In Vendetta House (The Vendetta Series #1)

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

I can only stare at the throwing star. A second passes, then another. The dark brown poison dripping like a leaky tap, mocking the near hit. It is the same stuff in the needle Aunt Nelly injected me with. Curare. A paralyzer.

I am lying on one of those plastic mats half-heartedly stuffed with sponges; the kind I always ended up smushed against when I trained in a dojo.

I am in a dojo.

Except this dojo looks extremely strange. It's tiny for starters, about the size of my room. It is completely square with paper-like walls surrounding me on all sides. No doors, no windows, no nothing but the mats on the floor. There doesn't seem to be an exit of some sort. The only way to go is up and there are at least 10 stories above me, each story marked with a wooden balcony protruding; that I can see anyway.

A quiet noise is going off up above. On the ceiling, tucked in the corner, there is a sliver box with a screen displaying neon red digits. The beeping is going off every second, very lightly, very softly, but it's obvious it is a timer. A timer for what? To finish the stimulation level?

I pick myself up and scurry to the wall, pressing myself against it so I can see more of the second floor. It also helps if I'm not standing right in the center, being a target from all four sides.

I am just about to contemplate what to do next when a figure suddenly jumps down from the second level, startling me. He is dressed entirely in a skin-clinging white ninja suit from head to toe, with only a tiny slit for the eyes, and a white utility belt holding various weapons. The star-thrower-ninja-person is a couple inches shorter than me and incredibly skinny but appears to be masculine. He is wielding two very, very sharp katanas with hooks at the end, and with one katana in each hand, he is advancing towards me rather scarily.

"Dude," I exclaim nervously, "You wanna watch where those swords are pointing?" The ninja responds by charging at me. "Well, fuck me sideways with a beanpole," I mutter in a curse.

I duck as he stabs his right katana and and glide to his other side. I try to grab a handful of his clothing on his back, attempting to shove him into the wall but I can't get a hold of anything. His clothing was made to be non-grabbable and my hand only gives a nasty back scratch. The ninja realised what I am doing and jabs an elbow backwards into my face.

"Oof!" My cheek throbs and I can feel a bruise already forming. With vigorous effort, I manuveur myself in front of him, throwing punches and aiming kicks: which was extremely hard while avoiding the blades. He blocks and deflects without any extra effort, much to my dismay. How can these stimulation-people be so professional? I'd been training all my life yet I was losing more energy and my breath was going faster every second. How did the other kids manage?

The ninja suddenly swipes one katana in a fast, upwards motion towards my forehead. I throw my arm over my face and the blade catches my lower arm, slicing a shallow but painful wound. I hiss as intense pain waves spread across my arm. Without wasting any time, I grab the very blade that stabbed me and yank. More stinging surfaces on my fingers as I snatch away the blade. It is so sharp it cuts through the gloves. I have no time to mourn my poor skin, at least I now have a sword.

The ninja attacks with his remaining katana again and I intercept it with the one I acquired. The metals twang against each other for what seemed like hours in a fair constant, although only minutes have passed. Sweat makes my fringe and bangs stick to my forehead while my grip on the sword handle loosens. My breath comes in short pants and I am fighting sub-consciously, my hands and feet moving but my brain too tired to register. Suddenly, he retreats and does a flying leap onto the balcony of the second floor.