Ai leanings
The next morning, Kyle stood barefoot in his garage, the AI's calm voice echoing from his phone propped on a shelf.
"Lesson 4: Shifting balance in live combat—maintaining a center of gravity while redirecting force…"
Kyle's muscles ached. His back was tight, and both shoulders carried bruises from a failed shoulder roll last night. Still, he couldn't stop. Something inside him had changed, not just physically—but mentally. He was curious, obsessive even.
He could grasp the idea of each technique instantly. The logic was never the problem.
The real struggle was… his body didn't listen fast enough.
He tried a sweep-kick.
Too fast.
His leg slammed into the garage wall, scraping the paint and sending a rake clattering to the floor.
He attempted a backstep feint.
Too slow.
His body forgot to shift weight, and he tumbled backwards onto a toolbox.
Kyle lay on the cold concrete, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily.
"So, okay. Brain's working great. Body's working like an old video game controller."
He laughed weakly.
The AI chimed in, unfazed.
"Retry?"
Kyle groaned, "Yeah… one more."
The next few days followed the same pattern.
• Wake up sore.
• Practice breathing and control.
• Fail a move.
• Fail again.
• Accidentally launch a bottle across the room by gripping it too hard.
But by the fifth day, he noticed something strange.
While shadowboxing, he did a simple combo: left jab, right cross, duck, pivot.
And this time—he landed it. Smooth. Measured. Controlled.
He froze, surprised. His heart picked up.
"I did it…"
The next attempt wasn't as clean. His shoulder cramped, and the pivot sent him off balance. But it was better. Measurably better.
Still rough.
Still flawed.
But something was connecting.
He started documenting the process with short videos. Not for social media—just for himself. To see how his body adapted. Frame by frame, he watched how the surges in strength pulsed through his muscles like electricity. How timing was more important than raw power.
His journals grew longer.
Filled with thoughts like:
"Thinking too fast for my body to follow. Have to slow down my mind to match my movements."
"This isn't super strength. It's directional strength. Like aiming a gun. Use too much, and I break the gun."
He began experimenting with his kicks and low stances—deliberately holding back the boost until just before impact.
Half the time, he overcompensated and barely tapped the target.
The other half, he still smashed through his practice pads.
But once or twice?
Once or twice, it worked exactly right.
On Saturday, his mom, Nora, came into the garage with a mug of tea and a skeptical frown.
"You practicing karate now?" she asked.
Kyle, drenched in sweat and holding his side in pain, nodded.
"Kind of. More like… learning how not to accidentally punch holes in things."
She blinked at him.
"Okay," she said. "Just don't punch me, baby."
Kyle snorted.
"Never. You'd punch back harder."
She handed him the tea, kissed his forehead, and quietly left the garage.
Later that night, lying in bed with sore limbs and a brain still humming from practice, Kyle stared at the ceiling.
He wasn't there yet. Not even close.
He couldn't fight a trained fighter. He couldn't use his full strength without risking serious injury—to others or himself. He was fast, but clumsy. Sharp-minded, but reckless in execution.
But he was getting better.
And for the first time in a long while, Kyle Carter felt like his weird, broken body… might just become something useful.
By the end of the week, Kyle ventured outside.
The air was crisp. A late spring wind ruffled the edge of his hoodie as he stood alone behind his house, on a patch of sloped grass that dipped into a dry ravine. A place no one really came. Just dirt, weeds, and silence.
He figured it was safer here. If he slipped again—or accidentally hit too hard—at least there'd be no shattered tools, no cracked garage walls, and no judgmental glances from his mom.
The AI's voice still came through his earbuds, calm and rhythmic.
"Initiating free-form simulation. Remember: center your weight. Breathe with every motion. Flow before force."
Kyle nodded to himself and dropped into a loose stance.
He threw a jab.
Then another.
Then pivoted and sent a kick out low to the air, trying to imagine a real opponent there—someone rushing him.
His foot stuck on a patch of loose soil and twisted slightly. His knee buckled and he fell hard onto his side with a frustrated grunt.
"Damn it…"
He lay there a moment, feeling the sting of grass and gravel against his shoulder. The AI didn't comment. Just waited.
Kyle sat up slowly, brushing bits of grass from his arms. His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from anger. It wasn't fair. His mind was so far ahead, racing through scenarios, correcting posture, imagining attacks before they even happened…
But his body?
His body was like a bike with the brakes half-clamped.
He got up. Tried again. Pivot, duck, uppercut.
Too wide.
He imagined an opponent closing the gap.
He reacted with a burst of power.
Too strong.
His punch flew wild, twisting his hips too much. He stumbled back into a tree.
His knuckles scraped bark. His shoulder throbbed. His patience snapped.
"COME ON!"
He panted, winded and shaking, fists clenched at his sides.
"You are exceeding target output, Kyle," the AI offered gently. "Your power is increasing faster than your control."
Kyle didn't answer. He didn't want logic right now. He just wanted to feel like he was in control of something.
And yet… as he stood there, chest rising and falling, something else struck him.
His reflection in the garage window.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
His arms—once thin and wiry—had filled out. His hoodie pulled tighter over his chest than it did last week. His jaw looked sharper. Shoulders broader. He even stood a little taller.
He hadn't touched a weight. Not once.
His muscles weren't just stronger—they were growing without the typical work. No protein shakes. No gym. Just stress, surges of energy, and repeated trial and error.
Kyle raised his shirt slightly.
Where once there had been soft skin and no definition, now... subtle lines began to show. Abs, faint but real. His obliques had shape. His waist had narrowed slightly.
His frustration dulled for a moment, replaced by something else:
Awe.
He wasn't becoming a superhero. He wasn't bulletproof, or flying, or lifting cars. But this?
This was something.
A week ago, he was a skinny nobody who got winded walking up the stairs too fast. Now he was bruised, limping, sore—and somehow more alive than he'd ever felt.
He dropped back into his stance.
This time, he didn't think about the power. Or the results. Or the end goal.
He just moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Strike. Breathe. Shift. Reset.
Each motion was still imperfect—but they felt real.
Like his body had finally started listening to his brain.