“Jude, please stop, please.” Lucy cried, “Jude, please stop… please.”
Her small hands reached for him as he toppled from the stool, collapsing in slow motion. His body shuddered, stiffening as he hit the ground with a dull thud, and a line of saliva trailed from his mouth, pooling at the corner of his lips. His eyes darted rapidly beneath half-closed lids trapped inside his own head.
She lunged forward, trying to catch him, but the weight of his limp form slipped through her grasp. Panic gripped her. “Jude! You're scaring me!"
Patrick leapt over the counter, sliding beside them just in time to ease Jude fully onto the floor.
His body was rigid, every muscle locked tight. His eyes flickered unnaturally, darting side to side, the whites tinged with emptiness.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lucy asked, terrified, her gaze fixed on the disturbing sight of Jude convulsing on the ground.
Patrick knelt beside Jude, his hands carefully sliding under Jude's head, lowering him to the floor with a steady motion. His brow furrowed his face tight with concern. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, tapping Jude's cheek in a desperate attempt to bring him back. Jude’s eyes flickered aimlessly, his muscles twitching like something had fried his brain.
“It looks like a Synaptic Meltdown…” He clenched his jaw, fury building as he glanced toward Tom, kneeling on the floor with blood smeared under his nose.
Patrick snapped, "What the hell did you show him?"
Tom wiped his bloody nose, leaning back against the counter, his face a picture of bitter defiance. “How is this my fault?”
Tom gritted his teeth as he tried to push himself off the floor, but his legs refused to cooperate. His hands scrambled for support, gripping the counter. "He is the one digging in my head!" Tom shouted, his hands trembling as they wiped more blood from his nose. "Fucking idiot thought he could mess with me."
Tom's body trembled as he wiped his bloodied nose, a bitter smirk creeping across his face. The attempt to stand was almost futile—his legs were still numb, a telltale sign of his own ability spiralling out of control. His chest heaved with frustration.
Tom was a mimic. He could copy and use anyone's abilities or even skills. But controlling and mastering was ultimately another story.
Every time he borrowed a skill, it twisted, slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fists, leaving nothing but chaos in its wake. It was a useless power, unreliable.
“Fucking idiot wanted to mess with me," he spat through clenched teeth. The blood trickled down from his nose, dripping onto the floor. "So I paid him back. It's not my problem; he couldn’t handle it. Messing with the wrong crowd.” He leaned back against the counter finally, yet his smirk faltered.
Lucy knelt beside Jude, her small hands trembling as she wiped away the slick trail of drool from the corner of his mouth. Her voice was about to crack. “Jude, please… come back. You’re scaring me.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at Patrick, "Bring him back. Do something!”
Patrick’s face was of helplessness. His hands hovered uselessly over Jude’s body as if willing something—anything—to work. He muttered, "I don’t know what to do… I really don’t."
Patrick’s usual calm was crumbling, his hands twitching in indecision as panic crawled up his spine. His eyes darted from Jude’s convulsing body to Tomas, who was slumped against the counter, wiping blood from his face like it was an inconvenience rather than a consequence.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Patrick’s voice lashed out. “If you kill his sleeve, the kid is doomed! And I’ll make sure Len knows exactly what happened!”
Tom's eyes flared as he pushed himself upright, his voice spitting venom. “It’s none of your damn business! And it sure as hell ain’t mine if he burns in hell.” His face twisted into something ugly.
Patrick’s hands clenched into fists, trying to grasp the little control he had left. “What were you thinking, Tom? I can’t help him if you don’t tell me!” His voice was louder now, panic creeping in with every word. “If he connects back, we lose him. You’ve killed him, you idiot! And probably just wrecked everything Len had planned for him!”
Tom grunted as he gripped the counter, pulling himself up with shaky arms, his legs still refusing to cooperate, but the pain starting to throb. His face contorted as he could feel the wave of pain. "What the fuck..." he muttered, breathless from the effort. “I’m the one with a mole in my head, but somehow he’s the victim? Fucking asshole, unbelievable.”
He paused, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the memory he was about to share had been clawing at the edges of his mind. His gaze grew distant. "I was thinking... about the first time I went to the arena," he said, almost to himself. “It was the day I met him... Lazaro, fighting you...”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as Tom’s words sank in, a grim realisation settling over his face. “No wonder…” he muttered, shaking his head. Without breaking his focus, he glanced at Lucy. “Kid, there’s a red bag in the bathroom. Go get it for me. Now.”
Lucy didn’t hesitate. She shot to her feet, her legs moving as fast as she could. She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly as she sprinted.
“The kid’s not ready, Tommy,” he muttered as if talking to himself more than anyone else. His hand hovered briefly before he lightly tapped Jude’s cheek, his voice softening, coaxing.
“Come on, Jude. It’s too early for you to check out,” he whispered, his fingers gripping Jude’s shoulders, giving a gentle shake. “We haven’t even shown you the best part of the map yet. Think about Marta. Think about your kid.” He tried to smile, but the worry behind his eyes betrayed him.
Tom pushed himself up, bracing against the counter, and the stiffness in his legs started to give way. He grabbed the bottle, tilted it to his lips, and took a long, careless gulp. "He’s not dying, for fuck’s sake," he scoffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Patrick shot him a glare, his patience wearing thin. "No wonder Lazaro ran off instead of dealing with you."
Tom's expression darkened while blood began to trickle from his nose again, unnoticed in his rising fury. "What do you mean by that?" He wiped the blood with his hand with a dangerous calm. "What the fuck?"
Patrick didn’t flinch. His eyes bore into Tom. "Go home, Tomas, you're drunk. You’re not helping. Just... fucking go."
Lucy burst back into the store, her breath coming in ragged gasps, clutching the red bag tightly in her hands. “I found it!” she called out, thrusting the bag toward Patrick.
Patrick barely looked up as he tore open the bag, rummaging through its contents. His fingers closed around a sleek and needle-tipped device resembling an EpiPen. He yanked it out.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Lucy, wide-eyed and confused, leaned closer. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Neural Epipen—should bring him back.” Without hesitation, he plunged the needle into Jude’s thigh through the fabric of his pants. The reaction was almost immediate. Jude’s body jerked as he took in a sharp, ragged breath, his back arching off the ground. And then, just as suddenly, he slumped back down, unconscious once more.
“He passed out,” Lucy whispered.
Patrick nodded, though his eyes remained locked on Jude’s still form.
"He’ll be fine, kid." Tom, leaning against the counter, spat out his words with a twisted smirk. "The devil looks after his own." He grabbed his jacket and rifle and stormed out of the store without another glance.
----------------------------------------
Jude blinked himself awake, the room cloaked in darkness. His shirt, clean but unfamiliar, clung to his body, the faint scent of soap reminding him he wasn’t where he last remembered. Beside him, Lucy lay curled up like a kitten, her body pressed against his side, thumb tucked into her mouth.
His brow furrowed. Eight years old and still sucking her thumb. Shouldn’t she have grown out of that by now? He wondered if it mattered, then felt the urge to consult Barbara or Abel, but the thought of their voices breaking the quiet made him hesitate. Instead, he gently shifted his arm from beneath her, careful not to wake her. Her thumb stayed where it was, lips puckered around it, her chest rising and falling with deep, peaceful breaths. She didn’t stir.
Jude sighed, sliding out of bed like he was sneaking away from a sleeping but adorable lion. Finally, his feet hit the cold floor, and he straightened, casting one more glance at Lucy. Heavy sleeper. Just like Marta.
He tiptoed across the room, slipping out the door of the prefab house. The cool night air hit him like a splash of water, filling his lungs as he took a deep breath. He rubbed his temples, trying to remember… but his mind was blank. An entire day—gone. No flashes of memory, no hints, just a fog where there should have been thoughts.
Jude wandered aimlessly, the weight of an invisible clock ticking away in his head. Less than 24 hours left, and nothing felt resolved. No relief washed over him—just a hollow pit in his chest. He wanted to go home, but something gnawed at him, unfinished.
Turning a corner, the dim light from the nearby lamppost caught a figure sitting on an oil barrel. Tom sat there, hunched over, smoking a cigarette, the rifle resting lazily across his lap. Jude blinked, squinting through his exhaustion. Smoking next to an oil barrel was an invitation to disaster.
A shape moved from the other side of the road. Jude froze, his pulse quickening. For a split second, it looked like something sinister—something wrong—was crawling across the ground, smoke curling off its form like a living shadow. His mind screamed Eidolon. But then he blinked, rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes, and the dark figure became Lazaro, walking in his black jumpsuit and returning to the gas station.
The relief was momentary, his body still tense. What did I just see? He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that had settled in his gut.
Tom, oblivious, took a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing faintly in the dark. "Laz!"
“What are you doing here?”
Tom shifted on the oil barrel, the cigarette smouldering between his fingers. “I came to talk,” he called out. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
“I don’t want to fight, Tommy,” Lazaro said.
“Neither do I,” Tom replied.
Jude pressed himself against the rough wall, blending into the shadows. He knew better than to eavesdrop, but curiosity had a way of rooting him to the spot.
“What happened? What did I do?” Tomas's words felt more like a plea than a question.
Lazaro leaned back against the wall. “Nothing. This isn’t about you.”
Tom’s shoulders slumped. “So, you just... forgot about me? About us?” His words carried the kind of raw hurt that comes from love slipping through fingers.
Lazaro exhaled, his eyes focused somewhere far away as if searching for words in the night air. “No… that’s the sad part,” he murmured. “It’s not that I forgot or that I stopped caring. It’s… I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t even know when it started, but it’s been slipping away for a while.”
Tom’s breath halted for a second, “It’s because of the disconnection, isn’t it? You’re different now. That’s why.”
Lazaro shook his head, his voice softer, almost apologetic. “No, it’s not that. It’s not anything like that. I just… don’t feel the same anymore. It didn’t happen overnight. It was gradual, like something just fading out of focus, until I woke up one day, and we made love and… it wasn’t there.”
Lazaro sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t sudden, Tom,” he said. “It didn’t happen overnight. I think it’s just been slipping away, little by little. Maybe the reset made me see things clearer—like I’m seeing the world again, but different this time.” He paused, staring at the ground as if the words hurt to say. “I don’t know when it happened. I just… stopped feeling… in love.”
The silence hung between them, thick and painful. Tom’s voice trembled when he finally spoke, his eyes wide with desperate hope. “Do you think… if I tried harder… if I worked at it—could we fix it? Could we go back to how it was, could we—?”
Lazaro cut Tom off, his voice steady but laced with a finality that left no room for argument. “No. It’s not about working on it, Tommy. It’s just… gone.”
He glanced up, the sadness in his eyes answering before his words could. “It’s not you, Tom. It’s not about something you did or didn’t do.” He took a breath as if the following words needed more strength to be said. “Could I fall in love with you again? Maybe. But I don’t see that happening.” He shook his head. “You’re a good man, Tomas. You really are. But… I can’t.”
"Fifty years, Laz... how am I supposed to just move on?" Tom's voice cracked, barely holding back the sobs, his words thick with grief. Jude could hear the tremble, feel the weight of those years in Tom's shaky breath. The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the world paused for a moment to absorb the heartache.
Lazaro didn't respond right away. Instead, he rested a hand on Tom’s shoulder, an awkward but gentle gesture, like he was saying goodbye without words. Then, without looking back, Lazaro turned and walked away. As he passed Jude, who had been quietly watching from the shadows, Lazaro gave a brief glance. “Can you help him?”
Without another word, Jude slowly approached, the crunch of gravel under his feet the only sound in the thick silence. He crouched down, “Hey,” Jude’ whispered. "Do you want me to...?"
Tom lifted his head, the dim light catching the redness in his swollen eyes. The tears had left streaks down his face, and though the night hid most of the pain, it was clear in his expression. He stared at Jude, his voice rough but sharp. "What are you going to do? Erase him from my memory?"
There was no anger, just raw, unfiltered hurt. His gaze pierced through the darkness, accusing but also pleading. Jude wasn’t sure if it was a real question or just Tom pushing back against the weight of what had happened, but it hit harder than anything else that night.
Jude spotted an old wooden crate near the barrel and dragged it over, setting it down with a soft thud in front of Tom. He lowered himself onto it, legs bent, hands resting on his knees.
Meeting Tom’s eyes, he took a breath, locking with Tom’s red-rimmed stare. "I’m not going to erase anything. That’s not how it works," he said quietly. "But... I can offer you a little cheat."
The connection was made.
Tom blinked, confusion mixed with exhaustion clouding his expression.
Jude continued, "You know how bad moments—when they happen, they feel like they’ll never end? But with time, they start to fade, become... bearable? And eventually, they’re just memories, something you can look at from a distance without all the pain."
Tom’s eyes glistened as the tears dried on his cheeks, the hurt still there, but something in him softened, even if just for a moment.
Jude leaned in a little closer. "It’s a little cheat, but even bad memories... they can turn out to be good ones once time works its magic. It changes how you feel about them, makes them hurt less until they don’t hurt at all."
Tom's shoulders, once tense and hunched, started to ease. The tears that had once streamed down his face were now dried in uneven streaks on his skin, leaving behind only the traces of pain. His eyes, though red and tired, no longer brimmed with the same intensity of grief. He wasn’t crying anymore.
Tom stared ahead, almost resigned. "I don't feel it," he muttered.
Jude pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. "That was the point," he replied.
Tom rose as well, his movements slower now, as if the weight of everything had finally settled on him. He reached out, placing a hand on Jude’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly gentle. "I’m sorry I showed you the arena; I was an ass, and I just..." Tom said, "I should’ve focused on something else."
"The Arena?"
Jude’s chest tightened, a dull throb turning into a pounding that he couldn't ignore. His breath hitched, quick and uneven, as if the air had thickened around him.
His mind spun, fragments of memories flashing through like pieces of a broken mirror—faces in banners, voices of a crowd, dark moments cloaking into smoke—things he couldn’t quite a place but knew were important.
His heart raced faster, the overwhelming rush of information crashing into him all at once, and for the first time that day, clarity hit.
Level 12.
E10.
E11.
The Arena.
Everything seemed to point in that direction, the answers swirling just out of reach, waiting for him there. His mind latched onto it, but with every heartbeat, the weight of the ticking clock pressed harder. Less than 24 hours. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he tried to steady his breathing.
How? How was he supposed to pull this off?
image [https://i.imgur.com/72f74Li.png]