Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  “All I can see is you in that ring and him doing the same thing to you! I love you, Gisbo! I can’t, won’t lose you, not to him, not like that!” Kennis said. “And Kinny and I, we told nobody about it, no one. We were afraid if we did, he might come after us, and nobody seemed to know anything about it! It was like it was swept under the rug. He murdered two Renegades in training just like you and me and nobody talks about it . . .”

  Gisbo thought again of Narroway being blinded by his love for his son and his fist tightened.

  “It’s ok, he can’t hurt you,” Gisbo said.

  “I’m not worried about that! I’m worried about you! Please don’t fight him, Gisbo! Let someone else do it,” Kennis said.

  Gisbo was silent.

  “You don’t have to do this. Promise me, Gisbo,” Kennis said, her big, blue eyes wet and red with tears. Just looking at them made him feel guilty.

  “I . . .” Gisbo started.

  “Please, I know you’ve worked hard. It won’t be for nothing! Just don’t fight him, fight someone else! Please promise me! Promise me we’ll have a life together after all this is over!” Kennis said. At that, Gisbo felt the words fall from his mouth.

  “I promise,” Gisbo said. Kennis let out a bated breath and hugged him.

  “Thank you.” Kennis said.

  Gisbo said nothing, only held her, thinking of another promise he made, and another promise made to him, and wondered which ones would actually be kept.

  “You won’t win.” Kennis’s words echoed through Gisbo’s head all morning and he had to admit it hurt, but he understood her reasoning. He donned his blue and white, draping cloak, hiding his identity, and made his way to the tournament alone.

  The crowd, usually booming, was downright infectious. Everyone was up on their feet, cheering at one of the more exciting tournament events as the Renegade and Strife teams took their lines. The Renegades looked across the ring at their shrouded opponents, not knowing who was behind the green cloaks.

  There were two large men and two average sized ones. Either way, Gisbo shook with excitement. This wasn’t going to be like his experience in the Ronigade tournament. No. There were no Boons, only their inner essence and one body against another until someone fell.

  All natural.

  Muscles jerked and a thousand encounters from his boyhood washed across his minds eye as the crowd’s noise surrounded him and set him at ease. He did not even hear Narroway give the announcement to begin their rolls. Only when the number five shot up to the sky, followed by a one, was he brought back to the reality of the situation.

  “Renegades! Choose or pass,” Narroway ordered.

  “We pass,” Perry stated.

  “Strifes, present your fighter!” Narroway ordered.

  There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. A fighter threw off his cloak and took his place within the ring, arms folded, tapping his foot.

  “Seems they want to set the tone immediately,” Perry said.

  “I’ll take this one,” Foxblade said, throwing off his cloak. “A scar lies above my right shoulder that requires repayment.”

  “Luckily for you, we already decided you would be the one to face him,” Perry said.

  “I know,” Foxblade said as he stepped up to the ring.

  “Close quarter combat is a Shininja’s specialty, but no one does it better than the Fox of Blades,” Rake said.

  “You mean, besides myself,” Gilfrid said.

  “Right,” Rake said.

  “I don’t like your tone, boy,” Gilfrid said.

  Rake stood in silence and folded his arms.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought! Now, as for you, I understand Foxblade trained you last year? If so, we’re all in big trouble. You should have come to me!” Gilfrid said, slapping Gisbo on the back.

  “The black dome, don’t you remember?” Gisbo asked.

  “Oh, right, that pesky thing. Glad that’s gone!” Gilfrid said. He adjusted his gaze toward the ring. “Those Shininjas, sooo cocky! So full of themselves! Not like us Berserkers! Right there, Gizzy?”

  “Yeah, right,” Gisbo muttered.

  “What do you know about this one, Perry? I’ve never seen Foxblade so ready to volunteer for, well, anything,” Rake said.

  “That’s Raner Baskfield. He’s an Aquarian master practitioner of Akida, a free flow movement that focuses on intercepting attacks and using their own energy against the user. Very dangerous, especially if he gets a hold of you. On top of that, he’s a master of human anatomy and knows how your body works better than you do. Joint manipulation, and locking, is his specialty. One wrong move, and your limb is broken, followed by your life,” Perry said.

  “And what about Foxblade’s style? Can his compare to it?” Gisbo asked. Perry smiled.

  “Foxblade has no style. He only adapts. Like wind through a keyhole, he unlocks the weak points of a structure and takes them down with nerve strikes. He too is a master of human anatomy, but at a baser level,” Perry said. “This, I know, is what he taught you. Be proud, Gisbo. Besides his own son, Foxblade has only had one other student. Maybe he was forced to work with you, for our own survival, but something tells me that simply wasn’t the case,” Perry said. Gisbo couldn’t help but smile.

  “The only downside I see is that Raner is a master of something else. Patience. He won’t make a move until his opponent does. It is not an aggressive style. Foxblade, as we all know, lacks in one area,” Perry said.

  “Patience,” Gisbo said.

  “It’s a wonder you lived through his training then,” Rake jibed.

  “Wow, was that a joke, Rake? Maybe friends are rubbing off on you,” Gisbo said. “I just wonder how someone who took a shot to the nose so easily is considered to be a top hand to hand fighter.”

  “I took it, only to put you in debt. I will return the favor, cash it in, when you least expect it,” Rake said.

  Gisbo gulped.

  Foxblade looked at his competition. Nothing had changed since he last saw Raner Baskfield. He was still as thin as ever with long, lean muscles able to stretch and leave his opponents bewildered, then broken. He had short hair for no chance of entanglement, narrow, watchful eyes under a large brow, and a tight green Strife uniform with the ribbons along the shoulders removed. Even while standing on his line, he took up a standard Akida position, knees bent and feet spread apart so his legs took on a diamond shape. His right hand was higher to protect the face, and the left lower to protect his mid-section and groin area.

  Foxblade paced along his line like a stalking tiger, keeping his energy up and blood flowing, watching his opponent’s every breath, every blink. He hadn’t faced someone of Raner’s level in a while. His short lived battle with Scarrr was like fighting a child, but Raner would be different. He felt his heart pump as adrenaline flew through his body, as the fear of an unknown outcome excited his body, but not his mind.

  In Foxblade’s mind, he had already won . . .

  Narroway got the ready signal from each fighter, lifted his hand, and dropped it with his usual enthusiasm.

  “BEGIN!” Narroway yelled.

  As expected, Raner stood still, not making a move, and Foxblade continued his pacing, this time leaving his starting line. The cheering crowd grew quiet, awaiting the explosion that was sure to come. Foxblade paced around his foe in a tight, controlled circle, ready to pounce, forcing Raner to turn with him. Foxblade spun his foe about in a counterclockwise position three times, winding him like a pocket watch.

  “He never fought me like this; what’s he waiting for?” Gisbo muttered.

  “Because you weren’t an Akida master,” Rake said. “One bad move, and Foxblade will be on his back with a broken neck, or worse, dead.”

  Gisbo gulped again.

  Foxblade stopped his pacing and stood still. The crowd held their breath and watched the Shininja walk forward, calmly, just a few inches shy of Raner’s reach. Foxblade then leaned his head forward, within Raner’s reach, as if tempti
ng him to reach out and snap his neck. Staring into his ice blue eyes, Raner didn’t shake once, didn’t smile, only kept his vision straight.

  “What are you waiting for? Reach out and pluck the fruit of victory,” Foxblade said, dangling his head.

  Still, Raner did nothing, said nothing. Foxblade leaned back and fell back on one foot, leaning all his weight back on it, and dropped his hands to his side. Gisbo watched as Perry smiled.

  “What are you smiling about?” Gisbo asked.

  “Foxblade is taking on one of the many adaptable stances of the Shininja. Sparks are about to fly, and once they do, I doubt this fight will last long. Blink and you’ll miss it,” Perry said. Gisbo turned just in time to see Foxblade attack.

  The Fox of Blades raised his hand upward from his side, and threw it forward like a spear tip, straight for Raner’s jugular vein. All he had to do was watch Raner’s chest for any movement, any flinch at all. Foxblade saw the Aquarian move, a muscle flex in his shoulder. That’s all he needed. He ripped his hand back as Raner’s rose up within Foxblade’s reach. He had fallen for the feint, like a snake in a hole coming up for the sight of the squirrel or, in this case, the fox. Raner was committed now and reached for Foxblade’s retracting hand, no doubt for victory as both knew that once grabbed, it’d be over. Foxblade’s circling proved just right. The angle, everything fell into place. With one quick spin of his front foot, Foxblade simply fell backward, letting his body weight carry him aside, knowing full well gravity always moved faster than any strained muscle, leaving Raner’s ankle and knees locked into position, only able to fall in one direction.

  Forward.

  Foxblade took advantage of the opportunity. He saw the pressure point just above the armpit, the auxiliary nerve, the victory strike. Once hit, Foxblade knew that it would overwhelm the brain with signals and shut it down, ending the fight. He went for it with all the speed he could muster. His strike was true, he hammered it directly, knuckles first, but he felt something beneath the skin shatter and absorb the attack. Now Foxblade’s turn was out of control as he was forced into a second of shock upon both the feel and the shattering sound. He had not struck flesh, but ice.

  With his free hand, Raner grabbed Foxblade by the wrist. Foxblade felt it lock up, and before he knew it, he was laid out on the floor, his shoulder on fire, looking up into Raner’s eyes.

  “Having trouble moving your shoulder?” Raner asked calmly. Foxblade went to roll over, only to realize he couldn’t. Everything had locked up.

  “I’d ask what you did to me, but something tells me you cannot wait to explain,” Foxblade said. Raner gave a rare smile.

  “Simple. I lost our last fight, fair and square, because I did not know you and your ability to manipulate nerves. It was the one fight I’ve ever lost, and when one loses, they learn from it. I have re-focused my water ability. I can control the water flowing through my body. As it’s 80% water, I have 80% full, mental control over my body. In this case, I sensed your attack coming, hardened my blood at the point of impact, protecting the nerve, and now, from skin to skin contact, I’ve disabled your right arm,” Raner said.

  “You’re wrong,” Foxblade said.

  “Excuse me?” Raner said.

  “You didn’t lose our fight because you didn’t know of my abilities. You lost because you still think fighting is a sport. You have mastered knowledge of limb breaking, rather than kill strikes. A fight is not fair and square. A fight is not fun and games. One either lives or dies, and in the rarest of instances, comes back to do it again,” Foxblade said as he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. He lifted his good arm forward, holding it out.

  “My strike, while missing your auxiliary nerve, was not wasted. A true Shininja strike is never blind luck. There’s always a strike behind a strike. Luck, after all, is just preparation colliding with opportunity. Go ahead, you can grab me now if you like. The fight’s over,” Foxblade said.

  “What, what’d you do to me?” Raner said.

  “Simple. You took a half-measure. I took a full one,” Foxblade said. He raised his gloved hand to reveal the four exploded chambers upon his knuckles that looked like left over firecrackers.

  “What, what the hell is that?” Raner asked.

  “A gas of my own Soarian design, less dense than air, closely resembling helium molecules. As you said, the body is 80% water, but combine that with my gas, which you inhaled when the coating across my knuckles burst against your ice shield. This gas, was made just for Aquarians like yourself. It reacts to the essence within you. I have specific poisons to kill every race, including my own.” Foxblade said.

  “You’re . . . you’re sick!” Raner said.

  “And you’re a fool. Your blood is now bubbling like seltzer water. When it reaches your brain, it will overcompensate, and you will cry blood. You’ll have time to wipe away the tears before all goes black. You have five seconds to live. I suggest you take one long breath and look at the sun one last time. It will be the last light you will ever see it,” Foxblade said as he turned his back and walked away.

  “No, no, no, no, I . . .” Raner started as he felt the corners of his eyes water up on their own accord. He wiped his hands over them and brought up blood. Then, as predicted, everything went black. He fell upon the ground, dead. Narroway called the fight just as Foxblade stepped out of the arena and made his way toward the bench. He sat down in front of a bewildered, murmuring crowd, unable to mutter a cheer.

  Chapter Twenty: Long Time Coming

  The sparks flew high in the air, a two for the Strifes and a one for the Renegades. Narroway faced the green team.

  “Strifes, will you pass or present?” Narroway asked. Lamik stood, arms folded.

  “We will present,” Lamik said.

  “Present?” Perry muttered.

  The biggest of the green hooded figures made his way forward until he was upon his line. Rather than rip his cloak off, the man ignited his Flarian essence and eradicated his shroud in a burst of flame. There, within the heart of the firestorm, stood a man never before seen in a green uniform.

  Ranto Narroway.

  The roar of Ranto’s flames was the only sound in the arena, like a growling beast in a cave. Father and son said not a word, only looked at one another.

  “Time to make a decision,” Perry said as he and Narroway both closed their eyes. A second later, Perry turned his attention to his team.

  “It’s decided. Rake, get in there,” Perry said.

  “I cannot,” Rake said.

  “And why is that?” Perry asked.

  Rake only pointed.

  Perry and the rest of the team followed his finger to see Gisbo within the ring, standing upon his line, fists clenched.

  “How did he . . . when did he . . .” Perry started, bewildered. He didn’t even sense Gisbo walk past him. He met Narroway’s gaze with an empty shrug.

  Elsewhere in the crowd, Kennis lost her breath seeing Gisbo in the ring, standing across from the monster who had haunted her dreams.

  “You . . . you promised . . . YOU PROMISED!” Kennis said, all color flushing from her face. Niffin grabbed Kennis’s trembling hand.

  “Gisbo can win,” Niffin said. “He’s strong.”

  “No, he can’t . . .” Kennis said, feeling a tear fall down her face, and the thought of life without him sent her inwardly into hysterics.

  Narroway stood between both fighters. Now well beyond the time required to start a match, he looked back and forth at the two boys, no, men, family, standing across from one another with bloodlust in their eyes. Several crowd members began to yell “What’s the holdup?” and “Start the match!”

  Narroway looked between the fighters, studying the crowd, and found Falcon Vadid, sitting beside Moordin, arms folded, smirking.

  “Damn you, Falcon. I will not allow this fight to happen,” Narroway muttered under his breath. “I will not have this! A five minute recess will be taken. The Renegade team wishes a time out.”

&nb
sp; This was met by a host of booing as Narroway left the ring to meet with Perry. The two fighters didn’t even notice him leave.

  Gisbo stared at Ranto. Years of build up, years of memories, swam before his mind as he let his anger, his fury, his pain channel through him. He rode upon it, feeling his skin and face turn a bright red.

  “This has been a long time coming,” Ranto said. “Too bad it will be over so quickly.”

  Gisbo only stood there.

  “You do realize that family or not, I’m going to kill you,” Ranto said. “You best say your peace now, before I take it from you.”

  “Why’d you do it?” Gisbo asked. Ranto looked at him.

  “Do what?” Ranto asked.

  “Kill Niffin’s dog? Kill her whole world? What gives you that right?” Gisbo asked, feeling his voice tremble with rage.

  “Rights come and are deemed by our creator, a creator who does not exist. IAM did not create us. We created IAM. Rights don’t exist to those already free. I’m free. Free to do what I please, when I please because of the power flowing through me. Power brings freedom. Like Groggo, like Niffin’s dog, they were but tools of battle, major tools to be shutdown to give the Strifes an edge. It was my initiation, to prove to the Strifes my loyalty. They are the only group capable of purging evil from this world. The Renegades have fallen lax, indecisive. I have not. Action, that is what this world needs, and that is what the Strifes’ network will provide for me,” Ranto said.

  “That, and keeping your man love at bay,” Gisbo said. Ranto’s eyes went huge. Gisbo knew he had touched a nerve and he didn’t care.

  “What did you just say?” Ranto asked.

  “The fact that you have such a problem with it proves how far gone you are. You’re delusional. Why take offense to something you cannot control? It’s who you are; accept it,” Gisbo said.