Baroque · Stories
Foolish Old Man
Runox’s backstory. A young man who cannot tame a Tarkan confronts his father about being a body with no use for itself.
3/25/26 1940
The fire pit crackles between them. Runox sits across from his father at the worn wooden table, eyes lowered. His mother stirs the pot at the hearth without turning, the curve of her back a quiet third presence in the hut.
"These animals . . . they don't take me seriously, father. I train the same way as them — THE SAME exact way. Why can I not tame a Tarkan? The worst part is seeing all the other men tame theirs while I get left behind. I am behind, and the worst part is — I frankly don't care to tame a Tarkan. I am nothing in this society. A body with no use for itself," the despondent man says, finally lifting his gaze into the eyes of his father — predator's eyes, the eyes of a hunter.
"WHAT DO YOU EXPECT, BOY! You have been given the blessing of the Luxian body and still cannot match your peers. On top of that, you DON'T CARE?! What will you do with your life, Runox?" his father groans, voice raspy and low. His hand rests flat on the table. The wood beneath his palm creaks — just once.
"I DON'T CARE BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO FALL INTO THIS LOOP THAT ALL OF YOU FALL INTO! Is this not a boring way to live? Do you not find this all meaningless? There is an entire world out there and we, as an empire, sit cradled in our little island. WHY DO WE EVEN TAME THE TARKAN IF WE DON'T FLY OUT?! Virethorian life is SUFFOCATING."
The mother's spoon pauses in the pot. Just for a moment. Then it stirs on.
Runox swallows the unspoken truth — that he has a natural edge over the rest of the empire, yet he cannot climb the same as them.
"It is YOU who will suffocate yourself, boy, in your inability to act. You will DROWN in inaction. You have the potential to be the most ruthless soldier in this empire with that gifted body. You simply do not use it, and that is of your own choosing. And why is that, you say?"
"It's because I do not care to, father. Why must I?"
"SO then — what do you care about?" His father focuses his pupils on Runox's.
Runox's face drains of life. He grumbles, "I want to annihilate the cult of All Father in The Luxian Empire."
Runox has thought of leaving before. He is burdened, however, by the fact that these people raised him. He feels he owes them.
"Childish FANTASIES. You cannot even beat your peers or tame a Tarkan — what makes you think YOU ARE SURVIVING ONE SECOND IN THE LUXIAN EMPIRE?! YOU have not even discovered your Power Core." His father leans his weight on the table. The wood groans. The legs sink an inch into the swamp wood floor. He does not seem to notice. The fire pops. "Boy . . . the truth is, I have no will to exert on you. I just want to see you become ruthless. I want you to be so free you can move the Earth."
Runox hesitates. He is conflicted. In an immature attempt to stay defensive, he exclaims, "I deserve to see my homeland!"
"We will not be taking you to the Hell Above — The Luxian Empire," his father closes the conversation. "You . . . are hopeless, boy. Leave my sight."
Runox stands. He glances at his mother. She does not turn from the pot, but her hand has gone still. He lowers his eyes again and walks out.
Runox steps into the wet Virethorian night, a boiling conflict he has never touched before churning in his chest. The air hangs thick and green-tinged, heavy with the Plagued Zone's damp; moss drips from the swamp wood overhead, and the dark canopy swallows what little sky there is. Dawn approaches. The Virethorian Guards trickle out for their defense shifts — fewer than usual. A garrison was sent into the deep swamp last night to chase a Luxian probe, and the Hangar has been left short.
He stops beneath a marsh-rotted, dilapidated ancient tree near the swamp he fell into when the Luxians cast him out. A seed plants itself in his head. He takes a peek at the Hangar.
I can do both. I can pursue my will and satisfy my mother and father. I just need to take out the cult of All Father.
Runox walks to the Tarkan Hangar gates with a cold gaze. He is a whisper in the night, and each step exudes relentless power. The Virethorian Guards turn their eyes to the approaching terror. They ready their spears; their thorn-spiked armor and helmets bristle, defying any force. Runox does not slow.
One guard fixes him with the gaze of death. He is not respected in this empire as a Luxian. The guard will pierce right through him given even little justification.
The first guard thrusts his spear at Runox's head, unleashing a barbaric cry. Runox pivots to the left while grabbing the shaft with his left hand. He yanks — closing the distance in a single, brutal pull — and drives every ounce of his weight into a right cross through the gaps in the thorned armor. His fist crunches into the guard's nose. The helmet cracks. Runox's knuckles split open against the thorns. The guard collapses into the wet swamp wood underfoot.
The second guard lunges.
Runox glances down at his hand —
The blood is not running.
It has hardened. Dark red, glassy, crusted around his knuckles like a second skin. He stares at it for half a heartbeat. What — ?
The second guard tackles him to the ground. Thorns sink into his chest, his shoulders, his ribs. Runox braces the fall with his right arm —
The hardened blood cracks.
A devastating explosion erupts around his hand. The blast rolls harmlessly across his own skin — somehow — and snaps his elbow upward like a piston, launching into the guard's face at an insanely fast speed. The skull caves in. Wet matter sprays the swamp wood walls.
Somewhere deeper in the Hangar, a caged Tarkan snorts awake. Another roars in answer. The smell of dung and damp feathers thickens the air. Lanterns sway on their iron hooks.
The third guard — the one with the horn — flinches at the blast and looks down at the body.
"WHAT THE FUCK?! WHERE DID HE GO?!"
Runox is gone.
The guard raises the horn again. Faster this time. Runox swipes at the horn from behind and it falls. By now the neighboring villages are alerted; lanterns flicker awake in the dark.
The guard and Runox engage in hand-to-hand combat. Runox throws a right cross — parried. A left hook — slipped. They trade blows in tight quarters, each strike echoing off the swamp wood walls. The caged Tarkans pace and snarl behind them. Runox dashes in and slams the side of his body against the guard, pinning him to the wall. He follows with a flurry of chops — knife edge, elbow, knife edge, elbow. The guard finds an opening, grabs Runox's neck fast, and slams him to the ground. Runox squeezes his arm. The guard grins, all teeth, and squeezes harder, sinking the thorns into Runox's neck.
Then Runox remembers.
He sees it — more hardened blood, crusted on the guard's hand from the choking.
He smashes it with all his might.
The hand explodes. Blood and bone gush out as the guard lets out a painful cry.
Runox gets up hastily and sweeps the guard's leg. As the guard falls, Runox drives the man's head into the ground with the full force of the descent. A sickening crack.
He needs to be as quick as possible. He punches the Hangar lock. The hardened blood cracks once again — a localized explosion — and the lock blows clean off.
"This is where it works." Runox is filled with unwavering determination.
He locates a Tarkan in the nearest cage. The beast is massive — saddle-broken but not friendly. It eyes him sidelong with one wet, intelligent eye, snorts a steaming breath into the cold damp, and bares its teeth. Runox steps closer. The Tarkan jerks against its tether. He places his bloodied hand against its flank and holds it there. The beast stills. They understand each other in the way prey understands fellow prey: tonight, both of them need to leave.
He quickly straps on a set of high-grade Tarkan Jets, along with a breathing mask. Runox sloppily connects the metallic joints and screws. Despite his inexperience, he Frankensteins the gear on, ready for launch.
Runox hesitates. He thinks of his mother — her hand going still over the pot, the unspoken goodbye in her quiet back. He reminds himself that this is merely a means to prove his natural gift was not given to him in vain — and that he will return.
Runox guides the Tarkan outside and is met with a horde of angry villagers. He clicks on the Tarkan Jets and lets the Tarkan completely loose.
The Tarkan roars and follows the thrust of the jet, launching off the land immediately. Runox does his best to keep the Tarkan on track — it is so much easier to handle a Tarkan with all this gear.
"Why do they make us tame Tarkans without anything when we live in an era of this technology? With this gear, there is no need to tame a Tarkan by hand," Runox relishes in his achievement.
The air pulls Runox's skin back as he continues to soar. Suddenly, flying spears emerge from below — the Virethorian guards are trying to take him down. Runox steers to the left, then to the right. The Tarkan's wings flap. He pulls up and steers to the left again. He cranks the engine — the whirring of the thruster builds, louder, hotter. He can feel the fire. The Tarkan puffs, the mechanical whirring of the breathing mask activating with each breath. The sky is filled with mechanical whirring, spearheads, and the adrenaline-filled breathing of Runox himself. The Tarkan continues to fly up and out of the island.
The Tarkan squeals. A spearhead has pierced its left wing. It bucks under him. Runox grips the saddle handle tighter and feels — for the first time — the beast's pulse beneath his palm. It is afraid.
Suddenly, Runox hears electricity mixed with a heavy fire. The left Tarkan Jet is pierced and down. Runox cranks the engine up even more to get out. The Tarkan flaps its wings in panic. The two are going so fast that Runox can barely see, even with his strong Luxian skin. His face is being utterly peeled and the wind cuts through.
The Tarkan puffs and puffs. No mechanical whirring.
Runox's eyes widen — the breathing mask has fallen off.
"FUCK FUCK FUCK, I FUCKED UP PUTTING THE STRAP O——"
A freshness so great washes over Runox he almost faints. The air is cool. So gentle. The stuffiness — gone. The damp green weight that has lived in his lungs for nineteen years — gone. He can see clearer than he ever has. This is what it's like to fly weightless, he thinks. It feels like finally entering the cold air after being trapped in a sauna for months. This is what it feels like to SEE. To BREATHE. To LIVE.
Runox has exited the Plagued Zone.
Runox looks down. "The green smog — it's BELOW ME!" He is in utter awe. He relishes in the experience. Now then — I will stop at a nearby island and find a means to the Luxian Empire from there. It's so annoying how we have no maps in The Virethorian Empire. I have no idea where the Luxian Empire is. I could benefit from talking to someo——
"Wait a second — why is it getting hotter and hotter?" The burning sensation builds. Runox smells fuel in the air.
The Tarkan is on fire. Runox cranked the engine too far. It begins to squeal and vigorously flap its wings. The Tarkan begins to fall — its lungs cannot hold weight without the plagued air to fill them.
"NOT LIKE THIS, I'LL GET TO AN ISLAND!" Runox cranks the engine to the max.
The Tarkan continues to soar. A lifeless ragdoll blasting through the air. A jet engine strapped to a carcass. The Tarkan continues to burn. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air, and the sound of cracking bone fills Runox's ears. The thrust shakes the very air around him. Runox flies farther and farther from the Plagued Zone, higher and higher. He looks behind him — the Tarkan parts closest to the jet engine are pure bone. One third of the Tarkan is a skeleton now. He grips the saddle handle harder.
I'm sorry, he thinks.
As Runox braces for a huge fall back down, he looks up with one last spark of hope. A single island emerges from the haziness of the sky. He smears his blood across the Tarkan's hide and watches it harden. He drops into a squatting position, one hand locked on the saddle handle. With all his might, he punches the hardened blood, jumping at the same time. The blast sends him soaring upward, and the Tarkan explodes into gory chunks below.
Runox's hand catches the edge of the cliff.
The hardened blood on his palm scrapes against rock and peels back. His knuckles split. His shoulder screams as his full weight tears against the joint. He hauls himself up, one ragged inch at a time, until he rolls onto solid stone.
He lies there. Breathing.
The island reveals itself.
Beyond a low ridge, lanterns burn through a haze of smoke. Music drifts toward him — strings, a horn, voices in tongues he does not know. The clink of glass. The grind of cart wheels. A faraway shout, then laughter. Somewhere, a bell rings to mark an arrival.
Runox cracks a bloody smile through bruised lips.
Foolish old man.
"I've done it!"