by Paul Cude
Summoning nearly all the energy he had left, Tank barely managed to hold open his left eye; his right, for some reason, wouldn't respond. The sight that greeted him was astonishing. Dragons fought dragons, on the ground and in the air. A battle raged on below him and around him. Twisting his neck just slightly, he tried to see how Flash was holding up. Pain starburst across his shoulders, down his arms and ignited his back. Rallying against it, only just holding his own, he was surprised to see the space next to him where Flash had been, was empty. His heart sank. Questions flitted throughout his mind. Where was he? Was he dead? If there was a battle, were they being rescued? If so, who was doing the rescuing? All of these and more bombarded his cognitive functions all at once. With his damaged eye barely giving him any sort of view at all, he scanned his surroundings for clues that might give him some sort of answer, just before the darkness took him.
From the relative safety of the darkened alleyway, the four friends viewed the almost mythical scene. To be honest, they weren't sure what to do next. All around them, dragons collided and tumbled together in the air, fighting for grip and their very lives. On the ground, it was little different. The prisoners that Janice had released were more than holding their own against the remaining guards. It was superheated chaos, with elongated streams of rainbow coloured flame shooting every which way, interrupted by the very occasional fireball exploding around and about. For the time being, truth seemed much stranger than fiction.
Staggering to her feet, more than a little disorientated, Richie wished the ringing in her ears would stop so that she could catch her breath. Trying hard to inhale, the pain was monstrous, not only that, but she couldn't stand up straight. A couple of fractured ribs, at least, that's what she figured. Clutching Aviva's laminium dagger, she snarled, and in her half prone position, stepped forward to meet the now grinning Casey, determined to wipe that smug smile off his face, if it was the last thing she ever did.
One of the freed dragon prisoners was fighting tooth and claw with a former captor. Heads butted, talons raked, jaws angled trying to get a decent bite. It was evenly matched, that is until the free dragon's right foot slipped on some previous victim's bright green dragon blood. Taking immediate advantage, the guard brought his gigantic tail round, catching the freed dragon right beneath the jaw, in a bone shattering impact. Landing with a crunching THUD, the freed dragon flew over ten yards in the air. Nonchalantly, the guard strolled on over, towering menacingly above his helpless victim.
"Pathetic dragon," he spat, preparing to dispatch his adversary. "You and your like have had your day. We're taking over and you won't be around to see it. But rest assured, I'll make sure your friends follow you straight to hell."
And with that his chest puffed up as he pulled in a huge breath, ready to unleash a devastating final burst of flame from between his mighty jaws.
Just a few yards away, ducked behind a rustic coloured stone wall, Hook watched the entire event play out. He knowing what was about to happen, as he'd already seen the same kind of thing more than a few times in the preceding minutes. Aware that he had to stop it, and with little regard for himself, he turned the intricate dial on the heavy water rifle he held to full, flicked the switch on the backpack to increase the power and, in one swift move, belted around the corner, rifle held out in front of him in both hands as he skidded to a halt in front of the ever expanding guard.
As the guard prepared to let loose the natural flaming devastation from within him, he'd shut his eyes to savour the moment, knowing that nothing could stop him from destroying the pitiful being splayed out on the ground in front of him. And so he did what comes naturally to all dragons. With fire already moving up from his belly and into his throat, awaiting the opening of those huge jaws, at the same time he opened his eyes and his mouth. To say he was surprised to see a human figure standing right in front of him holding some sort of projectile weapon, was something of an understatement. What happened next was even more baffling.
Hook fired his rifle as soon as the dragon's mouth opened. He was, by now, more than proficient with the strange looking weapon and hit his intended target with ease. The first few flickers of flame licked around the side of the guard's open jaw, but the heavy water quickly negated the mighty heat that had built up inside the prehistoric beast. Hook hadn't developed a plan; his only thought had been to stop the guard killing the innocent dragon. Not sure what to do next, he just continued shooting the heavy water down the dragon's gaping throat. In turn, the heavy water slowed the dragon, practically to a standstill. Although his mind registered everything that was going on, he felt bewildered, slow, stagnant. His arms and wings felt unresponsive and he was unable to force his prodigious jaws closed. All the time, the thick, cloying liquid dribbled down his throat.
Unsteadily, the prone dragon that the halted attack had been intended for, got to his feet. Not an especially big beast, perhaps a foot or two taller than Hook when standing, he'd been injured badly but was still able to offer the rugged rugby player a wink as they stood side by side. Witnessing his enemy rise to his feet without being able to do anything about it, the guard was frantic. Well, at least on the inside anyway. On the outside, he resembled some sort of stone dragon water feature that had gone badly wrong, with the water being sucked back in, rather than propelled out as it should be. Hook's rifle had been pumping the heavy water into the dragon at quite a rate, and it was obvious that saturation point must be close. With the freed dragon standing next to him, keeping a close eye on proceedings, all the while checking his injuries, Hook began to see water sloshing about at the back of the dragon's throat. He'd filled him up... quite literally.
'What am I to do next?' he thought.
As the guard's belly bulged like an overinflated football and heavy water sloshed out of his mouth, trickling rapidly down his chin, the freed dragon standing next to Hook held out his arm and said,
"You can stop now. I'll finish this."
Releasing the pressure on the trigger of his rifle, the strapping rugby player kept his finger hovering above it, just in case he was needed again. Stepping forward towards the statue-like guard whose eyes and nose were bulging in much the same way as his belly, without any ceremony or fuss the freed dragon pulled back his head and did exactly what the guard had been about to do to him, only moments before. He let rip with the mother of all flames, the heat from which Hook could feel radiating off him from where he was, over ten feet away. Concentrated on the guard's belly, despite supposedly being immune to heat or fire, the intense stream of flame lit up the guard's scales, forcing them to glow brightly. Whether that was the result of the intense heat radiating out of the freed dragon's jaws, or the fact that the guard's belly was bursting with heavy water, wasn't apparent. What was apparent, however, was the fact that something had to give, any second now! Glowing the brightest red possible, the remaining scales that had been holding the bursting belly in place disintegrated simultaneously. SPLAT! The guard's stomach exploded with such vigour that soft tissue and organs shot off in all directions, some landing on the roofs of houses over fifty yards away. Hook dropped to his knees, at the same time turning to face the other way. It was a good job he had. An array of the dead dragon's scales sat buried in the metal on one side of the ancient backpack. Letting out a sigh of relief, the strapping rugby player turned to look at the freed dragon beside him. He shouldn't have been surprised. He really shouldn't have. But he was. The ecstatic looking dragon was just swallowing what looked like a large organ of some description, his jaws, cheeks and stomach covered in thick green blood. A long tongue darted out, licking the glistening scales down both sides of his mouth and the underside of his jaw clean. Turning to look at the rather stunned human, deadpan, he ventured,
"Hmmmm... Saturday night. Can't beat a takeaway."
And with that, he smiled, before turning and limping back off towards the action. Tears of laughter rolled down Hook's cheeks.
Casey pulled in a massive breath. Richie stood her
ground, worried about being fooled again. This time it wasn't a feint. A scorching line of flame hurtled towards the ragged looking lacrosse captain. As was her prerogative, she met it full on. Holding the laminium dagger out in front of her, she siphoned off some of its power and used it to form a shield in the shape of a hemisphere. Sizzling orange, yellow and blue tinged flame bounced off the barrier, deflecting harmlessly away. Casey's smile disappeared instantly. Lunging forward, all thoughts of battle tactics out of the window, the evil ex-classmate of hers was determined to exact revenge for every wrong he considered he'd been on the end of. In a million years, she wouldn't have expected him to do that. Momentarily stunned, she was caught off guard. Swiping at him as he rushed her, a thin line of blood along the end of his jaw gave her the briefest feeling of satisfaction. Unfortunately, he'd breached her defences and hit her at speed, butting her up in the air. Tumbling head over heels, she landed hard on her back, the laminium dagger clinking to the ground many yards away. As he wiped the blood from his jaw with his hand, the smile returned to Casey's face. It was nearly over.
Turning into a cacophony, the tiny voice in Flash's head screamed that something somewhere was very, very wrong. Turning in a circle, it instantly became obvious what it was. The last time he'd looked, Richie had been more than holding her own, but he watched helplessly as the dragon torturer butted his friend into the air, praying silently for her to right herself as she dropped to the floor. She didn't, instead landing badly. She was in trouble. And he knew with every fibre of his being that he couldn't possibly get to her in time. What to do now?
Standing next to Flash, Janice turned with him, horrified at what she witnessed. Richie crashed onto the cobbles... HARD! She couldn't believe that anyone could get up from that, but knew if anyone could, it would be Richie. For a long time she'd found herself jealous of the young lacrosse player. Jealous of the relationship she had with her... boyfriend (currently that was too strong a word, but that's how she felt about him), her lover... PETER! But recently, she'd found herself admiring, believing in her. Tonight for instance, she hadn't particularly wanted to go out, and was worried out of her mind about Peter. It was so unlike him not to turn up and to be out of touch for so long, and on seeing the young lacrosse captain at the pub, Janice knew that she shared that worry. She also knew that Richie would leave no stone unturned in finding both Tank and Peter. She'd been right, and had followed her on the most unbelievable, the most incredible, the most downright dangerous quest, in just being there, trusting this awesome young woman with her life. Tears streamed down Janice's face as she watched, clutching Fu-ts'ang for all she was worth.
It came down to this. All his training, with every weapon imaginable, was for the most part irrelevant if you didn't choose the right weapon for the job in the first place. But sometimes, sometimes you just had to improvise with what was available. Mind racing through every possibility, one by one they were erased from the list of things that might work. All this happened in less than a hundredth of a second. That's how it worked in the Crimson Guards, and despite his rather sticky DNA position, Flash still considered himself affiliated with the elite troop.
As the last of the tears plummeted to the floor, Hook turned to see where he and his loaned backpack could next be of use. It was then that he spotted her, crashing desperately to the ground. Hairs on his arms stood to attention as his mouth ran dry, knowing he had to act. But he was over one hundred yards away, and she probably only had a few seconds at most. Instinctively, he twisted the dial on the rifle to the narrowest setting for the jet of water, flicked the switch to full power, while at the same time in his mind figuring out the trajectory he needed to hit the approaching dragon. It didn't seem possible, but he had to at least try. Standing tall, he aimed and fired, having calculated the trajectory spot on, with the water travelling as far as it could from where he was. However, it wasn't far enough. It must have dropped about thirty yards short of his intended target, the evil dragon with the whip who was now almost on top of Richie. Despair swallowed him up. There was simply no way he could run thirty yards with the backpack on, aim and fire in the time Richie had remaining. Frozen in place, the rifle dropped to his side as he watched the inevitable. Grief ripped his heart out. After all the violence he'd seen in the last hour, it couldn't end like this... COULD IT?
Flash knew exactly what Casey was going to do. It was exactly what he would have done if their roles had been reversed. With Richie immobile on her back, the dragon was going to line up his whip with her neck, and then... BAM! He would separate her head from the rest of her body, and was just moving in position to do so right now. Feeling sick to his core, in all his time, all his missions, he'd never felt under so much pressure. But he'd been taught to thrive on pressure, to embrace it, and... TO USE IT! He did as he'd been taught.
It was unlikely to work. There was, at best, only an outside chance, but it was the only chance he had. Swivelling on one foot, he reached out to Janice who was standing next to him and snatched the space age looking weapon from her, much to her surprise. Before he'd done so, he'd had no idea about its past, about its name. But as soon as he came into contact with it, it called out to him, sang to him even. Startled briefly, his professionalism meant that he was still fully focused on what needed to be done. But this was indeed a turn up for the books. In only a fraction of a second, the dagger had passed on its name and much of its history, and its... PURPOSE! In Flash, Fu-ts'ang recognised a kindred spirit, another who was stuck in a form anything but natural. Pulling back his arm, the one which grasped Fu-ts'ang firmly... the pair of them formed a bond which was hard to describe, so much information had been exchanged between them. Fu-ts'ang knew Flash's darkest secrets, and vice versa. At first Flash felt... violated. But that thought, that feeling, had disappeared before he'd even had a chance to contemplate what it meant. Panic and despair turned to hope. To camaraderie. To teamwork. Knowing it meant a lot to his friends, having watched them play their respective sports on a few occasions, he was full of awe at the spectacle of it all. He planned to join them at the first available opportunity, should one ever present itself again, but he hadn't told them yet. He was determined to though, and soon. Aiming for all he was worth, he put all his commitment, strength and willpower behind the throw, brought his arm forward, and released Fu-ts'ang on the start of his journey.
Casey looked on in disgust at the pathetic form of his former classmate, prone on the ground, his face a mask of smug contentment at the thought of what he was about to do. Taking a few steps to one side, so that his right arm was directly in line with Richie's neck, he knew he'd take great satisfaction from watching her head bounce away along the cobbles any second now. Tightening his grip on the whip, a whistling sound moving ever closer grabbed his attention. Glancing back over his left shoulder to see the unidentified human, who'd been hanging up next to Tank, tossing a mist enshrouded weapon vaguely in his direction, he let out a small chuckle, before turning back to the task at hand. Even a pathetic human could see that the throw in question was way off target, he thought. With nothing to worry about, and no one in range to thwart his deadly plan, he set about the task before him, vowing that the human and his friends would be next on his 'to do' list.
'Damn,' thought Flash, as Fu-ts'ang left his grip. His aim was off. Not by much, but it was off. In the distance, he caught sight of the dragon, turning, taking a look, and then turning back towards his unfinished business. Good. Just as he should do. All he needed to do now, was... REMEMBER!
All the time, Fu-ts'ang whistled through the air, parting it with ease, set to pass off to one side of where Richie lay, unmoving.
Racking his eidetic memory, Flash contemplated the plan that had changed on the run, much the way the best plans nearly always do. He'd intended to throw the weapon to hit the dragon, with a view to buying himself some time to get there. But as he wrestled it from Janice's sweaty hands, he knew it wouldn't work. And if he'd needed confirmation, he got it from Fu-ts'ang. Grasping hi
s plan instantly, the weapon had worked out the flaw in it almost as quickly. Despite the dagger's power and magic, it was more than likely Casey could either get out of its path, or block it with a mantra of some kind. At the time, overwhelming despair and panic had threatened to consume him at the thought of letting down his friend. But Fu-ts'ang had other ideas. With their bond formed, the weapon showed him a glimpse of his past training, performed a long time ago. In it, Flash recognised himself, albeit younger, using his mind to control deadly looking laminium boomerangs across some kind of obstacle course. At the time, it looked ominously like the future of weaponry, supposedly. But like many of these things, the inventions had fallen by the wayside, outmoded, outdated, inaccurate, dangerous and well... just useless. But in showing him this picture of his past, Flash was sure Fu-ts'ang was actually showing him how to control the flight of the futuristic weapon. All he had to do was remember. And just like the flicking of a switch... it was there. He could recall it all. It was all about the song... replicating the song. Flash had at first thought Fu-ts'ang was singing to him, and he wasn't far off. What he could actually hear was the weapon's natural sound, the sound of its very soul. We all have it: dragons, humans, animals... perhaps not inanimate objects. And absolutely not cutlery. But Fu-ts'ang was beyond special, and most certainly had a soul. And the sound of that soul was the key to controlling its movement.
Continuing on his journey, Fu-ts'ang was wary of his surroundings, and aware of how far he would miss his intended target, unless...
Flash had the answer, with the pitch of the song being the key. If he sang the song in his head, but changed the pitch, the lethal looking weapon would change direction. How much would depend entirely on how drastically the pitch was changed. But what he struggled to recall was whether he had to increase or decrease the pitch. How would that famous football manager describe it? Ahhh that's it. "Squeaky bum time." Yes, it was definitely squeaky bum time. Closing his eyes, he envisaged Fu-ts'ang's flight through the air. Nearly out of time, with the weapon not far from level with Casey and the prone Richie, it was... NOW or NEVER!