CHAPTER 30

  Kung Fu

  Bash found himself flinching at every rustle of grass and every distant sound. The growing tension dragged his mind back to his first day in the Shard. To the five-hundred-pound fox-dog that nearly mauled him to death.

  As the sun rose further overhead, his overlay flickered. The world glitched in the telltale sign that danger was near.

  “Down. Now!” Bash hissed with urgency.

  Patrick froze mid-step and dropped into a crouch, eyes narrowing as he scanned the terrain. “Report.”

  The world snapped into that too-sharp clarity his powers brought him. One thick, crimson line cut across the dirt right in front of Patrick. “There’s something here,” Bash muttered, letting his mind brush the invisible threads. The metadata shimmered in the air in front of him.

  Bash just scoffed. Maximus had the subtlety of a brick. “Guess what, kiddos? The big bad put a price on my head.”

  Patrick just looked grim.

  Nora’s knuckles turned bone-pale as she clamped down on her sword hilt, eyes slitted, flickering between every shadow that twitched at the edge of the surrounding forest.

  Luis was trembling enough to rattle the buckles on his armor, looking around frantically.

  As for Bash? He flexed his fingers in anticipation, letting each knuckle pop in the silence. “Well, I guess the bastard finally got sick of me ignoring his friend requests.”

  Luis shot him a wild look, halfway between a plea for help and a wish that Bash would shut up before someone heard.

  “I’ll go check things out,” Bash said with a bit too much enthusiasm, quickly popping to his feet and moving forward.

  Before he could swagger off, Patrick’s hand whipped out, locking around his wrist tighter than a steel trap. “What’s your plan?” His voice was grave.

  Bash grinned unfazed. “Relax, Dad. This is just another Tuesday for me. You three bunker down, keep the bread safe. I’ll go find out who’s dumb enough to take the ‘kill-Bash’ gig.”

  Patrick’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack a molar, but the fight slipped out of him when he looked Bash in the eye. Finally, he just let go and nodded.

  Nora raised her objection next, “No, you can’t be serious Patrick. We have to stop him.”

  Luis shuffled, boots scuffing the dirt. “Yeah, I agree with Nora, this is crazy. Could be a hundred of them out there. Maybe more!”

  Bash just nodded at the two. “Come on, Luis, you remember what I did to your friends at the bandit camp, right? Besides, they are after me, not you three.”

  Luis’s face twisted. “They weren’t my friends! Also, all I remember is you getting surrounded and nearly ganked.”

  Bash scoffed at the indignation, “Friends, frenemies, whatever. Also, I’ve matured since then!” Bash reached out to pat him on the shoulder, his grin deranged. “Trust me, amigo. This is nothing.”

  He stood, ready for his grand entrance. It should have been legendary. Death striding off, every inch the unstoppable glitch. Perfect imagery, except for the snap of cheap leather.

  One of his cheap belt straps gave up the ghost, and his pants slid halfway down his hips. He grabbed the strap and yanked it tight, grimacing, dignity mortally wounded.

  Behind him, Nora’s whisper cut through the silence, her voice bone-dry. “He’s going to get himself killed by his own pants.”

  Patrick let out an uncharacteristic snort. Luis giggled nervously like the child he so often portrayed.

  A slow grin broke across Bash’s face, a real one, not the mask he wore for show. Nora had made a joke.

  Standing taller, Bash was back to his usual cocky self as he trudged forward, his confidence only a little bit deflated by the threat of another wardrobe malfunction.

  A bit later, Shadows pulled free from the treeline, smooth and deliberate. A dozen hooded figures spread out across the road, blades catching flashes of light. The leader stepped forward, voice rough. “Surrender or die.”

  Bash nearly tripped over himself in excitement. He could feel the newly found psionic energy crawling under his skin, up his arms, and making his fingertips itch. He’d been waiting for a field test, and here it was.

  Bash grinned, bouncing slightly on his toes, unable to hide the manic joy he felt. “So what is it going to be?” he asked his would-be assailants.

  The leader of the group looked confused now, not having a scripted reply to the question. So Bash clarified. Holding up his left hand, palm open, fingers waggling in a mock invitation. “Option A: You surrender, we all go home sad.” Then Bash raised his right hand, as psionic power danced over his palm in the shape of red lightning. “Or Option B, my personal favorite: I turn you all into a modern art installation.”

  The assassins looked at each other, and Bash could almost see uncertainty gnawing at the edges of their programming. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, blurring into motion, the world stretched from the force of his Reflex Surge. The energy from his Esper evolution flooded his muscles.

  His hand whipped up in a perfect arc, karate chop, psionically supercharged. The lead assassin’s head popped free, blood barely spurting before the wound cauterized, smoke curling from the cut.

  Bash landed a solid ten feet past, with one leg held up, arms splayed in a ridiculous crane pose, the kind any eighties movie martial artist would die for. “I know Kung Fu,” he intoned, stone-faced, as the severed head rolled to a stop at the other assassins’ feet.

  Silence. Eleven pairs of eyes boggled at him, stunned. One reached for his weapon, then seemed to reconsider his life choices. Bash’s smile grew wider, unhinged. “Anyone else want the dying option?”

  The assassins snapped from their trance in a single, desperate roar, charging as one. Bash exhaled, centered himself in the middle of all the chaos, then promptly made a mockery of martial discipline. He dropped into the world’s most theatrical stance. Legs spread comically wide, arms windmilling.

  “Waaahhhh!” he shrieked, channeling every bad kung-fu flick he’d ever pirated off the internet. In reply to his comical challenge, two throwing daggers glittered through the air toward his chest.

  Bash leaned sideways, bending with slow-motion exaggeration, one blade barely glancing off his leather shoulder pad. He snatched the other out of the air as it went by. Esper’s power crackled up his arm and charged the knife for the briefest of moments before Bash launched it back at the offender.

  The knife tore through the air with a sonic boom. Before the assassin even had a chance to blink, the psionic-charged steel punched through his face and erupted from the back of his skull in an explosive and grisly fountain.

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  The closest assassin lunged, sword flashing. Bash arched backward in a full-body matrix dodge, his back parallel to the ground, the blade slicing empty air just above his face. He couldn’t resist, humming, “Bwooooom,” for pure dramatic effect, milking the bullet-time fantasy.

  Snapping upright, he hammered his spiked knuckles into the man’s throat, supercharged with energy. The assassin’s neck exploded in a spray of viscera, his head flopping back, attached by only a few ragged shreds of tendon.

  Another assassin lunged in, all rage. Bash pirouetted, arms flailing with wild abandon, Esper sparks flying from every twitch. He smashed his fist up under the man’s jaw. “Thwop!” The jaw simply atomized.

  Two more came at once. Bash threw himself into a midair corkscrew, legs churning, his high Dexterity and Reflex Surge making the impossible casual. He screamed, “Waaaahhh-tchaaa!” Half Bruce Lee, half Saturday morning cartoon. One kick landed hard enough to send an assassin spinning, arm and shoulder gone, blood fountaining as he crashed through a bush. Another was simply cleaved in two, both halves dropping with hardly a spatter.

  Body parts rained around Bash, painting the dirt with red splashes, the violence so stylized it almost made the game look the way it was supposed to. All except for the terror in the faces of those dying.

  Bash kept up the performance. A knife hand strike decapitated another. “Hyaaaa!” he cried. Turning he grabbed a stunned attacker by the side of their face, fingers digging into their skull, and smashed their head through a tree trunk. “BASHTALITY!”.

  Seconds later, it was over, so quick that the morning still echoed with Bash’s mad laughter. The last assassin wavered on his feet, eyes wide, sword hanging limp at his side. The edge of him shimmered, and Bash’s system overlay tagged him. Upload. Not a script. Another terrified and real person, way past the ability to speak.

  Bash approached slowly. “Come on, spit it out. Just say, ‘I surrender.’ Easy as breathing. Don’t make me turn you into confetti like your friends.”

  The man’s jaw worked, but nothing came out. Instead, he pissed himself, his trousers turning dark, right before he pitched forward, eyes rolling back, body collapsing with a wet thump. A cheerful system chime broke the silence.

  Bash wiped a small splatter of blood from his face, smirking down at the passed-out assassin. “That works too.”

  ***

  Bash crashed through the undergrowth, thorny branches clawing at the battered plates of his armor and leaving new scratches amid the dozens already there.

  His hands were still buzzing from the psionic energy from his last kill. His palms prickled like he’d grabbed a frayed power line.

  His armor, once a mismatched mess of salvaged gear, was now uniformly covered with streaks of blood.

  Bash tried to wipe his hands clean in the tall grass, but the blood only spread, turning his hands a deep, ugly red.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered, flexing tacky fingers.

  Luis gave a nervous laugh as he took in Bash’s gory state, his voice pitching high. “Dude... you look loco. And not the ‘ha-ha, you’re quirky’ crazy. I mean, mad house crazy.”

  Bash considered the insult, rolling it around in his head. Then he stretched his lips in a bloody grin, red flecks at the edge of his teeth. “Finally. Some character development.”

  He swept an exaggerated bow, sending drops of blood arcing onto Luis’s boot. “Collect the whole set: Bash the Idiot, Bash the Loco, Bash the Destroyer of Worlds.”

  Patrick’s gaze narrowed, zeroing in on the limp figure Bash had dragged behind him, one boot trailing a crooked furrow in the dirt. “And what’s that supposed to be?”

  Bash posed theatrically. “Quest complete. Apparently, if you terrify someone enough, passing out counts as a defeat.” He crouched, giving the assassin’s cheek a gentle slap. “See that? Even trained killers faint when they see this face. It’s a curse and a blessing.”

  Luis managed a chuckle, his nerves settling a little. “Please. He probably knocked himself out to avoid having to see your ugly mug.”

  Bash staggered back, clutching his chest like he’d been shot through the heart. “Wow. Ego death. And here I thought we were finally building a little team chemistry. You wound me, sir. You wound me deeply.”

  Luis wrinkled his nose, searching for a comeback, but Nora stepped in, her voice snapping like a command line. “Patrick, Luis. Help me with him. We need answers.”

  She dropped to her knees beside the unconscious assassin, her posture all business. Lifting one hand, blue light started to pulse and crackle between her fingertips, casting jagged shadows over the man’s slack face. With a focused whisper and a flick of her wrist, the energy snaked into the man’s skull. His eyelids fluttered, body stiffening as if shocked awake, skin shivering with borrowed strength.

  Nora spared Bash a glance, eyebrow raised. “And maybe you should... clean up. Before you attract every scavenger in the region.”

  Bash stared at Nora. “Umm, what was that? Since when did you get magic hands?”

  Nora shook her head, “Since forever. Now go clean up!”

  “Right, right. Wouldn’t want to lower the property values any further,” Bash backed away. “Who knew there would be so much washing in the afterlife?” He stalked toward a pond at the edge of the clearing, boots squelching in the mud, and plunged his arms into the icy water. The cold bit at his skin, shockingly real for a virtual world.

  As he tried to scrub away the gore, distant voices echoed behind him. Nora’s sharp, interrogative tone, Patrick’s gruff interruptions, and the assassin’s slurred, terrified answers.

  Even without catching every word, Bash could pick up the thread. Ambush. Slaughter. Maximus. Bounty. Every word Bash could make out made his skin crawl.

  By the time Bash trudged back to the others, his hands were scrubbed raw and his armor was slightly less gross.

  The air between him and his companions was heavy now. Nora sat tense, arms wrapped around her knees. Patrick stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set. Even Luis's usual happy-go-lucky attitude had vanished in the charged quiet. Their faces and posture told him everything he needed to know. The interrogation had found more answers than he'd hoped for. But that wasn't the only thing hanging in the air.

  “Uh… hey guys.” Bash said testing the mood. “Where did the ninja guy go?”

  Patrick spoke first. “Not important, Bash. Tell us about the red lightning.”

  Bash slowed to a stop. Right. That.

  “When did that happen?” Nora's voice was flat, controlled.

  Bash shrugged. “Since forever,” he intoned, trying to mimic what she had said earlier.

  It didn’t work, Nora just glared at him waiting for the real answer.

  Gulping, Bash tried again. “Last night. I, uh... sort of evolved.” He held up his hand, let a faint crackle of red energy dance across his knuckles, then let it fade. “Psionic Strike. Makes my punches hit a lot harder.”

  Patrick's eyes tracked the fading glow. “And you didn't think to mention this?”

  “I was going to. Eventually. Once I figured out what it actually did.” Bash shrugged.

  Nora stood slowly. “What else changed?”

  “Faster reflexes. Better reaction time. And apparently I can cauterize wounds mid-decapitation, which is... neat.” He tried a grin. It felt hollow. “Still the same charming idiot underneath. Promise.”

  Luis looked at Patrick. Patrick looked at Nora. Some silent conversation passed between them.

  Finally, Patrick exhaled through his nose. “Fine. But next time something like this happens, you tell us immediately. We can't watch your back if we don't know what you’re capable of.”

  “Fair enough.” Bash nodded once. “No more surprise evolutions. Scout's honor.” The tension eased, but only slightly.

  Patrick's jaw was still set, his voice still low. “Now. About the assassin.” he dragged a hand down his face. “They knew exactly where we'd be. Maximus isn't guessing anymore. He's tracking us.”

  “And hermano..." Luis swallowed. "The sound effects. The crazy laughter. Who narrates their own murder spree?”

  Bash blinked, trying to play innocent. “What? Don’t tell me the dude was a critic. Some people just can’t appreciate hard work.”

  Luis groaned, loud and theatrical. “You’re a bad omen.”

  Bash threw up his bloody hands. “Exactly! I’m practically a brand. Hire me to mop up your enemies, and I’ll throw in custom sound effects free of charge. Clean-up crew sold separately.”

  Nora’s mouth drew into a line, her gaze flickering away in disappointment. “One day, Bash, your jokes are going to catch up with you. And it won’t be pretty.” Her voice cracked slightly at the words.

  Luis shook his head slowly, something troubled settling behind his eyes. “We need to talk. Something ain't right with your head.”

  Patrick’s voice snapped through the group, cutting off the humor. “Enough. This isn’t the time for that, we need a plan first.” He locked eyes with Nora, the lines on his face deepening with worry. “Is there another way? Somewhere, they won’t expect us?”

  Nora’s jaw clenched. “No. The only safe way west is through the Plains.”

  Patrick spat a curse into the dirt. “So that’s it. He’s bottlenecking us?”

  Bash always felt the world tighten when Patrick’s tone dropped like that. It was the sound of we’re about to die wrapped in an Irish burr. He couldn’t help himself. Silence was a rash he needed to scratch. “I mean... we could tunnel under their feet, maybe build an airship out of wishful thinking? Or just hit the ‘fast travel’ button?”

  Nora’s gaze flicked south. “There’s the mountain pass. It’s dangerous. Deadly, even. But it’ll take us around to the other side. Past any blockade.”

  Bash groaned, putting on his best B-movie death scene performance. “Oh, I can feel it. The soundtrack’s changing. The air’s tingling. It’s the setup for a side quest. Not the loot-dropping kind, either.”

  Bash threw his hands on his hips, gasping so dramatically it nearly summoned a weather event.

  “And there it is. The inevitable side quest.”