The Infinite Climb
The Golden Army Gym was nearly empty at 06:00, the high-intensity LED rafters dimmed to a low, predatory amber. I didn't need the crowd. I didn't need the lights. I just needed the rhythm.
I was locked into the Stair Master, the machine’s heavy, metallic whirring acting as a percussion track to the "Big Dumb Jock" loop pulsing through my Air Pods. Step. Climb. Obey. Repeat. The binaural beats was tuned to my heart rate, a thick, visceral thud that pushed every thought of strategy or stress out of my skull. My mind was a shimmering, golden blank, exactly how Coach wants it when I train.
I was wearing my skin-tight black and gold spandex compression shorts, the fabric shimmering with every massive extension of my quads. My shirt was a loose-fitting, black stringer-style bodybuilding top, the deep-cut sides showing the rhythmic flare of my lats. In the center, the number 58 stood out in bold, reflective gold.
My phone was strapped to my bicep, its screen glowing with the waveform of the hypno-track. My gold and black trainers hit the rotating steps with a heavy, consistent thud-thud-thud.
The game against the Crimson Frost Giants felt like an inevitability, not a challenge. I could see the sweat dripping from my jaw, landing on the black fabric of my stringer before soaking in. Every drop was a distraction purged.
I wasn't Wells the person anymore. I was Wells the Wall.
My quads burned, the lactic acid screaming for me to slow down, but the voice in my ears just surged. “Don't think, 58. Just be the engine. The machine doesn’t tire. The machine only climbs.” I increased the resistance. My vision began to glaze, the "jock fog" settling in behind my eyes until the only thing that existed was the amber light on the gym floor and the next step. I was building the stamina to outlast a Giant, one rhythmic, mindless climb at a time.
When the timer finally hit zero, I didn't stop because I was tired. I stopped because the program was complete. I stood at the top of the machine for a long beat, my chest heaving, my mind blissfully empty, ready to be filled with the next command.
The Giants aren't coming to play a game. They're coming to hit a machine. And the machine is ready.
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