Spoilers: None
Content Rating: PG
Type: Other
Characters: John and Kyle Braddock
Summary: This isn't strictly a fan-fic, well it's not one at all, it's just a short story I wrote. Byron told me to post it though, so here it is. Hope you enjoy it.

John Braddock is, in the eyes of his Father, nothing more than a maggot. Until he stands up for himself.

Content Warning: Contains mild swearing, and descriptions of degradation and violence.
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Rain soaked mud squelching under the sole of his heavy leather boots, John Braddock pushed himself harder, increasing his pace so that he was running harder than he'd ever run before. Nothing less would be accepted. Hurtling across the open field as fast as he could, he felt his muscles burning. The were as hot as a pair of blast furnaces and not even the driving rain or the gale force winds could cool them down.

I'm nearly there, he thought, allowing himself the shortest of split seconds to concentrate on anything other than putting one leg in front of the other as fast as he could. Even this was too long a time as coming up to the fence, which signified the end of his run, John jumped, putting all of his remaining strength into clearing the fence, a solidly built piece of construction that he'd built himself. As his toes clipped the fence John knew his remaining strength wasn't enough. Pivoting around the fence at a speed John couldn't fathom, the forward momentum he'd gathered turned into downward momentum, resulting in his face slamming into the muddy puddle on the other side of the fence. As he hit the floor his nose smashed and his eyes were blinded by a combination of muddy water and exquisite pain.

Piercing the wall of pain that blocked everything else out was a laugh. A deep, baritone laugh that sent ripples through the puddles and a spike of anger through John's pain. Then came the worlds that John Braddock would always associate with one man and one man only.

"On your feet maggot!" shouted his Father.

Most children's first words are normally 'Mum', 'Dad' or the name of a pet, anything familiar. John's first word was 'maggot'. This was the utter contempt with which Kyle Braddock, ex-military commander, father of one, treated his only child. As a maggot.

"I said, ON YOUR FEET MAGGOT!" came the voice again, angry this time. Kyle Braddock despised three things: weakness, disobedience and disrespect. By not getting up the first time he was told to, John had demonstrated all three and Kyle was now seething with anger, so much so that the veins in his vast musculature were popping out like boulders dotted on a mountain range.

No amount of anger was going to make John get up though. His shattered nose was pouring blood into the puddle, making it shimmer silver in the moonlight. His muscles still burned from the running and yet he was now freezing cold as the rain spilled from the sky, drenching the training uniform his Father had made him hand craft. Underneath all this his own anger simmered, feeding on the pain like a parasite. Powerless to act on it though, he groaned as his Father picked him up by the neck with one hand. The grip of that hand was so tight it made him wince. His Father's hand was an iron vice and he was brittle metal that would break is squeezed too tight.

Planting John down on his feet Kyle releasing his grip on the young mans neck and took a step back. Looking his son up and down he finally looked him in the eyes. And spat on his boots.

"What was that?" came the question.

"What was what?" the reply, mumbled out with a mouthful of blood. Seeing his Father clench his fist, John quickly added "Sir!"

"What was that pathetic attempt at a run, maggot?"

"It was the best I could do, sir. By the time I'd finished the run I didn't have the strength to make the jump, sir!"

John was shaking now from a combination of pain, fear and anger. This was the third time in a week he'd been made to do this run and he'd done it faster every time. If only he'd made the jump.

"The best you could do? Well then the best you can do is pretty shitty, isn't it maggot?"

"Sir, no sir!"

"I was going runs like this minutes faster than that when I was years younger than you, maggot and I made the jump every time. How do you explain that?"

"I'm not you," replied John, leaving the sir off deliberately now as his anger grew.

"No, you damn well are not and you never will be, maggot. I don't know how I ever produced a maggot like you." The loathing was clear in Kyle's voice, as plain as the way it was plastered in the expression on his face.

"Good job I've got my Mother's genes too then," replied John, hate pumping through his veins now.

At this Kyle looked down at the floor, as if pondering John's words. Then before he could move, one of the massive vice-like fists crashed into John's chest, sending him sprawling into the fence.

"I told you never to speak of your Mother."

Slowly, John climbed to his feet, cringing as pain now flowed through his chest, little rivulets of it shooting off in all directions. The hate for his Father powered him now, made him rise to his full height, taking an aggressive stand, ignoring the pain.

"You told me a lot of things and I never should have listened to any of them. You might be an army hero and you might be a tough son of a bitch, but I won't be your maggot anymore!"

The words came easily now, clearly, as if he'd been waiting to say them all his life.

"You're the maggot now, clinging to me, the fresh meat, trying to relive your glory days by making me in your image. Well I won't become you. My Mother was better than you and so am I!"

Another fist came now, swinging from Kyle's right side where it had been clenched and aimed at John's already broken nose. Ready for it this time though John blocked it with a forearm and swung back with a fist of his own. Connecting with his Father's jaw, a crack permeated the constant sound of the rain pummelling the earth. Shocked into pausing by actually being punched by his son, Kyle raised himself up, displaying his impressive build in an effort to make John back down.

John's anger was being released now though and there was no stopping it. He rained blows own his Father, pummelling his face. A crack as his nose breaks, a long gasp of air escaping as a boot lands in his gut. Lit by the moonlight reflecting on the rain, the two were the opposite of graceful martial artists. Punches and kicks were thrown with pure strength and their two bodies ran on a high octane combination of anger and adrenaline.

Blocking a punch from John, Kyle thundered back, his fist landing squarely in John's face where his nose had already been shattered. Dropping to the floor, John choked as his throat was flooded with blood.

Standing above him now, Kyle laughed a little, then spoke slowly, breathing heavily.

"You're more like me than either of us though, John."

"You are tough, strong. You're a fighter. But you have revolted, and I taught you what happens to revolutions."

"They get crushed."

© Matthew Smith, 2003