Chapter 11: Training Montage and Romance
A week into the Guild War, New Orleans had become a city of invisible battle lines.
The French Quarter still welcomed tourists with jazz music and overpriced drinks, but locals knew which streets belonged to which faction after dark. Graffiti tags marked territorial boundaries in code only criminals understood, and certain bars served only certain families, their allegiances as old as the buildings themselves.
Bodies had started appearing in the river.
He refused to participate directly, despite Jean-Luc's increasingly pointed suggestions about Guild loyalty and family obligations. Instead, he threw himself into training with the desperate intensity of someone who knew the real war hadn't even begun yet.
"Focus," Brother Voodoo said from his position on the dock behind the bayou house. "The Void energy responds to intention, not desperation. Breathe. Visualize. Then create."
Sweat dripped from his forehead despite the morning's relative cool as he held his hands out over the dark water. Pink-purple energy flickered around his fingers like captured lightning, responding to his emotional state with increasing sensitivity. The construct he was attempting—a simple rope bridge spanning the narrow channel—kept dissolving after ten or fifteen seconds.
"I can feel it," he said through gritted teeth. "The shape, the weight, even the texture. But the moment I stop concentrating—"
"It fades because you're forcing it." Voodoo moved closer, his presence radiating the kind of calm that came from decades of meditation and spiritual discipline. "Void energy is like water—it flows where it will, not where you command it to go."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
"It shouldn't be. Each use calls to the space between worlds, wrong-soul. Something there notices you, watches your progress with interest."
A chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the bayou breeze. "What kind of something?"
"I cannot say. But lately, when you practice, I sense attention from the Void itself. As if your power use is... broadcasting your location to entities that exist between realities."
"Should I stop training?"
Voodoo considered the question with the gravity of someone who'd spent his life walking the line between worlds. "No. You will need these abilities for what's coming. But be aware that each step forward brings you to the attention of forces that may not have your best interests at heart."
"Story of my life."
"Indeed."
The next attempt lasted twenty-three seconds before dissolving back into scattered energy. Progress, but not fast enough for his liking. Around New Orleans, Guild members were dying while he practiced party tricks in a bayou.
But Sinister's the real threat, he reminded himself. The Guild War is just a distraction, a way to keep everyone busy while he works on his real plan.
"Again," Voodoo commanded. "This time, accept that the construct wants to exist. Don't force it into being—invite it."
The philosophical distinction felt like splitting hairs until he actually tried it. Instead of commanding the Void energy into a specific shape, he visualized what he wanted and then... asked. Politely. Like requesting a favor from a friend rather than demanding obedience from a tool.
The rope bridge materialized with startling clarity, solid enough to hold weight, detailed enough to show individual strands of energy woven together. He stepped onto it cautiously, then with growing confidence as it supported his full weight.
Thirty-seven seconds before it faded.
"Better," Voodoo observed. "Much better. But remember—each success makes you more visible to whatever watches from the Void. Be careful what answers your call."
"You're getting stronger."
Marissa's observation came as they walked through City Park in the late afternoon, sharing a bag of peanuts and watching street performers entertain families who had no idea their city was tearing itself apart in the shadows. She'd insisted on these normal moments—picnics, dinners at her apartment, cooking lessons that usually ended in smoke alarms and takeout orders.
"Stronger how?"
"The way you move. More confident, like you know exactly what your body can do." She tossed peanuts to a cluster of ducks near the lagoon, studying his face with detective's eyes. "Also, your eyes do that glowing thing more often now."
"They glow?"
"Pink-purple flicker when you're emotional or concentrating hard. It's actually kind of beautiful." She bumped his shoulder with hers, a casual intimacy that still sent warmth shooting through his chest. "Like having mood ring eyes."
"That's not embarrassing at all."
"I like it. Means I always know what you're feeling."
They found a bench beneath an ancient oak tree, Spanish moss creating natural curtains around their small space of privacy. The park felt removed from the violence simmering in other parts of the city, a pocket of normalcy where Guild politics didn't matter and supernatural powers were just an interesting quirk rather than a deadly secret.
"How bad is it getting?" she asked quietly. "The war, I mean."
"Bad. Three more bodies this week. Jean-Luc's talking about bringing in reinforcements from other cities."
"And you're staying neutral?"
"I'm trying to stop it." The admission felt like a confession. "Both sides are being played, manipulated into destroying each other. But they're too angry to see it."
"By who?"
"Someone who collects things. Artifacts, information, people with useful abilities." He'd told her about Sinister in general terms—a criminal scientist with resources and connections, obsessed with mutant genetics. Not the full truth about immortal mutant masterminds and comic book villains, but enough to explain why he couldn't simply walk away from Guild politics.
"Sounds like someone I should arrest."
"Probably. If we could find him."
"We?"
The pronoun had slipped out without conscious thought, but he realized he meant it. Somewhere in the past two weeks, between dinner interruptions and late-night conversations that lasted until dawn, Marissa had become part of his life in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
"If you want to be. This could get dangerous."
"Remy, I'm a cop in New Orleans. Dangerous is Tuesday." She leaned against his shoulder, and he caught the scent of her shampoo beneath the park's mixture of jasmine and car exhaust. "Besides, someone needs to keep you from doing anything too stupid."
"I don't do stupid things."
"You jumped through a third-story window rather than use the stairs."
"That was tactical."
"That was showing off."
He was about to argue when she kissed him, cutting off his protests with the kind of direct action that made him forget why they'd been disagreeing. When they broke apart, both breathing harder than the mild exertion warranted, pink energy flickered around his eyes in response to emotions he was still learning how to process.
"There it is," she said softly, reaching up to trace his cheekbone with one finger. "Whatever you are, whoever you really are, I see you."
The words hit him like a physical blow. She sees you. Not Remy LeBeau, not the charming thief with Guild connections, but him—the displaced soul trying to build something authentic in a world that didn't know he existed.
"Marissa—"
"I know you can't tell me everything. I know there are secrets you're keeping, probably for my own safety." Her hand moved to rest against his chest, over his heart that beat faster than enhanced physiology could explain. "But this? Us? This is real, isn't it?"
"Yes." The word came out hoarse with emotion he hadn't known he was feeling. "This is real."
"Then that's enough for now."
They walked back toward the Quarter as twilight painted the sky in shades that matched his energy signature, hand in hand like any normal couple enjoying a normal evening in a normal world. The illusion lasted until they reached the edge of Marissa's neighborhood.
His precognitive sense exploded with warnings.
Ambush. Three attackers. Marissa's a target because she's with me.
"Down!"
He tackled her behind a parked car as the first knife sailed through the space where her head had been a moment earlier. Three figures emerged from the shadows between buildings—Assassins Guild members, moving with the fluid grace of professional killers.
"NOPD!" Marissa shouted, rolling away from him while drawing her service weapon. "Drop your weapons!"
"Nothing personal, Detective," called the lead assassin, a woman with short-cropped hair and the kind of scars that suggested a long career in violence. "You're just in the wrong place with the wrong person."
The fight erupted across twenty yards of residential street.
He threw charged cards in precise arcs, creating explosions that forced the assassins to scatter while avoiding damage to civilian property. Pink energy flared as he manifested his first combat construct—a barrier that deflected throwing knives while giving Marissa cover to return fire.
This is what she meant about synergy.
Her police training complemented his supernatural abilities perfectly. While he drew their attention with flashy energy attacks, she flanked them with tactical precision, using cover and angles the way he used precognition and enhanced agility. They moved together without conscious coordination, each covering the other's blind spots.
A throwing knife missed her ear by inches. He charged the streetlight above the attacker's head, the explosion showering them with sparks and broken glass. She put two rounds center mass while they were blinded, non-lethal shots that dropped them without permanent damage.
The whole fight lasted ninety seconds.
Afterward, as police sirens approached in response to shots fired, they stood among three unconscious assassins and the smoking remains of his energy constructs. Marissa's jacket had blood spatter from someone's broken nose, but her hands were steady as she secured the scene.
"This is your life," she said, not quite a question.
"Part of it."
"Guild politics, supernatural powers, people trying to kill you on residential streets."
"That's the dangerous part I mentioned."
"I get it." She holstered her weapon, moving to check the unconscious attackers for serious injuries. "Just... don't leave me in the dark, okay? If I'm going to be part of this, I need to know what we're facing."
"I promise."
The words felt like another lie as soon as he spoke them. How could he explain transmigration, comic book knowledge, the full scope of what they were really up against? How much truth could their relationship survive?
"Good." She stood, brushing glass fragments from her jacket. "Because whoever sent these people, they're escalating. And I don't like being threatened."
As backup units arrived to process the scene, he realized two things with crystal clarity:
First, he was falling for Detective Marissa Chen in a way that had nothing to do with supernatural charm and everything to do with finding someone who saw his dangerous life and chose to stay anyway.
Second, the Guild War was putting her in danger just by association, and that was unacceptable.
Time to end the war, one way or another.
Even if it meant facing truths about the Heart of New Orleans that he wasn't ready to confront.
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