Chapter 9: With a Fucking Stick
The last thing I saw was the blonde woman shouting incomprehensible words at me as the portal tuned everything out and swallowed me whole.
I fell through a fucking circus of light and shadow! Colors smashed into each other, reds, blues, blacks, like some psychedelic bullshit gone wrong.
My stomach did cartwheels, my head screamed, but I didn't scream. No way, I've danced with death before! Died once, came back to haunt the living.
BAM!~~
The ground kissed my ass. I crashed onto stone steps, tumbling like a drunk rolling down a hill. Pain exploded in my legs, my ribs, my skull, but I popped up, spitting dirt like a champ.
The air hit me, cool, sharp, reeking of damp earth and jungle rot. Night sky above, stars winking like they were laughing at me.
I was back at that damn temple, the same creepy-ass ruin, but it wasn't the same. The steps were slicker, less messed up, the stone almost polished.
Vines still crawled up the walls, but they were leaner, tamer, like nature got a haircut and a stern talking-to.
Same place, different time. Night instead of day. That hole in the sky dumped me here, and I didn't know why. Didn't care. All I knew was I had to get back to Citra.
I slinked to the edge of the steps, peering down into the clearing below. Some big guy, tall, with a goofy red pompadour and a yellow scarf, chased a little girl, maybe eight or nine, her dark hair flying like a flag of panic.
He yelled stuff I couldn't decode, his voice slicing the quiet like a dull blade. She zigzagged between trees, fast as a scared rabbit, but he closed in, legs pumping like a machine.
I didn't budge. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I just watched, waiting to see if that hole in the sky would go down enough so I could jump back into it and get back to Citra. But then…
WHOOOM!~~
The sky lit up like a goddamn firework show! That hole flashed bright, blinding me for a second, then fizzled out, leaving a hum in the air like a pissed-off ghost.
The girl tripped, face-planting into the dirt. The pompadour guy snatched her arm, hauling her up as she squealed. He slapped a hand over her mouth, dragging her toward the trees.
Her wide, terrified eyes caught the moonlight, and something twisted in my gut. She looked like little Citra, back when we were kids, before the blood and the knives. Even younger than the one at the other side of that hole.
I shook it off. Not my fight. But then voices crashed through the jungle, loud and hyped.
"Did you see that light?"
"Something dropped from the hole in the sky!"
"Up there, by the temple!"
Footsteps stomped closer, flashlights stabbing the dark. The guy with the girl froze, then bolted, yanking her along. I cursed under my breath. That flash screwed me. The hole wasn't coming back, and now I had a damn parade headed my way.
I needed a weapon. Fast.
I scanned the steps, eyes wild. There, half-buried in the muck, was a knife. Fancy stuff, quiet modern and a blade that winked at me in the moonlight. I snatched it, flipping it like a pro.
Not my machete, but it would slice flesh just fine. Where'd it come from? Kinda looks like an equipment from the blonde woman's crew. Did it fall with me? Didn't matter. It was mine now.
Flashlights hit me. A crew of guys stormed the clearing, thugs, grunts, whatever, wearing uniforms and packing those red-and-white balls on their belts.
One, a scarred-up bastard with a sneer, pointed at me.
"Hey, kid! What the hell you doing up there?"
I grinned, twirling the knife like a circus act. "Just enjoying the view, hermano! You gonna join the party?"
"Drop the knife, now kid!" he barked. "You're coming with us!"
Kid. He called me kid. I laughed, loud and crazy. "You think I'm some little bitch?!"
He didn't get to blink. I charged, knife flashing, a wild grin splitting my face. The blade sank into his throat, and he collapsed, gurgling like a stuck pig, blood spraying my face like war paint. One down.
SQUARD
The night was muggy, thick with the stink of sweat and jungle rot, until that wild-haired kid with a manic grin crashed in.
His laugh hit me like a slap, high-pitched, unhinged, slicing through the dark. I was barking at some sniveling kid we'd nabbed, feeling tough, when Namur choked out a scream.
The kid was on him, knife glinting like it was alive, and before I could blink, blood sprayed across my boots. Namur hit the ground, twitching, gurgling like a busted pipe.
I should have bolted right then, but my legs were jelly. This wasn't the plan, shake down brats, flex a little, not bleed out in the dirt!
The others jumped, all bravado and shaky hands, fumbling for Poké Balls like they'd save us.
Tom and Luis, the Decalvan twins, threw theirs out. Tom's Pidgey swooped, glowing with that tackle move, and Luis's Rattata skittered at the kid's legs.
I gripped my own Ball, fingers slick with sweat, thinking I'm not cut out for this, I'm not cut out for this.
The kid dodged the Pidgey like it was nothing, cackling as its beak scraped his shoulder. One slash, its wing flopped useless, then he smashed its skull into the mud with a wet crunch. My gut lurched.
The Rattata got him, barely, but he spun, stabbed it mid-squeal, guts splattering like spilled soup. I gagged, tasting bile, knowing we were screwed.
Tom roared, swinging his baton, cracked the kid's ribs, I heard it. The kid wheezed, rolled, and ripped Tom's stomach open with a flick of that blade. Blood gushed, soaking Tom's shirt, and he screamed, high and ragged, collapsing in a heap.
I wanted to move, to play the villain like I'd bragged I could, but my feet were rooted. Luis grabbed the kid's arm, twisting hard and dislocating him, but the kid slammed the injured shoulder against a tree…
POP!~~
And slashed Luis's face, ear to chin. Luis shrieked, hands clawing at the mess, dropping like a sack. Three gone. I was panting, chest tight, thinking I should have stayed on the ship, I'm no fighter, I'm nothing.
Panic erupted, shouts, curses, more Poké Balls hitting the ground. Wallem's Spearow screeched out, pecking at the kid's back.
He snarled, grabbed it mid-flight, and slammed it against the stone steps, snap, then drove his knife through its chest.
I stumbled back, boots slipping in blood, heart thumping so loud I couldn't hear the yells for backup. Ramba charged, tackled the kid into the dirt, spitting blood in his face.
For a second, I thought we had him. Then the kid's knife found Ramba's neck, right where it meets the spine, and he went limp.
Wallem lunged, knife out, but the kid kicked his knee sideways…
CRACK!~~
And tore his throat open. Five down. My breath was shallow, ragged, like I was drowning.
It was hell after that. McGuy, nose already busted from some bar fight, landed a punch on the kid's jaw. The kid laughed, bloody teeth flashing, and gutted him. Six.
Skull tackled him, ribs popping under the hit, but the kid clawed his eyes and slashed his throat. Seven.
I was trembling, snot and tears running down my face, muttering this isn't real, I'm not here. Mihar's Ekans wrapped the kid's leg, squeezing, and I thought maybe, maybe.
The kid stabbed it in the brain through the eye, then flung his knife and buried it again in Mihar's eye, hilt-deep. Eight. My knees buckled.
Oars Jr., the big bastard, swung his club, smashed the kid flat. He hit the ground, gasping, and I prayed he'd stay down. But he tripped Oars, crawled to Mihar's corpse, yanked the knife free, and stabbed Oars's chest over and over, thud, thud, thud, until he stopped moving. Nine.
I was alone. My Poké Ball slipped from my sweaty hand, clattered on the stone. The kid turned, eyes wild, and lunged.
The knife punched through my chest, a hot, searing jolt, and I stared at him, choking on my own blood, thinking I'm nobody, I'm nothing.
It pooled around me, warm and sticky, as the cold sank in. Namur, Tom, Luis… Me, dead. I should have just stayed and cleaned the shitty toilets tonight…
VAAS
Blood drenched me, hands, shirt, the steps. It was home...
Just like Rook Island, like the days I painted the world red with my name. I was grinning, lost in the chaos, the pain fueling me, when a calm voice sliced through.
"Fuuuckk…."
I spun, teeth bared, and there he was, a tall bastard with a red pompadour that looked like a damn rooster's comb and a yellow scarf flapping in the wind.
He stood too calm, too steady, his eyes locked on me like he was studying a rabid dog. "You just butchered ten of my people. What the fuck are you?"
"Don't matter," I snarled, voice raw. "You're next, cabrón." I charged, knife flashing for his gut, ready to spill his insides.
He moved like a snake, fast, precise, sidestepping and smacking the blade from my hand with a flick of his wrist. It clattered down the steps, and I stumbled, cursing under my breath. He didn't laugh, didn't gloat, just watched me with that cold stare.
He yanked a creature ball from his belt and tossed it. A flash of light blinded me, and then there was this thing. Small, gray, muscles rippling under its skin, red eyes glowing like hellfire. It stood like a man but moved wrong, too fast, too strong.
"What the fuck?" I spat, backing up a step. The thing lunged, slamming a fist into my chest. I flew back, ribs screaming, and hit the ground hard, tasting blood.
He stepped closer, the creature at his side. "That's a Machop. And you? You're out of your depth, kid."
His tone wasn't cocky, it was heavy, like he knew what was coming and didn't like it.
I rolled to my feet, spitting red, eyes darting.
There, near the steps, a jagged piece of wood, splintered and sharp, left from the chaos. I grinned, feral.
"Depth? I'll show you depth, pendejo."
The thing came at me again, fists swinging. I ducked, snatching the stick mid-roll, and swung it hard into its arm.
It grunted, staggering, and I smashed it again, aiming for those creepy red eyes. It dropped, twitching, and I didn't wait to see if it would get up.
Pompadour pulled a baton from his belt, face twisting. "You're a monster," he said, almost quiet, like he meant it.
We traded blows, fast, messy, desperate. He was trained, but I was a cornered animal. I feinted, let him overreach, then rammed the stick into his thigh.
He roared, stumbling, and I tackled him. We rolled down the steps, fists flying, nails clawing. I gouged at his face, felt his eye give under my thumb.
He screamed, thrashing, and I grabbed the stick where it had fallen, driving it up with everything I had, right into his other eye.
He went still, blood pooling around his head, the stick jutting out like a flagpole. I staggered up, chest heaving, hands shaking. Eleven down. One with a fucking stick. And I was still alive.
Damn… A lot of eyes were lost tonight…