This section of my story finds Brandon headed home after his furlough. I offer a preemptive apology with regards to the length of this section as it's longer than my 500-word guideline I've been adhering to, but I hope you'll forgive me as you read the scene. We pick up the action, quite literally, courtesy of his brother John...
John started in on me immediately, while Dad looked on, intent on the dynamics of our maladjusted confrontation I figured. "Well, look who's here. Brandon Archer, ex-soldier," he said with a sneer, putting heavy emphasis on the 'ex.'
"All right, Brother. I'll play along. Why am I an 'ex-soldier'?" I asked, suspecting the answer. We were a few feet away from each other. I hung my head as if submitting to the taunting while shuffling my feet backward a half-step. Distance was key.
"Because only someone unfit for duty would give up their firearm," John delivered the punch line with obvious relish.
"Ah. Yes. I had a feeling that's where you were going," I mumbled, still shuffling my feet, digging my left foot into the crushed gravel. A good platform was crucial.
"'I had a feeling that was where you were going'," John mimicked my voice in a high, whiny pitch. "You're pathetic, Brandon, you always were." I bowed my head, still deeper, interlocking my fingers in acquiescence to his just proclamation. I sneaked a peek at Dad. He wasn't directly at me, but I caught his head move from right to left just the barest bit. But he said nothing. Surprise was critical.
"And the best part? You got beat by a Bandit half your size and surrendered without a fight!" John through back his head, eyes closed as he laughed, exulting in my humiliation.
Now. As soon as my mind thought it I was moving, pivoting on my left leg and throwing my right in a roundhouse kick aimed for the side of his head at the temple. Had I connected, I would have killed him. I had put all my rage into that kick and I knew it was one of the most lethal strikes I had ever attempted. It wasn't fast enough, however. John caught the movement from beneath his eyelids, and snapped his head back so that the toe of my boot brushed his chin. The force of the kick combined with my foot not hitting where I had planned brought my body around, but I was prepared for that as well, and saw John charge out of the corner of my eye.
I continued the spin, crouching slightly, and brought my interlocked hands up swiftly as my brother barreled into me, the uppercut solidly hitting him in the gut. I winced as I connected, John wasn't a field man anymore but he kept himself in great shape and his stomach muscles were still rock solid. I felt my a knuckle in my left hand break, which was excruciating as it sounds, but took grim satisfaction in hearing the breath leave John's body, the blow staggering him, throwing him off his rush. With whip-crack speed, I pivoted into his body and threw him over my shoulder. He landed on his back with a thud and groaned, struggling to get up like a turtle that had been flipped on its shell.
"You need to choose your words better, Brother. Seems I'm enough of a soldier to beat you, you fucking bastard!" I yelled at him. The speed of my attack had undone his strength, the range of my strike had negated his prowess for in-close work. He should have known better.
Then, right then, just as I thought the fight was mine, he got up. Ah, fuck. My older brother. Too dumb to know that he was defeated, but as I watched him rise slowly, knowing he was conducting a mental "systems" check of his body for injuries as he did so, a part of me wondered if he knew something I didn't. He looked at me, and the sneering, insulting older brother was gone. In his place was someone who wanted me fucking dead.
He leapt after me, and I turned and ran for the wall. I had one chance. I was quicker than him and faster, but his rage lent him wings. I could feel him gaining, hear the explosive grunts as he strained to reach me.
I made the wall. Instead of trying to climb it as I hoped he thought I was about to attempt, I jumped into the stone, coiling like a compressed steel spring, then exploded back toward John, pivoting to my right, my left foot coming around in a mirror image of my first kick. I was confident he hadn't expected the move, and maybe he hadn't. One minor problem made itself quickly and readily apparent, however. He was too close for my ranged attack. My leg landed ineffectively in his side, and he quickly clamped his right arm around it, pivoting while his left hand grabbed my shirt at the chest, driving me down at the grou-
Blackness.
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