Drawstone

Hunter laid on the mat, afraid to get back up. A predator stalked him, every twitch of his body tracked, assessed, and ready to be leveraged against him. His body had never fully recovered from the day at the museum. He'd been carrying a minor exhaustion since the competition, and he wished he could take a few days to rest in bed. The stewards could bring him everything he needed.

Alas, the sessions with Aera had started, and to Hunter, she was a storm. She was fury incarnate. The psychic weight of her dreadful cognizance was akin to staring down the barrel of a 10-ton war machine.

Hunter didn't feel the need to prove himself. He'd come with his mind set on just getting through the session, and maybe learning a thing or two about himself and the world he was about to dive into. And he had learned something, even if it was just how much of a beating he could safely endure.

The session started with how he always imagined a class in martial arts would start. Stretching, a small warm-up which left him feeling like he'd already had a full workout, and that's when Aera complained to him about his inadequacies.

"You need more endurance. We'll focus on that."

Then they practiced punches, kicks, and blocking for a few minutes each, stopping when Hunter was getting too fatigued to continue.

"You need more endurance."

"You're not strong enough."

"When was the last time you exercised?"

"I can't remember," he'd said between a couple of heaving breaths.

"Never learned how to fight?" She asked.

"Never," Hunter said.

"So you don't know how to take a hit?"

"I've always been a pacifist," he'd said. "I've broken more bones than I care to admit. Since I'm more fragile than most, I avoid fights.

Aera sighed.

"Then let's begin."

Hunter then learned how to fall. Again and again.

She had positioned a crash-mat for him to practice with, and he experienced all the unique ways that a body could be thrown through the air. She was careful not to tear his arms out of their sockets, but he'd felt like they'd come close a few times. He'd raised an objection, of course. His logic was simple; if he's too injured to train, they would have to delay more of these wonderful sessions until he recovered.

Aera shook her head, saying that they would proceed on the assumption that his fragility was on account of never having taken measures to become stronger. Hunter had been skeptical, and as the 'training' went on, he'd realized with ever more regretful clarity that Aera wasn't interested in strengthening him. She only appeared interested in punishing him. He was apprehensive about the answer, dreading what it might be.

Famous Aera Oberon was wasting her time on the killer's son, whose low AR and fragile body were equally pathetic. She mingled with celebrities and politicians' children. She also accompanied her father to corporate board meetings, observing how influential people shaped the world.

Impressive people were her baseline. Hunter fell far short of that standard, and he knew it. But he wasn't here to appease her or impress her. He was here because her father had made him a deal that he'd be stupid to refuse. He lay on the mat, his body aching as if it had been violently disassembled and reassembled. He thought about his commitment to the deal.

If this was how the next couple of weeks were going to progress, he wondered if he'd be able to stay as motivated as he'd felt after accepting Trey's offer.

The academic stuff was easy. Boring, but compared to this, it was like heaven. He had no problem—beyond the obvious—with looking at textbooks for hours on end and memorizing useless information to the best of his ability. Unlike Aera, his other teacher seemed like he wanted to be there. Although he had been unimpressed with Hunter's attention span. He had a hard time focusing, to be fair. But after reading his father's journals, he found it even harder to focus. He did his best to forget about them, but he'd think about them soon after.

That was different while he was here, though, with her. With the human storm.

The pain and exhaustion were enough of a distraction from his situation. He would welcome it if he weren't enduring a psycho's tantrum. The stoic distance he'd seen in her before seemed to morph while he got to know her better. Where he once saw disinterest, he now saw cold hostility. In fact, it was almost worse than hostility. It was more like a malevolent curiosity.

She was testing the limits of his endurance, studying him, learning exactly how much torment she could inflict on him during their hour-and-a-half meeting.

And he would need to go through this with her every day.

Now, all he could think about was how just a single day with Aera was already far too much.

"We're done," Aera said, out of the blue. Hunter strained to glance at the clock at the entrance of the small detached studio they were using as their training facility. It was a 10-minute walk from the mansion, but still considered part of the estate.

They had 40 minutes left of their allotted time.

"See you tomorrow. Don't be late."

Hunter groaned.

Aera grabbed a duffel bag she'd brought with her, and left. Hunter tried to sit up, but he couldn't. His abdomen complained, unable to support his bid to move.

So, with great effort, he rolled off of the crash mat, barely catching himself on his hands and knees. He pushed himself back until he was sitting upright on his legs.

He swore he could close his eyes and fall asleep right there. But the crash mat was a poor substitute for his incredible new bed and he refused to spend a minute more than was necessary in this torture dungeon.

Hunter stood, his muscles protesting the strain. He stumbled his way to the door, but remembered that he'd brought his own bag as well, stumbling over to it and fetching his water bottle. He attacked it with the desperation of a man who had just survived a trek through a desert. The relief was almost enough to make him collapse, but he held strong.

Hunter was proud of himself for making it through the crucible. He hadn't let the demoness break his spirit. In fact, after reading his father's journals, he'd felt frustrated throughout the day, and his time with Aera had drained him of the pent up stress.

Who knew that being a combat dummy could be so therapeutic? However, just because the edge of anger he'd been feeling was gone, doesn't mean the sense of disappointment, shame, and grief had left with it.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the worse he felt. But he was tired enough that he felt it all at a distance, allowing him to focus, placing one foot in front of the other as he ambled out of the studio, and down the dirt road leading back to the mansion.

It was still light out, and although it hurt to move, and the autumn wind felt frigid against his sweat-soaked clothes, he had to admit that the mountain was beautiful.

"There are worse places to have your life turned upside down," he said. A flock of birds flew overhead, crows from the sound of it. He imagined that their squawking was like a chorus of laughter.

"At least the birds enjoy having me around."

--- 

He'd had no trouble falling asleep that night. Nor the nights following. The daily soreness became routine. Sleeping was difficult due to the cumulative bruising, yet he remained positive.

It was an odd feeling. The pain was something like an accomplishment. The more abuse he suffered, the more he realized he could persevere.

His strength wasn't improving, nor was his endurance. Every fall hurt more than the last, and his limbs were always teetering on the edge of being broken.

After a week went by, he started to notice a change. He could throw a few more punches, a few more kicks, and take a little more punishment. Aera's blows would get a bit more forceful, and the sessions would last longer. Not enough to appease her wrath, but enough for Hunter to realize that maybe she'd been right. Maybe a lot of his physical weakness had come from not trying to become stronger. He'd heard a word for something like that — was it conditioned apathy? Learned apathy?

He'd never felt the motivation to improve his physique, to grow stronger, to learn how to punch, kick, fall, and take a hit properly. Why would he?

He was fragile.

Or at least, he was supposed to be.

But what if he didn't have to be?

What if he didn't have to be limited? Held back? Disadvantaged?

Handicapped?

After the longest tutoring session yet, Hunter found himself back in his room, sitting on his bed, but he wasn't falling asleep. He couldn't, as his mind had enough energy to remember everything it was supposed to be worrying about.

His thoughts had drifted towards his father's journals.

Having a higher AR could solve everything for him. His physique would improve. He could learn more and do more. He would be faster, stronger, and have more energy. And if his AR would just keep rising the more he practiced, would there be a limit to how strong he could get?

What possibilities would open up to him with an AR in the 200s? What if he could go higher?

300 AR? What would he be capable of if his AR was almost three times higher than the highest recorded?

At Aera's rate of development, she might one day hold the new world record. She would officially have the highest known AR in history.

But unofficially, would she ever come close to what his father had claimed to have accomplished?

The possibility was staggering, and the implications were only now taking root. This could change everything. This could change the world.

If the measurement of one's AR dictated their level of health, strength, and longevity, what had his father been capable of before he died?

The more he thought about it, the more questions he had. What if those questions had already been answered, written and waiting in the journals sitting right under his bed?

He shook his head.

It wasn't worth it. The cost of those journals contents were too high.

But what if he didn't practice the method? What if, instead, he just read them with the sole intention of understanding them?

Taking a breath, he closed his eyes. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted anything other than to think about his father right now.

Or, at least he should, right?

He got out of bed, pulled out the briefcase, and then sat back on the bed.

It's not too late, he told himself. I can just push it right over the edge, back onto the floor, and go to sleep.

But he already knew that he wouldn't. He pulled the briefcase closer, and unclipped the latches on its side, and opened it.

There was a knock on the door. Hunter froze and then sighed. He closed the briefcase and put it back on the ground beside his bed.

"Yes?" he asked, projecting his voice to be heard from the other side of the door.

The door cracked open.

"Mr. Koar, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but the parts you've requested have all arrived."

Hunter blinked. He forgot he'd ordered parts. He glanced at the workbench in the room's corner.

"Yeah, you can bring them in," he said. Stewart opened the door all the way and a couple of his staff helped him carry the parts in. He directed them to leave them by the workstation. Stewart and his staff finished the task in less than a minute. After wishing him a good night, they left.

Hunter snickered. He liked the old man, and the rest of the staff had been nothing but friendly since he'd arrived.

He considered the briefcase again, but he felt that sweet pull to the dream world, tugging at the back of his eyes. Maybe it was best if he just left it and never opened it again.

That night, Hunter dreamt he was running through a dark forest. Beautiful, bioluminescent flowers would captivate him, drawing him close. And always, just before he could reach out and touch them, the ground beneath him would give out, and he would fall.

--- 

"It'll have to do, I guess," Aera sighed as their last session concluded. Hunter heaved in deep breaths, unconcerned with the wheezing, whining sound he made when he breathed it all out. Sweat pulled beneath him as he leaned over, clutching the ends of his shorts just above bony knees.

He'd learned that Aera rarely seemed to listen to him when he spoke. She was always dead-set on her own agenda — namely, making Hunter's life a living hell for the short time they saw each other.

In the final few days of their sessions, he'd learned that it was best to stay quiet and do what he was told to the best of the ability. When she inevitably became disappointed with his progress and expressed that with violent coaching, he did his best to remain conscious and keep his body intact.

He had bruises all over, and he'd felt pain like he'd never felt before, but it was over now.

"You think this is bad?" She asked, somehow knowing exactly what he was thinking, "Barnum will be worse. I've done what I can to prepare you, but you're on your own from now on."

She grabbed her duffel and walked towards the entrance. This time, instead of just leaving, she looked back.

"I don't know what dad was thinking when he brought you in Hunter, but do your best not to make our family look like a joke."

If he expected the words not to sting, he was wrong.

"Will you get over it?" he asked. He regretted it as soon as he said it. Last thing he needed was to turn the disapproving psycho into an angry psycho.

In for a penny, he thought, ready for her to tell him just how little she thinks of him.

But she just glanced at him with the same stoic indifference, and left. Hunter couldn't tell if that was better or worse than a direct response. Maybe the lack of a response was a direct response.

His sigh was loud and tinged with annoyance. He grabbed his bag. Three weeks of recovery had given him enough strength to avoid a significant wobble as he lifted it. What was once a slow shuffle home was now merely a laboured walk.

He'd done it. Trey had been right. He just needed to force himself to get stronger. He could take Aera's punishment longer than he could a few weeks ago, and he was still in one piece. Day after day, she pushed him. She seemed to know exactly when and how to increase his pain.

It's like she had found the perfect balance of punishing him for intruding on her life, and actually helping him. Although, if she was at all pleased with his progress, she had declined to tell him. But Hunter felt that although they never spoke to each other, save for her instructions during the session, he was really getting to know his new 'sister.'

She had pride in spades. She received a job to complete, and she completed it. Hunter was under no illusions about his ability to fight. He was still weak compared to literally anyone else his age, but now he knew that in a controlled setting, he could take a hit.

Barnum would be nothing but controlled settings. He figured that if the rich and powerful were sending their kids away from home, they'd want them to be as safe as possible. So, the academy would take extra precautions to ensure fair sparring. Hunter knew he would never win a fight in his life, but he would do his best to lose with dignity.

Besides, his focus wasn't on earning Excellence in the martial arts. And he would could only do his best to pass the academic courses, which shouldn't be too hard. His teacher had cherry-picked Hunter's coursework—covering only the most important information from each year in a day or two. Hunter had found some subjects fun, especially math. There was a beauty and reliability to the subject — a predictability and completeness that he wasn't able to find in artisanship. The latter craft was far too young compared to math, which had been around for thousands of years.

He considered the progress he made in the last few weeks and decided that he'd earned the right to feel proud of himself.