I’ve never been that great at blending in. Actually, I’ve sorta endeavored to make the people around me feel a little bit uncomfortable in regards to my presence. Sort of like a slow, pew-reverberating fart in a small church. Everyone knows they’re in church, and a fart doesn’t really match up to something like homicide…or even gossip. And yet, there it is, like an idling Harley Davidson parked in the handicapped spot. Or the pastor’s car parked at the horse track on a Sunday afternoon. Damn if it ain’t awkward.
The thing is, I’ve always taken it upon myself to be a balancing force. When I lived as an evangelical in Salt Lake City, I decided to be nice to Mormons. I decided to hate coffee instead. I decided to be married for ten years without having any children. When my wife and I decided to adopt, everyone exhaled and nodded knowingly. Of course, we must have been trying to have a dozen children all that time. Then we promptly had our second child the organic way. People didn’t know what to think after that.
When we moved to the even-more-conservative berg of Nampa, Idaho, the first thing I did was plant twenty-five Malbec vines (a Spanish red wine varietal) in my back yard despite the predominate Nazarene and Mormon cultures. (They don’t drink any booze at all. Can you imagine church without booze?!) The wife and I proudly listen to NPR. We enjoy naughty things like dancing, and we embrace bizarre combinations such as science and religion, peanut butter and chocolate, wine and popcorn, social justice and individual liberties.
I am, after all, the only redneck granola I’ve ever met. Why all this intentional awkwardness? I personally believe we learn things through discomfort. I’m not saying you should sleep on a bed of nails for inspiration. I’m saying that if you always find yourself a part of the majority culture around you, you’re missing opportunities to shake things up, learn new things, and meet new people. Sometimes being an outsider keeps you on your toes.
Play pinochle instead of canasta. Drive a Toyota instead of a Ford. Embrace Catsup over Ketchup. Make older or younger friends. Dare to cross political lines. Grow a mustache. Drink Bud Light. Root for the Cleveland Browns. Any one of these things (or their opposites) could move you slightly into the “awkward” category (depending on where you live). From there, learn to relish the opportunities that come along with being the resident outsider. Develop relationships with other awkward people, and be a bridge person in your community.
In an era of ideological ghettos and media echo-chambers, we need more awkward people in our communities. Be the change. Be the awkward.
At the Desk This Week
I figured out how to get my characters in The Green Ones to the location for the final showdown of episode 3, Season 3. Then, while pounding out 2k words yesterday I realized I need to push the whole of Season 3 further. I need to demand more from my characters. This means I’ll have to go back to Episode 1 and flush them out further. I’m walking a fine line here. I’m writing within a multiverse full of doppelgängers. At the same time, I’m writing dystopian fiction with teenagers as the central characters. Young Adult Dystopian fiction typically demands pretty simple rules.
BUT, my Schism 8 world is built around the conflicts and tensions of doppelgängers each being unique individuals. So…they are the same character across the multiverse, and they are each totally different characters as well. This is not simple and straight forward. Thus, it is violating one of the rules of the genre. This makes my decision to push these inter character/doppelgänger relationships further a very risky decision.
Each doppelgänger has grown up in a different world. They each have different motivations. I have to respect that and find a way to make these different personalities intriguing to me readers (without confusing everyone). This sets me back at least another week. But hopefully the reward will be faster and better writing once my mind has reached a comfortable understanding of these doppelgängers and their unique characteristics. Cross your fingers!
Boundaries: Ep.4, Scenes 4 - 8
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
Over breakfast I’m reminded that today is our ballgame against Jaguar. I pretend I haven’t forgotten while forking eggs and beans into my mouth.
“I hate to say it,” Yetic talks through a mouthful of squash, “but I miss Neca on game days. He was a teocuali baller.”
Cera and Tenoch nod.
Olin ignores the rest of us. He’s more jittery than normal, tapping his fingers on the table and avoiding eye contact.
By the time I finish my mash, I feel almost up to my new normal. After a protein shake, I’ll be good to go. Beyond the inner circle of green ones, I don’t think the Serpents recognize my degenerative condition. Outside of Yetic, I don’t discuss the matter. For the most part, they all still trust me to get the job done. So far, I have.
The Serpent barracks have maintained their position of dominance over the other barracks. We’ve rotated 49’s, so that each dorm group has seen their share of the glory. Cooperative efforts have skyrocketed. Morale is triple what it was at the beginning of the year. We’ve made the grueling routine of the academy tolerable by placing the specter of death on the shelf.
“You think it’s going to be raining?” Cera nudges me.
“Huh? Oh.” I lower my shake to the table and wipe the froth from my lips. I try to laugh lightheartedly. “You know, I’m not even sure what month it is.”
“It’s May, and yes it will be raining.” Yetic grabs his tray and stands. The others all do the same. Yetic clears his throat, “Almost time to head above ground.”
“Right.” I chug the rest of my shake and collect my tray.
We fall in line to deposit our leftovers, and T’zan whispers into my ear as we shuffle forward. “I think Yetic was dropping a hint about the roster, you know, for today’s game.”
I slap my forehead, “Of course.” I had forgotten to post the roster for Serpent 6 the night before. In fact, I had forgotten to formulate the roster. Quickly, I work it out in my mind.
Olin played in the last two, and after last night he’s an easy cut for this one. We’ll need Yetic, T’zan, and Cera to beat the Jags. I’ll rest Tenoch this week in order to rotate three newbs into the lineup. That just leaves me. I’ve already rested one game. I could sit out a second, but it might raise questions about my strength. Plus, the workout will do me good. Maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.
By the time we finish depositing our trays, I’ve come up with seven names to round out the Serpent 49. With the others’ help, I gather Serpent 6 in front of our dorm. “Sorry about the delay in declaring today’s roster.” The group jostles each other nervously as they await the names.
Everyone gets to go above ground. That’s the biggest reward on game day. But playing in the game is equally huge. For many of the cadets, this could be their last chance to leave a legacy or create a lasting memory within Worker City. Families will be present in the packed out stadium.
Midway through the twelve week season, many of the cadets haven’t yet gotten selected. Some won’t be. In six more weeks, we receive our detail assignments for the following year. The work load and mortality rate will increase. The ballgame is a short-lived outlet for the pressure cooker of Masa Academy.
I start at the top. “Yetic will be acting commander of the 49.” Yetic pumps his fist. I glance at Olin to make sure he’s not upset over the selection, but it appears as if he’s not even paying attention. “I’ll be playing this game as well. As for the other five, I’ve selected T’zan, Cera, Molar, Racti, and Nena.”
The three newbs are beside themselves.
“You guys have earned it, along with several others. But,” I shrug, “the rest of you will have to content yourselves with a sunny day above ground and a victory over those Jag chumps.”
A smattering of cheers and hisses seals the official business. I can already hear a raucous outside our barracks as cadets from other barracks make their way along the corridor toward the surface.
“Now let’s head up!”
“From serpents we arose. Out of serpents our society grows. Victory! Victory! Victory! From the belly of the snake rise the cries of our foes!” The chant echoes loudly enough to drown out the rival barracks and temporarily drown my worries.
Today I’ll let the magic of the ballgame do its work. I’ll distance myself from Toltec and his haunting presence. When the opportunity arises, I’ll confront Olin. First, I’ll apologize to him. I’ll ask his forgiveness in effort to win him back, because we’re stronger together. Whatever he encountered beyond the door, we’ll deal with it together.
I smell rain before emerging onto the stone court of the ōllamaliztli stadium. To my relief, when I finally see the sky, it’s mostly blue. The rainy season is at hand, but it appears today’s competitions could remain dry.
Cadets spill across the court while remaining in dorm group clumps. To our right, the Worker City stands have already begun to fill. Those who’ve been dismissed from work for the entire day battle each other in effort to reserve seating for family and friends who are putting in half days.
I scan the stadium to my left. The Immortal City side of the stands are almost empty. I picture the rows of stasis pods beneath the academy, but refuse to accept Turon’s explanation for the absent immortals. Once I become ometeotl, I can’t image being interested in game day either. Whatever immortals spend their days doing, it has to be more interesting than this.
“Serpents! Line up!” Yetic calls out over the cacophony.
Grateful not to be in charge, I follow his order along with the rest of Serpent barracks. We start off with kinesthetics and progress toward telekinetics. Since game days are the only chance we have to practice ōllamaliztli, we’re allowed to spend the morning running drills.
Our game against Jaguar will commence at noon and last two and a half hours. An hour intermission will be followed by a contest between Eagle and Coyotl. I can’t wait to spend that time mindlessly enjoying the fresh air.
Yetic leads the entire Serpent barracks through drills and then a scrimmage. The morning passes without event. An hour before noon we dismiss for refreshments and a chance to rest before the game. As the others stream off the court and toward the cadet level snack bars, Yetic wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You up for being my manager?”
I eye him coyly, “Oh? What sort of game do you have in mind?”
“Nothing kinky, if that’s what your’ve getting at.”
I nod, “Sure, I’ll take the dugout duties for you. As long as there’s no kinks.”
“I need you to get rid of the kinks,” Yetic winks.
“Of course. I think I can manage that. What were you thinking? Fast and furious?”
Yetic shakes his head and smiles. “Defensive.”
I raise a brow. “Really? I suppose there’s a first for everything.”
“Well, maybe I should call it aggressively defensive.” He steers us toward the food.
“That sounds more like the Yetic I know.”
“Let’s grab a bite and talk strategy with the others.”
“Try and stop me.” I remove his arm from my shoulder and lace my fingers in his.
For concessions, the stadium snack bar offers grilled snake—a foreboding omen—along with fried rice and dried dates. We snag some of everything and sit in the court level stands on the southern end. Some of the cadets sit near the top in hopes of being able to shout a conversation with family. Most of us have already erased our lives in Worker City from our memories.
For Olin and I, it’s easy. We didn’t leave anything of importance behind, so there’s no reason to look back.
“Strategy wise, I was thinking of making a push during the middle of the first period,” Yetic beckons me, T’zan, Cera, and Tenoch closer.
I swallow the last of my rice and lean in.
“T’zan, do you think you can handle the hotspot as guardian?” Yetic asks.
T’zan nods, a pleased look on his face.
“Good. I’ll take the two spot as handler.”
I raise a brow, “You’re not going to be striker?”
Yetic grins, “I want to keep the striker fresh while we stun as many Jags as possible.”
“That sounds fun,” Cera elbows me.
“I’ve already asked Calli to be dugout manager,” Yetic continues, “so she’ll control the rotations and keep an eye on matchups. Cera, I want you to take the three spot as another handler.” Cera nods. Yetic finishes, “Tenoch, I want you as handler in the four spot.”
“Three handlers and a guardian,” I shake my head. “That should keep Ami guessing.”
“Actually, I want to do somewhere in the neighborhood of seven handlers before we send in the striker.”
“What?” I ask.
Yetic ignores my incredulity. “If you feel like the matchup would be advantageous a spot earlier, go for it.”
I squeeze his hand. “You realize we can’t score until we send in a striker, right?”
Yetic continues undeterred, “I want all our strongest maulers sent in early. I’m hoping to churn through a third of their 49 before the twelve spot is filled. Then we see who does all the scoring.”
“And the striker?” I ask.
Yetic takes a break to finish his last dried date. After a moment he shrugs. “Send in the most eager flyer from Serpent 2. Someone who’ll put it all on the line.”
“That pretty much describes all of Serpent 2,” Cera says as she places her hands behind her head and reclines on the plasteel stands.
Yetic follows suit. Soon we’re all lying back and soaking up as much sun as we can. A short moment later, I sit up and scan the milling cadets for Olin. I spot him sitting several rows above me. Hunched over and furtive, he’s talking to Y’etl. I don’t want him to catch me staring, so I lie back and gaze into the sky.
It’s not surprising he would seek out someone like Y’etl. The little I know about the captain of the Butterfly Barracks indicates he and Olin probably think alike. Still, I’m curious what they could be discussing and why my brother has worked so hard to avoid me since the strange events of last night.
If Olin really did pass through the door marked No admittance, something happened to him on the other side—something he has no desire to share with his sister. Without Zorrah or Neca to talk to, he’s turned to a near stranger in Y’etl. I want to feel offended, but I shake it off. Getting upset now would be punishing myself for nothing.
If Olin were in trouble, he’d come to me. There’ll be time to ask him about it after our game. During the matchup between Eagle and Coyotl I’ll find him and offer a truce.
Yetic sits up. “Anyone want to push a pelota around? I’ve got too much nervous energy to stay still any longer.”
I breathe deeply and shake my head. “I feel like I could take a nap.”
“Just make sure you’re awake in fifteen.” Yetic stretches.
Cera jumps up. “I’ll join you.”
“Xoxoctic.” Yetic strides down the stands, two benches at a time, while calling over his shoulder, “See the rest of you in the dugout!”
“Mmmhuh.” I focus on the sun spreading across my skin and relish the feeling of an uncrowded mind. “Wake me up when you need me,” I mumble the words as my jaw falls open and my muscles slack.
I scan the stadium from the top step of the southern dugout. The Worker City side is near capacity. Across the court, the Immortal City half of the stadium contains maybe a couple thousand immortals. It’s a good showing, for Immortal City. I shift my gaze toward the northern dugout where the Jags are falling in.
Ami and I haven’t spoken since the showdown in the combat chamber that left me unconscious. My Serpent 6 has defeated her Jaguar 4 twice more since then. Neither clash required us to spar off face to face.
I sigh. If we had met under different circumstances, we might have been friends. If we both become ometeotl, what then? Will we maintain the rivalry past its purpose simply because it’s all we’ve known?
Having already finished his motivational speech, Yetic joins me on the top step. “I want you to spell me when my rotation comes up.”
“Sounds good.” I wrap my arm around his waist.
Yetic says, “I’ll block and manage the dugout for the middle third of the period before rotating in as striker. I’ll leave someone in charge of spelling you on the next rotation.”
I nod while still staring at Ami and her Jags across the length of the court. “She’s going to blow a gasket when they lose.”
Yetic squeezes me. “Any other year and Jaguar 4 would be the best. Not this year.”
“Not this year,” I repeat.
“Oh, last thing.”
“Yes?”
“Make sure you rotate back in for the final minute of the period. I want our best out there at the buzzer. We’re going to make those Jags wish there weren’t two more periods.”
Before I can respond, the voice of the announcer cuts through the stadium din. “Citizens of New Teotihuacan, welcome to week six of the best ōllamaliztli played around the world!”
The Worker City half of the stadium explodes into cheers.
After a several second delay, the announcer continues, “This week’s matchup features the top two performing barracks. Bitter rivals, the last time Jaguar and Serpent clashed in week two, a total of thirty-eight cadets were stunned while Serpent hissed out a victory 2 scores to 1.”
The crowd splits—some cheering, some booing.
“This week, Jaguar is out for revenge. But make no mistake, Serpent isn’t taking anything for granted. Now join me in celebrating 1,000 years of New Teo’s official sport as I introduce today’s team commanders!”
I slap Yetic on the back and step down into the dugout. He hovers a meter above the surface of the court and blows kisses. I’m happy for him even as I shake my head. In the underground, he was a hero. In Masa, he’s merely coupled with the captain of Serpent barracks. The demotion has been hard on his pride.
“For Jaguar, today’s commander is Ami Stormcloud.”
From inside the dugout, I can’t see if Ami is carrying on a performance similar to Yetic’s, or if she’s chosen a more sullen display. I’d guess she’s playing the part of stewing avenger.
“For Serpent, today’s commander is Yetic Goldenboy.”
Yetic zips upward and performs a series of aerobatic twists and flips. I roll my eyes every time I hear his acquired name. In the academy, it’s only used on game days. And after we graduate, we’ll leave the names behind forever. But for now, Goldenboy still evokes a thunderous round of cheers and whistles.
His role as commander will swing most of the impartial spectators, the ones who came for the other three barracks, onto our side for the duration of the game. Even if I’m unaware of the cheering for the majority of the contest, it still helps to know it’s there.
“Adjudicators, please set the clock to fifty minutes.” The announcer assumes an official tone, “Commanders at the ready.”
Yetic returns to court level. From the top step of the dugout, he salutes. I scoot further aside to make room for T’zan’s broad shoulders as he resolutely climbs the dugout steps. He cracks the vertebra in his neck and prepares to take the court for the most grueling minute of the entire game.
“Have fun in the hotspot,” I slap him on the back.
“Oh, I plan on it,” he grins. “I love game day. Don’t you?”
I nod as the announcer continues, “Activate the pelota.”
The nine pound rubber ball zips toward the very center of the court where it hovers a meter above the stone surface. Filled with a dumbed down version of the same artificial intelligence that powers the probes, the pelota is easy to manipulate, even for the weakest cadet. Throw in a couple dozen blockers doing their best to frustrate your concentration and several handlers fighting you for it, and you’ve got ōllamaliztli at its best.
I assess the readiness of my cadets. Spanning the width of the dugout, they’re riveted on me, as I would expect.
“Let the game begin!” The announcer’s voice echoes across the hushed stadium.
All at once, the crowd goes wild and T’zan leaps upward onto the court.
I wave my arms forward. The remaining members of the Serpent 49 leap onto the blocking ledge at the front of the dugout. With our heads above the surface of the court, we immediately focus all our telekinetic energy on the pelota.
The rubber ball inches in our direction. At the same time, T’zan races toward our hoop high above the western slope. As Yetic slips down into the dugout beside me, I shift a slight portion of my attention toward the Jaguar cadet charging the pelota. It’s Ami. The number on her mesh jersey glows red, indicating she’s a striker.
I’m sure she assumed she’d be facing Yetic as the Serpent striker. When she realizes T’zan is a guardian, she bares down harder on the pelota. She’ll do everything she can to score in the next minute, before the two spot hits the court.
I shift my full attention to blocking her rather than tugging on the pelota. Through the corner of my eye I see Yetic raise his hand. He says, “On my cue, block the striker.”
Sheepishly, I realize I should have waited for Yetic’s order. Since I’ve already made the switch, I continue to frustrate Ami as she draws within a few meters of the pelota.
“Now,” Yetic drops his arm.
On cue, Ami falters as if she were hit in the chest by a few dozen hornets. Staggering, she orders the pelota northward, nearer the Jaguar dugout.
“Stay on the striker,” Yetic orders. “Let T’zan guard the hoop.”
I second guess his order, but keep my focus on Ami. Already drenched in sweat, the Jag striker struggles to set her feet and focus on Serpent’s hoop.
Bullheaded and as sturdy as a mammoth, T’zan somehow continues climbing the steep slope despite the 48 Jaguar blockers no doubt focused entirely on him. I know he’s aware of Ami’s intentions. He might not be aware Yetic has left him on his own.
This first minute of the game feels like an hour when you’re the only player on the court. Of course that’s why it’s called the hotspot. Only the strongest ōllamaliztli players can endure it without blacking out. Only T’zan can climb the slope and have even the slightest hope of deflecting a striker at the same time.
“Stay on the striker,” Yetic grunts. “Make her pay for each movement.”
I focus wholly on Ami. She starts to tremble in preparation for the strike. Yetic breaths heavily, a loud rattle emanating from deep in his throat. Human manipulation is his greatest strength. Blocker would be his ideal role, except that it lacks luster.
Suddenly, Ami rotates away from our hoop. Desperate and angry, and on the verge of the two spot hitting the court, she lashes out.
The crowd gasps.
“Stay on the striker!” Yetic barks.
I obey even as I helplessly watch the pelota rocket toward our hoop. A battle cry mangled with a growl bursts from T’zan as he lunges the final step up the slope. Clenching his hand into a fist, he leaps.
The crowd chokes on its own excitement.
Without turning his head, and while defying the Jaguar blockers, T’zan punches the air near the apex of his leap. The moment before his arm fully extends, the pelota fills the air adjacent to his white knuckles. Dented by the impact, the rubber ball shoots beyond the stadium boundary and disappears out of sight.
The roar from the Worker City side of the stands is deafening.
Yetic screams over the clamor, “Two spot is going in!”
“Go!” I yell while shifting gears into the role of dugout manager. “Jacor, I’m assigning you to the guardian. Stay in his back pocket!”
“Yes, sir!” The newb jumps to. He may be a newb, but he’s singularly minded, and he’ll strengthen T’zan for the multiple strikes that will follow before Serpent sends out a striker of our own.
The new pelota zips into center court where Yetic is waiting for it. As a handler, he has a distinct advantage over Ami when it comes to controlling the pelota. While strikers can only connect with the pelota to launch a strike, handlers can latch on mentally or even hold the pelota physically.
Realizing their weakness, the Jags send a handler in their two spot. Yetic reaches the pelota first. After commanding the ball into his hand and tucking it away, he goes immediately after Ami. She manages to deflect his first pulse, but it knocks her to the ground in the process.
“Stay on the striker!” I order, now seeing the wisdom to Yetic’s strategy. He had hoped Ami would fill the Jaguar hotspot, so he could focus on eliminating her first. So far, it’s been a good plan, but planning and executing are two different things.
Yetic’s second pulse deflects meters shy from Ami as the Jag blockers adjust to his actions. Off balance from the Jags’ mental assault, Yetic fails to notice the incoming handler. I throw up a block in the nick of time.
Realizing he’s up against it, Yetic wisely divides the Jaguar onslaught by jettisoning the pelota toward our dugout. I mentally grab the pelota first and do my best to keep it away from the tugging thoughts of the Jaguar blockers. Yetic uses the distraction to rocket skyward in a game of dodge.
Either the Jaguar handler isn’t a flier, or he simply chooses not to pursue. Instead he focuses on the pelota. I know I won’t be able to command it for long. “Cera, help me with the pelota.”
“I’m here,” she shuffles along the blocker ledge until she’s next to me.
“Let’s take the handler out with it.”
“I like,” she says.
“On three,” I grunt. “One, two, three.” Together we propel the pelota directly at the Jag handler’s face. He must have already been trying to command it in his direction, because it jets toward him in a blur. Before he can dodge or reverse his thoughts, the nine pound rubber ball strikes his forehead and lifts his feet off the court.
The crowd groans and then roars.
I glance at the timer at the base of the dugout steps and cringe as it ticks into its third minute. “Three spot! Cera, go!”
“On it.” She’s already darting up the steps. Her foot strikes the court surface a split second before the clock hits 3:05—a split second before being penalized for a late rotation. Her jersey flashes yellow, revealing to the audience and the Jaguars that Serpent barracks has sent out another handler.
I chastise myself for nearly losing us a player only three minutes into the game and then settle down. Cera immediately takes the roll of Yetic’s wing woman by launching a dazzling green pulse at the incoming Jaguar handler. With their first handler still trying to regain his feet, Yetic dives directly for Ami.
The air around Yetic sparks with EM energy as Jag blockers struggle to impede his progress. At this point, gravity is directing Yetic’s ridiculous plunge as much as his thoughts.
“Stay on the striker,” I direct the rest of the Serpent blockers while I focus on buffering Yetic. Hopefully, I can prevent him from splattering on the court. Yetic generates an intense EM storm directly over Ami before peeling off his dive and crashing somewhat gracefully onto the stone court.
“Hold her down!” I shout. If we can keep her in place for another second…
Ami blossoms into blood-red flames the moment before the storm erupts. Charged and crawling with EM energy, she lashes out her arms as the storm crackles around her. Instead of being blown off her feat and stunned, she swells.
At the last second I realize what’s happening. “Everybody down!” Gasps fill the dugout as Serpents duck beneath the surface of the court.
An immense wash of EM energy passes overhead and strikes the cadet bleachers immediately behind our dugout. “She’s absorbing EM energy. As long as the striker is glowing, frustrate the handlers.” I pop my head up and indicate the others should do the same. “We have to eliminate as many of them as we can before our striker hits the court.”
Moments ago, Ami had appeared on the verge of passing out. Now she looks as strong as she did weak. I still don’t understand the ability, but it’s one we share—Ami, Citlali, and myself. And if Ami’s ability is anything like mine, she’s a ticking bomb.
Utilizing the distraction, a Jaguar handler positions the pelota for another strike. Yetic and Cera are late to position themselves, and Ami fires another scalding strike at our hoop.
Clapping his hands together, T’zan swallows the pelota in his grip. But the momentum slams the back of his head into the stone hoop and drops him to his knees. Angry and injured, he rises slowly, the pelota still clamped between both hands. As a guardian, he’s permitted to hold the pelota for ten seconds. He’s got to get rid of it quick, or we’ll lose a player to penalty.
“Get rid of it,” I mumble while helping Jacor shield T’zan.
Finally, the guardian comes to life. He catches Yetic’s eye. With a lightning fast windup, T’zan whips the pelota half-way across the court and still thirty meters above it. Ami stabs for it, but misses—her increased power effecting her accuracy. The Jaguar handler reveals his flying abilities and leaps skyward, right into Yetic’s trap.
“Tenoch, on deck.” I keep one eye on the clock and one on the Jag handler.
Yetic launches himself, not at the pelota, but at the Jag handler.
“Four spot, Go!” Tenoch flies up the dugout steps and onto the court. I focus all my disruptive TK energy on the Jag handler. He stretches for the pelota, already commanding it to his hand. Before he can pull it in, he’s blindsided by a tremulous pulse from Yetic. Whatever shielding the Jag blockers had in place shatters. Careening sideways, the stunned handler plummets to the surface of the court in a heap. His jersey number blanks. He’s out.
One down.
Before I can celebrate, the second Jag handler positions the Pelota and Ami fires a blinding strike. Slightly slower than his first two blocks, T’zan leaps up and out from the hoop. His timing is off, and the pelota whiffs through his arms and deflects through the hoop.
I swear under my breath. Quick to recover, the Jags have already rotated a replacement onto the court. They’re one blocker short but already a point up. We need an answer to Ami. I happen to know exactly who that answer is.
“Six spot, Go!”
Five minutes into the game and things are a muddled mess. Ami has made five strikes. Luckily, she has scored only once. If she connects twice more, our strategy might not work.
I focus on the weakest Jag handler. “Everyone on number 22.” It’s risky to let the other five Jaguars roam unhindered, but I’m hoping Yetic and the others will recognize the weak link and take her out before Ami can score again. The increased blocker attention works as number 22 topples out of formation and misses an easy pass.
Cera is closest and responds immediately by taking a knee and projecting an EM storm at the floundering Jag handler. Partially shielded, 22 manages to rise to her knees. In a bold move, Tenoch sprints through the wash and drives a close range pulse directly into the Jag’s shoulder. She dances for a short second before dropping to the stone court. Her number blanks.
Two down.
This time Yetic keeps an eye on Ami. As she fires another strike, he deflects it enough to send it screaming out of bounds. The Jags rotate in a replacement at the expense of another blocker.
“Seven spot on deck,” I direct traffic in the dugout, keep an eye on the clock, and project as much disrupting EM energy as I can. So far, so good, but we won’t be able to hold this pattern much longer. Ami has no doubt identified our strategy. The next time she explodes, she won’t be looking to score. She’ll be looking to stun as many Serpents as possible.
“Seven spot, Go!” After the seven spot hits the court, I turn toward my remaining blockers. “I’m going in as a handler in the eight spot. Then I want Tlatl in the nine as striker. Then Jeshm, Nena, Flek in the ten, eleven and twelve. Twack, make sure I’m the first rotation out at thirteen. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” they respond in unison without taking their eyes off the court.
“Good. This is where things get interesting.” I turn around in time to see Ami’s skin begin to creep with flame for the second time during the game. I chew the inside of my lip, hoping the decision to wait until the eight spot wasn’t the wrong one. Since the Jags still haven’t sent out a guardian, we both have six handlers on the court. Our only advantage is that we’ve got two additional blockers.
Aglow with dark red EM energy, Ami flashes a series of hand signals to the Jaguar dugout.
I don’t like it and decide to alter strategy again. “All blockers on the pelota. Stay with it until I hit the striker. Then give Ami everything you’ve got.” I check the clock—7:52. “Eight spot on deck.” I shift into position while keeping my disruptive EM focused on the pelota.
Through the corner of my eye, I glimpse Ami charging center court. A storm blossoms directly above it, catching Yetic in mid-flight. 7:55. If I touch the court a second early, I’ll be penalized and ejected from the period. “Shield Yetic!”
The dazzling red storm erupts, criss-crossing center court in an EM spider web. Plowing through the middle of it and surrounded by whorls of color, Yetic spasms. His shoulders dip. His head flops loosely on his neck as he plummets toward the court.
The clock reads 7:59. “Eight spot, go,” I command myself as I drive my bare foot into the dugout step and reach for the next. The game clock strikes 8:00, and I launch from the top step.
By the time I stretch out my hand, the skin on my forearm is already veined with an angry green glow. Focusing everything I have on Yetic, I blast center court clean of EM energy and stabilize him the moment before he strikes stone.
Vaguely, I sense the atmosphere of the stadium shift as the air is sucked out by thousands of simultaneous gasps. Rather than seeing the counter attack, I feel it before it happens.
Ami flares. Planting my left foot, I launch myself skyward. Ami’s pulse streaks beneath me.
Undeterred, I blur through center court. Driving a pulse before me, I chart a path directly for the Jag handler en route to our hoop with the pelota. As the handler releases the pelota, I release the pulse.
He is only meters away, and the flare is instant. Unconscious before he hits the ground, the Jag skitters limply across the court and into the base of the western slope.
By the time I plant both feet, our hoop is lit, indicating the Jags have increased their lead. I’m just getting started. My feet dance with energy. It takes a second for me to gain control of my twitching eyelids and focus my vision.
Yetic is still moving, his number still lit. But he’s helpless against further attack, and Ami is already focused on him. The last time we faced off, she had seemed to think I needed my brother to defeat her. We’ll see about that.
I sprint toward Yetic while flashing hand signals to the other five Serpent handlers. They catch my intent and pair off with their nearest Jag counterparts—man to man.
Ami fires a pulse. Rather than waste energy shielding Yetic, I telekinetically push him clear. I shift my focus onto my true target, the striker. I launch a timid pulse. Ami blocks it easily, disdain etched on her face.
She doesn’t know my initial volley has been a signal to the dugout. On cue, the remaining three dozen Serpent blockers drill down on the Jag striker. She staggers, then flares red-hot.
From meters away, I vault myself upward while blasting Ami with a narrow-focus pulse. Flames curl around her face and neck. They crawl along the length of her braid. She unravels the braid from her neck and slashes it through the air. She’s absorbing it all—growing stronger.
Before she can unleash a counter attack, I’ve reached her. Driving a fist into her chest, I close my eyes and open the gates. I surrender to the rage.
The torrent swallows me. A blinding rush tears reality apart, dispelling it as myth. My existence shatters with it. Picked up by the stream, the pieces of me course their way to the end and back again. Suddenly reassembled, I open my eyes.
Time has stood still. Having just landed the blow to Ami’s chest, I follow through to full extension. Her creeping red flames ripple outward from the blow and extinguish into the blackest of night.
I flick my eyes up to meet her own. Even in fear, their anger cannot be hidden. She blinks and time catches up. A storm erupts. Ami is the epicenter.
I slam my fists into the stone court and grab ahold of the splintered rock to ride out the wash while images from the past flicker across the blackened screen of my mind. The final image remains in my consciousness, and it’s not even mine. My thoughts choose to anchor on the memory Citlali implanted in me along with my new braid.
As if he were my own, I cradle the queen’s fading lover during his final seconds before surrendering to the twitch. Citlali’s words echo in my thoughts as the picture fades. “I pray you succeed where I could not.”
I promise, I will. As I rise to my feet, the roar of the crowd pierces the veil. I open my eyes to discover myself standing in a pile of shattered stone. Ami lies on her back several meters away. The number on what remains of her tattered jersey has blanked.
A pulse streaks toward me from my three o’clock. I block it and return the favor. Before the Jag handler can block, I shatter his defenses and root his feet to the ground. The pulse slams directly into him. He’s still standing when his number blanks.
I release him, and he flops to the court. I don’t even feel tired. Quite the opposite. I feel alive—more alive than I’ve felt in years, maybe ever.
A Jag flyer makes a play for the pelota as the replacement striker dashes onto the court. With hardly a thought, I drill a path into the striker’s chest and bury a pulse inside it. He stumbles headlong. His number blanks before he hits the ground.
I’m sorry, Calli, but I can’t watch this anymore, Olin invades my thoughts.
I flinch, hesitating a split second before launching a pulse at the Jag handler with the pelota. I respond to my brother as the handler falls from the sky. Too easy for you?
Don’t be angry at me, Olin says.
I stop the onslaught to address my brother. Angry at you for what? Opening the door last night? This is hardly the time to apologize.
I only hope Turon can get through to you this time.
Turon? What did he—”
Against my will, the rough-hewn wooden door in my mind—the one holding the torrent at bay—flies open. The relentless current is more terrible than I’ve ever experienced. Gurgling with evil voices, it drags me under.
Pounded and held down by its suffocating weight, I struggle for a fleeting second before surrender becomes my only thought. Into the absence of dark and light I disappear.
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