LUMBERJACK BREAKFAST

* 3 eggs (any style)

* 4 strips of bacon

* 2 sausage links

* Hash browns

* 2 pancakes

* Toast

* Coffee

Lance had this. Twice.

He knew not where it all went, and yet didn't question it.

His stomach had growled like it was eating itself. Lucky for him, he'd found a place while on his way to the police station that had just opened that day. An old lady ran it—her wrinkled hands had trembled as she poured coffee, but a hint of steely purpose had lurked behind her frailty. Lance had been her first customer. After watching him devour two lumberjack specials, she'd known her reopening was off to a great start. Lance's credit card, not so much.

Then it was off to the police station. Detective Yamada met him briefly. She said they had all the evidence they needed—the assassin's history and the obvious signs of forced entry made it an open-and-shut case of self-defense. After that he had to review some paperwork because all the crime scene cleanup companies were still on pandemic shutdown so if he signed denying the service they would release his home and he could go back there and he just wanted to get it over with already and go home even if it meant cleaning up the mess himself.

His hand shook. Too much coffee.

He signed it.

And now...

Lance trudged up the stairs, each step a Herculean effort. Exhausted. The events at the police station had drained him and the effects of caffeine were gone, leaving him feeling hollow and wrung out.

Even though he fumbled with his keys, the familiar metal brought a smile to his face.

‘Click’

Went the lock. He pushed the door open, bracing himself for the chaos that awaited him.

Please don’t be a complete disaster.

The apartment yawned before him, a battlefield of police tape and scattered evidence markers. Lance’s eyes swept the area, taking in the mess. Furniture askew, drawers pulled out, contents spilled across the floor. The stench of cleaning chemicals irritated his throat.

At least they got rid of the body.

He stepped inside, careful not to disturb anything. The memories of that night nagged at him, but Lance pushed them aside. He noticed the ashes of what used to be a houseplant, the thing that kicked off this whole mess. Despite it all...

Home sweet home.

He felt a bit pleased. His home looked different now. The place had changed. He could still sense the aftermath of the gunfight, but he was happy to be home. It wasn’t great, but it belonged to him.

Lance made his way to the kitchen, sidestepping overturned chairs and scattered papers. The fridge hummed softly, a familiar sound in the eerie silence. He yanked it open, hoping for a cold brew to wake him up.

Empty.

Of course.

Sighing, he closed the fridge and leaned against the counter. His reflection stared back at him from the microwave door – haggard, eyes sunken, stubble darkening his jaw. His beard had started to take shape. He barely recognized himself. The burn marks on his skin had healed a lot, but they currently looked worse than when he first got them.

What a mess.

The words applied to more than just his apartment and his burn marks. His life had spiraled into chaos, a whirlwind of enhanced abilities, violence, and now... Frank. The unwelcome presence in his mind stirred at the thought, like a snake coiling to strike. When would he take control again? Maybe he could nullify him. Duh. Some genius I am. That’s literally my whole thing.

Lance jerked his head sideways, trying to clear it. He needed to focus on the immediate problem: cleaning up this disaster zone. But where to start? The living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. The bedroom probably wasn’t much better.

One step at a time.

He grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and began collecting the detritus of the police investigation. Evidence markers, shredded papers, broken glass – all of it went into the bag. Cleaning up kept his hands busy and his mind off the crazy stuff. It was like his brain needed something normal to do.

As he worked, Lance’s enhanced senses picked up on details he might have missed before. A faint whiff of gunpowder. The imperceptible outline of a footprint in the carpet. Tiny splinters of wood where the intruder had forced entry.

They really went over this place with a fine-toothed comb.

Part of him appreciated their thoroughness. The rest just wanted to erase everything related to that night.

An hour passed. The sun beat down outside, making the apartment feel stuffy. Lance’s right wrist pulsed angrily under the makeshift cast Marcus had wrapped. Not too tight, he hoped - broken bones needed just the right pressure. His good arm felt sore from all the one-handed cleaning. But even with just one working hand, the apartment was starting to resemble something livable again.

He collapsed onto the couch, surveying his handiwork. The place wasn’t perfect, but it was better. Cleaner. Less like a crime scene and more like a home.

Now what?

Lance stared at the TV, wondering if it still worked, remembering the scientist collapsing on live broadcast when NARS first hit, wishing he could just sit in front of it with Jiro curled up on his lap later that day...

His body felt heavy, the cleanup and emotional toll of the day weighing on him. He craved rest – not sleep, since he'd just had that 30-hour knockout, but a chance to just sit and do nothing for a while.

But even as exhaustion tugged at him, a nagging worry persisted. What if someone came back? What if there were more people after him?

You're being paranoid, he told himself. Then he remembered confronting Preston. Shit. That was a bad move. What was I thinking? The little prick will probably send more guys now. Lance grunted. He never acted so emotional before. Was it Frank's influence somehow?

But then he smirked. Actually, Preston's probably not a problem. If I can trust this new nose of mine, that kid definitely shit his pants that night. His smirk grew. And if he didn't... well, I'm bulletproof now. Nothing to worry about. Except not killing his assassins, he chuckled.

A rush of air.

An unfamiliar cologne.

The creak of a floorboard.

Lance's spatial awareness screamed danger, but it was too late.

‘Whack’

The world tilted sideways as something hard connected with his skull.

Lance sailed through the living room, a ragdoll with no control over his limbs. Confused, his back slammed against the far wall with a thud that knocked the wind out of his lungs.

Seriously? Another Ambush?

Pain exploded across his spine, dulled to a manageable throb by Pain Nullification, as he slid to the floor gasping for breath, enhanced senses not quite sharp enough to warn him about the incoming assault.

A big figure stepped out of the dark corner. Lance couldn't see their face, but he could tell they meant trouble.

Not like the other hitman. This is an arma user, he thought. Move!

His Krav Maga training kicked in, muscle memory overriding the shock. Lance rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a fist that cratered the floor where his head had been. He scrambled to his feet, hands raised in a defensive stance.

The attacker lunged forward, faster than any human had a right to be. Faster than Lance himself. What the hell. Lance's reflexes allowed him to dodge the first punch, but only by a hair, and the second caught him in the ribs. He felt something crack.

Shit, he's strong.

Lance retaliated with a palm strike to the solar plexus, a move that should have incapacitated any normal opponent. It was like hitting a brick wall. The attacker didn't even flinch.

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Panic clawed at Lance's throat. It didn't matter that Marcus had taught him Krav Maga. This guy was so strong, Lance could have studied Krav Maga for a hundred years and it still wouldn't have helped. He tried a leg sweep, aiming to throw the intruder off balance.

"Give it back!" the attacker bellowed, and through the confusion and the wreckage and the dust and the attacker's tousled blonde hair, Lance finally got a semi-good look of his face.

Zack?

“Why are you he—”

Zack caught his leg mid-sweep, twisting it with inhuman strength. Lance howled as pain shot through his knee. He toppled backwards, landing hard on the coffee table. It shattered beneath him, shards of wood and glass digging into his back, but not breaking through Impervious.

Get up. Fight.

But his body refused to cooperate. The attacker loomed over him, a mountain of muscle and menace.

Lance groaned, shifting on the floor to prop himself up on his elbows. Glass crunched beneath him. He squinted at his attacker.

"Zack? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm not Zack. I'm Frank."

Lance's head swirled. Frank? The same Frank whose personality - or so he thought - had taken over his own body this morning. A string of curses ran through Lance's head as the pieces clicked into place.

And that strength… He'd known about Zack and Frank, but this felt different.

Damn. Just how many assholes are crammed in that skull? Two had seemed wild enough, but three? Or more? Lance almost wanted to laugh.

If this was Frank, then who the hell had Lance appropriated? Doesn’t matter. Directive number one: Don’t get pummeled.

"Alright... Frank. What do you want?"

Frank's fists clenched in response, veins bulging in his forearms. "You've got one chance to give it back. Or you're dead."

Lance head cocked briefly, momentarily thrown. "Give what back?"

The words left his mouth even as understanding dawned. Impervious. Of course. What else could Frank be after? Lance's skin itched with the phantom sensation of bullets bouncing off, of knives failing to penetrate. A power like that - who wouldn't want it back? He fought to keep his face neutral while pros and cons played out behind it.

"Don't play dumb. You know what you took. I'm counting to three."

"One."

Zack doesn't want it. But Frank does. Makes sense.

"Two."

Guess even personalities can disagree. How can he live like that?

"Thr-"

Sorry, Zack. But hey, I get rid of two assholes at once.

"Whoa, hold on. I don't even want it, okay? I’m pretty sure I can return it."

Frank's shoulders relaxed slightly. “Go on then.” He sat on the couch, eyes never leaving Lance.

Lance stood slowly, brushing debris from his clothes. “What is it with people and trashing my place? Is ‘please attack outside’ too much to ask?” Lance grumbled.

"Well, you didn't show up to therapy yesterday. So here we are."

"How'd you even find where I live?" Lance asked.

"County website. Thank yourself for being a registered voter."

Lance gaped at Frank as the hulking man on his couch bore no resemblance to the meek Zack he'd met at the support group.

The Redistribution ability he'd just gotten felt like it was itching to be used, offering a potential way out. Lance expanded his chest with a breath, centering himself. He'd never attempted to transfer a power back before. Hell, he'd barely gotten used to taking them.

Let's go, Lan. We got this, Lance thought. He paused. Wait, 'we'? Am I talking to another personality now? He chuckled nervously, half-joking but also a bit freaked out that it might actually be true. Lance shook his head and smacked his cheek lightly. "Focus, dummy," he breathed, forcing his mind back to the problem he needed to solve.

Lance closed his eyes and reached inward. He saw the familiar glow of his stolen abilities, each one a distinct orb of color and intensity. Impervious shone brightest, its blue light pulsing strongly. Lance hesitated, not wanting to give it up. But getting beaten to a pulp by Frank's super-strength seemed way worse.

Sorry, buddy. Time to go home.

He zeroed in on Impervious, trying to pry it from his core. At first, nothing budged. Lance balled his fists, doubling his efforts. His face scrunched up as he fought against an unseen force.

Suddenly, he felt a shift. The blue glow of Impervious began to flicker, then slowly peel away from what Lance could only describe as his core. It wasn't his heart—more like a spot deep in his chest where his power seemed to live. He'd never really thought about it before, but now he could feel it, like some kind of energy center straight out of those martial arts movies. The glow kept separating, and Lance gasped, his eyes flying open. A faint, silvery mist seeped from his skin, forming into a cloud between him and Frank.

Without thinking, an arm shot out towards Frank, willing the magical orb to flow through it like a conduit.

"Holy shit," Lance breathed. "I think it's working."

Frank leaned forward, eyes fixed on the floating orb. His massive hands twitched, eager to reclaim what was lost. Lance hesitated, a pang of regret twisting his gut. Impervious had saved his life more than once. Giving it up felt like discarding a trusted shield.

But it's not mine to keep, he reminded himself.

Still, Lance’s fingers recoiled on their own, but before he could second-guess himself, Frank's meaty fingers clamped around his wrist.

"No backing out now, kid," Frank growled, forcing Lance's hand into the cloud.

With a final push of will, Lance directed the orb toward Frank. It drifted across his arm, picking up speed as it neared his fingertip. Frank's eyes grew, a look of raw hunger replacing his earlier rage. He wanted it. He really wanted it.

The orb slammed into Frank's chest, disappearing in a flash of light. He jerked backward, body rigid as the power reintegrated. For a moment, the room was silent save for the sound of labored breathing.

Then Frank's pupils vanished behind heavy lids, and he slumped onto the couch, and Lance felt it too.

His arms suddenly weighed a ton, like someone had strapped dumbbells to them. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a nearby end table. The familiar heft of the wooden surface surprised him - had it always been this heavy? Lance frowned, eyeing the lamp he'd casually lifted earlier. Now, just the thought of picking it up made his muscles protest. It was like someone had cranked up the gravity in the room, but only for him.

And his skin tickled, as if he'd stepped out of a hot shower into cold air. Lance ran a couple of fingers over his arm, startled by the sudden sensitivity. The moment mimicked peeling off a thick rubber suit he hadn't realized he was wearing. Oddly, a sense of lightness washed over him, reminiscent of taking that first deep breath after shedding bulky winter gear. He pressed a finger against his forearm, testing. No pain, but the pressure registered more intensely than before. His skin had lost its invincibility, becoming... ordinary. At least his old wounds remained closed – small mercies.

Guess we're back to peak human perfor—

"Shit!" Lance exclaimed, rushing forward. Had he screwed up? Was giving back a power more dangerous than taking it? He reached out to check Frank's pulse, then hesitated. What if this was a trick? Did I kill… another man?

Seconds ticked by. Lance's heart hammered in his chest as he watched for any sign of movement. Just as he was about to risk checking for vital signs, Frank's eyelids jiggled.

Worry evaporated like water in a furnace. "You okay, man?"

Frank blinked, confusion scrambled his features. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was softer, lacking the menacing growl from earlier.

"I... I'm not Frank."

Lance's face tensed. "Zack?"

The man on the couch nodded, then winced. "Yeah, it's me. God, my head feels like mush."

Great, Lance thought. Now I've got to deal with the nice one. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, Zack, I'm sorry about all this. Frank forced me to return what I had taken from you."

Zack waved off the apology. "It's…okay. Not your fault. Frank... he can be pretty forceful when he wants something." He paused, a shadow crossing his face. "Wait, did I... did he hurt you?"

Lance glanced down at himself, taking stock. His ribs ached where Frank had landed that devastating punch, and his back smarted from his impact with the wall. But nothing felt broken, and the pain was not there thanks to his ability.

"Nothing I can't handle," he said with a shrug. "Though I'd appreciate it if you guys could duke it out somewhere that isn't my living room next time."

Zack winced again, taking in the destruction around them. "I'm so sorry. I'll help clean up, of course." He started to stand, then swayed dangerously.

Lance reached out to steady him. "Whoa, easy there. Maybe sit for a bit longer. That power transfer seemed to take a lot out of you."

Gratefully, Zack sank back onto the couch. "Yeah, I guess so. It's weird... I can feel it settling back in, but it's like... muffled somehow. Like it's there, but I can't quite reach it."

Lance stroked his beard. "That doesn't sound right. When I took it, it was immediately available." He paused, considering. "Maybe it takes time to fully reintegrate?"

"Maybe," Zack said, but he didn't sound convinced.

The quiet grew teeth, gnawing at their nerves. Lance fidgeted, unsure how to proceed. Part of him wanted to kick Zack out and forget this whole mess. Another part itched to know how Zack had bulked up so much. Lance couldn't help wondering what it would take to get that strong himself. Maybe one day he'd have arma like that too.

Curiosity killed the cat, he reminded himself. But the words that came out of his mouth had other plans.

"So... how many of you are in there, anyway?"

Zack dipped his chin, gaze dropping to his feet. After a moment, he glanced off to the side. "That's... complicated."

"I've got time," Lance said, settling into a nearby chair. "And let's face it, after what just happened, I think I deserve some answers."

Zack sighed and seemed to shrink. He sank into the couch cushions like he was trying to disappear. At that moment, he looked like a kid in his dad's armchair.

"You're right. It's just... not something I'm used to talking about. As far as I know, there are three of us. Me, Frank, and... someone else. We call him Mack."

Lance's ears perked up, and he unconsciously scooted forward, drawn in by every word. "Mack, seriously? At least it’s Catchy."

"You have no idea," Zack whispered. He opened his mouth to continue, but before he could speak, his body went rigid. His eyes rolled back, and he began to convulse.

"Zack!" Lance shouted, jumping to his feet. He rushed to the couch, hands hovering uselessly over Zack's seizing form. What the hell do I do?

As quickly as it started, the convulsion stopped. Zack's body went limp, his head lolling to the side. Lance held his breath, watching for any sign of life.

Slowly, Zack's eyes opened. But the gaze that met Lance's wasn't Zack's—it was Frank's. He knew.

Fuck.

Frank stood up, a satisfied look on his face. He stretched his wrists, cracking them loudly.

"Perfect, got it back," he muttered to himself.

He patted Lance's shoulder, his huge hand nearly knocking Lance off balance.

"You did good, kid."

Lance raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I guess?"

Frank's pale blue eyes locked onto Lance's. "I'm not gonna kill you. I like you. Think I'll keep you around."

"Gee, how generous of you."

"See you at the community center later."

Lance frowned. "Wait, what?"

Frank headed for the door. He paused, hand on the doorknob.

"Gotta chop a log."

The door slammed shut, leaving Lance alone in his once again wrecked apartment.