The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  Kicking and punching were easy decisions to make, this Xiaoyu knew. The other boy’s speed wasn’t based on muscle, it was based on experience. The boy had fought many times before—it was routine. It made his decisions easy. Xiaoyu knew the boy was good at fighting. But Xiaoyu could tell he wasn’t good at what Xiaoyu was good at. Xiaoyu had been bullied as far back as he could remember, which didn’t give him experience fighting because he was always outnumbered. But Xiaoyu had much experience at healing—emotionally. Being quick to heal made it easy for Xiaoyu to stand alone—without any friends. But this boy was talking to another boy when Xiaoyu first saw him. This boy sought out friendship. This boy was a fighter, no doubt most often a winner, which meant he wasn’t much of a healer. This boy needed time to recover.

  Xiaoyu began to circle the boy as he wildly lunged at Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu continued to kick at the boy with his right leg to keep him away, but it wasn’t the boy Xiaoyu was concerned with. It was his friend. Xiaoyu realized he had to keep the boy far enough away from himself, to get a good look at the other boys. They all stood still like a lineup, but Xiaoyu had trouble recognizing the boy’s friend. Xiaoyu noticed one boy seemed to have a harder time standing still than the others. He rolled his lips together and held them tight. It wasn’t because he was weak; none of the boys were weak. But still he was weakened. Xiaoyu noticed the boy wearing dirty blue jeans like the others, but with sunglasses stuffed in the front right pocket. Although he had seen the back of the friend’s head, he remembered sunglasses were resting atop his head. Xiaoyu understood he would get no more assurances, so he made up his mind. Xiaoyu circled the other boy once more, using his leg to keep some distance. As he rotated, he glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the boy with sunglasses in his pocket. Assured that he was fighting this boy’s friend, he punished him. Xiaoyu balled his right fist tighter than he ever had and swung it at the friend’s left cheek. The boy had been standing in line as part of the gauntlet, not part of the fight. The impact to his face confused him as much as it hurt him. He had done nothing wrong. He knew the rules and the rules said he had to stand and not interfere with the fight, no matter who was in the fight. But he had interfered with the fight; he had let the fight get to him. His friend was in the fight and he couldn’t keep it a secret, so they both paid the price.

  The impact of Xiaoyu’s fist sent the boy’s head into the steel wall behind him and he collapsed against it, landing on his knees. The boy fighting Xiaoyu saw his friend hit the ground and forgot he was in a fight. Although Xiaoyu’s fist was throbbing with pain, it was gleaming with success. He used the same fist to wake the other boy. The other boy stood in shock watching his friend fall to the ground. The same throbbing fist and the same gravity came down hard on the bridge of his nose, sending his chin into his chest and causing him to bite the tip of his tongue—almost off. The fight, not the fighting, was over. As the other boy hit the floor, Xiaoyu’s lack of opportunity dissolved. Xiaoyu, who had spent his life holding back his frustration, could not do it forever. Nor would opportunity last forever. The boy concerned about his friend, was doing much worse. Xiaoyu set upon him making no sound, only movement. Xiaoyu found a quick rhythm and landed one punch after another on the boy’s face and neck. The boys in the gauntlet were trained well. Through absolute fear of Mr. Cheung, the boys held their positions against the wall. Not one broke rank to help a fallen friend. Not one said a word to combat the sound of Xiaoyu’s fist hitting its target—over and over. Xiaoyu hit the boy for what seemed like eternity—eight years of frustration tunneled their way out through small fists.

  Mr. Cheung, like his boss, was prudent. He was willing to let Xiaoyu’s violence continue long enough to serve its purpose, but not long enough to undo his own. By the time he realized Xiaoyu was beyond controlling himself, he had begun to walk at a tapered pace toward Xiaoyu and the other boy, now a target. So wide open were the vents that outpoured Xiaoyu’s emotion that he didn’t notice the large shadow cast over him. He didn’t even hear it approach. Mr. Cheung buried his lit cigarillo in the back of Xiaoyu’s neck. Xiaoyu felt the cold before the heat but the heat came, turning the hot-blooded soldier into a defector. His fists opened and he reached for the back of his neck, using his right hand as first responder. The same combination of cold and hot stung the back of his hand, causing him to keel over like a drunk. Xiaoyu fell off the other boy and rolled over on the floor. Xiaoyu looked back at Mr. Cheung holding his cigarillo out as a cattle prod. Mr. Cheung knocked flakes of ash from the cigarillo before docking it in his mouth. Mr. Cheung was not about being cruel. The Moons weren’t cruel, not like the Dirty Ones. The Moons tolerated their share of violence, but being a Triad wasn’t about being violent. It was about operating within limits. Much of Triad business was outside the law, underscoring the need for limits.

  “It’s not your fight, it’s my fight,” said Mr. Cheung, “And I’m calling it. Save your energy. You’re not done.” Xiaoyu looked over at the other boy. The boy wasn’t moving. Xiaoyu rested his upper body weight on his arms, only then did he realize how tired his arms were. Mr. Cheung pointed to two other boys, two that were still standing. He told them to carry Xiaoyu’s opponent to the office on the other side of the facility. He would need to call someone to come take a look at him. Hup. All the remaining boys formed what was left of their echelon. They helped the boy with sunglasses, the one Xiaoyu sucker punched, onto his feet. Xiaoyu helped himself. Xiaoyu stood behind the other boys who stood in empty looking lines. He wasn’t sure of his place in the formation, neither were the other boys. The front of the first line was for the best in the group, the de facto leader. The front of the second line was for the second best. But Xiaoyu had beaten their leader, which made him leader almost by definition—almost. Mr. Cheung had said it was his fight and it was. He controlled the process. The boys didn’t control anything. They were just boys. Mr. Cheung would say what would happen next; they were all waiting on Mr. Cheung. But he didn’t come back, the other two boys did, with instructions. Wait.

  The boys stood in their lines for a long time. Xiaoyu waited behind them. The boys took turns looking back at Xiaoyu. Their looks were of obvious disapproval, even though they all understood their approval meant nothing. The boys had never been forced to stand in formation for so long. None had any idea what they would be told to do next. One boy, the least patient or most xenophobic, finally spoke.

  “You cheated,” he said turning back, looking at Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu angled his head in the direction of the voice.

  “No I didn’t,” said Xiaoyu.

  “You were supposed to fight Xu Dong, but you hit Wang Xi, you’re a cheater,” said the boy. The others felt the same but knew they weren’t supposed to speak.

  “You call me a cheater. I call you blind and deaf,” said Xiaoyu, “I did fight Xu Dong, but you were too blind to notice. Even now you’re too blind to see that’s why he’s not here.”

  “But you hit Wang Xi, he was part of the gauntlet,” said the boy.

  “So sad that you are also deaf, Mr. Cheung never said I couldn’t,” said Xiaoyu.

  The boy felt secure among the other boys in formation, but less secure in his argument about Xiaoyu cheating. He didn’t say anything else. Xiaoyu’s feeling of being among equals quickly faded. Initially, Xiaoyu felt an instant kinship with the group, realizing they were all unwanted strays. From his spine to his brain, crept a feeling that somehow these boys were backward. The boys looked at rules as limitation, something Xiaoyu had never done. The boys had an unspoken rule not to attack anyone forming the gauntlet. Xiaoyu doubted anyone ever said that was a rule because they never said it to him. Xiaoyu only remembered being told two rules: one by Mr. Cheung—beat him and one by Uncle Woo—don’t hold anything back. Xiaoyu saw a manifestation of something he had understood for a long time. Rules were viruses. Being infected by one meant it would multiply. Somehow these boys had viewed their gauntlet as a limitation. They didn’t fight outside the gauntlet and they didn’t attack
anyone forming the gauntlet; their world was limited to space within the gauntlet. They had created rules to give their world an atmosphere—an upper boundary. Xiaoyu was the only to see how attention to their boundary got one of them knocked unconscious—Mr. Cheung saw. The boys imposed rules on themselves in addition to the ones already given. Xiaoyu thought this made them weak. His only limitations—he felt—were his limitations. Limitations—he thought—had to be tested because the space between rules and limitations could be vast.

  The facility went from relative silence, to being crowded with voices, adult voices. There were three distinct men’s voices. Mr. Cheung’s voice could be heard as well. It was a good fifteen minutes before the men appeared in the hallway with blue doors. The boys made sure their echelon was as perfect as they could manage.

  “Which one is he?” asked a tall stocky man.

  “He’s there in the back,” said Mr. Cheung.

  “Call him over,” said the stocky man. Mr. Cheung looked directly at Xiaoyu and waved him over with the two fingers not burdened by the cigarillo.

  “He doesn’t look the part. How did he put the other one down?” said the stocky man, “He’s nowhere near as athletic.”

  “He does what the others don’t,” said Mr. Cheung, “He thinks.”

  The Triad family was always on the lookout for young people, not because they lived longer. Hotheads were quick to get shot off. Younger people were easier to come by. A middle-aged man down on his luck, considered himself lucky not to be mixed up with Triads. But young kids on the streets jumped at the chance to prove their toughness. Ironically, that would be the same sentiment to get them killed. The ones that lasted were the ones who stopped to think. Uncle Woo had become the patriarch of the Moons by thinking before doing. The three men spoke with Mr. Cheung for no more than two minutes, before they all stood still. They had come to agreement. Mr. Cheung called on the boy who was at the front of the second line. He stepped forward. Hup. The other boys formed the gauntlet once again. Xiaoyu stood still. He looked directly at Mr. Cheung and shook his head.

  “I won’t fight him there,” said Xiaoyu in Mandarin. The three men understood Mandarin.

  “This is how we fight,” said Mr. Cheung.

  “I just got here, I’m not one of you,” said Xiaoyu.

  “You’re here, so you fight like us,” said Mr. Cheung.

  “I’ll fight like you when it’s fair, but they’re going to try something,” said Xiaoyu, “Send them away then I’ll fight him.”

  The men looked at each other then at Mr. Cheung. It was Mr. Cheung’s call. Mr. Cheung wanted to show the men what Xiaoyu was capable of, he himself wanted to see it. He wasn’t going to let an unwritten tradition defeat his purpose. Mr. Cheung sent the other boys to the end of the hall and told them to hold their ranks there. While the challenger was surveying the new set up and waiting for Hup, Xiaoyu rushed him by surprise tackling him to the floor. The impact knocked the wind out of the boy and Xiaoyu took advantage. Xiaoyu put his knee on the boy’s groin, raising his right hand high above his head. Making a fist, Xiaoyu’s hand came crashing down on the boy’s face, he followed with two more similar blows before rising to his feet and stomping on the boy’s stomach causing him to upchuck. Xiaoyu showed restraint. After stomping on the boy, he left him. The three men winced at the aggression of one child against another. Mr. Cheung barely moved, only his right hand came up to take the cigarillo from his mouth and let the smoke out. Watching Xiaoyu best one opponent wasn’t enough to go on, so the three men requested another bout. This time Mr. Cheung took a volunteer. One shorter boy stepped forward. The boy was familiar to Xiaoyu. It was the xenophobe—the boy who called him a cheater. Xiaoyu felt the breaths go in and out of his lungs easily and he felt someone standing beside him. There was no one. There was only an advantage and Xiaoyu could feel it exactly. He knew the boy was holding a grudge, which took enormous energy. The boy didn’t have enough spare energy to last long and Xiaoyu knew it. The boy would try to end the fight quickly, stupidly. The boy stepped forward confidently then took off at full-speed toward Xiaoyu. Not observing the rules. No waiting for Hup. The boy meant to give Xiaoyu a taste of his own doing. Xiaoyu noticed the boy’s top speed. The boy was fast. He was closing the gap at an amazing rate of speed; still the air flowed easily in and out of Xiaoyu’s lungs. When the boy was close—too close to stop—Xiaoyu took a half-step to the left and kept his right foot in place. The boy missed Xiaoyu entirely, all but his right foot. The boy’s feet stopped for a split second, hooking on Xiaoyu’s foot. But his momentum kept going forward. He flew forward head first and came down on his stomach. The boy’s immediate reaction was to roll over on his side to keep weight off the pain in his stomach. Ironically, the same foot that caused the boy to land on his stomach, added to the pain. Xiaoyu kicked the boy as hard as he could in the stomach causing the boy to curl into fetal position. Xiaoyu took aim at whatever part of the boy was exposed, kicking him in the back, arms and head. The boy—a xenophobe—had a noble character trait. He spoke his mind. He was the first to call Xiaoyu a cheater when all others were afraid to speak. And he didn’t wait for Mr. Cheung or Xiaoyu to say when he had had enough. He declared it himself. Stop, please, stop. Xiaoyu stopped. Xiaoyu looked down on the boy and saw eyes that were red and tear-filled. A wave of confusion rushed from Xiaoyu’s feet to his head. He had never been tested in such a way before. He had always been a worthy adversary, always. The Triads were testing his prowess, but they could have done their homework. There was a trail of kids in the Kuandian school system who knew how cold-blooded and calculating an eight year-old boy could be. They had called him the Black Devil. At five years-old, the emphasis was on black. By the time Xiaoyu was eight, the emphasis was on devil.

  But the boy had begged him for mercy. In those three words was a silent statement. I don’t think you’re a devil. No one would beg a devil for mercy. No one would choose to fight a devil. Xiaoyu began to see the crude bits of a large supposition. He wasn’t the Black Devil. He wasn’t a name called. He wasn’t something other than. He was like the rest, like the boy on the ground. Although it was something he had never done, he assumed like creatures could ask each other for mercy.

  Xiaoyu stuck out his hand instinctively. The boy just looked at him and looked. It had been several seconds before the boy grabbed Xiaoyu’s hand, but he grabbed firm and Xiaoyu heaved him to his feet. Xiaoyu asked the boy his name and the boy looked bewildered. Liu Ping. He managed to say his name before retreating to the formation. The three men whispered to each other then said something to Mr. Cheung. The other two headed toward the other side of the facility; the stocky man took one last look at Xiaoyu and tapped Mr. Cheung on the shoulder before walking away. Mr. Cheung pointed to Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu walked toward Mr. Cheung, hearing the vibrations of the front door closing.

  “My instructions are to keep you away from the others,” said Mr. Cheung. He waved his hand at the boys in formation, letting them know they could relax. Mr. Cheung led Xiaoyu back toward the front of the facility. Mr. Cheung unlocked the office door and went behind the desk. The sun outside was too low to be seen, spilling yellow, orange and red as it set. Mr. Cheung pulled a bottle of Gordon’s Gin from below the desk and looked at Xiaoyu giving him a look that said catch. Mr. Cheung assured him it was for the burns on his hand and neck. But there was only the gin, there was no apology. Mr. Cheung opened a brown accordion file and pulled out a diagram of the facility. Combing over the diagram he seemed satisfied.

  “Red No. 17 is free, in fact I don’t think we’ve ever used it. Sleep there tonight. You’ll be on the opposite side of the building from the others,” said Mr. Cheung, “They know not to leave the blue area and I’ll remind them before I go.” Mr. Cheung turned to a sliding cabinet behind him and pulled out two heavy utility blankets. He reached in the door and pulled out an unused brass key.

  “These are for your sleeping, you use this key to get into this office to use the bathroom. The others have t
heir own. You don’t touch anything. When you’re done you leave and the door locks. Keep the key until I take it back.”

  Mr. Cheung led Xiaoyu out of the office. Xiaoyu looked like an irregular recruit—not quite nine years old—following a grown man while holding blankets, a key and a bottle of gin. Mr. Cheung took Xiaoyu to the storage unit with the red door labeled 17. Mr. Cheung opened the door and handed Xiaoyu the key—silver key.

  “You stay in the red area only. You won’t get any food till the morning so my advice is you go to sleep early. If you need water, you get it from the faucet in the office bathroom. When I leave, the front door will be locked so you’ll be stuck in here till we come back in the morning. You stay in the red area and away from the others. How many keys do you have?”

  “Two,” said Xiaoyu.

  “That’s how many I’ll take from you in the morning,” said Mr. Cheung, “How many blankets do you have?”

  “Two,” said Xiaoyu.

  “That’s how many I’ll take in the morning,” said Mr. Cheung, “The gin, well, I’ve been told I should cut back at my age. I’m leaving now.”

  Xiaoyu watched Mr. Cheung walk off wondering if he should ask the question that was hanging in the air. But Xiaoyu wasn’t the type to speak up. He was the type to plot in the shadows of things already built. His message always came across once his plotting was finished. But Xiaoyu had met a boy who was different—direct. He said what he thought, despite the rules. He begged his opponents for mercy when he needed it. It was something Xiaoyu hadn’t been exposed to. He had always seen others act in concert, not speak out on their own. Out of respect for what he had been shown, he asked.

  “Why are you putting me here?” asked Xiaoyu, “Not with the others.” Mr. Cheung took several steps before saying anything; he spoke but didn’t turn around.