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Cptn Corizon


Sweat rolled down his back, and his silver hair matted against his skin. The gym was fairly busy and the smell of hot bodies filled his nostrils and his heart pounded in his chest as his cross-training program continued to run.


Working out was the only sensible solution for the frustrations building in his brain. His body, however, was in full protest at what was now a two-hour workout session.


The terrain changed slightly beneath him and he willed his legs to work harder. They responded in protestation with a burning akin to acid being dumped on soft, milky skin. He pressed harder in spite. Finally, they responded, but only grudgingly.


His heart pounded and his mind focused not on the problems of command, politics and the universe, but simply on surviving the hell its owner was putting it through. It didn’t like it either.


The terrain changed again. A steep grade rose on the cross trainer, and even the nimble Dameon took a few moments to adjust to keep from falling. His brain screamed as the workload increased -- who hell programmed in a climb up Mountain Selya!


The burning sensation in his legs had now been joined by a similar, though more acute, pain in his lungs as blood vessels ruptured under the strain and his nervous system cried out in organized panic.


Blood rushed through his blood vessels at a frantic pace, desperately trying to feed oxygenated blood to the muscle cells that were working overtime.


Corizon pushed on, willing his legs even harder. They screamed again in protest and felt heavy as lead. Yet they obeyed. They had little choice other than to do as they were commanded. They were but tools in a larger system, and should they stop… the whole system would break down. If the legs stopped, would not the heart?


The heat was getting to him and the form-fitting, sleeveless, gray work out tunic was shortly lying near the cross trainer, discarded. The lithe, smooth muscles of his chest and abdomen glistened under the lights. The dorsal muscles of his back gleamed as the tightened under the stress.


For an ancient commander, one of the young ensigns doing his PT thought to himself, Corizon was in awfully good shape.


The cross trainer finally halted the brutal assault upon his body and his muscles gave a relaxing cry, though they were going to protest any further movement for the remainder of the day and maybe week if he wasn’t good to them. His brain, though tired, was just glad it didn’t have to consider any further matters of deep philosophy for the rest of the day as the agenda for the rest of the evening appeared to be a shower, dinner and bed.

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