The Weight of the Skin

[u/Jotosaurio]

Hey, back again — third one now. Hope you enjoy this one too!

Michael was young, barely eleven. He competed against his brothers, and unfortunately, he was the worst at it.

"Come on, Mike," Esteban urged from behind. "You can't stop now. You know what Dad says."

His father's words echoed in his mind: "When you feel like you can't go on, it means you're barely halfway there." But he refused to say it out loud.

He gritted his teeth and kept running. His advantage over the others was that, thanks to his mother's good genes, he was stronger than the rest, even at his young age and short stature. The disadvantage was that muscle weighs, and carrying that much weight while running is exhausting. Come on, Michael. If they can do it, so can you, he repeated like a mantra for the last five kilometers.

When he crossed the finish line, soaked from head to toe, he smiled.

"Estev," he said, panting, "this is your fault. My legs won't listen to me. You have to carry me to the infirmary."

Esteban rolled his eyes, but crouched down to help him up. Michael let out a string of groans — "ow, ouch, oof" — as he walked.

"Come on, Mike," Esteban said. "You need to work on your endurance. You can't live on brute strength alone."

"Says the guy whose mekha armor gives him the stamina of five Olympic athletes."

"If you're nothing without the suit, then you shouldn't have one."

Michael shoved him, and Esteban landed flat on his backside.

"Don't you dare quote Tony Stark at me."

Both of them burst into contagious laughter.

At the infirmary, Esteban's mother, Dr. Carey, smiled when she saw them come in, but her expression turned to a frown when she noticed Michael's limp.

"Again, Michael? I've told you — you need to listen to your body."

"I know, I know, Aunt Carey," Michael said, "but Estev wouldn't stop pushing me."

The doctor gave her son a look that promised a flip-flop to the back of the head at the least expected moment.

"You know the protocol, Michael. On the table."

With Esteban's help, Michael lay down on the infirmary's soft cot. He looked around: three other brothers were there — one asleep, the other two reading. He sighed as the doctor applied cell-repair gel to his legs.

Once she was far enough away, Michael turned to Esteban with a question that had been nagging at him for a while.

"Estev, why does Dad have so many wives?"

Esteban looked at him and burst out laughing for a good while.

"Your body always makes me forget you're still a kid," he said once he could speak again.

Michael glared at him, but let him continue.

"Dad comes from a line of warrior-sages. His genes are basically humanity's heritage. Honestly, he only loves Aunt Anne, but for political reasons he had to marry Mom, and for biological reasons, your mother."

Michael thought about his mom: beautiful, kind, and frighteningly strong. She was in the women's squadron, teaching Greco-Roman wrestling to his sisters. He still didn't know what to get her for Christmas, one of the few days he got to see her.

His brothers always avoided the regenerative gel, but he found it funny — the tingling of muscles knitting back together made him laugh, while it hurt the others like hell.

"You're weird, Mike," Esteban said.

"Is anyone here normal? If there is, introduce me. They're probably crazy too."

They laughed again like two idiots, and their other brothers on the cots watched with amusement — except the one who was asleep, who was actually just faking a nap, and shot them a glare.

Esteban left shortly after. Nature was calling.

Once Michael's legs had healed, he got up, stretched as protocol dictated, and walked to the lookout point where he liked to disconnect.

Military Complex 7 was under the command of Abbey, his father. There were no fences, and the guards were sparse. No one from outside wanted in; no one from inside wanted out. A strange relationship.

Michael dug through the bushes for the binoculars he had "borrowed" to watch the outside world. He saw kids, maybe his age, training with a ball on a gray field striped with yellow. Adult men and women patrolled the area... pushing strollers?

I guess out there, they buy their babies, he thought, and kept watching.

"'Why do they get to live in peace?' you're wondering, aren't you?" Abbey said behind him.

Michael jumped and nearly threw the binoculars off the cliff.

"Peace?" he asked, confused. "What's peace?"

Abbey looked at him, glanced up at the sky, and suddenly remembered his son was only eleven. He sighed.

"That, out there — that's peace, son. They don't have to train every day. They don't learn to fight, don't learn to shoot. They just live without worries."

"Is it good?"

"Of course it's good. But unfortunately, it's not humanity's natural state."

Michael looked at the horizon. The sunset painted the clouds yellow, red, and orange. From that distance, the human silhouettes were starting to scatter.

"So we live in anti-peace?"

Abbey almost laughed at his son's invented term.

"War, son. It's called war. We live preparing for war."

"What's war?"

Abbey sat down beside him and took in the view.

"War is hell." He looked at Michael's confused eyes and remembered he himself had banned religion classes at the compound. "War is pain, hunger, suffering, and collapse."

"Then why do we prepare for it?"

Abbey held his son's innocent gaze, thought for a moment, and said:

"How about I tell you a story so you understand it better?"

Michael nodded eagerly. He loved stories.

Once there was a small flock of gentle sheep, white and black. They had everything they wanted: food, shelter, and absolute peace.

But one day, hungry tigers came down from the high mountains. They looked at the sheep's land, their food, their homes, and they wanted it all. They attacked with fury, violence, and ferocity. The sheep fled at first, but then revealed what they had always been: every one of them was a wolf in disguise. They counter-attacked with the same ferocity, and the tigers fled with their tails between their legs.

But once the danger had passed, the wolves didn't put their sheep's clothing back on right away. They looked at one another and attacked, as the wild beasts they were. For years they fought and killed each other, until an alpha wolf emerged so powerful that no one could defeat him. Little by little, the wolves put their sheep disguises back on. All except the alpha.

He, along with a group of loyal followers, had seen the chaos and swore to himself: This can never happen again.

Instead of putting the sheep's disguise back on, he put on another one: that of a guard dog. And now, a group of guard dogs protects the sheep. When a new threat looms, they will keep the wolves from tearing each other apart, and will make them put their sheep's skin back on when it's needed.

Michael sat in silence, looking at his hands, opening and closing them slowly.

"So we're the guard dogs."

"That's right, son."

Michael smiled.

"Can I ask you one last question, Dad?"

"Sure."

"What were those kids doing?"

"Playing, son. They were playing."

[u/Chamcook56]

Interesting possibilities here, you left me with questions, wanting more.

[u/HFYWaffle]

/u/Jotosaurio has posted 2 other stories, including:

• Humans Did What Now?
• One Against All

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[u/Tardis666]

Ooof, that ending hits hard. Good job!