The figures continued to stare at him. Tucker tumbled down the ground once again where he stayed for a while this time. It was as if he was accepting the heat until he realized he couldn't take it.
A shadow stepped forward from the circle of robed figures, revealing a middle-aged woman with long black locs pulled into a messy half-bun. One stubborn coil dangled in front of her right eye. Her brown eyes scanned Tucker in dissatisfaction.
"You the rebel they keep whisperin' about?" she asked flatly.
Tucker blinked. His brain felt like overcooked eggs.
"Wha… Huh…?" he mumbled, trying to lean against a nearby rock for support. The rock promptly scorched his hand.
Tucker stared at her blankly with his eyes facing in different directions.
She blinked slowly. "Oh, he's fried."
Another figure muttered, "Literally."
The woman tilted her head. "You sure this is him? The rebel with the white hair and stupid jeans?"
Tucker, still swaying, frowned. "Hey, these jeans are in style—" he said as he lightly tugged his jeans.
Before he could finish, his knees gave out like they'd been waiting for their moment.
"Yeah. That's him," she said, unimpressed, turning to whisper to another cloaked figure. "Get the aloe and a wet rag, a tank top and some shorts too. Kid looks like he tried to fistfight the sun."
And with that, everything went black.
MICHAEL'S POV
The streets of Choreees were chaos. Sirens blared in the distance, buildings flickered with emergency lights, and panicked civilians darted between shuttered shops and makeshift blockades. Yet somehow, no one stopped him. Not a soul questioned the tall young pink-haired man weaving through alleyways like he belonged there.
Micheal moved with purpose, until the road ahead was swallowed by flashing lights and steel.
Five SWAT vans screeched into position, cutting off the intersection. Armed officers spilled out like ants from a nest. One of them raised a megaphone.
"Sir, return to your home immediately. No entrance beyond this point is allowed."
Micheal squinted at them. He didn't stop walking.
The voice came again, firmer. "This is your final warning. Turn around or we will open fire."
Micheal kept walking. Then a crack echoed through the street, then another, bullets screamed past him.
He dove into the nearest alley, ducking behind a rusted dumpster. Chunks of concrete flew as rounds tore into the brick beside him.
"Damn it!" he hissed, glancing around. "How the hell am I supposed to take down five SWAT vans?!"
Boots hit pavement. Officers advanced on his position.
Sweat rolled down his face as he clenched his fists. "Screw it."
With a burst of speed, Micheal shot out from cover. The officers barely had time to react before he blurred past them, Presence-enhanced muscles propelling him.
He skidded to a halt, glowing red aura flaring as he gathered Presence in his fist. The most he's used in a while.
"Hope you like fireworks."
He slammed his fist into the ground.
The street detonated. The explosion of force sent shockwaves ripping outward, lifting cops off their feet and flipping vans. Debris rained down across the intersection.
Dust settled. Micheal stood at the center of the cracked pavement, panting.
He looked over his shoulder and tapped the handle of the gun poking out of his back pocket.
"Wouldn't wanna use that again."
Then he turned and kept moving. He was determined to look for Shirley and Tucker. Little did he know.
The wreckage of the SWAT vans smoked behind him, but Micheal didn't have time to admire his work.
Each block deeper into Choreees felt heavier and more deadly.
"Hey we found him!" a voice yelled from ahead.
Micheal raised his head to find the next wave: a dozen riot officers in black gear, shields raised, and batons. One stepped forward and yelled orders, but Micheal had already dashed toward them.
"Too slow."
He jumped, flipped midair, and kicked the front officer square in the chest, sending him packing. The others tried to close in, but Micheal had moves like jagger. He grabbed a baton mid-swing, yanked it from the officer's grip, and cracked him across the helmet with it.
He spun, ducked, and let his Presence flow again, channeling it into his legs. He stomped the ground, causing a shockwave that buckled the pavement. The officers stumbled, and Micheal weaved through them, knocking them out cold one by one.
A new group appeared ahead. This time, snipers on a rooftop.
"Aw, come on," Micheal muttered.
The bullets whizzed through the air. One grazed his arm, tearing through his sleeve.
"Alright. You wanna play long range?"
He took a running start, leapt off a car hood, and punched the side of the building mid-jump. The wall cracked—giving him enough grip to vault higher. With his other hand, he threw a chunk of concrete like a baseball. It shattered a sniper's rifle on contact.
One down. He scaled the wall fast, bounding from window ledge to ledge.
"Yo."
The second sniper didn't even get to scream. Micheal disarmed him with a swipe and sent him tumbling onto a rooftop vent with a groan.
Back on the ground, more officers were already swarming in. K9 units this time.
"You brought dogs?" Micheal sighed. "That's messed up."
The dogs barked, fangs bared. Micheal felt straight bloodlust from them. The handlers gave the command.
Micheal clenched his fists. "Sorry, fellas."
He raised his foot and stomped once, lightly. A ripple of Fear Presence surged out along the pavement. The dogs immediately halted, whimpered, and backed away. One even laid down, tail between its legs.
The handlers froze, dumbfounded.
"Good boy."
With a final burst of speed, Micheal disappeared from their line of sight, dashing toward the area with the most commotion.
FLASHBACK – 40 MINUTES EARLIER | RESISTANCE SAFEHOUSE, LAND OF PARADISE
"Wait. He just left?"
Doug pointed toward the front door, which was still swinging on its hinges.
"Didn't even say goodbye," Madison muttered. "He must think he's Batman."
The Resistance's meeting space was packed with troops and chaos. People were shoving gear into bags, arguing over routes, and one guy was heating a Pop-Tart with a rifle.
At the front, Sage slapped a whiteboard with a marker.
"FOCUS. Everyone shut up and focus!" he shouted. "This is our window. CORE's eyes are locked on the Land of Paradise right now. If we're gonna breach the Land of Snow, it has to be now."
Doug leaned in. "Okay. Serious question. Is it called the Land of Snow because it's cold or because of, like… drug metaphors?"
Sage glared at him.
"Fair."
Madison rolled her eyes. "If CORE's distracted, we hit the supply gates. Take a path through Frostbite Pass, break the outer defenses, and push toward the lower spire. But we need to move fast, because if either Cael or Asura shows up…"
"We're toast," someone mumbled.
"No," Doug corrected, "we're frozen toast."
The tension cracked slightly as a few soldiers chuckled.
ZE210 crossed his arms. "We'll need every fighter we've got. Two thousand troops are marching from the outskirts. ETA, about an hour."
"But what about Shirley and Tucker?" a scout piped up.
Doug placed a hand on her shoulder. "You go find 'em. We'll handle the assault."
"Me?!"
Doug gave a nod. "You're the only one who can talk Shirley out of doing something suicidal… or into doing it better. Well, probably not since you guys hate eachother. But I sure ain't doing it. I give terrible advice."
VAN #4, LAND OF PARADISE OUTSKIRTS
Madison's foot slammed the gas. The van bumped and rattled over debris-filled roads. Doug sat shotgun, munching on trail mix and pointing out directions like they were on a road trip.
"Left at the burning car… right at the crater… and—oh hey, look, that's a guy getting chased by a flaming dog."
Madison didn't answer. She was staring ahead.
Then she saw them, Two silhouettes staggering through smoke and rubble. One armed with a literal sword and the other armed with… nothing.
Doug narrowed his eyes. "That's them."
Before the van could fully stop, Madison was out.
MOMENTS LATER – UNDERPASS, CHOREEES
"SHIRLEY!"
Shirley's head snapped up. "Madison?!"
"Your such a dumbass! How did you get yourself into this situation?!"
"Bro, they said we were going to a mall! Who brings cleavers to a food court?!"
Cael's blade slammed into the concrete, splitting it like a cracked mirror. Shirley tumbled back, breath ragged, blocking with nothing but his arms. His knuckles were split open. His eyes burned, more from frustration than pain.
Cael swung his sword at him, Shirley attempted to block with his fist but instead it ending up shattering every bone in his hand.
Across the broken battlefield, Madison sprinted from a Resistance van, cleavers in hand. Her coat fluttered behind her, her boots slapping against scorched pavement. Doug shouted something from the van, but she didn't hear him.
Cael noticed her instantly. His head turned, completely calm.
"Oh?" he muttered. "And here I thought you'd know better than to interfere."
Shirley saw her too. "What are you doing?! Get back in the van!"
Cael vanished, a blur of lightning, and reappeared in front of her, hand raised to strike.
A pulse of golden light shimmered from her chest. The Hope Presence.
Cael's arms slowed. Not because he was hurt. Not even close. But something in that light made him pause. I'd say the light annoyed him, like if you threw a flash grenade at someone without the side effects. That little light healed Shirley's hand in an instant. But Cael knew this, and still did not attack her.
"Giving him this," Madison said, lifting the cleavers in front of her.
Cael looked down at her, confused. "You're trembling."
"Yeah," she said, "because you're terrifying."
She tossed the cleavers. Shirley caught them midair. His breath catching the second his fingers wrapped around the hilts.
His aura exploded outward in a jagged white flare. Cael took one slow step back, studying him.
Shirley exhaled, gripping the cleavers tight. "Okay let's lock in now," he whispered to himself.
His wild smile returned. Madison sprinted back to the van where she immediately got inside and sped off.
"I did my part," she muttered. "Now you go do yours."