James slumped onto the motel's sagging bed, the springs groaning under his weight like an old man's complaint. The room smelled of stale pizza crust and regret, the remnants of his earlier indulgence now congealing in a greasy box on the nightstand.
Dusk had bled into night outside the thin curtains, Mystic Falls' streetlights casting a jaundiced glow across the parking lot.
His side ached from the forest skirmish, a shallow gash from Platinum's claws, bandaged with strips torn from a spare shirt—but the pain was dull, overshadowed by the electric hum of his powers.
Fire simmered in his veins, Danger Sense a constant whisper at the edge of his skull, alert but unalarmed.
Two days in this world, and he'd already tallied seven vampire kills. The forest clearing would be picked clean by dawn—crows and coyotes feasting on ash—but the whispers would spread.
Rogue vamps didn't die quiet; their sires would come sniffing, and James Harlan, interdimensional transplant, would be the fox in their henhouse. He needed a way out. A reset. Something to douse the spotlight before it burned him alive.
He kicked off his sneakers, flexing toes against the threadbare carpet, when the air shimmered. The screen materialized, unbidden, its blue text stark against the dim lamplight.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO POSSESS LANDON KIRBY? (NOTE: IN THIS UNIVERSE, RAFAEL WAITHE IS DEAD, KILLED BEFORE HE COULD EVEN BECOME WEREWOLF. LANDON KIRBY NOW STAYS IN HIS HOUSE, DEPRESSED ABOUT HIS BEST FRIEND. WARNING: ONCE YOU TAKE FULL CONTROL OF LANDON KIRBY'S BODY, YOUR OLD BODY WILL BE DESTROYED TO ENSURE ALL TRACES OF YOU IS GONE, THEREFORE NO ATTENTION FROM ANY SORT OF VAMPIRES & LANDON KIRBY'S SOUL WILL BE FORCED TO LEAVE HIS BODY & GO TO HEAVEN/HELL, BASED ON THE KARMA HE HAS DONE)
James stared, breath catching. Possession. The word slithered through his mind like a forbidden spell. Landon Kirby—the awkward, phoenix-hearted foster kid from Legacies, the one who tripped into Hope Mikaelson's orbit and sparked a dozen apocalypses.
In canon, he was the heart, the comic relief, the guy who died and rose more times than a bad sitcom character. But here? Altered universe.
Rafael dead before the bite. James remembered the pilot, the car crash that should have triggered the wolf curse. No Rafael meant no werewolf roommate dragging Landon to the Salvatore School.
Just isolation. Depression. A kid holed up in some rundown house, mourning a ghost.
The warning hit harder. His body—this body—gone. Incinerated, erased. No more James Harlan, New York nobody, leaving scorch marks on vampire hides.
Clean slate. Vampires hunting a phantom, their rage fizzling into myth. And Landon... his soul booted to the afterlife. Heaven or hell, karma's call.
What had the kid done? Foster system survivor, klepto tendencies, but mostly just bad luck. Probably purgatory at worst. James's gut twisted. Murdering vamps was survival; this was usurpation. Stealing a life, a face, a future.He paced the room, three steps wall to window, the carpet muffling his tread.
Pros: Anonymity. Instant in. Landon's ties to the school—Hope, Alaric, the twins—could be his shield, his entry to the plot without the bullseye on his back.
Cons: The kid's soul. Ethereal eviction notice. And what if possession glitched? Stuck in limbo, two minds in one skull?
One minute ticked by on the motel's ancient clock radio, its red digits mocking him. Fire crackled faintly in his palm, unbidden—a nervous tic. He could say no, grind it out as a rogue firebug, dodging fangs until the screen offered something else. Or... yes. Leap.
Become the story, not its collateral.
"Yes," he whispered, then louder: "Yes."
The world tilted. A vortex yanked at his core, soul tearing free with a wet rip. His old body slumped, flesh withering to dust in seconds—erased, as promised.
Darkness, then light: Landon's eyes fluttered open in a cramped, dim house. Posters peeling, dishes piled in the sink. Depression's weight lifted, replaced by James's fire, his sense.
He sat up, flexing new hands. Landon Kirby. No more hunts.