The sun's rays burnt like hell.
They bled across the horizon, painting the pale, endless sky in strokes of violent orange and bruised purple.
I had already lost my sense of positioning; the direction of the town was far and gone from my mind. I only knew that the in-game clock ran four times faster than the real world, a cruel feature that made a single hour from my own precious time quadruple in sum here. 4 hours of this. Just this.
Drawing. Circles. In the sand.
A bitter memory, sharp and unwelcome, surfaced. It was only ten minutes after he(Godspeed) had left me the first time. I was standing perfectly still, my hand hovering over the UI, my thumb ready to mash the 'Log Out' button. I'd scraped ten, maybe twelve, lopsided ovals into the dirt in the first two minutes, called it a day, and was preparing to abandon the whole charade. That's when he'd returned, a quizzical, almost disappointed look on his face as he surveyed my pathetic 'progress.'
He hadn't berated me, thank gawd. No, Godspeed just looked at the pathetic excuses for circles and then at me.
"--When I called on you to make circles, I meant actual perfect, circular circles," he had clarified calmly.
"So you're telling me this ain't enough?" I'd shot back.
He gave a small shake of his head. "Not really…. Not at all."
He'd then picked up the bo staff(drawing tool) from where I'd dropped it. "Watch," he'd said.
And I kid you not—that man drew a PERFECT circle.
And I mean Perfect.
With a single, fluid motion of his right arm, he traced a three-foot-diameter ring into the sand. The pace never faltered, the line never wavered. Then, he tossed the staff to his left hand and, just as effortlessly, drew another, IDENTICAL circle that kissed the edge of the first. He finished by poking two dots into the centers and scraping a curved line beneath them.
A gosh-damn smiley face.
'REALLY?' my mind screamed. 'Is this immaturity supposed to make me concentrate?'
He'd pointed at his childish masterpiece. "Let this be your guide. This is what I want to be seeing."
"Uggghhh…Fine. Whatever," I'd scoffed, snatching the staff back from him. "Doesn't look like it'll take that long."
Famous last words from a dumbass.
Now, in the fading light of this terrible day, I was drenched. A sheen of virtual sweat I didn't know my avatar could produce plastered my hair to my scalp. My chest heaved with ragged, panting breaths. I was mad. Filled with pure, undiluted frustration. Why was a simple task that seemed so simple turn out so effi-ing hard? Why did I even need to complete it? And why, for the love of all that was holy, was I so SO DAMN STICKY???
And it weirdly hurt.
I could feel a phantom pain deep in my avatar's joints. My own virtual body was betraying me, and the actual absurdity of it made me want to scream. Or laugh. Either or. But even then, through that sweat and the aching, I did it. With a guttural snarl, I picked up that damn bo staff once more and kept going. If I was one thing, it was tenacious. Even if that tenacity was just being hard-headed AF.
I don't know how much longer I was at it before I heard it. A single, sharp clap.
My head snapped up.
There, sitting cross-legged atop a nearby dune, was Godspeed, watching me. He rose, shaking the sand from his hands, and walked down the dune.
"Well," he began, his tone infuriatingly neutral. "So far, none of these are perfect circles."
Nope. Nuh-uh.
That was it for Me.
"AGH!"
With a shriek, I spun and hurled the bo staff directly at his face. He caught it of course, with one hand, his movements casual and completely unimpressed.
"I'm fucking done," I spat. My hands flew to the sides of my head, fumbling with the clasps of my helmet. With the snap of its release, I tore it from my head and dropped it into the sand. I shook my head violently, sending a spray of sweat flying. A tangled mess of pink and purple hair fell across my forehead.
"I'm gone," I growled, more to myself than to him. "I'm logging out. This shit is not IT!"
He stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "So you're going to leave like that? We've barely even started."
"Of course I'm fucking finished!" I shrieked. "You think I'm really going to sit around here drawing circles in the damn sand like a kindergartener?! Gawd, dude, what is your problem?"
"That's not the goal of this though… or my intention," he said softly with the confused look of a puppy dog.
"I don't care what your intention is!" The words ripped out of me harsh and punchy, my hands gesturing wildly. "Right now, the outcome is what I'm hating! I'm hating on you, I'm hating on all of this!"
In that moment, a horrifying image flashed in my mind: Mr. Henderson, his voice cracking with rage. Carol and Brenda, spitting venom in the breakroom. The woman in the coffee shop. I was acting just like them. I was the ingrate on the other end of the line, straining my own nerves, pulling at the last frayed threads of my own patience.
Godspeed's voice, completely devoid of the anger I was daring him to return at me, cut through my fieriness. "--The reason I'm asking is if you're leaving, is because… working on general coordination is always the most difficult, and of course—TEDIOUS, part of any training. Which is why I think that's the first thing we should start off with before you get into any type of fighting technique—it's best to work on and get PAST the annoying and difficult first, so we can have a strong base for what comes after."
"..."
'...Damn. I want to hate him even more for making sense.'
The logic of it splashed like cold water on my body. It was utterly… uhh... shocking.
In how much of a dunce I was being.
And how I was acting.
He had a point. I couldn't hold his gaze anymore. My eyes darted to the side, and I took a half-step back, my body slumping. A long, shuddering huff of air escaped my lips as I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, pouting.
"...Okay," I muttered, the words so quiet I could barely hear them myself. "That makes a little sense."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He held the bo staff out to me. "I am sorry for the outburst," I said formally. "I just, you know—"
He cut me off with a gentle shake of his head. "It happens... guy." He paused, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Or, gal?"
Ah.
'… Of course. Well, he had to find out eventually. My voice isn't exactly high-pitched or anything normally, so I get why it took a while.'
*Bump*
My foot bumped into something. Looking down, it was… oh yeah. I threw my helmet… down…
'Oh. Yeah.'
My face suddenly burned. "W-waoo-oow~~," the word came out elongated, as I was suddenly very, very, self-conscious; randomly, I started to rub my cheeks as if I were trying to rub the onset of nerves out of my body.
My hands dropped to my side. I felt embarrassed. Imagine throwing a tantrum thinking you're anonymous, until you're, like… not.
"Yeaah, dude. I am a… woman. '--Wow, cool, look at that; there's nothing like it--'," I mimicked a fake voice, the sarcasm dripping(with jazz hands and all).
'Really hope he won't be weird knowing this.'
"Haha… Well then," he chuckled cordially, tossing the staff in a lazy underhand arc. "I can't say I've trained a lady before. Or really, anyone."
"Yeah, I can tell," I mumbled, hiding my face behind my gauntlet. His eyebrow rose, but he didn't call me out on it.
"Still… I don't see you drawing any circles?"
"...Ugh."
"--Wrong," he said, the moment I began a new attempt. "And, DON'T… get frustrated at me. Please, and thank you."
"Say that again," I hissed, "and I WILL start to scream."
A genuine, toothy smile broke across his face. "Sorry. Your reactions are just too—Well, anyways; let me actually explain: you're using both of your hands. But you are obviously right-handed. Let's focus on that first."
I tried again, shifting my stance.
"Wrong. Get back into your original stance. Wide, knees bent. Engage those leg muscles." I reset, preparing again.
"Wrong. Lock out your arm." He stepped in beside me, using his own arm to demonstrate. "Your arm should be a single, solid piece. The movement comes from one place." He tapped his wrist, then his elbow. "Don't move this. Keep this locked." Finally, he tapped his own shoulder. "This is the key. Your pivot joint."
With a single, fluid rotation of his shoulder, he drew another flawless circle. "Now, you."
I took a deep breath, and tried again. Stiff. Unnatural. But the line was cleaner. I reached the awkward part of the arc and my arm instinctively tried to slow down.
"Don't slow down," he cut in. "Keep it consistent. Slowing down is what's making it worse."
I stopped, scratched out the wobbly oval, and began again.
'Shoulder only.'
And what followed was one, semi-smooth rotation.
Like yeah, It wasn't perfect. A small divot marred the top left—I'll put the blame on a hard clump of sand in the area—BUT. It was, undeniably, a circle. My first ok circle. And it gifted me a wave of satisfaction, washing over me.
"--Wrong again."
His words continued to break my small moments of triumph.
… And so, it continued. Time blurred. The sun vanished completely, replaced by the pale, ethereal light of the twin moons hanging high in the inky black sky. My failures became less frequent. One good circle every ten tries-or-so became one every eight. Six. Five. Three.
Then, he stopped me. "With the staff," he said, holding up a single finger. "Follow my finger."
I mirrored him. His finger became a blur of motion—jagged crosses, sharp slashes, chaotic waves. I stayed with him, my arm now zipping and sliding in tandem with my absolute focus.
"Not too shabby," he said finally, a note of genuine approval in his voice. "It shows just how much more control you have now."
I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile. "So," I said, a new determination solidifying in my gut, "Now that that's that—what's next?"
"...Go get some rest."
I blinked. "Huh? What are you talking about? I've been drawing circles for hours. I really haven't done anything aside from scribbling."
"Okay… Why don't you try making circles with your left hand?" he suggested, already turning to leave.
"...Reeaaallly?" I whined, but he was already waving without looking back.
I rolled my eyes, scooping my helmet out of the sand and snapping it back on. When I looked up, he was already a hundred feet away, a dwindling silhouette. I'd completely forgotten I didn't know the way back.
"Hey!" I yelled, already hustling to catch up, the metal plates of my armor clanking with every frantic step. "Wait! You're going to the town, right?!"
A soft click echoed in the silence of my bedroom. My hands found the release clasps, and the weight of the headset lifted. Cool, stale air washed over my sweat-damp skin. I rubbed at my eyes, a dull ache throbbing behind them from hours of staring at pixels. A familiar, heavy tightness was already settling over my shoulders, the now-common exhaustion of returning to a world I wanted no part of.
The glowing numbers on my alarm clock read 12:15 AM. A low rumble in my stomach reminded me that I'd skipped dinner entirely. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and found my phone, my thumb already hovering over the food delivery apps.
'No.'
The thought was sharp, a rebellion against my own well-worn path of least resistance. Part of this whole… thing… was to be better. To do better. For me.
And that meant not ordering greasy takeout at midnight.
I shuffled to the kitchen, its quiet neglect a perfect mirror of my own. I pulled open the fridge door, the little light flickering on to reveal a graveyard of good intentions. A couple of carrots that had long since given up on being crisp. A half-onion, mummified in its own skin. And there, in the back, a sad, plastic coffin of pre-packaged grocery store sushi. Sushi of questionable integrity, probably purchased on a day I'd convinced myself I was going to be healthy.
It was either this or an attempt to cook the fossilized remains of my vegetable drawer. The choice was obvious. I grabbed the sushi, sat down at my small table, and picked at the gummy rice and bland fish. It was a pathetic meal, a joyless act of refueling.
As I ate, my right shoulder ached—like a pain my brain was tricking me with, threatening me with the idea of it becoming tangible. Like a physical reminder of the hundreds, maybe thousands of circles I had drawn. It wasn't like the exhaustion from my job, though; the kind that left me feeling hollowed out and empty. It felt more like an ache of effort. The burn of trying.
For the first time in a long, long time, it felt like improvement.
'But still…' I picked at the grocery store sushi with a fork—uncultured, I knowwww—before stuffing it in my mouth.
Midway through a particularly gummy bite, I spoke aloud to the empty room.
"Wow, this shit sucks."
But I kept eating, only to stop promptly. My phone buzzed. I glanced at the calendar. Saturday. Saturday. Yesterday was the last day of the work week. Relief doused all over me. I pumped both fists in the air. "Yes!"
The weekend was mine.
I flopped onto my little couch, appreciative for the first time that I'd actually cleaned it. No crumbs. No week-old food particles on the floor. It was livable. I flicked on the TV to some trashy drama and settled in, idly scratching at my stomach with my left hand. After twenty minutes of watching manufactured crises unfold on screen, I realized something.
My right index finger was absentmindedly tracing a perfect circle on my knee.
The motion was still there, a ghost in my muscles. A desire to get it right. It hadn't left me, even after the high of that first small success.
An idea sparked. I went to the cabinet where I kept a stack of blank copy paper that I sometimes swiped from work, grabbed a pencil, and sat back down at the coffee table. Could I do it here?
I tried. The first attempt was ugly. My wrist, elbow, and shoulder were all working at different angles. I sighed, the fragile drive from a moment ago already starting to wither. But then I remembered. I stood up, pushed the paper against the wall, held it in place with my left hand, and straightened my right arm, just as he'd shown me. Shoulder-only.
The result was much, much neater. A sly little grin touched my lips.
Dozens of circles filled the page, varying in size, all traced with a new, focused intent. Then dozens more on another sheet. Girl, what a waste of paper.
1:00 AM arrived not long after. I stretched, my back popping in protest. Time for a bath. Mellow out. Get all that ugly, angry energy out of my body. But as I stood up, that little itch returned, a nagging feeling in the back of my head. I looked at my left hand, then back at the pencil.
Can't hurt too much to try.
I picked up the pencil in my non-dominant hand, pressed it to a clean sheet of paper, and began to draw, locking out the joints, pivoting from the shoulder. The resulting circle was ugly, a lopsided, pathetic thing. Of course it was. It was my left hand.
But I smiled.
"Again~"