Beating it up (Beanie)

Son of Nyx

Punch. Punch. Roundhouse punch. Uppercut. Braeden attacked the dummy furiously as if it had done something to offend him. Punch. Uppercut. Punch. Roundhouse. His bronze knuckles shimmered in the daylight, as they left marks in the dummy's body. Braeden sighed and decided to take five. He unstrapped his knuckles and dropped them to the ground. They were like boxing gloves, except solid and heavy, and were beautifully carved to look like real fists. Braeden always preferred to use his fists in battle. They were the only truly reliable weapon, he would always say. He took a sip from his mineral water battle. A bead of sweat trickled from his forehead down to his chin. Lately, memories of the past were coming back to haunt him, and he didn't like it. They frustrated him, they angered him. He hated his mother for leaving his father to die, he hated his father for leaving him alone, he hated everything. What am I thinking? he thought to himself. He tried to snap out of it, but the anger made him strap on his knuckles and resume beating up the dummy. This was so unlike him. He was usually able to control his emotions. Braeden stepped back a few paces, getting ready to pound the dummy. He ran towards it, and at the last moment, jumped into the air and pounded the thing's head in.

Braeden sighed. He went back to where his water bottle was and sat down. He unstrapped his knuckles and rubbed his temples. Why was he so angry? The past was nothing to mull over. He tried to calm himself down, but he couldn't. There was something else agitating him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The dummy before him looked beaten to a pulp. Its head had a big hole in it because of the move Braeden had just pulled. He couldn't help thinking that they needed stronger dummies around here. For the next round with his fake foe, Braeden decided he'd go without his gloves. After about half an hour of punching with 7-pound boxing gloves, Braeden's regular punches were lightning fast. Jab, jab, punch. Uppercut, roundhouse, uppercut. Jab, uppercut, punch. He tried out all sorts of techniques with lightning speed and reflexes. After a while, he grew bored of simply punching the dummy. He found that what he needed was a real opponent. Most people around here used swords, though, so Braeden had trained himself to defend against them using his knuckles. It required a lot of extra precision and prediction, but eventually, Braeden was even able to beat the swordsman at his own game using just his fists.

Braeden sat down panting, and took a sip from his bottle. His brain kept searching his memories, and eventually he found one that should have made him happy. He was nine years old in Paris, France. He was simply staring up at the night sky, probably during one of his nightly escapades. From where he sat, he was sure he could see a face in the stars. It was no constellation he had ever heard of. The face smiled at him. He knew now that it must have been his mother. The memory should have made him glad, but instead, a wave of anger washed over him. He picked up one of his knuckles and hastily strapped it to his hand. He charged at the busted dummy. "Ragh!" he growled, as he punched the dummy in its chest. The blow was so hard that the thing came tumbling down. Braeden snapped out of his anger and looked at what he'd done. The anger was far beyond anything he'd felt for the past 10 months. What was going on with him?