The Tale of the Tape: Ch. 1

Thwaketa thwaketa thwaketa

Marcus’s eyes were locked on the speed bag as he continued to work it, the red-brown leather slapping against the nut-colored wooden circle above it.

Thwaketa thwaketa thwaketa

The speed bag took total concentration and coordination between mind and body. His fists were a blur as he struck the bag several times a second. If his focus lasped for a moment, the steady rhythm of the bag would falter.

Thwaketa thwaketa bumble

He grabbed the bag to steady it and cursed at himself.

“Damn. Damn. Get back into it, Marcus.” He looked at the speed bag again and prepared to restart. He knew, though, that his head wasn’t in the game. He instead looked at the heavy bag hanging from its three twisted chains. “There you go. That’s what I need.”

He worked the heavy bag, throwing punches and kicks with precision and power, sweat flying off his body with every impact.

The bag swung crazily as he kicked it. He should have had a trainer there, like Max, his usual corner man, but he was alone in the gym this late at night. Max would have steadied the bag after each kick. Marcus needed a steadying force in his life right now.

As the bag swung to and fro, Marcus launched punch after punch, his body pivoting to deliver maximum force to the blow. He lined up a kick, and as he did so, he imagined the face of a Skull gangbanger floating in front of him.

Thwack

He imagined a Hellion, armed with a baseball bat, menacing some passerby on the street.

Thwack

Then he saw

Slap.

He has struck the bag only a glancing blow…his concentration broken again.

“Damn fool. You’re a damn fool, Marcus.” He shook his head at himself and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face and head.

He had registered as a hero a few days ago, and had taken to the streets immediately. It wasn’t long before his official liaison in Galaxy City referred him to a street contact, and Marcus had not looked back since.

He had fought all manner of street gangs already, and even some of the lower level Council thugs.

But none of that was distracting him. He knew, better than most, the cost of distractions in combat. He needed to keep his eyes and mind on his opponent, searching for weaknesses in stance, tendencies, indicators of intention. He needed to know what his opponent was thinking. And to do that, he needed to be focused entirely on the fight.

“You’re kidding yourself, Marcus. You know you are,” he said aloud in the empty gym. He finished wiping down his head and draped the towel around his neck and shoulders. He started the painstaking process of unwrapping the tape from his hands.

In this moment, when his mind was only fractionally engaged in the task of unwrapping his hands, he allowed himself to think

Of her.

He had had a vision when they had first met: he had run into her on the steps of City Hall and they had exchanged pleasantries. It was in Marcus to leave her alone at that point, but he suddenly saw the alternative.

If he had left, she was going to look sad. He saw her face in the alternate future. And he hadn’t wanted that. So he stayed, and the two of them had run through the city, cleaning up the streets.

His gift did not extend far into the future though. He knew that. He could see clearly a few seconds, perhaps minutes, into the road not taken, but any farther than that and the view was as cloudy as it was to any person not so endowed. He could not have guessed what could have happened.

They had seen each other a few times since, and the last time, after clearing some more of the street scum off of Atlas Park, they had faced one another.

He remembered it. He would always remember it. He had had a vision of what would have happened had he done what he so waned to.

She would have been happy, and smiled, and been giddy and everything that went with it. And he would have been too. It would have been a perfect moment.

He could see the immediate future, but not the far one. And in the end, he had been scared.

There was no getting around certain facts. He was older than she…not by much, granted…three years…but at their ages, three years was a lifetime.

And of course, there was the same ugly spectre that rose up in his life when he least expected it. Marcus could no longer tell when the issue was a real one and when he was creating something out of nothing. He could not tell if the problem was one the world had or if it was just him.

Race.

He was black, and she was white.

People said it didn’t matter. People said love saw no color. People said that in this day and age, no one cared.

The people who said all of that were white.

Did that make them wrong?

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Vangarde and Saphire Celest, to their credit, had been nice to him. Two big-time heroes condescending to work with him and her. And Vangarde hadn’t looked disgusted or angry or fearful when he had seen Marcus with her. But it was still early.

He had finished unwrapping his hands a long time ago and was mildly surprised they had formed a tiny little bird-of-paradise origami creation out off the spare tape.

“Dammit.” He dropped the piece of art on the grimy gym floor.

He shouldn’t. He should just team up with her, make sure she was safe.

Like in the caves in the Hollows.

They had hugged afterwards, when the fear was gone and the tension released. He was sweaty and musky, but she was…sweet. That was the perfect word for her. Although she was sweating, too, she smelled of strawberries somehow. He had liked the feeling of holding her.

She had been paralyzed with fear seeing the bombs. And Marcus hadn’t been far behind. But being around her…made him brave. He didn’t want to look bad in her eyes. He was almost scared of what he might do because of her—he wanted her to think well of him. He wanted her to like him.

He wanted her…

“Damn.”