Partly cloudy. 19mph winds blowing southeast. Seventy-eight degrees fahrenheit. With wind chill, Seventy-two. Rain expected in the afternoon.
Azer and Grif waited patiently among the other early combat class students on the worn mats. For the past two months, the two boys had been routinely early to their classes and usually found ample time to discuss their plans and findings about The Shades—today’s class was no different. Grif looked both ways at the other nearby students and then leaned close to Azer.
“How’s the map?” Grif asked in a whisper.
“Huh?” Azer replied loudly, confused.
Grif put a finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows, panicked.
“Quiet down, man! The map of the school! The plan! How’s it going?”
It came back to Azer in a rush. He condemned his own stupidity at not getting it earlier.
“Yeah, it’s going fine. I finished it today. It was hard to map all the way around the outside of the school without getting noticed or getting suspicious looks, but I did it. I’m pretty sure Copycat saw me at some point, though. I wasn’t able to map out the security patrols of the school, but I think there’s a blind spot that’s easy enough to get to.”
“Awesome. I knew you could do it.”
Azer put a finger to his not-face to indicate to Grif to be quiet. He nodded subtly over to Copycat, who was standing by the entrance, looking at them. Copycat had a large bruise on his face.
Noticing this, Delvin asked about it. “What happened?”
“Someone went too hard on me last class,” Copycat replied simply. His mood seemed foul.
Delvin said nothing and instead pointed Copycat towards the group of students. He obliged and sat with the rest of them, taking care to shoot a vicious glare towards Azer and Grif, which Grif returned fully.
Combat class that day proved to be uneventful, both Azer and Grif getting a fair amount of practice fighting and Delvin helping them improve their stances. But one thing bugged Azer in a way that he couldn’t shake, and it was something he’d been noticing ever since his first day of school a few weeks ago.
Every single person he came across on a day-to-day basis seemed so distinct. Everyone he saw had their own look, their own personality—the way they acted and interacted was unique to them. It was like everyone knew exactly who they were and how to approach the world, but Azer felt none of that. He noticed, amazed but infinitely jealous, that everyone’s face looked different.
Azer wasn’t particularly unhappy—to the contrary, he was enjoying his life since stepping beyond the borders of his home—but his lack of identity bothered him like an unscratchable itch. Grif had his own hobbies, his own way of speaking, quirks and details that would be easily missed—but Azer felt like he had nothing. He knew little about himself or where he came from. It was as if his own person had nothing to build off of. If the past is what defines you, and Azer had no past—what defined him?
All Azer had was the scant knowledge of the things he enjoyed—he loved to make maps, he loved to explore, and he loved spending time with his growing group of friends, Grif especially. Azer knew that if he built off of what he had, then maybe, just maybe he could find out where he came from. And the prospects of infiltrating the school soon filled him with excitement, a potential clue to his hidden past.
Azer said goodbye to Delvin and walked out of the doors alongside Grif, back to their now-shared house, discussing the events of today’s class and the happenings of their lives in school. It was windy as they walked, some gusts threatening their balance.
“And, by the way, I think we need to infiltrate the school today,” Grif said.
“Wait, what? Already?”
“Yeah, I mean, why not? You said it yourself, the map is ready, and I think I know how we’re gonna get in. I was thinking about getting into the teacher’s office through the window.”
“Yeah, but this still feels a bit early! Shouldn’t we like… prepare or something?”
“We have prepared! C’mon, man, it’s not gonna be so bad! We’re not stealing anything, we’re not hurting anyone, we’re just entering, looking, and leaving. No harm is gonna be done! Lighten up a little!”
Azer tried desperately to think of a counterargument, but found nothing. And the prospect of discovering more about The Shades and himself was too tempting.
“Fine. When do we leave?”
“I was think-”
Suddenly, a quiet click came from behind them, followed by quickly receding footsteps. Grif stopped talking and the two stopped in their tracks. They turned around to see the shrinking figure of Copycat, sprinting away from them in the direction of the Battle Academy. In his hand was a small recording device.
Grif sprinted after Copycat, Azer just behind. Desperation and seething anger surged through Azer. If Copycat had just recorded their plot, Azer and Grif could be kicked out of school. Terrible situations played in Azer’s mind. But he wouldn’t let that happen.
Just as Copycat turned a street corner, Azer activated his S.R. He let the burning energy fill his body and began to run at astonishing speed, sneakers pushing off the asphalt and catching up to Copycat quickly.
Azer tackled Copycat, knocking him to the ground, the recorder falling to the road with a clatter. Azer grabbed Copycat’s collar and was about to demand an explanation, when, suddenly, Copycat dissolved before his eyes into dark grey dust. But only when the dust had settled did Azer realize he’d been fooled.
A clone.
Azer saw another Copycat a ways ahead, running along the sidewalk. He reactivated his S.R. and tore down the street in pursuit of Copycat once more, only for him to disintegrate into dust again upon contact. Azer’s frustration was growing and panic was beginning to set in. How would he be able to take down all the clones, much less find the original?
Think. Copycat had to be taking the nearest path to the authorities in order to share the recording. Delvin had already left a while ago, and it seemed as if Copycat wasn’t going home, either. That meant Copycat had to be going to the Battle Academy. And the original Copycat wouldn’t be stupid enough to go straight to the Battle Academy; he had to be taking a roundabout path, maybe through the–
Azer saw Copycat disappear into the trees behind a building.
The scrapyard.
Azer sprinted towards the scrapyard, but came to a halt at the edge of the trees. He had no idea where he was going—if he got lost, he’d have no way of catching up to Copycat. But he knew someone who would…
“Hey,” Grif said, stopping just behind him. “Why’d you stop?! We’ve gotta-”
“Tell me how to find the scrapyard,” Azer said. “I’m gonna use my S.R. to catch up with him, so I’ll be running ahead of you. You need to tell me how to get there and where he could be hiding.”
“Oh, yeah. I know that place like the back of my hand. It’s off to the left, just cut through the tall bushes and you can get there before Copycat does. He’ll probably be hiding behind a scrap pile, so search those. Got it?”
Azer nodded.
“Alright, go, go, go! I’ll be behind you!”
Azer sprinted towards the scrapyard, trying to ignore the fatigue that was beginning to set in from the use of his S.R. He pushed through the trees and tall-growing weeds, weaving slightly left, before he barreled through an overgrown bush. The environment opened up. The ground wasn’t choked with plant life anymore—instead, extensive piles of scrap took their place, reaching great heights. Manned and unmanned construction machines, old and rusted, roamed the desolate, scrap-filled dirt. They had entered the city scrapyard. And Copycat had disappeared.
As a heavily-rusted bulldozer scooped up a massive pile of scrap, clanking and whirring by, Azer hid behind a pile of his own. Wherever Copycat was, Azer would find him.
Edging behind sharp metal scraps, he looked around the pile. There were fifteen to twenty other piles of scrap, some of plastic, some towering loads of cloth, some metal like the one he was behind. And in the center of the scrapyard was the largest pile of all, consisting of every type of trash and scrap imaginable. It towered disproportionally, higher than the machines should logically be able to reach. With its astonishing size, there had to have been trash there dating back to the very beginning of the colonization of their planet, eighty years ago. A strange feeling inside Azer told him—Copycat was there. Azer was drawn to the faraway center pile as if he had already been there before.
A moment later, a loud clatter from the nearest pile drew Azer’s attention. A hubcap appeared to have duplicated itself dozens of times, displacing the other trash around it, clanking noisily. Azer left his refuge.
He sprinted towards the sound, out of view of a passing worker, and raised his fists. But, aside from the mysteriously duplicated hubcaps, there was no evidence of Copycat. But if Copycat didn’t do that, Azer thought, what did?
Another clatter, different pile. Once the coast was clear, he leapt over an old television and sprinted towards the noise, fists raised again and S.R. pumping, only to find two identical, broken, rusted wheelbarrows fallen off the large pile and onto the ground. How was Copycat doing this? Was he doing this? Surely Copycat’s abilities were only limited to copying himself, right?
Azer bent over closer. The wheelbarrows had identical rust patterns. They were both cracked a few inches into the handle, and the wheels were both bent a bit to the left. There was no doubt—the wheelbarrows had been cloned. Azer reached out a hand…
In an instant, another wheelbarrow erupted from the one he was about to touch, a perfect clone appearing out of it, splitting like a cell. It forced the first wheelbarrow out of the way violently, and the new clone rocketed towards Azer with equal force, crushing his outstretched hand and knocking him backwards.
Azer’s hand throbbed, and he was bleeding from his forehead. The hit had filled him with dizzying pain and nausea, but he managed to push himself up slowly. So he could copy anything. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Copycat’s figure hiding behind a massive stack of old tires.
As fast as his dazed body would allow, Azer sprinted towards Copycat, swaying dangerously, half from the concussion, half from the increasingly strong, whipping wind. Copycat ran, swerving past mounds of junk, touching everything he could with outstretched fingers.
As Azer reached the stack of tires, one of them suddenly burst into dozens of copies of itself, knocking the others back violently, threatening to knock Azer over again. He chased Copycat past a tattered bed frame which erupted into countless clones. Azer ducked and swerved past the falling and flying copies, splinters shooting through the air, some embedding into the bare skin on Azer’s head. Not a single shooting jolt of pain slowed him down.
Azer leapt, dodged, and ducked through the multiplying mayhem, barely avoiding a hundred old steering wheels, a thousand shards of breaking glass, and a steel beam that had copied itself enough to where it was a pile of its own. After what felt like an eternity of running, and countless clones avoided, Azer finally cornered Copycat, recorder clutched tightly, equally exhausted, in front of the largest pile of all. And, somehow, through the pain and exhaustion, Azer felt that eerily familiar feeling again, looking at the pile. For a moment, he tried to put it aside.
“What is your problem?!” Azer yelled. “Why are you doing this?! What did we ever do to you?!”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know already,” Copycat sneered without hesitation, his face hateful and his eyes flashing. “Don’t tell me you don’t know they’re trying to recruit you.”
Azer’s rage subsided, replaced by confusion. “What?”
“I’ve known about it for years, Azer. Their stupid secret organization. I’ve wanted to join as long as I can remember, to be special, to be part of it, but instead of letting me in, I get this!”
Copycat pointed to the bruise on his face, tears in the corners of his eyes.
“Meanwhile, as soon as they come across you and Grif, some nobodies from nowhere, they’re dying to let you in! Just because you’re special! Because you’re different! The last piece of the puzzle! Well, I’m never going to let you join them! Not if I can help it!”
“What are you talking about?! Who are ‘they?’” Azer yelled.
“Team Virga,” Copycat said with resentment. He held up the recording device threateningly. “But you won’t have to worry about them once my clone delivers a copy of this recording to the school and you both get expelled!”
A massive BANG and Grif appeared behind Azer, electric charge surging through his body. Grif pushed Azer aside and lunged towards Copycat. Grif cocked back an electrified punch, but Copycat was already touching a rusted filing cabinet beside him.
“Grif, wait! He can-”
It exploded into dozens of copies, the heavy metal filing cabinets flying, propelled every which way by the sheer force of the duplication. It forced Copycat, Azer, and Grif apart, bruising and battering them. After the chaos had subsided, Azer found himself pinned to the ground by one of the cabinets and saw Grif rushing to his aid.
“Don’t worry about me! Get Copycat!”
But Copycat was already escaping. Seeing Grif, Copycat picked up a stone and quickly cloned himself twice, the stone as well. From what Azer could see, it was a discolored, edged stone, and he could faintly make out some kind of strange symbols on it. The three Copycats all simultaneously hurled stones at Azer and Grif.
Azer, pinned down, was near helpless. It would take time to use his S.R. again. But Grif hadn’t lost his determined glare.
A crackling sound filled the air as Grif electrified himself, and he stomped a foot to the ground. An electric explosion from his foot launched a metal trash can lid into the air, and he extended his hands out towards it as it fell back towards him. His hands sparked and arced, and a final, larger-than-ever explosion launched the trash can lid towards the quickly approaching stones. They impacted in midair with a loud, reverberating CLANG, and the stones were forced backwards, hitting the real Copycat on the head. He collapsed, the clones of him and the objects he touched disappearing into a thin dust, and the original recording device fell out of his hands unceremoniously.
“If we’re lucky, that should have taken care of the clone at the Battle Academy as well,” Grif said.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Azer felt the weight that was pinning him down lift off of him all at once. He pushed himself up effortlessly, and the two made their way over to Copycat and stood for a moment.
“Should we leave him here?” Azer asked.
“Probably not. But I honestly think he might deserve it.”
Then, heavy footsteps behind them.
“Hey… what in the hell?” a gruff voice said. It was a scrapyard worker, staring between Azer and Grif.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU KIDS DOIN’ HERE, EH? GET OUTTA HERE!”
“Guess we have no choice! Run!” Grif said, wide-eyed, stomping hard on the recording device before he sprinted away.
----------------------------------------
Although Azer had thought he’d done enough running that morning, he and Grif found themselves sprinting again to the Battle Academy in hopes of breaking in. Running down and across streets, they saw a familiar face.
“Hey! Azer, Grif! Over here!”
“Milo?”
Milo and Torbe were walking down the sidewalk toward Azer and Grif, waving happily towards them. Azer and Grif slowed down, much to the gratefulness of Azer’s aching legs, and stopped by the other two boys.
“What are you guys running for?” Milo asked.
“Nuh- nothing,” Grif panted. “Don’t worry about it.”
Milo’s eyes widened. “Wait, what happened to you guys? You guys are hurt! Come with us back to my house. My mom can help you!”
Azer touched a hand to his injured head, wincing. “It’s a long story. And, sorry, Milo, we have to go to the Battle Academy. We don’t have time.”
“Why are you guys going to school? It’s a weekend!”
“Just- don’t worry about it, Milo, we’re fine,” Grif said. “If we find time, we’ll head to your house.”
“Alright, well, me and Torbe are taking a shortcut back to my place. Hopefully we’ll see you there!”
And the two left, leaving Azer and Grif behind.
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“Grif, hurry! We still don’t know if Copycat’s clone told someone yet!”
“I’m trying! I’ve never picked a lock before!”
The two were stationed outside of the darkened teacher’s office, Grif fussing with the lock on the window.
“Someone’s gonna see us!” Azer hissed.
“No they’re not! It’s the weekend! You heard Milo, we’re probably gonna be the only people here!”
Grif returned to his work, concentrating hard, until with a tiny click, the lock on the window popped open.
“Alright, go, go!”
Azer climbed in, careful not to bump his injured head, and stepped into the clean, dark teacher’s office.
“I’m having second thoughts, Grif!”
“Chill out! We’re not breaking the rules if we don’t get caught! Now stop complaining and search!”
“For what?”
“Anything! Everything! Find anything you can on that missing girl, or us, or The Shades that they might be hiding. Just look!”
But it was easier said than done—the number of cabinets, and the files in them, was immense. Every teacher, every student had their own file.
Azer dug in a desk, but only found a graded test. He searched through one of the many cabinets, but only managed to find the files of older students. The process repeated with countless student files as the minutes stretched into hours. He was growing frustrated, but then took another look at the files of the older students. Maybe…
Azer searched through the files, hoping to see Haise’s name. Eventually, he found it, and pulled it out. A large red strip of paper hung off of the edge of the file, and the text next to her picture read:
Name: Haise Menss.
Gender: Female.
Appearance: Teal, pale skin. Yellowish eyes and long, thin hair.
Species: Yuuta.
Val(s): Elasticity manipulation of objects.
Date of Birth: Cievu 40, 3264 ZST
Notes:
Orphan. Suffers from a skeletal decay condition due to poor adaptation to high gravity.
There was nothing else of interest in the folder. Still curious, Azer continued to dig in the other old files. Did the red strip of paper indicate that something had happened to her? Azer searched for another red strip of paper, hoping for more clues.
And he found more—another file had a red piece of paper poking out from the surrounding white documents. Azer pulled it out to see something surprisingly familiar.
The picture showed a young girl who seemed familiar to Azer—he couldn’t forget that face. It was the doomsayer who Azer and Grif saw after they first met: Kovaki.
Name: Kovaki E. Etonie.
Gender: Female.
Appearance: Marine blue skin. Reddish-purple eyes and medium length bluish hair.
Species: Silankieli.
Val(s): Skin is an incredibly hard exoskeleton-like material.
Date of Birth: Dyrrachis 2, 3264 ZST
Notes:
Occasional temper issue with teachers and other pupils. Past acts of violence. Belongings confiscated.
Azer closed the drawers and went back to looking around the room, searching for the belongings of Kovaki’s that reportedly had been confiscated. He found a hidden dusty drawer inside an old metal cabinet, protected by an old rusty lock. Was this it? Pumping S.R. through his body, he snapped the lock in two and pulled it open to see an assortment of belongings—gloves, laptops, weapons, and more. Digging around, Azer saw a familiar symbol that caught his attention: the same symbol that the doomsayers had sewn into their cloaks, but engraved in gold on a dusty, leather-bound notebook. Hands shaking slightly, Azer pulled it out.
He opened the notebook to its front page. Light and small handwriting indicated that it was owned by Haise Menss. Azer turned the pages further, skimming the passages and ramblings of this long-gone girl. Then he reached the last page, and the words written there gave him goosebumps.
I see it. I see the image of God in front of me. It’s getting closer.
Kovaki, I was right. It is beautiful.
“Grif, I found something,” Azer said grimly. “And it looks like The Shades is a lot more mysterious than we thought.”
“What do you mean?” Grif asked, still digging around in file cabinets. “What did you find?”
“A notebook from Haise. It looks like she knew the doomsayer person we saw a while ago, Kovaki.”
Grif made his way over to Azer and looked over his shoulder at the final page. When Grif finished reading, his eyes went wide and eyebrows raised far.
“What does this even mean?” Azer asked.
“It probably means exactly what you said. The Shades is something a lot more sinister than we realized. Obviously when it happens… something arrives.” Grif shivered. “But let’s keep looking around for stuff. I think that Copycat’s message obviously didn’t get through or we’d already be found. Let’s see if they have any information on us.”
But before Azer could even start looking for his own file, the school loudspeaker suddenly gave a harsh beep and a voice spoke:
“Emergency alert to all staff: two missing children have been reported, by the names of Milo Arbona and Torbe Sorlen.”
----------------------------------------
TWO HOURS EARLIER
Milo looked at Azer and Grif with confusion. “Why are you guys going to school? It’s a weekend!”
“Just- don’t worry about it, Milo, we’re fine,” Grif replied. He and Azer seemed to be in a rush. “If we find time, we’ll head to your house.”
“Alright, well, me and Torbe are taking a shortcut back to my place. Hopefully we’ll see you there!”
With a quick nod from Grif, he and Azer ran off, turning a corner and passing out of sight.
“What was up with them?” Milo asked nobody in particular. “They looked all beat up.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Torbe said, looking back at where Azer and Grif disappeared. “I’m sure they’re fine. They know what they’re doing.”
Torbe led Milo down an unfamiliar street, taking them closer to an older side of town. The air was cool and moist, high humidity making Milo’s shirt stick to his chest. The monochrome clouds overhead colored the town a bleak gray. He examined a worn-down advertisement pasted on a nearby bus stop to distract himself from the fact that he was getting further and further away from the roads he knew how to navigate.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Milo asked Torbe timidly, turning to his much taller friend. “My parents told me not to go to this area of town.”
“I’m really late for some music lessons,” Torbe said “Would you mind if we went this way instead? It’s a lot faster, trust me. I’ve been down here loads of times.”
Milo and Torbe stood at the mouth of a dark, long, and narrow alleyway, the odor of trash and rusted dumpsters in the air.
“Okay…“
They walked, Milo periodically stopping his pace at any noise. Milo kept close to Torbe, who was much taller than he was, and it gave him a sense of security.
“Torbe… it feels like someone’s watching.”
But as he turned around, he was horrified to realize Torbe wasn’t there.
Torbe was pinned to a wall, wide-eyed. A disembodied hand covered his mouth, muting him.
“No, the other boy!” a voice said.
A thin-fingered, calloused hand grasped Milo’s hair, pulling him back, and then an arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed him tight to a raggedy-clothed body. A terribly skinny, crooked-toothed man held him down, a strong stench of booze and a whiff of blood entering Milo’s nostrils. He tried to yell for help, but his energy was being rapidly drained. He felt as if his eyelids would fall if it wasn’t for the sheer adrenaline and panic pumping through him.
A grinding, sliding noise caught Milo’s attention and he saw another hand opening up a window. Two figures stepped through the window and into the alley where Milo, Torbe, and the thin man stood. Another person then swooped from a rooftop, landing skillfully by the others.
The new figures were two women and a man, all dressed in sweeping velvety cloaks with hoods and a strange symbol-encrusted disc holding the cloaks together. The first woman was shorter than the rest with short, wiry hair, bloodshot eyes jutting out. The man, Milo noticed, was long-haired and missing a hand—and his remaining hand looked a lot like the one pinning Torbe to the graffitied wall. The second woman was taller, fuller, with dark, narrowed eyes that gleamed and edged, hardened skin. Milo could tell immediately that she was the leader.
Beneath their well-kept cloaks were stained, raggedy clothes. They stunk of alcohol and sweat, and had stitches and scars covering their bodies. They were the type of people his parents had warned him about—criminals. And judging by the almost ceremonial look of their clothing, criminals with a cause: Nova Noctis.
“Now,” the leader said, looking towards Milo. “Fico, knock this one out and take him away. Gorr, kill the other kid. We don’t need him.”
Torbe let out a muffled scream. The tall woman looked amusedly at Torbe, the disembodied hand still covering his mouth.
“You got something to say about that?” the leader challenged Torbe. “Gorr, let him speak, I want to hear what this kid’s gotta say.”
The hand uncovered Torbe’s mouth and hung in the air for a moment.
“NO!”
“‘No’ what, kid?” the leader taunted. “Afraid of death, already?”
“DON’T TAKE HIM AWAY! I WON’T LET YOU!” Torbe screamed.
The tears hanging in Milo’s terrified eyes now flowed freely. The four cultists laughed.
“Torbe, you can’t!” Milo sobbed.
“Think you’re tough, huh?” the leader said, smiling now. “Think you can fight us?”
“I can and I will! Milo, this is exactly the stuff we’ve been training for in the Academy! This is what we need to do! Don’t let them take you!”
“He can and he will!” Fico, the skinny man holding Milo chuckled hoarsely. “He can and he will! Didja hear him? There’s a time and a place for heroism, Torbe, and this isn’t it! Your friend here is gonna make us a lot of money! He’s got some seriously rich parents who are gonna pay a pretty penny once we ransom him off! If there’s anything left of him, that is…“
“Hey! Fico!” the leader barked. Fico’s attention snapped to her. “We take him alive, alright? We can’t get ransom money if he’s already dead!”
“To be fair, Kovaki,” the wiry-haired woman started, her voice loud and thin. “We could probably find a way to make him look alive enough to get paid.”
“QUIET!” Kovaki yelled. “We take him alive! Gorr, hurry up and kill the other kid!”
“I don’t know, his little speech has got me inspired,” Gorr said in his deep, gravelly voice. “Let’s give him a fighting chance. Just me and him. I wanna see this kid fight.”
“Me too,” said the hoarse voice of Fico. “Lemme at him.”
“Fine!” Kovaki said, growing angry. She stormed over to Milo, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him away from Fico.
“And you,” she growled to Milo through gritted teeth, “get to watch.”
The disembodied hand, waiting to apprehend Torbe again, flew back towards Gorr. It reattached itself to a red stump on Gorr’s arm, and Gorr held his reattached hand up in the air, flexing and curling his fingers threateningly.
----------------------------------------
Torbe lunged towards his two towering opponents and swung wildly at Gorr. It missed and he hit the alley wall. He felt a shameful frustration as the gang laughed.
“Torbe!” Milo shouted, grabbing Torbe’s attention. “Fico can sap your energ-”
But before he could finish, Kovaki’s hand muffled Milo.
“Don’t even worry about it!” Fico boasted after dodging a kick from Torbe. “It doesn’t matter if the kid knows my Val. How’s that gonna help him?”
Torbe dodged and attacked both of the men, but nothing landed. Fico was wrong—Milo had helped him. Torbe now prioritized dodging Fico’s attacks first, narrowly avoiding the strikes from the limb-separating powers of Gorr. After leaping out of the way of Fico’s grab and ducking under a kick from a disembodied leg, Torbe found himself cornered in front of Gorr. There was a sick, yellow-toothed smile on his face.
“Ever been hit, kid?”
Gorr slammed his fist into Torbe’s side, sending him flying down the narrow alleyway. Brutal pain shot through his body, and he gasped for air as the wind was knocked out of him. The laughter of the kidnappers and the scared cries of Milo were quieter for a moment.
Torbe’s mind suddenly felt clearer. The fear was gone, and all that resided inside him now was his wits and battle instinct. A memory, somehow stirred by the impact, came back to him. It was a memory of fighting Azer and saying to him:
“Show me your Val,” Torbe had said, “I want to fight you at full strength.”
Back then, Torbe had felt like Azer was holding back on him. He had thought, Where is his Val? If he was using it, whatever it is, I would be losing.
And in this sudden, clear state of mind, Torbe realized that he, right now, was holding back. The kidnappers still didn’t know what his Val was—they didn’t even know he had one.
So he would use it to win.
His time bubbles were nearly invisible—and in a dark alleyway like this, and on a cloudy day, the kidnappers would have no idea his bubbles were even there. He flexed his hands and a speeding bubble appeared near the ground, just large enough for Torbe to fit in while curled up. He watched as Gorr’s disembodied arms approached him. Just before Gorr struck, Torbe leapt past the arms and into the bubble.
Entering the bubble and feeling the now-familiar sensation of time warping around his body, everything else began to slow. He changed direction and dove again towards Gorr.
Torbe watched the two sparring students at combat class intently, studying every movement and nuance of battle. The way the fight ebbed and flowed like an agitated liquid fascinated him. All of a sudden, one of the students curled back his fingers and slammed his palm into his opponent’s nose.
“Stop the match! Geraas, that is a forbidden move!” Delvin shouted in Torbe’s memory.
Torbe left the time bubble with a unnatural pulling on his skin and bowled into Gorr’s legs. With no arms to cushion him, Gorr fell clumsily to the concrete with a thud, hitting his head on the asphalt.
Torbe curled his fists to destroy the speeding bubble and then flexed them again, concentrating all of his energy on creating the slowest time bubble he could. He could see it materializing in front of the shocked figure of Fico.
“You could kill him if you did that any harder or hit his nose at the right angle.”
Torbe dove once more in front of the bubble, focusing all of his strength onto his legs, squatting down and preparing for a jump. Now in front of Fico, he looked the decrepit criminal dead in the eyes.
“Ever been hit?” he said before jumping as fast as he could into the bubble.
From the outside, it was as if someone pressed a pause button on Torbe. He floated and very slowly rose into the air.
“What the hell?” Fico exclaimed. “The hell happened to this kid?”
Milo, still staring at the scene wide-eyed, knew. He knew how fast Torbe was really rising in the bubble.
“Just hit him already!” Kovaki said, having abandoned Milo to help the injured Gorr. “Kill him!”
Fico formed his thin, calloused hand into a fist and swung it at Torbe. But before it could hit Torbe, it suddenly halted in midair, traveling at the same snail-like speed Torbe was. Surprised, Fico tried to pull his hand back, but it was stuck in midair as if the atmosphere itself had become solid.
Fico lunged with his other fist, but the same happened. The moment his fist entered the invisible bubble, it stopped, all momentum lost. At that moment, Fico’s cocky and confident expression snapped into panic. He was desperately trying to free himself from these invisible binds of time, but it was futile. Torbe rose higher and higher inside of the time bubble, and Fico was trapped where he was. Before any of the other kidnappers could come to his aid, Torbe reached the top of the bubble, fist extended, and punched Fico’s nose from below with blinding speed.
A spurt of blood, and Fico collapsed against the wall. He was completely limp, dead, panic forever etched into his eyes.
A deafening scream, who knows who screamed it. There were shouts and yells and people shouting Fico’s name. Before Torbe could say another word to Milo, Kovaki’s leg kicked Torbe square in the temple with an audible crack.
Torbe, specks of blood flying through the air after him, hit the alley wall, blood trailing behind him as he collapsed to the ground.
“TORBE!”