Psylocke Vol 2 Ch 25: A New Type Of Training, The Path Towards A Sensory Agent!

Tristan had been carried into many rooms by Brobs, but this one he didn't recognize. 

Naomi stepped silently through the cabin, her feet making barely a sound despite her immense size, the contrast from Breona's thunderous stomping earlier almost eerie. Tristan, perched carefully atop the pale nail of her finger, looked around with cautious curiosity as they entered a space he hadn't seen before.

It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

The room was simple—warm, in a rustic sort of way. Shelves lined the walls, packed full with books of varying sizes, many of which had gold-embossed spines and cloth covers that shimmered slightly in the sunlight pouring through the nearby window. A thick brown rug spread across the floor like an island of softness, and near the center of the room rested a table with only a few items: a large, ceramic cup filled with tea, a spoon resting beside it, and a small stack of handwritten notes pressed under a smooth stone.

To Tristan, it looked cozy. Lived in. Even peaceful.

Naomi lowered her hand toward the edge of the wooden table, her motion slow and deliberate. Tristan, used to the sudden jostles of Zuri and the borderline-launches of Breona, appreciated the steady descent. He carefully stepped off her nail, boots making soft taps against the surface as he walked a few cautious paces inward.

Then, without a word, Naomi pulled back the single chair in the room and sat down. The wooden frame groaned beneath her, and just like that—Tristan was under her shadow.

He looked up, and up, and up.

Naomi's posture was perfect, hands folded in her lap for a moment before she casually reached for her tea. Her expression was unreadable, her steely red eyes locked onto him without blinking.

She didn't speak.

She didn't move.

She just... watched.

Tristan shifted on his feet, glancing to the side, then back up again.

"Uh... Ms. Reed?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Naomi is fine," she replied smoothly, lifting the oversized tea cup behind him with two fingers and taking a small sip. The cup alone was bigger than a house to Tristan, and the slight tilt of her wrist sent the scent of floral tea washing over him in waves.

He coughed awkwardly, then stood a bit straighter. "Right. Naomi. So... what exactly are we doing today? Training?"

She nodded once.

Tristan let out a breath of relief, smirking as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. Yeah. Training I can do. What kind of stuff are we talking? You gonna try to hit me and I dodge? Or maybe I'm supposed to hold back one of your fingers like with Zuri? Maybe climb up your arm or—"

SLAM.

Naomi's palm crashed down onto the table less than a few inches from where he had stood, the sound like a cannon blast. The table shuddered violently beneath Tristan's tiny form, and before he could react, he was airborne.

He tumbled back end over end like a rag doll, bouncing along the wooden surface before finally skidding to a stop, dazed and dizzy, several dozen feet away (in Lilli scale). He groaned, wincing as he sat up, rubbing the side of his head.

"Okay... not that kind of training, I'm guessing," he muttered.

Before he could get fully to his feet, Naomi's face lowered into his view, her eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Her voice dropped several octaves, now ice rather than silk.

"Let me make something clear," she said, her tone flat but laced with venom. "A disgusting little thing like you will never climb my body."

Tristan froze.

His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at her. There was no warmth in her gaze. No kindness. Not even a hint of the dry humor Breona usually carried. Just cold, detached disapproval.

"W-What?" he stammered, still holding his side. "What do you mean by 'disgusting'?"

Naomi didn't answer. She just watched him. Observing. Judging.

And that's when it hit him—she didn't see him the way Zuri or even Breona did. She didn't see a teammate. Or a rookie. Or even a person, really.

She saw a Lilli.

And apparently, that came with baggage.

His heart thudded in his chest. He wasn't sure if she was going to crush him or lecture him. Maybe both.

But then—just like that—her voice returned to that calm, flat tone.

"Let's begin," Naomi said, pulling herself back up into her seat, as if nothing had happened.

Tristan slowly got to his feet, still winded, still confused, but not backing down. His jaw clenched.

"Fine," he muttered under his breath, brushing off his pants. "Let's begin."

Because he wasn't going to let anyone—no matter how mountain-sized or cold-eyed—make him feel less than. Not anymore.

Naomi's chair creaked softly as she leaned back, her arms folding across the fabric of her black dress. The tea, now forgotten, sat steaming behind her like some kind of idle volcano. She studied Tristan quietly for a moment longer, before finally speaking again—her voice smooth, calm, and completely unreadable.

"This training," she began, "will be different from what Breona put you through. And from Zuri's exercises."

Tristan, still dusting splinters of table from his shirt, looked up, trying not to flinch as her massive fingers flexed near the edge of the table. "Yeah, uh, I kinda figured that out already," he muttered.

Naomi either didn't hear or chose to ignore him.

"I'm going to be testing a different part of your psychic development," she said. "The field of perception. Sensory manipulation. Subconscious feedback."

Tristan blinked. "I don't think any of those words were in my training folder."

"That's because you haven't been trained in them," Naomi replied matter-of-factly. "Your time so far has been focused on output—physical enhancement, energy redirection, raw control. But what you haven't worked on is your input."

"My... input?" he repeated, scratching the back of his head.

Naomi nodded. "Your mind. Your senses. The world around you. The ability to perceive intent. Movement. Energy. Thought. All the things your body could never tell you—but your mind can, if you know how to listen."

That quiet settled over the room again. It was so still, Tristan could hear the soft sound of Naomi's tea cooling behind him. Dust particles drifted lazily through a beam of golden sunlight like tiny drifting moons in the vast orbit of her presence.

"Okay," Tristan said slowly, his brows furrowed. "So what—you're gonna teach me how to read minds?"

"No," she said flatly. "You're not ready for that."

Tristan's lips puckered into a half-frown. "Rude."

Naomi ignored the comment and instead leaned forward, her long hair falling in dark waves along either side of her face as she loomed over him once more.

"Today is about one thing," she said. "Seeing if you even have the aptitude."

Tristan squinted. "The aptitude?"

She nodded. "To be a Sensory Agent."

He stared up at her. The silence stretched.

"A what now?"