The Vacation [10]

There they were, at the top of the mansion, where the view was as breathtaking as the owner's bank account. The night wrapped everything in its starry cloak, and the moon? Well, the moon was the only one that didn't charge for its appearance.

"Stalkers? No, thank you. I prefer secret admirers, at least they have class," I said, with a smile that was sharper than a mother-in-law's tongue on a wedding day. My pose was relaxed, a contrast to the tension that could be cut with a knife — or with a sarcastic comment, which in my case, was the same thing.

Blake, the king of drama with his overcoat that seemed to have come straight out of a post-apocalyptic fashion show, was as still as the economy. His metal hand reflected the light of the stars, a bright reminder that sometimes, I went a little overboard with the jokes.

"That hand of yours… Can it tune into Netflix?" I asked, already envisioning the series marathon we could have. "Or is it just to impress the enemies with your high-tech cosplay?"

Blake finally turned around, his gaze as cold as the reception of a bad movie. "Who are you, huh?" he retorted, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Who am I?" The question echoed in my head as I stared at Blake, the glow from the island below us reflecting in his eyes. I could tell the truth, but where's the fun in that? Honesty is a double-edged sword, and I prefer to keep my humor to cut through the tension.

Then, with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain, I launched myself into the darkness of the night. "I am…" The pause was so long it could have been filled with commercials. "Groot." The mask hid my smile, but not the twinkle of mischief in my eyes.

Blake stared at me, his expression a perfect blend of confusion and surprise. "What?" He clearly didn't expect that answer. But before he could process the reference, I added, "What I mean to say is, 'I'm not your enemy',"

Blake stared at me, and I could swear he was doing a retrospective of his entire life — or maybe he was just trying to remember where he left his car keys. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" he shot back, with a tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

I could have answered, but I was interrupted by a sudden change. His eyes, once a peaceful blue, were now purple — not the beautiful purple of a sunset, but the threatening purple of a storm brewing. And then, as if summoned by a sorcerer with a questionable sense of humor, a soldier in black armor emerged from Blake's shadow, like an extra from a low-budget fantasy movie.

"Yeah, things never go the way I want, do they?" I murmured, more to myself than to him. The atmosphere had changed, and not for the better. It was the kind of chill that makes you think of all the times you've slipped on wet floors — and no, it's not a pleasant feeling.

The armored giant advanced, his silhouette cutting through the night like a dark promise. "Two meters of pure homicidal intent and a sword that would make Cloud Strife feel inadequate," I thought, while maintaining the pose of someone who wasn't worried in the slightest.

"Didn't you hear the part where I said I'm not your enemy?" I threw the question out there, hoping reason still held some value. Meanwhile, my fingers danced discreetly, weaving the air with the promise of an illusory cut. I just needed a moment.

Blake, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the meaning of 'dialogue'. With two bone daggers in hand, he advanced, and I retreated, in a dance as old as time itself.

"Damn, am I going to have to rip off his other arm now?" I pondered, with a smile that was more nervous than confident. "Jumping from Winter Soldier cosplay to Jax? Blake, you're speeding through the references. Take it easy, buddy, or you'll end up in a crossover nobody asked for."

The armored giant advanced with the determination of a bull in a china shop, and me? Well, I could only click my tongue, the kind of sound you make when you realize you've forgotten your umbrella on a stormy day.

There I was, pretending to hold an invisible katana, like a child who wholeheartedly believes in the sword they wield made of air and dreams. I was preparing for combat, my imagination as fertile as the earth after a spring rain.

Blake watched me, his brow furrowed in confusion at seeing my empty hands shaped around nothing. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, he understood. My hands weren't empty; they held a katana — at least, that's what my stance suggested.

The giant and Blake, as if they were one, advanced in a coordinated attack, their intentions as clear as the cloudless night sky. There was no room for dodging, no time for doubts.

And then it happened. As they approached, ready for the final blow, I raised my hands, and the magic unfolded. The sword I imagined, that I desired with every fiber of my being, began to materialize. At first, it was just a shadow, a suggestion, but soon it took shape, a transparent blade that cut through the mind and the impossible.

With pursed lips, I lowered the sword and the diagonal cut manifested. Blake and the armored soldier stopped running abruptly, their legs suddenly immobile. Inertia caused them to flip over the mansion's roof, like two runaway cars in a Hollywood-worthy action scene.

Blake was confused, a sharp pain emerging in his chest, his legs now unresponsive. "Was I cut?" He wondered, uncertainty consuming him. "But how? When?"

Then, like a flash of memory, the name Dean Carleone surfaced. The past fight, where Blake had been cut so swiftly he couldn't even see the movement. He knew only that the cut had been made, his arm torn off, his trapezius damaged. He would have lost the movement of his left arm if it weren't for his father, who pleaded with an S-class hero with healing powers to repair the damage.

Blake's soldier tried to rise again, planting his sword in the roof as if seeking a last breath of hope. But I, with the ease of someone turning off an alarm on a Monday morning, kicked the sword, and he collapsed again, a gravitational reminder that not all plans go as expected.

Blake stared at me, his purple eyes wide with surprise, as if I had just spoiled the ending of a movie before he had a chance to watch it. "Don't look at me like that," I sighed, "you're the one who forced this."

"Besides, you're not cut, look at your legs," I said, and Blake, following my suggestion, looked down. There they were, intact, as if nothing had happened. The fright in his heart gave way to relief, and his legs, previously numb, began to respond again.

The pain dissipated like fog in the sun, and Blake rose, still processing the reality of the illusion. "Don't start attacking me, I already told you I'm not your enemy," I reiterated, hoping the message would finally stick.

Blake's soldier struggled to get up, his determination as futile as an umbrella in a hurricane. "Why didn't you kill me?" Blake questioned, perplexity coloring his voice.

"Hmm, you know I'm not the type to repeat the same record all the time, right?" I replied with a tone that mixed disdain and amusement. "I'm not your enemy, I am—" My words were abruptly cut off by an explosion on the horizon, an interruption as dramatic as the cliffhanger at the end of a season.

Our eyes widened, and we turned our heads toward the explosion. And there, a sight that would chill any zombie movie fan to the bone: a horde of villains in black cloaks, running towards us with a speed that defied logic.

"When I wrote that there would be about 100 extra villains to wreak havoc in this arc, I didn't think it would be so terrifying," I reflected mentally. The sight was overwhelming, and the idea that the students below, devoid of Blake and Sam's powers, would be easy prey, was a reality as cruel as the law of the jungle.

Blake's tongue click was the prelude to a change in strategy. "Can you call off Samara 2.0 who's attacking my Hulk? He might be useful against that incoming army," I commented, with a tone that mixed urgency and sarcasm.

Blake closed his eyes, and with a snap of his fingers that would have made any children's party magician envious, Samara 2.0 was transported in front of him, her nails still dripping a bloody tale.

"My king," she began, the surprise in her voice as evident as the confusion on her face. Blake ignored her, his eyes taking on a shade of purple so deep it could compete with a wizard's cloak.

And then, as if calling forth an army from the shadows, Blake began to summon the bogeymen. One by one, they emerged, figures so horrendous they would make any child hide under the covers. Some were even recognizable, taken straight from the pages of urban legends. In total, ten dark creatures were summoned to join the fight.

"Is that all?" I repeated, my disappointment as evident as a teenager's lack of enthusiasm at a family gathering.

Blake shot me a look that mixed exasperation with a touch of pride. "Do you know how hard it is to summon and control them all at the same time?" He retorted, his voice laden with the weight of responsibility. "Some obey me willingly," he said, casting a glance at Samara 2.0, who seemed more lost than a villain in a superhero movie. "But others," he continued, fixing his eyes on the giant soldier rising, "need to be controlled by me at all times, otherwise, they'll become my enemies."

"Ah, I see," I responded, my voice dripping with a disinterest as authentic as a three-dollar bill. And then, with the theatricality of an anime character in their moment of glory, I began to stretch. The sight of the advancing army didn't completely scare me; after all, I knew the real danger wasn't them, but rather the demons that were still to come…