Cleo's Game

2. Aftermath

Cleo stepped back, in awe of what just happened. She didn't know if she was awake or dreaming, but when she put her hand on the punching bag, it felt as cold as can be. Her plan was to tire herself out with some training, maybe make sleeping a little bit easier, but now there's a huge frozen mess that she has to deal with. Despite this, her curiosity got the better of her, and she inspected the adjacent bags.

Focusing her mind on subzero temperatures, she tapped it with her knuckles. Absolutely nothing happened. "Huh," Cleo said to herself. She returned back to the original intensity while fully expecting the same results. When all that happened was the sound of her fist hitting the leather, she felt as if she was a balloon that had been poked and subsequently bled out air.

Having the thought of going back to normal in her head for one moment was enough to drive her to near-insanity. "No... no... no... NO!" Self-doubt overran her and she welled up with angry tears, feeling just as cold inside as on the out. She thumped her fist into the bag again, with enough energy that the opposite side of the bag erupted with ice that had pierced through the front. "This is fucking hopeless. I still can't control it," she ranted, her new ice not chilling her out in the slightest.

"It's as if this power only works once it's already pissed me off. How am I going to clean this up? I can't just leave it." She kicked at the ice with her boot a little bit, aiming to crack it. All it did was hurt her foot, so she knew straight away that it might become an issue. She prodded it some more, and even breathed on it warmly, but this ice around the punching bag was solid steel. After a couple more minutes of half-hearted attempts, she decided that it would just thaw overnight.

She stalked back to the barracks in the darkness of night, making sure to minimise any sound she made. Only while walking back did she realise how exhausted and woozy she was, stumbling back in through the door. She fell on top of her bed and slept on top of the covers in no time at all.

Cleo was woken up by the bustling of others getting up and going towards a commotion outside. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Cleo mumbled to herself, looking at the ceiling. She walked over to the doorframe and peered towards the hive of onlookers that were obviously interested by the training equipment's... state of repair.

The ice had grown across the surface of the punching bags, creating one huge iceberg that encompassed the entire training area. It turned the atmosphere around it horribly frigid, the temperature of the air plummeting. The grass in a ring around it was frosted white and crunchy to the touch. A strange, unexplainable event like this was an important matter that called over someone higher up the chain, one of the on-base commanders.

Their name was Orange, and their casual and unique style could be seen by just a glance. They wore tight, bright-coloured clothing like that of a gymnast, a thick pair of glasses, and a colourful orange sun hat on top of their head. Most unique of all, however, was Orange's appearance. Like Drew and many others on the island of Exdritch, they were born with supernatural differences. Instead of an affinity over an element or force, Orange was... a frog.

Obviously not just a frog, Orange was born as a hybrid, more of a frog-like human. Their reflexes were implausibly quick, their step was spring-loaded, and their skin was slippery. Tucked away under their ears were small gills that made her fully amphibious. From a big helping of frog DNA during their mysterious birth, Orange used these attributes to the fullest to complement her fighting style, becoming a fearsome and respected fighter.

"Where's the ice from?" asked a random soldier from the crowd. Orange glanced over towards them. "I think we can rule out the weather. I'm not sure about anything else, for now." They turned back towards the ice and, in the blink of an eye, propelled their leg towards it at speed. Shards flew off in different directions before anyone watching could even comprehend it. The ice spidered all across the surface and crumbled.

Cleo knew Orange well; in fact, Orange was something of a mentor to her in the realm of combat training, at least for the last six months or so. "Alright, the ice is cleared. There's nothing to see here," Orange announced, shepherding the crowd away back to their business. "Cleo," Orange called over, avoiding yelling but still sounding firm.

"That was you, wasn't it?" they asked matter-of-factly. "What? What makes you think it was me?" Cleo asked, not fooling a single soul. "Because it was probably you. Was it?" "Am I in trouble?" "Umm, not really. You really need to find a better place to do that, though," Orange scolded. "Oh, right. Right, yeah, I'm sorry." "Now go have your breakfast. Since you made such a mess, you'll be doing double push-ups today."

While the other soldiers were sitting and eating their breakfasts, bowls of oats and pieces of fruit, Cleo was hard at work, making it up to the commander with twice the amount of push-ups. With the big ambitions that Cleo holds of being a strong warrior like her brother, she needs to put in more work than the average soldier. A lot more.