Psylocke Vol 2 Ch 40: Units & Departments Of The United Military!

(3rd Person)

Tristan's palms pressed flat against the grain of the wooden table, his arms burning as he forced himself down for the thirtieth pushup. From his perspective, the table stretched on like a field of polished earth, its faint ridges and knots like hills and valleys beneath him. He tried to keep count, tried to push through, but his mind wouldn't quiet.

The dream from the other night clawed at him still. Grace, running, terrified. The shadow dragging her into the dark. The words that voice had whispered. He told himself it was nothing—just his brain replaying stress in the most cruel way possible—but the image wouldn't leave him.

The ground trembled beneath his hands. At first, Tristan thought it was just his arms giving out, but then came the low thunder of footsteps—measured, powerful, yet softened, like someone trying not to disturb him.

He pushed himself up and glanced skyward.

Far above, Zuri and Kayla stood at the table's edge, their silhouettes cutting through the light like living monoliths. Both Brobs leaned against the counter nearby, their massive bodies angled toward one another as they talked. Their voices rolled down like heavy winds—loud, but controlled, careful not to blast him off the surface.

"...so then I told her the restraints were useless anyway," Kayla said, tossing her short blue hair over her shoulder.

Zuri chuckled, a sound like distant drums. "You and your obsession with clothes. You don't even wear half the ones you buy."

Tristan groaned under his breath, lowering himself back into another pushup. "How annoying," he muttered.

He kept going, forcing himself to focus on the rhythm—down, up, down, up—but their conversation was impossible to ignore.

It wasn't until Zuri's tone shifted that Tristan froze mid-motion.

"There's talk of a mission," she said, folding her arms beneath her chest.

Kayla's eyes widened. "A mission? Already?"

Tristan let his body sag for a moment, panting. He tilted his head back, sweat running down his face. "Wait—what mission?" he called up.

Zuri glanced down at him, lowering her head slightly, her massive dark-blue hair spilling like waterfalls around her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was softer, almost conspiratorial. "Darcy's going to pick a few of us soon. No word on what, but... it's coming."

Tristan sat back on his knees, wiping his forehead with his forearm. "Then why don't you get missions all the time?"

Zuri exhaled slowly, as if weighing her answer. "Because Psylocke is only one of ten units in the UM. We're not the only ones with responsibilities."

"Ten units?" Tristan repeated.

Her lips pulled into a faint smirk. "That's right. Ten."

He blinked. "And what do you mean by 'departments'?"

That time it wasn't Zuri who answered. Kayla tilted her head down, her golden eyes locking on him like a spotlight. "You don't know about the departments?"

Tristan shook his head instinctively—then immediately remembered that, from their height, the tiny gesture meant nothing. He cleared his throat. "Not really."

Kayla giggled, the sound bubbling like distant bells. "You're unbelievable." She crouched slightly, resting her elbows on the counter's edge so her massive chin balanced against her palm. "Alright, I'll make it simple for you. The UM is divided into departments, each one led by one of the Kings. Combat, Science, Stealth, Medical, Prisons and Jails..."

She paused, her grin widening as she watched him strain to keep up. "...and the Department of General Oversight. That's the one that runs them all. Keeps every department in line."

Tristan's brow furrowed as he let the names sink in. Departments, Kings, oversight. The whole thing sounded more like an empire than any kind of military.

Kayla tapped a single finger against the wood of the table, the impact reverberating under Tristan's feet like a bass drum. "Each department has its own units with their own jobs. And us?" She gestured between herself and Zuri with her thumb. "We belong to the Combat Department."

Kayla's voice carried a lilt of amusement when Darcy's call echoed from the porch.

"Speak of the devil," she said, tilting her head toward Zuri with a grin. Her long, dark hair shifted with the movement, strands glinting faintly in the cabin's afternoon light.

She crouched, lowering one hand toward the table where Tristan stood. The sight was still absurd every time—her massive palm descending, her fingernails smooth and curved like an arena wall. Tristan let out a breath, muttering to himself, then jogged toward it. By now, he was getting used to the strange ritual. The ridged nail at the end of her finger was the size of a football field, gleaming with a faint pink sheen. He grabbed onto the fleshy slope and scrambled up, shoes slipping slightly before he found a steady perch.

Kayla straightened, the world around Tristan lurching with the shift of her body. Beside her, Zuri brushed her towel-dried hair out of her face, her steps booming softly on the wood floor as the two giants carried him toward the porch.

The cabin door groaned open on its hinges, and a wall of warm air washed over Tristan as they stepped inside. The space was scaled for Brobs, of course, the ceilings stretching up like cliffs, the beams thick as redwoods. Yet despite the sheer size, the atmosphere was heavy, the kind of tense silence that told him something important was about to happen.

Tristan craned his neck from Kayla's hand. His eyes widened.

The members of Psylocke were already gathered, standing in a wide circle that filled most of the living room. Colossal figures, each distinct in shape and stature, ringed the space like silent statues. And in the center—Darcy.

She stood with arms folded, her expression sharp and unreadable, the kind of calm that pressed down harder than shouting ever could. Her silver-gray hair was tied back, and the faint light from the window caught in her eyes, making them glint coldly.

It was the first time Tristan had seen her like this since his very first day—at the center, commanding without words. A shiver of unease slid down his spine.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible against the heavy silence.

Kayla's lips twitched as though she'd heard him, but she didn't say a thing. Instead, she and Zuri stepped into the circle, the sound of their footsteps echoing across the wooden walls. Tristan, perched high in Kayla's hand, tried not to think about how small and out of place he looked in a room full of Brobs preparing for whatever this was.