An Examination (Solo)

No sooner had John left behind his new home and family when a pair of shadowed figures dropped down onto the sidewalk just outside the Malkin family property line. “Coach” stopped at the end of the walkway leading up to the front door then turned and pointed a finger at John. “Take him,” He said simply.

John knew then that he had been betrayed, especially as the two shadowed figures dashed toward him. He hardly saw them move; such was their swiftness that John would have missed their synchronized and initial steps forward had he blinked. They joined him on the front stoop; one threw a cloth bag over John’s head and tied it almost tightly enough around his neck to choke him; John had not even glimpsed their faces in that instant.

He tried punching out at his attackers, but the one who had cast him in darkness intercepted his fists and bound his wrists behind his back. John continued struggling and tried kicking either of them, but the same individual responsible for restraining his arms grabbed his shoulders and pushed down with incredible might. John crashed to his knees, helpless against his captors. He cringed at the prick of a cold needle and felt a liquid drain directly into his neck.

He continued to struggle, but his strength rapidly failed him and his two attackers kept him pinned. The cloth bag muffled his cries so no one in the neighborhood woke to witness the crime. In less than a minute after the injection, John could not so much as flex his fingers let alone offer further resistance.

“He’s ready,” John heard “Coach” say from nearby. “Let’s go and try to keep up; I have grown weary of having my time wasted.”

The two unidentified men hooked their hands underneath John’s arms and hoisted him up onto his toes. He expected to be dragged to the back of a vehicle, a van in all likelihood. The two men surprised him when they continued lifting him off the ground and the sickening sensation of ascension came over him. We’re flying! John realized fearfully.

His fear skyrocketed the higher they rose and his terror peaked when they accelerated forward at nigh-unbearable speed. “You sure he can survive this?” One of the men, hauling John, shouted. “I don’t think this guy’s ever flown before.”

“He’s survived worse!” “Coach” called back. “If a little airsickness does him in now then I’ll have no further use for him.” It wasn’t air sickness that tormented John; that was the least of his worries.

The wind passed through his clothes, whipping his flesh and chilling his body to the bone. In addition to the wind, John had to contend with the unimaginable g-force of the flight; he felt like a slinky stretching beyond its limits. He prayed silently that wherever they were going, they would land soon. Coach still wanted him alive for something, but that brought him no comfort.

John found it difficult to buy his original story about some all or nothing underground tournament. The man had just ordered his abduction. What if everything that had happened up until that point had been a set up? What if “Coach” was simply looking for someone for his dark experiments like some twisted mad man? What if "Coach" had been responsible for loosing the very flying man John killed just to draw someone out who could best that maniac? John's head filled with many more "what if" questions during his tormenting flight.

John's only indication that "Coach" and his entourage were landing was when they decelerated quite suddenly. John willed himself not to vomit into the bag, encasing his head, the moment they all dropped suddenly. He mentally prepared himself for the moment when his feet touched the ground or any other solid surface for that matter, but that moment did not yet arrive. He thought they had gone inside when he felt warmth encase him, replacing the cool night air.

His escorts dragged him along, stopping just as John caught the sound of a door creaking open and then another. His abductors took him down a set of steps; he knew this much because their shoes clacked against squeaking boards and he had become familiar with the sensation of descent however slight or major. “Drop him,” John heard “Coach” say.

The arms that had roughly handled him up to that point released him. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes onto the ground and crumpled just as such. He felt a cool and hard surface beneath him covered in a fine layer of dust; he recognized it for cement and wondered, not for the first time, where he had been taken. “Remove the bag,” “Coach” ordered.

One of John’s nameless captors carried out the order from behind him so that he remained out of his sight. A dim light swayed lazily somewhere above him, but John could not turn his head toward it. He stared at a pair of feet in black dress shoes and the legs they were attached to, which wore a familiar pair of pin-striped pants. “Leave us,” “Coach” ordered.

John heard two pairs of feet climb the stairs from somewhere behind him. They closed the two doors, which banged shut with a resounding thud that even John felt from a distance. It confirmed his fears that he wasn’t leaving without his captors' express permission. “Coach” walked away from John and grabbed a metal folding chair from the far wall where the light failed to reach.

He carried it over to John and unfolded it directly in front of him. “Coach” sat so that John could see as far up to his waist and no further. “I can no longer guarantee your safety, John.” “Coach” said. “I’ve known your name since you killed one of the contestants; don’t be surprised about that fact. You’ve probably already figured out that I have not been entirely honest with you and I doubt you ever fully trusted me, but you’re only human and very predictable. I baited you with a little power and you wrapped your teeth around the hook quite eagerly.”

John wanted to shout that it wasn’t true; he hadn’t agreed to come with “Coach” for power. He agreed to train under him because he could not stay with his new mother and her daughter, Tabitha. He feared for their safety because he only had thirty days before powerful men came looking for him. He now wondered if “Coach” had lied about everything including that. “You may not have wanted power for yourself, but you knew getting it is the only way you will live to see another month; I did not lie about that or the tournament. The contest is very real,” He spoke as though having read John’s mind. “Your survival depends entirely on you; you may not live to see the end of this week let alone the month. What I have planned for you will, in all likelihood, kill you.”

John heard the clear tone of sadism in “Coach’s” voice; he now knew he faced a man who found pleasure in the suffering of others. “Enough talking; we’re running out of time,” Coach spoke as he stood up and fished something out of his pocket.

He bent over John who suddenly felt the familiar sting of a needle enter his flesh. “Coach” sprayed a small amount of whatever the syringe contained into his bloodstream. “That should give you the edge you need to complete your first step toward true power.”

The solution burned through John’s veins with an intensity that caused him to whimper. He then realized he had moved his mouth. “You’ve regained some control over your body, just enough to plunge the rest of the antidote into your body. It hardly matters where you stick it, which is the fortunate part, but you have no need to thank me. The poison in your body will kill you by sunrise unless you have the rest of this...” He dangled the half-emptied syringe before John’s eyes. “...In you by that time.”

“Coach" walked from John with his back turned to him; the man bent down for a moment then made his way, empty-handed toward the stairs. He stopped long enough to impart some advice for John. “Your body will fail you, remember that. This will take more than strength; if you can’t figure out the solution in time then I have no use for you. The antidote is standing upright on the floor; I hope, for your sake, it doesn’t tip over.” He then ascended the stairs, chuckling all the way.

“Coach” turned the light off and John then heard a soft click of a key before his self-proclaimed trainer opened the double doors. “Coach” exited the dungeon, for that was what it was to John, before closing and locking the doors behind him. John tried issuing an angry curse at him, but only a jumble of consonants rolled off his limp tongue.

A righteous fury burned within him in that moment and he fantasized his anger would lend him the strength he needed to cure himself. He tried crawling toward where he saw “Coach” place the needle, but he could not lift his hands let alone his arms. His whole body felt as though it had been chained to boulders with very, very short chains. He could bend his fingers slowly and move him mouth, but he could do little else.

John took a moment to think and to clear his head. What if “Coach” lied and had not poisoned him at all? Did it matter if what coursed through his system would not actually kill him though? John could move again because of the very solution that resided within the syringe several paces away from him. He could use it to regain his strength! Then what? He demanded of himself. ”Coach” is stronger and faster than I am and now he has two goons with him who can move faster than the blink of an eye. Even if I have my strength back, I can't overpower all three of them. His situation seemed entirely hopeless, but he concluded that he could not risk lying around to wait and see if “Coach” was well and truly full of crap.

John desperately brushed his finger against the hard surface beneath him, but he simply could not supply enough strength to his fingers to propel his body forward. He thought back on “Coach’s” supposed advice and wondered if his ki would succeed where his body utterly failed. He hardly needed to focus to unleash the monstrous mass of energy dwelling within him; his paralysis forced his body to relax and the utter darkness, silence, and isolation supplied to him by his situation guaranteed him no distractions. The only thing that threatened to impede the activation of his aura was his own rising fear, but he dealt with the problem by simply converting his fear into anger and determination.

John felt the familiar sensation of power enveloping him and a chill began wafting off his person. Alright, I’ve harnessed my ki, but what am I supposed to do with it? John thought. He thought back on the flying man who used his ki to kill innocent bystanders, but John doubted blasting holes all over the place would solve his dilemma. That’s it! John thought with a start. I need to fly, but how do I go about doing that?

He tried willing his body up into the air, but, for all his efforts, he remained grounded. He concentrated and silently pleaded with his own aura to lift him off the ground, but if it heard his call, it refused his request. Why can’t I fly? He demanded of himself. I’ve seen someone else do it and “Coach” and his buddies flew me all the way over here! Why can’t I do it too? Despair crept over him and sudden surge of helplessness poisoned his thoughts.

His aura suddenly abandoned him and it took all his power with it. Damn it! He cursed. I suppose it doesn’t matter; I don’t even know how to use It. He thought sourly. John considered his whole situation ridiculous; he would not have thought ki-sustained flight possible a week ago. The fact he tried without success seemed to prove to him his long-held beliefs. Gravity has a hold over all things and a significant amount of force is required to defy it, but John felt too weak and helpless to defy anything, especially physics.

He lay helpless for a while, having no way of knowing how much time had passed. He doubted there was a window and, if there was, it would not have mattered because he had been taken in the middle of the night. I’ve been such an idiot! He thought bitterly. Why did I ever think to listen to that horrible man? His thoughts referred, obviously, to “Coach”.

He sobbed softly and tears crawled out from his eyes and slithered down his face before collecting onto the unforgiving ground. He allowed the tears to flow until his eyes stung and a cold shallow puddle gathered against his cheek. His throat hurt from the sobbing, but something else seemed to begin constricting his airway. He inhaled raggedly then suddenly coughed weakly. Breathing became difficult and John feared the poison in his veins carrying out its task to fulfillment.

There was nothing with which to gauge the passage of time and, as he began to panic, John was in no state of mind to count the passing seconds. It was enough for him to know time was moving forward, counting out his final moments for him until he uttered his final breath. He felt faint, but he could no longer be certain whether that was a reaction to the poison or a production of his own frantic imagination. He quickly became very aware and familiar with the beating of his own heart, but it could not decide on a steady rate. Sometimes it pounded quickly in his chest from fear and slowed at other times as though weakening from the poison in his blood.

I’m going to die here! John mentally screamed. I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! Not like this! Somebody, anybody, please help ME! He no longer cared what it took to survive; he would have begged “Coach” to spare him and even apologized for whatever he did wrong to make that man think he deserved this. “Coach” was not with him in the room, however. Instead of pleading with his absent captors, John prayed for his life to be spared, but he did not know who or what he was praying to and doubted if that entity even existed. If there is a god, why would he bother to save me? He thought not long after issuing his silent request for survival.

He coughed more often as his terror grew to new proportions. His body felt incredibly cold and numb; John hardly felt the cement beneath him. His senses seemed to leave him and he believed his body had begun to shut down; he felt little pain and he believed that to be a byproduct of the poison. John could no longer differentiate between the symptoms of the toxin and his own fear-induced madness. He received no consolation from the fact he had retained just enough sanity to know he had lost most of his mind.

When nothing changed other than his condition and no sign of salvation presented itself, John’s fear gave way to a new wave of fury. I did nothing wrong! I don’t deserve this! I don’t deserve any of this! I may not have been the best guy in town, but I shouldn’t die like a dog! He mentally screamed and continued on with his voiceless rant. I hope “Coach” and his two lackeys burn for this! While I’m at it, God can join them for that little barbeque if He’s out there! You hear that, God? You especially can…GO TO HELL!

I don’t need “Coach” or God or anyone! I don’t need them and I certainly don’t need this! With that burst of rage, John’s aura flared to life, encompassing his form without him realizing he had called upon it. This! This is all I need! I’ll get out of here and I’ll make “Coach” pay and then I’ll make his buddies pay and then I’ll make sure no one ever hurts me again because I won’t let them! I’ll end them before they can touch me!

John wordlessly dared gravity to deny him his right to survive. I will get up. He so strongly believed that nothing could stand before his rage and survive it that the world literally felt as though it was falling away from him. John did not need to see to know he had succeeded in levitating off the floor. Hope soared through him; he felt giddy with excitement and his anger dissolved in the wake of his new lightheartedness. He lost his focus for a moment and dropped back down onto the floor. Get up! He ordered his body with renewed anger.

He lifted off the floor again and he maintained his focus thereafter. He willed his body forward and suppressed his delight as soon as his ki propelled him toward his destination. He drifted through the darkness, careful to keep a straight course toward where he thought “Coach” placed the syringe. Where did he put it? John realized he could not remember where the antidote had been placed. It seemed so long ago and his time spent in the darkness only cast further confusion onto him, doing nothing for his sense of direction.

Fear crept through his mind again, but he immediately snuffed it out. Enough of that, I can’t be bothered to be afraid anymore. I need to relax and think. John concluded he would have to proceed slowly and carefully, hoping to encounter the upright needle. He floated for such a time that he no longer sensed himself moving; he wondered if he had stopped making progress at all and was only imagining his body moving lazily above the cement.

John exercised his will over his ki again and it brought him to a halt. His body lurched ever so slightly, but it confirmed he had never stopped until that point. He resumed his journey forward and thought he felt the prick of a needle against his trailing palm. He stopped again, but he had not been careful enough. He felt the object tip over; soon after, the clink of glass reached his ears and he knew then that he had knocked over his cure.

No! No, no, no, no, NO! John mentally howled. I was so close; I was going to live! He allowed his body to fall and his aura vanished; he had no further use for it. He knew he was going to die; his power could do nothing for him. He felt completely hollowed out and without feeling as though his mind had shut down to preserve what little remained of it. He felt emotionally and physically numb and utterly exhausted from his battle for survival. Is this how old people feel? He wondered. Is this how they feel right after they say their goodbyes to their family and friends? He appreciated the numbness that would allow him to die peacefully and without a care.

John felt a sudden prick against his neck and a cool fluid streamed into it. He almost thought “Coach” or one of his underlings had returned to finish him off, but strength quickly returned to him and he found himself capable of controlling his body again. He experimentally pulled himself onto his knees and nearly collapsed onto his face. He stopped his descent with his palms and smiled at regaining his mobility.

“Who’s there?” John called out in the darkness; he expected to hear “Coach” reply.

No one answered him; instead, a light above him switched on and flickered pitifully. Despite its dim glow, John still needed to adjust to it after having spent hours or maybe only minutes in the darkness. He saw his aura no longer enveloped him, but he already figured as much from the moment he gave into despair. What actually surprised him was the figure standing in front of him, holding an empty syringe.

A short-statured boy between the ages of ten and thirteen stood before him. His eyes immediately caught John’s attention as they bore an unusual hue and looked like tiny pools of silver. His hair matched John’s in color, but not in style; the boy’s hair was clean and cut short. The child featured pale skin as though having spent his entire life indoors. He wore fine clothing including a white dress-shirt, a black sleeveless vest, black pants, and dark brown shoes. The boy's attire appeared extremely new as though having been worn only for a day. The oddest part about the boy apart from his presence in John’s dungeon was that light and warmth seemed to radiate off him.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” John asked.

“A life is saved,” The boy said.

“Yes, thank you. Wait, how did you know I was here? How did you know I needed help? And how did you know how to help me? Have you been here the whole time? Does “Coach” know you’re here? Are you working for him?” John didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but he wanted an explanation for the boy’s presence and, more importantly, an explanation for his own predicament.

“A debt is owed.” The boy said.

“What does that mean? Who are you?” John persisted.

A resounding click turned John’s attention away from the boy and toward the staircase; the sound of the heavy doors at the top unlocking remained fresh in his memory. It was, after all, the sound of his imprisonment. The doors creaked open and “Coach” walked through them. “Looks like you survived the night.” “Coach” said to John and even though he could not see it, he felt the man’s terrible grin.

John turned back toward the boy who, just then, pressed something into his hand. John looked down and saw he now held an empty needle, the one that had contained his cure. “Coach’s” creaky descent down the stairs tore John’s attention away from the child again. He regarded “Coach” as an enemy now and could not afford to take his eyes off him again. “Coach” stepped in front of John. No matter how close he stood or how deeply John looked, nothing seemed to penetrate the shadow of the man’s hat that veiled the upper half of his face.

“Coach” lowered his head as though staring at the mystery child. He shook his head slowly and looked back at John or so John assumed since he could not see the man’s eyes. “Do you know him?” John asked.

“Know who?” “Coach” asked slowly as though not altogether there.

John risked a glance at the boy who continued standing behind him and off to the side. The boy tilted his head and gazed back into John’s face. “Him,” John said, pointing, and stared back at “Coach” for some confirmation that he also noticed the strange child.

“There’s no one there, John. You must be hallucinating and I don’t blame you after the night you had.” He sounded comforting in that moment, but John refused to buy into his nice guy act a second time. “You’ve no reason to trust me; I don’t care about your trust because I don’t need it. I’ve taken you on as my student; surviving my training is entirely up to you as I’ve said before.”

“Student? Student!” John shouted. “You’ve abducted me, threatened my life, imprisoned me, and tortured me! You call that training?” He demanded.

“No,” “Coach” said with a grin spreading wide over his half-hidden face. “That was your entrance exam; you’ve only begun to hurt.”