“You’re late,” Brad Jonz barked as I walked into the gym. My father was taller than me. His short grey hair was always freshly trimmed. He was in the same shape as me or any of the young, athletic recruits. The only time I saw him out of uniform was in the gym; and he was still in the official military sweats..
“Sorry Dad,” I sighed. “I need to rest some time, you know.’
“That’s enough soldier, I don’t want excuses.”
Compared to the densely packed city streets that I patrolled above, the gym was huge and open--especially when I trained alone with my dad. It could hold hundreds of soldiers and they'd still have room to work out. The ceiling was three stories high and it stretched across a hundred metres each way--my dad's voice would resonate throughout the large empty gym as he barked out orders:
“When you come here, you come with a military attitude. I want to see some sharpness in your senses. I want you to be ready for the challenge.” His conditioned physique flexed as he made his point. “Discipline is the key. Do you think terrorists are going to care if you’re tired in a battle? You have to keep these signs of weakness out of your mind. Look at your physique, it is perfect. You are a fighting machine soldier, but you need to condition your mind.”
He made a slow, deliberate motion of pointing his finger forcefully towards his head. “That is what you have to work on. Now let’s warm up. Ten minutes of light running and then we stretch.” He slapped his hand on the running machine beside him. I looked in his hard, steel blue eyes. His uncompromising gaze stared right through me. I jumped on the running machine and heightened the preset pace which my father had programmed. He laid out a satisfied guffaw and put his hands on his side. I glanced sideways and saw his look soften.