The Breaking Point

Chapter 19

Mark opened his eyes slowly and stared up at the sky, over washed in a golden bubble. He stood up and looked around. A room-sized sphere of bright, yellow energy enveloped him tightly. His hand reached out to touch the bubble and he finally caught sight of his state: his bandages stained in red, filled with cuts and bruises, and even a couple pieces of metal lodged into his skin. The skin on both his hands was torn, pieces of it flapping wildly. Metal fragments were buried into his fingers, making their tips bleed.

Mark stared in horror then quickly shook his head. No. He had to make sure everyone else was OK first. He'd check on himself later. He pressed his hand to the ball and its energy slowly vanished. Mark stared, terrified, as the golden globe faded, revealing the murder scene behind it. The plane lay in smoking ruins of black. Thousands of doctors and firefighters rushed about, putting out the burning remainders or checking on injuries. Ambulances and stretchers dotted the field, carrying patients of all ages. Pools of blood had burst around the remainder of the plane, and they were now a glossy brown.

The final speck of golden power disappeared and Mark felt an immense bullet of pain strike through his nerves. "I'm stronger than this," Mark muttered to himself, and as if his body had aided him, he managed to suppress his reaction to a single wince.

"Mark! You're alive," Byron screamed, rushing up to him. Thankfully, he didn't look too hurt. He halted before the goalie and his relieved expression turned into a somewhat angry one, and there was a flash of sadness in his eyes.

"I told you you were in danger. People are after you. I was trying to help." He looked away and sighed desperately. "They found out you were here. I tried to warn you...." He shook his head. "You wouldn't listen."

"You should have told me."

"No." Byron turned back to the goalie. "You should have listened!"

An awkward moment of silence followed the blonde's outburst until Mark decided to break it. "Where's everyone else?"

Byron raised an eyebrow. "In hospital. Not everyone falls down twenty feet and turns out OK. Not everyone has a magic bubble either."

Mark's eyes widened. He had been........saved? Somehow.

"Jordan's over talking about their status." Byron sighed again. "Oh well, let's get some ice for your face."

He grabbed Mark by the wrist and dragged him inside another one of the airport's private rooms, which had been set aside for the treatment of mild injuries. Once under the consent of one of the nurses, Mark was permitted to see why Byron mentioned his face over everything. There was a deep gash on his right cheek and a heavy scar over his left eye brow. They were both blackened with semi-dry blood, and their surrounding splatter ended up making Mark's face look even worse. Neither his pale pink shirt nor his thigh-torn pants could compare with it.

Mark was allowed to stay in front of the mirror while getting tended to and managed to remember the state of his hands. He stuffed them into his pockets and politely shook his head when the nurse asked if he was injured elsewhere. He couldn't waste his time getting bandaged; he had other things to do. And all the hospital talk had reminded him of one of his top priorities.

Byron was leaning on the wall, arms crossed and eyes closed. "Byron," and the blonde's eyelids flew open.

"I need a favor."

Byron nodded. "Alright, what do you want?"

"I need to borrow your phone."