Storm Forged

by Patrick Dugan

  Five heavily armed guards ringed a lone figure dressed in a black combat suit with blue lightning bolts detailed up each leg. His hands were fastened behind his back with silver handcuffs. Even in The Gauntlet, they feared him. One of the guards who’d escorted him out carried his helmet. He surveyed the arena, the Reclaimers’ worse nightmare. Dad stood ramrod straight; his strong jaw and dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples would have marked him a star in earlier times. I now knew where I got the dark hair from.

  The five guards went out, one guard tossing his helmet to land by Dad’s feet, leaving him by himself. Once the guards had exited the arena, the handcuffs holding his hands behind his back dropped to the floor. He moved his arms to his side, standing at full attention, helmet laying on the ground next to his feet. The arena was the size of a football field, with various barricades and obstacles scattered around for cover or to cross trapped areas.

  “Cyclone Ranger, are you ready?”

  He didn’t nod or make any other gesture; he stood still and waited. The crowd booed and flung curses, which crashed against the rock of his determination.

  “Go!”

  He didn’t move. He stood like a statue on the starting line. The top-down view showed where the basher bots sat waiting. The slowest of all the bots and easiest to defeat, possessing little armor, swung an iron club up and down. An easy test, more to show off his powers than to be of any real challenge.

  Roberts’s voice came on again. “Folks, I think there may be technical difficulties. Cyclone Ranger, the match has started. Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you.” His deep voice held a steel to it that I’d never master. The microphones stationed at the top of the ring picked it up perfectly.

  “Then go, man,” Roberts said in a frustrated tone. “You’ve got to reach the finish line to win.”

  “I will not fight for your amusement.”

  “What?” Mom and I both said in concert with Roberts and most of the viewing public.

  “I swore to only use my Gifts in defense of life, to protect the weak and innocent, not as a part of your sideshow,” Dad said. “I swore an oath I will not break.”

  The TV went black, and a commercial promptly took its place. We sat in stunned silence, unable to process what had just happened.

  “What happens now?” Mom said, concern heavy in her voice.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. They always fight.”

  She gasped. “They won’t kill him?”

  This had never happened before. Usually Saturday Night Showdown was minor-league Gifted running around trying to beat the course like one of the crazy Japanese game shows. No one had ever stood on a matter of principle before.

  The beer and fast food commercials finished, and Desmond Roberts returned. “We are back and ready to begin.” A faint sheen of sweat covered his bald head. This obviously was not going as planned.

  The camera panned back to Dad, who now had his helmet on.

  “Go!” Roberts said, a lot less forceful than the first time.

  Cyclone Ranger walked across the start line.

  “Hello folks, this is Chip Calloway, here at what should be an exciting match-up. The powerful and deadly Cyclone Ranger, last of the outlaw Omega Squad, versus the Bash Bots. There are six bots on the field, waiting for their chance to end the menace of Cyclone Ranger once and for all.” Chip’s bold voice had a smarmy tone that made you want to wash after hearing it.

  Dad paused before he stepped between a series of yellow and black striped concrete pillars. The camera switched over to what the robot saw, always a great shot for Gifted with energy attacks. As he entered the robot’s field of view, the club came down. He sidestepped the club and vanished to the side. The robot turned to track his prey but could not find him. The shot changed to one of the arena wall cameras. Cyclone Ranger had leapt on the back of the robot, his hands hidden by the robot’s head.

  “What in the world is he doing?” Chip cried out. “I expected a shot of lighting to remove the bash bot, but I never would have believed this.”

  After a minute, the robot stopped spinning and started walking through the pillars, Dad still attached to his barrel-shaped back. The next obstacle had two bash bots standing behind iron grating. In theory, the grating would protect them from the lighting, but it didn’t do anything to slow down the steel club the bash bots wielded. Since the bash bots were programmed to attack Dad, and he couldn’t be seen, the captured bash bot simply destroyed the two unmoving targets.

  “That can’t be fair,” Chip Calloway said, echoing the views of the crowd. They came to see the infamous Cyclone Ranger’s mass destruction, not watch a life-size version of Robot Wars.

  The last obstacle was a twenty-foot steel wall with three doors. Each door had an attack bot inside ready to stop the player from reaching the exit and the red button that ended the match. They had flexible legs and could swing their clubs in many directions. If you passed one, the other two would attack as well. Using his lightning, it would have been an easy victory. Using a bash bot, who knew what would happen.

  The bash bot veered to the far left door then turned the face the audience. Dad reached over and kicked the door, so it opened. The attack bot charged through the door seconds later, only to be met by a steel club crashing down on its head. He did the same thing twice more to eliminate the final two bots.

  “What an ingenious method, folks,” Chip Calloway called out. “I checked with the referees, and there is nothing that says you can’t use the bots in your battle. Well played, Cyclone Ranger.”

  With all the bots finished, Dad deactivated his ride and walked through and pushed the red button. Confetti flew down, and a door appeared in the wall, which he used. Chip Calloway kept going on about what a unique solution to the challenge, but a rules change had to happen.

  Mom turned off the TV. “Well, he’s safe for another week,” she said, a tight-lipped smile on her face. “Only nine more until it’s done.”

  I nodded. Tonight’s was easy, but Mom was right. They couldn’t let him win and would kill him sooner or later, no matter the cost.

  15

  Mom declared Sunday picnic day. She refused to waste such a beautiful September day in the house, worried about things neither of us could change. So she packed up enough food to feed a small army and headed to the Institute’s dorm. We picked up Wendi, Marcel, Jon, and Abby, the permit officials didn’t even try, and drove to the river.

  The public park was always full of Norms, but Mom knew a secluded spot on the Milk River. A hole in the old service fence let us access a great parking spot behind a grove of trees for the Mom-mobile. No sense announcing to anyone driving by we were back there. We divided up the gear and off we went, marching like a line of army ants through the scrub trees and clumps of grass. After ten minutes, we emerged from the tree line into a clearing complete with log “benches” and a ring of rocks for a fire. It was our special place for when we wanted to get away.

  Marcel was an old hand, having been here many times over the years. He gathered kindling, placed it in the rock circle, setting the larger twigs on top. To the side, he had collected a good number of larger branches. Before long, we’d be ready to cook hot dogs and s’mores over the open fire. I filled the old red plastic bucket we left to put out the fire when we were done, or if the fire got out of hand, again. Who knew a hollow log could explode and set the campsite on fire?

  Mom, Wendi, and I prepared the food together while Marcel and Abby collected more branches for the fire. A half an hour later, we had everything ready and sticks for hot dogs and marshmallows. Jon sat off to the side while everyone else worked. His manner screamed he would rather be anywhere but with us.

  “Jon,” Mom said not looking up from the cooler. “Could you give me a hand and get the extra bag of ice from the van?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a sullen tone. He headed back toward the van.

  When he was out of earshot, Mom turned to Wendi. “
Is everything okay with Jon?”

  Wendi flushed a bit. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ward.” She hesitated as if to gather her thoughts. “Jon didn’t want to come today. He thought you only invited him because of me. He thinks he’s in the way, a fifth wheel.”

  Mom nodded. “He doesn’t seem to be having a good time.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I wanted him to come along so I could get to know him.”

  Wendi bit her lip, a sure sign she was frustrated by the situation. “He isn’t happy I’m dating Tommy,” she blurted out. She quickly turned to me, her eyes pleading for me to understand. “Not that he doesn’t like you, because he does, but he thinks Brunner has been bothering me to get at you, and he’s very protective.”

  I stood there, stunned. We had been together for a lot less time than Brunner had been an issue. I could understand where he was coming from, but Brunner had attacked Wendi before we’d become friends. I said as much, earning a withering stare from my mom.

  “Well, being a protective mother, I can understand how he feels. Wendi, he’s your brother. How should we handle it? I want him to be able to be around all of us.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Wendi ran off to talk to her brother. I still didn’t know how to take what she had told us. I wouldn’t want her in the middle between Brunner and me, not that I had much choice in the matter. He hated all Gifted, but he had it out for me.

  “Okay, we just do what we are going to do when they get back,” Mom told the three of us as we grabbed some snacks. “Hopefully, Jon gets more comfortable as the day goes on.”

  By the time we jumped in the river, Jon splashed and played around with the rest of us. Mom stayed in a folding chair with her Kindle pretending to relax. For as much as she tried to take our minds off Dad, I could tell it was still gnawing away at her.

  “Kids, let’s get ready to eat.” Mom folded up her chair, grabbed her tote bag, and walked back to the site. Wendi dunked Jon one more time for good measure. Her quickness got past Jon’s strength advantage every time. Seeing them together in a relaxed environment let me glimpse how much they loved each other. I hated to admit I felt a slight twinge of jealousy.

  Mom bustled around camp. Jon snapped his towel at Marcel, who definitely didn’t appreciate it. Abby, however, jumped right in, and the two of them chased each other around, flicking towels at each other. I decided not to join since things had gone so well up until now. I dried off, hung my towel in the sun, and jumped on getting the fire started.

  Wendi knelt down next to me. “I’ve never built a fire before. Can you show me how?” She winked at me. I smiled back, and she nudged me, saying. “Stick to the fire lesson.”

  Jon sat on one of the log seats we used—okay, Mom brought a folding chair, but Marcel and I used them. Mom moved around the camp, setting out picnic food for dinner.

  I picked up the newspaper and twigs to start with. “We use kindling and paper to get a small fire started. Then we gradually increase the size of the wood until it’s large enough to cook on.”

  I handed Wendi the lighter, and she got the fire going. Before long, we had a growing fire, fed by a constant flow of small branches that we broke up and tossed in. The fire reflected in her eyes distracting me to the point that I burnt my fingers, twice.

  Mom came over to check on the progress. Jon cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ward, thank you for inviting me. I know you didn’t have to.” He sounded sincere, and I felt a bit bad for some of my earlier mental comments.

  Mom straightened, regarding Jon for a moment. “Jon, you are always welcome. All the kids call me ‘Mom,’ and you can as well if you are comfortable with it.”

  Jon blushed. “Um, I’ll try. Can I ask you a question?”

  Mom laughed. “You just did, but go ahead.”

  He smirked, clearly uncomfortable. “Wendi said you are a lawyer, but what kind of law do you practice?”

  Oh no! Work talk, the never-ending topic.

  Mom brightened. “I practice family and civil law, mostly around rights for Gifted. If you’re interested, I’m happy to answer any questions.”

  “Well,” Jon said. “I wondered about the cases you’ve handled for other Gifted.”

  This would be a long talk, I could tell. Mom launched into the cases she’s handled, including the permit battle for Marcel’s living with us. Anything about law just excited her.

  As I listened, I still thought it worth the risk to use the courts to stop the matches. She could launch tons of legal attacks to buy Dad time. She worried about me being found out, but she had told me no one had discovered his real name, so we couldn’t be connected, and to stand by and watch him die without trying galled me. I fought down the urge to say something, but I knew it would just lead to more hurt feelings, and this was difficult enough already. Honestly, I still felt wounded, and the thought of tearing off the scab was more than I could handle.

  Wendi and I held hands as the sun set, and the fire crackled and popped. Mom handed out sticks and hot dogs once the fire was fully engaged. Wendi and Jon had never been to a picnic, so Abby made snarky, but ultimately helpful, suggestions to Jon, while Marcel and I hung with Wendi. After the hot dogs, potato salad, and the rest, Mom brought out the s’mores. Abby squealed in delight when she saw them. Puzzled looks flew between Jon and Wendi as they assembled and ate the messy goodness. Wendi ended up with it on her nose. Jon had three, and you could barely see his face through the mess. Wendi teased him mercilessly about needing a bib, but nothing could ruin Jon’s mood, at least tonight.

  We all helped clean up, packed the car, and drove back to the Institute’s dorm to sign everyone back in. At least for a short time, I had fun with my friends as a “normal” teenager. Monday it was back to the drudgery of high school and Brunner’s abuse.

  Monday started the same way as every other Monday morning. I overslept, rushed to get dressed, and grabbed a couple of Pop-Tarts as I ran out the door so Mom could drive me to school. I ate as rapidly possible because I still tensed whenever we pulled into the school’s driveway. Part of me expected to see another body hanging there each day. I wondered if I’d ever get the vision of Mr. Taylor swaying from the end of a rope out of my head.

  I jumped out of the van, having gotten the ritualistic morning kiss on the cheek, and caught up to Marcel in the hall as he walked into homeroom. Brunner cracked a couple of lame jokes as we took our seats, and the day was off to another in the endless litany of bad days.

  School trickled by like a grease-filled drain, but I was looking forward to seeing Wendi in the Air-Lock before going home. It sort of made the day bearable.

  The last bell of the day rang, so I stopped at my locker, dropped my books, and strolled toward the Air-Lock. As I crossed over the science hall, dodging kids running for their lockers, a huge weight struck me, hurtling me to the ground.

  “What a Slag,” Brunner proclaimed, standing over me, the conquering gladiator. I looked through his legs to see Clint and Ryder, but also a bunch of other kids. The prospect of a fight always drew a crowd. It was a bit unusual for the end of the day when the Norms got to go home or to their part-time jobs. “So, what do you think the Slag Princess sees in this toad?”

  Laughter boomed from the crowd. Brunner stood on stage now, the Desmond Roberts on his own Saturday Night Showdown. He strutted back and forth, working himself up. “I think I’ll have to show her what a real man is.” He waved his arms pumping up the crowd.

  The crowd let fly encouragement. “You show that Slag” and the “slut deserves it” rang out, boosting Brunner all the more. He kicked me hard in the side, flipping me onto my back like a turtle. More laughter and catcalls rained down on me.

  Brunner leaned down so his mouth was near my ear. “I’m going to take your girlfriend and make her scream, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do ‘bout it.”

  All the pent-up fury from the last time Brunner attacked Wendi burst through the dam of reason. I stopped thinking, stopped hearing my mom telling me to not make mysel
f a target, to be safe. I had enough.

  The hours of training at The Secret Lair with Blaze kicked in. Brunner’s balance shifted as he perched over me. Before he could react, I gripped the front of his shirt, rolled away from him, and threw him head first into the nearby wall. While he lay there stunned, I got out from under him and on my feet.

  Clint and Ryder moved in to hold me, but Brunner screamed, “Leave him! The Slag is mine!”

  Like a lumbering giant, Brunner got to his feet. He’d never leave Wendi alone until I made him stop. The time had come to stand up to this bully and end this once and for all.

  “I’m going to kill you!” Brunner raged as he charged. I quickly sidestepped, my leg snaking out to hook his and send him to the floor again face first. It was the same move Blaze had used in the parking lot.

  Clint and Ryder helped him up. Blood flowed from his nose from where he hit the floor. Since bull rushing me didn’t work the first time, in Brunner’s mind it would work better the second time. Brunner flew at me, arms thrown wide to crush me in a bear hug where his size would give him the advantage. I ducked under his arm and let him run into the wall without any assist. An “ooooh” emanated from the crowd from the audible crash. Brunner considered himself the toughest guy in the school, and I was making a fool of him.

  He wheeled around, his face red with rage. He ran toward me throwing wild punches, hoping his greater reach and strength would be enough. It didn’t work.

  I blocked his left fist, returning a solid punch to his sternum, knocking the wind out of him. I stepped back unleashing a roundhouse kick to Brunner’s exposed head. My foot caught him cleanly in the eye and mashed his nose as it flew by. He dropped like a sack of turnips off a truck.

  Clint and Ryder stood, mouths hanging open. The cheering crowd quickly dispersed. The familiar clack of Vice Principal Robinson’s heels coming down the hall gave me all the warning I’d get. I knew I was done for.