The Spirit Warriors: Choosing the Players, Chapter 1

 

Earth: August 1999

 

Chapter 1: Encounter in an Alley

This was a stupid, stupid idea.

Xavier glanced back. Of course, they're behind me too.

The oldest member of the gang was maybe two or three years older than Xavier; the youngest, maybe fourteen, a year younger. But there were at least fifteen or twenty of them, and only one of him.

"So is this where I say I don't want any trouble, and one of you says 'too bad'?" he said. There was a dumpster to one side. If I can at least get over there, the wall and the dumpster cover my sides. Of course, then I'm cornered and I'll have to beat all of them, or enough so they decide it's not worth it.

But I've got to do it. Otherwise that … monster… will have won.

"You're trying to be funny," the obvious leader – a six-foot three, heavily muscled boy with pale skin, tattoos, and brown hair down to his shoulders – said. "If you just dump everything you've got – and it's enough – maybe we'll all laugh, and you won't have trouble."

For a minute he thought about it. They probably won't take my ID, I don't have credit cards. But without the money, how can I get to California? How can I find out what happened?

But the chuckles around the slowly-tightening circle told him that "maybe" was an awfully frail hope for escape. If I get out of this, I'm going back, finding that bastard who told me about this shortcut, and kicking his balls right up into his oversized funny hat. Why the hell did I even listen to a freak like him?

He was in the corner now, hard blue-painted steel on one side, bricks on the other. He unsnapped the strap, let his backpack fall. For a moment the others stopped, probably thinking he'd decided to give them everything they were asking for.

Well, I'll do my best to give them what they're asking for.

He dropped into a simple front stance and waited. A ripple of laughter went around the group. But the simple pose reminded him of that day, of the last hours he remembered being happy…

***

I can't wait to tell Mike! Xavier thought as he leapt easily off the bus and jogged towards his house. The glittering, heavy golden medal bounced off his chest with each step, and he knew he was showing off, knew that the sparkle off the medal in the late-evening summer sun would draw every eye.

"Mom, Michelle, I'm home!"

His older sister turned, then gave a little scream. "Oh my god, Mom, Xavier's got the gold!"

"Oh, my goodness! Hold on, don't move!" His mother, gold-haired like his older brother Michael, appeared, camera in hand. "Let me get a picture." She took even more photos than Xavier felt were entirely necessary – he could smell the roast chicken that was obviously waiting for his attention. Then she stood back and just looked at him for a long moment; he could see a shimmer of not-quite-shed tears in her green eyes. "Your father would be so proud."

As usual, he didn’t quite know what to say to that. Dad disappeared when I was, what, two? Don't even know what happened to him, some people say he ran off with another woman.

But Mom always talks about him as though he were just about perfect. Finally they were heading to the dining room! And she always ends up comparing me to him because I look a lot like him…

He glanced reflexively at the picture – one of only two photos of his father he knew of – on the wall. It did look much like him, sharp angles, a hawklike aspect to the face, and most of all the large, uniquely gray eyes, eyes that seemed to follow you from the picture. Never did like that one much.

But after dinner was the best part of the day. He went upstairs to his room and picked up the phone, dialed the number his brother had given him. Can't wait to tell him…

But this time there was an answering machine, telling anyone trying to contact M. T. Ross to call a different number.

That wasn't terribly unusual – as a freelance photographer and sometimes investigative reporter, Mike sometimes had to move quickly. And he did sound a little tense, something he was looking into sounded kind of bad…

Still, it didn't worry him as he hung up and started dialling the new number. Mike was as good a fighter as Xavier was, and bigger, tougher, and a lot more experienced. He'd been in war zones, walked through countries in revolution, taken pictures of erupting volcanoes from inside the crater, followed police on major drug busts, interviewed gang members, and walked a mile to the nearest hospital after being knifed in the back by someone from a different gang.

The phone on the other end barely rang before it was picked up. "Xavy?"

"Mike! Stop using that name!" It was an almost standard greeting – his childish nickname was annoying, but Mike refused to stop using it.

"Not a chance." Xavier could hear waves in the background. "You and mom and sis okay?"

The question wasn't unusual, but … Mike sounded funny. Too serious. "Sure. I have something to tell you."

"I've got something to tell you too," Mike said, and this time he was sure. Mike sounded dead serious, and tired. "But you first."

He shrugged off the phantom concern. "I got the gold in the tournament!"

For a moment the dark tone was gone. "Way to go, bro! I'll bet Shihan was happy!"

"He looked almost happier than I was, I think," he said, grinning again as he remembered Shihan Butler's ecstatic grin. "The team got four golds, six silvers, and six bronzes overall, but I was in the top rank, black belt, and the Japanese were brutal this year."

"But you still took 'em all down. That's my little brother. Congratulations." He was silent for a moment. "Look, Xavier – I don’t want to worry Mom."

That sounded ominous. "What? You're not going into a war zone again, are you?"

"No," he said, then hesitated. "Maybe… yes, in a way. I don't know."

"Mike, that doesn't make any sense."

"I've been tracking … something. I haven't been giving anyone the details yet because…" Again, a hesitation. "Dammit." The voice was hushed now, whispering, and Xavier felt a chill run down his whole body. Mike, the confident, carefree, invincible Mike, sounded scared. "Xavier, it's crazy, but I think I've found actual evidence."

"Evidence of what? Look, I think I should get Mom –"

"Not yet. I have –" he cut off abruptly, and the quality of the sound showed he'd pulled away from the mouthpiece. Where is he? A pay phone?

But Mike was saying something, but not into the phone. "I'm sorry, I'm in the middle of – GOD, NO!"

And then Mike screamed. There was a banging, a smashing rattling noise as of something being hammered against glass and metal.

"Mike! MIKE!!" he was shouting into the phone, but the screaming went on, a shriek of horror and agony that suddenly just cut off.

Xavier halted his own screams, listening desperately to the hushed, rhythmic waves. And then to the lilting, insane laugh, the laugh of someone who had seen something incredibly funny in the death of another human being. A laugh that died away into the wash of the surf, and then, even as he became vaguely aware of footsteps coming at a run up the stairs,a voice, a delicate, sweet voice. "Oh, so pretty, so pretty, the patterns in the moonlight. But oh, such a waste of blood."

His mother was there, staring at him, but he held to the phone with a deathgrip, and there was the unmistakable sound of a hand grasping the phone, and the girl was whispering, "Michael's quiet now. He says goodbye."

And the phone went dead.

***

"So the kid knows kung fu!" the leader said, and the voice snapped him back to now. The laughter had continued, and now they produced more weapons. Mostly knives, but there were a couple of guns. Forget the guns for now, if they shoot in this mess they're more likely to hit their friends.

Two of them lunged forward then, knives out. Xavier didn't bother to try the fancy trick of kicking the knife out of the hand; he simply moved slightly aside, caught and twisted the arm as it went by, and at the same time kicked sideways and down. He felt his gut tighten, nausea rise as he felt the knee break, cartilage and bone bending sideways with a green-stick crunch and a scream. Sorry, Shihan, I'm using what you taught me to hurt people. He knew self-defense was allowed… but this was still horrid.

No time to think, just do. He continued the spin and twist, brought the other boy's arm farther up, heard the pop as he dislocated the shoulder. I am going to puke after this, if I live through it.

But there were others already coming in. He tried a kick, caught one in the groin, but he was wearing something, a hard cup, kick probably hurt but not enough, the others are coming, block that strike, got to get away, maybe up –

He tried to leap to the top of the dumpster, but the one he'd kicked in the groin caught his leg, slammed him down. Xavier tried to roll but there were two others already on him, kicking, pounding. He felt a rib snap, knew the pain would hit as soon as his body realized what had happened. Then a new pain, a cold-flaming pain sliding through his gut, and he realized with dull horror that he'd been stabbed. They picked him up, threw him down, tumbling half-conscious and in agony across the filthy pavement, and as he twitched, trying to find some way to get control of his body, he saw the leader raise his gun. "Bye-bye, karate kid."

"That's enough."

The voice cut through everything, even Xavier's foggy consciousness.

Standing at the far end of the alley was an old man. He was tall, with white hair that fell so it covered much of his face, and thin within the simple black shirt and pants he wore. He stood in a strange pose, arms parallel across his body, almost as though he had stopped in the midst of folding his arms.

"Enough?" The leader spun, pointing the pistol at the newcomer. "How about enough of th-"

And without so much as a pause, the old man was there, taking the gun from the leader's hand in a single motion. "I said that is enough."

"What the – take this asshole down!"

Xavier could not see – could not grasp – what happened next. It was a blur of motion, grunts of pain, screams, curses. But then two or three people ran past him, fear as plain across their faces as skywriting, and he could see, in his dimming sight, the old man standing above the unconscious – or dead – bodies of all the rest.

The man walked past the sprawled bodies and bent down. "What is your name, son?"

"X…Xavier…" he managed, hearing a faint gurgle. They must have hit a lung as well as my gut. I'm a dead man. And I've failed. "Can't… die…"

"All things can die," the old man said, and his arms slid under Xavier, lifting him so easily that it felt almost like floating. "But not you, not today."