Spencer's Personal Arsenal, Part 1: Saber

Posted on Fri May 12th, 2023 @ 1:09am by Spencer Gustaffson

1,071 words; about a 5 minute read

Spencer's Personal Saber:



Log Entry:
I first picked up the saber when I was in high school, actually. I'd been fencing for a while, but only with epee and foil. But saber was where I found myself. I'll admit it, I was an angry young punk before I learned better, and I treated my parents like crap. Now I can use that passion to help people, and I learned the lessons my Dad kept trying to teach me. Took a while to get through my thick skull, though. The Saber offered release when I was practicing and throwing my weight against it, but because of a slew of issues, it ended up with me getting into real swordfights. These weren't the kind with pads and guards and blunted weapons. No, these were the sort that people at school and the rec center would never have approved of. They were bloody, and violent, and the kind of thing a bunch of well-armed ruffians do when they have no other outlet. There were only a few of us then, but we were mighty, and we were together. It's a strange feeling, being lost together.

I still have scars from it, and there were a couple that seriously could have paralyzed me. I wouldn't trade them for the world because they were the only way I thought I could feel. Fighting was a release from the stresses I felt, being adopted, never really feeling like I knew where I belonged, and only really being good at one thing - getting into, and winning, fights. I don't regret those days, those people, and those fights now that I look back on it. Every time we bled together, every time we came close to killing one another, we forged a strange and slightly broken found family. I know that I could have made more responsible choices. It was a different time for me than now, and I'm honestly glad to have calmed down some. I'm glad that I survived and came out the other side.

Even in the depth of war now, when I pick up a sword, I feel like I know where I belong. Thanks to the GPF and this funny little crystal ball in my pocket, I know what I should be doing. I'm a Power Ranger. My calling is to help people. I'm good for more than fighting, I know that now. People should be able to trust me. But fighting is what I know best. So until the Kaldore are stopped and thrown back away from Earth, I'll keep up the fight, to protect the people who can't protect themselves. It's not just about me anymore.

Scene:
Flashback, 10 years prior.

The Mariner Bay High football field was never well-lit at night, even when the bright beams were on for a football game. On a moonlit night like this, it was black as pitch. A group of boys started filtering in. Some of them were wearing school uniforms, others, leather jackets and jeans, or other casual clothing. The lookouts were mostly wearing grey, loose-fitting clothes, like tracksuits, so that they could blend in and move quickly. After all, they'd learned lessons from the stories of Japanese ninja and other assassins - they could move without being noticed, and alert the others, who could quickly disperse the main group. The only thing uniting this group of teenage ruffians was the fact that each one had a sword hanging from his hip. and it was obvious just from the condition of the scabbards and hilts that these weren't the training weapons they got in the supervised events and classes, nor were they display pieces. These were real weapons.

Spencer was developing into his muscles at the time, but knew that he could put more force behind a slash than most anyone near his weight class. And because he could, he would. He threw the weight and force of his muscles into every strike, and though his intentions were never killing blows, there were times that he came close without meaning to. After all, this wasn't a fight with disqualifications, or time limits, or points. These fights ended when one person's hilt hit the ground, and no sooner. It was a bloody and nasty way to get your kicks, but this group of boys had grown used to it. It had started with a massive fist fight that broke out due to an illegal strike in a tournament. It developed into the two boys going at it with no rules at all. That had been six months ago, and in that time, the group had all learned to settle their little grudges and fury this way. All their rivalries that stepped out of lane ended up here.

Spencer stood calmly, sword out, waiting for the larger boy to step up. The difference in size between 5' 11" and 6' 2" seemed bigger than three inches could possibly be, but it was enough that the future Ranger was notably smaller than his opponent. Still, he charged forward, unafraid. There weren't rules here, and while his opponent's arms were longer, Spence was tough. His slashing strikes weren't aimed at the sword, but at his opponent's arm. He didn't care if the guy ended up one-handed; they'd had enough of an argument earlier that any possible care for his opponent's welfare was out the window. The first strikes landed, against Spencer's arms. He felt his enemy's blade slice him open, but he didn't stop. He drove his weapon into the enemy's torso.

Spencer's opponent faltered from the extremely painful chest wound, taking a step back before lurching forward again. Fighting on pure adrenaline, the taller boy struck out desperately, and in that desperation struck Spencer in the shoulder, slicing through to the underarm and the chest, leaving a wound no less deep than the one he'd been given. As Spence himself staggered, they heard a keening whistle, the sign from a lookout that an authority figure was coming. Swords still drawn, still covered in blood, the two combatants fled the field, surrounded by their supporters. As they ran, field dressings were applied. If applied well, the field dressings would help heal the wounds near-perfectly with medical care.

These left scars, many of which the Blue Ranger still carries.

 

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