It only takes a second for pucks to fall from the goal into the receiver pocket, yet for Riley it rattles through the slot endlessly as his pupils shrink. The humming of the axial fans inside the table reverberates off the veins in his wrist, ringing up the arm and into his ear. Across the table, Sol Bai lets go of his striker for a single clap of satisfaction. That swing against Riley's initial shot was burly, and by his heavier frame and wind up, one would assume Sol to be an offensive type striker. A common style of forceful strikes used to increase the puck's speed, overwhelming the opponent. Most casual players take to this strategy while a minority, like Riley, prefer the defensive inverse. Relying on the limited space two inches from the goal, waving back and forth horizontally. This method allows the player time to anticipate where the puck will travel, countering with precise wrist snaps.
The puck finishes plummeting, waiting for Riley's twitchy fingers to pluck it from the pocket and continue the game. Kevin leans forward in contemplation of his boy's silence. Out the corner of his eye, Ruth looks on with a familiar bewilderment from the night prior against The Wall.
"The heck just happened?" she releases from her breath. "I couldn't even see how he did that."
"Two pages from different playbooks," Kevin says, curling a fist up to the corner of his mouth. "A returning strike that incorporates both methods of strength and dexterity. Force and maneuverability working in tandem. Complete cohesion."
I've seen this before, Riley thinks as he shuffles the puck, face to face with his carefree competitor. That guy from last night did something similar, but he carried the puck before flicking it out of that weird girl's way. This guy here is actually fast!
He slaps the disc in start of the next round. It flings a short distance that rebounds off the left wall still on Riley's side. If the slow bait is taken and reaches, Riley can react faster and send the puck behind Sol's extended arm. In the oasis, the wounded Riley grips his falchion and digs his good leg deep into the sand for a far dive ahead. Once Sol follows, all Riley needs to do is turn and swipe. He trails the moderately speeding puck from behind, but Sol doesn't move his! Calmly waiting as Riley awkwardly moves along, advertising his plan. He does nothing but watch as it enters Sol's side of the table.
Behind, nobody follows Riley, but ahead appears a patient dirk knife pointed steadily where the boy's chest will be in a matter of seconds. The puck glides to the center, and the jolly fifteen-year-old takes the shot, delivering a pulsing tap back to the Gatlin striker. Riley pulls his sword up to block the knife using his flat side. The metals collide with a high pitch gong. He pushes Sol back with all his might, too desperate to consider how close the two are. He blocks the puck, pushing farther than he is used to. Riley's arm is now fully extended, just as he planned to do to Sol. A free fist flies fast into the frantic boy's abdomen, twisting Riley's stomach into a well of pulp.
"And that's two."
Anxiously scratching the back of his head, Riley's left hand is drenched in fear. He begins to pant while the pocket once again rattles. He knew there would have been a risk baiting his opponent, but the very idea of falling for it himself was never a possibility. Two claps from Sol match the numbers displayed overhead, but his cheery disposition weakens at the sight of Riley's dismay.
"Are you okay?" he asks. "Is it an off day?"
"I'm trying," Riley gasps.
"Could've fooled me," Ruth mutters in disappointment. "He's already winded."
"More contemplative," Kevin responds in unblinking focus. "Up until now, Riley has never been the first to initiate a challenge. He always faced the winners. Regardless of whether intentional or not, he has been playing air hockey opportunistically. Spectating both players’ movements and techniques to piece together defensive strategies against whoever wins."
"So, he's hopeless without prep time?"
"Possibly," he shrugs at the nosy girl while rubbing his clean jaw. "But that's what I want to find out."
Exasperated, Riley rethinks his strategy. Once more he breaks from Sol's reach, spitting a clot of blood into the white sand. He pulls his damaged shoulder back to allow his good side to take a plow stance. The competitive aura within the staggering swordsman pours from his legs. The sand at his feet rises and swirls around the ankles as Riley sinks deeper into the sinking pit below.
At round three's start, he sharply launches the puck to his right, ricocheting perfectly straight to the left. Sol is fast, but he's only seen one target against Riley. What if he can confuse him? The puck moves side to side in front of Riley as his eyes track the trail of fading copies.
"Huh," Sol vocally ponders while his eyes attempt to pursue the speeding disc. "Okay! Now we're getting started!"
The sandpit erupts, casting a pummeling gust of dry particles in every direction. Emboldened by curiosity, Sol tightens the grip of his knife as the cloud engulfs him. He braves the storm without a shred of worry. In fact, the twitching in his eye comes solely from the bombarding of dust. He knows what's coming. Third times the charm. His peripheral vision floods by flickering shadows in the dust bowl, jumping in droves. The rapid movement fans away the lingering sand in the air, revealing Riley, not five feet away.
Sol's eyes drag following the pattern, hesitantly moving his striker an inch. The time is now. Riley's wrist drags across the metal and delivers a flick exactly where two inches away, soaring the puck in route of the goal. With a sharp head turn, Sol's elbow opens, ever so slightly grazing the zooming plastic. He offsets the thing by a hair, careening into the corner, and back at Sol. However, instead disc snags under his paddle. Sol holsters his dirk knife by dropping it in the sand next to Riley's head who lays planted under the foot of his opponent.
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"Seriously," Sol questions with a growing frown and tensing knuckle, "Stop playing around with the basics and do a Crash already! You're going to lose if you don't stop being secretive!"
His demands are met by a thousand-yard stare of confusion.
"Crash?" asks Riley.
Sol's good nature wilts at this awkward caginess, offended by the above average skill set of this sweaty mystery kid. Riley is talented, and clearly versatile with his wrist shots, but surely there must be more to him than this. The weight upon the puck lightens, freed again to glide. Sol revolves his wrist around, controlling the puck's motion into a smooth circle. It was close to the way Odin used the toy rink this morning. He raises his head to lock eyes with Riley, who is still staring down at the revolving puck.
"If you won't make the first move," Sol's wrist flashes and clacks. Before Riley appears booming row of air hockey pucks, running in a mighty wall to wall formation. Two onlookers at another table debate if the true puck is moving at fifty or sixty miles per hour. "Cohesive Crash!"
Riley is flung headfirst at the shore and soaks. He rolls against an oncoming wave onto damp ground, coughing a cup of salt water into his quivering hands. He pants steady for his heartbeat to catch up, only freeze at the sight before him. Sol, next to himself with more on the way, and counting. Not afterimages but standing duplicates! One after another Riley is walled inside the expanding ring of clones. They eerily move in sync as they simultaneously pull out their knives. To the upper right of the swarm, a single Sol Bai's blade illuminates a streaming turquoise aura. The choir joins in his smile of competitive eagerness.
"Thousand Man Drive!"
Riley's wounded leg shivers at the clear danger, falling aside in desperation. Sol plunges his knife forward, delivering a long ranged turquoise force through his ankle. Riley attempts to intercept the puck as it advances in continuous ricochet. Miss after miss, unable to find solid plastic. Thundering clicks close in without any chance of being halted. Another driving beam barely scratches Riley's neck, but the immediate three after successfully penetrate the knee, hip and stomach. His lips loosen as gasps of agony push through gritted teeth. No defense. No escape. The army of Sols leave no space spared, even bursting the vast waters at the prey's back like bundles of dynamite scattered in the sea. Among the thick air of atomized mud, a body crumbles into the shore, skin riddled with points and tatters of cloth drifting in the tide.
Three claps permeate the air without a word from Sol. Once more the puck falls to Riley's side with his real knees collapsing in vertigo. His stomach aches from extensive core tightening, but the need to puke is from anxiety. Kevin and Ruth watch as the boy reduces into a puddle of doubt. Ruth is also in a daze, taking the challenge tracking that technique. Her stiff spine creaks at Kevin, whose attention is pointed at Sol, walking around the table. He approaches the groveling child with his own questions.
Does he really not know, he thinks. Why would Lord Odin be interested in someone who can't even use Cohesion?
Sol turns the corner for Riley in full view, but halts at his sight. A trembling hand squeezes the puck as Riley presses it to the wall. His knees shift for stability as air comes back into his dry lungs. The word "overdramatic" would be the proper word for this display. However, unlike the majority of the human race, Sol Bai does not see a crybaby. He sees a mind forcing itself into overtime, fighting fear to bring the disc back to the surface.
No matter what I do, he shutters inside. He finds a way to not only counter but make it so I can't! He was so humble that I thought it was safe, but he's like, five levels higher. I have to think of something!
"Hey," Sol speaks with a soft hand extended. "Did you fall?"
"Yeah," Riley answers as their hands clasp. Somehow Sol has no reaction to his absurdly sweaty visage. "Your move maybe me stumble and I needed a minute."
"Wild," Sol laughs perplexingly. "Have you ever heard of a Cohesive Crash before?"
"No," Riley gulps.
"That's crazy," Sol shouts three feet from his face. "I completely misjudged where your skill was at! I am so sorry for getting heated back there!"
While Sol apologetically shakes Riley's hand, Ruth notices a smile come across Kevin's face. He thinks back to a few months ago in the last school year. Mr. Saylor's class was assigned to write a two-page paper on their favorite story in any medium, and why. Most did movies, a teen drama or two, but Sol Bai was different. He chose a video game, Closing Fable. The story of a misfit troop overcoming their own adversities on a quest to save a thankless world from a heartless god. Sol focused heavily on how changing a character's abilities could influence the story in various ways. His meticulous detail of every benefit and drawback that came from adjusting these stats turned his two-page paper became five. This made Kevin realize three things: Sol is passionate about his hobbies, has nobody to talk about them with, and knows how to play a game balanced.
"The perfect opportunity."
"Huh?" Ruth pauses. "For what?"
"A lot actually," Kevin rises from bench for a satisfying stretch. "Hey guys!"
The two boys turn to Kevin, whimsically pointing at the blank scoreboards. Finally, the two notice the axial fans have gone silent. The game timed out, and the two turn to each other in equal embarrassment.
"It must have thought we left," Riley stammers. "I stayed on the ground too long."
"I was too apologetic," Sol contributes. "We have to play again!"
Riley is taken aback. The game may have been cut short, but the winner should be obvious. Why would this serious competitor still want to practice with this above average amateur?
"It's four days until the qualifiers," Sol begins reasoning. "If you're gonna make it to the tournament, you'll need to understand what I've been talking about!"
Riley is stricken with disbelief.
"You want to teach me that crash abili- move?"
"Odin doesn't even talk to the best of us higher level players, so for him to take an interest in you, then what are you actually capable of when you do know Cohesion?"
Before he can ask for more details, Sol brandishes his last two quarters at Riley's face. He shines a smile different from the initiation of the first game. One now kindred, familiar despite meeting 20 minutes ago. Sol extends his hand in his offer, and that competitive flame in Riley's chest livens the rest of his body. Though the match was one sided, it was glimpse into a new world for. Odin's demonstration of this Cohesion style was window, but Sol is showing him the door to possibilities Riley never knew existed in air hockey. The questions alone trigger an excitement in Riley's chest, sending him back to that night he first entered the Wind Field.
"Sol," he meets the handshake with resolve, shining with an eagerness to match the energy. "Thank you! Please teach me everything you know about Cohesion!"
There you go Courtney, Kevins looks on at the two while Ruth charges the boys about her turn being interrupted by a rematch. Your son made a friend today.