((This is one post in a series of threads that will be all connected.))+
The sounds of the station droned on in the background. The thrum of machinery, the clanking of moving parts, a symphony of industry and science and engineering that made this city in the void possible was all omnipresent around the Brutor. He heard none of it. Instead, he focused on the thing infront of him, a large punching bag, heavy with sand and the artificial gravity cranked up just a bit. He had been working the bag for over an hour, the sweat dripping down his body staining the practice mat he stood on. He had been busy the past few months, despite having gone cold. He had practiced combat in many forms before, however he had never truly focused on it. Not anymore. He needed to be prepared.
He had made a gamble, taken a risk, one that not even Kithrus or Graelyn knew about. Cain knew that they would be against it. He stopped and sighed, the weariness visible on his face should any one look. All the implants in the cluster could not hide the strain that his mission was placing on him. Thankfully he was alone. While his body rested, his mind could not.
They had finally found her. Huge sums of money, time, and resources had been spent in getting this far, but any hope of moving forward with the plan all hung within the next few hours. He had burnt bridges, cut deals that sickened him – even now, his neocom information listed an Amarr Alliance as an employer, something that he thought would never happen, yet there it was. He had made himself a pariah to his people, all because his Clan asked him too, because the Clan needed it. It was a choice he knew he would make again.
He tried to quite his mind, to little success. The problem with waiting was that it gave you too much time to think. Right now Cain didn’t want to think, he wanted to act, his bones ached for it, not only to accomplish his mission, but also to let out some of this frustration. Everything could go up in smoke with nothing to show for it. At least with success he could come back to the Republic. With failure… he didn’t know.
The Brutor resumed his training, mixing in punches with kicks, the repeated ‘thump’ of the bag being hit drowning out the sounds of the station. For the next blissful 30 minutes all that occupied Cain’s mind was the next series in the set. Nothing but him and the bag. Meditation through motion.
It wasn’t until after his work out, once showered, that the small communicator flashed:
“Contact made.”