Renegade Reborn

by J. C. Fiske

  It was as empty as his hopes and dreams.

  Time to go, time to move on, but where? He had tried to get odd jobs as a laborer since the rupture, but due to his tattoos, and strange, pressure, as they called it from the Elekai energies, Phoenix power, and Drakeness flowing through him, he drew too much unwanted attention, and could never stay in a place long enough to collect a paycheck before prying eyes and questions raised his anxiety, then his anger, then his fists, then finally, the brand on his forehead would glow, and they would come, the Drakelings . . . ready to do what it took to beat him down, and take him back to Drakearon like a long lost sheep.

  “Never . . .” Gisbo muttered aloud, as he looked back into his empty Tarrie pouch.

  He knew he had been extremely fortunate to get the money he did for selling his broken Flarian Tanto handles and Knuck-Knife to a rare weapon salesman in Blackscar. Flarian weapons were rare enough as it was, but a Flarian weapon crafted by a Soarian, known to forge the very best of steel, was practically unheard of. At first, the thrifty merchant tried to bring down the value due to the blades being snapped, but after Gisbo threatened to find another buyer, the merchant caved and gave Gisbo a small fortune for them.

  The fortune had lasted him a good three years but now between lodgings, food, and drink, he was broke. Behind him, he heard one of the faux-Renegades roar in loud, ape like laughter. It was time to go. He would nurse his bottle back at his room, and figure out his next move.

  Carefully, Gisbo lifted the bottle off the bar, cradling it as if it were a newborn babe as he placed it in his sack, sighed deeply, and made his way toward the door, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. He was just about to place his hand on the dual shutter doors, and push his way out, when a small, pale hand snapped from his left, and grabbed his wrist firmly. Gisbo turned and looked down into the eyes of a petite, green-eyed waitress, with long, brown hair that curled at the ends, and for a moment, his heart stopped, and he lost all breath.

  It was her. It was Kinny Kalloway, before she . . . and then he saw Malik Strife, beating her face open as if it were a grape fruit. Gisbo blinked, the vision disappeared, and the girl before him, suddenly wasn’t Kinny Kalloway anymore. She was just someone who looked like her.

  Gisbo went to say something to her when a large, hairy hand enveloped over the woman’s face like a furry tarantula and shoved the back of her head into the wall. The hairy hand belonged to a gorilla of a man who was matted all over with black, thick, steely wool, and to complete his appearance, was graced with a rock hard beer gut that hung out of his fake, tight, Renegade Berserker outfit. He turned to Gisbo now, his eyes glazed and bloodshot from drink.

  “Didn’t I tell yeh before to quit with deh starin’? You want to keep dem purdy eyes, guy? Best keep on walkin’,” The hairy man said, hiccupping upon finishing.

  “Please, please! Help! Help me, I . . .” The woman squeaked quietly, only to have the man lower his tarantula hand over her mouth and lean his body weight into her, pressing her further into the wall.

  “Hey, now, darlin’! Come now, you believe in equal rights, don’t ya? IAM knows I do! I ain’t no sexist piggle! No, ma’am! Woman and men, we be equals. Right? In every way? Dat what the Drippies ‘round here say, so, if we be equal, in every which way, and if you don’t want me, you should be able to get rid o’ me, right?” The hairy man asked, his eyes narrowing. The woman tried desperately to push him off of her, but to no avail. “Well, you certainly be tryin’, but nutin’s happenin’, is it? Den by dat reasonin’, you must want me darlin, you must want me sometin’ bad! You must . . . you still standin’ der, guy?”

  Gisbo found his right fist tightening, and arm quivering. The man saw this, then gazed curiously into the newfound fire within Gisbo’s eyes, and let go of the waitress.

  “Dat’s quite a look you got there, guy. I bets you wanna hit me. You do, don’t ya? Come on, I might like it . . . do it, go on, guy, be deh hero! But, before you do, I want to show ya something. See dees,” The man said, holding up his knuckles. They were black and blue with dried black scabs over them. “Just last night some holier dan thee arsehole glare at me just the way you be glarin’ at me now. He told me to mind my manners, and well, I rightly just lost my composure a bit, and well, I hit date arsehole, square in the jaw. He buckled like a boot strap, and den, oh, jayse, I dunno know why, but I found mehself just hittin’ the guy, over and over, and over, and when I came out of me spell, well, deh man was lyin’ so still, and by IAM’s feathers, his face looked like ground cow liver. Such a mess, guy, such a mess . . .” The hairy man said.

  Gisbo was now conscience of his right arm vibrating, not out of nervousness, but holding himself back.

  “Do it,” The hairy man said, pointing to his own chin, but rather than accept his challenge, Gisbo looked past him and saw the waitress peeking over the bar. She was shaken up a little, but safe. That was good, and Gisbo felt his anger simmer a little as he closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and said,

  “I’m no hero.”

  Gisbo turned his back on the hairy man, and was nearly out the door when his wrist was grabbed for the second time that night.

  “Hold up a sec there, guy. What do we have here?” The hairy man asked, as he lifted up Gisbo’s sleeve to reveal his fully decked out, absolutely unique, Renegade tattoos. Gisbo realized now that before was just a test. Now that the man had grabbed him, it took all he had to control his muscle memory. As Foxblade had taught him, a grab to his wrist was like a gift wrapped present.

  “Please, I, I don’t want any trouble, please, I . . .” Gisbo started, wincing, in a quivering voice, which the hairy man took for cowardice, rather than willpower stretched, about to snap like a rubber band.

  “What’s a little woosy like you doin’ wit de tats of a Renegade, eh, guy? Come now, guy, show me a little somethin’ somethin’,” The hairy man said. His shoulders gave it away. He was about to push him. Gisbo let his mind go to an empty place, and allowed the man to push him through the open doorway and out onto the porch.

  “Please, you don’t want to do this, I just want to,” Gisbo started, barley getting the words out. He felt his eyes vibrating in his head now, felt his jawline tighten, and his teeth clench as if he were biting down on an invisible plank of wood. He was losing control . . .

  . . . And then he saw the man’s right shoulder twitch, then lean down. He was preparing for a right hook, a sloppy one at that. All Gisbo had to do was charge forward, and strike straight at the nerve bundle in the hairy man’s right deltoid, and that man wouldn’t even be able to raise his arm high enough to scratch his ass for days, but Gisbo, instead, let the strike come, and arched his face at just the right angle to allow the momentum to literally, roll off his cheek, and for good measure, he rode the momentum, allowing himself to totter over, down the steps, and splash onto the muddy ground into the pouring rain. He heard laughter and cheers raise up from the small crowd that had gathered on the porch, and hoped the hairy man had his fill, and it would be the end of it.

  But of course, it wasn’t. The man seemed to just be getting started as he followed him down the steps, loving the sound of the cheers. He wanted more. Gisbo, rolled to one side, got to his feet, and rose both hands up in front of his face, spent his last ounce of patience, and pleaded with the hairy man.

  “Look, I don’t know what you think I am or what you want with me, but, I…” Gisbo started, only to have the man reach out, and grab both of his wrists, and squeeze tightly. It was done. The thin rubberband that was his willpower, snapped, and before he could stop himself, Gisbo had clapped his hands together, causing the man’s thumb knuckles to crash together, and shatter inside his skin like two hard sucker candies.

  The hairy man screamed, and the other fake Renegades were out on the porch in a flash.

  “All RIGHT, ASSHOLES! YOU WANT ME!? YOU GOT ME!” Gisbo screamed, charging and clomping through the mud puddles toward them. The first man took a wild jump off the bottom step, comin
g down on him with his fists bunched together raised above his head. It was the attack of man filled with way too much confidence and not enough experience. Gisbo had been there once, understood where he was coming from, and decided to meet him halfway.

  Gisbo turned up the speed, jumped and met the man in the air as he flew his forward, and hit the man directly in the face like a soccer forward going for a header.

  The man fell onto his back with his nose, jaw, two front teeth, and consciousness broken, as Gisbo landed past him, to the downed man’s right, in the path of the second would be attacker. Before the second man could even react, Gisbo fired off a straight punch, leaning all of his weight into it, aligning the strike with his spine for maximum power, and cracked the man in the mouth, so hard, that Gisbo broke through all eight of his top and bottom front teeth, and touched the back of the man’s throat with his knuckles, before the man rode the momentum back, and struck the back of his neck on the second step, ending his consciousness, and perhaps, even his life.

  With Gisbo’s back turned now, the third man now leapt atop him, and attempted to put him in a sleeper hold. The others, seeing the wanton destruction, decided to stall atop the stairs, content with watching the destruction of the final attacker, rather than be a victim themselves.

  Gisbo felt the man’s arm lock around his throat, and rather than fight against it, he allowed his own body to go limp, like a snake, as he swung his left leg back around the man, raised his left arm over the man’s forehead, then pushed his weight back, taking away the man’s center and forcing him to release his hold in one swift maneuver, leaving the man’s back at a dangerous angle, an angle that Gisbo took full advantage of as he dropped his full two hundred and thirty pounds straight down.

  The third man squealed like a pig as an audible series of pops ran down his spine, exploding like a series of firecrackers. Gisbo let the man fall in a puddle of mud, and then, to stop the man’s screams, stomped down on his face.

  With all the men laid out and onlookers piling onto the porch to observe his destruction, Gisbo felt a sharp pain, like a clump of needles, stab straight into his forehead. He cringed. It was too late now. He had lost control . . .

  The mark on Gisbo’s forehead suddenly began glowing an odd turquoise color, so vivid, so hot, that it burned the threads of the tattered bandanna on his head, searing it in half, and sending it fluttering to the ground, displaying to everyone, the mark, of Drakearon.

  “Now you’ve done it. They’re coming . . . EVERYONE! LISTEN TO ME! THEY’RE COMING! YOU’VE GOT TO . . .” Gisbo started, but he was cut off by the sounds of the awful, non-human, non-feral noises of the Drakelings, a mass of them, coming from the trees behind him. Gisbo cursed violently, turned to face them, saw red, then black.

  Hours later, Gisbo awoke, his head feeling like a pressure cooker, and his stomach feeling as if he got into a glass swallowing contest.

  Nothing unusual.

  As his bearings slowly came to him, he realized he was in the middle of a forest, but before he could ponder this any further, a tree rustled above him and Gisbo glanced up to see a lone, brown eagle take flight and disappear into the darkness.

  I figured a few wrong math statements would really tick you off . . . and it worked!” Gisbo smiled to himself.

  “No! The fact that you were being stupid in a desperate situation ticked me off! Then the whole punching me in the face! You’re lucky, I’m telling you that right now!” Rolce stated, pointing at Gisbo.

  “Now now, that is such a bad habit of yours, always pointing! I’ll have to call that monkey back to scold you…come on, let’s go get your stupid Boon! After all that mess the height can’t be so bad, now can it?” Gisbo encouraged. Rolce smiled as they both climbed to the nest and looked down inside it. Tears of joy dripped down his dirty face at the baby bald eagle seated alone in its nest. It moved with quick little skips toward Rolce, nuzzling his face, squawking and cooing.

  Then, he watched the same eagle, in his hands, get torn apart, wing from wing, in a burst of hot crimson.

  Gisbo bit down on his bottom lip and raised himself up to his feet. He needed a drink, immediately. Waking up was always the worst time. Anything to keep the scattered thoughts and the memories at bay, but when he went for his pack, it was gone, and in its place, came the voice . . .

  You . . . are . . . mine. Come to the light, Gisbo. Come back to me. Only there, will you find peace . . . only I can take this all away . . . The voice of Drakearon whispered, tantalizing in his mind.

  “Shut up,” Gisbo said aloud, grabbing at his chest, where his heart hammered relentlessly as drops of black fell, and rolled down his hand. His eyes went wide, and terror gripped him. Immediately, his hand went to his forehead, and just as he thought, his mark was exposed. He quickly jumped to his feet and spun around to be met with another sight that chilled his heart.

  Fire.

  “No . . .” Gisbo mouthed.

  Fire everywhere. Without realizing it, Gisbo was already running toward it, already putting together the pieces, wishing, praying that he hadn’t lost control again, that this was all just a bad, drunken nightmare.

  A few seconds later, he broke through the trees and was met with a terrible site. The tavern he was just drinking in was now destroyed, covered in roaring flames, and inside, were dozens of roasting corpses. Slowly, he stepped through the now, vanished back wall of the tavern, and into the middle of the carnage.

  The signs were everywhere. All about him were countless black, blood-dried puddles, the remains of seemingly countless of Drakelings that had come not for these innocent people, but for him, and to defend himself, he had let his body resort to the Drakeness, his black dripping wolf form, to yet again destroy them.

  But this, this was different . . .

  The Drakelings, it had never been this bad, nor this many that had attacked him over the past three years. Before they would only attack him. Innocent people were left alone. Innocents, in the mind of Drakearon, were future slaves, and future slaves, meant future power, but now . . .

  Gisbo inspected several of the bodies, all of which were dead with claw marks in their vital areas, but they were not his claw marks. No. If he had struck these people while in his dark wolf form, limbs, and heads would be gone. These were the marks of Drakelings. They had indeed come for him, but, they had also attacked, and killed innocent people. This was a first. Was Drakearon finally losing it? Was the side that had whispered in his ear how much he enjoyed taking Kennis from him, and watching him suffer, finally, coming out? Or, had he already enough slaves now to overtake Thera?

  And then Gisbo saw her, and what little remained of his heart broke again for the umpteenth time. To his right lay the waitress who looked so much like Kinny. Her face was slashed open, and her green eyes lay open, staring up at him, as if asking, why? And then, to his astonishment, the waitress’ mouth moved, and she spoke to him.

  “Why didn’t you save me? Why did you fail me, just as you did, her?” The waitress said, the word ‘her’ hung and echoed as the fire flickered in her dead eyes.

  The girl’s words may have been fantasy, but with it, came the reality of the situation. These people, just like his Renegade brothers and sisters, were dead . . . because of him. His fury was gone now, spent, and now, like always, despair and guilt fell over him, so heavy, it made him fall to his knees, then to all fours. His breath became wheezy, sporadic. He felt a panic attack coming on. The pressure inside him, it was so much now. If only he could cry, shed tears, anything to release it, but ever since the day of the rupture, not a drop had come, and none were coming now as he dry heaved, and sucked back in soot and rot filled air.

  If only he had a drink.

  Gisbo crawled forward, feeling broken glass dig into his knees, shins, and hands, but he didn’t even feel it as he desperately tried to find a bottle, anything to keep the pressure down, to keep the pain, the guilt, and the memories at bay. He found his way under the tables where just hours before, the
fake Renegades were drinking, and he lifted up bottle after bottle upon the floor, and tilted them up to his lips, only to swallow cigar butts, tissues, backwash, and a host of other horrible things, but only minute traces. Not enough to break his insane level of tolerance.

  With a vicious curse, Gisbo tossed the last remaining bottle beneath the table and it shattered against the brick chimney, the only thing still standing, like a white flag of surrender within a battlefield.

  Surrender.

  This was a word that was foreign to him up until now.

  Surrender.

  There it was again. The word floated in his mind, wonderful, beautiful, and comforting like sweet lemonade going down a dry throat on a summer day in Heaven’s Shelter.

  Surrender.

  This had to stop. He knew it had to stop. Because of him, too many people had died and while he still lived, there would be many more.

  Surrender.

  Why didn’t he think of it before? All of it, the pain, the guilt, the memories, it could all end, all of it. He remembered then, something his father had tossed at him in one of his famous rants . . .

  “When life is lived right, death becomes a reward.”

  Gisbo quickly grabbed at several of the broken glass shards around him, held the sharpest pieces up to his wrists, took in a deep breath, and slit them open in a variety of spots, up and down, left and right, then, he moved up to his neck, where his jugular veins lied, and did the same thing.

  Moments later, he was drenched in his own, hot blood. He saw his surroundings flicker in and out, like a viewing monitor’s screen turning off and on. Only moments away now, and he would be free. The world would go black, and he would finally have peace eternal, on his own terms, not Drakearons.