Chapter 20: Safehouse Sanctuary
The abandoned maintenance building smelled of rust and forgotten promises, dust motes dancing in shafts of afternoon light that leaked through cracked windows. Landon pressed his palms against his temples, the migraine's claws slowly retracting after three days of skull-splitting agony. The merge had been worth it—Enhanced Fire Control pulsed beneath his skin like contained starlight—but the price carved itself deeper into his bones with each passing hour.
Marie's footsteps whispered across concrete as she approached with a steaming cup and a sandwich wrapped in cafeteria napkins. Her blood powers had been restless lately, responding to the tension that clung to all of them like smoke. The iron scent followed her everywhere now, metallic perfume that spoke of power held too tightly.
"You look less like death today," she said, settling beside him on the makeshift bed of salvaged cushions. "That's progress."
The sandwich was from the campus deli—turkey and swiss, his favorite. She'd been paying attention, cataloging the small details that made him human beneath the growing layers of stolen abilities. The realization settled warm in his chest, competing with the guilt that lived there like a parasite.
"Thanks." He bit into the sandwich, tasting kindness alongside processed meat. "For... all of this. You didn't have to."
Marie's smile carried shadows of her own damage. "When I was eight, my parents died because I couldn't control what was in my blood. I swore I'd never let that helplessness touch anyone I cared about again."
Anyone I cared about. The words hung between them, fragile as spun glass. Landon felt the weight of her trust settling across his shoulders like armor made of expectations. She saw him as worth saving, worth protecting, worth caring about. The knowledge should have been a comfort.
Instead, it felt like another lie he'd have to maintain.
"Your migraines," Marie continued, her voice dropping to the register she used for dangerous truths. "They're getting worse after each... incident. Whatever you're doing to copy abilities, it's taking a toll."
[SYSTEM: Migraine fading. Guilt's a killer, softie.]
The system's commentary scraped across his consciousness like fingernails on glass. Even his own inner mockery had lost its edge, worn down by repetition and proximity to people who actually gave a damn whether he lived or died.
"The copy thing has side effects," Landon admitted, threading truth through the lies like silver wire through black cloth. "But I can handle it."
"Can you?" Marie's eyes—dark brown shot through with amber flecks—searched his face for tells. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're burning yourself out for the rest of us."
The accusation struck deeper than intended. Landon was burning himself out, but not for altruistic reasons. Every death, every stolen power, every calculated risk served his own survival first. The fact that his friends benefited was strategic coincidence, not sacrifice.
Wasn't it?
"I'm fine," he said, the words automatic as breathing.
Marie's laugh held no humor. "We're all liars here, Landon. The question is whether we're lying to ourselves or just everyone else."
Before he could parse that particular psychological landmine, the safehouse door creaked open. Emma slipped inside like concentrated sunshine, her size-shifting powers allowing her to compress through gaps that should have been impossible. She'd been scouting the campus, using her abilities to map Vought's security response and gather intelligence on their next move.
"Coast is clear," she announced, then immediately focused on Landon with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. "How are you feeling? Any better?"
The concern in her voice wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Emma's crush had evolved into something deeper during the chaos of the last few weeks—something that felt suspiciously like love, though neither of them had been brave enough to name it aloud.
"Much better," Landon said, and this time it wasn't entirely a lie. The migraine had faded to a dull throb, manageable background noise that no longer felt like an ice pick behind his eyes.
Emma's smile could have powered the building. "Good. Because I was thinking..." She bit her lower lip, a gesture that had become achingly familiar. "Maybe we could grab coffee later? You know, when you're feeling up to it?"
The request landed between them with the weight of unspoken possibilities. They'd been dancing around this moment for weeks—brief touches, shared glances, conversations that lingered longer than friendship demanded. But in a world where death was currency and trust was luxury, allowing himself to want something—someone—felt like inviting catastrophe.
Do it anyway.
The thought came from somewhere deeper than strategy, some part of him that remembered what it felt like to be human rather than a collection of stolen abilities wrapped in ambition and guilt.
"I'd like that," Landon heard himself say. "A lot, actually."
Emma's blush started at her collarbones and worked its way north, painting her fair skin in shades of pleasure and vulnerability. "Really?"
"Really." He reached out, letting his fingers brush against hers in a touch that sent electricity racing up his arm. "You're kind of amazing, Emma Meyer. In case nobody's told you lately."
[SYSTEM: Date success. Emma's all yours. Don't fumble.]
Even the system seemed softer around Emma, its usual acid commentary muted by something approaching approval. As if even his own cynical inner voice recognized that some connections transcended strategy.
The moment stretched between them, delicate as butterfly wings, until Andre's voice echoed from the safehouse entrance.
"Am I interrupting something?" The magnetism supe leaned against the doorframe with practiced casualness, but his eyes held the sharp intelligence that made him dangerous when he chose to be. "Because if Romeo here is finally making his move, I want front-row seats to the inevitable train wreck."
"Shut up, Andre," Emma muttered, but her smile took the sting out of the words.
Andre's grin could have sold toothpaste. "Hey, I'm rooting for you kids. It's just nice to see Landon thinking with something other than his martyr complex for once."
The accusation hit closer to home than Landon wanted to admit. His pattern of calculated self-sacrifice had become obvious enough that even Andre—whose emotional intelligence usually ran about as deep as a puddle—could see through it.
"I don't have a martyr complex," Landon protested.
"Brother, you collect near-death experiences like some people collect stamps." Andre pushed off from the doorframe, metal objects in his vicinity humming with barely contained energy. "At some point, you might want to consider staying alive long enough to enjoy the powers you keep stealing."
Stealing. The word landed like a punch to the solar plexus. Andre had meant it casually, teasingly, but the truth beneath it carved new channels for guilt to flow through. Every ability Landon possessed had been purchased with someone else's violence, someone else's loss of control, someone else's moment of rage or fear or desperation.
"I prefer 'borrowing,'" Landon said, deflecting with humor because the alternative was drowning in the implications.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Andre's smile softened, losing its teasing edge. "Just... maybe think about what you're fighting for instead of what you're fighting against. Makes the whole 'staying alive' thing feel more worthwhile."
The advice hung in the air between them, carrying weight that Andre probably hadn't intended. But then again, the magnetism supe had always been better at reading people than he pretended. Beneath the swagger and the jokes, he understood that Landon was drowning in choices that had seemed necessary at the time but felt increasingly like damnation in retrospect.
[SYSTEM: Andre's your bro. Keep the laughs.]
As if summoned by the complexity of the moment, Golden Boy materialized in the doorway like a flame given human form. Luke Riordan had been different since the riots—more focused, more purposeful, as if nearly dying had burned away the parts of him that used to hesitate. The change should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt like watching someone else's tragedy unfold in real time.
"We need to talk," Luke said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd learned to command through suffering rather than birthright. "All of us. It's time to plan our next move."
The words settled over them like a shroud, transforming their temporary sanctuary back into what it really was—a war room for broken children planning revolution against forces that could crush them without breaking stride.
But as Landon looked around at the faces surrounding him—Marie's fierce loyalty, Emma's gentle courage, Andre's reluctant heroism, Luke's hard-won wisdom—he realized that somewhere along the way, his collection of strategic assets had become something more dangerous.
They'd become people he was willing to die for.
And in a world where death was just another tool in his arsenal, that realization was the most terrifying power he'd ever acquired.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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