Post by Lucas Lightner on Jun 12, 2017 20:14:01 GMT -5
Three thuds echoed off the silver walls in the all-too-familiar basement. Near the center stood a tall man with blonde hair and a matching beard that stood out maybe two inches from his jawline. Just in front of him, now on his back, laid a small child of ten years. His bloodied nose already dripped onto and stained his shirt. It already sported a sweat stain on the front, right down the center. His father, Edward, stood above him. His brow glistened with some sweat, but everything else about him seemed clean and well-kept. Not a single hair hung out of place. His white button-up, with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, looked immaculate. His buckled, brown pants were equally well-pressed and free of stains.
“You’re good, Lucas,” the gruff voice of Edward sounded off when he tried to reassure his son. He walked away from the boy and picked up a thick, white cloth from a metal table that stood off to the side. It was the only other piece of furniture in the desolate basement.
On the ground still, Lucas groaned in the high-pitched tone of a pre-pubescent boy, “I wish I felt like I was…”
Pops fired off from his back when he sat back up. His face twisted into a grimace as he bore the pain, and again as he wiped his sensitive nose free of the blood that still lingered on soft, young skin. When he pulled his hand away, he saw the darker stains from earlier, when he had wiped blood from his split lip. It was that injury that spattered blood all over the floor.
Lucas realized he would have to clean that up later and groaned in advance.
“None of the others your age can keep up with you,” Edward insisted on raising his son’s spirits. He tossed the boy a towel and then grabbed another for himself. He started to dab away the sweat on the back of his neck and his forehead. Some already dripped onto the thick-rimmed glasses he wore—something that Lucas considered an iconic of his father.
“They don’t have our leader as their Dad,” Lucas corrected his father with a smug smile only a proud son could have. The towel he tossed was already on the floor, colored red with the blood Lucas cleaned himself of. “Of course they can’t keep up with me!”
The bloody nose never slowed him down. Lucas threw a few punches that, despite his small stature compared to his towering father, whistled through the air. He always bounced back and made it look effortless. Edward looked on like any father should: full of pride in his son, and what he could do, who he was becoming. Other children frequently seemed bored of the Quincy life and the demanding work that was associated. They were children, so their interests lived within the realm of such things as their Playstation.
Edward laughed, “Do you think you’re ready to try the new style I’ve been working on?”
Lucas lowered his arms and quickly tempered his excitement. A wave of uncertainty flashed behind his now-wide eyes, and he looked over to the suddenly-fascinating silver floor.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he answered, sheepishly. He lifted his right heel off the floor and twisted the front half against the metal, back and forth.
“Come on now, what happened to all of that confidence? You had it just a second ago!”
“Yeah, but…you know, you can’t even do it yet, right? No way I can!”
“You’re right about that, I can’t. But I think I will. And even if I don’t, you will. That I’m sure of.”
“Why?”
A hard question to answer, as so many things children asked were.
“Well, because my Dad worked on it, too,” Edward answered, somewhat less enthusiastically.
“Grandpa?” Lucas’ face lit up at the mention of him. “Why did he stop? Couldn’t he get it to work?”
“He couldn’t. He…got too old to keep working on it.”
Lucas frowned, but nodded. He always picked these things up quickly, Edward noticed.
“Do you want to see what I’ve managed so far?” Edward asked. Lucas nodded furiously.
Without further ado, he took a few steps away from his son. He took a running stance, his left leg forward, and narrowed his eyes on the wall ahead of him. Lucas took a couple steps closer out of curiosity, but Edward sternly waved for him to go back to where he was. His son knew better than to ignore that. If he did, a stern lecture was sure to follow; and with a voice as booming as his father’s, even merely “stern” could shake the walls.
Those walls, silver as they were, shook when Edward jumped from the floor. His left leg did most the work and hurled him forward, more than upwards, at the wall on the far end. As he twisted in the air and brought his right leg back, blue particles started to envelope it. Like Tetris pieces—one of Lucas’ favorite games—snapping together, an armored boot began to appear around his brown shoes. It ran half way up Edward’s leg before his leg snapped out and smashed his foot into the wall.
The entire basement rocked for a moment as the vibrations flowed through the metal basement. Lucas watched as his father’s single kick put a dent in the wall deep enough to nearly swallow his entire leg. He also watched the blue armor shatter into pieces when his father kicked back off the wall and landed on his feet.
In the center of the crater, the silver split to reveal the shattered, brick foundation of their house.
“Oh hell,” his father swore under his breath. Normally, Lucas would take pride in giving his father a mock dirty look for his language. This time, he was far too focused on the sight of his father’s sheer, destructive power.
“And you want to stretch that, Dad?” Lucas asked in wide-eyed bewilderment. “Isn’t the armor good enough?”
Edward lifted his foot and shook it, slightly numb from the impact.
“I’m not stretching it, Lucas,” his father corrected and wagged a single finger at this before. “I want to detach it from my body, so I can use our family’s fighting at a range. As Quincy, we’re uniquely suited to this. Now, what else did I tell you after that, last time we went over it?”
Like always, his father’s voice swelled. As if nothing had happened in the first place, he stood as if his foot wasn’t the least bit numb or sore after that demonstration. His father proved himself, again and again, to be the literal superhero that Lucas saw him as. In that moment, he looked like a titan of gold, undefeatable by any foe—living or dead.
“And there’s no way in hell a Shinigami could do something like that!” Lucas shouted and pumped a fist into the air.
Edward gave his son a wide smile, but pointed at he him and barked, “Language, boy. What did I tell you about that?”
Lucas deflated a little, but only a little, before he answered, “Yeah, I know, that we’re better than that…But, come on! You’re so strong! You can get away with it, right? So why can’t I, just a teeny bit?”
“We are better than that,” Edward said, and slowly dropped to a knee. He put his large hands on either of his son’s shoulders. “Being strong isn’t enough, if the Quincy are ever going to get back together in the future. You and I especially, we have to set an example. So, when we make mistakes, we have to own up to them; no matter how bad. That’s what we do: get up when we get kicked down.”
His father always spoke with such conviction, Lucas felt. Other children told him how they hated getting lectured by their parents. For Lucas, it felt like his Dad was sharing something grand with him, another piece of the adult world that he was only beginning to understand. Each one—most of them, anyway—felt like a gift and helped him stand out and grow. No matter how young he was, Lucas realized how much of that came from his father, and was all-too-happy to let it continue.
He was the best among his peers for a reason, and he liked that feeling.
“Now, come on, get your gloves on,” Lucas ordered his son and walked back to the spot they had been when they were sparring. Lucas immediately looked down to his hands and squinted. Slowly, particles formed around his hands in the shape of the gloves he always wore. The barely-controlled particles were hot the touch but, as the gloves finished, that heat evaporated again.
Lucas clenched his fists, and looked up at his father.
“Now, let’s practice your explosions again,” Edward said and got back into his stance, fists raised and ready. He was smiling, just like his son was. Their faces were both lit up with excitement and fun. Some parents had picnics, barbecues, vacations. But they two of them didn’t have those. They just had each other, and this is what they found put a smile on each other’s faces more than anything else.
“We’re not stopping until you can fire off more than one at a time!”
*****
1,567 Words
“You’re good, Lucas,” the gruff voice of Edward sounded off when he tried to reassure his son. He walked away from the boy and picked up a thick, white cloth from a metal table that stood off to the side. It was the only other piece of furniture in the desolate basement.
On the ground still, Lucas groaned in the high-pitched tone of a pre-pubescent boy, “I wish I felt like I was…”
Pops fired off from his back when he sat back up. His face twisted into a grimace as he bore the pain, and again as he wiped his sensitive nose free of the blood that still lingered on soft, young skin. When he pulled his hand away, he saw the darker stains from earlier, when he had wiped blood from his split lip. It was that injury that spattered blood all over the floor.
Lucas realized he would have to clean that up later and groaned in advance.
“None of the others your age can keep up with you,” Edward insisted on raising his son’s spirits. He tossed the boy a towel and then grabbed another for himself. He started to dab away the sweat on the back of his neck and his forehead. Some already dripped onto the thick-rimmed glasses he wore—something that Lucas considered an iconic of his father.
“They don’t have our leader as their Dad,” Lucas corrected his father with a smug smile only a proud son could have. The towel he tossed was already on the floor, colored red with the blood Lucas cleaned himself of. “Of course they can’t keep up with me!”
The bloody nose never slowed him down. Lucas threw a few punches that, despite his small stature compared to his towering father, whistled through the air. He always bounced back and made it look effortless. Edward looked on like any father should: full of pride in his son, and what he could do, who he was becoming. Other children frequently seemed bored of the Quincy life and the demanding work that was associated. They were children, so their interests lived within the realm of such things as their Playstation.
Edward laughed, “Do you think you’re ready to try the new style I’ve been working on?”
Lucas lowered his arms and quickly tempered his excitement. A wave of uncertainty flashed behind his now-wide eyes, and he looked over to the suddenly-fascinating silver floor.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he answered, sheepishly. He lifted his right heel off the floor and twisted the front half against the metal, back and forth.
“Come on now, what happened to all of that confidence? You had it just a second ago!”
“Yeah, but…you know, you can’t even do it yet, right? No way I can!”
“You’re right about that, I can’t. But I think I will. And even if I don’t, you will. That I’m sure of.”
“Why?”
A hard question to answer, as so many things children asked were.
“Well, because my Dad worked on it, too,” Edward answered, somewhat less enthusiastically.
“Grandpa?” Lucas’ face lit up at the mention of him. “Why did he stop? Couldn’t he get it to work?”
“He couldn’t. He…got too old to keep working on it.”
Lucas frowned, but nodded. He always picked these things up quickly, Edward noticed.
“Do you want to see what I’ve managed so far?” Edward asked. Lucas nodded furiously.
Without further ado, he took a few steps away from his son. He took a running stance, his left leg forward, and narrowed his eyes on the wall ahead of him. Lucas took a couple steps closer out of curiosity, but Edward sternly waved for him to go back to where he was. His son knew better than to ignore that. If he did, a stern lecture was sure to follow; and with a voice as booming as his father’s, even merely “stern” could shake the walls.
Those walls, silver as they were, shook when Edward jumped from the floor. His left leg did most the work and hurled him forward, more than upwards, at the wall on the far end. As he twisted in the air and brought his right leg back, blue particles started to envelope it. Like Tetris pieces—one of Lucas’ favorite games—snapping together, an armored boot began to appear around his brown shoes. It ran half way up Edward’s leg before his leg snapped out and smashed his foot into the wall.
The entire basement rocked for a moment as the vibrations flowed through the metal basement. Lucas watched as his father’s single kick put a dent in the wall deep enough to nearly swallow his entire leg. He also watched the blue armor shatter into pieces when his father kicked back off the wall and landed on his feet.
In the center of the crater, the silver split to reveal the shattered, brick foundation of their house.
“Oh hell,” his father swore under his breath. Normally, Lucas would take pride in giving his father a mock dirty look for his language. This time, he was far too focused on the sight of his father’s sheer, destructive power.
“And you want to stretch that, Dad?” Lucas asked in wide-eyed bewilderment. “Isn’t the armor good enough?”
Edward lifted his foot and shook it, slightly numb from the impact.
“I’m not stretching it, Lucas,” his father corrected and wagged a single finger at this before. “I want to detach it from my body, so I can use our family’s fighting at a range. As Quincy, we’re uniquely suited to this. Now, what else did I tell you after that, last time we went over it?”
Like always, his father’s voice swelled. As if nothing had happened in the first place, he stood as if his foot wasn’t the least bit numb or sore after that demonstration. His father proved himself, again and again, to be the literal superhero that Lucas saw him as. In that moment, he looked like a titan of gold, undefeatable by any foe—living or dead.
“And there’s no way in hell a Shinigami could do something like that!” Lucas shouted and pumped a fist into the air.
Edward gave his son a wide smile, but pointed at he him and barked, “Language, boy. What did I tell you about that?”
Lucas deflated a little, but only a little, before he answered, “Yeah, I know, that we’re better than that…But, come on! You’re so strong! You can get away with it, right? So why can’t I, just a teeny bit?”
“We are better than that,” Edward said, and slowly dropped to a knee. He put his large hands on either of his son’s shoulders. “Being strong isn’t enough, if the Quincy are ever going to get back together in the future. You and I especially, we have to set an example. So, when we make mistakes, we have to own up to them; no matter how bad. That’s what we do: get up when we get kicked down.”
His father always spoke with such conviction, Lucas felt. Other children told him how they hated getting lectured by their parents. For Lucas, it felt like his Dad was sharing something grand with him, another piece of the adult world that he was only beginning to understand. Each one—most of them, anyway—felt like a gift and helped him stand out and grow. No matter how young he was, Lucas realized how much of that came from his father, and was all-too-happy to let it continue.
He was the best among his peers for a reason, and he liked that feeling.
“Now, come on, get your gloves on,” Lucas ordered his son and walked back to the spot they had been when they were sparring. Lucas immediately looked down to his hands and squinted. Slowly, particles formed around his hands in the shape of the gloves he always wore. The barely-controlled particles were hot the touch but, as the gloves finished, that heat evaporated again.
Lucas clenched his fists, and looked up at his father.
“Now, let’s practice your explosions again,” Edward said and got back into his stance, fists raised and ready. He was smiling, just like his son was. Their faces were both lit up with excitement and fun. Some parents had picnics, barbecues, vacations. But they two of them didn’t have those. They just had each other, and this is what they found put a smile on each other’s faces more than anything else.
“We’re not stopping until you can fire off more than one at a time!”
*****
1,567 Words