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Friday, August 9, 2019

F³ Constricted

I could’ve easily won by keeping my distance. Pyreans had nothing on Storm Riders when it came to fighting at a distance. Lightning would cross in an instant, too, no chance of dodging. But I wanted the close combat. I wanted to know how to hold my own up close, and without the home court advantage.
I pulled my board from around my back, and darted forward, looking a lot like the Silver Surfer from comics as I leaned in. Again, I avoided the lightning, not just because it felt like cheating, but because it tended to use a lot of my own energy. I could hold more wind than lightning, so I let the wind circle my fists in tight bands, weaving them into a pattern. It wasn’t solid, like my wall had been. This was something else.
Carl hadn’t been idle, though, getting airborne on his jets again. I didn’t see any kind of obvious attack, but I knew he had to have something ready.
My instinct said to make the first move, to blow him out of the sky and neutralize him before he could attack. I could probably do it, but that was Jack’s way. His words came to mind again from our training. “Hit first, hit hard, then hit the buffet.”

I didn’t.
Carl closed, then pulled out a blue hot sword out of nowhere. I had seen that sword before, saw it cut through an otherworldly thing like a laser through Jell-O.
Must’ve pissed him off. Probably not for hurting me, I hope. But it’ll cut through any kind of attack or defense I bring up. A sword of lightning would probably block it, but I don’t know how to make one, even after weeks of Jack trying to show me.
I pivoted on my board, feinting a dodge even as I lashed out with bands of wind. They snaked out instead of jetted, curling around unpredictably. He cut through two of them with a swipe of his sword, but two others reached him. Instead of hitting him like a blow, they coiled around, one around his sword arm, the other around his torso.
I poured more wind into those bands, taking them from thick rope to giant pool noodles wrapped tightly around him. His sword arm was completely immobilized, and I was squeezing the air from his torso.
“Point, Reilly.”

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