Lorna kept Avalon humming during John and Bob's brief absence—just a few hours to meet Danny. She filled cups of free water, supervised teens on the arcade, and comforted Maria, who'd had a rough morning. With each interaction, she held the store's gentle heart—its mission—steady.
When the bell signaled their return, she turned to see John and Bob step through the door, their shoes still dusty from the street. John's face was resolute, Bob's expression sober.
"What did Danny say?" Lorna asked, handing each a cup of water.
Bob started, "Danny's real, solid—run-down dojo with authentic Chinese inscriptions and that golden dragon mural." He looked at John. "You saw the inscriptions by the entrance?"
John nodded, his voice low with familiarity. "They mirror the etchings on the Tiger Gloves. He confirmed Khan's men attacked because of the Tiger Medallion—one of three from... well, somewhere not our world."
Lorna listened, tension coiling. "Meaning we've got a target on our backs."
John sighed, removing the thrifted jacket he wore. It was a rugged old bomber—arm-length sleeves, specifically chosen today.
"Speaking of jackets," he said, "Bob and I hit the thrift stores while you held Avalon." He nodded at Bob.
Bob grinned. "We scored kevlar-patched jackets and reinforced track pants. Not full armor, but slash-resistant. If ninjas hit us again—or angry bikers—we'll take fewer deep cuts."
Lorna ran her hand over her own thrifted coat: a long canvas trench with hidden metal mesh lining—heavy and warm.
"We aren't invincible," she said softly, "but we won't break open."
They moved into the den—a converted storage area with padded mats and their White Tiger Gloves displayed next to family photos and Lorna's illustrated plans.
"Time to train," John said, his voice steadied by purpose.
He spread a pile of metal items on the bare floor: soda cans crushed into sheets, old keys and bolts twisted, cut-up tin roofing.
"First," John said, "let's practice defense. Start slow."
Lorna stood in the center of the mat. She touched a bolt with a palm-stamp, and the metal hummed—lifting. Keys obeyed, floating to form a thin dome over her head: a steel bubble. The metal spun lightly, creating a visible shimmer around her.
Next came offense. John threw a padded target for her. Lorna focusing her mind, targeted a sharp shard. Rusty tin curled into an improvised flail around her palm. She thrust it slowly forward, woodblock hitting square. The flail reshaped around it—transferring the force.
"Beautiful," John said. "Now, imagine them trying to slash. Build a wall, then tear away part of it. Let's simulate knives."
Bob held small training knives. Lorna called metal again: tin sheets coalescing into a vertical panel shielding her torso. Then, she twisted the steel barrier so that one edge faced at a diagonal. She struck at Bob's held knife—metal struck metal. The blade crunched harmlessly against her wall.
Bob nodded, impressed. "That's as strong as a riot shield."
They worked drills: knives, soft strikes, then fast karate kicks. Lorna learned to fold metal around her forearms—slidable gauntlets for quick blocks. She created a ring of metal plates on her boots as armor while shifting metal dust to mark incoming movements.
Minutes into training, the arcade game's muffled soundtrack drifted through the floor. Avalon was still humming above—life pressed on.
Between sets, they spoke quietly:
John: "Are you comfortable holding the weight?"
Lorna brushed a damp strand of aurora-hair. "Yes. But breathing gets shallow faster now."
John stepped close and steadied her. "Rest now. We'll keep building."
They moved on to more advanced work: Metal Sand Dome, like Gaara's sand shield.
John dropped a handful of metal shavings onto the mat. Lorna knelt, breath controlled. Within seconds, the shavings formed a shifting hemisphere around her. It rose gradually—shimmering and strong.
"Now," John said, "can you shape it into a pocket shield? For someone else?"
He moved behind her, and the dome expanded outward. When Bob lunged with a practice sword, she split the dome like a curtain—half enveloped John as a shield.
It held firm.
Their training spilled into conversation as night deepened:
Bob: "That jacket and pants help. But your powers are now our true shield."
Lorna nodded, brushing metal dust from her trench.
John spoke: "I'll adjust the store layout tomorrow—reinforced frames, trimmed windows, retractable metal mesh shutters."
Lorna offered: "I can magnetically hold them closed if needed."
John smiled. "We're building defenses on all fronts."
Just then, a thud rattled the front window.
A stone. Then another.
The arcade audio froze. A single teaspoon fell from a table.
Lorna tightened her palms instinctively—steel rushing from the counter's rim onto her clothes.
John moved in front of her, protective posture.
Outside, they heard shouting:
"Mutants out!"
"Friends of Humanity!"
Fat men in biker jackets, their insignia red and black, pounded on the glass before skirting off.
Inside, silence.
John flicked the lights on low. "Everyone okay?"
Teens nodded pale faces, backs pressed to the wall.
Lorna stood tall. Metal shards hovered around her coat. She whispered: "We're ready."
John patted the barricaded door. "Good."
They spent the rest of the night reinforcing: metal sand pockets behind each window, anchored frames, locks adjusted. The thrifted jackets hung near the door—ready. A second shotgun shell of the arcade sign read: We stand with mutants.
By dawn, Avalon was battle-ready. The jackets were worn by John and Bob behind the front desk—Lorna held her trench, the interior metal invisible under cloth.
John turned to the teens as they arrived: "Nothing's going to stop you today."
Lorna nodded: "We're protecting each other."
The kids smiled shaky, grateful.
That night, after doors closed, they gathered silently.
Bob pulled on his thrifted jacket once more. "Not bad."
John placed hands on Lorna's shoulders. "You're incredible."
Lorna exhaled. "We're a team."
John picked up the Tiger Gloves. "Danny gave us time and insight. Now we own our next move."
Bob jingled the medallion at his collar. "Master Khan's picked a fight with all of us."
Outside Avalon's doors, shards of glass reflected dawn light—fractured hope. Inside, John, Bob, and Lorna breathed steady unity.
Tonight, they had shields. Tomorrow, they would stand.