Ox - Gains

My Dzxoxian.
 
Ox paused in a squat, shaking his head. The voice came, as it always did, out of nowhere, when his mind was free to wander into the doorways of the past. Sweat already covered his massive frame, rippling muscle guiding it into rivulets pouring off him after over three hours of working out - now, the sweat turned to ice and a cold grip seized his heart. That voice - the slow, smoky voice, whiskey and honey. His friend, Dr. Carl, had told him stories of the old world, how there had been tales of creatures whose voice alone would drive sailors mad and lead them to run their boats into the rocks and drown. The second he heard that story, this was the voice that came to mind - a voice he was afraid would haunt him forever.
 
My Dzxoxian.
 
He shook his head again, kicking his legs out behind him, doing a push-up. It had been almost seven years, but it still had the same power it always did, the first time he’d heard it, all those years ago.
 
My Dzxoxian…I need you.
 
He pulled his legs back forward into a squat, jumping up with his arms raised, then falling back down to the squat again to begin the process all over. Exercise sometimes brought her voice back, but it was also what would drive her away again. Push himself hard enough, and the voice would go back behind its door and stop haunting him for a few weeks. He could live his life free of it, free of the icy chill it sent gripping up his spine, free to laugh, and work, and fight, and fuck…he just had to work through it, exhaust himself until the voice went away again.
 
“Gains,” he spat out between gritted teeth…legs kicked out, push-up, legs forward to squat, jump, squat, again, and again, and again. “All about the gains. My body is a fucking temple. A god-damn-fucking monument to the sexiest fucking troll under the god-damn-Light. I’m building something better, stronger. All about the gains,” he said, repeating this chant as he repeated the workout motions. Again. And again. And again.
 
You know what you mean to me…my Brokehorn Dzxoxian. My champion, my strong right hand…my love. I need you, my Dzxoxian.
 
The icy sweat now ran from every pore. “Fuck her,” he growled. “I’m done. Fuck you. I don’t need you, you needed me,” he grunted, his leg wobbling slightly before he growled loudly and forced it back into proper motion. “All about the gains,” he repeated. The voice may have had the same power, but he had power, now, too. It was stronger than the voice. It didn’t need the voice. “All about the gains,” he kept growling. “I know your fucking game. I’m stronger now. Stronger than you. Stronger than all of them. All about those god-damned, motherfucking, fuck-my-ass-in-a-sundress-and-call-me-Susan GAINS.”
 
My beloved…my Dzxoxian. Only you.
 
“All about the gains,” he spat out, pushing himself up, jumping forward to the squat, leaping into the air, again, and again, and again.
 
Only you know me, feel me, understand me like no one else. I love you, my Dzxoxian.
 
“All about the gains.” His arms trembled. He was approaching failure.
 
No one compares to you. I am yours, and you are mine.
 
“The MOTHERFUCKING gains,” he growled. His legs were shaking, his arms, his whole body, now.
 
Forever.
 
“Fuck YOU!!!” he roared, surging to his feet, the adrenaline sweeping away the fatigue. He pivoted to the heavy bag, bellowing like an angry bull. He lashed out with his fists, pummelling the heavily reinforced and triple-anchored bag. He hit it with everything he had, hearing the thud of impact, feeling it run up his hand, his arm, his shoulder, his whole frame.
 
“I am STRONGER now,” he growled. Thud. “I KNOW you now.” Thud. “The REAL you, not the mask.” Thud. “And I…” Thud. “...don’t…” Thud. “...need…” Thud. “...YOU!” Thud. Thud. THUD.
 
His last blow, he groaned, catching the back of the bag. The sweat now ran hot again. The ice was gone, and the voice was silent. He gripped the bag as the adrenaline left, leaving him sagging, clutching the heavy bag like a drowning man on a life preserver.
 
“It’s over,” he groaned. “It’s over. She’s done. She’s gone. She’s out of my life. It’s my life. MY FUCKING LIFE.”
 
He shifted, unsteady on his legs, falling into an ALSO heavily-reinforced chair, breathing hard. He dropped his head between his knees, letting all the trembling, the weakness, pass over him, through him, and out again. He took several deep breaths, let himself let go of everything racing through his body, his mind, his heart.
 
The phone rang. He looked up, groaned, and pulled himself up. He began to walk to the phone, and each step seemed to take him back to himself. His gait steadied, and his shoulders and fists relaxed. The look of exhaustion and slight panic melted away, and by the time he picked up the phone, his eyes danced with life and mischief, and his usual cocky smirk was back. He picked up the corded phone, putting the receiver to his ear.
 
“Lucky you, this is Ox,” he spoke into the phone with easy charm. His eyebrows perked up at the voice on the other end of the line. “Why, Ranger-Captain Sharpbone…” he replied, his voice dropping to a sultry purr. “...what a lovely surprise. Calling for business…or pleasure?” His grin spread wider. “Why, Honey, sweetie, my adorable little-cutie-pie,” he replied, knowing the cutesy nicknames would get under her skin, “...I know such an innocent and tender maiden like yourself could never realize the full depth of the effect you have on poor, simple me, but any business I have with you is ALWAYS a pleasure.”
 
He both winced and grinned at the spirited, and loud, response on the other end of the line. His normal charming tone came easily in response. “Well, sure,” he replied with a chuckle. “We could do that. We could meet at the bar, have a drink or seven, we laugh, we fight, we arm-wrestle, you try to trick me into the Wardens, I try to steal your hat, and we end up hooking up in the bathroom. OR…” he shrugged, the mischief rising in his tone and eyes. “...we could skip to the end. I get a bottle of John David whiskey, you secure our usual spot, and we spend a delightful evening throwing each other around the room. What do you say?” His grin grew wider and more sly. “It IS a deal. Like I said, business with you is ALWAYS a pleasure. Give me about an hour to shower, change, and get out there.” He laughed. “No, this is not ‘good sweat.’ Just wait, or I’m going to stink, AND not have time to grab the drinks.” He paused, laughing at her response. “Can’t wait. See you soon.”
 
He hung up the phone. For a second, his knuckles grew white as the phone receiver creaked, and the humor and mirth drained out of his face, leaving it pinched and wan. But as soon as it drained away, it was back, his humor, his charm back on full display.
 
“All about the gains,” he repeated. There was a hint of urgency, a hint of wheedling, like he was trying to convince someone. Then it was gone. Ox is back and better than ever, he thought to himself. The Brokehorn Dzxoxian is gone.
 
“All about the gains,” he repeated one final time, his tone calm, self-assured, back to his usual irrepressible self. He turned, grabbed his towel and shower kit, and crossed to the door to the fire escape outside, where his open-air roof shower awaited.
 
My Dzxoxian, the voice called one last time.
 
He paused, gritted his teeth, rolled his shoulders. “Not anymore, bitch,” he growled to himself, shutting the door. “Not any-fucking-more.”