Catharsis (Book 2): Catalyst (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

            Hanging up the phone, I turn to Ren.  "I've got a stomach full of energy and a heart full of grumpiness.  Let's put ‘em to good use.  What's on the agenda for tonight?"

            Ren taps on a few more keys then turns in his chair to face me.  "Well, Ms. Kitty," he begins with a wicked smile on his face.  "Since I was so rudely interrupting your conversation earlier, I figured we'd begin with some target practice drills.  That would give us both the opportunity to vent some frustrations.  How's that sound?"

            I return his smile and jump up from the chair I had been leaning back in.  The man certainly knows how to get my attention and cheer me up.  Most of our drills and training have just involved me trying to get faster or more efficient with my fighting moves or acrobatics.  The problem with that is they almost always involve Ren just sitting in his chair barking out directions to me.  He rarely gets involved.  Except when we do Target Practice. 

            Target Practice has become the only drill that even resembles a game, and it's a blast for blowing off steam and enjoying myself.  It came about quite by accident (as most games probably do) when I had been in a foul mood and had thrown some pencils at Ren in frustration when I failed another of his training challenges.  He had been surprisingly agile and dodged three of the pencils, caught the fourth and with frightening accuracy sent it zinging through the air back at me.  I had been so shocked at his speed and ability that I barely moved out of the way and took the sharpened tip to the side of my neck.  It wasn't enough to hurt me, but it certainly got my attention.  It also defused all the anger I'd been feeling.

            From that point on we had started regularly having rounds of Target Practice where we threw things at each other in an attempt to hit the other.  But pencils weren't enough.  Once I was over the initial shock of what he could do, I could easily adapt to his speed and dodge everything he threw at me.  It was easy, but that wasn't the point.  I needed a challenge and to get better.  Small-arms handguns had been briefly considered, but then rejected (Even though I assured Ren I had no qualms about his inability to hit me with a .22 pistol, he was more worried about the sound and any damage to the building than actually hurting me.  I tried not to take offense at that.).  We then went with the next best thing: an airsoft gun. 

            Ren was able to do some digging on the internet and find a model that could be modified to shoot at over a thousand feet per second.  That's nearly twice as fast as most air guns, but it's still a bit slower than the handguns and assault rifles I'll face on the street.  To increase the challenge, Ren often wields two guns at once and puts them on full automatic.  The plastic tornado of bullets that he sends across the warehouse floor is both frightening and impressive.  Those hard plastic pellets might not kill me, but they'll break the skin and make me bleed when they hit.  And there are more of them in the air then I'd like to count at any one time.  I feel pretty confident that if I can dodge what he's throwing at me, then I'll be pretty adept at jumping around whatever the cartel goons might have.

            But it's not just Ren getting to attack me, though.  That wouldn't be enough to get me excited.  This game started with us throwing things at each other, and that core concept has continued unchanged.  I just don't use a projectile weapon like he does.  Instead I've found a small item that I can throw with accuracy and cause enough pain to hurt the man without doing long term damage:  pencil top erasers.  Specifically the little colored ones that look like arrow heads.  They sting like tiny, rubberized yellow jackets when I hit him, but it doesn't happen as often as I had thought it would.  For a man with an incurable blood disease who spends most of his free time on a computer, he's still in great shape.  I'm not sure when he finds time to work out, but he must do it at some point because he's remained a competitive opponent throughout our battles.

            Running over to the little desk where I keep my pile of erasers, I scoop up a handful of them and dump them into a climber's chalk bag that I use to store them while I play.  I discovered early on that keeping them in my pockets restricted my movements too much, so Ren came up with this idea so that I could get to them quickly and easily.  The little pouch hangs off my belt and allows me to just dig my fingers in and grab a few at a time.  It's really helped me keep up with him during the heat of the game.  Before I finish loading the second handful into the bag, Ren stops me with a question.

            "How's your energy level right now, Cat?"  He asks.  "Are you good and juiced and ready to push yourself?"

            I notice him staring at me with even more of a mischievous twinkle in his eye than is normally present.  Target Practice is one of the few fun drills we do, but it is hardly the most exhausting or taxing.  I don't need to tap into the Dark Hunger if I'm just running around and throwing things.  Apparently I unconsciously slow time when the maelstrom of pellets is too thick and I need an escape, but I've been doing that so much lately that it isn't quite as much of a shock to the system as it once was (I've learned a lot since that night in Chadwick's house.). 

            "Why?"  I ask once I realize his expression isn't going to give anything away for me.  "What do you have planned this time?"

            "A lot actually," he tells me.  "But it all depends on whether you agree to my condition.  I want to up the stakes a little bit for the game.  Are you ready for that?  I have a wager for you."

            I've never seen or heard of Ren gambling in all the time I've known him.  He doesn't like to lose, and he doesn't like to not have complete control over a situation.  And both of those are things that games of chance will rob a person of.  The fact that he's offering this to me means I can assume two things: something important is coming up, and he's rigged this so he can't lose.  I'm intrigued enough to agree.  How bad can it be?

            I nod my head in agreement and wait for him to state the terms.

            "Good.  If I win tonight, then you have to do a job that I have planned.  It involves you getting out of this warehouse and out into the real world again."

            "And if you lose?"  I ask him; although I'm pretty sure he'll never let that happen.

            "If I lose," he continues and winks at me.  "Then I won't bring it up again for an entire week, and you can spend those seven days holed up in here avoiding everything and everyone that is outside these walls."

            I shake my head in exasperation.  "In other words, I'm going to eventually do this thing for you one way or another.  It's just a matter of how much guilt I want to feel once I do it?"

            "Yup," he agrees.  "More or less.  So we have a deal?"

            "Deal," I concede.  "So how will we know who's won this contest as opposed to just going until we run out of ammo like every other time?"

            "Good question.  Here's the idea that I have about that which I just came up with right now on the spot with absolutely no forethought or planning."

            "You're a horrible liar."

            "I know," he says and winks at me.  "But let's just pretend, huh?  Ok, one of us has to get to that wall over there and touch it."  He turns and points to a back wall of the warehouse about seventy yards away.

            "That’s it?"  I ask, although I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

            "Hang on," he tells me and bends down behind one of his desks so that I can't see him and fiddles with something on the ground.  A moment later he stands back up and both of his arms are covered in what appear to be cardboard wings.  He looks ridiculous, and the sight of his birdlike appearance makes me giggle.

            "What are those?"  I squeak before fully committing to a laugh. 

            "Defense," he says matter-of-factly.  "Well, you also have to stop me from getting there first,” he states brushing away my laugh and getting back to my previous question.  “Ready?"

            "Sure," I say shaking my head at his getup.  "So who says sta-."

            He cuts off my words by tapping a key on his computer, and it immediately begins emitting the sounds of a pack of lions caught under the feet of enthusiastically dancing hippopotamuses (Or is it hippopotomi?  Or hippopotomeese?  Never did know that one.). 

            The sound is so loud that it physically stuns me.  And it disturbs me.  Where would he even find such a soundtrack?  I know the internet is full of all types of things, but this?  It’s just disturbing.

            And then the sound changes and I realize it isn’t animals in distress I'm listening to, but a man singing.  Or at least one who is trying to sing.  And the horrifying background sounds are not the guttural death throes that I originally thought, but a screeching guitar!  This is music he's playing.  Really horrible music, but it's still supposed to be music (I found out later it was some band from before my time where the members dressed up in costumes and yelled as loudly as they could and called it "music".  I hope to never have to hear it again.).

            Shutting out the sound as best as I can, I look back to Ren to see him sprinting across the open area towards the far wall.  He's gotten a much better head start than I would have guessed that diversion would have earned him.  He must have been putting everything he had into that initial burst.

            But being "ahead of me”, isn't the same thing as "beating me".  With that firmly in mind, I reach into my bag and pull out several of the erasers.  Jumping into the air and over the desk in front of me, I throw three of the rubbery projectiles at his fleeing form before I hit the ground again.  As my missiles fly towards him, he either senses their impending impact or just gets lucky (I suspect the latter over the former) and raises one of his wings behind him.  As the erasers bounce harmlessly off the cardboard strapped to his forearm, his intentions become clear.  They aren't
wings
he's created, but makeshift shields.  Very effective, but very basic shields.  And they're going to prevent me from hitting him and slowing him down.

            "Cheater," I whisper to myself.  "So that's how we're gonna play is it?"

            There's no point whining about the conditions.  I just need to find a way to work around them before he gets to that wall.

            Focusing on his back as he runs, I push some of my willpower into slowing down the clock and buying myself some time to think and analyze the situation.  It works almost instantly (Thank you Ren for all the practice you've been making me do!), and his speed drops from runaway antelope down to lumbering sloth.  He's still moving away from me, but not nearly as quickly.  I've bought myself a few moments to think.

            So, how do I stop him when his exposed side is protected by that armor (And yes I do feel a bit silly describing his taped-on cereal boxes as armor, but it's the word that works here.)?  How about I increase the velocity of my throws and try to either puncture or break the cardboard.  That might at least get his attention and get him to duck for cover. 

            Or I can get a better angle and try to hit his feet and legs while he moves.  If I can trip him up, then he won't be able to run.

            And if that doesn't work, then let's rely on math and science for the solution.  Maybe I can bank a shot off one of the pillars he's running by and hit him on an unexposed side.

            With three options under my belt, I feel a bit better about the situation.  I don't want to bring time crashing back down on us quite yet, not at least until I see which of my options is most effective.  I figure it's the least I can do to even the playing field.

            Leaping up onto a table next to me (I know.  We've had a tendency to try and spruce the place up by bringing in random furniture.  There's a lot of empty space to fill in an abandoned warehouse.), I get a clear line of sight to his slowly churning legs and grab out a handful of the little plastic eraser nubbins.  In our practices and training I've rarely attempted to throw an object while also keeping my adrenaline pumping at the levels needed to slow time.  It’s not always an easy balance to maintain.

            Taking careful aim at the exposed skin around his ankles, I whip four of the little arrowheads at him.  Their flight is true and they speed through the air slowly towards him (Sort of like watching miniaturized, rubber paper airplanes.).  I watch as the first two hit his rear ankle and cause him to shift his weight in mid-stride.  The next two bounce off the padded side of his shoe as he stumbles to the side.  His left hand moves up to grab a nearby pillar in slow motion like he's wearing a suit of armor under water.

           
Success!
I think to myself. 
Nice problem solving
.

            But my celebration is short-lived as I release my hold on the clock and watch time ease back up to its normal speed.  Ren hits the pillar with his arm and shoulder and slides down it coming to a rest at the base.  But as he does, he also brings his right hand around to face back towards me.  A hand that is tightly gripping his modified airsoft gun that is now pointing in my direction.

            I have just enough time to dive off the table and roll behind another one of the warehouse's many pillars before the frenzied storm of projectiles showers the table where I'd been standing.  The little plastic bb's ping off the plaster and cement all around me dropping harmlessly at my feet like a gentle rain.  It would almost be relaxing if I wasn't so determined to be the victor.