Blood and Sparks: The Edge of Power

The knife felt flimsy in my hand—some cheap serrated thing I'd used to hack apart frozen pizza. Now it was my lifeline. Rylan slumped against the wall, eyes half-closed, blood still seeping through the bandages I'd slapped on him. He was fading, and I didn't need my system to tell me that.

"We can't stay here," I said, voice low, like the Skraiths might hear me through the walls. "That thing—it saw you. They'll come back."

Rylan grunted, shifting to sit straighter. "Yeah. They don't quit." He coughed, wincing. "Got a car?"

"Basement garage. Old piece of junk, but it runs." I hesitated. "You good to move?"

"Gotta be." He braced a hand against the wall and hauled himself up, swaying. I grabbed his arm before he could topple, and he didn't pull away. His skin was clammy, too cold.

My system buzzed. Subject 'Rylan' Condition: Deteriorating. Recommend Immediate Action.

"No shit," I muttered under my breath, steering him toward the door. The couch scraped as I shoved it aside, the sound too loud in the quiet. I froze, listening. Nothing. Yet.

We stumbled into the hall, Rylan leaning hard on me. The building was dead—lights flickering, a faint smell of smoke creeping in. Everyone else had bolted, or worse. I didn't want to think about worse.

The stairwell to the garage was dim, concrete steps stained with something dark I hoped wasn't blood. Every creak of our shoes echoed, and I kept glancing back, expecting claws and glowing weapons to burst through the door. Rylan's breathing rasped in my ear, ragged but steady. My own chest burned—not from effort, but that hum, that borrowed regeneration keeping me sharp.

The garage was a tomb—cars abandoned, one with its driver's door hanging open like someone bailed mid-escape. My beat-up sedan sat in the corner, a faded blue relic from college days. I fished the keys from my pocket, hands slick with sweat, and got Rylan into the passenger seat. He slumped against the window, leaving a red smear on the glass.

I slid behind the wheel, engine sputtering to life after two tries. "Where to?" I asked, gripping the steering wheel like it'd keep me sane.

"West side," he mumbled. "Old warehouse district. My people… might be there."

"Might?" I shot him a look, but he didn't answer, eyes drifting shut. Great. I was driving blind with a half-dead superhero and aliens tearing up the city. Perfect day.

The streets were a mess—wrecked cars, shattered glass, smoke thick enough to choke on. I swerved around a flipped bus, tires crunching over debris. Something darted past in my peripheral—a Skraith, maybe, or just shadows playing tricks. My knuckles whitened on the wheel.

A blast rocked the block ahead, fire blooming orange against the sky. I slammed the brakes, Rylan jolting forward with a groan. "What the hell—"

"Keep going," he croaked. "Through it."

"Through that?" But he didn't answer, and the hum in me pulsed harder, like it agreed with him. Screw it. I floored it, weaving through flames and rubble, heart hammering. The heat licked at the car, paint blistering, but we made it—barely.

The warehouse district loomed ahead, skeletal buildings hunched against the chaos. I pulled into an alley, cutting the engine. Silence hit like a punch, broken only by Rylan's shallow breaths.

"Stay here," I said, grabbing the knife. "I'll check it out."

He cracked an eye open. "Don't die."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

I slipped out, crouching low, the knife cold against my palm. The air stank of burnt metal and something sour—alien, maybe. My system flickered. Mimicry Active: 22 Hours Remaining. Good to know I wouldn't bleed out if this went south.

The nearest warehouse was a rusted husk, doors hanging off hinges. I crept closer, ears straining. Voices—human ones—filtered through the dark.

"—lost him near 17th. Skraiths everywhere—"

"—can't hold this position—"

I edged inside, sticking to shadows. Three figures stood near a stack of crates—two guys, one woman, all ragged but alive. The woman had a rifle slung over her shoulder, her hands crackling with faint blue sparks. Another superhuman.

I stepped forward, knife raised, and they spun on me fast. "Whoa—easy!" I blurted. "I've got Rylan. He's hurt."

The woman lowered her hands, sparks fading. "Rylan? Where?"

"Car, outside. He's bleeding bad."

She didn't hesitate, brushing past me with the others in tow. I followed, pulse still racing. They hauled Rylan from the sedan, laying him on the warehouse floor. The woman—short, wiry, with a buzzcut—knelt beside him, hands glowing as she pressed them to his wounds.

"He'll make it," she said, voice clipped. "Barely."

I exhaled, tension bleeding out. "Good. Uh—I'm Kai."

"Liv," she replied, not looking up. "That's Jace and Tucker." The two guys nodded—Jace tall and lanky, Tucker built like a linebacker. Neither smiled.

"Thanks for grabbing him," Jace said, voice low. "Most civvies would've run."

"Yeah, well, I'm not most civvies." The words slipped out before I could stop them, sharper than I meant.

Liv glanced at me, eyes narrowing. "You enhanced?"

I froze. "What?"

"Superhuman," she said, like it was obvious. "You don't move like a normie."

"I'm… not exactly." How the hell did I explain the system? "It's complicated."

She smirked, turning back to Rylan. "Ain't it always."

I didn't argue. The hum in me buzzed, steady and alive. Twenty-two hours left—and counting.