When he was mad, he ran. When he was sad, he ran. When he was frustrated, looking to take it out on something, looking for something to go right ââ he ran. He wasnât any sort of a prodigy ââ no, apparently that title literally went to one of the others here ââ but it calmed him. Pounding his feet on the pavement, on the treadmill, on whatever surface he was using to get out his energy this time; it was a rhythmic, soothing pattern that helped take his mind off whatever was bothering him and turn it to aching and burning sensations running up and down his legs.
Today was no different; that is to say, today he had a reason to run. Heâd failed an exercise the day before, something he could probably have done in his sleep had he still remembered everything, and had wound up with bruises and nothing to show for them. He shouldâve been fine, shouldnât have failed like he did, and it burned in his chest. He was supposed to be the best one here; he had the qualifications for it, buried deep in his subconscious, locked away. But his brain didnât see fit to cut him some slack, and so he failed.
Danny had one job here, and that was to get better. If he spent his time here failing, on the bottom of the pack, barely scraping by, he wouldnât be doing himself any favors in trying to get out of there. If he was stuck there? If he flunked out? It wouldâve all been for nothing. His memory loss, the hard work, Logan and Alex ââ that was what really hurt. The thought that his two closest people, the two people he could barely remember, the people who sacrificed their lives and memories for their mission, would have lost everything for nothing ââ that, to him, was the most unforgivable part of it.
So he was pissed. At his brain, at his body, at himself ââ he was furious at just about everything he could be mad at. Pounding on the treadmill, he ran as fast as he could for as long as he could before he felt like his lungs would give out. His legs burned, he could barely breathe, and he still couldnât get his mind off of it. It was playing in his head over and over again, like a loop. Not good enough. They died for you, and youâre not good enough. All it did was make him madder. So he stopped the treadmill and sat on the bench behind him, the one meant for using with free weights, wiping his sweat off his brow and catching his breath before someone called out to him. He fought the urge to bark back, to turn them away, when he realized they were only asking for a spotter. Danny could do that. Ignore the weight on his chest and focus on the weight in his ââ or in Lucaâs, for that matter ââ hands. So he picked himself up and nodded, walking over to the other boy and standing in front of him. âWhere do you need me?â
He knew what anger looked like. He knew what it sounded like. He knew the forms it took, and the vitriol it spilled upon the human body, like gasoline on a pile of matches just waiting to be lit. Heâd never let himself light the match that hovered beneath his own ribcage, for Luca had found that it was easier to keep it dry than let it be doused - but he knew what it looked like when the gasoline never stopped flowing. A number of men in his squadron had run to evade the flame, to keep it manageable rather than letting it burn out of control; perhaps this was why Luca had called out, why heâd deigned to stop the man who ran in angry circles about the gym. His anger reeked of familiarity, and he was nothing if not weak to the smell of nostalgia.Â
Or perhaps he was simply succumbing to his own private bitterness; he felt it whenever he saw the other initiates on their morning runs. It felt good, sometimes, to do so; it was the only moment of negativity that Luca allowed himself, this momentary bitter spell, which gripped him in total silence and total secrecy. It was not something he wished to share, for he felt quite guilty at possessing it in the first place. But it crept upon him, sometimes. And it was most often followed by a healthy feeling of guilt.Â
But, nevertheless, heâd stopped him from running. As the other stopped, turned, and accepted his request, Luca felt an acute sense of relief wash upon him. A guilty sort of relief, that heâd readily forget shortly thereafter; it was rare that he would actively try to even the playing field, for his disability was not something he saw as such more often than not. But watching the other initiate run - it was the sort of thing that would easily make him match his visible, tangible anger.Â
âThanks, man,â good-natured in voice, despite the strange dichotomy beneath the surface, Luca swung his leg over the bench and sat, giving his newfound partner a half-smile and a nod, for it was never too early in the morning for friendliness, âSorry to stop you - looked like you were running pretty hard there. If you could just -â he nodded back to the barbell, lying in wait at the end of the bench, already laden with more weight than he was certain he could do alone, â- make sure I donât get crushed, thatâd be swell.â He offered his partner a half-smile, as if he knew that the instruction went without question; Luca leaned back upon the bench, settling himself beneath the bar. Strong hands wrapped about the cool metal, and he gave the begrudging face above him another raised-brow grin.Â
âLooked like you were running from something,â he observed absently, half-joking, half not, âSomething chasing you back there?â
