[Day 7]
Lance's feet pounded the wet pavement, each step sending a small splash of water into the air. The rain had been falling steadily since he'd woken up, but that hadn't deterred him from his morning run to Titan's Den. If anything, the cool droplets on his skin felt invigorating, a refreshing counterpoint to the heat building in his muscles.
He reveled in the sensation of his body working at peak efficiency. Every movement was precise, every breath measured.
This is what it means to be alive, Lance thought, his face splitting into a grin wider than the Grand Canyon. The world around him seemed sharper, more vibrant, even through the gray veil of rain. He could hear the individual impacts of raindrops on leaves, smell the rich scent of wet earth beneath the concrete. And beneath it all, the city's heartbeat—steady, relentless, alive.
The rain-slicked streets that would have been treacherous before now felt like an exciting challenge. His reflexes, honed to a panther-like sharpness, guided him through the slippery maze. His heightened spatial awareness mapped every puddle and patch, while his hearing caught the subtle changes in the splashing of his footfalls, alerting him to shifts in traction. This fluid negotiation of danger flowed through him as naturally as the rain itself.
As he rounded a corner, his senses picked up a commotion ahead. A man was storming out of an electronics store, his arms laden with what looked like five sealed laptop boxes. Lance's eyes narrowed, his mind instantly calculating trajectories and probabilities.
Shoplifter, he concluded, yet he felt calm, strangely calm, didn't-break-his-stride calm. Before NARS, his hands would have been shaking, and he would have turned his ass around and called the police from the safety of home.
The man's head swiveled wildly, panic evident in his jerky movements. He took a step forward, then another, his gait unsteady under the weight of his ill-gotten goods.
Time seemed to slow for Lance. He saw the man's foot catch on an uneven patch of sidewalk, saw his balance begin to falter. In that split second, Lance's mind ran through a dozen possible scenarios.
Intercept? Dodge? Brace for impact?
Before he could decide, reality reasserted itself with brutal efficiency. The man toppled forward, his momentum carrying him directly into Lance's path. There was no time to evade.
‘Crash.’
The impact was jarring, even with Lance's ‘awesome’ physique. He felt the air rush from his lungs as the man's full weight slammed into him and the sharp corners of the laptop boxes dug into his ribs. They went down in a tangle of limbs and electronics, hitting the wet pavement with a resounding thud.
For a moment, everything was chaos. Rain pelted Lance's face as he lay stunned on the ground, his senses overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. The shoplifter scrambled to his feet, cursing and grabbing at the scattered laptop boxes.
Lance's mind snapped back into focus. He pushed himself up, ignoring the ache in his side where the boxes had struck him. His novel strength made it easy to shake off the impact, but a flicker of annoyance sparked in his chest.
"Hey!" he called out, his voice sharp and clear over the patter of rain. "What's the rush, buddy?"
The man froze, one hand clutching a laptop box, the other reaching for another. His eyes met Lance's, wide with fear and wider with desperation.
"I... I..." stammered the man in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, brown hair peeking out from beneath his hood, a sad tattoo of a weeping willow tree on the back of his hand speaking of past sorrows.
Lance uncoiled from his crouch like a predator ready to strike. He could see the man's pulse racing in his neck and smell the acrid tang of fear-sweat mixing with the rain.
The blood oozing out of the fresh cut above the man's left eyebrow, likely from meeting the sidewalk moments ago, was disgusting now that he could see every swelling capillary, every forming scab, and the microscopic debris caught in the red.
Part of Lance marveled at these new sensations, even as another part focused on the situation at hand.
"Those don't look like they belong to you," Lance said before sighing heavily. He took a step forward, noting how the man flinched at the movement.
Lance took another step towards him. Arms raised to appear non-threatening. The thief's hand plunged into his pocket, and Lance's world slowed to a crawl.
Knife.
The blade glinted in the rain, a six-inch switchblade that looked more desperate than deadly. He could see the man's grip on the handle, white-knuckled and trembling.
"Whoa there, buddy," Lance said, his voice calm despite the adrenaline surging faster than data through fiber optic cables. "Let's not do anything stupid."
The man's eyes darted between Lance and the scattered laptop boxes. His breathing was ragged, panic evident in every line of his body. "Stay back!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I... I need these!"
What Lance felt next was surreal, to say the least. He was still getting used to his abnormal strength and extraordinary senses, but this lack of fear in the face of cold steel was definitely bizarre. It wasn't that he was suddenly fearless; rather, the man before him seemed about as threatening as a toddler wielding a foam sword. He’s not enhanced. There was nothing enhanced about this man - when he had crashed into Lance with his pile of laptops, he had felt as ordinary and fragile as any other person on the street.
"Look," Lance said, hands still up, "I get it. Times are tough. But we can’t be doing this, man. The owner of this place is going through the same shit we are. And you’re making it worse for him."
The man's grip on the knife tightened. "You don't understand," he spat. "My kid... she needs..."
Lance scanned him up and down. The man's ragged clothes, the desperation in his eyes, the way he clutched at the laptop boxes like a lifeline. It all painted a picture of someone pushed to the edge.
What to do…
He could easily disarm the man. Take him down before he even realized what was happening. But would that solve anything?
Lance drummed his fingers on his thigh, feeling the cool rain on his skin. He made a decision.
"How much?" he asked.
The man blinked, confusion replacing fear for a moment. "What?"
"How much do you need?" Lance clarified. "For your kid. What's the bare minimum?"
The knife lowered slightly. "I... five hundred," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She needs medicine, and with the NARS... everything's so expensive now."
Lance nodded, his hand slowly reaching for his wallet. "Okay. I can help with that. Can’t give you five, but…"
Lance's brain must not have evolved enough yet, because while he was distracted, struggling to unfasten the zipper of his water-resistant, compact running pack that snugly hugged his back and carried personal items for his gym trips, he felt a sharp pain erupt from under his ninth rib on the right side.
He’d completely miscalculated the man’s desperation. Luckily, the knife felt like it had only dug about three inches deep, hadn't found any organs, and, all told, hurt less than when he'd haphazardly injected himself with the gene treatment at BioNova.
Also, he wasn't as calm as he'd thought, because at that moment… he saw red.
His breath caught. His muscles tensed. His hand shot out, faster than thought, and clamped around the man's wrist. The world narrowed to a pinpoint focus: the pressure of his fingers, the rapid pulse beneath his grip, the startled gasp that escaped the lowlife’s lips.
Squeeze, Squeeze. Squeeze.
The bones in the man's wrist ground together under Lance's grip. The knife clattered on the sidewalk. Lance hardly registered the sting of the wound in his side, his body already working to staunch the bleeding.
The man crumpled. “FUUUUU—”
"You shouldn’t have done that.”
The thief's eyes widened in terror as he realized the tables had turned. He tried to pull away, but Lance's grip was unyielding. The man's struggles were futile, like a mouse caught in the paws of a lion.
Lance felt another surge of power course through him. And a barrage of system messages. It was intoxicating, this newfound strength. He could feel every tremor in the man's body, hear the frantic beating of his heart. Part of him wanted to squeeze harder, to feel the bones crumble beneath his fingers.
Stop. The thought cut through the red haze of anger. He deserves it, but… Lance inhaled and exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to loosen his grip and let go.
The thief's arm fell limp, swinging unnaturally at his side. It dangled like a wet noodle, as if the bones inside were no longer there. The wrist bent at an impossible angle, and the fingers hung motionless, refusing to respond to any attempt at movement.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, man. I got one of those gene treatments—anyway, I was trying to help you," Lance said. "And you stabbed me. Not cool. Not cool at—”
He stopped mid-sentence. The man had already passed out. “Damn it.”
Lance stared at the unconscious man sprawled next to the electronics store. Raindrops pelted his face—at least they had cleaned off the bruise above his eyebrow.
What now? he asked himself, bringing a finger to his lips.
He glanced around, half-expecting to see curious onlookers or the flashing lights of a police car. But the street remained deserted.
Ambulance? The thought came instinctively, but he dismissed it almost immediately. With the NARS crisis still in full swing, emergency services were stretched thin. A broken arm, no matter how severe, would be low on their list of priorities.
He looked down at the man again, taking in the lines of worry etched into his unconscious face. The anger had completely left his gut now, and he felt a spark of sympathy—and remorse for inadvertently breaking the poor man's wrist. More like crushing, he thought. But he did stab me... Lance shrugged it off.
The world had gone to hell, and this guy was just trying to survive. Badly, sure, but still. Think: Solutions.
The hospital wasn't far. A mile, maybe less. He could make it there in minutes, even carrying dead weight. Lance couldn't help but chuckle at his own pun as he considered his options.
This is going to mess up my workout schedule—Screw it, why not?
He bent down, carefully scooping up the man. It wasn’t difficult, but he was still mindful of the broken arm. No need to make things worse.
As he straightened up, Lance felt a sharp twinge from the knife wound. He glanced down, half-expecting to see blood soaking through his shirt. But there was nothing. Just a dull ache, already fading.
Huh. Guess I heal fast now, too.
With one last look around the empty street, Lance set off towards the hospital. His feet found a steady rhythm on the wet pavement, his enhanced muscles easily compensating for the extra weight.
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The rain pounded on, turning his clothes into a soggy weight and flattening his hair against his forehead. But Lance paid little attention. His goal was clear: drop this guy at the hospital and spring back to the Titan’s Den.
He'd been stabbed. Actually stabbed. And here he was, jogging to the hospital like it was nothing more than a papercut. The realization was…
Kind of awesome. But there was still room for improvement. After all, [Genetic Optimization: 62%], still wasn’t one hundred percent.
The unconscious man stirred slightly in his arms, mumbling something incoherent. Lance adjusted his grip, careful not to jostle the broken arm.
The hospital loomed ahead, the inside a hive of chaos, unlike the dead streets he'd just jogged through. Lance slowed his pace as he approached the emergency entrance, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.
Just drop him off and go? It seemed cold, but what else could he do? Stick around and try to explain how he'd crushed the guy's wrist with his bare hands?
Lance hesitated at the entrance, but the door slid open, releasing a wave of antiseptic-scented air that screamed, 'Let's get this over with.'
A harried-looking nurse glanced up from her station, sizing up the unconscious man before giving Lance a once-over. "What happened?" she asked, already moving towards them.
"He, uh, fell," Lance said lamely. "I think his arm's broken. And he passed out."
The nurse nodded, gesturing for Lance to follow her. "Bring him this way. We'll get him checked out."
Lance followed. He dodged patients on stretchers, weaving around IV poles and navigating carts piled high with medical supplies, as he followed the nurse to an examination room where the fluorescent lights buzzed harshly overhead after being under the soft gray of the rainy morning, and carefully deposited the man onto the bed.
"Thanks for bringing him in," the nurse said, checking the man's vitals. "I'll need you to fill out some paperwork."
"Oh, uh, actually I've got to run."
She looked up, frowning. "Sir, this is important. We need information about what happened."
"Right, but see, I'm already late for my workout."
The nurse blinked. "Your... workout?"
"Yeah, you know, gym time. Gotta keep these guns loaded." Lance flexed, then immediately felt foolish.
"Sir, this man might have serious injuries. We need to know-"
"Look, I found him like this. Shoplifting gone wrong, I think. But I’ve got to go."
"You can't just-"
"Thanks for understanding!" Lance backed towards the door. "You're doing great work. Don’t let up… oh and don’t forget to call the cops."
He slipped out before she could protest further; his ears, however, caught every detail of her exasperated sigh as the door swung shut.
In the hallway, Lance took a deep breath. Definitely time to go, he told himself as he speed-walked towards the exit, dodging gurneys and ignoring the strange looks from staff. He made it out. Relief welcomed him, along with the damp air outside.
Lance checked his watch and grinned.
[9:09 AM]
If he hurried, he could still make it to Titan's Den in time for his favorite squat rack. As if that matters now, he thought wryly. With the state of the world, I'd be lucky to see another soul at the gym.
His watch beeped. His legs moved.
Faster. Faster. Faster, he urged himself. Absolute limit.
He leaned into the run, arms pumping, legs driving him forward with inhuman power. The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh. The streets were a gray smear, the cars blobs of color, and his body a machine fine-tuning itself with each stride.
[New skill unlocked: Kinetic Acceleration]
[Momentum Control increased]
[Genetic Optimization: 63%]
More messages came and went, but he ignored them all as he propelled himself forward.
It was overwhelming. Exhilarating.
Terrifying.
He stopped in front of the Titan’s Den. Made it, he thought, starting at the watch:
[5:34.7], [1.49 mi]
Five minutes and thirty-four seconds. For a mile and a half. His jaw dropped. This is world record pace.
A giddy laugh bubbled up from his chest. He felt light-headed, drunk on adrenaline, and more than ready to pump iron.
He stepped inside and scanned the room.
Marcus stood behind the counter, his massive frame impossible to miss. The gym owner's face lit up with recognition as Lance approached.
"Lance! Good to see you, man. Wasn't sure if anyone would show up today."
Lance grinned, genuinely pleased to see a familiar face. "Marcus! I’m glad you’re back.”
“Damn, man, you look like you've seen a ghost."
Lance straightened up, trying to compose himself. "Hey, Marcus. Just... just finished a run. How about you? You got the shot, then?"
Marcus nodded, flexing his bicep dramatically. "Yep. Still not cleared for max lifts, but I'm getting there."
Lance chuckled. Relief, meet excitement—old friends reuniting in the pit of his stomach. As he studied Marcus's enhanced physique, an idea sparked in his mind.
"Hey, Marcus," Lance began, his tone casual but his heart rate picking up again. "You still teach Krav Maga, right?"
Marcus cocked his right eyebrow into a high arch, his left unmoved and eyes intent. He leaned in slightly. "Yeah, why? You never seemed interested before."
Lance shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Well, things have changed. Thought it might be useful to learn some self-defense. You know, with the world going to shit and all. Besides I need a change of pace."
He didn't mention the incident with the shoplifter. The memory of the man's wrist crumpling under his grip made his hand shake. Control and discipline didn't sound like a bad idea. And if it helped him understand the limits of his new strength even a little, it'd be well worth the investment.
Marcus seemed to consider for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's not just about throwing punches, you know. It's about discipline, situational awareness."
Perfect, Lance thought. "That's exactly what I'm looking for."
"Aight," Marcus said, his expression brightening gradually like a sunrise. “You ever done Krav Maga before?"
"Not at all," Lance admitted. "I'm more of a weights guy."
Marcus glanced around the empty gym. “You up for a trial lesson right now?”
"Sure, that'd be... yeah, great."
"Let’s go to the group exercise room, then."
Lance followed Marcus into a spacious area where overhead LEDs cast crisp shadows across the polished wooden floor. Mirrored walls multiplied their figures as they moved to the center of the space.
"Aight," Marcus said, his deep voice very overwhelming in the empty room. "Let's start with the basics. Krav Maga is about efficiency and effectiveness. No fancy moves, just what works."
Lance's eyes lit up, hungry for more. "Got it. What's next?"
"First, your stance." Marcus demonstrated, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. "This gives you stability and allows for quick movement in any direction."
Lance mirrored the position, feeling the subtle shift in his balance. It felt natural, almost instinctive. Made sense.
"Good," Marcus nodded. "Now, the most important thing in Krav Maga is situational awareness. Always be aware of your surroundings, potential threats, and escape routes."
They moved through a series of drills, practicing quick scans of the room while maintaining a defensive posture. Lance found himself cataloging every detail effortlessly - the number of exits, potential improvised weapons, lines of sight.
"Next, we'll cover some basic strikes," Marcus said. "Remember, in Krav Maga, we aim for vulnerable areas - eyes, throat, groin. The goal is to neutralize the threat quickly and escape."
He demonstrated a palm heel strike, then a groin kick. Lance watched every twitch of his instructor’s body, his mind seemingly recording every nuance of the movements.
"Your turn," Marcus said.
Lance executed the strikes flawlessly, his body moving with precision and power. The palm heel strike cracked through the air, and the groin kick snapped up with startling speed.
Marcus blinked. "Huh."
"What?" Lance asked, lowering his guard.
"Nothing, just... that was pretty good for a first-timer." Marcus shook his head slightly. "Let's try something a bit more complex."
They moved on to combination strikes and defensive maneuvers. Marcus demonstrated a series of moves - block, counter-strike, knee to the midsection, then disengage. It was a fluid sequence that would typically take beginners multiple sessions to master.
Lance repeated the combination. Once. Twice. Three times. Each repetition more crisp, more precise, until it was almost a mirror image of Marcus's demonstration.
Marcus crossed his arms, a puzzled expression on his face. "You sure you haven't done this before?"
"Nope," Lance replied, trying to keep the pride out of his voice. "Just a quick learner, I guess."
"Quick learner," Marcus echoed, his tone skeptical. "Right. Well, let's see how you handle this."
Without warning, Marcus lunged forward, arm outstretched in a simulated knife attack. Lance's body reacted instinctively, the memory of the thief's blade flashing through his mind more vividly than Marcus's recent instructions. He sidestepped, deflecting Marcus's arm with his left hand while simultaneously striking with his right palm towards Marcus's face, pulling the blow at the last second.
They froze in that position, Marcus's eyes wide with surprise.
"Damn," Marcus whispered.
Lance stepped back, his pulse drumming an erratic beat against his ribs. The move had flowed through him like water finding a new channel—instinctive, yet unfamiliar. His muscles felt strange, like they were talking to him. He could tell where his moves were sloppy or off-balance. Doing it for real was way harder than just thinking about it. But hey, not bad for his first try.
"That was... unexpected," Marcus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You've got some natural talent, I'll give you that."
Lance nodded, unsure how to respond. He was getting it faster than he'd expected, but it wasn't coming easy. Weird mix of cool and kinda freaky.
"Let's try some grappling," Marcus suggested, moving to the center of the room. "Krav Maga isn't just about strikes. Sometimes you need to break holds or take an opponent to the ground."
They spent the next half hour working on various grappling techniques - escapes from chokes, bear hugs, and wrist grabs. Lance absorbed each move like a sponge, but he still stumbled through the counters as Marcus explained them.
"Aight," Marcus said finally, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "Last thing for today. Let's put it all together. I'm going to come at you, and I want you to defend yourself using what we've covered. Ready?"
Lance nodded, settling into his stance.
Marcus attacked, a flurry of strikes and grabs. Lance moved like water, deflecting, countering, his body flowing from one technique to the next with fluid grace. He blocked a punch, countered with an elbow strike, then used Marcus's momentum to throw him off balance.
Thud.
Marcus hit the mat, the impact echoing in the empty room. He lay there for a moment, blinking up at Lance.
"Whoa," Marcus said, accepting Lance's offered hand and pulling himself up with a wince. "You've got some serious power there, man. Didn't expect that."
Lance's grin faded quickly. "Sorry, I... that's actually what I'm trying to control. It's new, and I'm not great at holding back yet."
Marcus kneaded his shoulder, eyeing Lance. He inched closer, curiosity drawing him in, then retreated, caution holding him back. "Right. Okay. Let's take a break."
"Sure," Lance said. "You alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just... wasn't prepared for that. We'll need to work on your restraint."
Lance sighed. "That's exactly why I'm here. I need more control."
“Remember, Krav Maga isn't just about physical techniques. It's about mindset, about using your skills responsibly."
The words hit Lance like a bucket of cold water, reminding him of the incident with the shoplifter. He sobered quickly, nodding.
“Let’s take a break,” Marcus said.
Lance moved to the side of the room and crouched down beside his backpack, unzipping it with a swift motion. His hand dove into the bag, fingers brushing past his water bottle and towel until they closed around the crinkly wrapper of a protein bar. He pulled it out, tearing open the yellow and red packaging with a satisfying crunch.
The first bite hit his system like a jolt of energy. Delicious fuel… Lance hadn't realized just how hungry he was until the flavors hit his tongue. Chocolate and peanut butter, a classic combination that now tasted like ambrosia to his enhanced senses.
He devoured the bar in three large bites, gulping it down after less than a few chews. It wasn't enough. Not even close. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach persisted, a primal urge that demanded more.
Without hesitation, Lance reached back into his bag. Another protein bar emerged, clutched in his eager fingers. He tore into this one with even more fervor than the first, the taste lost as he wolfed it down.
As he swallowed the last bite, Lance became acutely aware of Marcus watching him from across the room. Marcus's mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and a frown. He leaned back, fingers drumming on the counter.
"Did you just eat two whole protein bars?" Marcus asked, his deep voice tinged with humor.
Lance blinked and froze for a whole second, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.
He glanced down at the empty wrappers in his hand, suddenly self-conscious about his voracious appetite. It was just another reminder of how much his body had changed, how different he was becoming from the person he used to be. Different. Stronger. Hungrier.
"Those are like 400 calories each,” Marcus said. “Watch out for all that protein and sugar, man."
"Oh. Yeah, I've been... uh, my metabolism's gone haywire lately."
"..."
"Hey, Marcus... have you noticed any changes in your body since getting the shot?"
"Not really, no. Why?"
"Nothing, just... wondering. What about, uh, any system messages?"
"System messages? What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. Listen, do you think you could squeeze another lesson right now?"
"Another one? I'm beat, Lance. Unlike you, the shot didn't turn me superhuman," he chortled
"Come on, you don't have any clients right now. And I'll pay."
"You've got a point there. But I can't go another round. How about I watch your form and give you some pointers?"
"Deal. I'll take whatever I can get."
The protein bars had taken the edge off, but Lance could still feel a hollow ache in his gut. His body craved more, demanding the nutrients it needed to fuel his enhanced physiology. He wondered, not for the first time, just how much food he would need to consume to keep up with his new metabolism.
“Aight, get in position…”