Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  Keeping up with the seemingly limitless energy and speed of the honey badger was hard enough. Without vision, the thing would pick him apart like a stuffed turkey. He had come to it now, the moment every fighter reaches, where not only his opponent is attacking him, but his own mind as well, begging him to stop, to embrace the darkness, to take death hand in hand like a long lost friend . . .

  Dave knew that he had let himself go over the years. He couldn’t help it. He was happy, and happiness gave way to pleasure, relaxation, good times with friends, and great, overwhelmingly great, food and beer. As long as he was with friends, with his son, he did not think of his wife. He said hello to everyone and everything just to start up a conversation, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was sleeping. Anything to not let his mind wander to . . . it.

  He couldn’t even bring himself to think it, let alone say it. Ever. His heart was wounded, and rather than enter the wound, he simply covered it. He was old, he was tired, he was spent. It was too late for him, not enough gas in the tank, not enough energy to visit the memory he had pushed down for so long . . .

  The crowd still cheered, but it was growing dimmer, and Dave came to a curious thought. Was it the cheer that gave him the strength, or was the strength already there? Suddenly, he listened, listened carefully, and through the raging crowd, he heard a voice, one voice, the only one that mattered to him now.

  The voice of his son, cheering his name. He focused on it, grabbed for it like a life preserver. Once grabbed, he simply pulled, pulled up everything that was left in the basement, even the darkest parts. If this was to be his last stand, he would leave nothing behind. He would show his son what it was to be a man. In that moment, he felt young again. Everything he kept down, wouldn’t face, held in . . .

  He knew what he had to do. To truly heal a wound of the heart, he had to enter it, admit what he never could. Thinking it wasn’t enough, he had to say it; he had to order his body forward by will alone.

  In a quick snap for anyone, let alone a bear, Slumby grabbed the honey badger just as its claw was millimeters away from puncturing its right eye. Slumby yanked the beast free and held it before his face as it wriggled like a snake within its paws, screaming that awful wail.

  “You killed her. You killed what I held most dear in this world, the most beautiful, kindest creature I ever knew. You did this; you let her die, not me, YOU! YOU! There is no high road to be had here. Only one of us will see this sunset, and that . . . THAT WILL BE ME!” Dave yelled. Slumby squeezed and squeezed the honey badger’s head as Keith screamed, grabbing at his own head.

  Both Slumby and Dave squeezed, tighter and tighter, as if wringing out water from a rag. The bear began to glow green, along with Dave, as the two of them roared, pouring out years of pent up strength, frustration. They now sounded very much alike as the honey badger’s head, along with Keith’s, twitched unnaturally, then finally burst apart like a dropped watermelon, spraying not seeds, but meaty grey matter and blood all about.

  “Winner TEAM RENEGADE!” Narroway screamed, but Dave didn’t hear it as he limped to his bear. His bear limped to him. They fell on the floor, both catching one another in a loving embrace as soul and man were finally cleansed, and together, free . . .

  Chapter Eighteen: Not a Hero

  “So much for that! All that training, and I didn’t even get to fight!” Gisbo said, looking down at Fao, who whined.

  “That’s the way of the world, my boy. Ooooh,” Dave groaned as he sat at a table in the commons.

  “Take it easy, Dad,” Shaved said.

  “It only hurts when I swallow,” Dave said. He tilted back another frothy mug and groaned again as it went down. “That time felt better though; just a little more and . . .”

  “Dad, you could’ve died out there,” Shaved said. “Why would you agree to that?”

  “Some principles, son, are worth more than your life, and to protect them, your life needs to be put on the line. I’d be wallowing in guilt now, wishing for death, if I never accepted. You’ll understand one day,” Dave said. “Some things are worth sacrifices. Besides, this new eye patch makes me look like a total badass! Think it’ll get me free drinks?”

  “Well, for now, I’m wheeling you back home,” Shaved said.

  “But,” Dave started.

  “Still, that was so awesome! Making that guy’s head explode like that, BOOM! All over the place, so awesome . . .” Gisbo said.

  “Hey, you know . . .” Dave said, raising up his hands.

  “We’ll see you later, Gisbo,” Shaved said as he wheeled his father away in the wheelchair that doubled as a fruit cart some days.

  “Where’d your party go?” Kennis asked, arriving in her apron with two more beers.

  “Gone, I guess,” Gisbo said.

  “Well, in five minutes, I’ll join you, ok?” Kennis said. “Let me just check out. I’ll leave these here.”

  Kennis planted a kiss on Gisbo’s forehead as he erupted in a furious blush. He figured he should be used to such things by now, but every kiss felt like the first. Better yet, they seemed to practically kill the rising Drakeness within him. He watched Kennis return to the shack and marveled again at the way she moved, the way she walked, the way her scent carried through the air, and all the eyes that turned to watch her go. She noticed not a one, only his, as she walked back out with a huge smile, showing her dimples. She sat across from him, washing him with her peace, pleasure, and comfort, and that’s when it hit him. He thought of life without her, and it sent a reverberating dread through his bones. He quickly dismissed the thought.

  They spent the night talking, lost in each other’s gaze. As far as they were concerned, no one else was around as they grew louder and louder with each drink, talking about the one thing they had in common: their love of stories. They talked of the fairy tales of their youths, of various authors and how their stories inspired, entertained, and brought them out of dark places.

  They talked ‘til they could talk no more, until their throats were dry and their drinks were gone and their faces hurt from smiling so much. Then, like all lovers do, they continued their conversation, silently, at Kennis’s tree house while Niffin was away. They rolled about the floor, pushed one another across the kitchen, and finished, exhausted and embraced in one another’s arms. The stars and moon twinkled in the skylight above, the only witness and maybe, the cause of their love.

  They both blamed it on the moon, on the stars, and the beauty of the universe, whose beauty, as far as Gisbo was concerned, was wrapped in one delicate package. The package had a name, beauty had a name, and to Gisbo, her name was Kennis Flora.

  Love, like the Drakeness, had infiltrated Gisbo’s being, but unlike the Drakeness, he embraced it. As he did, with Kennis wrapped in his arms, he vowed he would never let go. Before Kennis, he believed the moon was the most peaceful, beautiful thing, but staring at the moon reflecting off of Kennis’s blue eyes, an appreciable, awe-striking shiver swept through his core, vibrating in the deepest of places.

  “So, I’ve been thinking,” Gisbo said.

  “That’s a first,” Kennis said.

  “Hey . . . none of that,” Gisbo said, he then noticed something dangling around her neck, a red, glinting ring.

  “What’s this?” Gisbo asked.

  “A Flarian ring,” Kennis said. Gisbo looked confused.

  “But, you’re an Aquarian,” Gisbo said.

  “Yeah, so?” Kennis asked.

  “Well, why do you have it?” Gisbo asked.

  “It was my mother’s. She, she was a Flarian and she, married an Aquarian. This ring, it was hers. She always told me that when a Flarian and an Aquarian meet, if they fall in love, then it’s always, meant to be, forever. They balance one another perfectly and together, they both give light and life to the world around them,” Kennis said. “My mom, my mom said for me to hold ontot his, give it to someone I plan on spending the rest of my life with, I know, I know it’s silly.”

  Gisbo put
on a look of horror.

  “I don’t mean you! Jeesh! I was just telling you what it meant! We’ve only been dating a few weeks . . . every day . . . you asked, was all! I was just, just,” Kennis started, and realized Gisbo was laughing. She hit him playfully.

  “You’re such a jerk,” Kennis said.

  “You like jerks apparently, you’re still here,” Gisbo said.

  “So, what were you thinking about?” Kennis asked.

  “Nothing, I just, so I’ve been thinking. After this tournament is over, and the Strife’s are stopped, for good, and I finish up some loose ends of my own, I’m thinking, I’m thinking that I’ve gotten all I wanted from being a Renegade. My dreams, they’re done here I think. I, I think it’s time to find some new ones . . . with you,” Gisbo said.

  “What?” Kennis asked, her eyes getting big.

  “I love you, Kennis.” Gisbo said.

  The words fell out of his mouth so naturally as their eyes reflected off one another and Kennis let go of his hands, and said nothing.

  “Kennis, I’m sorry, I don’t know, don’t know where that came from,” Gisbo said. “I’ve never said anything like that, to anyone, and it just, it came so easy and I . . .”

  He then felt her hand drift behind his head and felt her strong, yet delicate fingers wrap around his hair and pull his head close where her lips waited. They kissed long, pressing harshly into one another. Upon release, with both out of breath, she stared at him.

  “I love you too,” Kennis said.

  “This is, I’ve never felt this way, about anyone . . . and, I know, I know it’s moving so fast, but,” Gisbo said.

  “But you don’t care?” Kennis asked.

  “Yeah,” Gisbo said. Kennis smiled.

  “Niether do I,” Kennis said.

  Only after the moon set completely and the sun rose did the two young lovers fall asleep. Elsewhere, two others, trying to re-kindle a love lost, slept apart, not touching, staring up at the same moon that ignited Gisbo and Kennis.

  Nina, aloud, in the dark, asked the moon why she felt so alone.

  “Whew! Look at you! If those ain’t hickies, then you got a bad case of bed bugs!” Knob said. “Walk of shame, brotha! Walk of shame. Put ‘er there!”

  Gisbo only stared, shaking his head as he fixed his bandana and straightened out his clothes.

  “Why the hell am I always running into you out here?” Gisbo asked.

  “Well, this time, I was sent to find you,” Knob said.

  “Playing errand boy for Narroway?” Gisbo asked.

  “Hey! I’m his intern! Remember? Anyway, Gisbo, he’s offering to train you personally for this upcoming bout! He sees great stuff in you for the Flarian event,” Knob said. A strong feeling of mistrust broke through Gisbo as he thought about their last conversation.

  He doesn’t think you can beat Ranto, the voice said.

  “He doesn’t think I can beat Ranto on my own steam?” Gisbo asked.

  “Whoa, nobody said that! He just wants to help you,” Knob said.

  More like keep an eye on you, the voice said.

  “You mean more like keep an eye on me! What? He’s scared that I’m going to beat the ever-living piss out of his son? Damn right he should be scared! No, I’m training myself, my way, alone. Tell him thanks, but no, thanks,” Gisbo said.

  “You’re really going to turn down an offer from Narroway?” Knob asked, bewildered. “Gisbo, this is Ranto we’re talking about! He’s, like…”

  “He’s like what? You don’t think I can win either? You know what? Screw you and screw Narroway!” Gisbo said, feeling anger rise in his chest, grabbing at all his insecurities as if starved. “You just tell Narroway that should Ranto show up, he’s mine, like he promised. This has been a long time coming, and for what he did to Niffin . . .”

  “What? Wait, what he’d do to Niffin?” Knob asked.

  An image floated into Gisbo’s head, so clear Knob disappeared altogether. Black tendrils wrapped around the vision. The Drakeness showed him Ranto climbing the stairs of Niffin and Kennis’s tree house. Gisbo saw him open the unlocked door, tread the grounds where his love, and his now good friend, slept; he saw Ranto look down at the sleeping Kimjow, who awoke at his presence. Gisbo saw the dog look up with a happy face, completely trusting of this new visitor. His tail wagging. He saw Ranto’s massive hands reach down around the dog’s neck and . . .

  “GRAH!” Gisbo screamed as he threw out a punch that hit Knob square in the forehead. Knob fell backwards, seeing stars.

  “What the? Damn it, Gisbo! What the hell, man! What the . . .” Knob started, but Gisbo had already taken off. Knob took two woozy steps and fell back to the ground.

  “Jeesh, what’s his problem? Is it something I . . . . whoa,” Knob said again, falling and seeing his vision fade as he collapsed to the ground, his brain bleeding.

  Gisbo ran back to his tree house, feeling an overwhelming rage like no other. He felt as if he may burst from all the pent up pressure. His heart hammered in his chest, as if seeking to break free. His head pounded and tinges of red floated before his vision as images of not only Ranto, but Thomson and Malik seemingly all intertwined into a snarling green monster that clawed at his brain.

  In desperation, Gisbo grabbed the nearest tree and slammed his forehead into it as hard as he could, causing white flashes and fierce pain.

  “What’s wrong with me . . . WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME!? MAKE THIS STOP!” Gisbo felt his knees buckle as he fell upon them and screamed aloud, his voice startling a group of sleeping birds. He spied the moss covered rock before him. Without hesitation, he slammed his forehead repeatedly down as if bowing to a master, striking his forehead until his bandana tore, and the dripping Drakeness mark intertwined with his blood. He struck his forehead until his vision faded and he fell into darkness, shouting Fao’s name, but Fao did not come.

  Something else did . . .

  “I see you well, Gisbo Falcon. It’s about time we met, face to face. The rupture comes, and you, you are not prepared,” a voice said.

  “Cripes, another one? Who the hell are you?” Gisbo asked.

  “You’ve already heard my name, spoken within the Flarian deserts. When I come, I come not for the tournament, but for you,” the voice said.“We will meet before the rupture, and with it, comes death.”

  The darkness went away, and Gisbo was blessed with a recharging sleep that he so desperately needed.

  Upon waking, the sun was setting. No more voices haunted him. Gisbo felt three fresh scars on his forehead and spied his bandana laying on the ground. Drakeness dripped upon the rock, sizzling, then evaporating. Gisbo quickly tied the bandana up and returned to his empty dwelling. He dressed in lighter, training clothes, grabbed a gallon of water, and made his way out to the front porch. He stared into the setting sun and closed his eyes, seeing red light dance behind his eyelids as he focused all his pain, all his misery, all his passion, all his strength onto one specific point. He stood there until the image in his head was as clear as the rising moon. It wasn’t just an image, but his target, his absolute focus for this entire week.

  The face of Ranto Narroway, murderer, cousin, Renegade traitor.

  “He’s training like a demon out there, I wouldn’t interrupt him. He hasn’t stopped all week. I don’t think he’s even been sleeping,” Rolce said as he stared out across the porch at Gisbo doing inverted pushups, leaning his feet up against a tree. Falcon watched him as well, arms folded.

  “I suppose you haven’t heard the news about Knob?” Falcon asked.

  “Knob? What about him?” Rolce asked.

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Falcon said as he descended the stairs and made his way towards his son. The ground around Gisbo was no longer grassy. Gisbo had scuffed it up into a six by six dirt pile. The putrid smell of sweat and blood wafted into Falcon’s nostrils before he was within earshot of Gisbo.

  Falcon stood behind him. His boy didn’t notice his own father as he was lost i
n his focus and fury. Normally a father would be proud at such dedication, but Gisbo’s eyes were bloodshot, beyond hateful, with a glint of mad obsession. Down and down Gisbo went, doing pushups from a handstand position, one after the other as sweat poured down across his eyes, stinging them, making them even more red. Gisbo only counted, suppressing the pain, each rising number representing more power.

  “One hundred three, one hundred four, one hundred five,” Gisbo said, focusing on the numbers. He was in his own world, meditating on the fight with Ranto, every punch, every scenario, going through every option within his imagination. Finally, the pain was too much to bear. It infiltrated his brain as he felt muscles tear from strenuous use, felt the Drakeness explode out of his forehead and overflow his bandana. His arms gave way like two wobbly saplings as his tendons blew out, felling him face first to the ground and out of his concentration.

  When Gisbo looked up, his father was helping him to his feet as the Drakeness took over and healed his battered arms, releasing the intoxicating, surreal feeling that dwarfed the best of orgasms. What scared his father the most was as this happened, Gisbo smiled.

  “We need to talk,” Falcon said.

  “Later. I’m training,” Gisbo said, shaking off Falcon’s grasp. Refreshed, he plopped down upon the ground, hugging the tree backwards, and began doing inverted leg raises. Gisbo felt an object smack across his mid-section. He stopped, grabbed it, and raised it up curiously.

  “Cigars?” Gisbo asked.

  “I’ve warned you once about your training habits, Gisbo. I used to do the same thing. That’s how it starts, using the Drakeness for extended training. Then what’s to stop you from actually using it?” Falcon asked.

  “I can control it,” Gisbo said, as he began his workout again. When he brought his legs down, Falcon stepped on his foot, preventing him from lifting his legs up.

  “No, you can’t. That’s why I’m here. I have no doubt you will make the Flarian exhibit. No doubt in my mind because my mind is healthy. Yours isn’t. You turn down an invitation from our Warlord himself for training, and then you send your friend to the hospital?” Falcon said.