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Sinkhole and the Rising Stars

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Koddle-oddle ah, kloddlah, koddle...oddle oddle ah...

The wind, caught in carved leaves of wood, carried the hollow reeds of the chime into their bigger brother and created simple, melodious, rustic noises that floated brusquely through the chilly December air.  More than a few windchimes the wing had played in Dog Hill, Sinkhole's birthplace, but it did no good to dwell on thoughts of his hometown; that was over, and there was no disobeying the sort of southern courtesy that forbade him from returning.  He walked through the roadside town near the facility that now governed him, wincing on every other step as his burns hurt abhorrently.  The pale man known as Kasai had been a vicious adversary, and the zealous wounds he had inflicted on redneck were wretchedly stubborn.  

Sinkhole caught more than a few strangers staring at him, though this was unsurprising: he was burly and tough-looking but sorely burnt and rather ragged.  One boy in particular seemed to hound him, and by the minute Sinkhole became more paranoid that the kid was following him.  With his usual tactlessness, Sinkhole turned around and began to walk swiftly towards his pursuer.  Without so much as flinching, the boy held his ground until the two were almost face-to-face.  Sinkhole's imposing physique stood almost a head taller than the younger man, who sported deeply tan skin, a loud yellow hoodie,  soft blue eyes, and a rather wide nose.  His face was reasonably comparable to a ferret: full of merry mischief and sly, always thinking of new japes.  “Whoa, there,” the boy chattered in a very slight Hispanic accent, “Don't run me over, pal.  Wow, ya quite the tall one...how's the weather up there?  Any storms movin' in?  No?  Heh, hmm.”  He spoke quickly and without hesitation as if he had rehearsed the lines, and didn't allow Sinkhole, confounded by his alacrity, to slip in a word of any sort.  “So I hear you like holes, maybe ya are one.  Ohnonono, not the bad sort, I meant your name.  I know it, ya see, sure as the day is long.  I know you're a bit confused, and not only by my stunning commentary.  Boss man says ya are to come with me, he'll get your questions answered.”

And what choice did Sinkhole have?  Diittoo, for it was he, weaved through the crowd like a dusky serpent, leaving Sinkhole to push and blunder through the milling masses whose very existence seemed to be obstructing him.  At times, it seemed like Diittoo was in several places at once; running hither and thither, chatting with a befuddled stranger, or simply standing and looking back at him.  Once, as Sinkhole looked on, Diittoo seemed to shrink rapidly and vanish, only to reappear in the crowd far ahead, waving jubilantly for the southerner to catch up.  After half an hour of erratic traveling, Sinkhole arrived at the entrance of a small brick building.  

He rubbed his eyes, staring uncomprehendingly as another Diittoo, a perfect copy, leading a familiar figure in a black jumpsuit to the same place.  Both...clones, were they?- slipped inside, leaving the two Gladiators outside to reminisce and enter in their own time.  “Regard: you again.” said Bl.An.C. by way of greeting.  Sinkhole gesticulated distractedly in reply before pushing into the building, glimpsing a delicately painted yellow star on the door as he went in.

Inside, the wave of heat was a most pleasant relief from the biting cold outside.  The floor was a nonchalant mix of brown carpet and a dozen different styles of rugs.  There were wooden tables, wooden chairs, and a wooden frame encasing a splendid plasma-screen TV, to which was hooked a oblong white box that spat a gentle green glow from an emerald-hued 'X' on its front.  The whole interior seemed very haphazard and was a decorator’s nightmare, but it was very homey nonetheless.    

Near to the door and reading a nondescript paperback was a very comely young woman clad in a foreign-looking silken burgundy robe.  Her face was exquisite, and Sinkhole was instantly infatuated.  At the sound of the closing door she looked up; her inviting lavender eyes swept over the southerner, and she smiled.  “Hey.”  Trying in vain to mask his involuntary admiration, he forced himself to look away and witnessed a pair of large bat's wings sprouting from her back in the process.  He suppressed a grunt and looked around. The boy that had showed him in had made an oblivious beeline for the fridge, popped a soda, and wasted no time in guzzling it down.  On his way to a bathroom was another man, clad in a black-and-gray striped hoodie and a tight leather patch over his left eye.  Then the man happened to glance toward him, and Sinkhole saw that the hardy cloth was stitched into his very face.  It warranted another shudder from the redneck.  He bore himself very stiffly but powerfully.  Nearby, a fat Chihuahua yawned as it slept on a padded Lay-Z-Boy chair.  Finally, Sinkhole's gazed fell upon a fifth figure, hidden until now by the high-backed loveseat that he lay upon.  Sprawled lazily across the overstuffed cerulean couch was a man that Sinkhole remembered all too well: none other than the demonic hitman Jorka.  Their eyes met, hard brown against apathetic violet.

“What the 'ell!?  If this a trap, yer gonna get the beatin' of yer worthless lives.”  Jorka seemed uninterested in Sinkhole's explosive outburst and threat.  “Nice to see you too.  Look, man, calm down.  That was a weird night; you can't blame me for its effect on me.”  Sinkhole's mind drifted back to the evening in the graveyard, and recalled keenly the haunted feeling in the air.  Diittoo smirked at Jorka's reprisal, his inappropriate thoughts apparent in his eyes.  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Jorka knew the boy too well.  “Nip it, Diittoo.”  Bl.An.C. stepped forward, and the hitman turned to him.  “Query; why did you bring us here?”  Sinkhole smothered his rage and listened, earnest for the answer as well.  

“Well, all of us here are sorta new to RHG, and we've got to make our mark to be respected.  As such, I made a group, a...erm, clan of sorts -have it as you will- with Fantom there...” He gestured to the bathroom door, “...and sent out invites.  Well, a senior clan already challenged us before I could get out all of 'em, and we agreed.”  

“What about the kid with the yoyo?” Sinkhole piped up.  Jorka rubbed his fingers, a motion similar to the one Yoyo had made a fortnight ago in the cafe.  “Ah, you talked to him.  He heartily approved of our newbie clan and has indirectly supported us since, though you wouldn't know it.  Anyhow, I've already taken the privilege of signing you two up.”  He silenced Sinkhole as he tried to interject.  “Nah, you'll love me for it some day, I know you will.  Anyhow, meet the team.  I already mentioned Fantom, I see you've met Diittoo, over there is Rain...” At the mention of her name, the Demon Princess waved perkily.  The hitman addressed Bl.An.C.  “And I'm Jorka.  Fellas, these two gents are Cooper Price and Otis Clifton...whoops, said too much there, didn't I?”  The 'slip of the tongue' was, in fact, totally intentional.  BlAn.C. was instantly on guard -how much did this assassin know?-, but his southern counterpart was little more than displeased.“I mean Sinkhole and Bl.An.C.  Now that that's done, I have something else to talk about.”

Fantomzed reemerged from the lavatory, and strode grimly to the semicircle of couches.  Diittoo hopped over and landed stoically, the very image of self-righteousness.  Rain slid smoothly after him, ending up in a relaxed recline.  A gesture from Jorka invited the new Gladiators to sit, and they did, albeit warily.  He raised a hand, and Fantomzed produced a stack of cards from an unseen pocket .  Into Jorka's hand they went with a slight slapping noise.  With their air of one confident in themselves and in their skill, the half-demon rapidly dealt cards to each player.  Sinkhole watched him.  “I thought ye had summat serious t'say?  He said bluntly.  Jorka's eyes twinkled  “Yes.  Cardplay is serious business.  I assume you all know how to play Bridge...?  No?  Spades?”  The Gladiators flinched a little under the withering violet stare.  Jorka sighed.  “Go fish?”

As Sinkhole learned, the simple card game was essentially setting for a very informative talk with the group.  Jorka dutifully answered all the questions he could.  The pale man with control of fire had been Kasai, a monstrously powerful Gladiator and leader of the enemy clan.  When Sinkhole told him that he and Bl.An.C. had beat him, Jorka laughed.  “And I'm ALFA.  Even if you did beat him, he must have been going really easy on you.  You didn't describe him transforming into anything, so I'm guessing he was just toying with you until you managed to vanquish him.  He'll be back, and if he decides you two are worth taking revenge on, I'll have two spots open in my clan.”  Rain had adopted a very flirtatious attitude towards Sinkhole during the card game until Fantom had quietly told her to leave him alone, calling her a 'manipulative tease'.  Her vehement reply told Sinkhole that Fantomzed was some sort of psychopath, but the patched man seemed sane enough...though the macabre stitching that cut off circulation to his face wasn't very reassuring.  Diittoo's quips and laughter were ceaseless.  After an hour of Go Fish and several failed endeavors to teach Rain, Sinkhole, and Bl.An.C. more card games, they decided to call it quits.  Diittoo had insisted on using nuggets of wood in place of gambling chips, and had finished with a very suspicious string of wins much to Fantom's detriment, who now glared at the boy very coldly.

A chaotic cacophony of guitar and shrieking split the tension, and Jorka slid a hand inside his jeans to fetch his wailing phone and flip it open.  “Hello...ah...we'd be delighted.  Yeah, we'll be there immediately.”  A vicious grin split the hitman's face and vanished again just as quickly.  Fantom glanced at his leader curiously, ignoring Diittoo for the moment as Jorka slapped his phone off officiously.  “We're heading out,” Jorka told his clanmates,  “Our 'watchful protector' has seen fit to give us a test.  Do your best, folks, this is where it counts.  To the Facility!”

The journey to RHG was speedy and uneventful.  Soon enough the five clanmates stood warily on a polished, smooth stone floor in a very dull arena.  Jorka briefed them as a small grayscale screen on a wall counted down.  Behind them, near the door (Which had just vanished into the wall) stood three men.  One wore heavily a patched dark green and brown tunic and equally threadbare cloak, another stood motionless in a gray suit leaning on an umbrella, and the last was clad in plain black.  The latter waved cheerfully to Sinkhole, and he recognized him for the spark-flinging fellow that had so hospitably greeted him when he first joined RHG.  Had it really only been a month ago?

“Alright, listen up.  Newbies, pay attention.”  Jorka hailed the less concentrated members of his now-complete clan.  “We each get five enemies, which may vary in skill, and the number will swell if the three gentlemen at the door choose to join us.”  Sinkhole peeked back at the three who might be his enemy, and the trio could have been made of stone for all the emotion they expressed.  “There is no real winning.  Try to last as long as you can, and please fight your foes.  Nothing is so boring as a battle where everyone hides.  If your head or both shoulder-blades touch the ground, you lose.  Ready?”  The clan murmured unintelligibly, which Jorka took to collectively mean 'yes'.  They were all looking at the walls, even the ceiling and floor, expecting enemies to start pouring in.  A full minute they waited, before Jorka piped up mischievously, “Oh, didn't we tell you who your opponents are?”  Half a hundred sizable rectangular slabs rose from the floor, and Jorka dived into the forest of stone.  A bullhorn sounded, and the battle began.  “Each other!  Have fun!”

Sinkhole prowled nervously and slowly through the sea of gray for the first half hour, the thick silence only broken by tap-taps of running feet, though not his.  Once he met Diittoo, who shrugged confusedly and stayed away from him.  Just as the second quarter horn sounded, Sinkhole caught sight of the gray-suited man disappearing around a block.  So, he thought, the 'gentlemen' are taking part.  He wandered to the northeastern section of the enormous arena, and walked more quickly now that there was no sound at all.  Twice he slammed his foot against a great block, but each was an immovable object.  However, he had a hunch that he could dent and perhaps even shatter it if he was powered up.  
As he examined a block, a scuffle sounded behind him.  He turned around, but there was nothing but block after block after block, as far as the eye could see.  Another scuffle startled him and he whirled around just in time to glimpse a yellow blur.  Sinkhole's dark brown eyes narrowed, and he scratched the band of stubble on his chin.  Two more noises and blurs he saw in rapid succession, and he became increasingly alarmed.  For a moment all was quiet, and Sinkhole began to think that his tormenter had left.

From behind every block near the redneck burst a dark-complexioned boy in a yellow hoodie.  Each a mirror image of the others, they all ran towards him.  Before he could react the clones were upon him.  They punched, kicked, headbutted, and more using a weird but elegant lurching style of fighting that Sinkhole had never seen.  A few held him securely, but every time they hit he soaked up a little power, and when he couldn't tolerate the beating anymore, it was released.  Energy rippled like a jagged torn net across his torso and shocked the Diittoo clones that clutched him.  He stood up and empowered his blows.  The first clone that came at him him managed to slip around Sinkhole's initial punch, but the second haymaker -on contact- converted all electrical damage to plain kinetic energy and sent the clone sailing through the air, eyes wide open.  “Yeah!  That's what yer gonna get!” Sinkhole bellowed, surprised and pleased with his own incredible -albeit augmented- strength. Two more attacked and were felled, one by a devastating kick and the other by the body of his fellow as it flew backwards.  Both had melted into spitballs before they hit the ground.  Another Diittoo dashed forward proceeded by a drunken flurry of punched and slaps.  Roughly half of them hit harmless or glanced off on Sinkhole's thick, tanned arms; the others stung but replenished his talent.  After a few more exchanges, Sinkhole knew for sure that this the real Diittoo.  His clones shouted encouragement and a few tried helping, but the clanmates were locked in too treacherous a battle.  Finally Sinkhole's hand rushed up to meet  Diittoo's throat.  Choking, the boy was heaved into the air and brought back down to ground with a crash, still gripped by the southerner's harsh hand.  Too pumped up to notice, he began to demand that Diittoo yield.  “Surren...!”

A whole pillar block cracked apart nearby and bulled through the air as would a freight train.  Surprised, Sinkhole lost his hold, and Diittoo jumped up to take advantage of his distraction.  Rather than be taken advantage of, the redneck released a burst of Hyper Gravitation that skidded him across the floor.  As he slid he caught sight of Rain, who had sent the slab of stock in motion with a handful of exploding knives.  He also saw Jorka press himself against the ground where Sinkhole had been milliseconds before toting his signature bladed handguns.  “Sneaky piece o' crap,” he muttered an instant before Diittoo's damaged form was hit dead on by the flying slab and Jorka (Who was Rain's intentional target) expertly slid under it, the rock inches from his placid face.  Everyone realized what had happened, but before they could cry out for Diittoo, the supposedly dying boy grinned and dissolved into a single brown hair, leaving everyone confused.

“Hah-hah-hah-hah!”  A droll voice chortled.  The true Diittoo stood up, brushing ash off his hoodie and receiving a shock for his troubles.  “You can never tell the real one when tangling with clones, can ya!   I learned that liddle trick from Mr. Green.”  Another horn sounded, signaling the end of the scenario.  A clapping became audible, and in unison the team looked up.  Suspended from an umbrella floating in midair by his feet hanging upside down, with a dignity that masked his ridiculous position, was the gray-suited man.  Jorka saw this, and laughed.  He strolled to Sinkhole and Diittoo and offered them his hands.  Bl.An.C., Fantom, and Hemorrhage showed up at the same time.  “Hah,” chuckled the half-demon as he helped the two floored Gladiators up, “welcome to the club.  The Rising Stars.”
Written by: Yours truly
Original publication date: 12/8/2011

The RHG Organization (Rock Hard Gladiator) was a website several years ago dedicated to Adobe Flash users who specialized in making amazing stick figure fights.  My younger self was infatuated with the myriad characters and incredible action, and when an opportunity arose for writers to do their own spin-off series, I jumped at the bit.  My character was Sinkhole, a rough-and-ready brawler from the American south.  Being familiar with my gallery, you might know him by another name--Locus.  The RHG series is the tale of Locus before the Writer's Ordeal, of his life in the grueling arena.  Consider it also to be a remnant of my past and an insight into an earlier era of writing for me.

And no, the Writer's Ordeal is not on hiatus.  Production takes some time now given my schedule.
© 2014 - 2024 MisterMiener
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