Hullo there Sparks!
By now most of you know how I feel about music while I write. It can smooth over the chaos in my brain or inspire new trains of thought and abstract directions and sometimes the right music can absolutely make the entire scene.
I realize a little late, that last scene kind of took a really dark turn very fast there at the end and I could probably have given you guys a heads-up. I have been sleep-deprived, by virtue of time constraints and sleep being a waste of precious writing hours, and it has been messing with my head, so I haven’t been thinking things through so well. So, sorry if the unpleasantness caught you off guard or triggered something.
But if you’ll allow me to give you some context… I totally forgot to share this with my last scene, and I really should have. There’s a song that fits so well with the last post, it’s kind of out there, not too far, but a little. Anyway, it almost perfectly evokes the mindset dear Logan was in on Tuesday. Here, see for yourself. Blurry - Puddle of Mud.
Okay, with one caveat, 🤨 big brother and li’l sis, rather than father and son.
Also, for those of you who might be interested, I’d like to share something a little more personal.
I am the youngest of three kids, and when I started to grow up, my parents really wanted another baby. Like really really. After I don’t know how long, trying and not managing to have one of their own they looked into adoption, and when that didn’t work out, because Mum specifically wanted a tiny new baby and for some reason, where I’m from that’s not so easy to find, we ended up going into fostering instead to keep her busy in the meantime.
Now this all happened over the course of a few years, and eventually we moved from standard fostering to emergency fostering, like a safe place for kiddo to stay for a few weeks while the social worker figures out a long-term solution. I heard so many kids’ sad stories this way, real heartbreaking stuff, you can’t believe what, often the kids’ own parents, are capable of.
I won’t get into it here, because, well, just because. But when I was fifteen, we looked after these two little boys for around nine months. They were seven and five, and like the dutiful daughter I was, who when first asked ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ answered ‘I want to be a mommy’ - I helped my mum out a lot. And then, being inevitably immature and naive, I grew attached, which was a mistake.
When the social worker, dear lady, figured out a long-term solution - she did, what I saw eventually, was absolutely the best thing she could do for those boys - and placed them with other members of their own family. We never saw them again.
Now, I can’t say I was ever as low as I have portrayed Logan, but I know what it’s like when a little person who is a large part of your world, is suddenly gone, and you don’t know what to do with all your free time. You go to some pretty dark places. Add that to Logan’s empathic nature and the fact that he was one of the ones Misty was running from, and you have a recipe for some serious self-loathing.
So, again I’m sorry for springing that one on you guys, and I hope that this clarifies a bit and softens the blow so that I don’t scare anyone else off, because things get really dark again a bit later in the story when we explore some details of Misty’s early childhood. (Yes, that is a big tease and any more will spoil, so it is all I will give you for now, wink wink.)
As for where we are now in the story…
INDEX | Chapter 7 | Scenes 1 & 2 | Scenes 3 & 4 | Scene 5 | Scene 6 | Scene 7 | Scene 8 | Next Scene → Coming soon.
Previously: When Misty runs away Logan is set adrift in a sea of painful self-pity. When everything they try to find her fails, Luke has no choice but to call off the search and Logan falls into a pit of despair and depression that Tom and Luke have to fight to drag him out of. Meanwhile, Misty has been taken in by the PG. And apparently, Cathy, who we know tried to seduce the boys for information about Elle, wants to be her new best friend.
Cathy comes every day to color a picture with me, even if it’s just a small one. I pause my training to color along and listen to her talk. I think I have the energy flow under control again. It was a close thing, with the regen so high, but I had been careful, and I hadn’t released too much at any one time, and now it seems to have evened out, as long as I keep busy most of the day.
Cathy is very friendly and talks a lot. She asks so many questions but never presses for an answer. Whenever she asks, she seems satisfied to simply watch me think on it. James made me sensitive to telepathic abilities, and I can tell she hasn’t got any, or she isn’t using them, but she has keen eyes. She seems to understand me quite well. I don’t even have to try to answer her, she seems to ‘see’ what I am thinking.
She hasn’t asked me any difficult questions, like Luke did, or any irrelevant ones like Daniels. She does ask about my training, but more about why I do it and how it makes me feel than how powerful I am and how I came to learn it all at such a young age. She guesses that something drives me to train, that is it some kind of suffering but she doesn’t know what. She can’t possibly know.
She tells her father the things she has seen. I hear them talking sometimes, and even though Cathy doesn’t like to talk to him when I am around, he often insists. She tells him things about how I think. She tells him about my reactions to her questions and what she reads in my body language. She tells him about my guilt and my fear and how she knows. It makes me wonder if I should change something or not because it’s blurring the line between good and evil.
Cathy really seems to understand me better than anyone ever has. After thinking about it for some time I realize, it makes me feel safe and cared for, probably for the first time in my life. And even though I’m locked up in a tiny cell with nothing to do but train, I am content.
After a while, Cathy starts asking me what I need. She asks about what I want, things that can improve my quality of life within the framework of the circumstances she can’t change. I don’t ask her for books to read or treats or trinkets but she brings them anyway. Towels, lighter clothes, soda, candy bars… It’s always something, even just a red leaf, or a fruit blossom, or an insect in a jar to give me a taste of the outdoors. I keep them all, packed neatly under my cot and look at them sometimes.
My cell is small, barely three by two meters. There’s the toilet, the cot, and the basin to wash in and with only the three walls and the barred fourth side open to the hallway, there’s no privacy. I can see three other cells, with men who pay way too much attention to me and I can sense a whole lot more out of sight on either side.
There’s not enough space to practice even the simplest forms. I don’t mind so much. I’ve had less space before and I know that I have to be a prisoner for a while because they know what I did. Cathy told me that Logan is alive and looking for me. I didn’t answer, but since then I’ve taken care to keep my energy signature as low as possible.
Other than Cathy’s visits, they pretty much leave me alone. I am not allowed out like the men are, but at least it gives me time to wash and change without them staring.
Even with Cathy’s many gifts stacked neatly under my cot, a lot of the time, there’s nothing else to do, and my energy is building faster than ever, so I train.
I’m not sure when exactly everyone noticed. First, the other prisoners took wagers between them on how many reps. That caught the guards’ attention which caught the attention of the officers and soon I had an audience.
Whether it is jumping jacks, or pullups on the pipe across my ceiling or lunges and squats or vertical pushups, all I have to do is keep it up for a while and soon there’s a host of people watching and rooting for me. I don’t really understand what the big deal is. It’s not like I get tired. If my muscles start to ache, all I have to do is suffuse them with energy and I can carry on. Probably for days.
* * *
“How long has she been at it?” General Morgan, asks the guard who is staring at his monitor, in his usual curt bark, one morning while I am back on my hands with my feet against the wall. Down. Exhale. Up. Inhale. Down… Daniels and Cathy are there too.
“Two hours, near as I can tell, General “ the guard answers with a frightened squeak.
“And she does this daily?“General asks, looking to Cathy to confirm.
“Sir. There are other exercises, but the training. Yes, sir. Without fail.“ The guard answers quickly, and Cathy grins, nodding as if to say I told you so.
Cathy regards her father, while he looks at me, with one raised eyebrow and inquiring air. “Daddy,” she addresses him sweetly. He does not seem to enjoy the endearment, and Cathy quickly adjusts her tone. “If I may make a suggestion, General,” Cathy begins again and the General turns from the monitor to look at her as if to say go on.
“Can we let her use the gym?”
* * *
Those five little words changed my life in untold ways.
Cathy came to get me with Daniels and his pet bear along with two other soldiers as an escort. “Okay, don’t get too excited,” Cathy told me, “Your first ‘supervised access’ is to last an hour. It isn’t grand, but you’ll have more than you have in the cell. Make the most of it”
This gym is even smaller than Logan’s and not so well equipped, but it’s good enough for now. There’s a training dummy, a sparring ring. A few machines some weights, a punching bag, and a balance beam. I begin with forms, stretch out my muscles, and then start the treadmill.
As time passes, I am quite happy, surprisingly enough. I am in a stable routine. I am provided for, and I am even allowed to shower once a day. Thats where I learn something interesting about Cathy.
She leads the way to a large, empty room with floor-to-ceiling, cream tiles, and twelve pipes and mixer taps sticking out of the walls. There’s a drain in the middle of the sloped floor and a bench on one end where we can put our things down.
Cathy shows me what to do, and undresses first. Boots and pants and jacket, off, then shirt, then undershirt. As she peels off that last white layer, out the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of golden scales. I freeze in the middle of taking off my shorts and stare.
The small shiny flecks with serrated edges, go all the way down the middle of her back, from the nape of her neck, tapering to a fine point near her behind. She’s a Great Drake. Or at least part Drake.
I’ve never seen one before, but I’ve read about them, a highly elusive Elder race. Their powers are nuanced, more geared towards defense and endurance than attack, but able to conjure an energy inferno when in a pinch.
She will be quick, able to camouflage to a degree, very hardy, and with immense physical strength out of proportion with her size. Great Drakes are also known for having high mental acuity and intuition, which explains her ability to read my body language.
She smiles when she sees me looking and offers, “A gift from mum,” as her only explanation, then steps into the stream of steaming hot water.
* * *
Things are going well. My gym time has increased to six hours, five days a week. They barely guard me at all anymore and my audience grows every time new soldiers train alongside me. No one talks to me, but they watch, seemingly awestruck.
Before I know it I have been here half a year. My strength has doubled from hours of focused uninterrupted training. I have barely thought of Logan since moving to the new cell and I am pleased with myself for the way I have adapted.
* * *
There is a combat ring for sparing. It is a six by six meter raised and padded square with three ropes.
Though I have never been in it I have often observed the soldiers taking out their frustrations on each other in there. I have got to know a good few of them by studying their moves and each individual's style. There’s a Drakisthan and a Serp that caught my eye and a good few mixed Elder race weirdos that can move pretty well, and Cathy was showing us all a little of what she is capable of just now before the alarm blared and everybody rushed off.
There’s only the skinny guy with the mask who always stands by the door here with me and he just stares straight ahead, like always.
I am on the balance beam. If I place my hands and feet carefully, I can get 19 backflips in from end to end, but I’ve already missed my step twice since the alarm. I keep looking at that ring. I can’t stop.
When the soldiers are in there they seem different than when they are out of it. There’s a tension in their stance, a slight weight shift that happens when they step up. I remember the sparring room at TTH. I remember it being big, at least ten fathoms, and eight-sided with four doors and mirrors from waist height up to the ceiling all around. The light always started yellow, when the opponents entered through opposite doors. Once we were inside we couldn’t leave until the light turned blue, and that only happened when one of us was down. The few times it was me, the blue light made my muscles feel so heavy that simply breathing took all my concentration, and getting up was the furthest thing from my mind.
I try to refocus and concentrate on my back-handspring and tuck, but I misstep again on the half twist and end up on my butt on the ground. Sighing, cursing myself inwardly, I pad over to the ring and hop up, slipping between the first and second ropes to stand in the center.
It doesn’t feel any different. I close my eyes and breathe and take the stance of the first form. Still nothing. I sit down cross-legged and close my eyes and try to remember every detail of what it feels like to spar. When I am satisfied, I stand and with closed eyes, run through the first twenty forms, slowly, measured. I concentrate on perfection and grace through muscle memory and move carefully around the perimeter of the ring pausing for breath in each stance. Looking inward I feel my energy flowing, circulating, just beneath the surface. I imagine it as a river of little lights, electrons, running through my veins, pushed along by my slow heartbeat, from my core to my extremities and back again. A soothing image.
When I finally reach the final form I open my eyes and then stand blinking and staring and wondering what happened. The gym is crowded with a full company, including Cathy. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I forgot to keep track of my surroundings. How long have they been watching me?
Just then the General walks in, and Cathy winks at me, and again the line between friend and foe blurs. For just a second, I wonder how I should behave, then on impulse, I retake the stance of the first form, issuing a challenge.
The General says; “Take your pick,” and right away there are many eager opponents, of varying sizes and fitness, so I choose an average-sized one. He is tall and muscular, just like the rest of them, with brown puppy eyes and short hair and he steps into the ring, beaming with confidence.
He winks over his shoulder at the General and his fellows saying, “I think I'll have to go really easy on you little girl, I wouldn't want to damage you beyond repair or recognition.”
I just smile and think: do what you want, idiot, you're still gonna get your behind handed to you. Cathy sees it and her smile brightens even further.
I regard the man, and return his bow and salute, considering how much of a statement I want to make. I don't want to rule out all future challenges, so I don't put him down right away. I toy with him for a few minutes first. He is slow and clumsy. I see a handful of mistakes before I try my first counterattack. No energy. This is a joke!
I let him hit me as many times as possible without making it too obvious that I’m not really trying to evade. I am sporting a bloody nose, a split lip, and a cut above my left brow, and then I flatten him with a few lightly energized kicks and two fists to the gut.
Next Time: With Misty finally showing the PG her basic skills, her circumstances start to change and a new challenge is on the horizon. Logan has recovered from his doldrums and has started to move on with his life when Tom gets some incredible news.
Thanks so much for reading! If you like, please:
Or better yet:
and as always, I love hearing what you think so, feel free to:
First off, if Puddle of Mud is out there, then the next time you visit Puddle of Mudd, you will find a half-blind old guy sitting there with his headphones on :) I already have several of their songs on the monster playlist and can't believe I didn't have blurry on that list- I have remedied that, thanks to you. Second, I know a thing or two myself about having all that love to give and losing the one you were giving it to... Or trying... So I totally get where your head has been, and I don't even know all the details of what's going on in your personal life. And finally, I admire and respect the layers of self-reflection embedded in your fictional writing, and to be honest, I'm jealous - it's a skill I wish I was better at -:)
Thank you for sharing some of your own life here too ❤️