Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  “Can Falcon beat him?” Rolce asked.

  “Drakearon’s ability with a sword was renown. He traveled the world, dueling and killing all within his path, known to switch sword hands and be equally powerful. Only those that died by his sword knew the truth,” Narroway said.

  “What truth?” Rolce asked.

  “That Drakearon’s strong arm was not his right hand . . . but his left,” Narroway said. “Vice Dastard is Drakearon’s bastard son.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine: Let it go, Jack

  Jackobi Foxblade sat alone, staring out across the surface of Falcon, Moordin’s, and now Foxblade’s secret fishing spot. Two dwarf suns were lit on thick poles, lighting the area, an area Jackobi hadn’t left in nearly two days. He stared at the beautifully crafted urn between the two light poles. It contained his father’s ashes, ashes meant to be scattered across the pond, ashes he couldn’t bring himself to be rid of.

  Since his father’s death, he hadn’t cried. He felt nothing but emptiness. No feeling whatsoever. Only the image of his father’s chest blown open and Grayn Foxblade’s face kept him company.

  “You’re next.” “You’re next.” “You’re next.”

  “Should you really be alone at a time like this?” a familiar voice spoke from behind. Jackobi turned to see Moordin walk toward him from the forest, step into the light, and sit down beside him.

  “It’s been two days, son. You really shouldn’t isolate yourself like this. It’s not good for you,” Moordin said.

  “I’m used to it,” Jackobi said.

  “It’s not something worth getting used to,” Moordin said.

  “My father did,” Jackobi said.

  “Yes . . . and no,” Moordin said. “Your father, much like you, was given too much to deal with too soon. Because of that, he grew up too quickly, never learning what it was like to feel, to want, to know purity, innocence, and treasure it. He only knew . . . how to act,” Moordin said.

  Jackobi said nothing.

  “Suffice it to say, if you included all aspects of a warrior, balanced up strengths and weaknesses in accordance to any and all situations, your father, he may have been the best of us,” Moordin said. “Behind me of course, but now he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Jackobi said nothing, but felt agitated by Moordin’s careless tone.

  “By Grayn Foxblade, your brother in many ways . . . If his mind was twisted before, it’s downright gone now,” Moordin said.

  Again, Jackobi said nothing.

  “He’s powerful. Even more so than me. If Foxblade couldn’t defeat him, then you probably don’t stand a chance either,” Moordin said. Jackobi looked up at him, then back down to the ground.

  “After all, you are but a Sentry. That is your sole purpose in life, correct? Duty above passion, sacrifice above want, and death over life if called upon. It must be hard to not have an original thought of your own beyond Gisbo’s safety. It must be good to have such self-control, to feel no emotion, like your father, and not face Grayn just to fulfill some pointless feeling nagging at you. Witnessing my friend’s death was hard enough. Who wants to see his son die as well? I’m glad you’re not stupid like Gisbo or Falcon. They’re fools, slaves to their emotions. Not you, not Foxblade either. I envy you, Jackobi, able to have a clear-cut mission in life. Protect Gisbo at all costs and throw your own life and feelings away. Besides, that’s what you’ve been trained to be, right? Well, that’s what your father trained you to be, and then he just up and died . . .” Moordin started. Jackobi was on his feet, and with a wild swing, knocked one of the lamps in two. The mini sun fell in the water, disengaging its light in a fierce hiss.

  “HOW DARE YOU SAY SUCH THINGS! YOU WERE HIS FRIEND! YOU WERE HIS PARTNER!” Jackobi screamed.

  “Yes, but that was two days ago. Not anymore. But you, you’re still the same, aren’t you?” Moordin asked. Jackobi was on Moordin in a flash, grasping his robe and pulling him to his feet, seething with anger.

  “What do you want me to say?! That I’m afraid to step beyond my station? That I’m afraid to have a life of my own? That I’m a coward, and I don’t just think I can’t defeat him, I know I can’t? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?” Jackobi bellowed, breathing heavily, gnashing his teeth.

  “No, not at all,” Moordin said.

  “THEN WHAT!?” Jackobi asked.

  “I want you to get rid of it, all your anger, all your fear. I want you to let it go. As long as it is present, it stands in your way of what you need to do,” Moordin said. Jackobi stared at him, mouth agape as he let go of Moordin with trembling hands.

  “Unlike your father, you feel. I know you do. You are all that your father is and all that he could be, but your father never learned to work with his anger or his fear,” Moordin said.

  Jackobi stood, trembling all over.

  “If you’re going to overcome Grayn, you must overcome what your father never could. That was his ultimate mission with you, Jack, don’t you see? Grayn was his greatest failure, but you, you were his greatest triumph, and you know why?” Moordin asked.

  Jackobi shook his head.

  “Because you are his son. He may have never told you he loved you because he couldn’t, but he told me, he told Falcon, and all that would listen. Now, let it out,” Moordin said as he embraced Jackobi. Jack stood, frigid at first, and suddenly, a wave of gooseflesh erupted over his body.

  “I . . .” Jackobi said, fighting the rising panic in his chest.

  “He’s dead. Let it out, grieve,” Moordin said.

  “I, I can’t, I . . . I . . .” Jackobi started.

  “Just let it out.” Moordin repeated.

  “I CAN’T!” Jack screamed, and before he knew it, tears, real tears, poured from his eyes. He screamed, he yelled, and Moordin held the boy tightly.

  “I don’t need to tell you what you need to do. Your life is your own now. Make it yours. That’s what that bandana on your forehead means,” Moordin said. “And so long as you wear it, you’re never alone.”

  Moordin let go and walked back the way he came, already hearing more sobbing, more release. With every tear, every scream of pain, Jackobi felt his pain ease, felt his breathing become stronger, and Grayn’s voice became quieter, softer, until it was on par with his own.

  “You’re next,” Grayn said. Jack thought of Gisbo, and he knew exactly what he would say . . .

  “Bring it, bitch,” Jackobi answered. With that, he picked up his Father’s ashes, spread them across the twinkling pond, and snuffed out the light.

  Within a minute, Jackobi had the cave of his father’s private training grounds lit. He looked at all the dark stains scattered around the cave and both felt and smelled his father’s presence wherever he looked. Before he was able to activate the gravity compression field, crimson light filled the cave. Falcon Vadid skeeted in and landed before him.

  “Jackobi, Gisbo’s gone,” Falcon said.

  “What?” Jackobi asked.

  “I thought you would have known, with your connection to him,” Falcon said. “He’s gone off with Vice Dastard, for reasons unbeknownst to me. I need you, I need you to track him.”

  “I . . . I haven’t been in the right state of mind these past few days. I should have sensed this; hold on,” Jackobi said as he closed his eyes and reached out, reaching for Gisbo’s spirit. Finally, he stopped.

  “I . . . there’s interference. I sense him, he’s alive, but . . .” Jackobi started.

  “But you can’t place where he is,” Falcon said.

  “This has never happened before. What is this?” Jackobi started.

  “It’s Vice. He’s put up a mental block. I knew a Mind-Link wouldn’t work, but for him to even block your spiritual link . . . he’s become even more powerful,” Falcon said. “I’m on my own.”

  Falcon turned to leave.

  “Falcon,” Jackobi said. Falcon turned to face him.

  “Come back quickly, we need him. We need both of you,” Jackobi said. “And be careful with this man.
For someone to transcend the most powerful minds and spirit this world has to offer and block it out, it doesn’t bode well.”

  “Jack, before I go, I wanted to give you this,” Falcon said, handing Jack a sealed envelope.

  “What is it?” Jackobi asked.

  “For your eyes only,” Falcon said. “It’s from your father.”

  “What?” Jackobi asked, eyes widening.

  “You were supposed to ask for it, but, screw it. Whatever it is, your father wanted you to have it and wanted you, his only son, to read it,” Falcon said. “Jack, it’s up to all of you now. Moordin, Rolce, all of you need to win this thing. We’ll be back as quick as we can.”

  In a flash, Falcon was on his giant blade and skeeting off into the night sky. Jackobi clutched the note, addressed simply to Jackobi Foxblade in his father’s handwriting. It was as if it came from beyond the grave. He wasn’t expecting it, and he was terrified of opening it until the memory of his discussion with Moordin convinced him otherwise.

  Jack ran over beneath one of the lit torches and opened the letter. It was only a paragraph long, and he read his father’s brief words, his last living testament. Upon finishing it, he read it again, then once more, only to be sure that he was reading it correctly.

  Jackobi collapsed, sliding his back down the wall, breathing hard, fresh tears pouring down his face.

  A moment later, he tossed the letter into the flame above him, letting it burn away. He stood back up, never before feeling so alive, so full of purpose as he took off his shirt, stepped to the middle of the cave, and activated the compressed gravity field. Once activated, Jackobi called upon his Drakeness powers. In moments, dozens of black, walking monstrosities with white gleaming teeth and eyes, summoned from the Reath itself, appeared in Jackobi’s cave, all snarling, ready to lunge.

  Jackobi unsheathed his daggers and ignited his Soarian essence, lighting the cave like a cathedral.

  “Come at me, all of you, spare no expense,” Jackobi ordered. With the final syllable, the creatures gnashed their teeth, scraped their claws, and launched themselves at Jackobi. With a battle cry, Jackobi went to meet them.

  Chapter Thirty: A Lesson in Morality

  Gisbo stood in Vice Dastard’s doorway and watched him sleep, his chest rising up and down, with a peace he didn’t deserve. Gisbo gripped his Tanto, weighing his options. They had traveled nearly all night to get to this cabin in the middle of nowhere, nestled in the middle of a deep, dark canyon.

  The cabin was old, ancient even, filled with cobwebs, and smelled of mildew. The hinges on the front door had rotted away, and the cabin had only the bare necessities.

  Gisbo stepped forward, wary of the creaking floor, Tanto in hand. Again, he marveled at how a man like Vice slept so soundly. He was on his back, arm draped around the back of his head, with his mouth hanging open and drool spilling out over the side of it like a glass too full.

  The young Renegade stood over him, Tanto raised, ready to end the man’s life and throw everything he had into one downward stab into the center of the man’s forehead. The Drakeness could heal many wounds, some even very serious, but a quick shot to the brain or the heart would be irreversible. He didn’t care who this man was, didn’t care what he knew. All he knew was that while he still lived, everyone he loved and cared for was at risk. As long as that thought was on his mind, Gisbo wouldn’t sleep.

  He was about to ignite his essence when he recalled his recent fight. Even in his Boon form, Vice had disengaged his essence and drained him of all his energy in moments. No elemental pressure came from him, and yet, he bested his power and skills as if dealing with an infant. Perhaps his power came from somehow altering one’s essence. Perhaps if he threw down all his weight without powering up his essence, he could kill him.

  Without another thought, Gisbo threw his Tanto downward.

  Just as before, his blade stopped, as if hitting an unbreakable, invisible barrier, and Vice Dastard’s eyes snapped opened.

  “Kid, I appreciate your lack of honor, I do. You aren’t as far gone as I hoped,” Vice said.

  Gisbo winced and poured all his strength down, but to no avail. Vice laid there, looking up at him, and put both arms behind his head, relaxed as ever, smiled for a moment, then frowned.

  “What I don’t appreciate, however, is the rudeness,” Vice said. An unblockable, wicked force hit Gisbo like a ton of bricks, lifting him and slamming his entire body against the ceiling like a splatted bug, his arms and legs extended.

  “GRAH!” Gisbo mouthed as he coughed out blood that went down, dripped out and around Vice’s invisible barrier, and hit the floor. With a yawn and a stretch, Vice rolled out of bed, scratched his ass, stretched, and made his way to the kitchen. As soon as he crossed the threshold, his power over Gisbo was released, and Gisbo crashed down onto the old bed, snapping the frame and collapsing the legs, sending the box spring smashing into the floor.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. It was bound to happen eventually,” Vice called from the kitchen. Gisbo rolled off the bed and walked in to see Vice ignite a fire on an indoor grill with a flint. Vice waited for it to get nice and hot before pulling out the slabs of breast and thigh meat from the partridge’s he had slain on the way.

  “I expected to get a lot more sleep tonight, but once I’m up, I’m up. Please, have a seat. Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy,” Vice said with his back to him as he sprinkled some seasonings onto the partridge and threw in some apple wedges, flipped them over once, and began a fire on the stove top, dropping in some eggs and wild spinach.

  Gisbo stared, shock and confusion running through his head. He had to admit, it smelled delicious.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I’m your enemy, and yet, I treat you with hospitality. Sorry, but I’m of the opinion that manners are hard to come by nowadays. Now, have a seat,” Vice said as he pushed a chair out by his sheer power. Gisbo looked at the chair, then back to Vice, and sat down.

  Within moments, a fresh cup of steaming black coffee, salted partridge meat, and four scrambled eggs intertwined with spinach and garlic were placed before him and Vice sat across the table.

  “Dig in, you’ll need your protein,” Vice said as he dug into his own meal, scraping his fork across his teeth in a shing noise that set Gisbo’s own teeth on edge. He watched the man humming a tune, constantly sweeping his platinum blond hair out of his face and over his shoulder, without a care in the world. “Perhaps I should have cut this shorter . . .”

  He stopped eating and looked up at Gisbo.

  “Eat, kid, I know you’re hungry,” Vice said. Gisbo’s stomach growled.

  “It’s poisoned, isn’t it?” Gisbo asked. Vice dropped his utensils with a clatter and stared at him with an exasperated look.

  “Ok, I’d heard rumors that this new Man-Phoenix wasn’t the brightest coal in the fire, but really? Poisoned? Yeah, I dragged your ass all the way out here in the middle of the night to induct my master plan: kill you with a hot meal. Kid, start using that thing three feet above your ass, and next time you have a stupid question, keep it to yourself. Now, eat,” Vice said, digging back into his meal. Gisbo looked at his food and reluctantly began eating. He hated to admit that it tasted wonderful.

  “You enjoy it, don’t you? Eating meat,” Vice asked.

  “Excuse me?” Gisbo asked.

  “Just as I said, you enjoy eating meat at the cost of an animal’s life,” Vice asked. “Why?”

  “What the hell is this? What the hell do you want from me?” Gisbo asked, exasperated.

  “Answer the question,” Vice said, taking a bite of his own meal.

  “I don’t know,” Gisbo said.

  “Does it feel wrong to you? Knowing that an innocent life was taken, by excruciating pain, to bring you protein and minerals, a necessary aspect to all life? Does it feel wrong to you?” Vice asked.

  “You’re insane,” Gisbo said.

  “You’re the one eating that,” Vice said.

  “S
o are you! You cooked it! You killed it!” Gisbo said.

  “Then answer the question. Does it feel wrong to you? There are other methods to get protein and minerals into your body; does it feel wrong?” Vice asked.

  “I’ve never felt any guilt from eating a steak and I likely won’t any time soon. I don’t buy into that Drippie crap,” Gisbo said.

  “Pain equals pleasure,” Vice said.

  “What?” Gisbo asked.

  “Pain was caused to an animal to bring you this delicious meal. Pain is pleasure,” Vice said. “Your convictions, what you feel, becomes what you believe . . .”

  Gisbo said nothing.

  “Did you know there is a movement in Karm’s domain where they do not eat animals or any animal products? Why? Because, unlike you and me, they feel it’s wrong. They feel every life is equal, every single one. To them, a mosquito or an ant is just as equal as human life. Why?” Vice asked. “Is morality what you feel? Has morality become relative and subjective? Or is there a single morality, a law of nature, that everyone should follow, but over time, we’ve learned to ignore it in favor of our own desire?”

  “I don’t know,” Gisbo said. “And I don’t care.”

  “Oh, but you should. It determines everything about you. It determines what you can or can’t do, what you should or shouldn’t do, and that’s just it, isn’t it? Life? Life is the act of doing. That’s what the Renegades teach, isn’t it? To do what you feel is right, to push against societal norms, to discover your own ideals. In other words, be yourself,” Vice said. His eyes took on a different light. “What if I said that taking life gave me no guilt?”