"Run!"

Lance's chest beat rapidly as he and Vicky burst through Sacred Valley's back door into the crisp autumn stillness. His body buzzed with nervous energy. He couldn't believe what had just happened. One minute they were eating noodles, the next they were taking down armed robbers.

Part of him couldn't explain his actions. An itch had crawled under his skin—not from his newly impervious skill, but a primal urge to test his abilities. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, striding towards the robbers. It all happened so fast. He'd been so focused on maintaining perfect control of his strength that he hadn't stopped to consider how monumentally stupid his decision was. What was I thinking? he berated himself. I could've gotten us killed. I could have gotten Louie killed. Just because I can take a bullet doesn't mean I should go looking for one. Those bullets can bounce off stuff, fuck, why did I do that?

But the answer wasn’t apparent.

The wail grew louder behind them. Lance grabbed Vicky's hand, pulling her along as they sprinted down the alley behind the restaurant. His saltatorial legs propelled him forward with startling speed, and he had to consciously slow down to keep pace with Vicky. She was quick though, nearly ‘five in speed’ quick.

"Holy shit," Vicky gasped between breaths, a wild grin growing on her face. "That was intense!"

Lance couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in his gut. It was absurd, really. Here they were, two arma users, running from the cops like common criminals. But the rush, the thrill of using his powers for something good – it was intoxicating.

They rounded a corner, ducking behind a dumpster as the police car parked in front of the restaurant. Lance held his breath. Listening. His senses picked up the crackle of radio chatter, the squeal of tires as more units arrived at Sacred Valley.

"Think they bought Louie's story?" Vicky whispered, her eyes big and bright with more mischief than a hacker at a cybersecurity convention.

Lance nodded, remembering the old man's solemn promise to keep their names out of it. "He seemed pretty grateful. I just hope we didn't cause him too much trouble."

As the immediate danger passed, Lance became acutely aware of Vicky's proximity. Her hand was still in his, warm and slightly calloused. He could smell the lingering scent of chili oil on her breath, see the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead—

“Hey, Lance.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

"That was... kinda awesome." She punched his arm lightly, her touch hardly registering against his newly toughened skin.

"Yeah, it was. We make a pretty good team."

"Don't get cocky, tough guy," Vicky smirked. "I still had to save your ass in there."

“I mean, not really…”

"You don't say? Guess you're right, Mr. Bulletproof. I'm sure those shots would've just tickled." She poked her finger through a bullet hole in Lance's Titan's Den hoodie. "So what, you stole someone's ability to play invincible hero or something? That's wild."

Before Lance could respond, another siren wailed in the distance. They both tensed, looked at each other, then marched down the alley away from the Sacred Valley Chinese restaurant.

"So, his name's not Louie? He called himself Wey Shi-something... Lan or Lun or whatever."

"Oh yeah, Louie must be his American name, I guess."

They shared a chuckle. She opened her mouth, likely with another snarky comment, when—

The world tilted. The edges of his sight went dark and blurry, and it felt as if he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything but what was directly in front of him felt far away, trapped behind an invisible bubble.

He turned to Vicky to see if she was still with him, but he couldn't focus on her because the moment beyond his tunnel of vision seemed distant, and because floating in his field of view, impossible yet undeniably there, were words he couldn’t dismiss like before:

[Arma Integration Protocol Initiated]

Subject: Lance Lawthorn

Classification: Path of the Hero

Observational Directive #1: "Inferno Rescue"

Primary Objective: Evaluate arma energy utilization in high-stress, time-sensitive scenarios.

Secondary Objective: Assess subject's decision-making process and moral framework.

Parameters:

- Location: Oakwood Apartments, 1420 Elm Street

- Situation: Structure fire with trapped civilians

- Time Constraint: Estimated 15 minutes before structural collapse

Data Collection Priorities:

1. Arma energy fluctuations during physical exertion

2. Adaptive response to environmental hazards

3. Interaction between subject's abilities and non-arma individuals

Note: This directive is part of an ongoing study on arma-human symbiosis. Your participation contributes to vital research on the future of human evolution.

Proceed with caution. Your actions will be monitored and analyzed.

As Lance read through the surreal mission parameters, his heart hammered against his ribs.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

These words looked exactly like the dreaded notifications he had gotten used to, but they weren't. They were definitely, utterly different. This wasn't his usual interface. He didn't know how to explain it, and he was just guessing, but it was as if his regular alerts were created from his own nullifier arma, while this latest set of messages was foreign.

He wondered if it was a side effect of his powers. His appropriated powers. Yes, that has to be it. It made sense.

“Fucking Path of the Sidekick. Ay, no me jodas. What kind of bullshit is that supposed to be?"

Path of the Sidekick…

Lance's neck swiveled around to face Vicky, his head angling. "Wait, you got a message too?"

Vicky's face pinched, her mouth a thin slash. "Yeah, some weird-ass directive about a fire or something. You're telling me you—"

"Oakwood Apartments?" Lance interrupted, his heart rate picking up.

"Shit," Vicky breathed. "You too, huh?"

“What NARS treatment did you get? How long have you been seeing these messages?”

“Whoa, boludo. Did you do this? It’s super creepy,” Vicky shot back, eyebrow raised. Then, seeing the intensity in Lance's expression, sighed. "Look, this message thing? Twenty seconds ago. And the vaccine? No clue. I just camped out at some random pharmacy near my hotel for two days straight. Wasn't exactly picky about which flavor of not-dying I got."

Lance nodded, while internally blasting through ideas. “No, it wasn’t my power.”

I think. That part, he didn't say out loud. If she saw the same message, then it wasn't one of my new abilities. No, I can't throw away that possibility yet.

This was no coincidence. Whatever was happening, it was affecting both of them.

But why? And how?

"What exactly did yours say?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain level

Vicky rolled her eyes. "Some crap about being a sidekick. Evaluating 'arma energy utilization' or whatever. Like I'm some lab rat."

Lance's insides clenched. The similarities were uncanny. "Mine said 'Path of the Hero,'" he admitted, feeling a twinge of guilt at Vicky's scowl.

"Of course it did," she muttered. "So what, we're supposed to just run off and play superhero because some creepy message told us to?"

Lance hesitated. The rational part of his brain screamed that this was insane. They should ignore it, call the police, do anything except follow mysterious instructions from an unknown source.

But.

The image of a burning building, of trapped civilians, wouldn't leave his mind. If this was real, if there were people in danger...

"What if it's true?" he asked quietly. "What if an actual fire breaks out?"

"Lance, come on. This is crazy. We can't just—"

"I know," he cut her off. "But what if we're wrong? What if we could help and we didn't?"

He showed her his watch.

It displayed [9:45 PM] in large, bright white print.

"It's not that late," he said.

A beat later, Vicky sighed. "Bueno, dale. It's kind of exciting, I guess. But if this turns out to be some elaborate prank, I'm kicking your ass."

Lance managed a weak smile. "Deal."

They took off running. Their destination: fourteen blocks away. The city streaked past. Streetlights flickered by in rapid succession. Empty sidewalks. Abandoned storefronts. Lance's awareness condensed to a racing ribbon of motion, details lost in the rush.

As they ran, questions peppered Lance’s brain faster than his feet. Who was behind these messages? How did they know about their abilities? And why choose them for this... mission?

The smell hit them first. Acrid smoke, thick and choking, even from blocks away. Then came the distant wail of sirens, growing louder with each passing second.

Four blocks away, they rounded a corner. The night sky burned orange. Oakwood Apartments stood engulfed in flames. Heat hit them in waves. Lance squinted at the painful brightness. The fire thundered. Glass broke. Sparks flew up. Hot air made breathing difficult. They slowed as the fire's size and intensity sank in, leaving them stunned by its raw destructive power and the realization of how many lives it threatened.

And just like in Sacred Valley, it happened again. Lance acted without thinking.

He grabbed Vicky, lifting her and catching her in his arms. Arma cycled through his legs. He sprang forward. Streets flew by. Wind roared in their ears. Three blocks disappeared in seconds. They shot towards the inferno, Lance's feet barely touching the ground.

"Madre de—" Vicky's curse cut off as the wind whipped her words away. She clung tighter, her bravado momentarily forgotten.

The blazing building grew massive with each superhuman stride.

Lance skidded to a stop, setting Vicky down gently. He noticed how he managed the movement smoothly, his newfound control kicking in. It felt like mastering an overpowered body, probably how kids feel during growth spurts.

The heat was intense, even from across the street. Lance wondered why it didn't bother him, then remembered his pain nullification was still active.

Best to leave it on for now.

Come to think of it, it was probably forty degrees out, and even at the speed he'd been running, he hadn't felt cold.

Lance studied Vicky closely, realizing she wasn't shivering from the cold run or sweating from the nearby inferno, either.

Does every arma user have pain nullification? Questions for later, he admonished.

People streamed out of the building, coughing and disoriented. Firefighters were already on the scene, battling the inferno with seemingly little effect.

"¡La puta madre!" Vicky whispered beside him. "It's real."

Lance nodded, unable to form words. The magnitude of what they were facing crashed over him like a tidal wave. This wasn't a game or a test. This was life and death.

A woman's scream pierced the air, rising above the chaos. "My grandpa has NARS. He can’t walk!"

His attention ricocheted between the fire, the police, the firefighters, the woman, and the chunks of burning debris plummeting from the building like meteors crashing onto the street, to Vicky…

“Don’t look at me like that, boludo.”

Her rough Spanish accent, tinged with Argentine inflections, somehow soothed him. So different from Valentina's gentle, precise tone.

Lance's body moved before his brain could catch up. He was sprinting towards the building, ignoring Vicky's shout behind him. People stumbled out, coughing. Others screamed for help from windows. Firefighters rushed back and forth, outnumbered. A police officer halfheartedly extended an arm towards Lance, then dropped it as Lance blew past.

Heat slammed into his face. Pain Nullification made it feel nice, which meant it was burning his skin. Behind him, Vicky's footsteps pounded the pavement.

Lance honestly didn't think she'd run behind him into a burning building.

He paused at the entrance, heat waves distorting the surrounding air. His new body remained unaffected by the intense temperature. With his legs, he could dash in, scoop up a couple of people, and be out in seconds - no harder than grabbing milk from the corner store. Heck, with his Impervious skin, he could probably take a nap in there and walk out tomorrow without a scratch.

So Lance gritted his teeth and plunged into the inferno. Not helping would make him the world's biggest asshole while at the same time…

What am I doing? He grappled with the question as he reached the entrance. But he knew the answer. He had power now. He had responsibility, duty, purpose and a grin on his face.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"Vicky, stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

"Like hell I will."

"I'm not kidding. I'll be fine."

"And I've got mild fire resistance. I'm coming."

A vein pulsed at Lance's temple, his knuckles whitening.

"It's too dangerous."

"Tough shit. Let's go, hero."

Vicky brushed past him, marching towards the inferno.

He gulped down air and trailed after her.

Lance and Vicky ascended the smoke-filled stairwell. The higher they climbed, the more treacherous their footing became. The heat pressed against them, making even Lance uncomfortable despite Pain Nullification and Impervious, as he strained to detect any survivors in the hellscape around them.

‘Crackle. Hiss. Pop.’

The sound of burning wood and melting plastic surrounded them, but Lance focused beyond that. He listened for something else, something human.

"Hear anything?" Vicky's speech faded beneath the fire’s roar.

‘Crackle. Hiss. Pop.’

Pressure built behind Lance's eyes as his mood darkened. They'd already cleared two floors, finding nothing but empty apartments and choking smoke. Time was running out.

Then, faint but unmistakable – a cry.

"This way!" Lance shouted, propelling himself upward. Each powerful stride cleared half a flight of stairs and pumped euphoria through his veins.

Vicky and her labored breaths trailed him. She was keeping pace—barely—but her movements were growing sluggish.

Fourth floor. Chaos.

Shadows danced. Smoke swirled.

Lance blinked. Eyes stung.

A sound. Faint at first.

He moved. It grew.

Louder now. Desperate.

Human?

"Hello?" he called out, his voice hoarse. Pain Nullification masked the burning in his throat, but it was obvious the acrid air had started to accumulate damage. "We're here to help!"

A muffled response came from behind a door at the end of the hall. No hesitation. He charged forward, foot slamming into the wood. The door splintered instantly as if it weren’t stronger than cotton.

Inside, in the far corner, an old man with a bushy white mustache sat in his wheelchair. Two children, a boy and a girl, no older than six—they could be twins—clung to him. Their faces were streaked with tears and soot, and the girl clutched a ragged stuffed rabbit.

Lance's racing heartbeat steadied, then quickened anew as he focused on the task ahead. They'd found them. Now came the hard part.

"We've got to move fast," he said to Vicky, already striding towards the group.

Vicky crouched by the children. Their eyes were wide, faces streaked with grime. The younger one coughed violently, while the older child latched onto the old man's arm.

"Let’s go. Now," Vicky commanded.

She pried the children's fingers loose and hoisted them up, one under each arm. The kids didn't resist, too dazed by smoke and fear to do more than whimper.

Lance focused on the immobile senior in the wheelchair. "I’ll get you out."

He lifted the man. The wheelchair came up with him. Lance paused. The straps. The old man was securely fastened to the chair, likely a safety precaution that now threatened to slow them down. "Hold on tight, sir."

Fumbling with the buckles, Lance's fingers slipped and caught. Damn it, no time! He yanked at a strap to rip it off, but the chair's frame groaned. Lance froze. Not again. Images of crushed metal going through flesh ambushed him.

He tried the first clasp. Stuck. The second. Jammed. His impervious skin faltered. Sweat broke through, dripping into his eyes. Smoke pressed closer. The old man wheezed. Lance's hands shook. Another clasp. Another failure. Precious seconds ticked by.

"Lance, we gotta go!" Vicky's voice reached him from down the hall alongside the children's whimpers.

"I know, I know!" He growled, frustration mounting. Why couldn't he get these damn straps undone?

A beam creaked ominously overhead. The old man's eyes bulged out, then shut tight.

Screw it.

Lance made a split-second decision. He gripped the entire wheelchair, old man and all, and hoisted it into the air. The weight was substantial, but manageable with his 6.7 in Muscle Density.

"Let's move!" he shouted to Vicky, already heading for the door.

He hurried back into the hallway, wheelchair held aloft. He caught the mirage of Vicky entering the stairwell. The smoke was thicker now, visibility dropping by the second. Heat pressed in from all sides, and Lance silently thanked whatever cosmic force had gifted him with pain suppression.

Stairs. Finally, Lance thought while tightening his grip on his cargo. Lance repositioned his hands on the wheelchair. One step at a time. I can do it.

The man in the chair coughed or barked, Lance couldn’t tell.

One set of stairs below, Vicky murmured to the children in rapid Spanish. Lance caught snippets: promises of safety, gentle encouragement, reassurances about their parents, praise for their bravery. It steadied him, reminding him of the lives at stake.

They descended, the wheelchair bumping against Lance's legs with each step. His arms burned. The old man clung to the armrests, eyes squeezed shut in silent prayer.

Smoke billowed up from below, thicker and blacker than he had ever seen. Lance's powerful vision struggled to penetrate the murk, his sight constricting—a telltale sign of hypoxia he recalled from ROTC high-altitude training. He strained to see the steps in front of him.

"Vicky?" he called out, suddenly unsure of her position.

"Right here," came her strained reply. "Last floor!"

Lance felt his pulse slow a notch. They were still together. Still alive.

The ground floor materialized through the haze. Lance's legs trembled with exertion, but the exit was so close now. Just a few more strides.

Final step.

Foot hit pavement.

Wheelchair down. Breathe. Cold air in lungs. Sharp. Clean. Head spinning. No. Slowing. Spots dancing. Fading. Colors sharpening. Sounds clearer. Sirens. Shouts. Crackling fire behind. Muscles shaking. But holding. Stand straight. Focus returning. World steadying. Oxygen. Sweet oxygen.

Sweet, sweet oxygen.

Paramedics swarmed around them, their voices a salad of urgent commands and reassurances. Lance couldn't register their words as he carefully pushed the wheelchair towards a clear area, solely focused on ensuring the old man's safety.

A red-haired woman rushed to the wheelchair. She pressed a button. All the straps snapped open with a soft click.

Lance blinked. He stared at the now-loose straps, then at the woman.

"Thank you so much for saving my father," she said, eyes brimming with tears.

A paramedic gently lifted the gray-haired man onto a stretcher.

Seriously? There was a button?

Lance imagined an alternate reality: He spots the button immediately. Presses it without hesitation. Saves the old man in record time. Emerges unscathed, a perfect hero—

"Sir, are you alright?" A paramedic swooped in next to Lance, her gloved hands already reaching for the elderly man.

An unconscious step back allowed the professionals to take over. His chest heaved while gulping lungfuls of clean air as the post-rescue jitters subsided and Lance pivoted to search for Vicky and the children.

There she was, handing the kids off to another set of first responders. He rubbed his nose against his shoulder, leaving a black smudge on his exposed skin. They'd done it. They'd actually saved lives.

But as Vicky approached him, her expression shifted from exhaustion to shock. Eyes big, mouth falling open in a silent 'O'.

"Dude, what happened to your clothes?" she asked matter-of-factly.

Confused, Lance glanced down at himself. His demeanor shifted subtly.

The Titan’s Den tank top hung in tatters, exposing most of his upper body. His sweatpants were burnt and full of holes. Beneath the ruined fabric, his skin was a bright red, with patches of blistering burns scattered across his chest and arms. These new injuries covered some bruises from his earlier gunfight - each about the size of a fist, some purple, others fading to a sickly yellow. The older marks dotted his ribs and stomach in various spots, showing where Impervious had blocked the bullets.

The paramedic tending to the old man looked at Lance. Her eyes widened. "Sir, we need to get you treated immediately. Those burns are severe." She turned and shouted, "I need a stretcher over here!"

Lance looked at his ruined clothes and burnt skin with mild interest, as if observing someone else's body. The destruction didn't bother him. “I’m okay, thanks.”

This shit's gonna hurt like hell. Guess pain nullification's staying up until tomorrow, he mused with a mental shrug. I hope Marcus has more sweaters in stock.

A medic parked a stretcher behind him. "Sir, lie down, we’ll get you to the hospital."

Lance raised his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. "Really, I'm fine. Just some minor burns. Nothing to worry about."

The paramedic's brow furrowed, her eyes darting between Lance's face and his blistered skin. "Sir, those are second-degree burns, at least. You need immediate medical attention."

"Trust me," Lance insisted, forcing a smile. "I've got a... unique condition. It looks worse than it is."

Vicky snorted beside him. "Yeah, a condition called 'walking disaster'."

Lance’s retort died on his lips as a commotion near the building's entrance claimed his attention. A figure dressed entirely in black burst through the front door, thick gray smoke billowing out around them. They carried a small girl in one arm and a dog tucked under the other.

With a few blinks, Lance zeroed in on the rescuer's face, and his blood ran cold. Even through the soot and grime, there was no mistaking that arrogant prick.

Preston from BioNova.

Intruder, gun, chopstick. Lance's brain fired off the memories of the apartment shooting like a broken jukebox cycling through songs. Memories which made his fingers drum on his thigh, his tongue run over his teeth, and arma cycle through his legs. Rage.

Something took over and Lance shoved past the protesting paramedic and strode towards the entitled brat. Hands balled into hammers, body tensing from head to toe.

"You," Lance growled, closing the distance between them with one explosive stride.

Preston's head cocked up just perfectly to have its nose crushed by Lance’s fist.

“What's your deal, asshole?”

Preston rose, firing a fist that Lance caught and clamped.

“Shit, shit, shit,” said Preston. He struggled, trying to yank his fist free, but Lance's grip held firm.

"What the hell, man? Let go!"

"Why'd you do it?" Lance asked.

“Crazy asshole, what are you talking about?”

Lance's grip loosened slightly. "You...don't remember me?"

"N-no... I swear I've never seen you."

His eyes narrowed. Lance yanked Preston closer, his grip tightening again. "Cut the crap, Preston. Why'd you send that hitman to my apartment?"

"Wait, you're that guy? You killed Mark?"

"So you do remember."

"That’s in the past, man, look around, we're on the same side now."

"You stupid, little boy.” Lance squeezed harder, veins bulging on his forearms. “I’m going to crush you right here.”

Preston pushed against Lance's chest with his free hand. His feet scraped the ground as he tried to back away. "H-hey, come on, man. Frank only went to roughen you up. And you killed him. You’re the psycho!”

Vicky appeared at Lance's side, her eyes fixed on Preston.

"Whatever happened, it’s not worth it," she murmured, her eyes never leaving Preston. "Let's go. We've done what we came here to do."

Reluctantly, Lance succumbed to Vicky’s words.

A hush fell as more and more people noticed them. Firefighters paused in their work, civilians craned their necks to get a better look. The air crackled with tension and disbelief. With a growl of frustration, he hurled Preston to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of Preston, leaving him gasping.

"Next time, I won't hold back.”

As they turned to leave, Preston's voice called out behind them.

"Oh, and Lance? You might want to invest in some better home security. I hear break-ins are on the rise these days."

The rage returned. But before he could spin around and confront Preston again, Vicky grabbed his arm.

"Don't," she warned. "He's trying to get a rise out of you. Don't give him the satisfaction."

Lance breathed in as deep as he could, forcing himself to relax. She was right. Getting into a fistfight with Preston in front of a fire-ravaged structure surrounded by first responders and news cameras wouldn't solve anything.

Part of him still seethed with anger, wanting nothing more than to go back and finish what he started.

But that was exactly the part of him he needed to rein in. He'd almost lost it back there, nearly hurting someone again. Despite his best intentions, it felt like something else had taken control, a darker part of himself he thought he'd left behind.

If Vicky hadn't been there...

He shuddered. Had nothing changed at all? After everything he'd been through, was he still that same person, always on the edge of violence?

No. He was different now. He'd stopped himself—with help, sure, but he'd stopped. That was progress. Small, maybe, but real.

Vicky stepped closer, her voice low and urgent. "Let’s bounce."

“You’re right.” He glanced back at the engulfed edifice. The firefighters' efforts were at last making headway, with streams of water pushing back the flames. “Do you think there were others?”

Sirens wailed in the distance. More emergency vehicles approached.

"Come on," Vicky hissed, tugging at Lance's arm. “We’ve done all we could. Look at us.”

She was draped in a gray rescue blanket snatched from the fire marshal's station moments after stumbling out of the building. Her exposed skin showed only mild redness.

I guess minor fire resistance beats impervious in this situation, he thought, allowing himself to be pulled away.

As they retreated from the burning building, the gawking crowd, the busy first responders, a small voice stopped them.

"Wait!"

Lance looked back. One of the twins they'd rescued stood there, face full of wonder and expectation.

"Are you... are you superheroes?"

Superheroes? Is that what arma users are? He frowned, mulling it over. The idea felt both right and wrong at the same time. Sure, they had powers, but...

Vicky beat him to it. "No, kid. We're just people who were in the right place at the right time."

With that, she grabbed Lance's hand and continued guiding him away from everyone else. They jogged down the street, putting distance between themselves and the scene of their daring rescue.

The adrenaline rush was gone and the world gradually slowed down. His body felt heavy and slow while his mind struggled to stay alert despite the overwhelming exhaustion that made him want to collapse right there on the street.

But he felt a bite in the back of his mind and knew what was coming…

[Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #1 Complete]

Subject: Lance Lawthorn

Updated Classification: Path of the Antihero

Analysis:

- Successful rescue operation

- Efficient use of multiple appropriated abilities

- Displayed aggression towards non-targets

- Moral ambiguity in decision-making process

Based on your performance, the following potential ability augmentations have been mapped:

1. [Redistribution (Emergent)] - Allows reallocation of appropriated Essence Powers between active slots.

2. [Essence Fusion (Emergent)] - Enables temporary combination of two appropriated Essence Powers.

3. [Adaptive Assimilation (Emergent)] - Increases efficiency of appropriation process for frequently used ability types.

Note: Accumulated arma energy from this directive is ephemeral. You have 24 hours to crystallize one augmentation before the accumulated arma energy dissipates.

Select wisely. Your choice will influence future arma-human integration protocols.

Continued observation and analysis of your actions will refine the understanding of arma-human symbiosis.

Antihero? Seriously? His head shook left to right, torn between disbelief and a drop of... pride? No, that wasn't right. He waved the thought away.

Essence Fusion caught his eye. Combining powers? That could be insane. But his brain felt like mush, and weariness seeped into his bones, making every movement a chore.

"Twenty-four hours," he said. "Deal with it tomorrow."

Vicky's excited voice interrupted his thinking.

"Holy shit, Lance! I got 'Path of the Heroine.' No more sidekick bullshit!"

Lance's forehead creased. "Congrats?"

"And check this out - I unlocked some kind of broken regeneration ability."

"Nice. What else?"

"Wait, what did you get?"

Lance hesitated. "Uh, nothing special. Just some... options."

Vicky was about to press further, but her eyes jumped past Lance's shoulder.

"Cop car. Two o'clock."

Lance tensed. "Time to move."

They ducked into an alley, slowing to catch their breath. Lance leaned against a brick wall, the rough texture grounding him in the moment.

"That was close," Vicky muttered as she gingerly touched the singed patch on her scalp where a chunk of hair had burned away.

Lance's hand jerked up reflexively, hovering near Vicky's head without touching. "Shit, your hair. You okay?"

"It's fine. Burns heal quick on me," Vicky said, shrugging. She glanced at Lance's injuries. "You though? Damn. Looks like you went ten rounds with a flamethrower."

He stared at Vicky for one, two, three awkward seconds and then…

Uncontrollable laughter.

He had no idea why he found it so funny. Maybe it was the absurdity of worrying about hair after nearly dying. Or how his whole body was charred while she just had a bad haircut. Perhaps it was the fact that he had twenty-four hours to decide how to upgrade his superpowers. Could be his brain's weird way of dealing with stress. Whatever it was, he couldn't stop.

"Are you fucking laughing at me, crispy boy?" Vicky asked, face scrunching. "I'll just shave this side. It'll look badass, unlike your deep-fried look."

When his laughter finally subsided, he said: "Thanks, Vicky. I needed this."

"What, getting barbecued?"

"No, the rush. Using our powers. Helping people."

Vicky stared at him for a moment, then huffed out a short breath.

"You're messed up in the head, Lance. And weird as hell."

A flash of something - maybe fondness - crossed her face, gone in a blink.

"But you're alright."

Lance grinned. The skin on his cheeks felt tight, but no pain registered.

"I'm beat. See you tomorrow?" he asked.

Vicky nodded, already turning to leave. She stopped.

"Oh, and thanks for the protein bars. Bring more tomorrow."