A sharp left hook cuts the air right in front of the boys face, only just managing to slip his head out of the way. Thinking an opening had shown itself he himself jumps in with a left hook of his own but by time the punch gets to where he's aiming the opponent is gone.
Slickly swapping his stances with a straight right hand, the boy continues his forward push with a few meaningless jabs until a shin scrapes across his unguarded face, sending him down onto his back, but not for long as he springs back up despite the shooting pain and the downright wrong feeling amassing at the centre of his face.
Awoken from his sleep, Mark stares up at the ceiling unable to stop himself from thinking about what happened next.
Shooting a quick look over to his two spectators, Axl and Gus, Mark pushes forward again despite the pain and his welling eyes.
Now almost hesitant, Marks opponent throws a couple of jabs that push against his mangled nose, with little to no effect. Having closed the distance just enough to be in range, Mark swings a massive right overhand that is slipped by his opponent moving to his left until suddenly a leg is smashing against the arm protecting his head, Mark having used his momentum from the punch to swing his back leg around without it being read.
Stumbling back for a second, his legs looking weak, Mark smells blood and not just his own.
By time he gets close enough to follow up, his opponent is back in his stance and holding firm but Mark sees right through the façade, beginning to swing wild hooks hitting nothing but arms in his attempt to finish the fight.
Taking a step back, Mark exhales like he had escaped drowning in a ferocious ocean storm. Using the small break, Mark watches as his opponent pants just as wildly as he does, the wall he's leaning against supporting his weight.
"If I'm having a break, then so is he and he needs it a lot more than I do." Mark remembered thinking exactly that, only because of the look of pride on Gus' face when he recounted it to him later on.
Feinting the beginning of another volley of wild hooks, the opponent raises his arms up to protect his head until he feels an open hand push against his face sending it back awkwardly.
His head being pushed backwards doesn't remain his biggest concern for more than a moment as a brutal knee digs into his stomach, sending him crashing down to the floor.
Almost as if he were in a frenzy, Mark only stops his continued swinging when Axl shouts out for him.
Slowly making his way over to Axl, as if he were a upset toddler walking over to tell his parent who hurt him, Mark wipes away his tears as he stands before Axl.
"Its not because it hurts. I'm not crying for real." Mark manages to say.
"I know, a broken nose does that to you." Axl says gripping Marks face in both hands, positioning his thumbs around the nose as if he were popping a zit and forcing it back into position.
"That doesn't look right, you're going to need a healer." Axl says, his voice cracking with laughter as he stares at his comically wonky nose.
"Don't tell him, they weren't real. Ok?" Mark asks, ignoring the laughter, preferring to make sure he keeps quiet.
"I wouldn't tell even if you hadn't asked me not to. Go and talk to the old man, he's itching for a lecture." Axl, brushing off his concern expertly.
"What was that? We talked about this, you have to stop getting so emotional. Detach from negative emotions when fighting, they only lead to defeat. Hear me?" Gus's words ringing out only for a moment before Mark shuts down the memory all together, knowing one memory always leads to another until the unavoidable sticks to the forefront of his brain.
Picking up his phone from the nightstand, Mark checks the time and to his anguish it reads 01:27 am. With a groan he sits up and gets out of bed, starting his day.
Gleefully, Marks father pushes into the living room whistling as he collects his things on his way out only to be greeted by his son already in there watching television, "How long have you been up?" He asks, not stopping his search for the work essentials he'll be needing.
"What time is it?" Mark, asking his own question in response. "4:30" His father answers, bringing his watch up to his face. Watching his dad for a moment before deciding to answer, Mark says, "Not long. Twenty minutes max."
"That's better than the last few times." His father responds, his voice managing to express how glad he is despite the hurry. "Make sure your brother is up in time for school, ok? I'll see you later."
"Scott? You up?" Knocking as he asks, not giving him any time to prevent the banging.
The door swings open, "Yes and now the entire street is too." Scott's voice more annoyed than anything, "Please stop trying to wake me up, I don't need it."
"Dad asked, sorry." Almost instantly guilt hits Scott, "I didn't mean to be like that. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
Opening the front door to leave, Marks mother shouts out from the other room. "Have a good day boys."
"Scott already left." Mark shouts back already a foot out the door, her not even hearing what he had said over the music she'd been blasting ever since waking up.
Waiting outside, Anthony is bundled up like he would if it were winter to Marks amusement. "What are you doing?" He asks through his blatant smile.
"Its freezing." Anthony says, stretching his arms out while they're firmly stuck in his pockets. As they walk they continue talking until they arrive, "Where are you keeping all of that when you're in class?"
"They've got to have a spare room for every ones coats, right?" Anthony asks optimistically.
Walking in the small swarm of students heading inside, Mark looks around, "There are two other people wearing coats." Having to force his face deadpan to stop the laughter.
Catching on, Anthony punches Marks arm playfully but to Marks surprise it felt slightly more apparent than it usually would.
"Where's your coat?" Mark asks, the two friends sat in their usual secluded spot outside a classroom, its designated teacher the one having left the seats out specifically for Anthony during lunch.
Anthony looks over to Mark and shrugs as he takes a bite from his sandwich, "Where's your phone?" Mark follows up. Pausing, Anthony uses his free hand to pat his pant pockets and to his horror, empty.
Without a word, Anthony crams the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, stands and leaves; beginning his search for his coat.
Inside the connector conjoining the two sides of the school, Mark sits patiently waiting, a pebble in hand.
Flooding the rock with his strands, he practices pulling them out without leaving a trace. Over and over. "This would've made for good strand control training two years ago." His voice breaking the silence in the room.
Out of nowhere an interesting idea pops into his head so he gives it a try. Closing his eyes, to visualize it better, he floods the stone but this time he begins to isolate a portion. Once everything else is to his liking, he sharpens the parts of the stone bordering the chunk separated from the rest and pop, it slides off hitting the ground, a picture perfect cut.
"You'd need to carve if this was infused with strands, like a butcher cutting fat from a piece of meat." He thinks to himself as he lets the rest of the rock fall to the ground, slumping down in his seat a little.
Five more minutes of waiting and Mark gives in, deciding not to be late for his next class. Pulling the door open with his telekinesis, again he cant help but smile with who greets him at the door, the chances she only shows now a little jarring to him.
"You're leaving?" Valentina asks, her voice only just climbing over the chaos she's fleeing, making her way in as he stands holding the door open.
As she walks in, Mark notices he was right about her being tall, only being a couple inches taller than her himself. "No." Mark answers, the seat he was just in now occupied he slides on to another part of the bench.
"Are you going to finish your story from last time?" Mark asks as Valentina sets her things aside and gets comfortable.
"Which one? Its been a few days." Playfully taking a little dig at him.
"It wouldn't have been so long if you showed up sooner, the only reason I'm still here is because I want to know how it ends." Mark says turning the blame back onto her.
"Is that the only reason?" She asks. "Yes, can you hurry I've got to get to class." Mark says, excitedly awaiting the conclusion to the story.
"Where'd I leave off?" Valentina, pretending to rummage through her memory for a moment, "Oh ok, so my sister challenged him to a duel and won. The end."
Dramatically shooting up from his seat with his hands on his head, Mark cries out a few choice words, "You cant tell it like that!" Turning in a few circles trying to wrap his head around why she'd do that.
"Didn't you say you had to go?" The smile at the edges of her lips giving away how pleased she is with the reaction.
"Yes, but I'm not in that big of a rush." Sitting back down he continues, "Next time I'll have to tell my own story and I wont mess it up at the end like a certain someone."
"I didn't mess it up, you did." Valentina counters. "Yeah yeah." Deciding not to go back and forth, Mark changes the topic, "Have you finished that book yet?"
"Yeah. The ending was so frustrating, they just randomly never see each other ever again. Did you watch that movie I told you about?"
Mark laughs to himself just thinking about it, "I thought it was a girly movie until the helicopter exploded. I think my dad did too but he watched it with me after that. It was cool, I'd never seen a French movie before that. How'd you find it?"
"My Grandmother was French. I try to stay closer to my mothers roots rather than my fathers, its better for me that way."
"That explains your weapons." Mark, laughing slightly.
Valentina doesn't even need to ask anything, only a sharp look gets the message across. "I read in an old book that Weapon Conjuring is closely tied to ones heritage, I thought it was weird you had a parrying dagger when your Russian. They were mostly used in Europe."
"Why do you know that?" Valentina, leaning over towards him. "I'm a history buff." Checking the time again, he shoots back to his feet, "I've got to go," Walking over to the door to exit the connector he gets one last word in, "You definitely ruined the story by the way." The door closing behind him before she could respond.
Outside the gate, a drink in hand, Mark casually waits for the self imposed ten minute head start for his brother to end. "Wanna go do something?" Anthony asks, both hands full with his heavy coat and scarf.
Just a glance cracks Mark up, "No. You've got your hands full and I'm not really in the mood."
"C'monnnn. It'll be fun, I'll even give you a head start on that old arcade racing game." Anthony dragging out his voice as he pleas.
"Like I need the head start; I beat you last time."
"Then I could be an actor with how good my performance was." Anthony channels his best impression of someone stupid, "Oh no! I suddenly forgot how to drift."
"Alright, no excuses this time." Mark, giving in as he usually does. "Let's go! First I've got to drop this off at home. I'm not dragging this around."