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Meissa

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Jan 25th, 2017
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  1. Whump.
  2. Meissa delivered a tough roundhouse to the punching bag, sculpted in the shape of a human. Form perfect, force impacting just the right place. Neck snapped, if it was a human opponent it would be dead.
  3. Whump.
  4. Training sessions were always quite therapeutic for Meissa. She enjoyed the atmosphere of nothing but sweat and blood and flesh and muscle and bone, moving in the immaculate machine that was the art of Pankration.
  5. Whump.
  6. Like she said; calm, straightforward, to-the-point simplicity and perfection. Can’t get easier. Can’t get more enjoyable.
  7. Whump. Whump.
  8. Meissa let her idle thoughts take her away from the world as she delivered two swift kicks in the air. The punching bag met her with the indifference of a blob of sculpted rubber.
  9. Whump.
  10. It almost made her laugh that she used to struggle with these simple acts as a little hatchling. Kick. Punch. Kick. Punch. Although, she never lost heart, mainly because of her dad cheering her on whenever she did well, and showing her how to get better when she didn’t.
  11. Whump…
  12. Her father always bought her ice cream after every practice session they did. Mochi, cone, popsicle, bowl, it didn’t matter. Ice cream was ice cream and ice cream was twice as good when she put in twice the effort. And four times as much when it was right after a good-mannered duel of skill. Eight times after having to drink bitter herbal medicines to strengthen her body.
  13. Whump!
  14. She wasn’t a crowd-pleaser. Or maybe she was. But hell, was she an aficionado. Every move, perfection. Every drop of sweat and breath of ki, the life force within all life, flowing in a raging inferno on that mat. The referee would call “Begin!” and she would snap into action, stunning blow to the head, twist the arm behind the back…
  15. WHUMP!
  16. And the fight would be called. The crowd would erupt into applause for her, and she would stand up straight, smile, and brush herself off. Man, was a good fight good. Not because it was enjoyable to crush your enemies, but just because it was fun to fight the good fight. And always, her dad, beaming with pride. His daughter, slowly mastering the ancient art of war.
  17. Whump.
  18. Speaking of war, it was never clear to her why dad didn’t go back into the military. Did he not like the military? That couldn’t be the answer, because when Meissa, at the young age of fifteen, said she wanted to join, her father didn’t object. Was he discharged? He could have rejoined. He had the certificate of service required to be discharged. Was he too old?
  19. Whump.
  20. Perhaps. Perhaps time got to his career. And…
  21. Whump.
  22. No point in wallowing in that past, anyways. There are better questions to ponder. More form to perfect.
  23. Whump.
  24. Perfection, huh. The Patricians loved to blather about perfection. “Perfection” this. “Perfection” that. Oh, so “pure” and whatnot.
  25. WHUMP.
  26. Bullshit. They weren't gods. They weren't eagles. And she wasn't a sparrow. Sure, the body adjustment had been nice from Plebian to Caelisolan. But she swore that they decided to flip her switch off for just a little bit longer than they had to, just to play with the boundary between life and death.
  27. WHUMP.
  28. Playing gods. At, well, her expense. The chilling grasp of her temporary death between her original body dying and her new body’s heart beginning to beat.
  29. WHUMP.
  30. And yet, death had been quite the enlightening experience. No gods or kings on this side of the world, only the muscle and bone and skin and grit packaged inside a five-foot-nine frame of a peculiar Elysian warrior girl.
  31. Whump.
  32. At least they could have tacked a few years on the elderly. But no, they didn't. No luxury for them.
  33. Whump.
  34. Maybe that's why she wanted to join the Star Army so badly. Maybe her death did leave a few marks on her soul. Maybe she realized how little time she gets on this side of the world, before she passes through.
  35. Whump!
  36. Maybe she wanted to burn brightly with her penchant for war. Maybe it was a sort of cynicism and nihilism. An acceptance of the end, no matter how it came. For her, and for others.
  37. Especially for a certain other.
  38. Whump.
  39. But now, her body was dripping with sweat. The dummy tried to look as sorry as possible after she landed with all the fury of an eagle. The dummy, being a dummy, failed.
  40. Meissa toweled the sweat off her body and looked at the clock.
  41. Two hours. Enough practice for today.
  42. She pushed the dummy to the corner of the room, where she picked up a certain tasty cold treat.
  43. It tasted neon orange and icy blue. Delicious.
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