"You've got some sweet digs here, pal," said Skipper, stretching as he looked out over the gymnasium Dir had led them to. The room was gigantic, with pretty much every kind of exercise equipment under the sun making an appearance. Sound echoed in the space the way it does only when sports are involved - balls slamming against walls, again and again and again. Security officers ran through the gym, making their way from drill to drill. The whole thing was like a well-oiled machine.

Dragan rubbed his eyes. He hadn't exactly got much sleep last night - chasing Ruth around the city will do that to a person - so he didn't much appreciate Skipper dragging him out of bed early in the morning to do some asinine training.

"Is it really alright for us to use this stuff?" he yawned, grasping for any excuse to abandon this effort and go back to bed.

Dir simply stood stiff as ever, hands clasped behind his back. "You're assisting us with our investigation. Anything that will help bolster your efforts, we are happy to provide."

Dragan raised an eyebrow. Usually, the word investigation implied some kind of mental effort, not the kind of thing that would require you to work out. You didn't see detectives in the stories lifting weights between cases - well, except for Ivan the Muscle Man, but that was his gimmick.

"You're a good guy, buddy," Skipper said, patting a hand on Dir's shoulder - a gesture that didn't seem to be appreciated, judging by the chief's face. "Apart from the whole oppression of the masses thing, I bet we could be good pals."

Dir made a truly heroic effort not to roll his eyes. "Of course."

"Now, then!" Skipper said, stepping forward. He flexed the fingers of his organic hand, producing a series of clicks as his joints exerted themselves. His mechanical hand clenched itself into a fist silently. "We've got some a-learning to do, kiddo!"

Dragan sighed, stepped forward. He'd already learnt that going against Skipper with things like this didn't go well. Skipper always got his way, sooner or later.

"And what are we a-learning, then?" he said, his voice as scathing a monotone as he could manage.

"Glad you asked, kiddo," said Skipper, flashing a grin. He looked past Dragan, towards where Dir was standing. "You might wanna, uh, might wanna move back there a little, champ."

Dir didn't budge. "I think I'll survive," he said.

Skipper blinked in surprise, but the expression was quickly overridden by a carefree shrug. "If you say so!"

Then he pointed up towards the ceiling. Already knowing what was coming, Dragan winced, resisted the urge to drop to the ground.

There was a sound like a gunshot from Skipper's extended finger - and a moment later, the room shook, dust billowing down from the ceiling. A chorus of alarmed shouting rang out from among the officers that had been using the gymnasium, and even Dir had to put a hand against the wall to keep himself upright.

Dragan glanced up towards the ceiling. Indeed, there was a huge dent up there where Skipper's Heartbeat Shotgun had made contact.

Recovering himself, Dir shot a glare at Skipper. "Was that really necessary?" he growled.

Skipper smiled innocently. "You can't learn this kind of stuff without seeing it first-hand, champ. First rule of teaching."

Dir's glare intensified. "If you'd asked," he said slowly, doing his best to stuff down his anger. "We could have provided a training dummy, rather than watch you inflict property damage."

Skipper waved him off with a flap of his new hand. "What's done is done! Anyways, I'm not talking to you, so shush. Mr. Hadrien, what do ya think?"

Dragan kept looking up at the dent in the ceiling, not that impressed. "I've seen this before. What exactly am I supposed to be learning?"

With a sigh, Skipper put a hand on Dragan's shoulder and steered him a short distance away from Dir's watching eyes.

"Listen, kiddo," he said, voice hushed. "You took down that guy, Sammy Eduardo Amberman or whatever. That's great. That's fantastic."

"I know it is." Dragan couldn't prevent a smug smirk from crossing his face.

"But you still kinda, uh, kinda almost died doing it."

The smirk died as well. "Well, that's because…"

Skipper snapped his fingers. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's because I didn't teach you all you needed to know. You got lucky down on Yoslof, but from what I've looked up this Citizen guy is serious business, yeah?"

Looked up? Dragan frowned. Where did he get that information?

"So!" Skipper said, snapping his fingers again - clearly, he was trying to turn it into some kind of endearing tic. "I'm gonna go ahead and teach you how to be a badass like me."

"Wow. Thanks."

Skipper grinned. "No problemo!" He took a step back, hands on his hips. "Tell me, Mr. Hadrien, how is it you think I perform my Heartbeat Shotguns?"

"No clue."

"Guess!" Skipper looked like a child whose parent wasn't playing along with their game. Dragan sighed.

"Well, uh," he said, scratching his head. "I guess you use Aether to force the air around you into a certain shape, then release that hold with explosive force?"

For a moment, Skipper paled at that explanation, but he quickly recovered himself. He shook his head. "That's, uh, that's a good try, kiddo - but no cigar. The clue is in the name."

Dragan put a hand to his chin, ignoring the stares of Dir and some of the other security officers.

"I suppose," he said slowly, brain racing through possibilities even as the words were leaving his mouth. "The noise your attacks make -"

"The noise my Heartbeat Shotguns make."

Dragan tried to prevent himself from cringing at Skipper's earnestness, but failed miserably. "I'm not saying that. The noise your attacks make aren't consistent with the damage they do, or the area that they damage. It's like a gunshot, no matter how the attack lands. And the, uh, the name … are you - are you manipulating sound somehow?"

Again, the snap of the fingers. "Correctamundo. And, Mr. Hadrien, what sound do I use for this purpose? You can do it, the clue's in the name."

Dragan rolled his eyes. "Your heartbeat, obviously. Don't patronize."

"Correctamundo times two, kiddo. Every beat of my big ol' heart is like reloading a pistol, you know?"

Dragan hated to admit it, but that actually sounded very useful. The more Skipper's heart beat, the more he could attack - which in turn meant that the more he exerted himself, the more powerful he became. Ironically, he was probably capable of more destruction when he was tired than otherwise.

He spoke up, hand still on his chin: "Why don't you just drink coffee, then? That way your heart rate will just go crazy all the time."

Skipper sighed and looked down at the floor. "Coffee just doesn't agree with me, I'm afraid…" He looked genuinely heartbroken. "Anyway, it's just an example. My Heartbeat Shotgun is an application of Aether that I've come up with myself, and - being modest here - mastered. It's pretty much exclusive to me that way."

Dragan frowned. Was he being underestimated? "How's that? What's stopping me from doing it?"

As Skipper walked over to a rack of balls, he chuckled. "Well, sure, I guess you could do it, but why would you?"

"So that I can shoot invisible bullets out of my fingers."

“Fair enough,” Skipper’s obnoxious chuckle continued. “But trying to do the same thing I do the same way I do is like - it’s like, uh - it’s like … imagine I build a car, just for me, right? The right size, the right distance between the, uh, the pedals, the works? Right?”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"Right…?" Dragan honestly wasn't sure if the man was going somewhere with this.

"Now - imagine instead of building your own car, you get yourself stretched out so that you can fit in mine. It makes more sense just to build something that suits you, right?"

Dragan considered it. That did make sense. If nothing else, he didn't want to be stuck with an ability called Heartbeat Shotgun for the rest of his life.

"So," he said, still with his hand to his chin. "How do I know what would suit me?"

Skipper grinned, taking a white ball from the rack and spinning it on his prosthetic finger. Dragan couldn't help but be impressed - he'd only gotten the thing very recently, and he was already capable of fine movements like that.

"Well," Skipper said, flicking the ball up and catching it with his other hand. "How about we find out?"

-

After clearing up the room - moving the exercise equipment and benches off to the sides, leaving a great expanse of space - Skipper and Dragan took their positions on either side of the gymnasium.

Dir watched from the sidelines, looking increasingly regretful about ever letting Skipper into this room.

"The rules are simple," said Skipper, stretching. "If the ball hits the wall behind me, that's a point to you. If it hits the wall behind you, that's a point to me. You can use Aether all you want, but you can't attack the other player. Best out of three wins. Sound good? Don't worry, I won't go all out against you, kiddo."

Dragan grinned, but he knew the annoyance was clear on his face all the same. "Cocky bastard."

"Oh?" Skipper passed the ball from hand to hand for a moment. "You want me to go all out, then? Just for a second?"

Dragan pursed his lips. He knew there was probably no way he could beat Skipper if he was giving the game his all, but observing the man in action could be useful all the same. He didn't even really care about winning this game, so there was no problem there either.

"Go on, then," Dragan said.

"Sure thing."

There was a sound like a cannon going off, and a sudden gust of air pressure that forced Dragan to squeeze his eyes shut. A chorus of alarmed shouts rang out from the onlookers - and when Dragan finally managed to open his eyes again, he saw that the ball was no longer in Skipper's hand.

"Wha?!" Dragan blurted out, tongue still numb from the cold air.

Skipper nodded to a spot behind him, a smug smile playing across his lips. Dragan whirled around to follow the older man's gaze.

The ball was half-embedded in the wall, steam still rising from its surface from the speed and force of its travel. Stray green sparks of Aether played across it, most likely the only thing that had prevented the ball from being destroyed on impact.

Dir, standing not far away, stared at the ball with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but clearly thought better of it.

"That's one to me," Skipper called out. "You want me to keep going all out, kiddo?"

Turning back to face Skipper, Dragan swallowed his pride and shook his head. If he wasn't even at the level where he could see the ball move, then watching Skipper in action wouldn't do him much good.

"Nice, nice," Skipper said, and the strength of the emerald Aether around him lessened considerably. "You throw this time, by the way, since I scored the last point. That's a new rule I just thought of. You like it?"

Dragan didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to the ball stuck into the wall and - with a burst of his own blue Aether - pulled it free, a few scraps of concrete snapping free as well. Dir looked on with despair at the ensuing property damage.

If he was going to hit the wall, he needed a strategy. Even with Skipper limiting the amount of power he used, Dragan was pretty sure he was outclassed in terms of both strength and speed. If this was a strictly physical contest, he'd be screwed.

But he had his mind. He could think his way past Skipper's defense.

When Skipper had thrown the ball the first time, there'd been that explosive sound - that must have been his Heartbeat Shotgun, used to propel the shot. But he hadn't pointed in the direction of the wall or done that stupid finger-gun. Instead, when Dragan had seen him throw the ball, he'd just thrust his palm forwards.

So he didn't necessarily have to use his fingers to fire the shots - he could use his palms as well. In that case, why did he do the pointing in those other cases?

The answer was obvious - a wider exit area dispersed the force more, made it less effective. So a palm-thrust would be a weaker form of attack.

As he reached his starting position, Dragan's eyes flicked to Skipper's new arm. He bit his lip. He knew that Skipper had already grown pretty accustomed to the new prosthetic, but could he use it to fire off Heartbeat Shotguns yet?

It was possible, but not certain. Dragan would have to bet on that - he'd execute his assault from what might be Skipper's blind spot, then, and delay any response the man could give by a fraction of a second.

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best Dragan had. The rest would have to be improvisation.

Skipper cocked his head. "You gonna stand there all day, or…?"

Dragan launched himself off the ground with Aether-infused legs, propelling himself forward with the ball clutched in both hands. Like he'd planned, he aimed for Skipper's left side, intending to charge past the man and launch a shot in the moment where he couldn't respond.

But Skipper didn't respond in the way Dragan had expected. Instead of moving his good arm to launch a Heartbeat Shotgun at the ball, he instead raised his left leg as if he were about to launch a devastating kick.

Dragan's eyes widened. Shit. He can fire them from his feet too.

The resonant gunshot of a Heartbeat Shotgun rang out - but in the same moment, Dragan kicked off the ground with all he had, launching himself high up into the air, uncomfortably close to the ceiling. The Heartbeat Shotgun sailed past where Dragan had been standing, slamming into the wall behind him instead.

Shit shit shit. The jump had allowed him to escape the attack, Dragan knew that, but it also left him vulnerable to the inevitable follow up. On the ground, he could move to avoid if needed, but his movement was much more limited in the air. At the most, he could twist his body to try and avoid a shot.

He couldn't forget, though, that Skipper's target was the ball, not him. He was only in danger of getting hit so long as he was holding the ball.

The answer was obvious, then.

Dragan hurled the ball towards Skipper's wall with all the strength his Aether could muster - and the ball went shooting forwards like a blue streak of light. The ball would take only a second or so to strike Skipper's wall, but Dragan already knew it wouldn't make it. This was just to get it out of Dragan's hands long enough for him to land.

Sure enough, a second Heartbeat Shotgun struck the ball just before it hit the wall, and the force instead sent it bouncing around the room at blinding speeds - somehow missing both Skipper's and Dragan's walls - before landing with a resounding smack in Skipper's hand.

"Too bad, so sad," Skipper grinned.

The bastard still hadn't moved from where he'd started. Dragan growled.

Skipper passed the ball from hand to hand, eyes looking down at it. "Going in with just one plan, and then just falling back onto improvisation when that doesn't work? That's no good, Mr. Hadrien. You gotta have more plans waiting in the wings."

Dragan glared. He really didn't like people telling him what he was thinking, especially when they were right.

Skipper raised the ball over his head, the grin on his face intensifying sharply. "How about I show you how it's done, huh?"

He didn't even give Dragan a moment to prepare. The bang of a Heartbeat Shotgun rang out, and again the ball disappeared from Skipper's hand. Dragan wouldn't let the man get away with the same move twice, though.

Without even seeing the ball, Dragan launched himself off to the side, directly in front of Skipper in terms of direction, bracing himself with his Aether as much as he could.

A leap of faith. It paid off.

Something smacked into Dragan's stomach with incredible force - if he hadn't been infusing his body with Aether, Dragan was sure that shot would have taken him out of commission for quite a while.

Indeed, even with his Aether defense, Dragan was forced to gasp as the air was pushed out of his lungs - and, with the momentum the ball was still carrying, he was sent flying backwards towards his wall.

That was fine. That was okay. With the angle he was flying at, with the ball clutched against his stomach, hitting the wall wouldn't mean his loss. The rules said that he'd lose if the ball hit the wall - there was no rule against Dragan himself hitting the wall. So long as he made sure he hit the wall back-first, he could still retaliate. He poured all the Aether he had into his back, making sure that nothing would break when he struck the wall.

Well, except for the wall itself.

Even with his protection, Dragan couldn't help but feel a surge of pain when he finally hit his mark, and it was only the thought of how humiliating it would be that stopped him from rolling around on the floor and groaning. Legs shaking, he picked the ball up and began walking back towards Skipper. The man raised an impressed eyebrow.

"I like your attitude, kiddo," he said. "But I don't think this frontal assault is working out for you."

As Skipper said that, Dragan fell into a pile on the floor, seemingly confirming his statement. Skipper sighed, running his organic hand through his hair. "Ah, the enthusiasm of youth. Hold up, kid, I'll give ya a hand."

Skipper took a step towards Dragan's prone form - and in that moment, Dragan struck. Instantly returning to a crouched position, he hurled the object in his hand with all his strength - infusing it with so much Aether that it looked more like a lance of blue light than anything else.

It surged straight towards Skipper's wall, the sheer speed of its movement creating an unholy screeching that filled the room.

Skipper himself didn't miss a beat though, and clearly, he'd partially been expecting this. With what Dragan now recognized as twin Heartbeat Shotguns from the soles of his feet, Skipper launched himself off the ground and straight towards the projectile, reaching out and catching it as though he were plucking a leaf from a tree.

"Like I said, kiddo," Skipper said, landing and skidding to a halt with a squeak against the floor. "If you go on with just one plan, then you're screwed when -"

His speech trailed off as he saw Dragan's face. He looked at Dragan's triumphant grin, frowned, then glanced down at the object in his hand.

He wasn't holding the ball. He was holding one of Dragan's shoes, crumpled into a sphere.

There was a gentle tap as the slow-moving ball hit the wall behind Skipper. The man grinned and raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed.

Dragan staggered where he stood, legs shaking like a newborn deer. "It doesn't … doesn't matter how many plans you have," he panted. "So long as your enemies never figure out what they are."

Skipper nodded slowly. "Not bad," he chuckled. "You got me. I think we're done here."

Dragan shook his head vehemently. "No! No. We're … one for one, now. We still gotta…"

The boy collapsed into a heap, and Skipper chuckled ruefully.

"That's what I thought."