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O'Leary

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Fleetfury. The name echoed in O’Leary’s mind as the hallway came into focus — his mindscape. O'Leary stood halfway between a set of doorways ahead and one set behind; but the one a few steps ahead on the left caught his attention. The wood was a lighter color than the others around it and the knob was black. O'Leary had discovered earlier that most of the doors, while they looked the same at first glance, had slight variations — not that he had any idea what the variations meant.

A floorboard creaked as he stepped forward.

Realization seeped in with the sound of the floorboards creak; the door color represented a memory from one of his previous cycles, but the creak in the floor also released other personal knowledge; he knew his tree-casting specialty was with the elements, but he had minor talents in binding and energy manipulation; not powerful, like Rooster, but then he wasn’t a full Warden either.

He'd used fire at the Costco, but he hadn’t known it was a specialty or any of that information a moment ago, before the floorboard told him. Apparently, he could speak floorboard? No, that didn't feel right; feck, who was he kidding? None of this made sense.

‘Ka-chunk.’

The door’s deadbolt unlocked, and he didn't wait; O’Leary reached for the black knob, but a blinking vertical line appeared on the door’s frieze rail. A cursor? A colon appeared after the door’s number, then a letter, followed by another.

1049: Trust is strength, not weakness.

GG.

- C0£t

“Nope. No more.” O’Leary shook his head, twisted the doorknob, and pushed it open. “Time for answers, not more questions.” With a single stride unbroken by hesitation, O’Leary crossed the threshold.

***

He hadn’t been to the Stable in a long while; the warehouse was a shop and garage for the Ragers and kept vehicles they used to traverse City safe. Well, traverse was probably the wrong word. Race. The Ragers loved a good race, and Triskele had to admit, he missed it. As First Rager, he was more a diplomat, teacher, and ambassador these days, but what he wouldn’t give to fly in Phoenix again.

Klipper would love that; Phoenix was his baby now, besides Triskele was getting a little too old and slow to dodge shades on City’s streets. Triskele wistfully ran a finger over the restored Firebird’s smooth curves; Klipper had given the car a custom canary paint job, redid the phoenix on the hood in black, but looks aside — it was still Phoenix. It had a Technomancer tweaked engine which could reach signal speeds, but even Triskele wasn’t that reckless.

“Of course not, we’ve been tempered by experience,” said Fleetfury.

Triskele smiled at the sarcasm he felt radiating along the bond. “Wonder why Wheeler wanted to meet here?”

“I wonder why he wanted to meet at all. That last argument was… let’s go with not good.”

“He was hurting. We all were.”

“Maybe that’s the point? Better memories here.”

Fleetfury was right. The memories this place conjured in Triskele were deeper than any from the hallway; racing streets is where he and Wheeler became more than shade friends. It was where they found the others — Jessie, Colt, Miranda, and Leah — and together they formed the Ragers. Heck, they even helped Xroads, acting to check Finder Keeper movements and getting fledglings to Xroads safely before the Finks nabbed them. Sure, Jessie and Colt were Technomancers, Miranda a Color Hunter, but that didn’t make their little band less close. At least until Leah cycled.

“You better be willing to buff those out?” Klipper said from the catwalks’ railing.

Triskele forced a chuckle, leaning over Phoenix to give it a mock wipe with the sleeve of his green flannel button up. He dressed more like a hiker these days than a street racer. “Didn’t leave a mark, I promise.”

“Sure, sure.” Klipper came down the stairs.

“You could have told me he was coming, big ears and all.”

“Way more fun this way.” Fleetfury, like usual, was on Triskele’s left, but looked like he was more ready for a nap than action — It was an act.

“Back from Xroads already?”

Klipper hit the warehouse floor and came around a doorless Jeep. Klipper was alright, but in this cycle, he was only slightly past their shade age, while Triskele was at least twice that now. It was by far Triskele's longest cycle in the Belly, not to mention he had the hallway. Their high school aged shades had never really connected, and that gap was even further now; Awkward silences were right around the corner.

“Yeah, that gauntlet was rough, but we made it through.”

Triskele nodded. “Yeah, it’s tough. How many selected?”

“Miranda was harsh. She only chose three of fifteen to train as Color Hunters.”

“How many Ragers?” It had nothing to do with Miranda’s techniques. She knew what it took to be Rager and Color Hunter both. Xroads was the only haven they had, and Color Hunters were its primary scouts and hunters.

Klipper looked at the ground. “None.” He growled it out as he met Triskele’s eyes. “That bitch didn’t choose any of us.”

“Uh oh.”

Triskele didn’t break eye contact, he just held his gaze on Klipper, letting the silence do its work, but he really wanted to knock his yellow lensed aviators off his face and rip that stupid Bjorn Ironside braid from his Viking poser head.

Klipper broke first. “Whatever.”

“Wow, you held back. That’s not like you.”

“There are bigger things today, plus it’s my fault. I’ve been to absent.”

“I bet you could dangle him from the catwalk with that braid — he’s got leather wrapping it in places.”

“I’ll talk to, Miranda.”

“Thank…”

Triskele held up a hand. “Not for your benefit, but to find out where we’re lacking, so future fledglings have the chance to grow through service.”

“Whatever, we have more important things to do.” Klipper flexed his black leather driving gloves, scrap fists he called them. He had the backs reinforced with small metal plates and sharp shards which stuck out between knuckles.

“Oh. Like?” Triskele adjusted his backpack and shifted the pine walking stick from his left hand to his right. He put a bit of his weight on it, leaning towards Klipper.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Trying to goad him into taking a swing? Nice”

“I was talking to gramps; he has some ideas.”

“You mean, Wheeler?”

Klipper nodded. “It’s why he wanted to meet today.”

“I have a bad feeling. Fleetfury, buddy, would you do a quick scout?” Triskele felt his familiar’s chin brush against his shoe in affirmation before he sped off.

Klipper didn’t seem to notice, “Should be here any….” A side door in the loading bay opened and two men walked in.

“Uh, Triskele. We have a problem.”

Wheeler shuffled forward. Triskele didn’t know the last time he cycled, but it showed. He had aged, might even be one of the oldest in the Belly. Next to him was Gin — a Finder Keeper.

“I see that.”

Triskele slid his free hand into the pocket of his Gore-Tex pants, where it gripped a small black box with a single button.

Wheeler was carrying a small metal tin by a baby blue rubber strap; the tin had images on the top and sides. Beside him, Shutterbug Gin had one camera hanging around his neck with a standard lens; two more were slung over his shoulder, and Triskele knew his hip pouches had smartphones and disposables; there were two smaller point-and-shoot cameras slung from his belt and on his back was a bag for lenses and his drone. Gin was the closest thing to a Technomancer the Finks had. What the feck was Wheeler doing with him? Gin adjusted his paperboy hat in greeting before raising his hands to show they were artifact free.

Yeah right! Triskele didn’t mimic the gesture. One hand was in his pocket on the alarm button, the other gripped his pine staff. “This should be interesting. Any reason you’re bringing Finks into our Stable, Wheeler?”

Wheeler’s eyes were on the ground as he and Gin made their way past vehicles and tools to Phoenix’s back bumper. He set the metal tin on the trunk.

“Hey now,” said Klipper. “You’re going to scuff her up.”

“Triskele, there are at least three Fink crews out here. They’re spread out around the building.”

“Okay, what about allies?”

“Besides Wheeler and Klipper? There are a handful of Ragers in the upstairs office and a few smaller groups camped in the area.”

“This isn’t working,” Wheeler said. He flipped the latch on the tin. It was a lunch kit, one of the old metal ones. This one was pretty beaten up, but it had two women on the front standing in some winter forest.

“I know it’s been hard since, Leah…”

Wheeler twisted from the kit, “You don’t know shit, Beast!” Finger pointed at Triskele’s chest.

“Beast? Only Leah called me that here, and she said it with a hell of a lot more…”

“Don’t you, don’t you say it!” Wheeler’s arm shook; his shoulders trembled. “You don’t get it. You’ve loved no one like we did. She’s gone, man. Gone!” Wheeler gripped the wagon wheel pendant hanging from his neck, taking in a deep breath.

"Buddy, we could pull her again. You have her artifact." Triskele pointed at the wagon wheel pendant.

"She wouldn't remember what we had, plus she'd be what? High school aged and me an old man? No, old friend; that would be torture." Wheeler shook his head. “You’ve never had your soulmate cycle. I wouldn't ever wish that on anyone, but if you had, then you’d have listened.”

“Listened to what? Again? I’ve told you there’s no way out. I’ve hallways of memories where I’ve tried to find one. No. Where ‘we’ve’ tried to find one. Wraith has us trapped in her fecking mist lined gut.”

Gin stepped forward. “Is this necessary? We’re here to accept your surrender, Triskele.”

“I’m on my way back.”

Triskele ignored Gin, keeping his eyes on his friend. “Wheeler, why don’t you cycle out? It’ll help. Put those memories aside…”

“You mean forget her? Forget what we had? That’s what you mean, right?” Wheeler snarled; tears ran freely from his face as he lifted a sleeve to wipe his nose.

“That’s not what I mean, eh? Hey, I can remember; we can use the hallway, then maybe by the next round Colt will have increased project Triskelion's signal strength.”

Wheeler turned back to the lunch kit; index fingers posted to both sides of its unlatched lid. “No, it’s not enough. I found a way, but there was a price.” He opened the kit and purple energy swirled inside. Wheeler opened his mouth wide, the food swirling up into it. For a second, his eyes flicked violet, his features blurred, and like a shade, he devoured the energy.

“What have you done?” Triskele pulled the little black key fob out of his pocket; one press would set off every car alarm in the stable bringing nearby Ragers to his aid. Fist and metal slammed into his face; the metal shards dug into his cheek, cutting gums and tongue. Triskele staggered to the side, as a hefty piece of flesh tore free on Klipper’s scrap knuckles; finger pressed, but the trigger was gone.

A smirk grew on Klipper's punch-face as the alarm key fob dangled from his fingers. “It’s time for a new First Rager.”

“Back. Oh, he’s so shredded.” Fleetfury leaped for fingers and the key fob.

‘Click.’

The smirk doubled as Klipper laughed at the bunny frozen mid-pounce.

“Move, idiot.” Gin motioned with one hand; the camera rested on his other. “You’re in the shot. Get out of his trajectory.” Gin dropped the strap-secured camera, reaching for another at his hip.

Klipper side-stepped as the spell released and Fleetfury slammed into the side panel of a newish Mustang with a shriek — the sound only intensified Klipper's glee.

Bent from the blow, skin pulled tight as his torn face healed, Triskele straightened; pine twig out of his bandoleer and snapped in a single fluid motion and all before he'd reached his full height. The fire magic ignited his pine walking stick; flames danced around his fingers to avoid scorching his flesh as he raised it into a fighting stance. “You, okay?” He sent a pulse of healing energy along the bond to Fleetfury.

“Gin just made my shred list, but yeah. I’m up and circling them now.”

“You didn’t have to do this, Wheeler. No matter what happens....” Triskele lowered his chin and furrowed his brow. “I'll be back.”

“Not this time,” said Wheeler. “That was the price. She won’t pull you again.”

“This may not go well. I want you to get out of here.”

“Not going to happen, Triskele.”

“Fine, okay. 3v2? We can handle those odds, but be quick. We need to be gone before more Finks move in to help.”

"That was a nice thought."

“Banishment,” said Ice from the catwalk. Even after all this time, Triskele couldn’t suppress the shiver his voice caused as it rolled over him. “Your Technomancer built mind construct erased.” Ice stood where stairs met the catwalk, his suit already swirling with shades, while Meatloaf, Jumbo Shrimp, and six fledgling Ragers filed in behind him. Cheddar was on the catwalk, their shadesack passing them an artifact; they leaned forward as a rifle, complete with scope, formed from their shoulder — they took aim. Mist flowed from Ice's suit and solidified into a spear; he pointed it at Triskele. “Cycle him.”

The deep bark of a single shot echoed from the catwalk; Triskele had time to bend his knees as a second 'click' from Gin's camera froze him in place — easy pickings for Cheddar with his junk rifle. The bullet could have cycled Triskele right there, but Cheddar was off their mark and the bullet touched the flesh of his upper abdomen and froze. Gin's camera magic faded and Triskele re-entered time; the bullet ripped through his flesh and the pain wracked through his core.

The room exploded into action as they all came for him; Triskele hit the ground but pushed aside the pain and popped back to his feet — energy flowed from the wound as it tried to close. Gin was his most immediate threat; he drew and threw the hunting knife from his belt; it didn't stick but slapped the camera out of Gin’s hand as a brown blur slashed out at ankle height. Gin screamed as he crumpled to the ground, tendons torn by Fleetfury's attack.

Klipper discarded the empty bottle of breakfast shake he’d guzzled and struck out at Triskele with a straight-leg kick. Triskele stepped forward, twisted his hips, caught Klipper’s foot with his free hand and shoved, sending the overbalanced Klipper into the path of Cheddar's next bullet; he screamed as he hit the floor. Then he turned all his focus to Wheeler; there was no trace of his former friend in those eyes, not anymore.

Wheeler thrust his hands out to his sides; white and blue energy swirled in the surrounding air; the ground under his feet was already slick and frozen. The light song he hummed was nearly drowned out by the shouts of Triskele’s enemies as they closed the net.

It didn’t matter, his Fink fed snow magic was overkill. Triskele stood frozen. He wouldn’t strike his friend, not Wheeler.

“You must. He made his choice.”

“I won’t. Get out of here.”

“You’re being dumb. No.”

“I don’t need a big Ardern brain to tell me there’s no winning this fight, Fleetfury. Go!”

“Triskele…”

“Bravery not recklessness. I’ll find you again, I swear.”

“But…”

Triskele fired 98% of his remaining energy to Fleetfury. "Get moving!" He kept a flicker for himself; this was cyclecide, but he would pay anything to see Fleetfury free. Klipper back on his feet, bullet wound in the muscle of his right shoulder which kept the arm limp at his side, charged in with a left hook. Triskele ducked the awkward swing, came up on Kipper's weak side and fueled his fire with a percent of his reserves, smashing the flaming walking stick across Klipper’s face; yellow lensed aviator’s shattered, and the traitor screeched as flames ignited exposed flesh; Triskele had a smug look on his face as Klipper fled between cars where Jumbo Shrimp tackled him to the ground trying to pat out the flames, but that was it; that was all the energy he had left to fight. Triskele sunk to the ground, his walking stick extinguished and fell from fading fingers.

He felt lighter, a sure sign the crossing had begun, and the lightning flash could happen at any moment. He had twigs to snap, but not the energy to adapt or direct it and the last bit of energy was needed to keep Fleetfury from being pulled down with him — with gathered thoughts, he sent a Binder’s goodbye along the bond, then surgically severed their connection.

He was cold; that was new. No, it was Wheeler leaning over him, his breath frosty against Triskele’s ear. “Fleetfury is safe. I'm sorry, but we will get free.”

Lightning flashed.

***

“Seamus O’Leary, you must wake up.” Meyonohk said. “Asher needs you.”