by Earl, Collin
Almost instantly, Monson started to move, fully intending to come to the aid of his friend. He let out a muffled yelp when an arm caught him and pulled him back down. He struggled against Artorius’ overwhelming strength.
“Arthur! What the hell are you doing? We need to help—”
“Chill, Grey. Chill and watch.”
As Monson looked back to the fray, he realized he would not have been able to get to Casey before the onslaught commenced anyway.
Jim charged Casey, swinging his baton in a controlled, heavy, overhand strike. Casey set his stance, quickly falling into his leg-centered form. He sidestepped Jim's attack at the last possible moment, throwing Jim slightly off balance. Casey countered, throwing two lower sweeps aimed at the legs, a high roundhouse, and an amazingly fast spinning back kick. After landing the last kick, Casey instantly retreated. He performed a series of back handsprings, finishing with a full back flip. He stuck the landing about five yards from a now-prone Jim, who gaped at him in shock.
The other MIB clapped appreciatively. “I think you just got it handed to you, Jim.”
“Shove it, Mark,” growled Jim, tossing a nasty scowl over his shoulder.
After getting to his feet, Jim proceeded with a much greater level of caution. He stalked Casey, circling him like a hungry predator, and attacked only when he felt secure enough in his position.
He should have stalked a bit more.
Jim’s second attack, a sideways blow meant to crush his victim’s shoulder, was just as ineffective as his first. The strike simply bounced off the extended foot of an airborne Casey. Jim stared in bug-eyed disbelief as the free-floating form of Cassius Kay struck him in the face. Monson wanted to say it was a kick, but truthfully, like the first two blows Casey dealt Jim, the former was moving too quickly for him to be sure. For a second time, Jim the MIB went flying.
“Jim, you do realize you just got your donkey kicked by a ten-year-old. The kid is slapping you around like a redheaded stepchild. You wouldn’t like a hand, would you?”
“I told you to shove it—”
“I’m fifteen.”
The arguing MIB stopped their conversation. Mark addressed Casey.
“What was that, kid?”
“I said I’m fifteen, not ten. And don’t call me kid.”
The amused smirk on Mark’s face instantly vanished. He glared at Casey with a newfound anger. “Listen kid, I think it’s about time you run off and play before we get serious—”
“So pulling a metal baton on me wasn’t serious? You have some seriously messed-up sensibilities.”
Casey adjusted his footing, widening his stance slightly. He continued his thought.
“I’ll run off if you leave the girl alone.”
The men laughed.
“So that’s why you got involved? Over a girl? You picked the wrong day to be a hero. Sorry kid, we can’t do that. Mr. Gibson wants to talk to her. And seeing how you seem to know her, why don’t you tell us who she is?”
“Then we’re at an impasse,” replied Casey in a venomous voice. “I need you to leave that girl alone.”
Mark’s smiled faded as he reached into his jacket. “I’m not playing with you anymore, kid. Get outta the way. ”
Mark pulled out an incredibly long switchblade, which sprang to its full length as he pushed a small button.
Casey eyes lit up, becoming calculating and aggressive. “Mark—can I call you Mark? I’m completely disappointed; a switchblade? Seriously? Dude, the 1980s called and they want their cultural icon back.”
The double beep of the Push-To-Talk phone sounded before the MIB could do anything more than look imposing. A voice rang out from the phone.
“Hamill, you guys find that girl yet?”
“We’re working on it, sir.”
“Well, work faster, morons. I want to know what she was doing around the complex. If she gets back to that dorm we’ll never figure out who she is. Find her! Gibson out.”
Mark replaced the phone, clipping it back to his belt.
“Your name is Mark Hamill?” asked Casey in a skeptical tone.
“Yeah, what of it?”
Casey started to laugh. “Your parents actually named you Mark Hamill? Oh, dude, that is rich. Did you hear that, Arthur? This dude’s name is Mark Hamill! ‘Oooohhh aaahhhh…Luke…I am your father….’ I seriously might pee myself.”
Mark’s incredulity raged and he moved towards Casey. Monson sprang to help his friend, but Artorius kept a tight grip on him.
“Arthur, let—”
“Grey, Casey has it under control.”
Artorius was right, of course. Once he and Monson turned their attention back to the fight, it was plain to see that Casey was in control. Recovered from his laughter, he was in his striking form, throwing open and close-fisted punches at Mark with that same frightening speed. Mark did his best to fend off Casey, but was quickly overpowered. Casey paused after a series of strikes to Mark’s head and midsection and let the older man retreat. Mark returned to Jim’s side, the latter still holding his steel baton.
“What a buzz kill.” Casey relaxed` his stance. “You two can’t beat me. How about we just call it a night and go home?”
The two men glared at him, a fine balance of embarrassment and hatred emanating from them.
Jim turned to Mark and nodded towards Casey. “I think we take this kid instead of the girl.”
“Yeah, he’s just another one of these Coren brats. He won’t be missed.”
They stared at each other.
“We’re agreed then?” asked Jim.
“Yeah. Just don’t kill him.”
Mark pulled out a metal extendable rod just like the one Jim was using. With a small jerk downward and a barely perceivable flicks of the wrists, electric arcs danced across the black metal of both batons, which now looked more akin to cattle prods than anything else.
“You know, kid.” Mark addressed Casey, dragging the baton across a nearby bush. The leaves sizzled and smoked from the coursing energy. “If you had just let us pass, we might have left the little girl’s face intact. But now, I think your girlfriend is about to have a close and intimate encounter with my knife.”
Casey’s face went cold and his lip curled as he answered. “Cassius Kay.”
“What was that, kid?” Mark cast Jim an unsure look.
“I said my name is Cassius Kay.”
The two men burst into ear-grating laugher. “Are you retarded, Cassius? You just told us your name. You do realize it’s over for you, right? Even if you could get away, we know who you are. We’ll find you. You can’t run now.”
Casey’s arms came to rest at his side. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mark. I was doing you a favor by telling you my name. Really, you should be thanking me.”
His aggressive words, delivered calmly, seemed to have no perceivable effect on Mark’s confidence. “What do you mean, Cassius?”
A malicious smile crept its way onto Casey’s face. “I mean, during the dark nights when you’re in your hospital beds dreaming of this moment, I want you to be able to put a name to the face of the man who beat you to a bloody pulp. I want you to scream out that name in your nightmares; the name that will ever be on the tip of your tongue but will always elude you in consciousness. I want you to reflect on the consequences of threatening me, forever considering, wondering, pondering the events of a night that you can’t remember but will always haunt you. Most of all I want you to remember this final admonishment: It won’t be a dream. Geez, I almost feel sorry for you two.”
A creepy speech, though one that did not make an ounce of sense in light of the current circumstances. Monson felt a gush of pity for the two men that could not be explained.
Mark and Jim’s patience finally cracked. They charged Casey, wildly swinging their stun batons.
Casey put his hands down to his side, palms facing the men. He slowly closed his eyes, breathing serenely as the MIB neared. Monson heard an audible crack as noise emanated from
Casey.
Pressure hit him, hit everyone, driving all but Casey to the ground. The feeling was strange and foreign. It was as if Casey was controlling the air—air that was not physical in any sense of the word. The pressure felt spiritual in nature; it was energy that was not of the physical world. That energy attacked their senses, from touch to smell, penetrating every nook and cranny in each of them.
“What the hell is going on?” yelled Monson from his hunched position on the ground. “What’s happening?”
“Heck if I know.” Artorius tried to move next to Monson. “Grey, what are you doing?”
A cold, saturated voice spoke to Monson. “Off your knees, little one. You will not be done in by this level of release.”
Monson got to his feet.
Pressure met pressure as Monson’s own power blossomed inside of him. The concept was truly insane, unnatural, psychotic even, impossible…all this was impossible…was he really here? Was he dreaming? None of it mattered right now as his power infused him.
Screams filled his ears, a bloodcurdling sound that encircled everything.
Monson searched for the source of the screaming only to have his attention completely captured by what he saw in front of Casey.
The blood-red mist was back. Monson stared in shock as his brain grasped at a memory simmering in the back of his mind.
“Flash fist….”
He thought back to that sparring match and the volatile ball of blood-red energy that had struck him and tossed him to the ground. He remembered the strange conglomerated mist as he flew and crumbled into the mat. He recalled the feeling associated with it as the same phenomenon was once again flooded the space completely encapsulating Casey.
Monson stared through the mist. Stark differences in Casey’s signature move became readily apparent the more Monson watched him. He noticed the difference in stance, the use of both hands instead of one, and the dramatic increase in energy. However, the changes were minor and unimportant in comparison with what really caught Monson off guard. He, Monson Grey, was unable see Casey’s flash fist with any amount of clarity as he had just moments before. The image of the mist broke in and out of his vision like a television on the fritz. He could see it, then he could not. He could see it. He could not see it. HE COULD SEE IT. HE COULD NOT SEE IT. Monson watched as the MIBs finally on their feet ran toward Casey. The Flash Fist energy discharge as Casey struck the two MIB in the head.
Supernatural wind, accelerated and energy infused, deafened him, causing minor but potent vertigo. All extraneous and mundane appetites dulled as a sudden plateau of clarity cruised on mental turbo boosters and peaked. Realization, like light from heaven, formulated and highlighted the understanding that Casey’s power—the very power that swarmed their surroundings like locusts—was not unique to Casey. This power, whatever it was, was inside Monson, too.
The realization breech something within him as a second voice tuned in loud and clear. This second voice was calming yet stern, and sounded strikingly like his own.
Enough of this Keeper it is not your time. Release him.
The spiritual powers inside of him, converged and conflicted, came crashing into one another driving Monson to the brink of his own sanity. The battle of diverging entities was like nothing he could have imagined, vast and unearthly. Endlessly images rifled through him until the vision of a single individual standing in a lush valley jumped out so suddenly that Monson took an unsure step back.
The man stood in the distance indistinct but detailed, his savage blood lust and torn raiment readily noticeable—then Monson’s overhead view changed, the camera careening faster and faster until the vision came to rest on a pair of savage silver eyes.
The eyes bore down upon him.
The cold voice spoke again.
Let Me Out.
Monson pushed it away, tried to run, but he was helpless under the influence of the silver eyes. He was going to fall and there was nothing he could do about it. Another voice spoke.
I told you LET…HIM…GO.
Fiery pain fought against foreign emotion that held Monson captive the intangibles taking on a new meaning and life as they strove against one another. The pain slithered up his body as his view shifted sharply. A pillar of bright silver light slammed into the ground, sending debris and energy everywhere. Once the light lessened, and the dust settled, a person wrapped in a silver mist drove the man in the open field back. Monson could not see the face of the second figure as the two combatants were engaged with in an all out struggle, but he tried desperately to do so ignoring the steady increase in physical pain. The new comer gestured in a controlled manner, the mists of silver swirling and trailing as fingers flew through the air. The figure spoke though inaudibly. Monson beheld columns of pure energy falling and trapping the man with the silver eyes. At this Monson fell to his knees, grabbing his head as the supernatural flowed from him leaving a mass of confusion behind.
Chapter 39 - Vision
All was silent. No wind, no energy, no creepy voices in his head; there was nothing—nothing, but the heaviness of night and his own staggering confusion. He grimaced as he grappled with his frustration. He was growing so tired of unexplainable, unbelievable events.
“Grey? Are you OK?”
Monson opened his eyes as a final burning sensation dissipated and the glare of silver eyes faded, its lingering traces blinding him. Casey and Artorius were at his side. Casey whispered to him gently.
“Seriously, Grey, are you OK? You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
Monson cut right to the point.
“You used flash fist again.”
Casey’s response sounded unsure. “Yeah, I did a little maneuver I came up with on my own. I call it ‘flash fist psychosis.’ Pretty cool name, huh?”
Monson chuckled in spite of himself. “Yes Casey, it’s a great name. I’m surprised those guys didn’t explode or something. The power you released was outrageous.”
“You bring up an interesting point. And I’ve been meaning to ask you this: How do you always seem to know when I’m using the flash fist?”
Monson glared at him disbelievingly. “What do you mean, Casey? The fact that you expel all that energy from your body, how could I not know?”
“You see, that’s what I don’t get. How could you possibly know that I manipulate expelled energy?”
Monson tried his best not to let his frustration boil over. How did he know that Casey was using expelled energy? Was he serious?
“Casey, I’m sorry to say this, but that is an incredibly stupid question.”
“How is that a stupid question?”
Monson rolled his eyes. “Think about it, Case. How do you think I’m able to tell when you do the flash fist? What would be the most logical answer?”
“Grey, are you trying to tell me that you can see chakra?”
“Yes, Casey—that is exactly what I’m telling you.”
Casey started to sound angry. “Dude, you can’t see chakra! That’s impossible. Like trying to see air or ultraviolet rays. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when we jumped the hedge?”
“Listen to what he has to say, Case.” Artorius placed a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “While it’s true that you shouldn’t be able to see chakra, what just happened isn’t ordinary, either. Something drove me, Grey and those two guys to the ground, and it wasn’t something physical.”
“You too Arthur? Jeez, what is up with you guys?” Casey pulled both Monson and Artorius closer. “Listen to me, you two. With the flash fist, you have to expel a lot of energy from your body and then focus your intent. You were probably just feeling my chakra effect the air around you. Soft fist, or energy-focused martial arts, will use chakra or chi or bioelectrical energy or whatever you want to call it to fight. This is not out of the ordinary peeps in China have been doing for thousands of years, Crazy cool stuff. The only weird thing about this conversation is Grey claiming to be able to see the energy used to perfo
rm the Flash Fist.”
Monson shook his head in frustration. This was not going the way it should, but what could he do? Trying to reason with Casey right now was not a good use of their time. If he still wanted to meet Baroty, he needed to move. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s talk about it after I meet with Baroty, OK?”
Artorius and Casey whispered, “Agreed.”
“Done then. Don’t forget, though. We need to finish this conversation.”
Monson changed the subject. “So what about the MIB? Did you kill them? Are we going to need to find some shovels?”
Casey seemed to catch on to what Monson was trying to do. “Grey, only you could say that with a straight face. Of course not, dude. I just messed them up a little. The move fries the brain a bit. If all goes well, they won’t remember a thing about tonight.”
“If all—goes well?” stuttered Monson, sounding a little panicked.
“Yeah…the move doesn’t always work, but hopefully there won’t be any permanent damage.”
Artorius snorted. “Remind me never to threaten Kylie.”
“What’s this crap you’re spouting?” spat Casey indignantly. “I wasn’t doing any of that for her. They just pissed me off.”
“Sure Casey. Whatever you say.”
Monson slowly stood. Once at full height, he craned his neck to see over the hedge. “So what do we do with Mr. Skywalker and his buddy Jim?”
More voices from the main pathway answered the question. “HQ, we have men down. I repeat. We have men down. Send all extra units! Location: the student dormitory.”
“I think it’s about time we make our exit, fellas,” Artorius said in a conversational tone that hardly hid his apprehension. “We don’t want to be here when the CIA and the rest of Baroty’s men get here.”
“CIA?” Monson asked, unsure that he had heard right.
“The Coren Intervention Agency.”
Monson started to giggle. “Now that’s a terrible rip-off. The Central Intelligence Agency should sue for trademark infringement.”
Additional voices and footsteps indicated the arrival of more of Baroty’s men along with some of Coren’s special CIA security force.