Part Six: Cortex

Everything exploded into motion at once.

Jesse threw a card towards the gunner, stopping it mid air. The girl with the daggers darted forward first, moving with inhuman speed—more like a streak of light than a person. Lance stepped in front of her, letting her strike land against his shoulder. Sparks flew as her electrified blade scraped his reinforced skin, leaving only a shallow mark.

He grabbed her by the wrist, twisted, and threw her—hard—into a storefront display. Glass shattered, mannequins tumbled. But she landed on her feet like a cat, grinning as she flipped one of the daggers in her hand.

Before we could reposition, the gunner opened fire.

BRRRRRT.

Bullets tore across the tiled floor. Jesse shoved me behind a kiosk, then dove across the line of fire, flanking left. Holo-ads exploded in sparks as rounds ripped through them. People screamed from somewhere deeper in the mall, but they felt miles away now. 

Jesse released the thrown card from earlier and it shot at high speeds towards the gunner. He reacted quickly and blocked the shot with his rifle to save himself, the card struck the upper receiver, disabling the automatic rifle.

The two twins split off, flanking from opposite sides, moving with military precision, both attempting to close the gap. 

The "twins" locked eyes with us, their expressions cool, detached. But I could tell something was off. They weren't twins—not really. They shared the same height, the same sharp features, and the same eerie calm. But something about the way they moved made me realize: these weren't just brothers.

They were clones.

"Get ready," Jesse muttered, his tone tight. "These guys are way more dangerous than we thought."

The clone on the left suddenly shifted—and in an instant, the air was thick with more of him. The exact same face. The same posture. They started multiplying, flooding the space around us.

"Shit," Lance growled, stepping back. "They're creating more copies. Fast."

One of the clones lunged at Lance, drawing a blade that flashed with blinding speed. He swung it downward, but Lance met the strike with his golden aura flaring, his fist colliding with the clone's chest and sending it sprawling across the floor.

But before Lance could get a second to react, another clone appeared, materializing from thin air, this one already swinging a blade of its own.

"Watch out!" I shouted to Lance.

But Jesse was already a step ahead. He flicked his wrist, sending one of his cards flying with a sharp whoosh, striking the clone mid-swing. It staggered back, but as soon as it hit the ground, it twisted, rapidly shifting and morphing into another identical copy.

"They're not stopping," I muttered, my mind racing. "We're gonna get swarmed if we don't—"

A crack rang out as another clone formed behind me. I spun around just in time to avoid its blade. My heart skipped, and I felt the adrenaline surge. I needed to think. I needed to act.

The familiar pull in my chest, that tension between here and there, surged through me. I focused on the nearest clone—its blank, unreadable eyes locked onto mine.

Jump.

Flash.

I wasn't standing next to Jesse anymore. I was behind the clone, close enough to feel the heat of its body as it turned, its expression slowly shifting from confusion to realization.

I grabbed it by the throat and teleported again. His body erupted as I grabbed the next one and teleported once more. A fountain of red burst outward, splashing across the walls, the floor, my face. Bone fragments clattered around me. Something wet and solid hit the ceiling and stuck. Ropes of sinew slapped the ground like dead snakes. I teleported again, and again, and again, and again. 

"Get away from me!" I screamed as I tore through the crowd of clones. 

I tore through the next, teleporting from one to the other, my movements more instinct than thought. Each time I touched one—shoulder, arm, neck—and blinked away, their bodies collapsed in on themselves, like an orange shattering under pressure. I pushed forward, cutting through the growing wave. Every time I landed, I felt my body falter—breath shorter, vision a little more blurred—but the adrenaline kept me moving. 

I stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by fallen clones. The echo of my last teleport still rang in my ears. For a split second, everything was still—silent except for the low hiss of fire suppression systems and the crunch of broken glass underfoot.

That's when I saw him.

Not just another clone—the clone. The original.

He stood halfway up the escalator, untouched, untouched by the chaos he'd created. His movements were smoother. More deliberate. No panic. No confusion. Just… watching.

Our eyes met.

He turned to run.

"There!" I shouted, already moving.

I blinked—flash—appeared at the top of the escalator, right in his path.

He skidded to a stop, reaching for something at his belt.

Too slow.

I grabbed his arm.

Flash.

The teleport hit harder this time—my muscles screamed in protest—but I held on.

Dead.

Instantly, every remaining clone around the room froze—then dropped, one by one. No drama. No theatrics. Just… off.

I landed beside Jesse and Lance again, sweat dripping from my forehead, legs shaking.

"Original's down," I said between breaths. "He's not coming back."

Jesse nodded, flipping a card between his fingers. "That's what I'm talkin' about."

But we didn't have time to celebrate.

From the far end of the Atrium, the sound of fighting still echoed—glass breaking, metal clanging, grunts and blasts of energy.

The rest of the Cortex team was still very much active.

The dagger girl had returned, her blades glowing with pale blue arcs. She was dueling Lance near the central column, moving fast, leaving glowing marks across the floor with every step.

The massive gunner, now without a rifle, had resorted to throwing grenades like they were toy bricks, pinning Jesse behind a half-collapsed café counter. He peeked over, throwing the remainder of his cards in rapid succession, freezing them all.

The staff-wielder still hadn't moved.

He stood at the center of it all, weapon spinning slowly at his side, watching everything like a conductor readying his next movement.

He looked at me.

He knew.

No more distractions. No more clones.

Now it was just them.

Lance ducked under a dagger swipe, his aura flaring bright gold as he countered with a rising elbow that sent the girl sprawling.

"Finally," he growled. "I was gettin' tired of the warm-up."

Jesse vaulted over the counter, he snapped his fingers and all the cards shot into the gunner's shoulder and torso with a crack of impact. "You good?" he shouted.

I nodded, stepping forward.

"Let's finish this quick." 

Lance cracked his knuckles, golden energy pulsing up his arms like heat lightning. "I got dagger girl."

"She's mine anyway," he added, already sprinting forward.

The girl didn't hesitate. She met him head-on, flipping her blades into a reverse grip. They clashed with a shriek of metal and sparks. Lance caught her first strike on his forearm, aura flaring, then drove a fist into her ribs. She staggered back, rolled, and came up smiling—blood on her teeth, blades sparking again.

Jesse glanced toward the gunner, who was dragging a crushed serving table like a riot shield. "Guess that leaves fridge-boy for me."

Jesse dove towards another concession, towards the fountain, avoiding a multitude of frag grenades. He sprinted by the fountain, moving from cover to cover dipping his arm in and grabbing a handful of coins. 

The gunner ripped a slab of tile out of the floor and hurled it. Jesse slid under it, coins flashing between his fingers, each one humming with kinetic energy.

That left just me.

And him.

The staff-wielder. 

He stood perfectly still, weapon lowered, watching the others. Then his head turned, just slightly.

To me.

He raised the staff and spun it once.

A challenge.

I stepped forward.

We circled each other in the ruined atrium, the space around us quiet in contrast to the chaos beyond. Broken glass crunched under our shoes. Smoke drifted from scorched signs above.

"I was wondering when you'd stop hiding behind the chaos, come quietly and ascend," he said calmly.

I didn't answer. I didn't care who he was.

I blinked—flash—but he spun at the same time, deflecting my movement with the base of the staff. The blow vibrated through my arms. He flowed like water, redirecting my momentum, stepping back just enough to avoid a follow-up grab.

"You move with impact, omnipresent" he noted. "Efficient. Dangerous. But too predictable for a class two."

He thrust the staff forward—I barely blinked out in time, reappearing behind him.

He was already turning.

Crack.

The staff caught me across the ribs. I staggered, breath knocked from my lungs, and teleported again to avoid the second strike.

I hit the ground on one knee, gasping.

He didn't press—he just waited. Analyzing.

"You're not like the others," I said, standing.

He rushed me this time—fast. The staff was a blur, sweeping low, then high. I dodged the first, barely ducked the second. I went for his wrist—flash—but he dropped to one knee, anchoring the weapon into the floor, and used it to vault himself back.

Too smart. Too fast. I needed to be unpredictable.

I teleported—into the air above him.

He looked up—eyes narrowing just before I dropped down. Flash—I blinked behind him, reaching for the back of his neck.

But nothing happened.

The moment I touched him, I felt resistance—like trying to move a stone welded to the earth. I recoiled as energy sparked between us, a low frequency hum like static under my skin.

It didn't work.

He turned, fast, and drove the butt of the staff into my ribs. Air shot from my lungs as I stumbled back, landing hard on a cracked tile.

"Your trick doesn't work on me," he said, voice cool, clinical. "I planned for you."

I pushed to my feet, chest burning, hands shaking. That had never happened before. Everyone else—clone, wizard, whoever—if I touched them, I could step. But not him.

I reached out again, instinct taking over—flash—

And nothing.

Again, I was stuck. Trapped in the same space as him. He twisted, grabbed my wrist mid-grab, and swung me hard into a broken kiosk. Plastic and metal cracked around me. I rolled to avoid the second hit. His staff shattered the counter where my head had just been.

Okay. No teleporting him. Fine. I'd just have to fight.

I came in low, ducking a sweep of his staff and driving a punch toward his side. He blocked with the shaft, twisted his body, and countered with a knee to my chest. I reeled back, gasping.

Every movement was precise. Trained. He wasn't just some flashy fighter—he was a technician. He knew my timing, my distance. He began looking towards the sky.

"Can't you feel it Nathan? Oh my. Every place, every time. The Visitor can, you're almost there!" he said.

I didn't answer.

I feinted left, then blinked behind a nearby table—not behind him. I grabbed a broken piece of chair, then blinked again, reappearing beside him with a wide swing.

He blocked it, but barely—splinters rained between us.

Now he looked at me differently. Less smug.

I pressed.

Ducking in, I landed two body shots before he shoved me away with the shaft of his weapon. He spun it wide, trying to trip me—I blinked up to the second floor walkway, caught my breath, then dropped straight down on him with a kick.

He took the hit, rolled back, and came up fast—crackling energy pulsing along the length of his staff now.

I dodged the first jab, then the second—each one striking the floor with enough force to leave a scorch mark. I blinked to his flank, threw a hook—

He caught it.

"Enough," he growled, and slammed the staff into the floor.

A shockwave rippled out from the point sending me flying backwards into a nearby store. I had fallen unconscious due to my injuries and exhaustion. I had reached my limit with Deathstep.

Lance moved with purpose, his bare feet pounding across the tile as his flip flops had long fallen off. Dagger girl met him in full stride.

She was fast—faster than anyone else in the Cortex squad. Her twin blades shimmered with electricity, leaving trails of light as she weaved and spun. Her first strike came low, aiming for his side. Lance didn't dodge—he turned into it, letting the blade glance off his golden aura. Sparks flew, but he didn't slow down.

"You're quick," he said, "but not quick enough."

She darted around him in a blur, landing a second hit against his ribs. The aura dimmed slightly, but held. Lance reached for her, but she twisted out of his grip, dancing back with effortless grace.

She smirked. "That all you got?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stepped forward—just one step—and launched a heavy punch. She ducked under it and countered, blades crossing toward his chest in an X.

But Lance brought his arm up just in time. His chest took the hit, blood sprayed from his torso. She looked at the attack, stunned. Why would he allow an attack to hit like that?

He seized the opening.

Lance surged forward, catching her off guard. He clenched his fist, turned with his weight, and sent her tumbling into a nearby kiosk. Shelves cracked. Display signs clattered to the floor. Still, she barely rolled back to her feet, blades at the ready.

She lunged again, more focused this time, her strikes faster and more precise—aiming at joints, soft spots, gaps in his guard.

Lance gritted his teeth, absorbing the blows as his healing flickered under the strain. He let her get in close.

And then he struck.

One wide, sweeping motion—his arm caught her across the torso, lifting her off her feet and sending her crashing into the tile.

She stayed down this time, gasping, stunned, and finally unconscious. She was defeated. 

Lance stood over her, breathing heavy, aura still glowing like embers.

"Stay down rogue, I must deal with the monk." he said. 

And with that, he turned—already moving toward the sound of the others still fighting.