Niko felt out of place. It was a life he’d known well for a long time, since elementary school, but life had a way of unraveling on you. The ground could shift right when you needed it to be the most stable. Bay City was on a fault line. Earthquakes were common, and they never came at a good time. Everyone joked that Fort Tahoe would one day be oceanfront property. He never found the jokes very funny.
Teddy got pulled in to hear a pitch from a friend who had a new novel out, something about a team of Battle Artists fighting evil, not unlike superheroes, though to be honest, Niko liked superheroes more. Alien powers from cosmic rays or magical powers from mystical beings, hell, even vampires were preferable because it fed the fantasy of unlimited power.
For Battle Artists, the power was always limited, either by their physical bodies, called sharira, or their cores of energy, prana, the words taken from India.
Niko was left alone. He didn’t need to worry about Teddy. The guy would find him without a doubt. The pair were basically inseparable.
There was a massage booth with an empty table, candles, and some incense. It was shoved between a bookstore and an apothecary. He’d not focused on his prana in what? Five years?
It was late March, so it was a little less than five years. Niko went over. A thin woman with dreadlocks smiled at him. “I don’t need a massage. Can I just sit for a second? I need to cycle.”
Saying that word, “cycle,” brought back a world of emotions. Niko had to clear his throat.
The woman took it in stride. “Sure, guy. Take as long as you need.” She motioned to a colorful carpet three feet long and two feet wide.
He sat down cross-legged on the mat and got into position. He’d lost all his flexibility, so he couldn’t get his legs on top of his feet. He put his hands in his lap, his fingers on his left hand resting on the palm of his right. His thumbs were close to touching but he made sure they didn’t. That was part of the cycling process. He focused on his breathing and tried to clear his mind, but that wasn’t going to happen. His emotions bucked like a horse.
He thought of a high school teacher who had made his class read a section of The Pranad, based upon an ancient Hindu text called the Katha Upanishad. The sacred Battle Artist book said the body was like the chariot while the horses were the senses and the reins were the mind. The driver was the intellect. The master of the entire chariot was the piece of the divine inside him. Some called it the Self, but others called it prana.
He tried to keep his mind in the moment. He tried to do one round of the Duodecim, starting with the Sanguine Battle Sign, and he counted his breaths to twelve. He wasn’t even at six and his mind started to wander.
He wasn’t going to be able to cycle his prana like he had when he was fighting every weekend in the junior academic leagues. No, his core of energy was sluggish, partially frozen, and woefully out of shape. It was like when he’d first started, but even then, in first grade, at his local Arena, he’d had the excitement of youth, and dreams, such dreams. Life was a magical adventure where the Arts did seem like magic, and Artists were the greatest superheroes. They did important things in the anime he’d watched. It was all so exciting, and the promise was there, the promise as big as life itself.
The promise had ended with Taylor Sebastian, and his senior year in high school.
Niko knew he wasn’t going to be able to get around the memories, the regrets, the worst decisions of his life, and the worst nights. His concentration crumbled away as the emotions swept through him.
He stood up abruptly.
The woman with dreadlocks had a customer lying on her table, but she gave him a kind look. Her hands glowed a silver color, and that light leaked into the man through his clothes. She gave him a slight nod.
He nodded back.
Niko walked out of the stall. He wasn’t much to look at, a little under six feet tall, a strong if slightly soft fame, a normal twenty-three-old guy with dark hair and muddy green eyes. A light stubble shadowed his jawline, which wasn’t as strong as it used to be. Living and working near a noodle house gave him too easy access to too many carbs.
Yet, he knew that little bit of focus had woken up his core.
He drifted to a wall, leaned against it, and closed his eyes. Before the memories of Taylor had wiped away his concentration, he’d managed to get a little energy up into his fists and it was flowing through him, but it wasn’t the feeling of power, speed, and strength he’d known before. It was there, though. It was enough. He was limited to his First Study technique, his offensive ability. He’d take a couple on the chin, throw a nice series of punches, and then this Stan Howling would knock him down to the tiles.
Niko didn’t mind physical pain. It was better than emotional torture. He’d take a beating and then get on with his life. However, Maddy owed him big.
Teddy came over to Niko’s place on the wall and grabbed his shoulder. “Okay, Niko, I’ve been talking to people. Stan Howling isn’t that tough. I think you might be able to take him.”
Leave it to Teddy Martinez to complicate everything with his dumb, misplaced optimism.
Click here to continue reading Sages of the Underpass.
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