PART ONE: THE FINAL BATTLE.
Sixteen year old Randall Josephine Cunningham ate his breakfast with the speed and stomach of a horse.
His mother Ava sat across from him, her purple hair hanging loose, greenish hazel eyes watching him. She had nothing better to do; she didn't have to leave until...soon, actually, he realized with a glance at the clock on the wall. He understood her boredom, the look on her face resembled how he felt at school. Luckily it was summer, June, in fact. They were both still drowsy from just waking up. His breakfast was cereal, he'd poured a lot of it into his bowl, hungry as he was. He had a glass of orange juice, too, he downed it pretty quickly.
Ava inquired, "Anything planned for today, or am I forgetting something?" Her violet painted nails tapped the kitchen tabletop idly.
His mom was a busy woman. She worked at a convenience store close by. Her coworkers were her friends, she invited them over sometimes. She'd gotten this job right before he'd started high school, spending most of the day and night at the store, leaving Randy home alone. She usually spent a short time doing things around the house before heading for bed. This meant that Randy had a lot of free time to himself around the house. It was convenient, considering certain things.
"Nah, not really," he answered, "Howard and I haven't come up with anything. Maybe I won't even see him today."
She smiled, that small smile she sometimes did when he talked about his best friend, Howard Weinerman. The two were close as peas in a pod, Howard's own mom liked to say. They'd known each other since they were five years old. Randy had clung to him as a way to cope with the loss of his father at the time. Needless to say, his efforts weren't fruitless. He gained a lifelong bud and slowly nearly forgot his dad ever existed. Mr. Cunningham hadn't died, nor had his parents divorced, he simply...disappeared, when his son was four. Randy didn't like to think about it.
"Well, I hope you find a way to occupy yourself while I'm gone." She said.
He slurped the last contents of his bowl, "I'm sure I will," he nodded. He and Ava were a lot alike, and not only in looks. Well, Randy had blue eyes, but he had the same color hair. He liked to think they were both similar in the face as well; he couldn't recall his father well enough to judge. There were pictures. He avoided them. They shared a quirky sense of humor and expressiveness, or so people had told him all his life. If he paid attention he thought he could see it, on the other hand he was so used to her he didn't really know the difference. For once he didn't immediately move to the living room to watch television, he felt like spending time with her.
"Anything new lately?" He ventured.
"Nope," she shrugged, "Work, as usual."
That was all she needed to say, really. He fiddled his fingers.
"Uh..."
She raised her eyebrows. She knew full well he didn't know what to say and that he didn't feel like talking. He was compelled. Then again, if she wasn't starting conversation, either...
He came up with something finally, "I'll be seventeen next month."
"Yes, you will," she agreed, "Are you sure you don't want to start looking for a job?"
He blinked.
"Oh. Yeah. I can try, maybe. I haven't thought about it."
"Whenever you're ready."
"'Kay." He muttered. He hated discussing those kinds of stuff. He knew he had to, though. It was an inevitability.
"Love you, hun," she told him, standing up, chair creaking. Her body language implied she was going to gather her purse, her routine when getting ready for work. She wore a dark blue shirt with a nametag. She disappeared to presumably her bedroom. He found out his assumptions had been correct when she came back with her bag slung over her shoulder, "You don't need anything?"
"No, I'm cool." He declined.
In all honesty he was starting to want her to leave. He had things to do, not that she knew. He heard Ava grab her keys out of the keybowl on the living room coffee table; soon after the front door clicked shut. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He was home alone, like he'd often been during the last two years and a half. He reached into his jeans pocket—yep, the Ninja's Mask was still in there, safe and sound. He'd recognize the distinct feel of its material anywhere.
Randy had an important duty which he upheld, unknown to anyone except for his best friend Howard. He'd kept this secret since he was fourteen, a freshman in high school. He was the Ninja of Norrisville. Norrisville was the name of the famous town he was born in and lived in since he could remember. It was in Louisiana, Vermilion parish. Randy was the current Ninja, there'd been many Ninjas before him, and—another thing he didn't like to think about—there would probably be many more after him. He didn't like the idea of giving up the title and responsibilities of the Ninja; it depressed him. Oh well. He'd deal with it when the time came.
Centuries before, a battle between the original Ninja and an evil, monstrous being called the Sorcerer took place. He was the Ninja's complete opposite; vile. The Ninja was victorious and sealed the Sorcerer away in an underground prison in a region which would eventually become the town of Norrisville. After the construction of Norrisville High, his school, decades ago, right above the Sorcerer's prison, teens had been bestowed the honor of being the Ninja. He was the most recent. He wasn't alone in his endeavors: he had his friend Howard, his sole confidant (he actually wasn't supposed to have any, but, uh...) and a mystical, powerful conscious book by name of the Ninja's Namakon. It was his teacher and it healed his wounds after battles with the Sorcerer's monsters and his archenemy's robots. He didn't usually get injured, but it did happen every now and then. Bruises, mostly.
He had...trouble...with the lessons the Namakon gave every once in a while, although these days it was easier than it was in the past. It was hard, but he stopped and caught himself when he conjured over-complicated interpretations of straightforward advice. Because that's what it was, in the end: right to the point. That's normally what the Namakon turned out to be. He was just a dumbbell. He hated to admit it. He'd pulled some very stupid stunts before he mellowed.
The Sorcerer had influence over the outside world from his jail still, in the form of a green gas that transformed particularly miserable—sad, angry, or anything negative—people into aggressive creatures. The majority of his victims were Norrisville High students, those were relatively easy because Randy knew how to turn them back to normal—destroying the item they held most dear. Sometimes the item wasn't an item at all, it depended on the person transformed. The gas infiltrated the school through the piping system. Those cases were ninety-nine percent of the time easy enough to figure out. It was the robots which were consistent (daily) issues.
Randy also had an archenemy—two, technically—in the form of the local town billionaire, Hannibal McFist, and his mad scientist henchman, Willem Viceroy III. McFist was beloved as a philanthropist, Randy couldn't out him if he tried. No one would believe it. Viceroy built violent robots with only one intent: to kill the Ninja. Randy. Not that they knew his secret identity—he preferred to keep it that way—but it was bad they could get to him whatsoever. They knew all they had to do was attack innocent civilians, and the Ninja would come to their rescue as fast as he could. It was who the Ninja was.
Randy's time as the Ninja began around the same time his mother had gotten her job at the convenience store. The day before freshman year.
Was the car gone from the driveway?
He checked the window. It was. Dark storm clouds loomed overhead, it was already beginning to sprinkle.
Time to go.