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A seagull shrieked overhead, and Cole’s gaze shot up towards it. For the past year, he’d been so very envious of birds — he would’ve given anything to be able to carelessly soar above everyone and everything and build nests wherever he damn pleased.
That would probably be the reason for his twisted satisfaction in intercepting Wolfe’s carrier pigeons. Not that he was proud of it. The birds didn't die, of course, but they’d hit the ground with a nasty thud after being stunned. Once, he’d actually waited around just to make sure the pigeon eventually came to its senses. His karmic brothers, suffering just to carry out someone else's will.
Today’s weather was great. The TV said the whole coast from Connecticut to South Carolina was getting hammered by high winds. After the news report featuring that blonde everyone was sick of at that point, there was a weather forecast where a slightly less interested anchor explained that the Beast, in addition to everything else, was creating atmospheric pressure drops due to the high temperatures in places where cities used to be. Which was where the above mentioned wind came from. This issue hadn't reached them yet, and New Marais was still only being kissed by a breeze, so he assumed that the magma giant wasn't exactly in a hurry to head their way.
With that same lack of enthusiasm, Cole pushed through the crowd of onlookers into a lonely alley and up a building to the spot agreed upon over the phone. He still smelled like bile, rot, and swamp muck, so he was absolutely miserable. The mutants had given him a real run for his money in the shallow marsh while he tried to shoot back, until he finally decided to just use his fists. It turned out rather bloody and sticky, and he’d been pulled away pretty much right from the thick of it.
Zeke had begged him to come because he had something to show him. Something super secret and super cool, more important than the poor bastards the militia were trying to sacrifice. Cole didn't know what to expect — in fact, he wasn't expecting anything at all. So he was pretty surprised when he was met with a talent show.
"Just you wait, brother, you’ll see..."
"Uh-huh."
The man was swaying a bit. After Empire City, his best bud had suddenly taken an interest in two things: electrical engineering and day-drinking. The latter, Cole figured, was a symptom of deep-seated guilt he held for him and Trish. If only Dunbar stopped sticking to him like glue because of it... Cole was just a teeny-tiny bit busy in New Marais right now, and sudden calls to the man cave for any reason or no reason at all were a bit of a distraction from such a nothing issue as a looming end of the world.
Cole had pretty mixed feelings about all the extra attention. He should have been pissed as hell at Zeke, but at the same time, he was really flattered by his attempts to make amends and smooth things over. At least somewhere he was the one wanted and loved — not as the Demon of Empire City, but as a measly bike courier running away from a more complicated life. Zeke always chose Cole. Jeez, even with Kessler — he chose Cole. Talk about a twist of fate.
"Alright, now, check this out..." Zeke sniffled and showed off a baseball he’d pulled from somewhere, one that had clearly seen better days. "My old man taught me this one."
It was some new development in the world of ball grips — definitely not a forkball. Not being much of an expert, Cole just nodded with his arms crossed and smiled. Right now, he was fulfilling every American's genetic need to play catch with pops in the backyard. Except they were standing on a roof near the Fort, and Zeke was a far cry from anything even resembling a father figure to Cole. Unless you counted some twisted version of it, maybe. But that was all unnecessary detail, just nuances.
“Uh-huh.”
“So, in this game... in the ball, y’see, there's a special power. It's not just a tool. You and the ball, brother — you're one and the fricking same. You gotta release that power from within yourself through it, and its power through you. It's a fine art, like the Japanese had it... You dig?”
“Whoa! Really?” Cole had a vague idea of where Zeke had picked all this crap up. It was no secret that a few years back he’d taken a liking to comics from the Land of the Rising Sun. Something about... white... bleach... He hadn't really read into it, because he was immediately put off by the busty girls and the non-intuitive reading format. Zeke, in return, had threatened him with a bargain-bin disc of the cartoon adaptation.
“You bet! The body, the mind, the target, the shape, the breath, the hand, the weapon, the weight... Perfect unity!”
“M-hm. And how does one throw this miracle pitch, sensei?”
Cole was playing along with Dunbar's self-assured, characteristic bullshit, and it genuinely delighted his best friend — a kind of fun roleplay, like in the good old days. Zeke puffed out his chest and, in a scary conspiratorial voice, muttered:
"Now, my friend, I should add that this pitch is banned. In sixty states of America. My father taught it to me in strict secrecy, because the penalty for it isn't a suspension or even jail — it's death! For a long time, it was considered lost knowledge! But the Dunbar clan preserved it… Today is your lucky day, brother."
"Teach me, oh wise one."
He was met with a smile. Zeke bent down. Straightened up. Lifted his leg, balancing on one toe. Forward, back! Funny enough, Cole watched this whole intricate — and painful-looking — gymnastics routine with his mouth wide open in genuine awe.
"I call it the Srick… Shurik…" Zeke was winded, so he paused before his words took on that same solemn tone again. "Shu-ri-ken! It requires nine movements before the pitch for the perfect result—just like kuji-kiri!"
"M-hm!"
"Rin... Pyou... Tou... Sha," he repeated all the previous motions. New ones were added, but MacGrath didn't even have the time to grasp their brilliance because Zeke was rushing to keep his balance and finish the performance as quickly as possible. "Kai-Jin-Retsu-Zai-Zen!"
It was a beautiful flight, really. The ball traced a spinning arc in the air and over the shaved head that was truly remarkable for the skill — or lack thereof — of the throw, before flying straight into the window of the neighboring apartment building overlooking their rooftop. There was a piercing crash of shattering glass, and both he and Zeke went silent. A shirtless man smoking in the window was as equally mysteriously silent.
"Out," Cole uttered, his awe knowing no bounds.
Zeke was no longer sure if his face was flushed from the beer, the shame, or the rare, wide-toothed grin on the familiar, beloved face.