The sun streamed beams of gold through the high wooden windows as fluttering birds chirped outside. A gentle breeze moved through the trees, rustling the thick summer leaves. The smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the crisp mountain air filled each lung with the purest sent.

A beautiful day indeed, Jason thought, but I am inside, training.

Not that he would be outside, mind you; he just did not want to be here.

“Again!” Bernard shouted. The nearly bald hulk of a man towered over Jason. Barely eight, Jason was just taller than the older man’s waist but his trainer teated him like one of his men. Jason glanced up at Bernard. He was not at all deceived by the man’s greying hair, those metal prosthetics placed him on even footing with any man half his age. Making a run for it is useless, Jason thought.

Jason stared at Bernard’s folded mechanical arms. Carbon tubes laced tightly together to form the artificial muscles on Bernard’s Bio-Mech arms. The tubes were more inflated than they needed to be. The size of the tubes gave no functional advantage; it was purely for aesthetics. Mother laughed at the request when Bernard had asked, but she saw no harm in it. I would have to inform her of the negative effects it had on the wearer’s ego. He made a mental note of that; he would write it down later.

“Jason!” Bernard yelled. “Get out of that head of yours, boy, again!”

“How would I do that?” Jason asked honestly. Bernard sighed, throwing his hands into the air.

“Question, question, question… there is always another question with you.” Bernard inhaled sharply.

Jason eyed him. He thought about talking his way out of training today. However, Bernard’s stone-faced glare changed Jason’s mind. He doesn’t seem to be in the talking mood today. Then again, that might just be the man’s face. Jason chuckled.

“Did I give a joke? Again, boy!” Bernard screamed.

“There was absolutely no need to yell Bernard,” Jason said. “I am standing right in front of you.” Bernard took a deep breath and pointed at the pole. Jason reluctantly turned to face the pole. He eyed the wooden pole that stood in the middle of the sparring room. Why couldn’t we have used something soft and fluffy, a mushy pillow maybe? He glanced at the punching bags by the entrance, then eyed the sponge-padded dummies that stood beneath wooden swords and sighed.

He turned to Bernard. “Uhm… Bernard,” he said. The man’s face could make a stone seem lively. Jason ignored the man’s glare and continued. “Maybe we could… try… using the…” He trailed off under the man’s iron stare. The pole it was. This pole––as wide as his waist, solid acacia wood, or is it ironwood––either way, it ran from ceiling to floor, and it was hard, like really, really hard. He might as well be kicking a boulder. Though wrapped with rope––at his mother’s pleading––it was still very hard.

“Again, Jason, or do you want Mr. Metal to teach you?” The wicked smile on Bernard’s face caused unpleasant memories to flash in his mind. So, he turned and kicked the wooden pole, again and again and again.

“I said kick the pole!” Bernard shouted. The older man demonstrated with his metal leg, but that was hardly fair expectation. After all, Bernard could feel nothing in those limbs, unless he wanted to.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Jason said between breaths, not stopping to look at the man.

“That’s a kick?” Bernard chuckled. “More like caressing the pole with your shin.” Bernard barked a laugh, clapping his metallic arms together. “Harder, boy, kick harder,” he said. Jason increased the intensity of his strikes. “With your shin, boy! Your shin!” He could feel the hard, taut rope press into his shin with each agonizing blow. Sweat streamed down his face. Anger raged inside him. Why did I have to do this?

What a glorious day, and I have to be here doing this.

Strike.

Where is John, what was he doing?

Strike.

Not this, that I know for sure.

Strike.

It should be a crime to waste such a beautiful day on training.

Strike.

This would sooner break my leg than strengthen it.

Strike.

“Harder!” Bernard shouted, eyeing his stopwatch. “We need to toughen those legs.” Jason continued. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, his shin throbbed, aflame with pain, his skin all but flayed from its surface.

“A few more seconds,” Bernard said under his breath. He almost sounded disappointed that they would have to stop soon. Finally, the stopwatch beeped—a glorious sound in Jason’s ears. He rested his shin. It had been––

“Did I tell you to stop, boy?” Bernard barked.

Jason spun, confused. “But I heard the––”

“But I heard the––” Bernard mocked, twisting his lips as he repeated Jason’s words. “Keep going!”

Jason twisted. He struck the pole once, then again, and another strike. He continued to kick the pole until each blow left bright red spots on the rope padding. It burned, the sting, a pointed pain as flesh tore from his shin with each strike.

“Now you can stop,” Bernard said, handing him a towel and water bottle. He took a sip and dabbed his face. The hard-faced man’s unreadable smile could mean anything. Jason shook his head. Leg still throbbing, he took a seat on the floor, exhausted.

“It’s getting tougher, isn’t it?” Bernard asked. It was more a statement than a question. He was confident in his training, though Jason only saw torture.

Jason raised an eyebrow at the older man. He pressed his finger to his shin gingerly, feeling the softened area. “Soft as porridge if you ask me,” Jason replied.

Bernard shook his head, smiling. “You squires are so soft these days. Back in my time, we wanted to toughen up. We needed to. The world is too peaceful now.”

“And that’s a bad thing, how?” Jason asked. “Wait, peaceful?”

Bernard eyed the young boy’s leg and patted his lap. “Put it here,” he said, ignoring the questions.

Jason glared at him with a questioning eye. “Don’t glare at me, boy,” Bernard snarled. He clapped a metal hand against his legs again. Jason raised his leg. Bernard examined his shin. “Nice. A few more years and you’ll––”

“Years!” Jason shouted. “I almost have no shin left! Besides, what’s the use of this anyway? I don’t see John doing any of this!” Jason protested.

“Well, John is different,” Bernard said.

“How so?” Jason said, folding his arms.

“I am not responsible for his training,” Bernard replied. The older man flung Jason’s leg off him and rose on firm Bio-Mech legs. They made a smooth screech as gears shifted and belts drew taut. Jason smiled. A work of art.

“Those don’t break,” Jason said, pointing at the Bio-Mech legs.

“That’s right, but those don’t need to be recharged,” Bernard replied, pointing to Jason’s legs. “Melinda made these herself,” the older man knuckled his metal thigh, a dense muffled clink as metal struck metal.

“Why not just give me one of those? Then I won’t have to train to get tough shins.”

Bernard stared at him for a moment, his face expressionless except for a slight tilt of his bushy gray brow, which hinted at confusion. The older man opened his mouth to speak, but a voice called him from outside.

“Bernard,” a deep, heavy voice called.

The older man spun into a stiff-backed salute so rigid he made the pole seem crooked. Bernard’s right hand snapped to heart in one swift motion. He almost slapped the breath out of himself with that metal fist. The man sometimes forgot that he wasn’t all metal. “Yes, General!” Bernard grunted.