*newslog-electronic
newspaper*
“The
Harrowing”
It was the scariest moment of his life, and since then,
every moment attained that title.
Wildwing Featherburn remembered the moment vividly, nearly
five days later. He had been on the ice for practice with his school team, the
Icebreakers, and was eyeing the team's current top scorer. Canard Bronzeplume
burst pass the defense and glided in for a breakaway. Narrowing his eyes,
Wildwing scrutinized the left wing’s stance, as he done so many times prior in
their own driveways. Canard skated in perfect form, slapping the puck back and
forth with his stick blade.
A triple deke, the goalie thought fervently. He loves the triple deke. Canard used the maneuver way too often,
but many times, it was still effective with his one hundred mile per hour shot.
Low and behold, after three hits, Canard pulled back
only ten feet from the net, and Wildwing saw his opportunity. Diving on the ice
to poke check—
"WILDWING!"
The startling, terrified voice pervaded his conscious, and
he missed the puck by only a fraction of a millimeter. Knocking the puck away,
Canard skated past the fallen goalie and scored effortlessly.
"WHOOH!" His best friend hailed, receiving cheers
and applause from teammates, but Wildwing wasn't at all amused.
Sure, he had been scored upon before, and he didn't mind it
too much if it was justified. A good, well-placed slap shot—If
there was nothing he could do, then the scorer deserved the point. However, if
someone deliberately cheated him out of bragging rights against his best
friend, then he certainly wanted to speak with him/her.
As he begrudgingly lifting his head, all his venomous anger
evaporated at the tearstained and desperate face of Kallie LeVer. Her
pink-tinted black hair swung in front of her face as the eight-year-old doubled
over the boards and waved Wildwing frantically off the ice.
“Wildwing! You have to come! They’ve got Dive! They’ve got
him!”
Wildwing glided furiously to a stop in front of her. “Who’s
got Dive? What are you talking about?” he asked ardently.
She gripped his glove hand and tugged. “These guys! They
just came out of no where, and they grabbed him, and they wouldn’t let go, and
they shoved him in the car and—You have to come!”
“Where?” Canard demanded as he came up behind his best
friend.
“Outside! By the picnic table!”
Wildwing vaulted himself over the sideboards and followed
the younger female out of the arena. He stopped in front of the building, eyes
scanning anxiously for any sign of his baby brother. Next to him, Canard halted,
breathing raggedly.
An eerie silence greeted them, as the light wind tussled
their hair. The parking lot was empty besides a few older players’ and the
coaches’ cars, while the courtyard to the left, where Nosedive and his friends
usually waited for Wildwing after practice, was vacant—
—Except for the teal and gold varsity jacket thrown
carelessly across the picnic table.
Wildwing’s varsity jacket.
Nosedive had worn it from the first day Wildwing got it
nearly three years ago, and he never took it off during the ice season.
Never.
Wildwing switched to his normal clothes and dashed toward
the table, the footfalls of Canard and Kallie stomping behind him. Seizing the
jacket, he lifted it into the air. A baseball cap tumbled to the ground,
unbeknownst to Wildwing as he surveyed the coat. No markings. No evidence there
had been a struggle, save the slight tear of the wrist cuff.
The
jacket scrunched in his hands as a searing tore through his heart. His face
tensed, and he threw his jacket to the ground with a infuriated vigor.
“Who did this?” he besieged Kallie,
the timid girl sniffling and recoiling.
“I…I don’t know,” she squeaked.
“They’re not after him, Wildwing,” Canard pointed out.
Turning toward him, Wildwing took note of the hat and white
paper in his best friend’s hand. Canard handed him the slip of paper, and the
older brother inhaled a reinforcing breath.
“This is just a warning. Do what we want, and the kid will
be returned unharmed…mostly. Don’t listen, and—”
A lock of hair was taped directly underneath the line—a
blonde lock, about the size of Nosedive’s shoulder-length hair.
“—you’ll find more than this detached from your brother’s
body. We’ll be in touch.”
Wildwing shook his head in denial, before collapsing to the
bench. A cold, yet singing knot invaded his gut.
After calling the police and
confirming the hair was actually Nosedive’s, Wildwing and Canard searched for
the younger Featherburn, but to no avail. Wilder Featherburn worked closely
with the authorities, trying to pinpoint exactly who and why someone chose to
attack his younger son to get at the older one. The descriptions Kallie had
given were of no use. The kidnappers wore completely black pants and jackets
and were smart enough to wear masks. The description of the car, which was “red
and big,” was just as futile.
Two days later, Wildwing was
contacted. His father had forced him to go to school, despite the fact that
Wildwing couldn’t concentrate. It was better than staying home while Wilder and
the authorities waited for a call from the kidnappers, or so his father
conveyed. Wildwing wanted to be an integral part in finding his brother safe
and sound, and if that meant doing nothing but waiting, then so be it. However,
his father forbade it.
“It’s torture, Wildwing. Go to
school. I’ll call you if everything happens. I promise.”
Reluctantly and unwillingly,
Wildwing was pushed by his father and tugged by Canard out of the house.
Coming out of chemistry, Wildwing heaved an arduous sigh.
It was after fifth period Nosedive waited by his locker to get lunch money. He
and Canard devised the system after a few bullies had stolen Nosedive’s money
on the first day of school. It was a two-fold plan of intimidation. One, the
bullies couldn’t steal Nosedive’s money if he didn’t have any, and two, no one
would pick on him if he/she saw him with his seven-year-older brother. Of
course, Wildwing just told Nosedive he wanted to see him before lunch, so as
not to hurt his pride, and eager to please his older brother, Nosedive complied.
But the space in front of his locker was forsaken.
Wildwing held back the tears threatening to fall from his
eyes. Instead of dwelling on the absence, he just hurried up to his locker and
whipped it open. The faster he switched books, the faster he could get to the
next class, and the faster he could vacate the desolate place.
He reached for his literature book when his hand gripped
nothing but air. Pushing up on his tippy toes, he peered at the top shelf of
his locker and drew in a sharp gasp. He snatched the paper there, the same
off-white color as the note left in the courtyard. He unfolded it with shaky
hands.
“I love you, Wildwing.”
Doubtlessly, it was written in Nosedive’s handwriting.
His brother was still alive and at least capable of
writing.
Thank the Stars.
But they were
sending him a message. If he didn’t listen, his brother wouldn’t be alive to
love him.
But what did they want? He would willingly give them
anything.
His head abruptly snapped up. They had put it in his
locker. That meant they had been there! He scoured the hallway with his eyes,
but even if they were there, he would never know. With over five thousand
students in the school, it was miracle he could find his brother in the day.
He scowled and slammed shut his locker, taking out his
percolating frustration on the inanimate object.
The daystar rose and set another three times before he got
a call from Rhett. The star center had played for the Icebreakers before being
recruited by the Feather Singe of St. Canard’s Academy. Both Canard and
Wildwing were recruited as well, but opted to stay at their public school.
While Canard arguably stayed because Wildwing had, it was known Wildwing stayed
because the private school wasn’t willing admit Nosedive as well.
“I heard about Nosedive,” Rhett said bluntly.
“So, you can read a newslog,” Wildwing commented dryly.
“Look, if you just called to gloat about how distracted I’ll be for tomorrow’s
game, save it.”
“Wildwing,” Rhett paused for a moment. He took a deep
breath. “I—I think I know where your brother is.”
Wildwing started. He blinked blankly. He breath caught in
his throat. “W—What?” It couldn’t believe it. His brother… “How? Where?”
“…I heard a couple of guys talking in the locker room after
practice about how they finally have an ace-in-the-hole for winning tomorrow’s
game and how they got a kick out of making ‘the kid’ squirm when they played
with his hair.”
“Where is he, Rhett?” Wildwing demanded, his voice firm and
callous. His hand clenched the receiver, almost breaking it.
Now, nearly an hour later, Wildwing stood on one side of
the locker room door at St. Canard’s Academy, back pressed against the wall. He
wore a black pair of jeans and tee-shirt. His entire outfit faded into the
shadows of the darken hallway except his brightly colored varsity jacket. In
his hands, he clasped one of his brother’s sticks, since a goalie stick just
didn’t make a decent weapon. The stick protested with a strained whine as
Wildwing wrung it in anticipation.
Across the doorway stood Canard, wearing the exact same
outfit. He gripped his own hockey stick and took a deep breath.
“Wildwing?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe you should let me see the kid first,” his best
friend advised plaintively. “We don’t know what kind of shape he’ll be in.”
“Canard?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
Canard nodded. “Okay. Don’t shoot the massager.”
If only to himself, Wildwing admitted Canard was right.
They didn’t know what his brother would look like. He could be seriously
injured or beaten and…and…he didn’t want to think about it.
Instead, he took a deep, collecting breath. Glancing down
at his watch, he noticed enough time had passed.
Hold on, little
brother. I’m coming. Just hold on, okay? Please.
“Ready?” Wildwing asked with a dangerous edge in his voice.
Canard smirked. His eyes narrowed. “Definitely.”
With one nod, Wildwing kicked open the door and infiltrated
the locker room. Sitting on the wooden bench in front of the E.W.R., two St.
Canard players leapt to their feet, startled. Beaks agape at the sight of
Wildwing and Canard, they froze in shock. Wildwing took advantage of one
player’s wonderment. Simply swung, Wildwing’s stick collided with the
kidnapper’s head, rendering him unconscious.
The second player dove at Canard, to which the tan teenager
ducked the attack. Clipping the player by the ankle, Canard thrust upward and
unhinged him. The player crumbled to the floor, his twisted and possibly torn
ankle ligaments searing with pain.
Bending down, Canard punched him out cold.
“Hey,
Even before he could catch his breath, Wildwing lunged at
him. His stick horizontal, the older brother pressed it into the opposite
players’ chest and slammed him into the wall.
“Where’s the kid?” Wildwing seethed to the gasping and
cringing kidnapper. He noticed bitterly the opposite teenager was no older than
he. How could one that young even conspire such a devious act?
The player gasped for air, and Wildwing just forced his
stick further into the drake’s chest. “Not good enough. Where’s the kid?”
“…back…”
A little more pressure and a more abrasive tone. There was
no reason why he couldn’t cause the person who had caused him so much worry and
strife and possibly had hurt his little brother some suffering, too. “Back
where?”
With a bobbing head and fluttering eyes, the man was close
to oblivion. Wildwing needed to extract the information now.
“Where is he!” he demanded again, shaking the man
violently.
A breathless, rasping gasp was the reply, “…equipment *Gasp!* room…”
Wildwing dislodged his stick from the man’s chest and
wasn’t at all surprised when he sunk to the floor, comatose. Turning, he saw
Canard finishing typing up the second player.
“Go,” his best friend urged softly, so as not to alert any
other players who might have been wandering about. “I’ll restrain that guy,
too. Go find your brother.”
Nodding his appreciation, Wildwing crept out the back door
of the locker room and down the hallway. The corridor showed the school’s
age—concrete, drape, and even damp. The floors, too, seemed to be over two
hundred years old with a continual coating of some slippery, clear substance.
Dim lights that probably hadn’t been changed since the school’s opening still
remained, thus only providing enough light for Wildwing to see directly in
front of him. Pipes ran above his head, signaling that he was, in fact, in the
basement.
Turning a corner, he quickly ducked back into the previous
hallway. He positioned himself at the edge of the wall and peeked around.
Guarding a door with a fence as a cover and only a sheet of thick, ancient
plastic concealing the contents of the room were two more players. Wildwing was
familiar with both of them—defense Cheryl Vanderquack and Younger Tealfeather.
Great. Wildwing had hoped to get out of this without hitting a girl.
He inched around the edge of the hallway and kept close to
the wall to keep cloaked in the shadows.
“I still don’t see why we have to stand here,” Vanderquack
said, turning her back to Wildwing and raising her eyes to meet her
counterpart’s expression. “It’s not like the kid can escape. He’s pretty
secure. Striker’s just paranoid.”
So, McGander was behind all this. Why hadn’t he seen it
earlier? Captain Striker McGander—varsity since his first year at the academy
and all-time leading scorer for the district until Canard overtook the title.
The star center despised Wildwing and his best friend, as they knew well.
Striker made his discontentment known, spilling his negative comments in any
sports newslog that would print them.
Wildwing growled internally. Striker would get his due. Oh,
would he. Wildwing lost himself in thoughts of what he would do to Striker when he met him in a dark corner, but
quickly redirected his thought processes. First, he needed to get Nosedive out
of this basement of horrors, some place safe, and medical care if he needed it.
Then, he’d deal with Striker.
“Striker seems to think someone might try to rescue the
kid,” Tealfeather replied with a shrug.
“But no one knows where he is, and no one on the team would
squeal,” Vanderquack sighed. “You know, I have better things to do than baby
sit on a weekend night, you know?”
“No,” Wildwing claimed as he stood right behind her, “I
don’t.”
She gasped and twisted fast, punching out with her left
hand. Wildwing caught the hand and grasped her arm. Swinging her to the side,
he sent her into the wall before a fist connected with his face. Stunned, he
backpedaled and dropped his stick, but quickly intertwined his fingers together
to make a ball. Retaliating with an uppercut to the jaw, Wildwing watched
satisfied as Tealfeather stumbled backward. He delivered a second, unheeding
punch to Tealfeather’s face and smirked when the defenseman fell lifeless to
the floor.
“HE-YAH!”
Wildwing whirled, but it was too late to block the kick
aimed at his stomach. Shoved into the wall behind him, Wildwing growled and
lightly touched his injured area. His eyes slowly rose until he saw Vanderquack
rush to check him.
Wildwing’s eye narrowed viciously; it was piercing enough
to almost stop her in tracks. Still, she advanced, and instead of meeting her
half-way in the middle of the hallway, he waited. Being a goalie, Wildwing
learned timing and exact precision. When she came within two feet of him, he
dove out of the way. She smacked directly into the wall, her body stiffening
rigid. Then, after a moment of suspended time, she slithered to the floor.
So, technically, he didn’t “hit” a girl.
Wildwing didn’t follow the thought. He had more pressing
matters—his brother. Regarding the door, he huffed deeply, a nervous anxiety
ravaging his gut. Slowly, he took strides forward. Thousands of horrific images
reeled unbound in his mind. His brother hurt, bleeding, beaten, and only Stars
knew what else... He bent down and claimed the key hanging from Tealfeather’s
belt, then stuck it in the lock clasping the fence door to the wall. With a
click, the lock fell open, and Wildwing quickly pulled it off the metal hinge.
He braced himself for what he would find behind the door, taking a stabilizing
breath to gather all his strength.
Please be okay...
He swung open the door.
The equipment room was more like a closet, hardly big
enough to even fit the team’s gear. At the moment, a few sticks littered the left
wall, while a pile of pads dribbled from the shadows in the far left corner. A
single light illuminated the small room poorly and didn’t brighten the corners
where shadows swept obscurity. Where the light met the far right corner were
two little feet leading to ankles, which were bound by sports tape.
Squinting, Wildwing made out a hatchling, huddling in the
corner, pulling his knees up to his chest. His little arms were contorted
behind his back, probably restrained by tape as well. Body wracked with a
fearful trembling, the hatchling whimpered softly. He ducked his head, and
strands of blonde hair slipped out from underneath the backwards hat holding
the crown of his head snuggly. A rolled-up handkerchief covered his eyes, while
tape contoured the hatching’s beak, keeping him from letting out anything
louder than a whisper. He was dressed in a navy gym tee-shirt and pair of
shorts that bore the symbol of St. Canard’s hockey team, as did the hat, and
Wildwing realized bleakly how Nosedive always wore his brother’s team’s wear.
The St. Canard’s team must have entertained themselves by dressing the
hatchling in their gear.
Wildwing took a tentative step forward, only to observe
with a morose heart as Nosedive recoiled and pressed his body as far back as he
could against the wall. His shuddering only intensified.
Instead of making Nosedive suffer, Wildwing dashed to his
little brother’s side and knelt down before him. As reached for the boy’s arms,
Nosedive shunned away, screaming strangled sobs.
“Nosedive…It’s okay,” Wildwing soothed and instead decided
to untie the handkerchief first. As Nosedive blinked from the sudden in take of
light, no matter how little it was, and his screams silenced, Wildwing
discerned the black contusion circling his brother’s left eye. Its purplish
edges indicated its age, a few days or so, though the blood trickling from
Nosedive’s beak designated the hatchling had been hit recently as well.
Nosedive finally looked up at Wildwing, first cowering at
the massive shadow that draped him from his fifteen-year-old brother.
“It’s okay, baby bro,” Wildwing consoled, taking out a
knife from his pocket and cutting through the tape around Nosedive’s beak, his
arms, and legs. “I’m here now… Everything’s going to be all right. I’m here…”
Nosedive’s eyes widened; tears streamed down the
hatchling’s face. “Wildwing!” he shrilled and dove into his brother’s arms,
taking solace in the comfort they brought.
“It’s okay.” Wildwing rubbed his brother’s trembling back
warmly as gutted sobs choked from Nosedive’s beak. He closed his eyes, nuzzling
the boy’s cheek affectionately. He couldn’t bring himself to quiet his
brother’s weeping. “Everything’s okay now, Dive.”
“They said I wouldn’t see you again!” the eight-year-old
cried, burying his face in his brother’s chest. “They said I couldn’t go home!”
Pulling back slightly, Wildwing ducked his head to smile
into the boy’s glistening eyes. “Well, they lied, okay? I’m here now, and you are going home.” He ruffled the boy’s
head, despite the hat. “So, you can stop worrying.”
“But what if they—”
“We’re going to leave before they come back.” Scrutinizing
his brother, Wildwing tore the excess tape off Nosedive’s wrists and rubbed
them gently. The black contusion and the anxiety evident in his brother’s eyes
still unsettled him, and there was a bruise on Nosedive’s left knee, but
nothing too serious. However, the hand marks on his brother’s forearms
vehemently enraged his blood, but he couldn’t show Nosedive that. He had to be
strong for his little brother and if anything, calm. Watching Nosedive’s beak chattering and the crossed arms,
Wildwing noticed his brother was scared. Well, that, and if the clouds of
breath in front of his beak were any indication—cold.
Wildwing smiled fondly and took off his varsity jacket,
rightfully placing it upon his brother’s shoulders. The jacket was easily three
sizes bigger than Nosedive’s size, and it dangled just above his knees.
Massaging the hatchling’s arms up and down to get warmth back in them, the
older brother winked at the boy.
“Thanks, Wing,” Nosedive peeped, a small smile upon his
beak.
Standing up, Wildwing heaved his brother to his feet then
looked about the room. No shoes, huh? Well, he certainly couldn’t give his
little brother his. They wouldn’t fit him. “Well, kiddo, it looks like you’re
going to have to do this barefooted.”
Wildwing’s smile faded suddenly as footsteps sounded from
outside the door. He tugged his little brother behind him. Nosedive peeked from
behind Wildwing’s waist when the door creaked open.
Wildwing stared down the person standing at the door before
letting out a relieved sigh. “Stars, Canard.” He shook his head and beckoned
his best friend inside. “Next time, give me a warning, huh?”
“Canard!” Nosedive shouted with childish glee. He smiled at
the older mallard, whose own grin darkened at the sight of the blood and black
eye.
“Whoa, kid. What happened to you?”
Nosedive deflated, at which Wildwing placed a hand on his
shoulder and summoned the boy close to him. It was more for his own comfort, feeling
his brother’s presence against him, than for Nosedive’s. “How’d you find your
way?”
“I just followed the unconscious St. Canard players,”
Canard chuckled, then reached behind his back and under his jacket. “You know,
kid, you can’t wear St. Canard gear. It’s just not right.” Tossing the boy’s
current hat to the side, he jerked out of the back of jeans the same hat
Nosedive had lost when he was kidnapped, a hatchling day present from older
mallard only the year prior.
He tugged it backwards onto the kid’s head, which gained
the desired effect—a genuine smile. He nicked the boy under the chin. “See? You
all ready look better.”
“So.” Wildwing patted Nosedive’s shoulder. “We have to get
out of here before these people wake up. You up for it, kiddo?”
Nosedive gave him a weak, timid nod. It wasn’t what
Wildwing had wanted, since his brother seemed to always be rambunctious, but it
was something.
Wildwing went first, followed by Nosedive, then Canard.
Peering around the door, Wildwing kept one hand on his brother’s shoulder just
to feel him. He was not letting the kid out of earshot until he was twenty. If then.
When all he saw was unconscious players, he motioned for
them to continue. They headed toward to
the hallway where they were to turn for the locker room when Wildwing heard,
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE HERE?”
“Striker’s back,” Wildwing alerted curtly. They hadn’t much
time. “We need a new route. Come on.” He rushed pass the hallway juncture, and
instead of turning, ran straight, holding Nosedive’s hand, Canard on his heels.
When no one yelled, he figured they were clean, yet he kept
running anyway. The farther ahead they kept, the better chance they had of
escaping.
The hallway led to stairs. They inched through the door,
and Canard shut it quietly. Dashing up two flights of stairs, they burst
through another door. A darkened hallway greeted them, and Wildwing hastily
chose left and just as quickly regretted it. A four-way corridor junction was
up ahead, and he hadn’t the faintest idea of which one to take. Halting in the
middle of it, he looked down each one of them. They were all identical:
lockers, rooms, various papers littering the floor.
“Any ideas, Canard?” Wildwing pressed.
“Uh…not at the moment. Get a few seconds.”
“Who planned this rescue mission?” Nosedive asked
pointedly, at which Wildwing just shook his head.
*Slam*
The door—the door to the stairs just slammed shut.
Wildwing’s body flooded with horrified realization. They forgot to close it
carefully!
“Pick one, Canard!” Wildwing ordered, as muffled shouts
sounded from the stairwell. The
They were coming.
Nosedive whined and moved closer to Wildwing.
The door flew open—
“CANARD!”
“This one!”
Wildwing shot down the one indicated. Nosedive ran next to
him, but not nearly as fast with his bare feet. Clutching his little brother by
the waist, Wildwing heaved the hatchling off the ground. His little brother
yelped, but didn’t protest as he was carried down the hallway. Threatening
shouts resounded in their ears from behind, causing Nosedive to shiver.
Wildwing just pumped his legs harder. They would not take his brother away from
him again. He wouldn’t allow them to.
Coming to another crossway, Wildwing
didn’t ask Canard’s opinion this time. He took the left corridor and sprinted
at full speed. He smiled a breathless grin at the sight of the doors to the
outside. They were almost there! He gripped his little brother tighter and
pressed it on—then skidded to a stop.
He blinked, took a double take, and
pivoted to back track. He took less than ten steps before the group chasing
them came around the corner. He glanced once more over his shoulder, and the
confirmation demoralized him. They were surrounded.
“Wildwing Featherburn. Can’t say I’m
surprised,” a silver mallard with glistening white hair spoke as the group in
front of him neared.
“I can say the same thing, Striker,”
Wildwing retorted, huffing. He dropped his brother’s feet on the ground and
gently eased him onto the cold floor. Canard closed the gap in between him and
Wildwing so as to protect Nosedive.
“This was foolish. You know that,”
Striker McGander replied, stopping just in front of Wildwing.
The older brother peered with his
peripheral vision. A circle of St. Canard players stood about them, and more
than one of them had bruises and expressions of pain. “What do you want, Striker? Why did you kidnap my
brother?” Wildwing demanded.
“Can you really be that dense?” The
captain laughed derisively. “Come on, Wildwing. Think.”
“Can you be that desperate?” Canard retorted. “You stole
the kid to make sure you won tomorrow’s game?”
“Three years!” Striker claimed
madly, pointing at Wildwing. “Three years he’s been on the team, and we haven’t
one once! Prior to that,
“So you kidnap my brother!” Wildwing hollered. “That’s
absurd! You train hard; you play hard. You make our own luck, Striker. You
should know that better than anyone.”
“We’ve tried! We tried for three years, but to no avail!
I’m sick of working my tail off and getting it kicked every year!”
“This all for your hurt pride?”
“It goes beyond that! I have scholarships to keep and
secondary schools that won’t admit me because these losses show ‘a lack of
willingness to improve,’ ” Striker reiterated what sounded like a rejection
letter. “So,” he continued in a softer, more sinister tone, “we had to result
to other methods to get the two points.”
Wildwing shook his head. The logic in his words…it was
insane. Meeting Striker’s gaze, Wildwing was disturbed by the frantic,
ricocheting eyes, the burning hatred flaming in them. Suddenly, he was so
relieved Rhett had called him. He truly didn’t think his brother would have
lived after the game if the Icebreakers had won.
“Striker,” Wildwing started in a strained voice, “let us
go, and I promise you the Feather Singe will win tomorrow.”
“Oh, no…oh, no, no, no, my fellow captain,” the older duck
purred, and Wildwing felt his little brother tense next to him. Obviously,
Striker had used that tone with the hatchling. “You don’t make demands of me.”
“I’m not demanding anything. I’m making you a deal.”
“Well, to be quite frank with you,
Wildwing,” Striker leaned close to the older brother, a sadistic smirk firm upon
his face, “I don’t trust you. Now,” he sauntered about the trio of ducks and
stroked the tips of Nosedive’s hair. When Nosedive let out a tiny cry, Wildwing
immediately placed himself in between Striker and his brother. Striker’s smirk
demonized. “You have two choices, Wildwing. You can keep your brother, try to
leave here, and get your tail kicked first, then again tomorrow, but you have
to realize that there’re twelve of us. That means between you and Canard, it’s
six-against-one. Not good odds, and you’ll have to protect your brother on top
of that. If you’re as smart as I think you are, then you know that’s
impossible. The kid will be hurt far worse than, say, you were to hand him back
over.”
Nosedive gasped horrified, and while
Wildwing opened his beak, it was Canard who seethed, “You’re dreaming,
Striker.”
“Am I, because I see no other way
for you to leave here.” He bent over to be at Nosedive’s eye level and furled a
beckoning finger. “Come ‘re, kid.”
Ducking behind his brother, Nosedive
wrapped his tiny arms around Wildwing’s waist. He hid his face in the small of
Wildwing’s back.
Wildwing smiled fondly for a brief
moment, only grunting lowly at the force at which his brother held. He patted
his brother’s knotted hands, then reached back to put a comforting hand on
Nosedive’s head. He stroked the hatchling’s crown in a solacing manner, gazing
back with affectionate trepidation.
“I knew you were dirty, Striker, but
never did I ever think you would stoop to this level,” Wildwing murmured brokenly.
“Sometimes you have to do what you
have to, to win.”
“And there are some lines that
should never be crossed,” Wildwing pierced. “Are you going to do this to every
team you can’t beat? Kidnap one of their siblings?”
Striker shrugged indifferently. “You
just never know. Now, make your decision.”
Wildwing glowered furiously at
Striker, his intense revulsion radiating from his eyes. Then, he closed them,
reveling in Nosedive’s grip about his waist. He didn’t want to do what he had
to. There had to be another way. He couldn’t give his brother to the Feather
Singe. His brother’s life was too precious to be in the hands of immoral,
crazed St. Canard players.
But in the end, he had no choice. As
much as he hated to admit it, Striker was right. Nosedive would be hurt if they
fought with him present.
Dreading the reaction, Wildwing
patted his brother’s hands. “Come on, baby bro. Let go,” he soothed. “I need to
talk to you.”
Wildwing felt his brother shake his
head “no” against his back.
“Dive, I don’t want to do this, but I don’t have a choice,
okay? So, please. Work with me here.” He tugged on his brother’s grip, but it
just tightened—painfully so. Gritting his teeth, Wildwing forced a calm voice.
“Nosedive, come on…please. You know
this is isn’t easy for me, either, but…you trust me, right?” His voice
faltered, his own tears trickling from his eyes. He wanted to be strong for his
brother, but he was scared. He didn’t want to lose Nosedive. “If you trust me,
let go…”
His shirt suddenly became saturated
at his back, and the grip contorting his waist slackened. Wildwing turned and
knelt in front of his baby brother, his heart tearing at the sight of the tears
streaming down the boy’s pouting face.
“You can’t leave with them,
Wildwing!” Nosedive shouted desperately. “You can’t! They shoved me in a trunk,
and they tied me up and touched my hair and put me these clothes on me, and
they showed me to all their girlfriends and—”
“Hey,” Wildwing grabbed his little
brother by the waist and shook him warmly, “come on. You know I wouldn’t put
you in danger, right?”
“But Wildwing—”
“Then I’m not. Everything’s okay,
all right?” He ignored the tears coursing his face and wiped his brother’s
sniffling nose holes with his long-sleeved tee-shirt. “You just have to go with
these guys for a few moments, but before you know it, you’ll be with me again.
Okay?”
Nosedive shook his head ‘no,’ and a
baby’s frown darkened his usually bright face.
“I know this is hard and scary,”
Wildwing divulged with a shaky voice, leaning over and nuzzling his brother’s
cheek. “I’m scared, too. I don’t want to leave with these guys…” He paused,
dreading the logic that cursed he and his brother. He didn’t want to do this;
he didn’t trust Striker one iota. If Striker thought he could kill Nosedive and
get away with it, Wildwing didn’t doubt he would. “But trust me, okay?
Everything is all right, baby bro. I promise you.”
Nosedive vaulted into his brother’s
arms, his tiny body practically fitting in his brother’s crouching one. “I
don’t want you to go!”
“I don’t want to go, either,”
Wildwing eased, one hand tightly wrapped about the boy’s back, the other
cradling his head. “But sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to.”
Wildwing just held his brother, not
wanting to let go. If he could just hold on forever, maybe they wouldn’t have
to part. But it wasn’t to be. Suddenly, Wildwing felt a shift of the air around
him and opened his eyes. A hand was on his brother’s shoulder. As soon as the
thought was processed, Nosedive was torn from his grasp and heaved into
Striker’s arms.
“WILDWING!”
the hatchling squealed and reached frantically for his brother. Wildwing fought
the urge to reach for his brother, and all he could do was watch as Nosedive
was handed to another St. Canard’s player and carried down the hall, despite
his violent thrashing. Another player accompanied the two as they moved farther
and farther away, the tormenting screams of his brother resounding horridly in
his ears.
“LET ME GO! WILDWING! WILDWING!”
To this day, the older brother still
heard them when he slept.
!!!
The hatchling laid limp in the
player’s arms, his sobbing softening to mere sniffles. After being ripped from
his brother’s arms and lugged half-way around the school, Nosedive gradually
calmed to catatonic. Of course, the smack to the head helped in that sense,
too, but the sheer backlash of his separation from his brother caused his mind
to just shut down.
“Eh, listen to him now,” one of the
players, an older female with blue hair, said. “Not much without his brother,
is he?”
The honey-haired male chortled.
“Geez, tell me about it. You’re the one who had to fight with him.” He pressed
his back against the door and pushed, walking outside the school.
“Where should we take him?”
“I dunno. Striker’s house, I guess.
He’ll know what to do with him.”
A red SUV’s headlights blinked to life and the trunk opened
as the female held out her remote key. As the neared the trunk, unlike last
time, the boy didn’t fight.
“You know, that was easier than I thought it would be,” the
male commented casually.
“Well, it’s about to get a whole lot
tougher,” a raucous voice warned behind them.
The two whirled, wide-eyed, to see a
wall of dark shadows. One slammed shut the door to the school, its clatter
reverberating throughout the silent parking lot—an unspoken threat.
The two St. Canard players quivered.
!!!
As soon as the player carrying his
hysterical brother rounded the bend, Wildwing lunged at Striker, catching the
sadist off guard. He wrapped his arms around the older drake’s waist and
dragged him to the floor. As the drake finally caught his bearings, Striker
struck out with a fist, knocking Wildwing off of him. Two pairs of strong hands
contorted about Wildwing’s arms and dragged him to his feet, but the enraged
white mallard elbowed one in the stomach before kicking the other in the gut.
Then, with one tornado kick to their beaks, Wildwing sent the men to the floor,
unconscious.
He whirled and growled as the female
from before, Vanderquack, dove for him, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. He
sidestepped, then retaliated with a backhand to the face. She crumpled to the
ground, as another drake attacked Wildwing. He dodged the punch, turned
sharply, and threw an uppercut. Kicking him to the ground and into the unconscious
Vanderquack, Wildwing laid his hard eyes on Striker.
The older captain wiped his beak and
narrowed his eyes. He smirked wildly, then with a roaring growl, charged at
Wildwing. The white mallard caught Striker’s fist, then reacted with a punch to
the face. Striker stumbled backwards, but quickly kicked, hitting Wildwing
directly in the stomach. Grunting as he hit the floor, Wildwing rolled to his
feet, then ducked Striker’s backhand. Gathering all his strength, he rammed
Striker in the gut and forcibly pushed his back against the wall. His elbow
pressed into the captain’s neck.
“Let me give you some advice,”
Wildwing seethed with rage. His teeth clenched, and blood trickled from the
side of his beak. His body shook furiously.
Striker gagged from lack of air and
clawed at Wildwing’s arm for a reprieve.
Wildwing increased the pressure
slightly, gaining a gasp from his victim.
“Stay away from my brother. If I
even get a feeling you’re thinking about him, I will destroy you,” Wildwing vowed unrelentingly.
Striker managed a breathless
chuckle. “…Can’t…touch…me…”
Wildwing smirked and twisted his elbow. Wincing painfully,
Striker begged through shallow gasps for life-sustaining oxygen to no avail.
“Striker, I could damn you right
here and right now, but I know that won’t be a fair trade off for what you’ve
done to my brother. Instead, I’m going to use divine justice. Do you know what
that is?”
A gurgling gag was Striker’s
response, and his face flushed a deep crimson, bordering on violet as air
stagnated in his lungs. He squirmed to get out of Wildwing’s grasp, like
Nosedive must had done prior in Striker’s grip, and Wildwing felt his brother
was slightly vindicated.
“The punishment fits the crime. I
should go to the police and make you pay legally for what you’ve done,”
Wildwing growled, but then his voice lightened. “If the court systems did
convict you, you’ll go to jail, then be out in a few years and go on with life
like you did nothing. That’s too good for you. Tomorrow, Striker, I will end
your future. Kiss those secondary schools and your scholarships good-bye.”
Striker positioned his hands on
Wildwing’s arm and with an forceful thrust, pushed Wildwing’s elbow from his
neck. Huffing, hunching over, his eyes limply open, Striker rubbed his injured
area and pierced Wildwing with a vicious glower.
“How?” Striker rasped. “In case
you’ve forgotten, I have still have your brother.”
“Think so?” Wildwing gestured about the unconscious bodies
about him with a grin. “I see twelve of your players and two of ours. Don’t you
know, Striker? Defense wins games. Where do you think mine is?”
Striker’s shocked and languid face expressed his
comprehension. Slowly, it hardened unkindly. “You win, and I will hunt your
brother. Leave him alone for a second, and you’ll never see him again. No jury
will convict me. My father—”
Wildwing simply reached into his
pocket, and Striker’s eyes widened at the sight of the tape recorder. After
Wildwing hit a button, the sound of a tape rewinding cut through the air.
*Click!*
“—I will hunt your brother. Leave
him alone—”
“You want to go farther back?”
Wildwing taunted, then hit the button again.
*Click!*
“—The kid will be hurt would be far
worse than, say, you were to hand him back over—”
Wildwing switched off the recorder.
“With evidence like this, even your judge father couldn’t get you off. Go after
my brother, Striker, and I promise you I will bury you—literarily.” His voice was raucous, unforgiving, as were his hard
eyes. They conveyed the stark veracity of his threat.
The fellow captain stared bitterly at him, and
in his eyes, Wildwing could see the myriad of evil possessed there.
“Face
it, Striker,” Wildwing grated. “You’ve lost.”
Gradually, the evil faded into despair, as the malevolent
teen ascertained the truth.
Turning his back, Wildwing smiled at Canard, who stood tall
in the midst of unconscious St. Canard players. “Ready to leave this dump
pile?”
“More than ready,” Canard grinned
and turned to Striker, who slouched against the wall behind him, holding his
throat. He was utterly broken. Canard smirked. “You might want to put ice on
that.”
Treading determinedly down the
hallway, neither Wildwing nor Canard looked back.
!!!
No words were exchanged. None were
needed. The ride to the middle of the Capital Metropolis was conducted in a
comfortable silence, even though both mallards were still tense. Wildwing
watched the road intently, while Canard simply gripped the side bar of the
jeep.
Albeit still two months before his
driver’s exam, Wildwing maneuvered the wheel of his jeep (or soon to be his jeep) and turned on to
Pressing the break, Wildwing parked his jeep behind the black sports car and an electric blue SUV in front of the store front. He slammed shut the door and allowed his memory to guide him—by the back of Mr. Duckese’s, through the slice in the metal fence, pass the loading dock, and turn—their secret place.
He froze, his trembling eyes poring over the twelve or so teenagers, some older, some younger than he, standing there. He beseeched them silently for one hatchling in particular in the wave of black tee-shirts and jeans, save the teal and gold varsity jackets. Including a little eight-year-old safely tucked in the middle of the crowd.
His little brother.
“WILDWING!” Nosedive weaved through the forest of legs and dove into his older brother’s welcoming arms as Wildwing knelt to the ice.
“Oh, Stars, you’re okay,” the older brother murmured as he stroked Nosedive’s head, despite the hat, and held his brother close. He simply melted in his little brother’s embrace, wallowing the feeling of his warmth, the strands of blonde hair that whisked across his beak, and the feeling of the hatchling’s feathers when they brushed his hands.
He didn’t suppress the tears coursing his cheeks nor the shuddering of relief washing over him. Pulling back slightly, despite the fact of never wanting to for the rest of his life, Wildwing bent his head to peer into his brother’s eyes.
“Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you or anything, because if they did—”
Nosedive smiled tentatively. “I’m okay, Wildwing.”
“Are you sure?” Wildwing pressed, noticing his brother’s hesitation and the way his cheeks blushed. He pushed back the bangs that had worked themselves free from the hat, his eyes landing pointedly upon the hatchling’s black eye. “You were hit. Did they do anything else? Did they beat you everyday? Was this just when they took you? Where were—”
“Wildwing,” Nosedive whined and tugged away from his older brother’s grip on his bangs. “I’m fine!”
Sighing, Wildwing took a more serious tone. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered brokenly. “I didn’t want to leave you with them. I just didn’t see another choice, and I had the team outside just in—mphm…”
He was silenced when his younger brother grabbed his beak, much like the older brother had done to Nosedive numerous times.
Still held in Wildwing’s arms, Nosedive smirked. “It’s okay, big bro. I’m here now. Everything’s okay.”
Wildwing smirked at his earlier words, then pulled his brother into a hug once more. “Thank the Stars.” He didn’t know so much relief could be expelled from one phrase.
Wildwing allowed himself a few moments to collect his bearings, holding tightly to his little brother who didn’t wiggle in his grip at all. He, too, simply wanted to remain safe in his brother’s embrace.
Finally, Wildwing nuzzled his brother’s brow and smiled when he felt Nosedive’s small beak against his cheek. In one swift moment, he stood and took his brother with him, cupping the hatchling’s tail safely in his arms. His grin widened when his brother wrapped his arms about his neck.
Regarded his best friend and his teammates, he said, “Thank you…for you all did.”
“Hey, no one messes with our good luck charm,” the gray-feathered center named Halo replied sharply. He slapped Nosedive high-five.
“So, now what, Caps?” A female with long red hair inquired.
Wildwing looked to Canard. They chorused venomously, “Revenge.”
!!!
Wildwing remained stoic as the captain of the other team, McGander, was once more checked into the boards. He crashed to the ice and for a matter of moments, laid unmoving. After enough recuperation and another goal for his team, Striker finally lugged himself to his skates. Blood trickled from a forehead wound he acquired in the first period. Its stitches obviously ripped for the third time in the game.
Wildwing’s eyesight wandered to the stands, where his father sat, Nosedive held protectively on his lap. Next to them sat a few of Wildwing’s friends off the school team, all of them watching out for his brother’s safety.
As another goal was scored, Canard’s fourth of the game, Wildwing smirked. His best friend skated all the way back to him and slapped his pads with his stick. They turned collectively to see Striker as the horn signaled for the end of the game.
The opposite captain scowled at them, a deadly look in his eyes. However, it was quickly redirected to the coach of St. Canard as the older female began to berate Striker for his performance. Threats of his scholarship were made, and when he snapped at the coach, she simply stood back, then threw him off the team.
Canard smirked at Wildwing, then hit the goalie’s pads again before skating off the ice.
Wildwing looked back up the scoreboard.
Justice was served, and not just to Striker, but the entire St. Canard team.
The Feather Singe lost nine-nothing.
The End