The Wild Ones

The training room is the warmest part of the catacombs. The first time I was here Lauren told me that was because it’s also the lowest level, farthest from the surface where the sounds of gunshots or battle could not be overheard by patrolling Shadow Men. This late at night the room is abandoned, but I couldn’t stay in the hospital wing another moment. Every second I rest I can feel myself growing weaker. F.E.A.R. won’t stop to let me recover, now or in the future.

The main armory is closer to the polestar, but there are some weapons for practice. Spears, staffs, even some deteriorating relies from before the cataclysm, like guns and a handful of compound bows. A rack of knives leans against one of the stone support columns. Knives, at least are weapons I can use.

I wish I could use the guns. They seem much more powerful than my relatively insignificant scraps of sharpened metal. Unfortunately, there are few guns left, and even fewer people who truly know how to operate them. I close my eyes, recalling a paragraph from the prophecy about the cataclysm. “....History repeated itself. People created desperate times and in desperate times, bad people have a tendency to come to power. In each country, new leaders rose. Power corrupts; And absolute power absolutely corrupts. Chaos. Violence. That’s all that was left. War machines were built. Devastating metal behemoths that required huge amounts of natural resources, including oil. A few brightspark businessmen got the to drill directly into fault lines. As far as anyone could tell, that’s what caused the continents to collide again. Citizens would wake up in the morning to find that the continent had moved miles. The resulting earthquakes nearly destroyed humanity but out of the ashes rose a new leader. Before the world went boom, she had been an undergraduate studying theology at some public university, but afterwards she was regarded as a bringer of light; A mother, nay, a Matriarch to the new world. She built a civilization that would later be known as F.E.A.R. and her heirs sat on the throne….”

It’s a dramatically written summary, but a good way to explain how this mess started.. Or rather, how our ancestors started it.

The odd combination of torchlight and electrical bulbs sends light dancing off all of the polished and metal weapons, but I only really know how to use one. So I head for the knives. In the absence of an opponent to fight, throwing practice seems to be the only option. My target is a crude silhouette on an all but destroyed slab of wood. My weapon is different than I’m used to. It’s sleeker, and sharpened on both sides of the blade, a tool made for deadly accuracy instead of desperation. I pinch the blade and pull my arm back slowly, curling my wrist until the handle is quivering inches from my ear and pulling in a deep, calming breath. Exhale. The knife soars through the air, spinning end over end until… thunk. The handle collides with the wood a good foot to the left of the silhouette and the knife clatters harmlessly to the ground.

Dammit. These weapons are strange and I’m more out of practice than I thought. For the next hour or so I keep trying to hit the target, with little success. I’m so frustrated with myself that I almost don’t hear the footsteps until they are right outside the door. I scurry into a corner, behind a rack of mismatched sparring mats. The rules are a mystery to me, but this room carries the feeling of being forbidden.

The door swings open and Andy saunters in. It's like he has some otherworldly ability to be everywhere at once. He stops, facing the same target I previously used, (though he's much further away) and ignores the impressive selection of throwing knives on the display before him. Instead he pulls two silver daggers from his boots. With almost impossible speed he sends them spinning, one after another, at the target. They bury themselves deep into the silhouette’s throat so close together that the quivering handles collide with a chime like bells. I'm impressed, but not surprised. For the next fifteen minutes or so he throws and retrieves his daggers, practicing intimidating blocks and swipes while he’s walking back to position. And during the whole thing I’m hiding behind sparring mats like the world's most awkward stalker.

His normal routine seems to be throwing the daggers, retrieving/practicing with them, and then throwing them again. But this time he approaches the board and stops. Smirking, he pulls a blade from the unfortunate target’s head and proclaims loudly, “Are you planning on sleeping there, Raven?” Shitshitshitshit.

I’m finding that one of the most difficult things about living amongst other people is that I can’t just talk to myself like I used too. I’m having a difficult time resisting the urge to yell ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ Instead, I do the next worst thing and, rather than walking out and explaining myself, I walk out ‘nonchalantly’ and pretend like hiding in a tiny alcove behind a stack of sweaty sparring mats is the most normal thing in the world. Bad move. I can’t act. And I can tell he’s not buying it because he’s still wearing that stupid one-sided smirk. So what do I do? I try to lean against a table that’s carrying a few polishing cloths and a worn machete. Unfortunately, the table is slicker than I thought and my hand slips right off the edge. I go crashing to the ground. Lights erupt in my vision as the back of my head collides with the stone floor and I watch as the sword teeters on the edge of the table and falls. Directly above my face. The last thing I can think of before my eyes slam shut is: ‘I’m literally about to die because I’m awkward.’

I wait for the impact, and it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear the ring of metal hitting metal and the machete hits the floor several inches to the side of my head. Then I hear laughter. Deep, and rich. It would be a little unsettling, to be honest, if it weren’t such a nice laugh. I open my eyes and I’m greeted by the image of Andy beaming down at me. “You okay?” He asks, offering his hand to help me up.

“I’m fine.” I reply in a small voice, accepting his help to climb clumsily to my feet. Looking down, I spot one of his daggers on the floor next to the sword. He must have thrown it to knock the machete away from me. “Thanks.”

“I guess now we’re even. Almost.” He replies, smiling.

“Almost?”
“Yeah. First favors are always hardest to pay back.” I don’t question it and he doesn’t elaborate. What he does is walk back to the target and motion for me to follow. I stare at him blankly. He responds by motioning again. “C’mon. I want to see how you throw.”

Notes

God, I'm the worst. I know. :) I had originally planned to post this chapter much earlier, but someone in my family was going through a rough time and needed a lot of my help. Besides that, I'm wondering how long I can drag out the impending romance before you all kill me. :) Besides Andy and Raven, Any other ships in this story? (I'm curious.) My next chapter is already in the process of being written, and should be a good one, but probably won't be up immediately if it's as long as I'm envisioning. :) Song of the day is: Bury Me -The Kill. Question of the day is: What place reminds you most of childhood? (Mostly because I've been getting a major memory influx lately and I'm wondering if other people get that too.) :)

I'm eternally grateful to the people who have supported me in writing this story and to the new readers that come with each update. Despite how long it takes me to update, this story is always on my mind. I've considered a million different directions to take this story and have had a tremendous amount of fun in doing so. And without you guys, It never could exist. Thank you. :)
-Until next chapter,
-BVBfangirlqueen :)