for r

[marcato]

In the days before the 7th arena, Aunamee pounded on blue foam dummies with gauze-wrapped hands. It reminded him of his childhood, in many ways. Before he awoke to spectacular powers, before the Insight, he had trained on rubber busts that swung from the ceiling like hanged men. Every rebound of those fake bodies had been unpredictable, every sway unaccounted for. Each blow had cracked across his own knuckles, spindling pain up to his elbows and shoulders. It had always made him angry then -- shouldn't the aggressor feel no pain? shouldn't he able to win entirely? completely? -- and it made him angry now.

With Aunamee's next punch, the dummy bounced off the wall behind it with a sickening thud.