“Hey,” says Tam, frowning. “You notice this? Fourth Form Stone and Seventh Form Metal match each other.”
“Like a dance?” says Winter.
“Or a scripted fight.”
“It makes sense. Kata must start somewhere.”
“Then why don’t they tell us that?” says Tam. “Why aren’t we ever supposed to mix styles?”
“Maybe you’re wrong.” Winter grins, then bounces up. “Wanna find out?”
Tam laughs, stands, bows and takes Metal Stance. They begin to spar, and it’s fun, and it matches perfectly. They’re enjoying it, almost at the finish–
Until Winter blocks a strike, and bang, flash, sparks skid from their astonished hands.
Annette wanted to ask somebody at the grocery which of the apples would be easiest to hold in her mouth all day, but she couldn’t think of a good follow-up and didn’t really want to divulge the rest. They ended up settling on a carrot–less sweet, less sexy, but hopefully the platter and rope will make up for that.
She wiggles around on the table, trying not to upset anything, trying to see the clock. How many hours now? It’s all very nice, and sure, the sex is worth it, but right now she really wants to scratch her nose.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
The sound, it turns out, is Garvey hitting a bus with another bus. There are people in the buses. Some are screaming. Others are dead.
Garvey’s not really all that huge, and Lissa forces herself to think about how massive he must be, to hold the bus by one end. It’s going to matter.
She reaches him, kicks the board away and grabs, swinging around his neck like a toy. Then she swaps their gravities. It’s impossible. It hurts. Her muscles nearly collapse, and the air is driven from her lungs within a second.
But a second is all she needs.
Kinder knows perfectly well that the letter isn’t something she can lose; it’s stored well and safely in her inbox, and on whatever remote server collects all her email. But she printed it out to carry it in a pocket, and its sudden tangibility has made it fragile and rare to her.
It’s 2:43 am as she slumps home, an ache of exhaustion in her wrists, in her hips and lower back. Kinder’s alone in the crystal-cold air of something that’s not yet morning, but a touch of the letter in her pocket warms her. It’s a whisper; she’s a coal.
“Mountains,” Dell tells himself one morning, and goes dumpster-diving for hours. When he came back he takes hammer and chisel and knocks the corners off all his finds, then builds Teresopolis out of their angles: porcelain, steel, pasteboard and chrome. He’s careless at some point, and tears his hand on an edge. Sharp as a memory. Dell licks the wound clean.
He found something of his own, today: a broken tape deck, ancient consignment to Goodwill, with his name in Sharpie inside the battery case. It gives him faith. Everything comes back to you, he’s certain, if you look long enough.
Tango drops grass to judge the wind, eyes darting all the while to every tree, dip and hummock. It’s dead calm and silent. Cautiously, he takes stance.
With a BWAANNNG, Kobayashi’s there, leaping from nowhere to dive in with his own five iron. They slap clubs with a sound that jars his bones; Tango’s stronger, though, and hooks Kobayashi and both clubs away together.
Spike’s been waiting for that, and moves out from behind a sapling at a run. Tango snatches the greatsword from his terrified caddy’s bag; it’s going to be close.
“FORE!” he thunders, and swings it down hard.
Krishnan perceives the black shape only peripherally, but as soon as he does he slams a freeze on the air, a long pipe, reaching out all the way back to the distant rooftop where it’s crouched. Even so, he’s barely fast enough.
It’s already holed the window, and the saltshaker is caught in mid-explosion. Brooks leans forward, wondering, to look at the tiny lead shape suspended inches from his face.
“Don’t,” grates Krishnan, using every bit of will to keep it from moving. Brooks touches it anyway, then jerks his hand back with a hiss: even frozen, the bullet still burns.
Elliot’s watching the light from her room. He’s memorized it, fourth floor of the dorm, three from the right. He can’t help but quicken his step a little more, and remembers an old daydream: straight up the wall, so easy, scampering like Spider-Man through her window.
The stairs will do, though. He bounds up them in threes. Elliot’s breathing hard by the top, but it blends with the rush of reaching her door at last; he spills into a delighted smile, into the arms of a girl who smells like sun and looks like the best part of a bad movie.
What most people don’t know is that he’s not just down in the bore with a powder charge. It’d shred him, for one thing, and he wouldn’t go particularly far. Instead, he sits in a concave dish, which will be caught by the tapered rim and transfer its momentum to him on the way out.
Kirby adjusts his cape, making sure it’s not caught under his feet, and checks the helmet strap. It’s just about boomtime. The quiet three-beep countdown begins; he flexes his knees, gets his tongue out of his teeth and prepares his bowels for the majesty of flight.
Melody can’t get her hair to tousle. It should be wild but balanced, abstract, a glossy composition. Her blonde tips are all off on the left, though, and she has no gloss. The last time her hair was glossy, she was ten, itching in an Easter dress at an interminable luncheon where the only drink was iced tea. She skinned her knee, a habit she still hasn’t lost, along with the hated baby cheek-fat that will probably be there forever. It’s solidifying, cured like concrete by the sullen dignity she learned nine Easters ago to carry her through the longest days.