Chapter 10: Blood and Bonds
The training room was a crucible of tension, its air heavy with the acrid bite of sweat and the sharp tang of antiseptic cleaner, a sterile edge that clung to the back of Landon's throat. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a jaundiced glow across the gray mats, their surface scuffed and worn from countless sparring sessions.
A faint bloodstain lingered in one corner, a ghost of some past injury, its edges blurred like a forgotten story etched into the floor. Landon stood opposite Marie Moreau, his heart a runaway engine, pounding so hard he swore it echoed off the concrete walls. His palms were slick, his fingers twitching with the nervous tic of biting his lip, a habit that surfaced whenever his plans teetered on the edge of chaos.
"This is it," he thought, his sarcasm a brittle shield.
"Push her buttons, get her power, deal with the fallout. Easy, right?" Marie's dark eyes burned with determination, her gray tank top clinging to her skin, the faint pulse of veins visible beneath her arms—a living map of her deadly gift. Landon needed her Blood Control, a B+ power that could turn the tide against Vought's machinations, but the cost was a gamble with her trust, a bond he'd fought to build.
"You sure about this, Landon?" Marie's voice was taut, a wire stretched to snapping, her Midwest twang softening the edge of her concern. She shifted her weight, her sneakers squeaking on the mat, her fists clenching as if to anchor her restraint.
"Positive," Landon said, his voice cracking slightly, the lie bitter on his tongue. He forced a grin, his eyes flicking to the bloodstain on the mat, a grim reminder of what was coming. "It's just a test for my… copy ability. You nick me, I get a shiny new trick. Win-win, right?"
"A little nick?" Marie's tone was flat, her eyes narrowing, a storm brewing behind them. She knew his game, or at least suspected it. Her fingers flexed, a subtle tremor betraying her unease. She's not buying it, Landon thought, his lip-biting tic flaring as he steadied his breathing. "Good. I need her mad."
"Just pretend I'm the bad guy,"
he pressed, his voice rising, a calculated taunt laced with feigned bravado. "You know, someone who deserves it. Hit me with your best shot, hero."
Marie's jaw tightened, her breath hitching. "That's not how this works," she said, her voice low, a warning wrapped in resolve. Her hands stilled, but the air around her seemed to hum, charged with the latent power of her blood manipulation.
Landon leaned in, his grin turning cruel, a mask to hide the guilt clawing at his chest. "Here we go," he thought, his heart a frantic drumbeat.
"Come on, Marie. Lose it." He took a step closer, his sneakers scuffing the mat, the sound sharp in the tense silence. "What's wrong? Scared you'll hurt me? Or is it that you're not cut out for this hero crap? Too busy worrying about breaking things—like your family?"
The words were a dagger, aimed at her deepest wound. Marie's face drained of color, then flushed a furious red, her eyes blazing with a pain that cut Landon deeper than any blade. "I'm a bastard," he thought, his stomach churning, but he held his ground, his expression cold. Her hand snapped out, a blur of motion, her blood manipulation forming a crimson blade, sharp and precise, meant to graze, to warn. But Landon was ready. He stumbled, a deliberate misstep, leaning into the strike. The blade sliced through his sternum with a wet, sickening crunch, the pain a white-hot explosion that stole his breath. His vision swam, the training room dissolving into a haze of light and agony, the bloodstain on the mat the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him.
[Ding! Blood Control (B+). Heavy stuff, softie. Don't cry now.]
Revival was a brutal awakening, a violent jolt that yanked Landon back to the training room, sprawled on the same scarred mat. The air was thick, the antiseptic sting now mingled with the coppery tang of his own blood, a fresh scar blooming across his chest. His body trembled, his lungs burning as if he'd sprinted a marathon, the revival debuff a crushing weight of exhaustion.
Marie knelt beside him, her face a mask of horror, her hands hovering over him, trembling. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, tears brimming but unshed. The sight was a punch to Landon's gut, his guilt a suffocating tide that drowned his triumph. "I did this to her," he thought, his lip-biting tic flaring as he struggled to sit up. "I made her relive her worst nightmare."
"I… I didn't mean to," Marie whispered, her voice breaking, a child's plea in a hero's body. "Landon, I'm so sorry. I didn't—"
"It's fine," Landon croaked, the lie heavy, his throat raw. He reached out, his hand shaking as he touched her arm, her skin cool under his feverish fingers. "It was an accident. I swear." The words were ash, a betrayal of her trust, but he forced a weak smile, his eyes meeting hers. Her horror softened into concern, a fragile bridge between them, but the guilt was a stone in his chest, heavier than any debuff.
From Marie's perspective, the training room was a nightmare come to life. He's dead. I killed him, she thought, her heart a frantic bird in a cage, her hands shaking as she stared at the blood pooling beneath him. Then he stirred, alive, impossible, and her relief was a tidal wave, tinged with confusion. How? she wondered, her empathy warring with suspicion. He's hiding something. But his touch, his weak smile, grounded her, a lifeline she clung to, her bond with him deepening despite the unanswered questions.
The quad was a cool oasis, the night air sharp with the scent of damp grass and the faint promise of rain that never came. The lampposts cast a soft, amber glow, their hum a steady pulse in the darkness.
Landon sat on a weathered bench, the wood rough under his palms, a beer can cold in his hand, its metallic tang sharp on his tongue. Golden Boy—Luke—sat beside him, his fire powers dormant, his posture relaxed but his eyes carrying the weight of his past. From Luke's perspective, Landon was a reckless savior, a kid who'd pulled him back from the edge of despair. The beer was a gesture, a small offering of gratitude in a world that offered little.
"Thanks, man," Luke said, his voice low, raw with sincerity, his Southern drawl softening the edges. "For what you did. You know, back then."
Landon took a long sip, the cold liquid doing little to ease the guilt still burning in his chest. "I used you, too," he thought, his lip-biting tic flaring. "But you don't know that." He forced a grin, his sarcasm a familiar shield. "Yeah, well, someone had to keep you from setting the whole campus on fire. Call it my cardio for the day."
Luke chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that filled the night. "You've got a death wish, Landon. Or a damn good reason for it." He raised his can, the metal glinting in the lamplight. "Either way, you're one of us now. Fire buddies, right?"
[Friendship solid: Luke's got you. Nice work, you sly devil.]
Landon clinked his can against Luke's, the sound sharp and grounding. "Fire buddies," he echoed, a genuine warmth spreading through him, a flicker of light in the guilt's shadow. The quad's hum, the cool night air, the faint scent of grass—it was a Quiet Moment, a pause where the world's chaos faded, and friendship was enough. A memory flickered—a high school campfire, laughter under stars, a simpler time. "I'm not alone," he thought, his heart lighter. "Not anymore."
The library was a sanctuary of silence, its air cool and dry, heavy with the musty scent of old paper and the faint creak of wooden shelves.
A single lamp cast a warm pool of light over a secluded table, illuminating Cate Dunlap's blonde hair, her eyes sharp as she scanned a book. Landon felt her presence like a storm cloud, her telepathic power a constant threat, her curiosity a blade hovering over his secrets. From her perspective, Landon was an enigma, his survival defying Vought's files, his sarcasm a shield she couldn't pierce. He's hiding something big, she thought, her fingers tightening on her book, her charm a mask for her probing intent.
"Landon," Cate said, her voice soft, a velvet trap in the library's hush. She didn't look up, but her attention was a weight, a psychic brush against Landon's mind, cold and invasive.
Landon sat across from her, the chair scraping loudly, a deliberate disruption in the quiet. "Stay cool," he thought, his lip-biting tic flaring as he fought to guard his thoughts. "Cate. Studying hard, or just pretending to be a scholar?"
She looked up, her eyes locking onto his, a predator's gaze cloaked in charm. "I'm curious about you, actually," she said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table, the wood cool under her skin. "These accidents you keep having. Surviving things no one should. It's not in Vought's files."
Landon's heart raced, but he kept his face blank, a mask of boredom. "She's close," he thought, his fingers tracing the table's edge, a nervous tic to ground him. "It's just a talent," he said, shrugging, his voice light but strained. "I'm a quick learner. Lucky, I guess."
"Lucky," Cate repeated, her smile thin, her eyes unyielding. "Or something else. Your body… it's like it adapts. Takes on anything and walks away." Her voice dropped, a whisper that carried a hidden threat. "No one's that lucky."
"Maybe you just don't know everything," Landon said, his sarcasm sharp, a deflection to keep her at bay. He leaned back, his chair creaking, the sound loud in the silence. "She's fishing, and I'm the bait," he thought, his pulse a frantic rhythm.
Cate's smile didn't reach her eyes, but a spark of intrigue flickered in her gaze. He's good, she thought, her telepathic senses catching only fragments of his guarded thoughts. Too good. She closed her book, the conversation dismissed, but the silence was heavy, charged with unspoken questions.
[Cate's probing: Stay sharp, liar. She's got her eyes on you, and she's not the kind to forget.]
Landon picked up a random book, its pages a blur, his fingers trembling slightly. The library's hush was no longer a refuge; it was a battlefield, the air thick with tension. A scratched table caught his eye, etched with a faded "C + J," a relic of some forgotten romance. "I've got friends," he thought, clinging to the quad's warmth. "But she's a threat I can't ignore."
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