Renegade Rupture

by J. C. Fiske

  “When we talked of Renegade stock disappearing, it was true, but not all of them went to Purah. Some of them went to be brainwashed by Narsissa. Because of them, Narsissa learned of our home, our secret location, but we underestimated them, hence the situation you were forced to remedy last year. Yes, Ranto has control issues, which led to other . . . darker interests, but that is his battle to face. That control issue means he can infiltrate enemy territory, stick to a story, and force others to believe it as well. That’s why he admitted to you in the ring that he killed the dog, and you reacted, ruining the whole plan and costing us the win. Even to the end, he stuck to his story,” Narroway said.

  Gisbo said nothing, only folded his arms.

  “I invited you to train with me to explain it to you, but you ignored my request. I will not force my men to do anything. To do that is to think I know better, am beyond them. We Renegades exist as a force, to oppose those who would take away free will, like the Holy Chosen, and who wish to do true evil. You’d best realize that. You know what you’ve done. The one who murdered Kimjow is still out there, and I am certain it is a Renegade. For reasons unknown, they have only recently decided to change sides. Now, the next event is to begin, and I expect you to train hard for it, learn from this,” Narroway said. He walked forward, bent down, and looked Gisbo right in the eyes.

  “Never assume anything when proof is not available. Jumping to conclusions based on personal feelings? That’s not justice. That’s not what a leader does. I know that one day I’ll be gone, and you, not Ranto, will be leading our Renegades, as Vadid once did. You are my nephew, you’re family. You’re blood, Gisbo. You can trust me with anything, understood?” Narroway asked. Gisbo nodded, feeling guilty.

  “Good; now, the next event is quickdraw. Go seek out your Father. He will explain it. Train hard, Gisbo, we need you,” Narroway said, and with that, he walked out the door, leaving Gisbo only with the beeps of Ranto’s machine next to him, beeps caused by him alone, by his own pride. Gisbo’s head fell into his lap. He looked across the room at Kinny, then looked back at Ranto.

  “Am I . . . any different from Malik?” Gisbo asked. Another thought occurred to him as he said it out loud. “No. I’ll never be like him. NEVER! Kimjow’s killer is still out there, but who is it?”

  Chieftain Lamik sat in his rather grandiose hut, reserved only for visitors of esteem quality. He waited for his guinea pig, his experiment, to return with the news, and he did.

  “So? What do you have for me, boy?” Lamik asked.

  “Nothing yet, I’ll only know more come the tryouts,” the boy said.

  “That tone of yours sounds doubtful. You aren’t having regrets, are you?” Lamik asked. The boy looked up at him, then back at the floor.

  “You must realize, son, that war is inevitable. Because of you, their set pieces are destroyed, and we hold the upper hand for the greater good. That’s what we’re fighting for. You said it yourself. The Renegades do nothing as the world around them falls apart, and all the while, what did they do to you and your opinions? Shunned you, insulted you . . . am I correct?” Lamik asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “That won’t be the case with us. Soon you will reveal yourself. Soon you will remove that blue abomination for green, the green of a life renewed, a life strong as life itself! You will have friends for your heroism. Your name will be echoed throughout not only Strife history, but also by Thera’s history! We will take control of this world and shape it into what IAM always intended, all due to the Renegades downfall. They are the only wall between us, a wall that will be knocked down . . . because of you and your courage. I’m proud of you, son,” Lamik said. The boy looked up and met the Chieftain’s eyes, feeling something he had never felt during his time at Heaven’s Shelter . . .

  Pride and acceptance.

  “I think it’s time. Killing the dog was the first step. You’ve stopped their Boon’s growth potential. You’ve proved yourself. The hardest thing to do is leave behind your life for a new one. Are you ready? Are you ready to reveal yourself to the world as the hero that you are?” Lamik asked. The boy nodded.

  “I want to hear it,” Lamik said.

  “Yes,” the boy said.

  “You choose in haste, with confidence. That’s good. On this day, I pass the title of Strife convert to you, and with it, your manhood. You now join the ranks of brave men ready to act, not wait. This is a time unlike any previous era. More action, more force, and more resolve will be needed than ever before. Now, good is evil, and everything evil is good. A time of action, service, brotherhood, and power awaits. A righteous band of warriors we are and a righteous warrior you shall be. To change, convert, and punish a world bordering chaos in utter confidence . . . kneel to symbolize your servitude to our ideals,” said the Strife Chieftain. The boy did.

  “Strength: use it to defeat opposing ideals. Wisdom: is for the confused and easily fooled. Only Strife ideals matter. Will: embrace it and force others to follow it. Do you swear to abide by these principles?” Lamik asked. Once again, the boy nodded. Lamik withdrew his sword and tapped the boy’s right shoulder, then his left, followed by his forehead. With the tip of his sword, he sliced a clean X upon the boy’s forehead. Blood trickled down and ran over his nose in two flowing rivers.

  “These cuts will soon be a permanent scar. May it not just be across your forehead, but across your mind as well. Every new recruit from the Renegades bears this mark. It is a mark of rebirth, of honor. May it always remind you what you put behind you, to always act first, keep your wandering thoughts at bay, and leave the thinking for those in positions of authority. I welcome you into the brotherhood. Rise, as one of us,” Lamik said. The boy did.

  “What is your name?” Lamik asked.

  “Knob Brawlda,” Knob said.

  “No longer. A Strife convert discards the name of his master for a new one. Kneel once more, and rise again, no longer as Knob Brawlda, but instead, as . . . Knob Strife,” Lamik said.

  Minutes later, Knob Strife changed into his new Strife uniform and looked at himself in the mirror. For so long he had only seen blue. Seeing green and the X upon his forehead was a shock. He rubbed at it, and it immediately started to bleed again. He had come so far for this: respect. No more being the butt end of every joke, no more being a Chieftain’s whipping and errand boy. He was a new man, a proud warrior, whose name would echo throughout history after the war.

  He was Knob Strife.

  Chapter Twenty Two: Gisbo, the Gunslinger

  “Ok, so who the hell wants to explain to me what a ‘quickdraw’ is?” Gisbo asked.

  Falcon, Moordin, and Shax all looked to Foxblade. Foxblade shrugged and got distance from his synergy mates. He stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his hands dangling over his right and left dagger sheaths. His fingers wiggled about and with blinding speed, he grabbed his dagger hilts, and threw each blade forward while activating his essence. The daggers flew in dual yellow streaks and hit an oak tree, obliterating the middle portion entirely and causing the top half to fall. With a quick tug, Foxblade’s daggers returned to him and he sheathed them.

  “Damn . . .” Gisbo mouthed.

  “Was that really necessary?” Moordin asked.

  “It’s a tree, Moordin. With your Naforian abilities, you could grow three more in its place by the hour. Don’t give me that Drippie crap. The boys need to see. This is a precursor to a war. It’s not a question of if the Strifes attack, but when,” Foxblade said.

  “Did, did anyone, like, die doing quickdraw in the past?” Gisbo asked. Foxblade ignored the question and continued.

  “Narroway saved this event for last, an event that hasn’t been done since the early days of the tournament due to its dangers. He means to quell the competition as much as possible. The Strifes will throw their best foot forward, and we will hack it off from the ankle. Where the Strifes value strength and power, we Renegades value speed and efficiency. No doubt we will have the upper hand. But first
, if you wish to be a part of this, you need to qualify. Only three more Renegades will be representing us for this tournament entry,” Foxblade said.

  “Why three and not four? Why are we down one?” Rolce asked.

  “Do you need ask?” Foxblade said. Moordin sighed.

  “Foxblade thinks himself a guarantee, to which I say there are many new Shininjas and,” Moordin started.

  “As well as Berserkers,” Falcon added.

  “Please, you think your boat oar to be quicker than my knives?” Foxblade asked.

  “Let’s put it to the test, old friend,” Falcon asked, smiling as he removed his massive Talon sword. Moordin stepped between them.

  “Please, let’s all calm down. You’ll both have your chance to test your mettle at the tryouts. I’d rather not see more trees destroyed,” Moordin said.

  “Drippie,” Foxblade asked. “Come, Jackobi.”

  “I thought we would train together?” Shax asked.

  “It’d be a waste of time, us Shininjas coming down to your level to attempt to bring you up a single notch that would still be eons below ours. We know we will be chosen, so we will sharpen ourselves to completion,” Foxblade said. Jackobi simply shrugged and followed.

  “Oh, screw him! We got this,” Gisbo said.

  “Much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s right. Both of them will be part of the four chosen,” Shax said.

  “Pah, not if I have anything to say about it,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, screw him! Come on, Rolce, let’s do this,” Gisbo said.

  “No way in hell am I standing across from you! Not after what you did to the side of our tree house!” Rolce said.

  “Relax, we have training gear. We wouldn’t want to kill each other if a Strife could be there instead,” Falcon said.

  “I don’t see any equipment,” Rolce said. Falcon smiled and pointed at him.

  “You mean the Mind-Link?” Rolce asked.

  “Did you expect anything less? We will be able to go at one another without holding back. Facing off against a tree is one thing. Facing off against another man attempting to kill you is far different. You and Shax will both take turns creating the illusions. Lucky for us, we won’t need the wooden training equipment like everyone else and time will not be an issue for us. We will be able to test different types of weapons, and what works best for us until you both collapse from mental exhaustion,” Moordin said. “None of us have done this before, boys. You are Renegades now. We are all on an even playing field. You will help us train as much as we will help you.”

  “Just don’t expect our reflexes to have grayed along with our hair,” Falcon said. “So, who’s my first victim?”

  “This guy!” Gisbo said, volunteering.

  “Hah, I figured as much,” Falcon said. “Shax or Rolce? If you so please.”

  “I’ve got it,” Shax said.

  “Please, include me. I’ve got to see this,” Rolce said.

  Gisbo blinked and found himself in a desert. He felt his nasal passages begin to dry up from the intense humidity. He was surrounded by cacti and squawking vultures resting upon dead, twisted trees.

  “Got to love the showmanship. I’m impressed, Shax,” Falcon said.

  “Is this, is this Flaria? And what the hell am I wearing?” Gisbo asked. He looked down to see a dust covered, quilted poncho, pointed, steel-toed boots that road up practically to his knees, and felt a wide brimmed hat atop his head.

  “The garb of the gunslinger, fictional, mythical warriors from another time and place, much like your Man-Angel stories. I enjoy stories they call ‘spaghetti westerns.’ Although I have no idea what spaghetti is and why it is western . . .” Shax said.

  “Hmph,” Gisbo said. “It’s pretty damn hot out here. Tone it down a bit.”

  “Right away,” Shax said as clouds moved in to block out the scorching sun. “Now, the quickdraw event was inspired by these gunslingers. They would use an explosive weapon known as a firearm and face off across from each other in duels to the death over pride, wealth, fame, everything and anything. Long ago, in the early years of the Elekai’ exhibition, Chieftain Westwood was rather obsessed with such stories and, as his right as Renegade Chieftain, created the quickdraw event with rather . . . disastrous results.”

  “Disastrous?” Gisbo asked.

  “Half the contestants died,” Shax said.

  “Cripes,” Gisbo said.

  “As we said, this is Narroway’s attempt at a pre-emptive strike. Foxblade and Jackobi will no doubt be chosen and come to victory, taking out two Strifes. We seek to eliminate their major pieces early, giving us better chances for victory later. Should an all-out battle erupt at the tournament’s climax, we will have the advantage and may be able to erase the Strife threat once and for all,” Shax said. “All while trying to keep the peace until then, of course. Now, ten yards apart, both of you.”

  “Um, hello, dumbass at math here,” Gisbo said. Shax created a glowing line in the sand for Gisbo to stand on.

  “Thanks!” Gisbo said as he and Falcon made their way apart and stood on their lines.

  “What now? Do you say go or something?” Gisbo asked.

  “Nope,” Shax said.

  “No?” Gisbo asked.

  “Once you stood your ground apart from each other, the duel began. The tournament will be a bit different, but this is survival training. Each of you are free to move first . . . or last . . .” Shax said. “Enjoy!”

  Gisbo’s hand hovered over the hilt of his right Tanto and looked across at Falcon, whose hand dangled over his shoulder where the handle of his Talon sword stuck up, ready to grasp it and whip it down, throwing it like a gigantic boomerang. Neither of them moved as they studied each other.

  This is absolutely nerve-wracking, Gisbo thought. He let out a nervous breath and felt a bead of sweat break from his forehead and drip down the side of his face. Falcon’s hand moved, but not the way Gisbo expected. It thrust out straight, and before Gisbo could react, a rope-like energy stretched from Falcon’s ringed finger and attached to Gisbo’s right Tanto. A moment later, Falcon jerked Gisbo’s weapon from its sheath.

  “DAMN IT!” Gisbo yelled in frustration before his instincts kicked in. He dropped his left hand down to his left Tanto, ignited it, and tossed it at his Class Master before Gisbo’s right Tanto returned to Falcon’s open hand.

  Come on, come on, hit him! Gisbo thought. He watched the blade getting closer and closer before Falcon could mount a defense when Gisbo realized he didn’t need to. With a flick of Falcon’s wrist, as if controlling a whip, Falcon brought Gisbo’s stolen blade down on top of his advancing blade. With a clang and a spark, both blades fell to the ground. Once they hit the ground, Falcon released his control over Gisbo’s blade, leaving it on the ground. He reached up for his own weapon, grabbed it, and flung it forward with a grunt.

  Gisbo smiled to himself, reveling in the intense moment and savoring how his battle instincts, thanks to Foxblade’s training, were taking over. Without one ounce of panic, Gisbo ignited both of his rings and took control of his downed weapons, turning them into dual fire whips. With one in each hand, Gisbo spun and jerked his weapons back, then threw them above Falcon’s spinning blade, knowing that his Class Master would get hit first. Victory was his, or so he thought . . .

  In a last ditch effort, Falcon stretched forward his hand and tilted his blade upward, changing his spinning blade from offense to defense as the blade deflected both of Gisbo’s daggers deep into the sand. Then it rewrote its flight path and cleaved a defenseless Gisbo in two. Upon impact, the world faded.

  Gisbo fell to the ground in the forest, yelling and feeling himself all over, thankful to be in one piece.

  “HOLY! I . . . JEESH!” Gisbo said. Falcon smiled.

  “Gisbo, I was not expecting that! Where did you learn to think on your feet like that? Not from me; you nearly beat me,” Falcon said.

  “Tall, dark, and moody,” Gisbo said.

  “Foxblade?
Is that so?” Falcon asked.

  “Again! You’re going down this time,” Gisbo said.

  “Not until I get my turn!” Rolce said.

  “Fine, me and you then!” Gisbo said.

  “You’re on,” Rolce said, smiling.

  “We’ll all have our turns. We do this until both you and Shax can do it no more, agreed?” Falcon asked.

  “Agreed,” Rolce and Shax said together.

  “Let’s get started,” Falcon said, grinning with anticipation.

  For five days, synergy senior and synergy junior practiced until their reflexes hardened and an opponent across from them felt as lifeless as a tree. The time had come to try out and show their stuff to see who would be chosen as the final four in the last event before the Battle Royal and the seemingly unstoppable war between the Renegades and Strifes.

  With full training gear and armor equipped, all contestants went into an event style where their talents were judged. After everyone showed their worth, Narroway stood up with the official list of Heaven’s Shelter’s quickest killers and posted it for all to see. The list went as follows:

  Foxblade Dredka, Shaved Davinson, Falcon Vadid, and Gisbo Falcon.

  “Why the hell are you on the list, Gisbo, and not me?” Grandfield asked in a huff with his arms folded.

  “’Cause you suck?” Gisbo said.

  “Ah, screw it. These types of events are for twiggy speedsters, AKA not me, nor you, kid. Power wins in the end! It always does,” Gilfrid said.

  “If power were all, the tiger would not fear the scorpion,” Foxblade said. Gilfrid spun around.

  “And what cleft asshole did you pull that gem from?” Gilfrid asked.

  “Fortune cookie,” Foxblade said. “And if power always wins, you must have lacked severely in your last bout considering you lost consciousness and . . .”

  “Ok, ok, enough! Psh, come on, boy. Let’s get out of here. I’m buyin’ you a beer,” Gilfrid said.

  “Yeah . . . YEAH! You lightweights have fun throwing things at each other, losers,” Grandfield said.