Free Renegade Rupture by J. C. Fiske

felt empty. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Poor me, poor little rich kid. So, I filled that emptiness by trying to make others feel just as empty as me. I picked on the less fortunate, bullied those unlike me, mostly because I wanted what they had: purpose and want.
    “And then, one day, well, this one day took several years in the making, I drove a kid too far . . . This boy, a boy just like me, he flung himself off of Ransom’s Point. His own father, a marine patrolman, found his son’s body mangled among the rocks. A closed casket funeral was held a few days later, one I didn’t even bother attending. You see, back then, I saw the world in black and white. You were either the best or the worst. Strong or weak. And if you couldn’t be the best, you were better off dead. That’s how I saw things, black and white. Little did I know, the next day, for the rest of my life, all I would see was black . . . a cruel irony.
    “Unlike me, that boy had friends. Heartbroken and beyond reason, these boys, one of whom was the son of the local surfboard crafter, cornered me. They brought me out back of the surf shop, beat me near death, poured all their hurt, all their frustration at the loss of their friend into their fists, then into me. I couldn’t believe the passion. With every strike, I felt their pain. They forced me to feel for the first time, and then, they forced me to see by taking my sight. They grabbed a pick from the furnace, used for branding the boards, and . . . well, I’m sure you can guess the rest.
    Gisbo was silent.
    “I don’t expect you to say I’m sorry, Gisbo. You don’t need to say anything. I am so thankful for those boys. I lost my sight and I never told anyone who did it to me. Those boys helped me to see, truly see, helped me realize a lesson I’ll never forget. What people portray themselves to be and what they are truly like inside are two different things. A kind word or a mean one can either steer someone into a brighter day or right into their last. Your eyes can deceive you, but your instincts and feelings never will, and instincts and feelings are all I have to go on now,” Whip said.
    “Whip . . .” Gisbo said.
    “Now you know my story, and because of what happened to me, the way I see the world changed. I feel it instead and continue to do all I can for people. That’s what being a Renegade is, being a neutral good that doesn’t play favorites. You simply do the right thing because you need to. No questions asked. Grey. And besides, I rather like how my senses have evolved. The past doesn’t haunt me; it raises me up, well away from where I used to be. And with that, we’re of age now. How about you buy me a beer?” Whip said.
    “Should you really be drinking when you should be preparing, Whip Miles?” a Strife asked, appearing at their table.
    “And who the hell are you?” Whip asked.
    “You’ll know my name soon enough. It’s a shame, really. I’ve already predicted that you and I will fight in the upcoming Naforian match. I know so much about you, just from listening to this conversation, and yet, you know nothing of me,” the Strife said. Gisbo looked at the Strife with a look of disgust.
    “How about you . . .” Gisbo started.
    “ . . . go suck something sharp? Really, I’ve never come across a brain so slow witted before. It took you a good fifteen seconds to come up with that one, and I finished it for you,” the Strife said.
    “How, how did you . . .” Gisbo started.
    “Know what you were going to say?” the Strife asked. “Simple. I’m a Psychic.”
    “Bull,” Gisbo said.
    “Right now you want to kill me. Such dark thoughts for not even knowing me.” the Strife said.
    “Take it easy, Gisbo. This guy’s full of it. I’d like to kill this guy myself,” Whip said.
    “Full of it? Fine, let me prove it to you, I . . .” the Strife said, suddenly pausing. “You, you truly believe that I’m a fake . . .”
    “Yup,” Whip