Chapter 3

"So, Doc," Locke started, breaking the silence that had settled between them like an uninvited guest. "Ever had any patients turn into superheroes after their hospital stay? Because I'm thinking," he framed his hands, 'Locke, the Indomitable,' has a nice ring to it, right?" He looked over his shoulder expectantly.

The doctor chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mirth behind her glasses. "Most of my patients are more focused on walking out of here than flying, but I'll keep an eye out for your debut."

As they turned a corner, Locke's gaze fell on a series of paintings that lined the hallway—scenes of serene and vibrant landscapes. His wheelchair slowed to a crawl as he observed a sunset frozen in time.

"Did you know," he mused aloud, "that art can heal the soul? I never gave it much thought until recently. But maybe there's merit to the tales." He chuckled, "perhaps you should prescribe a dose of painting to your patients. It might just save on the medical bills."

The doctor smiled, playing along. "I'll consider it. maybe we can start with the tale of Locke, the artist who conquered his demons with a brush."

The boy waved his hand dismissively, "no such thing, their health bars are too big."

"Health... bar?" The doctor questioned.

Locke laughed, "A gaming term. Simply means that my demons have yet to fall to my brush entirely."

It was then that he noticed the eclectic mix of individuals they passed. A man with a nose so bandaged it looked like a beak, a child zooming past with a leg in a cast decorated like a pirate's treasure map, and a nurse with hair so wildly multicolored it could have been a signal flare for the lost and disoriented.

"Ever notice how hospitals are like crossroads?" He mused aloud, tapping his finger against the metal frame of the wheelchair. "People from all walks of life, converging in a single place because of fate, or bad luck, or maybe just bad timing."

The doctor, maneuvering him through the dense crown with an ease that suggested she'd done this more times than she cared to count, glanced down at him, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. "That's a rather poetic way to look at it. Most just complain about the food."

Locke chuckled, the sound echoing slightly off the sterile walls. "Oh, I have my complaints about the jello in the cafeteria. However, right now, I'm more interested in the stories. Like that kid with the treasure map cast—bet he has a tale to tell."

The doctor smiled, her steps slowing as they approached a quieter wing of the hospital. "You're not wrong. Every patient has a story. Some are more dramatic than others, but all of them are important."

Their light-hearted exchange was cut short as they approached a door, the number on it matching the one they had been seeking. The atmosphere shifted, a tangible weight settling in the air as Locke prepared to face Delilah.

The doctor's voice softened, her playful demeanor fading into professionalism. "We're here," she announced, her hand resting on the door handle. "Remember, she might not be able to respond, but she can hear you. Your voice could be the best medicine she gets today."

Locke nodded, his earlier bravado fading into a solemn resolve. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. The door swung open, and they entered the room, the sound of their arrival a whisper in the hushed space.

As Locke's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, the sight of Delilah, so still and fragile under a mound of bandages, struck him harder than he had anticipated. She seemed a shadow of the vibrant soul he knew, her once animated features now unnervingly quiet. The sight sent a wave of emotion crashing over him, memories of her laughter and unwavering strength flickering like old film reels in his mind. A chill coursed through him, the stark contrast causing him to blink back tears.

He inched forward, drawn by an invisible force, his hand trembling as it reached out towards hers—Delilah's hand, once so full of life, now lying motionless on the bedsheet. His fingers hovered mere inches away, yearning for the comfort of her touch, the assurance that she was still there with him. Yet, as if repelled by a magnetic force, he hesitated, his hand freezing mid-air.

He felt his chest tighten, a mix of fear, hope, and the unbearable thought of causing her any more pain. The room was silent, save for the sound of his teeth grinding together. His hand retracted, curling into a fist as if to hold onto the courage that seemed to slip through his fingers.

Locke swallowed hard. He wanted to speak, to tell Delilah everything that had happened, to reassure her, and perhaps himself, that things would be okay. But words failed him, the usual eloquence and humor that came so naturally to him now lost, like a boat in a turbulent sea.

He took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptics and the underlying, unspoken fear that clung to the walls of the hospital room. Locke's gaze lingered on Delilah, his heart aching with a mix of love and sorrow.

The doctor, standing a respectful distance away, offered a small, encouraging smile, her presence a silent support in the heavy atmosphere.

Finally, Locke found his voice, though it was barely a whisper, fragile and laden with emotion. "Hey, Delilah," he began, his voice cracking. "It's me, Locke. I...I just wanted you to know I'm here." His words, simple yet charged with meaning, filled the room.

His gaze dropped to his lap, his fingers digging into his knees, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." droplets fell onto the back of his hands. "I thought the worst. I thought, I thought—" he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, "it doesn't matter, because you're here, safe. You'll... get better, I know it."

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his hand inching closer to Delilah's once again. This time, he didn't stop himself, gently taking her hand in his, it was cold, so cold. "I keep telling myself you'll be up and about in no time, bossing me around, making sure I don't get into too much trouble," he said, a soft laugh mingling with his tears.

His hair now veiled his face, yet he didn't take his eyes off of her, "isn't that right, mom?"

In that fleeting moment, it was as if a spark of electricity had leaped between their fingertips—a quick, vibrant dance of energy before her hand seemed to clasp his in return. Locke knew it was most likely a trick of his hopeful imagination, yet he desperately wished for it to be real. The sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, yet the lingering feeling of pressure, the ghost of warmth, haunted him. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving behind nothing but the cool touch of absence.

"It's time to go," the doctor murmured softly beside him.

Locke found himself unable to respond immediately, lost in the storm of emotions that Delilah's frail image had stirred within him. It was only after a few long, heavy minutes that he managed a nod, his heart heavy, committing every detail of her presence to memory—the pallor of her skin, the peaceful yet pained expression on her face, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.

These details etched themselves into his mind as the door hissed shut behind them. It was only when they had made it midway down the corridor that Locke spoke again. "Her spine..." he began, his watery gaze rising to meet the doctor's. "The steel beam—" he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, hiccupping as a salty taste filled his mouth. "Her spine's not going to be alright, is it?"

The doctor and Locke shared a moment of silence, before she shook her head. "She will never walk again."

Locke felt an overwhelming wave of powerlessness grip him, a kind of weakness that seemed to devour every ounce of his strength. He fought against it with everything he had—wanting to shout, to flail, to plead, and to shed tears for some form of relief or escape. But it was as if his body had become a stranger to him, his head unbearably heavy, his eyes fixed despairingly on his unmoving legs, silently urging them to carry him back to her side. Yet they refused, as if they too had abandoned him.

Trapped in this state, the wheelchair felt less like a tool for mobility and more like a personal jail cell—his very own set of iron bars for the crime of vulnerability.

Time lost its meaning to him; the cycle of day and night blurring into irrelevance. His attention remained obsessively affixed to the painting before him, his eyes scanning its surface for any imperfection, any flaw that might justify the turmoil churning inside him. Despite knowing, somewhere deep down, that the painting was flawless—he had created it, after all—he couldn't shake the need to find some mistake, some tangible evidence of imperfection.

His gaze met the malevolent red eyes of the clown within the canvas, the same feeling of dread and danger that once surged through him in reality now resurrected by mere pigment and brushstrokes. A shaky finger pointed accusatorially at the figure, his voice barely a whisper, "you missed..." he questioned the silence, his head tilting in confusion. "Why? Why did you miss?"

Rising unsteadily to his feet on the bed, he stared down the painted clown, a mirror of confrontation. "Was it because you were too weak, too?" he mused, a hand covering his face in a moment of despair. "You failed, yet in a way, you succeeded. But who's really keeping score?"

Turning his back on the image, Locke lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his feet touching the cold reality of the floor beneath him. He reached out again, fingers dancing through the empty air towards the painting, as if to touch the intangible. "An endless dream of smoke and green, unblinking eyes suspended in the void. That's your legacy to me," he whispered.

In the wake of an expectant silence, the kind that screamed for a response where none would come, Locke turned his attention back to the canvas. A shiver crawled down his spine as he locked eyes with the painted figure of the clown, its gaze unyielding and unsettling. With a surge of resolve, he stood, his movements brisk and determined as he approached the painting. With trembling hands, he flipped the canvas to face the wall, as if by hiding the clown's gaze, he could also turn away from the emotions it stirred within him.

The moment the painting was out of sight, the oppressive air seemed to lift, leaving Locke in a state of cold, clammy relief.

"Talent is a terrifying thing," he whispered to himself, a sentiment felt deep in his bones. His gaze then drifted to the window, where he observed the stormy sky, a small, hopeful smile beginning to take shape on his lips.

"Rain."

Locke, having been given the green light to roam in his wheelchair unaided, took advantage of this freedom and made his way to the roof. What greeted him was a quiet vastness, the crunch of gravel underfoot marking his passage to a lonesome fence. There, he settled down, his eyes wandering the expanse of the sky, tracing the shapes of clouds, searching for something he couldn't quite name.

It wasn't long before he sensed a presence beside him, the familiar scent of lavender and honey wafting over, a comfort in the silent expanse of the rooftop. His father had found him, sidling up beside him with an understanding that words were not always necessary.

Breaking the silence, Locke voiced a longing, "I miss the Sakura tree that used to be in our garden."

His father chuckled, a sound that carried both warmth and a hint of nostalgia. "There was never a Sakura tree, Locke," he said, a statement that made the boy turn his head in surprise.

Seeing the confusion on his son's face, his father continued, "It was Anya's quirk, her... gift. You see, there wasn't a tree, but a painting. A beautiful painting of a Sakura tree overlooking a lake that you adored as a child. So, on rainy days, you and Anya would sit on the back porch, overlooking the pond. With her quirk, she'd bring that tree and its fluttering petals to life, just for you."

"Only when the rain came," Locke added, a note of wistfulness coloring his smile. He tilted his face upwards, letting the first drops of rain kiss his cheeks, a fleeting reminder of days painted with laughter and watercolors.

"She loved your laughter," his father murmured, his hand finding a resting place on Locke's shoulder, grounding and gentle. "I remember," he began, pausing as if the recollection was a fine wine to be savored, "how you'd chase after every puddle with those little boots, determined to make a splash." A soft push against Locke's shoulder came with a chuckle, "You and Anya, always returning as if you'd danced through a storm."

The tears that Locke had been holding back broke free, tracing paths down his cheeks. "I can't help but feel I've robbed Elijah and Isaiah of those moments," he confessed, his voice breaking as he attempted to brush the tears aside, to embody strength he scarcely felt. "If only I hadn't been so stubborn, perhaps Delilah would still—" His words were abruptly halted by a firmer squeeze on his shoulder.

"Stop," his father's voice came through, stern and laden with a pain mirroring Locke's own. "Don't you dare shoulder that blame." He locked eyes with Locke, his gaze intense, "do you hear me? You are just a boy." he implored, loosening his grip. "God knows, you're carrying more than enough weight as it is."

Silence, it fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain. Locke's grip on the wheelchair was white-knuckled, trembling and causing the wheel to rattle.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" his father's voice, deep and resonant, cut through.

Locke's head drooped, "No."

"That unsettling clown you painted... it spoke volumes," his father continued, drawing Locke's gaze upward once more. "Emory Lamora's son is no coward." He watched as his father moved to lean against the railing, overlooking the blur of life below. "Ever ponder on what makes a hero, Locke?"

Locke nodded, "Quite a bit, especially lately. Why?"

Facing him once again, Emory dipped his head in a nod, a mix of pride and melancholy in his eyes. "Because, my boy, you've got the heart of one." A dry laugh escaped him, "Although fate seems to have a peculiar sense of humor."

Locke's fingers curled into fists. His father's words had unearthed a familiar ache, one that traced back to a singular, defining absence in his life. Born with the telltale sign of a single joint in his pinky toe, a hallmark of those destined to awaken a quirk, Locke was a living question mark in a world where powers defined one's place.

The Strength Enhancement of his father, the Art Manifestation of his mother—these were the legacies that could have been his. A fusion of the two, or the emergence of one, was expected. Yet, when his fourth year came and went, marked by the loss of his mother and the absence of any manifested quirk, disappointment was an understatement. It was a collective sigh from his father, from the art world, all mourning the extinguished flame of Anya's legacy.

They could not fathom the depth of Locke's grief however, a wound that time had done little to heal. The thought gnawed at him—had he inherited his father's strength, could he have altered Delilah's fate?

"I know what you're thinking," his father said, breaking into his spiraling thoughts. The empathy in his voice coaxed Locke's gaze upward. His father crouched before him, hands resting reassuringly on his shoulders. "Don't lose yourself to those 'what ifs.'"

Locke gazed into his father's eyes, and saw the warmth and affection that had always been there.

Emory sighed, "The weight you've carried since you were four—the loss, the unspoken demands—it was never yours to bear alone. I'm sorry, son."

It was Locke's turn to smile, waving his hand dismissively, "I know. It's our family motto, right?"

Emory's brows rose in surprise before giving a misty-eyed smile, "Right."

"In Unity Across Bounds: Through Mountains, Seas, and Time, Together We Stand, Never Alone."

It was that night, that Locke went to sleep with a peaceful smile on his face. Though, it was short-lived.

"Welcome to the Court of Self, boy."