Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  To win this fight, Foxblade knew he wouldn’t need to just defeat Grayn, but also himself. Did things get better with age? Could experience best youth? He was about to find out . . .

  “Fighters, take your position,” Narroway said. The nervous whine in his throat was lost to everyone but Foxblade and those closest to him. The Renegade Chieftain knew what was at stake here.

  “Kill my student . . .” Foxblade said to himself, over and over again, trying to focus on it, but to no avail. “Kill my student or die,” Foxblade said, changing it. This helped a little as he slowly felt the nothingness, the inward paradox, take over as only his eyes became a witness to his own actions.

  “BEGIN!” Narroway yelled.

  Both fighters threw their daggers. The daggers looked like yellow bolts of lightning as they soared in near perfect unison and timing and then, the crowd witnessed something talked about in legend, but never seen.

  Grayn’s daggers and Foxblade’s met one another in exact symmetry. The four daggers touched, point to point, vibrating with power, frozen in a dead stop in mid-air.

  “That’s, that’s impossible,” Brawlda said, jaw dropping. “They are in perfect unison, down to the last molecule. Their power, their aim, it’s equal in every way. It’s . . . Every Shininja dreams of having such precision. I always thought of Foxblade as a friend and a rival. The man is so far out of my league, at a level I couldn’t even possibly imagine. Every fight we had was a mercy . . . This is insanity,” Brawlda said.

  “A Shininja’s attacks are more precise than powerful. A fight between Shininjas are rarely long. If they do not kill their target with the first strike, it is a rare thing. A slight muscle twitch, a blink at the wrong moment, and one of them will . . .” Perry spoke, then noticed Jackobi out of the corner of his eye and did not finish.

  Jackobi watched his father as he and Grayn took a matching sidestep, mirroring one another’s movements perfectly, each predicting the other’s footfall as their arms quivered from the absolute pressure of the blades, trying to find an angle, anything, to slip up the other.

  “Grayn . . .” Foxblade said.

  Grayn said nothing.

  “You were the best of us, the purest of us. Why? Why would you embrace madness in place of reason?” Foxblade asked.

  Grayn said nothing.

  “Have you nothing to say to me after all these years?” Foxblade asked.

  Grayn said nothing.

  “I see. Then you are truly lost,” Foxblade said. “If you have no words for me, at least show me action.”

  The two fighters stopped their circling and froze. Seconds later, they were gone, along with their essence. It was still a quickdraw match, but on a different level as the two fighters flew at one another with clings and clangs of their daggers, their speed increasing with every strike, until even the most seasoned eyes could no longer keep up. Only flashes and glints of yellow sparks as steel clashed against steel could be viewed.

  “This is . . .” Brawlda started, when one after another, there were SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM noises. “What the hell is that?”

  “They’re breaking the sound barrier. They have become one with the air around them now, more spirit, more energy than man. The molecules that form them are twisting their natural structures,” Moordin said. “It’s as if their souls are doing battle . . .”

  “Moordin . . . does,” Perry started.

  “If they continue like this, they will eradicate their bodies’ bonding, which is a mystery all in itself. Foxblade told me of this ability, an ability that even the Fox of Blades before him couldn’t perfect, saying that he believed the power of creation, the power of IAM himself, lies within the bonds of every atom. If one could grasp it, well, he could achieve the power of creation itself, go beyond a mere mortal into something . . . I can’t fully comprehend. It seems that Foxblade and Grayn perfected it. It is the ultimate assassination technique, moving with the speed of light or, rather, embracing and becoming one with a lightning strike. Time travel is only supposed to be possible when moving beyond the speed of light. But that in itself, science tells us, is impossible. Nothing is faster than electricity. Right now, both of them are literally riding the lightning, bending it to their will, becoming it,” Perry said.

  Jackobi said nothing as he looked on, his ice blue eyes morose and focused.

  “The temperature inside a lightning bolt can reach 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than the surface of the sun. This is still a quickdraw match. Whoever blocks incorrectly, counterattacks inefficiently . . . will simply be no more,” Perry said.

  “Please, enough with the facts!” Jackobi said.

  “He’ll be fine, son,” Perry said as he put a hand on his shoulder. “No one can defeat your father.”

  Jackobi said nothing, only looked on at the flashes of yellow helplessly.

  “But it seems it won’t come to that. They’ve run out,” Moordin said. Both fighters appeared in a swirling debut. They fell across from one another on one knee, breathing hard and no longer glowing. For a moment, they appeared out of breath, wasted, but that was the case for only one fighter.

  Grayn leapt up and sprinted at his former master with a vigor that surprised even Foxblade.

  In an odd maneuver, Grayn, with his dagger pointed upward in his clenched fist, went for an uppercut, aiming for Foxblade’s throat.

  In an equally quick maneuver, possible only from decades of experience, Foxblade hammered his left forearm onto the charging hand along the hilt, halting the attack while bringing up his right, dagger clenched fist. Grayn twisted his neck at the last possible moment, taking Foxblade’s knuckle rather than his blade. The younger Shininja was stunned for a moment, giving Foxblade just enough time to rise to his feet. In a quick side shuffle, the Renegade kicked Grayn along his left knee, buckling him. Foxblade did a little hop and extended his right foot into the inside of Grayn’s knee and bashed Grayn in the jaw with the hilt of his dagger, sending the boy off balance and falling toward the ground, open to a killing strike.

  “DO IT! FINISH IT!” Jackobi screamed.

  But Foxblade only stood over him, not budging, as student and master locked eyes.

  “What is he doing? FINISH HIM!” Perry shouted.

  “Grayn,” Foxblade said. “Pick up your daggers.”

  Grayn slowly rose to his feet and picked up his daggers, standing in an offensive stance.

  “What happened to you, Grayn? What do you want out of all this?”

  “Order,” Grayn said.

  “And you think the Strifes will do that? Bring order? At the cost of what? People’s humanity and your own?” Foxblade asked.

  “Yes,” Grayn said.

  “That is your decision? To be part of an organization using force, rather than choice, to help a lost world?” Foxblade said.

  “It is,” Grayn said. Suddenly, in unison, six sprays of blood burst from Grayn’s vitals. One from his left jugular, one from his right, one from his heart, one in each of his eyes, and one in his right wrist. Foxblade lowered his arms after releasing his throwing stars and watched his student, the only person on the planet other than his own son with the name Foxblade, fall to the floor, dead.

  “Then the Grayn Foxblade I once knew is no more,” Foxblade said. With a heavy sigh, he turned his back and walked back to his team. A point for Team Renegade went onto the board. Jackobi, with a massive sigh of relief, leapt atop the stage to meet his father.

  For the final time . . .

  In a final burst of yellow, Grayn’s feign had worked. Using his last remaining essence and embracing his lightning form, Grayn’s molecules reset themselves, changing matter itself around him as the throwing stars disappeared and his skin, sliced veins, and vitals repaired, healing him. With a hand hotter than the sun, he threw it forward, straight through Foxblade’s back and out through the front of his chest.

  Jackobi stood, frozen, covered in his father’s entrails as Grayn pulled his bloodied hand free from Foxblade’s chest. Th
e Renegade Shininja fell to his knees. Everything happened in slow motion for Jackobi as he caught his father’s lifeless form in his arms. He couldn’t hear the crowd; he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. All was empty, all was dark, all was drowned away as Foxblade’s lifeless, ice blue eyes stared upward at a sky no longer a part of his world.

  Jackobi felt his chest rise and fall, waiting for Foxblade’s lips to move, to say one last parting wisdom from father to son, but nothing came. Trying to come to his senses, sucking air into his lungs like water, Jackobi found his eyes rising up into the eyes of Grayn Foxblade, standing over him with a look of calm, cool composure he had only ever seen from his dad.

  The two Shininja brothers stood, measuring each other up, and finally Grayn spoke.

  “You’re next,” Grayn said.

  With that, Grayn Foxblade turned and made his way back to his team without a cut or bruise on him. Blood, Jackobi’s father’s blood, covered him like a crimson victory cloak.

  Jackobi watched him go, his heart hammering like a drum, his chest rising and falling like a bull’s. The young Shininja looked at the back of the white haired man with a crazed, boiling bloodlust he didn’t know he had in him.

  His genetic makeup wouldn’t allow such feelings to flow through him. He figured that what he felt was nothing but pure, raw, righteous fury. He embraced it like a woman’s touch as he rose to his feet, his father’s lifeless body draped within his arms. Jackobi walked straight through his teammates, not hearing their words or feeling anything other than the righteous fury. That fury would be his only feeling now, his only pleasure, until Grayn Foxblade died by not his daggers, but his father’s daggers in his hands.

  Meanwhile, utterly spent, Foxblade Dredka’s last student, Gisbo Falcon, stirred in his sleep, ignorant of the horror he would awake to.

  “Let the boy go,” Perry said.

  Narroway joined the group, face solemn and white. He was silent for a long minute.

  “We need another fighter to present,” Narroway said quietly. “Lamik, he has already rolled.”

  Perry said nothing, only tossed the die where he stood, winning the dice roll three to one.

  “What do you wish to do?” Narroway said.

  “We present,” Falcon said as he stepped up and volunteered himself, walking into the ring, pointing his massive Talon sword at Chieftain Lamik, challenging him outright, much to the cheering crowd.

  Chieftain Lamik folded his arms, looking at the man who had defeated him, embarrassed him, and then turned his back. Lamik returned to his team for deliberation and came back to the side of the ring, but not alone.

  Beside him was the youngest team member. Falcon knew it by the way the green cloak wrapped around him, but he wasn’t prepared for what lay underneath.

  Knob Brawlda revealed himself in his new green uniform, and Chieftain Lamik smiled.

  “BASTARD!” Falcon roared. “COWARD!”

  “Strategy,” Lamik said. Knob Brawlda stepped up into the ring as his father’s face turned white.

  “My boy? That’s, that’s where he’s gone!? My . . . no, no, no, NO!” Brawlda wailed. “FALCON! DON’T DO IT! PLEASE! PLEASE!”

  “Lamik . . . you bastard,” Perry said.

  “Knob . . . why?” Falcon stammered. “What, what is this? You? You were the one who killed Kimjow? You were the one who . . .”

  “Shut up!” Knob said. “What’s done is done. I’ve had enough of all of you! YOU WILL ALL PAY! ALL OF YOU!”

  Falcon and Knob took up fighting positions, and Falcon’s heart, once emblazoned with passion for his friend, now dwindled at the thought of possibly killing a boy who was picked on and full of rage and frustration, desperate and confused.

  “Knob, what is this? This isn’t you. You’ve let Lamik’s words twist you! Knob, please, reconsider this. It’s not too late,” Narroway started.

  “No! Stop putting words in my mouth, stop telling me how I feel! The butt end of everything, EVERYTHING!” Knob said.

  “KNOB! LISTEN! Lamik, he’s using you! He’ll toss you away as quickly as . . .” Narroway started.

  “NO! YOU LISTEN! YOU LISTEN FOR A CHANGE!” Knob screamed. “All of you, you need a wakeup call. You needed this. This was a long time coming! I just wish I had done this sooner! A self-made man, that’s what a Renegade is! I’m making myself one, right here, right now. So shut up, and start the damned match!” Knob yelled.

  Narroway stood, unmoving.

  “Start it!” Knob said.

  “How, how could I not have seen this . . . to not know the hearts, the true hearts, of those closest to me. I’ve failed you, Knob. On every level. I’m, I’m so sorry . . .” Narroway said. “But, that being said, you’re a man, a man with choices. You have made those choices and they cannot be unmade. Free will, even if it doesn’t coincide with our wishes, is what we fight for. I will give you what you wish. And, Knob Brawlda?”

  Knob looked at his recent mentor, who had tears at the corner of his eyes.

  “I wish you all the best,” Narroway said. With a heavy hand and heavy heart, Narroway started the match.

  Falcon didn’t move, only stood at the ready with his hand over his shoulder, watching Knob. The boy hid it well, but he was beside himself with fear. His knees shook, cold sweat dripped down his head, and his palms were soaked as he wiped them off on his pants, hovering over his coated steel pole-arm. Once powered up, Falcon knew it could pierce him as easily as any dagger.

  He’s desperate. If I underestimate him, take it easy on him, he will kill me, Falcon thought.

  Knob took a few, awkward steps forward; they were not the steps of a Naforian, but a man out of place. He lacked the natural skill for such an event. Why would Lamik choose him? Falcon snuck at look at Lamik, who stood there smiling. Did Lamik know something about Knob that Falcon didn’t? Was it all just a ruse? Falcon looked at the boy awkwardly moving closer, trying to judge the distance. Over the years, he had studied countless fighters and the way they moved. In no way was this boy faking his fear. Falcon thought of his heavy Talon sword. How on earth was he supposed to hit him with it without killing him? This was exactly what Lamik planned.

  “Damn you, Lamik,” Falcon breathed, when Knob, beside himself with fear, embraced the fight or flight thought process. He knew full well that there was no flight for a Strife.

  “Don’t do it kid,” Falcon muttered under his breath.

  With a yell, Knob sprinted straight toward Falcon, powering up his pole-arm in his hand, raising it, ready to throw it like a spear.

  He’s lost it . . . I have no choice; I have to, Falcon thought. It was then he noticed something glistening on the newly inducted Strife’s belt buckle. It was a red, and it was blinking. Falcon’s heart leapt into his chest as he saw Lamik raise his hand, a red ring attached to his finger. The Renegade knew he had but one way out of this now . . .

  Falcon threw his Talon sword with everything he had in him, so much so that he nearly pulled his right arm out of its socket. Falcon followed his throw and met Knob halfway, running as fast as his feet would carry him.

  It would be close, so very close.

  Falcon’s aim was true. It missed Knob by mere inches, soaring at its true target.

  Chieftain Lamik.

  With a dodge only a seasoned warrior like himself could muster, Lamik dove to one side as Falcon’s giant Talon sword flew straight over his head, taking a sliver of flesh and hair off the side of his skull. Lamik fell, clutching at his slight head wound as his hair soaked up the blood like a greedy, dark sponge.

  “YOU BASTARD! DIE, FALCON!” Lamik screamed as he tightened his fist and ignited his Flarian essence.

  An explosion shook the entire arena. It was no Elekai’ attack. It was a Flarian bomb, Soarian designed. A bomb cleverly placed on Knob’s belt.

  Lamik looked up to see the flower-like blast erupt, but something was wrong.

  The blast was too high.

  The dust settled, and with it, a point for the S
trifes appeared upon the board. Now in clear view, Falcon stood with his ring finger high, protecting both Knob and himself. Knob’s pole-arm was embedded through the meat of Falcon’s right leg and Knob’s pants were down around his ankles.

  “No, NO!” Lamik screamed.

  Knob stood, beside himself, face white as a ghost as he looked down at his pole-arm stuck in Falcon’s leg, an accidental strike that pierced last year’s champion, his enemy, and the one who saved his life. Falcon reached down and, with a grunt, pulled the pole-arm free. Knob watched as black, oil-like threads shot all around the wound like a spider web. Within moments, the wound was perfectly healed. Falcon presented the pole-arm to Knob with a smile on his face.

  “You, you saved me . . .” Knob asked, tears in his eyes. “Why?”

  “Maybe I understand someone like you, more than you’ll ever really know,” Falcon said.

  “No, after what I’ve done . . . Lamik, he said, he said, I . . .” Knob cried out.

  “Easy, son,” Falcon said.

  “Knob! GET BACK HERE! NOW!” Chieftain Lamik screamed. Knob took one look back at Lamik with a snarl, then up at Falcon.

  “He told me that this belt, the way it shined would distract your aim and would protect me. Never did I . . . the things I’ve done,” Knob said, falling to his knees, his face in his hands.

  “Don’t thank me, kid,” Falcon said as he turned around and began to walk away. Knob ran past him and jumped before him.

  “KNOB!” Lamik screamed.

  “Wait,” Knob said.

  “Hm?” Falcon asked.

  “I know your story, I know all about you. I never wanted this. Just tell them all, tell them all I’m so sorry. I was just,” Knob started.

  “I can’t do that. You dug your own grave, and only you can rise back out of it,” Falcon said. He made his way back and sat down upon the bench without a word to his teammates, leaving a bewildered Knob alone on the fighting ring, but not for long. Lamik charged forward and grabbed him by the arm.