Psylocke Vol 2 Ch 24: Motivation by Boot

Tristan ran like his life depended on it.

Mostly because—it kind of did.

The wooden surface of the table beneath his feet trembled violently with each colossal footstep behind him. The sound wasn't just loud—it was all-encompassing. Like a thunderclap that had learned rhythm and found a beat.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

He didn't dare look back. He knew what was behind him.

The towering black boots of Breona, each one the size of a small building to him—maybe larger, either way he needed no reminder of their power, the threat they posed.

"Feeling sad?" came Breona's booming, playful voice from behind, her laughter echoing off the walls like a drumline from hell. "Train harder!"

BOOM.

"Work out!"

BOOM.

"And hey—gotta say, you're a lot faster than last time! Not bad for a little bug!"

Tristan didn't reply. He couldn't. He didn't have time. His lungs were already burning. His heart thundered in his chest—though nowhere near the volume of the boots chasing him.

Instead, he focused.

He pushed.

It was getting easier now—channeling his psychic energy through his body. He could feel it gathering in his limbs like a warmth, a humming vibration that crackled just beneath the skin. His stride lengthened, speed increasing. His legs felt lighter, movements sharper.

But the catch?

The moment he lost focus—even for a second—the power vanished like mist in sunlight. And the speed with it.

BOOM.

Another step.

The gust of air that followed nearly toppled him. He stumbled, caught himself, eyes narrowing as he gritted his teeth.

Don't think. Just run.

He could feel it again—that rising surge of pressure behind him. Like the sky itself was falling.

The vibration through the wood got stronger.

Too strong.

Tristan risked a quick glance over his shoulder—and instantly regretted it.

The toe of Breona's boot was right behind him. Huge, black, and gleaming in the light like a steel monolith. The edge of it scraped along the wood with a low, ominous groan, closing the distance faster than any creature his size could reasonably hope to outpace.

"DAMMIT!" he shouted, teeth clenched as he pushed harder, psychic energy flooding his legs. He could feel the air swirling around him from the motion of Breona's stride, like a small storm trailing him at full sprint.

"You got ten more seconds in you, little man?" Breona called with a grin in her voice. "Because I'm about to stomp!"

The panic in Tristan's chest turned electric.

Ten seconds?

Ten?!

He didn't have five!

His eyes darted ahead—he could just barely make out the edge of a little metal coin someone had left on the table, maybe half the size of a car to him. It could be cover, if he reached it in time—

BOOM.

The boot struck down just behind him. The force sent a shockwave through the air, launching Tristan forward like a leaf in a hurricane.

He hit the ground and rolled, limbs flailing. Splinters scraped his side. His head rang.

But he kept going.

Crawled.

Staggered to his feet.

"Focus—focus—FOCUS!" he growled, willing the psychic energy back into his body, the blue light flickering faintly along his arms.

Breona's voice returned, booming and unbothered. "Y'know, if you die, I'm totally telling Darcy it was an accident."

"NOT HELPING!" Tristan roared, his voice squeaky but defiant as he scrambled across the table.

Breona just laughed. Loud and amused, like she was enjoying this way too much.

Tristan finally dove behind the coin, pressing his back to it, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his forehead.

The boot stopped just a few inches away.

The table trembled one last time—and then the world went quiet.

"Well," Breona said, casually dropping into a squat so her massive face hovered just behind her boot, "you didn't die. That's progress."

Tristan slid to the ground, limbs twitching, a dazed expression on his face.

"You okay, speck?"

Tristan lay flat on his back, gasping, the wooden surface beneath him warm with the lingering heat of exertion and near-death foot chases. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his limbs still twitching from the burst of psychic energy he'd forced through them minutes before.

Above him loomed Breona's amused face, framed by a halo of thick dark curls. Her smirk hadn't moved since he'd collapsed.

"You haven't changed at all," Tristan wheezed, tossing one arm over his eyes as if that could block out her smugness.

"Why would I?" she replied with a shrug, cracking her knuckles one at a time with loud, echoing pops. "Perfection doesn't need tweaking."

Tristan groaned in reply.

But then—there was something new.

A tremor.

Small at first. Like a distant drumbeat rolling through the earth. Then another. Then another.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Tristan sat up slowly. Breona's eyebrow rose. The two turned toward the main door.

"Darcy?" Tristan asked, hope flickering in his voice.

Breona tilted her head. "That's not her walk."

Then the door opened—and it wasn't Darcy.

It was Naomi.

And suddenly, the entire mood of the room shifted.

Tristan blinked, the world seeming to grow darker for a second as her towering form stepped through. She wore a long, sleek black dress that shimmered faintly in the light, like obsidian wrapped in velvet. One hand held a thick book with pages marked in red ribbons. The other swung idly at her side like a pendulum of doom.

Tristan's mouth went dry.

Naomi's height was comparable to the others, sure—but it felt different. Where Breona carried herself with chaotic confidence and Zuri with a warm but intimidating cheer, Naomi moved with deliberate, calculated grace. She didn't stomp. She flowed. Yet the table still quaked ever so slightly with each of her steps, as if even the universe wasn't entirely sure what to make of her.

Her eyes met Breona's for a moment in polite acknowledgment, then dropped—lower and lower—until they settled on the speck of a man beside Breona's boot.

Her lips didn't smile.

"Breona," Naomi said coolly, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I need the Lilli."

Tristan flinched. The way she said Lilli made him feel less like a person and more like an ingredient.

Breona didn't even look surprised. She stretched, popping her back in a move that shook the whole table like a trampoline under a boulder. "Take him," she said, standing up with a lazy yawn. "I was done having my fun anyway."

Tristan opened his mouth to object—maybe something about how being chased across a table wasn't his idea of a good time—but then Naomi took another step forward.

He turned to look up at her. And then up more. And more.

Her body was a mountain range. A living one. From Tristan's perspective, her hips were peaks; her chest, twin summits that cast wide shadows across the table; and her face—good gods—her face was like the sky had leaned in close to examine him.

And those eyes.

Two pale, steely-blue orbs, rimmed in long lashes, studied him like he was something under glass. He couldn't help it—he shivered.

There was something...off about her gaze. It wasn't cruel, not exactly. But it was cold. Detached. Like she was reading the back of a book she didn't plan to buy.

"Come with me," Naomi said, finally. Her voice was calm, even pleasant, but it carried weight. Like it wasn't a request, but an inevitability.

Her hand lifted, long fingers moving with balletic precision. She extended her index finger to the table beside him, the nail descending like a descending airship—smooth, polished, a light shade of lavender that gleamed faintly.

Tristan gulped.

He stepped forward, cautiously placing a hand on the cool nail. It was smooth as glass and curved like the surface of a hill. He climbed with practiced care, pulling himself up the slope with both hands and planting one foot after another until he stood near the center of the nail.

He turned around just in time to see Breona walking away, arms behind her head, humming to herself like this was just another Tuesday.

He looked back up at Naomi.

She was already lifting him.

Faster than he expected.

The table shrank away beneath him. The room seemed to drop. Within seconds, he was eye level with her massive lips and nose, the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something sharper, maybe sage—filling his world.

"Where... where are we going?" he asked, his voice barely a tickle to her ears.

Naomi didn't answer right away. She simply began walking again, the motion causing wind to whip past Tristan like a small breeze.

"To evaluate your growth," she said after a pause. "And to determine what you're really capable of."

Tristan swallowed hard, gripping her nail a little tighter as they moved out of the room.

Somehow, he had a feeling this part of his training wasn't going to be any easier.