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Chapter 10: Blades and Backstories
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 17:35:53 +0000 UTCThe Tallus finally shut up after their return from the dissolving reality. Dean was grateful—watching an entire world delete itself was traumatic enough without cosmic commentary.
"Training time." Blink opened a different kind of portal. This one looked stable, almost cozy. "Temporal bubble. We can train for hours while barely any time passes outside."
Dean peered through at what looked like a gym designed by aliens. "How many people have used this place?"
"More than you'd think. Less than we needed."
The training space felt like a video game lobby—perfect lighting, no weather, air that tasted like nothing. Functional but soulless.
"Alright, college boy. Let's see if yesterday was luck or skill."
It was definitely luck.
Dean's teleport priming had apparently developed commitment issues. He'd aim for one spot and accidentally destabilize three others, creating reality hiccups that made Blink swear in languages that probably violated interdimensional peace treaties.
"Stop priming into walls!" Blink shouted as Dean's latest attempt turned part of the floor into cosmic jelly.
"I wasn't trying to—"
"And quit overthinking! Your power runs on instinct, not calculus."
Dean wiped sweat off his face. "This is like gym class if gym class delt with accidentally teleporting your blades."
"Your gym class didn't prepare you for battle?"
"My gym class barely prepared me to avoid getting shoved in lockers."
Blink almost smiled. "New approach. Less thinking, more doing."
She pulled out a crystal dagger that caught impossible light. "You need backup for when your powers crap out."
Dean took the blade carefully. It felt warm, almost alive. "I've never held a knife before."
"What? Not even cooking?"
"I'm more of a ramen-and-sadness person."
Blink stared like he'd confessed to never breathing. "You've lived twenty years around sharp objects and never learned knife basics?"
"My survival strategy involves avoiding knife-requiring situations."
"Congrats. You just entered one." She moved behind him, fixing his grip. "Thumb here, don't death-grip it. Let the blade work."
The next hour sucked less than the portal training, mainly because his expectations had hit rock bottom. Dean learned to hold the dagger without cutting himself, which Blink called "technically progress."
During water break—the space provided drinks that tasted like the concept of hydration—Blink surprised him by actually talking.
"Want to know why your optimism doesn't impress me?" She sat cross-legged, casual.
Dean blinked. In two days, she'd been sarcastic, competent, occasionally almost friendly, but never genuinely open. "Sure?"
"Where I'm from—Earth-295—we didn't have heroes. Just survivors." No self-pity in her voice, just facts. "Apocalypse ruled everything. Not conquered. Ruled. For decades."
Dean's brain screamed Age of Apocalypse but he kept his mouth shut. These weren't comic book stories. This was someone's actual childhood.
"I was maybe six when they grabbed me. Mutant kids were lab rats. They wanted to see how far they could push our powers before we broke."
Dean's throat went dry. Every response felt wrong.
"The experiments made me unstable. Portals would open randomly, taking chunks of whatever was nearby. I accidentally killed three guards before I learned control." She examined her dagger. "That's when Victor found me."
"Victor?"
"Victor Creed. You might know him as Sabretooth—but not the monster version. In my world, he was..." She paused. "The closest thing to a father I had."
Dean's Marvel wiki brain went haywire, but Blink's soft expression told a different story.
"He saved me from the labs. Taught me to fight, survive, control my powers. We fought in the real war zones for years.” Her smile was sharp and sad. "He died covering my escape when I was fourteen. Told me to find other survivors, keep fighting."
Dean's chest felt tight. "I'm sorry."
"Why? You didn't kill him." She looked curious. "Funny thing—years of war, surrounded by people who'd seen humanity's worst, and I never met anyone who apologized for stuff that wasn't their fault."
"Maybe because it still matters. Even if I didn't cause your pain, it happened to someone I care about."
Blink went very still. "You barely know me."
"I know enough. You saved my life; you're training me so we don't die tomorrow. You've seen more horror than anyone should and you're still fighting." Dean met her eyes. "That's enough."
Something vulnerable flickered across her face, gone in a blink.
"You're annoying," she said. "But in a way that makes this less awful."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said since I got isekai'd by an Internet prank."
She actually laughed. "Isekai'd by what?"
"Transported to another world by taking a quiz. If that's not the weirdest origin story ever, I don't want to know what beats it." Dean grinned. "Plus, I always thought if I got powers, I'd be main character material. Turns out I'm more like comic relief with anxiety and a karma-based DLC pack."
"DLC?"
"Downloadable content. Gaming thing." He gestured at his Tallus. "My powers run on good deeds. It's like someone designed me to be a support class."
"Support what?"
Dean realized he was about to launch into his favorite coping mechanism—rambling about pop culture until existential dread became manageable.
"Okay so in anime and games, you've got character types, right? Main character gets flashy attacks, rival has tragic backstory, mentor dies at the worst moment—"
"Going somewhere with this?"
"—then there's support class. The character who doesn't do big dramatic saves but makes everyone else better at their jobs. Healers, buffers, guy who shows up with exactly the right tool." Dean found himself smiling. "That's me. I tweak powers, share abilities, run on karma points. I'm not the hero—I'm the guy who makes sure actual heroes can do their jobs."
Blink considered this. "You're okay with that?"
"Are you kidding? Main characters have terrible survival rates. Support class lives way longer." His grin widened. "Plus, my theme song is just anxious humming and poor life choices. Very on-brand."
"Your what?"
"Never mind." He stretched, muscles protesting. "Point is, I'm not trying to be the chosen one. I just want people to not die horribly."
"That's..." Blink paused. "Not the worst motivation I've heard."
Both Talluses pulsed—gentle throbs, not screaming alerts.
Blink checked hers. "Background alert. Not immediate, but something's building. Maybe a few hours."
Dean sighed, picked up the crystal dagger again. "Round two?"
"Try not to accidentally portal yourself into the wall this time."
"No promises. But I'll aim for minor glitches only."
As training resumed, Dean thought about what Blink had shared. The casual way she described horrors that would break most people. The matter-of-fact acceptance of loss.
And buried under his sympathy was cold certainty: he could never tell her he'd read about her world in comics. That her trauma had been entertainment in his reality.
Some truths were too dangerous to share.
Instead, he focused on the dagger, on Blink's corrections, on preparing for battles that might save or doom realities.
