Chapter 1: Stranded in Godolkin
Landon's old world was a faded photograph, a small-town Ohio existence etched in shades of gray and routine. He was 19, a trans barista at Brewed Awakening, a cramped coffee shop where the air was thick with the bitter tang of over-roasted beans and the hum of fluorescent lights.
The counter was sticky with spilled syrup, the register's beep a constant irritant, and the same regulars—gruff truckers, gossiping retirees—ordered the same drinks daily.
"Another day, another latte," he'd think, scrubbing a stain, his hands raw from dishwater.
His life was a treadmill: wake at dawn, sling coffee, endure his manager's snide comments about his "weird vibe," then retreat to his rented room, a shoebox with peeling wallpaper and a lumpy mattress. Nights were spent scrolling X, diving into Gen V fan threads, dissecting Vought's conspiracies.
"If I had powers, I'd be out of here," he'd muse, biting his lip until it bled, a nervous tic that left it perpetually sore. He felt like an outsider, his sarcasm and quick wit a shield against the town's whispers about his identity.
That night, the rain was a merciless curtain, turning the streets into a slick, reflective maze. Landon pedaled his rusty bike, the chain squeaking, his hoodie soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second, colder flesh. The chill seeped into his bones, his breath puffing in white clouds.
His phone buzzed—probably another X post about Golden Boy's arc—but he ignored it, focusing on the road.
"Just get home," he thought, his thighs burning. The intersection loomed, a blur of neon and water. He didn't see the truck, its headlights a sudden, blinding wall. The impact was a symphony of chaos: a screech of tires, a crunch of metal, and a bone-shattering jolt. Pain flared, a white-hot scream, then dissolved into darkness. "This is it?" his mind whispered, bitter and mocking.
"Dead at 19, and all I've got to show is a shitty bike and a coffee-stained apron."
The void wasn't death. It was a disorienting whirl of static and fractured light, like a glitching monitor. A voice, sharp and dripping with sarcasm, sliced through the chaos.
[WELCOME TO THE PLEASE KILL ME SYSTEM,
LOSER. DIE, GAIN A POWER,
PAY A PRICE. READY TO PLAY OR GONNA CRY ABOUT IT?]
Landon's consciousness reeled, memories of his old life—his mom's old jazz records, the X app's blue glow, the coffee shop's stale air—colliding with flashes of Godolkin University, its manicured lawns, and Vought's predatory cameras. "What the fuck is this?" he thought, panic clawing his chest. The System's voice droned on, a snarky game-show host explaining the rules: die to unlock powers, revive with debuffs (dizziness, pain, guilt), survive a world where everyone's a threat.
"I'm in Gen V," he realized, his heart stuttering.
"And I'm nobody." Before he could protest, the void churned, spitting him out.
He hit the ground hard, the grass of Godolkin's quad soft and damp beneath his sneakers, the air alive with a buzzing, electric hum. The scent of fresh-cut grass, sweet and sharp, mixed with the ozone tang of supe powers sparking around him. His heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat that echoed in his ears, his fingers clutching the frayed canvas strap of his duffel bag, the only remnant of his old life.
"I'm here," he thought, his breath shallow, his lip stinging as he bit it.
"No powers, no plan, just a trans weirdo who knows too much about this fucked-up world." The quad was a stage, students flexing their abilities: a girl conjured a breeze that ruffled her hair, a boy flicked sparks from his fingers, a telekinetic water bottle spun lazily overhead. Vought's cameras, sleek black orbs nestled in the trees, glinted like predatory eyes. "Survive," he thought, his pulse a roar.
"Get a power before this place eats me alive."
His gaze snagged on Jake, a lanky freshman leaning against a Soldier Boy statue, his sneer sharp enough to cut glass.
Landon's meta-knowledge kicked in, the student handbook's profile flashing in his mind: Jake, minor speedster, cocky, quick to throw punches. Perfect. The System's rules were clear—die, gain a power, pay a price—and Landon's plan was reckless, insane, but necessary. He adjusted his duffel, the canvas rough against his palm, and took a shaky breath, his stomach twisting like a wrung-out rag. "Here goes nothing," he thought, his lip bleeding anew.
He let his steps falter, faking a stumble that sent him crashing into Jake's shoulder, the duffel slipping for added effect.
"Watch it, freak!"
Jake's voice was a venomous hiss, his eyes narrowing to slits, his posture shifting to coiled menace, like a snake ready to strike.
"S-sorry, man," Landon stammered, his voice a deliberate tremble, a performance honed from years of dodging bullies in Ohio. "Didn't see you there. My bad."
"You're done, loser," Jake snarled, stepping forward, the air blurring around him as his speed flickered, a faint whoosh stirring the grass at his feet. "Sorry doesn't cut it."
Landon's heart roared, but he kept his body loose, his eyes wide with feigned fear, his hands trembling just enough to sell the act. "Make it look real," he thought, biting his lip harder, the coppery taste grounding him. He shuffled back, his sneakers scuffing the earth. "Didn't mean to mess with a big shot like you."
The taunt landed like a match on gasoline. Jake's fist was a streak, a blur of motion that slammed into Landon's jaw with a sickening crack. Pain exploded, white-hot, his neck snapping as the world dissolved into black.
He woke gasping, the air thick with mothballs and the musty stench of damp concrete. He was curled in a fetal position inside a janitor's closet, the cold floor biting into his knees, the darkness pressing against him like a living thing. His head spun, a nauseating whirl that felt like falling off a cliff, his stomach lurching with each breath. Revival debuffs—dizziness, pain, guilt—hit like a sledgehammer. His hands shook, pressing against the rough, pitted wall, its texture grounding him against the vertigo.
"I'm alive," he thought, the words a fragile lifeline.
"But holy shit, that hurt." Guilt followed, a cold, twisting knot in his chest. He'd manipulated Jake, played the victim to provoke a killing blow. "What kind of person does that? What kind of monster am I becoming?"
A crystalline chime rang in his mind, sharp and jarring, like a glass struck too hard. The System's holographic HUD flickered into view, a glowing blue panel hovering in the dim closet, its edges glitching like a faulty arcade machine.
[DING! ENHANCED SPEED (E-RANK). WELCOME TO THE GAME, COWARD. DON'T TRIP OVER YOUR NEW SPEED.]
The System's voice was a sarcastic drawl, mirroring Landon's own biting humor, a cruel echo in the darkness. "Thanks for the warm welcome, asshole," he thought, wiping sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling. The HUD vanished, leaving him alone in the stale air. He pushed the closet door open, wincing as the hallway's fluorescent lights stabbed his eyes, a harsh glare that made his head throb. The dorm was pandemonium—students shouting, powers flashing, a telekinetic book spiraling through the air like a drunken bird. Amid the chaos, Marie Moreau stood out, her messy hair a halo, her eyes a mix of wariness and kindness as they locked on him.
"You okay?"
Her voice was soft, barely audible over the din, but it cut through Landon's haze, her concern a warmth he hadn't expected.
He forced a smirk, his sarcasm a reflex to hide the guilt. "Guess I'm just unlucky, huh, Marie?"
"Will she see through me?" he thought, his heart tripping as he watched her closely. Her smile, small and genuine, was a lifeline.
"Trouble seems to follow you," she said, a low, easy laugh softening her words.
"A friend," he thought, relief flooding him like a warm tide. "Step one: survive. Step two: don't fuck this up." Marie's POV shifted, her thoughts racing. He's hiding something, she mused, her concern deepening. But he needs someone. Maybe I do too. The shared vulnerability, unspoken but palpable, forged a fragile bond in the chaos.
The lecture hall was a cavern of old wood and chalk dust, the air heavy with the sterile scent of academia and the faint buzz of suppressed supe powers. Landon slid into a seat near the back, his neck still aching faintly from Jake's blow, the ghost of pain a reminder of his gamble.
Andre Anderson and Emma Meyer were nearby, Andre spinning a pen with a magnetic hum, his posture loose and confident, Emma scribbling in her notebook, her hair falling like a curtain over her face. Landon leaned into his calculated stutter, a play for sympathy honed from years of navigating hostile spaces.
"C-can I sit here?"
His voice trembled just enough, his eyes flicking nervously between them, his fingers tracing the duffel's strap.
Andre's brow furrowed, his gaze skeptical, weighing Landon like a puzzle. "I guess," he said, his baritone smooth but edged with doubt. "Just don't spill your life story, man. We're all trying to be heroes here."
Landon's lips twitched into a playful smirk, dropping the stutter like a mask. "Don't worry," he said, his voice steady now. "I'm more interested in seeing if your ego can fit through the door."
A tense silence stretched, the air crackling with unspoken challenge. Andre's lips twitched, a struggle for control in his eyes, then broke into a sharp, surprised laugh. "Alright, man. I'll give you that one," he said, a grudging respect in his tone.
"You're the one with the ego," Landon shot back, his confidence a fragile act, his heart pounding.
From his left, a small, bubbly giggle broke the tension. Emma's cheeks were dusted pink, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she looked at him. "She's laughing," Landon thought, his chest lightening. "Maybe I'm not invisible here." She didn't speak, just returned to her notebook, but the shared moment was a silent invitation.
[SOCIAL GAMBIT: ALLIES INTRIGUED. KEEP THE CHARM, LONER.]
"Charm's all I've got," he thought, biting his lip until it stung, the coppery taste grounding him.
The dorm halls were a labyrinth of identical doors and suppressed powers, the air thick with the cloying stench of cheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes. Landon needed a break, a moment to feel human again, not just a pawn in the System's game. Jake's dorm was his target, its door scuffed and marked with a peeling Soldier Boy sticker.
Using his new speed, a low vibration in his bones, he slipped inside, the room reeking of Jake's musky cologne, a scent that made his nose wrinkle. He swapped Jake's gym gear with goofy props from the welcome hall—a Vought cat plushie, a clown nose, oversized novelty glasses—his grin wide and childish. "This is for me," he thought, his heart lighter. "A little chaos to keep me sane."
Footsteps thundered down the hall, fast and heavy. "Oh, shit," he thought, diving behind the bed, his speed a desperate savior. Jake burst in, muttering, his sneakers squeaking on the floor.
Landon held his breath, the musty carpet tickling his nose. Jake's bewildered laugh at the props was a victory, a low, grudging chuckle that echoed in the small room. "Got you," Landon thought, peeking out. Across the hall, Emma's giggle rang out, her smile bright through her open door. "She saw the whole thing," he realized, his chest swelling with a reckless joy.
[PRANK SUCCESS: MOOD LIFTED. DON'T PUSH YOUR LUCK, PRANKSTER.]
"Too late," he thought, slipping away, his grin unshakable.
The Quiet Moment came at dusk, the quad bathed in golden light, the air cool and crisp. Landon sat on a bench, the wood worn smooth, his duffel at his feet. He traced its frayed strap, a memory surfacing: his mom packing it for a camping trip, her laugh warm as she tossed in marshmallows.
"You're my adventure buddy," she'd said. The ache in his chest wasn't from the revival. It was the weight of being alone, of needing a new family in this brutal world. "Marie, Emma, maybe Andre," he thought, his fingers tightening. "I'll build something here. I have to."
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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