Renegade Rising (The Renegade Series) (4 page)

“Get out of here, you little degenerate! Shoo before I call the guards!” the woman said before slamming the door.

“Gah! What the hell, lady? Screw you!” Gisbo yelled, rubbing his poor aching head. It felt like a pressure cooker and that lady had just rattled it with a spoon. With a huff, Gisbo shoved his hands into his pockets and stared downward the rest of the way home.

Exhausted, Gisbo finally made it through the town’s gates before they closed and arrived at his small hut, tucked away in the trees right before the forest thickened. Feeling dizzy, he reached into his pocket for his key only to find it missing. Gisbo slammed his fist against the door in anguish and cursed loudly and made his way out behind the shack. As he walked past the side of it, he noticed newly written graffiti sprayed across the sides of his home in every color but red; loving words of encouragement from his classmates no doubt. Gisbo stopped and stared at it for a moment, just shaking his head at the nerve of some people. He often wondered if adults had pitched in too, for most of it was written quite neatly and there were some curse words even he wouldn’t say aloud. He did his best not to dwell on the words as he continued to the back of his shack where the only window was installed.

Gisbo reached upward and put his hands on the window sill, grunting in pain as he tried to pull his injured body upward. He only managed to get one foot on the sill before he fell into a deep mud puddle building at the base of his hut. Gisbo cursed again, but made no attempt to stand up. The raindrops really came down on him now, firing on his injured face like a barrage of cold needles. But still Gisbo couldn’t find the strength to move or find the strength to stop the tears now running down his face, merging with the raindrops. It was then a shadow fell over him and he snapped back into focus.

Through his blurred and watery vision, the man’s face was indefinable, but the outstretched hand was not. Gisbo smacked the hand away and clumsily rolled to his side and, with much effort, managed to stand, but not so much ready to fight. Thankfully, upon closer inspection, Gisbo realized it was not one of his classmates. He quickly dropped his fighting stance and rubbed at the back of his head, embarrassed.

"Sorry, I thought you were somebody else," Gisbo said.

"I would be some enemy to help you back on your feet, wouldn't I, friend?" replied the man in a deep, yet upbeat tone.

The man standing before him was tall and wrapped in a strange white hooded cloak. Most people in such days wore cloaks to remain hidden and mysterious; a white cloak just defeated the purpose. He could discern the man was in his forties. His face was hard and weathered, looking like tan leather. He had stubble all about his cheeks, chin and neck and brandished a thick, dark mustache that held droplets of water in it from the pouring rain. Gisbo would have thought this man to be fierce looking if he didn’t look at his eyes. They were a light sky blue and seemed to twinkle. Laugh lines ran down the corners of them, looking as if they were carved into his skin purposely.

"Well, champ, I would first like to apologize for any discomfort I caused you. It certainly wasn't my intention. You can call me Falcon. I'm the new janitor in these parts. The last one contracted some sort of terrible flesh eating disease from cleaning the waste shoots of the castle . . . horrible stuff really . . . we won’t go there. Anyhow," he paused and gave a small bow to Gisbo. A bow was a rarity in those times, reserved only for the presence of a Warlord. "And what would your name be, my young friend?" continued Falcon as he rose back up to his full height and extended a hand toward Gisbo, who gladly accepted this time.

"My name's . . . Gisbo," he stated with reluctance. His blood boiled at the sound of his own name as he prepared himself for a laugh or two. As expected, Falcon did laugh, but not as he thought. It was a goodhearted laugh, natural, and it almost made his name feel normal . . . almost anyway.

"Well, Gisbo, that is certainly a name to be remembered. So refreshing to the ears! Normally I’d be looking down and petting one’s head when saying such!” Falcon exclaimed. Gisbo couldn't help but smile as well.

What a crazy guy,
he thought to himself.

"So, Gisbo, tell me, why would a lad such as yourself be down in the mud sobbing on such a fine day as today?" Falcon asked, as if the sun were shining brightly.

"You think I need to share my life's troubles with the local janitor? What are you doing here anyhow? And . . . HOLY HELL!? What is that smell?" Gisbo asked, while clambering to hold his nose. He then noticed the stains covering Falcon’s cloak and he dared not wonder what they might be.
Waste shoots,
was all Gisbo thought.

"Well, I noticed some horrible four letter words written all over your shack and, well, I can't imagine why someone would like to have such decorations, so if you would look here you would notice that I began scrubbing them away for you, free of charge. I was also ordered to bring you your weekly food shipment. The door's unlocked by the way, but, hey, if you prefer crawling into windows, then be my guest! If not, try turning the knob first; it’s always a solid move. Here, you can have my key. I got plenty of spares back at the castle," Falcon replied, tossing Gisbo his spare. Gisbo caught it and stared at him in silent disbelief of his kindness. It was foreign to him.

"You know, I'm sorry for the rudeness. It was uncalled for. I haven't had such a banner day if you know what I mean," Gisbo answered, followed by a sigh as he collapsed on his small steps.

"Understandable. You look as if you just woke a hibernating bear. I’m sure that wouldn’t be a banner day at all. What happened? If you don't mind my asking and you replying," Falcon asked with utmost sincerity.

"Bear, huh? Might have been easier than a pack of wolves . . . I just, I don’t know. Have you ever felt like you don’t belong?” Gisbo asked. Falcon spread out his stain ridden cloak.

“To answer your question, I’m pretty sure I got poo on me. What do you think, Gizzy?” Falcon asked. Gisbo burst into laughter over this. It felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody had made him laugh. It made him feel even more comfortable, so he continued.

“Well, other than the obvious, I mean. Do you ever feel like something inside keeps telling you that you are meant for something, something big, but nobody else seems to hear it? I know it sounds crazy,” Gisbo said, looking through the falling rain.

“No, no, keep going,” Falcon encouraged. “I don’t mind listening, I’m getting a free shower out here.”

“I mean, I just look around and see no point in what people do around here. Hell, they don’t even notice it themselves. There’s no adventure or purpose. No passions or dreams anywhere. They remind me of ants or something. All they care about is money this, money that, who’s dating who, who broke up with who, what was the clash score last night? Clash players are a buncha sissies if you ask me. None of them fight for real, it’s all fake, but,” Gisbo stopped and pulled a book out of his bag. On the cover was an artist’s rendition of a warrior wielding a flashing sword. “But when I read stuff like this, back in the day, why, it just . . . it just makes me wish I was born in a different time! Like I’m not where I’m supposed to be!” Gisbo said with a sigh.

“Keep goin’,” Falcon interrupted with a laugh. “I can tell you’ve been holding onto this nugget for quite some time. It’s good to let it out.”

“Look, I’m not some whiney little sissy, ok, but you are the only guy around to talk to so you’re gonna listen, ok?” Gisbo asked.

“I already told you I would,” Falcon said. “Fire away.”

“And it’s just so unfair! Some people are just handed everything! Everything they need to shape them into what they want and they don’t even appreciate it! Where the rest of us get crap,” Gisbo said.

“Yup, preach it, boy, preach it!” Falcon encouraged.

“Heh, I don’t know. For once in my life, I guess I’ve had enough. I’m starting to feel just as insignificant as a, well, what the hell? A dog. Some people were meant for something great and others just, well, weren’t meant to be at all, I guess . . . " Gisbo trailed off with his head hung low. It wasn’t low for long however. Falcon knocked his knuckles against Gisbo’s skull hard with a CLUNK sound. Gisbo jumped up, surprised, and began pointing and shouting curses.

"What on Thera did you do that for? Is there something wrong with your head? Gahhh!" Gisbo screamed in pain, rubbing the new injury to his noggin.

"Hm, possibly, but I should ask you that same question, pal. Now I don't want to see that head lowered in shame again, ya hear? It is too nice a day outside to be wallowing in shame," Falcon replied.

"But it is freaking raining out!" Gisbo argued.

"That’s not the point! I listened to you, now let me ask you something,” Falcon interrupted. "I’m a bit of a history buff and was wondering something as soon as I saw ya. Do you wear that bandana on your forehead as a fashion statement or for another reason?” Falcon asked. Gisbo reached up and felt his blue headband.

“Oh this? It’s just from an old bed sheet,” Gisbo said, a little embarrassed by his tribute to the Renegades of old.

“So you were just quite fond of that bed sheet, eh?” Falcon questioned. He then chuckled. “Sissy.”

“Hey! Well, ok, you got me. It’s in remembrance of the Renegades. I like them, ok? Most of all because they did things their own way and didn’t care what anyone else thought of ‘em! Just like me! They took one look at society and said, ‘Screw you guys!’ And because of it, they became the greatest warriors in history! I want to be an Elekai’ warrior so badly! Then, then I can do anything I want! I can have adventure and excitement and fight evil stuff. Wham, bam! Take that, you Flarians!” Gisbo said, finding new energy as he bounced around punching at the falling raindrops. Once he had his full, and gave one unfortunate raindrop an uppercut, he turned back to Falcon.

“I can’t see myself as anything else. There’s nothing I want more! Just the thought of it . . .” Gisbo said with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“An Elekai’ warrior, eh? So that’s what all this is about. I hate to break it to you, kid, but you do realize it’s something that’s gotta be in you. Not everyone can be an Elekai’ warrior just because they want too,” Falcon said.

“I know that, but I don’t care. I’ll find a way!” Gisbo said. Falcon smiled at Gisbo’s enthusiasm.

“I like your attitude, kid. That stubbornness might just get you somewhere. You wanna know what I think?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway,” Gisbo said. Falcon ignored Gisbo’s comment.

“Those Renegade guys, I remember them, you know. They used to walk right down that main road there all the time. Each of them were great men and woman. They fought for their dreams and fought for a purpose and that is why the people loved them so much, but it was also what brought them their power. You lose your dreams, you lose your heart, and when that happens, woo boy, you don’t wanna know,” Falcon said. At this Gisbo was interested.

“What? Huh? Tell me!” Gisbo asked.

“Well, since you asked so nicely. You want to know what happens when someone loses heart? Well, you become nothing more than a hollow being . . . a shell that slaves his life away with no purpose, kinda like these people you speak so fondly of around here. That’s not what you want, now is it?” Falcon asked. Gisbo shook his head. Falcon rubbed at his hair and continued.

“My boy, you are at a pinnacle point in your life right now, where your dreams are called into question. Unfortunately, the average person gives up when the going gets tough and instead accepts a mediocre existence. Life, as we get older, has a nice way of snuffing out who we really are. It’s only the strong that doesn’t let it hinder them. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. In fact, it requires all that you are,” Falcon said. He reached for a short cigar in his pocket, lit it and puffed away.

“Hm,” Gisbo said.

“Yeah, ‘hm’ is right. Now, let me tell you a little something about these buggers you talk about, the guys that have it easy. There’s another word for ‘em: prodigies. Prodigies are never happy, you know. Be thankful you aren’t one,” Falcon said, blowing out a thick plume of smoke.

“Yeah, I beg to differ,” Gisbo said.

“Oh, they may look happy, but such people have nothing to strive for or achieve anymore. The only thing they care about is keeping their titles; but you, you’re something different, the opposite of a prodigy,” Falcon said.

“Really? What’s that?” Gisbo asked.

“Well, to put it nicely, pal, you’re a failure,” Falcon said. Gisbo was stunned.

“Hey!” Gisbo said.

“Now, now, let me finish. Being a failure is a good thing,” Falcon said.

“No, it’s not!” Gisbo argued.

“Yes, it is because you already know more than those who got it all right the first time. You know of every way to get it wrong. See? And when you get it right, you’ll already know more than the prodigies. Those who are dubbed failures or outcasts, those who work hard, come from nothing and fight on with a fiery desire,
they,
my boy, have nothing to lose and everything to gain and what do they gain? How about an unrivaled satisfaction you can die happy with. If you ask me, that sounds pretty good,” Falcon said. He paused for another puff. “The very moment you can die without regret, kid, is the very moment you start to live. This is where a self-made man comes from. As long as you don’t give up, you’ll never truly fail,” Falcon said with glimmer in his eye. He blew a smoke ring in the air.