielding, his arms still spread out, inviting Sparky to continue. Blood continued to seep out, the metallic scent mixing with the cold, musty air of the warehouse. The deafening clash of metal against skin continued to fill the air, every strike with the pipes a raw display of his friend’s frustration, a storm of violence that seemed to come from nowhere.

But eventually, the storm did end.

Sparky's powerful swings gradually slowed, his strength just as potent but his motivation clearly fading like the anger on his face. The blood-stained and utterly broken pipes fell from his hands, hitting the concrete with a loud clatter. The resulting silence felt just as loud as the pipes had been against his skin, Greg couldn’t help but notice.

With all the fury spent from his system, Sparky collapsed onto the cold, hard floor of the warehouse. Greg watched this, his eyes oddly piercing in the dim lighting. It's not easy being the punching bag, he thought with a sad smile. Sparky was drained, emotionally if not physically, and it was obvious to his friend.

“You done?”

Greg had faced a lot in the last couple months, from violent gang members to a literal dragon-man, but he couldn’t deny that this left him feeling even more out of his element than those could manage. His body was a canvas of red, the aftermath of a one-sided brawl with no wounds to show for it. Greg kept his eyes forward as he watched a whole set of emotions play out on his friend’s face. It took far longer than it should have for such a simple question but eventually, Sparky looked back at him with vaguely empty — almost vacant — eyes before he quietly nodded. The warehouse seemed to brighten somewhat as the boy in yellow slumped forward slightly, shoulders hunched.

Greg blinked, his eyes roaming from Sparky's spent form to the rivulets of blood staining his own body. Each crimson droplet punctuated the silence as it fell, a steady drip-drip that should've had him reeling. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

Not from blood loss or simple squeamishness.

Despite the sheer amount of the stuff smeared across his skin, it didn't really faze him.

It hadn’t for a long while.

It should have been worrying how apathetic he was to the sight of his own blood, simply accepting the sight of it outside of where it belonged, no matter how much of it there seemed to be.

Despite how okay with it he was, cleanliness still meant something though.

After all, he wasn’t all too keen on being a walking, talking Pollock painting.

His hand vanishing into an odd azure rift that splintered open as soon as he thought the magic word, the thing visible from his vantage point, Greg pulled out a packet of moist towelettes, the dull packaging briefly aglow with the cobalt luminescence of his power.

Without a word, he began his cleanup. Each towelette glided over his skin, taking with it dried rivulets of blood. With each swipe, more and more crimson evidence vanished, leaving mostly bare skin behind. Eventually he was clean - or as clean as he could get without a proper shower - and Greg strode over to Sparky, his friend still sitting on the floor.

His hand extended out, offering the other boy the opened packet to use. "Wet Wipe?" His voice was light, a deliberate contrast to the heaviness that lingered in the air.

Sparky seemed to be lost in thought, but Greg's voice snapped him back to reality. He blinked up at him, and with a murmured "Thanks, brah," he accepted the wipe. Watching him clean up, Greg could only wonder how much of Sparky's past frustration had been vented on him today.

When Sparky was finally clean, Greg took it upon himself to reach into his Inventory again.

This time he summoned a box of juice boxes and a container of frosted sugar cookies, the items falling into both of his hands. Given what just happened, the items seemed almost laughable, more of a joke on their own than anything else, but Greg thought they were fitting.

He held them out towards Sparky. "How about we have a half-hour snack break?"

Exhausted eyes glanced up again as Sparky gave a tired nod, and the two sat down side by side to snack. A silence stretched between them, the length punctuated only by the sounds of biting into soft cookies and slurping juice boxes.. It wasn’t exactly an uncomfortable quiet, but it certainly went on for much longer than Greg felt at all comfortable with. Eventually, he had to say something, and despite his better judgment, he did.

“So, Sparks…” He let the words linger, an incomplete sentence echoing in the warehouse until Sparky turned his head slowly to face him.

“Mmmhmm?” Sparky responded, his focus divided between Greg and his fifth sugar cookie.

“You… uhhh, you wanna talk about it?”

"Talk about what?"

"...cool.”