(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Gregor had taken to the exercise bike. There was something distinctly animal about it, bestial, instinctual, primal. It was good to be reminded that he was, after all, only a man, no matter all the trappings and all the responsibilities and all the pressure. He felt somehow enlivened by the instinctual pumping of his legs on the pedals, rhythmic and cyclical. He could feel the hot beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and the pumping of his heart, and the fierce burn of his muscles. The black screen of the bicycle reflected his face back at him: red-faced and panting. He'd turned off all the tracking. He thought it would have been nice to be able to run in the street - he'd seen such people on their routines - but imagining the creaking of the gears of the great surveillance machine around him at such a thing dashed the thought.

Which wasn't to say that he couldn't do it, of course. Only that he shouldn't. That was the catch-22 of being the Emperor.

The bike reminded him of his body, arms and legs, heart and veins, sweat and blood. It was good to sweat. Good to pant. Good to relish in hot, human discomfort, resisting the metaphysical contortions of the (his) Empire. Sometimes after a long day of meetings it felt like he didn't have a body at all, merely a vessel for the great Imperial power that he had been born into.

Born into was inappropriate. Congealed into him, perhaps, power made flesh. Born into suggested an untrue distance. There was no space between the Empire and him. He was shackled into it, his arms and legs bound in perfect comfort.