Chapter 2: Compulsions

The world exploded into fragments around Mark, reality shattering like glass struck by a hammer. Each shard reflected a different version of himself—thousands, millions, infinite copies stretching in every direction through dimensions that shouldn't exist.

Mark felt himself moving, though his dying body remained motionless on the alley floor. His consciousness hurtled through the kaleidoscope of selves, each reflection shifting as he passed. The changes started small—different clothes, varied hairstyles, subtle alterations in posture. But the further he traveled, the more dramatic the differences became.

One Mark wore military fatigues and bore combat scars. Another dressed in flowing robes, arcane symbols glowing along his sleeves. A third had cybernetic implants gleaming beneath synthetic skin. Each version lived a completely different life, faced different challenges, developed different strengths.

The movement stopped abruptly.

Before him stood another Mark, but this one commanded attention in a way that made Mark's breath catch. The man wore impeccably tailored Victorian attire—a burgundy waistcoat beneath a perfectly fitted black coat, polished boots that gleamed despite the otherworldly setting. A rapier hung at his left hip while an ornate revolver rested in a holster on his right, both weapons bearing intricate engravings that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

This Mark's hair was jet-black instead of brown, styled with meticulous care. A distinctive scar ran across his left eye, which had turned milky white though it tracked Mark's movements with perfect clarity. Everything about him radiated controlled power and refined lethality.

The Victorian Mark stepped forward with fluid grace, his scarred face wearing an expression of grim determination. He moved like a predator, each step calculated and precise.

"Your time has come," the Victorian Mark said, his voice carrying an accent Mark didn't recognize. "Step aside."

Before Mark could respond, the other version of himself rushed forward. Their forms collided in a burst of impossible light, and Mark felt himself pulled back through the shattered reality.

Mark's eyes snapped open with a violent gasp.

He pushed himself up from the concrete, expecting to feel the gaping wound in his chest. Instead, his hands found only intact fabric over unmarked skin. But everything else had changed. His clothes had transformed into the Victorian attire he'd seen—the burgundy waistcoat, the fitted coat, even the polished boots. The weight of unfamiliar weapons pulled at his hips.

The terrorist had his back turned, advancing on Haoyu with the bloodied knife raised. Haoyu stared past the man at Mark, his eyes wide with shock and confusion at what he'd witnessed.

Mark rose to his feet with fluid grace he'd never possessed, his body moving with perfect balance and controlled power. The sensation felt foreign yet natural, like muscle memory from a life he'd never lived.

"I say, good sir," Mark called out, the words flowing from his lips with crisp formality that surprised him. "Perhaps you might do me the courtesy of facing a proper opponent."

The terrorist spun around, his masked face tilting in confusion. Mark's voice had carried an accent he didn't recognize, each syllable pronounced with aristocratic precision that felt completely alien to his tongue.

What was happening to him? The thoughts raced through his mind even as his hand moved instinctively to rest on the rapier's pommel. He felt different—not just the clothes and weapons, but something deeper. His posture had straightened into perfect military bearing, his movements carried unconscious elegance, and beneath it all thrummed a confidence he'd never experienced.

The terrorist lowered his knife slightly, studying this impossible transformation.

"What the hell—"

"Language, if you please," Mark interrupted, though he had no idea why those words emerged from his mouth.

*

The terrorist's confusion lasted only a moment before he lunged forward with inhuman speed, the bloodied knife cutting through the air toward Mark's throat.

Mark's body responded without conscious thought, his spine straightening as he stepped back with practiced footwork. The blade whistled past his face, close enough that he could smell the metallic tang of his own blood still coating its edge. His right hand moved to his hip, fingers wrapping around the revolver's grip with familiar precision.

The weapon cleared its holster in one fluid motion, rising to meet the terrorist's second strike. Mark caught the man's wrist with the revolver's barrel, deflecting the knife while his left hand drew the rapier. The blade sang as it left its sheath, the sound crisp and musical in the narrow alley.

"Really now," Mark heard himself say, his voice carrying that strange accent as he pressed the rapier's point against the terrorist's chest. "Such crude manners."

The terrorist twisted away from the blade's tip, his enhanced speed allowing him to slip past Mark's guard. He grabbed Mark's coat lapel and drove his knee upward. Mark pivoted, letting the man's momentum carry him past while bringing the rapier's pommel down in a sharp arc. The weighted end struck the terrorist's shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain.

Mark's mind raced even as his body moved with impossible grace. What was this energy flowing through him? It felt like electricity beneath his skin, enhancing his reflexes and sharpening his perception. The terrorist's movements, which had seemed impossibly fast moments ago, now appeared merely quick. Mark could track each strike, anticipate each feint.

The terrorist spun with his knife extended, aiming for Mark's ribs. Mark parried with the rapier's forte, steel ringing against steel as he channeled that strange energy into the blade. The knife shattered like glass, fragments scattering across the alley floor.

"Good heavens," Mark muttered, staring at his sword in bewilderment. How had he done that?

The terrorist snarled and launched himself forward in a desperate tackle. Mark sidestepped with balletic precision, but the man's shoulder clipped his coat. Mark grimaced as he felt dirt and grime transfer to the pristine fabric. The sensation made his skin crawl in a way that felt foreign yet natural.

"That was quite unseemly," Mark said, raising the revolver as the terrorist rolled to his feet.

The weapon bucked in his hand as he squeezed the trigger. Instead of a bullet, a concentrated bolt of that mysterious energy erupted from the barrel, striking the concrete where the terrorist had been standing. The man had rolled aside at the last second, leaving a smoking crater in the pavement.

Mark blinked at the destruction. The revolver hummed with residual energy, its engravings glowing faintly in the dim alley light. Whatever this power was, it certainly wasn't normal ammunition.

The terrorist charged again, this time feinting left before diving right. Mark's enhanced perception caught the deception, and he brought his rapier up in a rising cut that would have opened the man from hip to shoulder. The terrorist barely twisted away, the blade's edge slicing through his black clothing and drawing a thin line of blood across his ribs.

"Stand still, you bastard!" the terrorist gasped, clutching his side.

"Such language," Mark tsked, advancing with measured steps. His boots clicked against the concrete with military precision, each step calculated to maintain perfect distance and balance. "Clearly, your education was quite deficient."

The terrorist pulled a second knife from his boot, smaller but still sharp. He threw it with desperate accuracy at Mark's face. Mark tilted his head slightly, letting the blade whistle past his ear, then stepped forward and drove the rapier's crossguard into the man's solar plexus.

The terrorist doubled over, gasping for air. Mark reversed his grip on the revolver and brought its weighted butt down on the base of the man's skull with precisely calculated force. The terrorist crumpled to the ground, unconscious but breathing.

Mark stood over the fallen figure, breathing heavily but maintaining perfect posture. The strange energy still coursed through him, making every sense hyperaware. He could hear Haoyu's rapid breathing behind him, smell the ozone scent left by his energy shots, feel every speck of dust that had settled on his coat during the brief battle.

He holstered the revolver with a smooth motion that felt like second nature, then produced a pristine handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. Mark began wiping down the rapier's blade with meticulous care, removing every trace of the terrorist's blood before sheathing it.

"Dreadfully messy business," he murmured, then turned his attention to his coat. Several dark smudges marked the fabric where the terrorist had made contact. Mark's jaw tightened as he attempted to brush them away, but the stains had already set.

"Mark?" Haoyu's voice came out as barely a whisper. "What... what just happened to you?"

Mark looked up from his ruined coat, meeting his friend's bewildered stare. He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again as he realized he had no explanation to give. The words that wanted to emerge felt wrong somehow, filtered through mannerisms and speech patterns that weren't his own.

"I... that is to say..." Mark began, then stopped. Even his hesitation sounded different, more formal and measured than his usual stammering uncertainty.

*

Haoyu stepped closer, his eyes scanning Mark from head to toe with growing concern. "Are you alright? Do you need to go to a hospital or something? You were literally stabbed in the chest, and now you're..." He gestured helplessly at Mark's transformed appearance.

Mark straightened his waistcoat, the motion automatic and precise. "I'm quite well, thank you for your concern." The words emerged with careful enunciation, though he could hear traces of his usual uncertainty beneath the formal tone. "Truly, I feel... better than well, actually."

"Are you sure?" Haoyu's skepticism was evident in every syllable. "Because you're talking like someone from a history textbook, and you just fought that guy like you've been training your whole life. What the hell happened to you?"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. How could he explain something he didn't understand himself?

"I honestly have no idea," he admitted, though even his confusion came out measured and composed. "But we should move. There may be additional... associates of this gentleman who could arrive as reinforcement."

Haoyu nodded reluctantly, still staring at Mark with that worried expression. They began walking quickly down the alley, Mark's boots clicking against the pavement in a steady rhythm that somehow felt natural despite being completely foreign.

As they emerged onto the main street, a group of official Starborn responders rushed past them—six figures in the distinctive blue uniforms of the New Hope Emergency Response Division. Their enhanced speed carried them toward the residential district where the initial explosion had occurred.

Three of the Starborn peeled away from the main group, approaching Mark and Haoyu with professional efficiency. The lead figure, a woman with lieutenant's stripes, raised her hand.

"You two, stop." Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "What are you doing out here during an active Starbeast outbreak?"

Haoyu stepped forward slightly. "We're students from the academy. We were at the arcade when the alarm went off."

The lieutenant's gaze shifted between them, lingering on Mark's unusual attire. "Then why aren't you in a designated shelter? Civilians should be taking cover, not wandering the streets."

Mark adjusted his cufflinks, the gesture somehow conveying both respect and confidence. "We encountered a rather unusual fellow in the alley behind us. He appeared to be working in coordination with the creatures, not fleeing from them. I was compelled to... render him unconscious."

The three Starborn exchanged glances. The lieutenant studied Mark more carefully, taking in his bearing and formal dress. "You took down a starborn terrorist?"

"Indeed. He's currently indisposed approximately fifty meters that way." Mark gestured toward the alley with his gloved hand.

One of the other responders, a young man with corporal's insignia, leaned toward the lieutenant. "Probably from one of those old-money families. Look at how he carries himself."

The lieutenant nodded slowly. "We'll investigate. You two get to the nearest shelter immediately. No more heroics."

As the Starborn team moved toward the alley Mark had indicated, Haoyu fell into step beside his friend. They walked in silence for several moments before Haoyu spoke.

"I really hope whatever this is, you're not stuck like this permanently."

Mark touched the rapier's hilt unconsciously, feeling its weight against his hip. The weapon felt as natural as breathing, yet he knew he'd never held a sword before today. "I share that sentiment entirely. This is... quite disconcerting."

Despite his formal words, Haoyu caught the underlying worry in Mark's voice—the same uncertainty his friend had always carried, just wrapped in different packaging.

*

The familiar sight of home brought Mark a measure of relief, though even that emotion felt filtered through some strange lens of propriety. The modest two-storey residence stood unchanged—practical post-reconstruction architecture with warm light spilling from the living room windows. Mark's hand moved automatically to straighten his waistcoat as they approached the front door.

Haoyu fumbled with his keys, glancing sideways at Mark with continued concern. "Maybe we should think about what we're going to tell them."

"The truth seems most appropriate," Mark replied, though he winced internally at his own formal tone.

The door swung open before Haoyu could insert the key. Wen Lihua stood in the doorway, her administrative work clothes slightly rumpled from an evening at home. Her warm eyes immediately focused on Mark, widening as she took in his transformed appearance.

"Mark? What on earth..." She stepped back, allowing them inside while her gaze travelled from his attire to the rapier at his hip. "What happened? Why are you dressed like that?"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Haoyu quickly stepped forward. "Mom, maybe we should sit down first."

Lihua's maternal instincts kicked in immediately. She ushered them toward the living room, her hands hovering near Mark as if checking for injuries. "Are you hurt? You boys were supposed to be at the arcade, but then the alarms started going off and—"

"We're both fine," Haoyu assured her, guiding Mark toward the sectional sofa. "But something... unusual happened."

Mark settled onto the couch with unconscious grace, his posture perfectly straight despite his desire to slouch into the familiar cushions. The coffee table's usual clutter of gaming controllers and paperwork seemed oddly comforting in its normalcy.

Lihua perched on the edge of the adjacent chair, her administrator's training keeping her voice calm despite obvious worry. "Tell me everything."

Haoyu glanced at Mark, noting the discomfort flickering across his friend's features. "I'll explain," he offered gently.

Mark nodded gratefully, though even that simple gesture carried an elegance that felt foreign.

Haoyu recounted their evening—the arcade, the Starbeast alarm, the explosion, their encounter with the masked terrorist. Lihua's hands pressed together in her lap as she listened, her knuckles whitening when Haoyu described Mark being stabbed.

"He was dying, Mom. I saw the blood, saw him collapse." Haoyu's voice cracked slightly. "Then something happened. Mark just... changed. Everything about him changed."

Lihua's gaze fixed on Mark, who sat rigidly upright, his gloved hands folded precisely in his lap. "Changed how?"

"His clothes, his voice, the way he moves. He fought that terrorist like he'd trained for years. Used weapons that just appeared out of nowhere." Haoyu gestured helplessly. "It's like he became someone else entirely."

Mark cleared his throat softly. "I must emphasise that I remain... myself, as it were. It's simply that everything I do or say seems to emerge... different." He paused, frustration bleeding through his formal tone. "I'm quite glad we survived, naturally, but I confess I'd prefer not to speak and behave in this manner."

Lihua studied him carefully, her administrative mind working through possibilities. "It could be your ability manifesting properly. Sometimes people get misclassified during testing—the assessment protocols aren't perfect." She frowned thoughtfully. "Though I've never heard of anything quite like this."

She rose from her chair, pacing toward the window that overlooked their small back garden. "Starborn abilities can be... unpredictable, especially during moments of extreme stress or mortal danger. Your father always said that crisis situations sometimes unlock potential that normal circumstances keep dormant."

Mark's chest tightened at the mention of Viktor, though he maintained his composed exterior. "You believe this transformation is permanent?"

"I don't know," Lihua admitted, turning back toward them. "This is beyond my experience."

The house felt unusually quiet around them, the familiar sounds of family life replaced by the weight of uncertainty. Lihua's organizational instincts took over as she returned to her chair.

"We'll wait for your father to get home," she decided, addressing both boys with maternal authority. "Yichen has more experience with unusual Starborn manifestations through his work with the Defence Corps. We'll make a decision together about what to do with your... predicament."

Mark nodded, though privately he wondered what decisions could possibly address something so fundamentally inexplicable. The rapier's weight against his hip served as a constant reminder that nothing about his life would ever be quite the same.

*

The front door's electronic lock chimed, followed by the familiar sound of boots being removed in the entryway. Mark straightened instinctively, his posture becoming even more precise as footsteps approached the living room.

Wen Yichen appeared in the doorway, still wearing his Defence Corps uniform—the dark blue fabric bearing the subtle insignia of his support division rank. His weathered face showed the fatigue of a long shift, but his eyes sharpened immediately as they swept the room, taking in the unusual tension.

"I'm home," he announced, his voice carrying the clipped efficiency of military habit. His gaze moved from Lihua's worried expression to Haoyu's nervous fidgeting, finally settling on Mark.

Yichen stopped mid-stride, his trained eye cataloguing Mark's transformed appearance with the same methodical assessment he'd use on a tactical situation. The formal attire, the weapons, the rigid posture—all of it registered in seconds.

"What happened?" His question came sharp and direct. "Is this related to the Starbeast outbreak? The reports mentioned terrorist involvement."

Lihua rose from her chair, moving toward her husband with the fluid coordination of a long marriage. "The boys were caught in it. Mark was..." She paused, glancing at Mark. "He was injured. Badly."

Yichen's expression hardened. "How badly?"

"Stabbed through the heart," Haoyu said quietly. "I watched him die, Dad."

The words hung in the air like a physical weight. Yichen's gaze fixed on Mark with new intensity, his C-rank abilities unconsciously probing for signs of injury or deception.

Mark met his adoptive father's scrutiny with calm directness. "I'm quite well now, as you can observe. Though the circumstances of my recovery are... unusual."

They explained the encounter—the terrorist, the stabbing, Mark's inexplicable transformation and newfound combat abilities. Yichen listened without interruption, his military training keeping his expression neutral even as the details grew increasingly impossible.

"Show me the weapons," Yichen commanded when they finished.

Mark drew the rapier with practiced ease, the blade catching the living room's warm light. The intricate engravings along its fuller seemed to pulse with subtle energy. Yichen examined it without touching, his forcefield abilities allowing him to sense the power radiating from the steel.

"This isn't standard Academy equipment," he murmured. "The energy signature is completely foreign."

He stepped back, processing the information with characteristic methodical thinking. "We need to get you re-evaluated. Your original classification was clearly in error—this level of manifestation doesn't happen in F-ranks."

"How long will that take?" Lihua asked, her administrative background making her think of bureaucratic timelines.

"Normally? Three to four weeks for processing, plus evaluation fees." Yichen's expression grew determined. "But given that they misclassified him in the first place, it should be expedited and free of charge. I'll contact some colleagues tomorrow, pull whatever strings I can."

Mark sheathed the rapier, the motion smooth and natural despite his lack of training. "What if this condition proves permanent? I'm hardly equipped to navigate daily life in this state."

Yichen's expression softened slightly—the first crack in his military bearing since arriving home. "I've never encountered a case of permanent transformation in fifteen years with the Corps. Either it'll fade naturally, or you'll learn to control it yourself."

"But what if I'm the first case?" Mark's voice carried a note of genuine concern beneath its newfound formality.

Haoyu leaned forward on the couch. "Don't be so pessimistic. You're overthinking this." He grinned at his friend. "Besides, I'll bring you notes from classes so you don't fall behind while we sort this out."

Lihua nodded approvingly. "You should stay home until we get this resolved. No point drawing attention at the Academy until we understand what's happening."

Mark considered this, weighing the relief of avoiding public scrutiny against his desire to maintain normalcy. The prospect of hiding felt both sensible and cowardly.

"That seems... prudent," he agreed finally, though his tone suggested reluctance.

Yichen clapped him on the shoulder with paternal firmness. "We'll figure this out, son. Whatever's happening, you're not facing it alone."

The simple gesture carried more weight than elaborate speeches. Mark felt some of his tension ease, though his posture remained perfectly straight.

*

Despite Yichen's connections within the Defence Corps, bureaucracy moved at its own glacial pace. Two weeks—that was the best he could manage, though he did secure a waiver for the evaluation fees. Mark accepted this delay with resigned patience, though the prospect of extended isolation gnawed at him.

The cover story proved simple enough: a severe case of flu contracted during the Starbeast incident. Haoyu dutifully brought homework and class notes each afternoon, maintaining the fiction while keeping Mark current with Academy coursework.

The first few days passed quietly. Mark remained in his transformed state, the formal attire and weapons a constant reminder of his altered condition. He attempted to return to his usual habits—gaming, reading, helping with minor household tasks—but found himself increasingly frustrated by details that had never bothered him before.

On the third day, he tried putting on one of his old hoodies over the waistcoat. His hands simply refused to cooperate, as if his body rejected the very concept of such a combination. The mental block felt absolute—like trying to force two magnets of the same polarity together.

More troubling were the subtle shifts in his behaviour. A coffee ring on the kitchen table drew his attention like a beacon. Haoyu's scattered textbooks on the living room floor made him physically uncomfortable. The thin layer of dust on the mantelpiece became impossible to ignore.

By the fourth day, concentration proved elusive with disorder surrounding him. Mark found himself unable to focus on anything while aware of accumulated grime and clutter throughout the house.

He started small—wiping down surfaces, organizing scattered items, sweeping floors. The work felt natural, even satisfying, though he recognized this compulsion as foreign to his usual nature. Each completed task brought genuine relief, like scratching an persistent itch.

Lihua discovered him scrubbing the bathroom tiles with methodical precision on the fifth day.

"Mark, you don't need to—"

"It's quite alright," he interrupted, not pausing in his work. "I find the activity... therapeutic."

She watched him work with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. The bathroom hadn't been this spotless since they'd moved in.

By week's end, the house gleamed. Every surface sparkled, every item occupied its proper place, every corner free of accumulated dust. Mark had attacked the cleaning with the same systematic approach he'd shown in combat—thorough, efficient, relentless.

Lihua expressed her appreciation repeatedly, though she clearly felt bad about him doing her usual work. Mark assured her the activity helped pass time, which wasn't entirely untrue. The compulsion to clean had become so strong that resistance felt physically uncomfortable.

Haoyu adapted to the new reality with characteristic flexibility, though he complained about having to maintain the pristine conditions Mark had established.

"It's like living in a museum," he grumbled after being asked to use coasters for his drinks.

The morning of his reevaluation, Mark woke to unfamiliar sensations. His body felt different—lighter somehow, less rigid. He sat up in bed and immediately noticed the absence of his waistcoat's familiar weight.

Looking down, he found himself wearing his original clothes from two weeks ago, complete with dried blood around a tear in his shirt where the knife had penetrated. The rapier and revolver had vanished entirely, leaving no trace of their existence.

Mark rose and moved to the mirror, examining his reflection with growing confusion. His features had returned to normal—almost. A thin scar ran across his chest where the blade had pierced him, and his left eye remained clouded white despite feeling perfectly functional.

He tested his voice experimentally. "Hello." The words came out in his usual tone, free of the formal inflection that had marked the past two weeks.

Relief flooded through him, followed immediately by uncertainty. Had the transformation truly ended, or was this simply another phase of whatever was happening to him?

Downstairs, he could hear Lihua preparing breakfast. Today would bring answers—or at least, he hoped it would.