by J. C. Fiske
Chaos, reigned.
“Damn, him!” Ranto said. “HE’S RUINING EVERYTHING! Fine! If I can’t have, Gisbo, then I’ll have everything he loves! Starting with you, ROLCE MOORDIN!”
Ranto, with gritted teeth, ignited his Flarian essence while at the same time, channeling his Drakeness, and charged at Rolce, and hit him with a huge, heavy, rising uppercut. Rolce managed to raise up his arms in a crisscross, blocking it, but it did little to stop the velocity of the punch. The blow sent him flying up and over the fighting, as he landed, alone, into the open courtyard, the same courtyard where he had his very first taste of battle during his Elekai’ tryouts.
Rolce managed to get up to one knee before Ranto was on him, kicking him in the stomach and lifting up into the air again. Rolce, as he traveled up, puked out blood, and then, saw that Ranto, had joined him in mid-air, caught him, and as if he weighed nothing, threw him downward as if he were spiking a sport’s ball.
Jackobi, stared on in horror, watching Rolce land, then become decimated with heavy blows, over, and over, from Ranto, sinking him deeper into the earth with each strike.
“Still too weak from his fight with Purah . . . DAMN, IT! HE’S GONNA KILL HIM!” Jackobi yelled. He was about to charge in, when his brain stopped him. He knew if he charged in now, he would save Rolce’s life, but only for a moment, before Ranto turned his newfound strength, and powers, onto him . . .
“Who else could have caught that city if not you, Gisbo?” Jackobi asked himself aloud. He now looked to the sky, quickly closed his eyes, and searched, feeling out across Thera, trying to find any trace of Gisbo, and again, only came up with a hard surface, blocking him out.
“No, not this time, I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE!” Jackobi said, and this time, rather than search for Gisbo’s conscious, he searched for the traces of Phoenix essence, found them, and followed the trail until they stopped dead, but before they did, there was a silver of an image, a sign, a sign reading . . .
“I don’t believe it . . . after all this time, and you still, you still,” Jackobi stammered, his voice gravely with rising anger, his eyes squinting, and vibrating with a fury that he could no longer control.
“You selfish prick . . .”
And with that said, Jack quickly punched the ground, activated his Drakeness teleportation, and disappeared from the battlefield.
Chapter Twenty Seven: White Knuckle Sobriety
Gisbo Falcon stood on the edge of the Flarian desert, gazing out with his heightened, bird of prey like vision, a gift from the Phoenix power raging through his bloodstream, watching as the Flarians poured out of Cledwyn City to the aid of the fallen Soarian’s being overrun by the minions of Drakearon. He smiled, knowing full well the Flarian’s love for battle would come first over their love for the Soarian’s, but the results would be the same. The Soarian’s would see the Flarian’s actions as humility, and the two civilizations would come together as allies, and that was just what was needed if Drakearon was to fall. An alliance.
He closed his eyes now, stretching his senses outward, and felt the other disturbance on Thera, rising like a thumping, throbbing canker, just north of his position. Vadid’s warning proved true. Not one, but two, massive sources of power were converging upon Oak County.
Oak County. Two words that even now, years later, sent Gisbo’s stomach juices into a boil, and his mind into a runaway rail cart made of memory, after memory, seemingly as fresh as the moment they happened. He felt the blows from the Black Wolf Pack, felt the warm spat dribble down his face from the adults, heard the names and curses fired his way like flaming darts at his front, heard the gossip and lies spoken from behind his back, saw the warmly lit houses of families sitting over turkeys and pot roasts, laughing and giggling and enjoying what he could never have, and lastly, saw the one thing he could have back then, a lone manure shack, covered in four lettered graffiti words, and home to maggots, flies, spiders, and one, beaten, and lonely dog of a boy . . .
He thought he had overcome such memories, such pain, such anger, through his training with Vadid to become a neutral good, but now, his old friends came roaring back to him as ripe and clingy as a fart in an elevator.
Why should you help them? A voice, a voice not heard for a long, long time, floated up.
Gisbo said nothing, only de-activated his Phoenix essence, turned, and began to walk through the now, moonlit forest. With every step he took, he realized, the Phoenix blade was getting heavier.
It was Vadid’s dream after all, Oak County, not yours. You’re the Man-Phoenix now. You call the shots. You make the decisions, and besides, if even the great Vadid the Valiant couldn’t save Oak County from themselves, what hope do you have? The voice asked politely.
Gisbo continued walking, knowing not to believe everything he thought, knowing where such a voice was coming from, but it wasn’t a matter of being unable to push the voice down, it was a matter of not wanting to.
Right now, Malik Strife and Ranto Narroway are leading forth armies in the name of order and chaos against democracy. Would it be a neutral good? Would it be the job of the Man-Phoenix to favor one side while forsaking the others? Wouldn’t it be better, neutral, natural, to just let them destroy one another? Then pick up the pieces? The voice asked.
“Maybe,” Gisbo found himself saying.
You’re the Man-Phoenix now. The power to decide who lives and who dies, is yours to bear. It’s your vision now, your dream, not Vadid’s. Do not interfere in the natures of humanity. It only leads to strife. Look what Vadid’s done? Look what his interference birthed? Is that what you want to defend? What you do or don’t do, shouldn’t matter. You are not responsible . . . The voice said.
“Then why do I feel so guilty?” Gisbo asked, as he walked out of the trees into a clearing, into a little town he recognized, a town he had visited a few times in his years of wandering. Surprised, Gisbo turned around, hardly remembering walking here. It was as if his feet had brought to this place, all on their own, for one reason, and one reason alone . . .
You know how to cure such a feeling as guilt, don’t you? The voice asked sweetly, as if it were a mother cooing over their newborn.
Gisbo’s legs kept moving, leading him, and then, the spirit of something in him, deep, and desiring, lifted his chin up so his eyes could take in the sign, the sign of, The Desert Wash, a pub that he had spent many a drunken nights in . . .
Instinctively, just to be sure, Gisbo jumped into an alleyway, quickly reached for his Phoenix blade, and found he could still power it up. He knew who he was now, that was no longer a problem. The blade recognized that, but, it was getting heavier with every passing moment, and before, when he had caught the city, his mind was absolutely clear, focused on saving lives, and the power surging through him at that moment had the force of a class 10 windstorm, but now? It was but a blustery day. No. The blade didn’t have a problem with who he was. That wasn’t the issue. The blade had a problem with what he was going to do . . .
“My life, my choice . . .” Gisbo said out loud, his voice dripping with defiance, and stubbornness as he de-powered his blade, shackled it back up into his back sling, walked out of the alley way, up the steps as he had so many times before, and right on through the double, western, Naforian styled doors of the saloon.
It was as if nothing changed since his last visit to, ‘The Wash’. It was about as welcoming and dimly lit as a dungeon, badly ventilated, and he could barely see the make out of the ghostly image of the bar keep, scribbling down somebody’s recent order on their tab. Gisbo walked forward, into the thick of it, and now the smells of grease, stale cigarettes, and watered down beer hit his nose, but above all of that, was the burning, freeing smell of Flarian Firebolt whiskey that was so potent, it could be smelled through the cork itself. As soon as he whiffed it, Gisbo felt himself stumble a bit as the blade suddenly took on a huge burden of weight.
“My life, not yours . . .” Gisbo hissed, gritting his teeth, as he straightened up and made hi
s way toward the bar, and that’s when he noticed the eyes upon him. Last time he came in, he fit in with his fellow drunks with his black hood, stubble, eggplant eyes, and body odor, but now, he fit in about as well as a bear in a honey tree. All conversations stopped as they looked at him in the way a beer swiller would at the last beer on earth, as if he were a holy relic, garbed in his full Renegade Berserker attire, and gleaming, sparkling blue blade behind him. A few of the woman there, who should have recognized him, didn’t. He had aged five years after all and the Gisbo then compared to the Gisbo before them now was like night and day.
Five years, and I’m right back where I started, Gisbo thought, but that realization didn’t halt his sudden thirst. In the next moment, his ass was in his favorite chair, the one ripped toward the right side that allowed his right cheek to slip in, and nestle comfortably on the soft cotton beneath the tough leather. Gisbo had never used his real name here, but the bartender, like the women, was staring at him as if he knew it, and like the women, would have slapped him, and in no way served him. Just looking into the Barkeep’s eyes, Gisbo saw so many questions brimming, and Gisbo was in no mood to answer, so, he stopped his questions, with a question of his own.
“Got Flarian Firebolt Whiskey?” Gisbo asked, knowing full well they did, but the Barkeep didn’t budge. Gisbo let his eyes wander over and stare at the bottle on the wall, then, back to the barkeep. “Did ya not hear me?”
“No, no, I did, I just . . . sorry . . .” The bartender started as he turned around, flustered, and began the search for the bottle that laid right in front of his face. Gisbo sighed, and then noticed how quiet it was. He turned around to see all the eyes on him drop away, embarrassed, and heard the clatter of silverware and mugs, and the clearing of throats before their conversations resumed. Gisbo shook his head, fished a cigar out of his pocket, lit it with his Flarian ring, inhaled deeply, held it in until his lungs burned, then blew it out. The bartender then arrived with the bottle, and a rocks glass, and began pouring, but Gisbo reached out with a hand and stopped him.
“Just leave the bottle,” Gisbo said. The bartender looked at him, then up to his bouncers leaning on either side of the double doors. Each one looked away, pretending not to notice. If a Renegade wanted a bottle, their hourly rate wasn’t enough to prevent it.
“All right, that, that’s fine. Lemme just get this outta your way then,” The bartender said, grabbing the rocks glass and making his way to the farthest side of the bar.
Gisbo picked up the bottle now, staring at the red, almost syrupy liquid inside, entranced, and so, so thirsty.
You drink whiskey to forget, you drink beer to remember, Vadid’s voice echoed within his mind. Vadid, his grandfather, was dead now. He sacrificed himself for a low down, drunk of a man, who couldn’t get out of his own way.
“Everyone, everyone leaves me, or is destroyed by me . . .” Gisbo stammered out. He realized this was the most honest thing he had admitted to himself in a long while. He didn’t want to have to drink fifteen beers to feel peace. He wanted peace right now . . . and, all he had to do was tip back the bottle, and his sorrow, his loneliness, and especially, his guilt, would disappear, but, what then?
“Just, just this one last time. One more bottle, just for tonight, and then, then I promise I’ll begin, I promise I’ll save anything, and everyone, just not them, please, please not them, not Oak County. I can’t, I just can’t do it!” Gisbo said, gritting his teeth. His fingers shook with a fresh rage, his throat grew dry, and the laughter, the laughter of Oak County’s citizens rose in his head in a mocking chorus, so loud, it was as if he had fallen into a pit filled with giggling clowns. He had to make it stop, and he knew just how to do it.
Gisbo pulled the cork off the bottle . . .
“Unbelievable,” Jackobi said, appearing before him in a burst of blackness, and with a quick grab, he snatched the bottle from Gisbo’s hand, and tossed it against the far wall as hard as he could. The bottle of Flarian Firebolt Whiskey exploded, showering an unlucky few with crystalline snow and booze that stung their skin. A man rose out of his seat to complain, but got one look at the dark skinned man in the Renegade Shininja outfit, thought better of it, and sat down.
“Do you have any idea where we are? What we’re doing right now? You, selfish, selfish prick?!” Jackobi snapped, his mouth in a snarl. Gisbo had never seen his usually reserved friend so riled up. His face was tight, his lip trembled, and his eyes were like frosted fire.
“Saving a lost cause?” Gisbo asked, turning back around to ask for another bottle, but Jackobi grabbed the collar of his poncho and spun him back around, lifting him up so his rear hovered above the seat uncomfortably. Gisbo narrowed his eyes, and spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “Get your damn hands off me . . .”
“No.” Jackobi said. “Whatever this is, you get over it . . . now. What? You don’t want to help the people of Oak County, because they picked on you? Called you names? Caused you pain?”
Gisbo said nothing.
“Cry me a river . . .” Jackobi said. Gisbo opened his mouth to speak, but Jackobi silenced him.
“No! Sit there, and listen. I’m connected to you, asshole. I know everything that went on in that black tower! Vadid, he passed on his dreams, his legacy, his power, and his very life, to you, and you dare, after all that, you dare to pick up right where you left off?” Jackobi asked, letting him go to fall back in his seat. “I’m beyond words . . .”
“Don’t you stand there and judge me. I never asked for these powers, for this responsibility, and last I checked, I’m the Man-Phoenix, not you, not Vadid. This is my life and no one, especially you, is going to tell me how to live it, who to save, and who not to save. All of those people, Jack, every single one of them . . . they deserve everything that’s comin’ to ‘em!” Gisbo said, before turning to stare at the glistening bottles on the wall. Jackobi slapped a hand down atop the bar, and put his face into Gisbo’s.
“Then you take that damn bandanna off your head right now! When you’re a Renegade, you don’t get to pick and choose who to save, who to protect. You rise above your anger, your pride, and you do what’s right! That’s what we do, and that’s what we will continue to do, until we’re ass up in our graves! You swore an oath, just like me, and just like Rolce . . .” Jackobi said, pausing at the name. He felt Gisbo’s heart skip with worry.
“Yeah, that’s right, right now, your best friend, he is fighting YOUR battle,” Jackobi said.
Gisbo looked up at him, then, down to the floor.
“Both of them are there, Malik, and Ranto. They’re preaching and hiding behind The Goat Man’s crazed ideologies as a front, but I know the real reason they’re there. The Goat Man may be leading them, but they WANT to be there! Why else would they attack your old home, attack innocents? Because the Gisbo Falcon that I know, wouldn’t stand for it! They’re there for you! Why? Because you’re something they can’t explain, you’re someone, the only someone, whoever stood in their way and refused to buy what they’re selling, and right now, Rolce, not you, weak from his battle with Purah, is fighting YOUR battle! He’s fighting against Ranto, and Ranto, he’s gonna kill ‘em, Gisbo . . .” Jack said.
Gisbo said nothing.
“Yeah, you sit there. Return to wallowing in your sorrow, return to whoring around, sleeping in alleyways, and drinking yourself stupid, but let me tell you something. This whole time, while you were doing that, it was Rolce who kept us all together, do you know why?”
Gisbo felt his fists tighten, then, heard a sniffle, and felt a hot tear, drip down, and splash atop his arm.
“Because of you, you asshole! He believed in you when no one else did! When everyone else was writing you off, he stood up for you! He took the hits, and kept our group together, every day, saying that Gisbo was going to come back, as the Man-Phoenix, and lead us, just like his dreams were telling him . . .” Jackobi said, shaking his head. He then put a hand atop of Gisbo’s. Gisbo didn’t take it. “I know you’re in pain
, Gisbo. Lots of it. What happened to you wasn’t fair, but when I look at you now, this Gisbo that sits before me? I don’t see a Man-Phoenix, I see a victim. Right now, in this moment, you’re at a crossroads. You were so close, so damn close to getting out of your own way, and back to who you were. There’s a reason you were able to catch that city!” Jackobi said. He then let go of Gisbo’s hand and took a step back.
“Look at me,” Jackobi said.
Gisbo cocked an eye backward, but didn’t turn around.
“Look at me, damn it, you owe me that much,” Jackobi said. Gisbo, with a sigh, turned around to face him. Jackobi shook his head, absolute devastation on his features.
“They were right. They were all right. I look at you, and I see the change now. The Gisbo Falcon I knew, is dead, and gone, replaced with, with this selfish, second-guessing, emotional wreck, and even Vadid the Valiant, the greatest champion Thera’s ever had, couldn’t even fix you. You’re done, and now? We’re done . . .” Jackobi said, as he turned and made his way to the door. The bar was silent, all eyes were upon him as Jackobi put one hand on the double doors, thought for a moment, then pushed on through, into the darkness outside.
Gisbo sighed, and stared at the floor, his head a racing mess, his stomach twisting into guilt-ridden bows. He then heard the Barkeep clear his throat.
“On the house.” The Barkeep said, dropping another bottle of Flarian Firebolt Whiskey. Gisbo looked up at him was about to say something, when he was interrupted by the double doors behind him that swung back open, and slapped both of the walls at the same, precise moment, in a THWACK sound. Gisbo spun back around.
“But,” Jackobi said, standing there.
Gisbo, this time, found Jackobi’s eyes on his own, and when they did, Jackobi gave a wry, hopeful grin.
“But, if the Gisbo Falcon I know and love, is in there, then he better listen up, and listen good. We need a leader, and not just any leader. We don’t need this depressed, whiskey downing, look the other way, keep to himself, loner. No, no! You know what I need? You know who WE need? We need the old Gisbo Falcon! We need the Gisbo Falcon who’s a hell raising, beer swilling, foul mouthed, take no shit from anybody, Renegade!” Jackobi shouted to the rooftop. Gisbo Falcon stared at him, thought for a long moment, then finally, turned around, grabbed the bottle, got up, and walked past Jackobi right out through the double doors, and disappeared into the night.