Darkness. Then came the smell of sweat and rubber before he saw the stained ceiling with its peeling paint patches that were concealing old water damage and the cobwebs in the corners.
He felt fresh. He felt new. He felt…
Fantastic.
Fantastic despite the cluttered space filled with boxes of protein powder and spare equipment.
Lance swung his legs over the edge of the dirty cot. He stood naked. He saw tattered clothes lying in a heap on the floor, but reached for a fresh tank top and sweatpants neatly folded on a wooden bar-style stool.
He made his way out of the back room. The gym bustled with early morning regulars. More people had been getting their gene therapy treatments lately, and though full recovery was still a long way off, life was starting to feel almost normal again. Almost.
The clanking of weights and whir of treadmills provided a comforting white noise. He crossed the short hallway and found himself in the free weights area face to face with two colorful meatheads.
One of them, mid-bicep curl, caught sight of Lance and whistled. “Damn, bro! Did you put your face inside a BBQ?”
“Come on, Brad, don’t be mean,” said the nerdy hipster spotting him on the bench press.
“Ethan, chill. We’re just messing around,” said Brad.
The nerd tilted his head back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment before returning to Brad. “Fine,” he said, then eyed Lance critically. “Seriously though, you okay? Those burns look nasty.”
Lance forced a casual shrug, head searching for plausible explanations. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Just a... cooking accident.”
Brad snorted. “What were you cooking, napalm?”
“Something like that,” Lance muttered, regretting having engaged these eccentric gym-goers.
He took a step towards the exit, but Ethan’s hand on his arm stopped him. The touch sent a jolt through Lance’s system, his body instinctively tensing for a fight.
“Hey,” Ethan said, voice low and serious. “You sure you’re alright? I’ve got some burn cream in my locker if you need it.”
The genuine concern in Ethan’s eyes caught Lance off guard. For a moment, he was tempted to take up his offer, but his obvious injuries didn’t hurt at all, so instead he glanced at the exit and pointed his toes towards it.
Why don’t they hurt? he asked himself before responding, “thanks, but I’m good. Just need to work up a sweat, you know? Burn off some... energy.”
Brad’s eyebrows shot up. “With those burns? You’re crazier than I thought, bro.”
Lance shrugged again, the motion pulling at his healing skin. “What can I say? No pain, no gain, right?”
The words felt off. Pain was becoming an increasingly abstract concept, a distant memory overshadowed by the constant hum of his abilities. This new body’s crazy. But something feels off…
Ethan opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Lance was already moving past them. “Gotta scram. Try not to miss me too much.”
He could sensed their eyes on his back as he walked away, concern and curiosity radiating off them in waves. Lance quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and their questions.
As he wove through the maze of equipment, Lance immersed himself in the possibilities.
I need to test something, but first things first: gotta get out of here.
Lance made it to the lobby, where a grizzly bear chatted with a go-kart.
“...but Beast, you gotta admit, some of these new arma users are pushing the limits.”
“Come on Marcus, that’s what they said about us back in the day. Times change—”
Their animated conversation died as Lance approached.
Marcus and… Beast?
“Hey, champ,” Marcus called out, his deep voice carrying a hint of concern. “You slept all day, and those burns… are you feeling okay?”
Lance’s face tightened. What’s it to you? The thought flashed through his mind, sharp and natural. But he nodded instead.
“Well, just wanted to let you know Jiro’s all fed and walked,” the big guy continued. “But I gotta say, your dog’s looking... different. Bigger, maybe? You changing his diet or something?”
Jiro? My... dog?
“Yeah, uh, thanks,” he said, desperately searching for context. “New... protein blend.”
The man in the wheelchair chuckled. “Careful, Marcus. Lance might start feeding you that stuff next.”
“You offering to try it out, wheels?”
The wheelchair guy’s smile faltered. “Hey, man. You okay? You seem... off.”
This cripple’s so annoying, Lance thought, irritation spiking. I better ditch these guys too.
“I’m fine. Just peachy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got better things to do than stand around chatting.”
Marcus knitted his brows. “Lance, what’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you at all.”
Irritation turned to anger. Hot and fierce. Who were they to question him?
“You people always—” Lance began, his countenance twisting with contempt, and he could tell that Ethan’s mouth went dry as he calmly continued spouting deliberate slurs and insults that left the room in stunned silence.
“Lance, that’s enough,” Marcus said.
“You’re right, I’ve wasted enough time.”
The wheelchair guy – Beast – recoiled as if slapped. “Whoa, Lance. We’re just worried about you, man.”
“Well, don’t be,” Lance spat. “I don’t need your concern, and I sure as hell don’t need your pity.”
He turned on his heel, ready to storm out, but Marcus’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, Lance knew, but it felt like a threat. His body tensed, ready for a fight.
“Lance,” Marcus said in a low, no-nonsense tone. “Something’s clearly wrong. Talk to us. We’re your friends.”
Friends. The word tasted like ash in Lance’s tongue. He didn’t have friends. Didn’t need them. All he needed was himself and his power.
He shrugged off Marcus’s hand, lip curling in disgust. “Friends? Please. What can a meathead and a cripple possibly offer me?”
The sharp and venomous words might as well have stopped time. Diego’s face crumpled, hurt evident in his eyes. Marcus, on the other hand, looked thunderous.
“That’s enough,” he growled. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this stops now. You need to—”
Lance cut him off with a harsh laugh. “I don’t need to do anything. Except leave this dump.”
The person they knew was gone, replaced by something... else.
Evolution, he told himself. This is what progress looks like.
“What’s gotten into him?” asked the crippled.
He turned again, striding towards the exit. Power, Lance thought. That’s what’s gotten into me. Behind him, he heard Marcus calling his name, heard the squeak of Beast’s wheelchair as he tried to follow. But Lance didn’t look back. He pushed through the doors and out into the sunlight.
Free. Lance Lawthorn was gone. And whoever – whatever – he was now, he was just getting started.
The city felt off-kilter, like someone had cranked up the contrast on a TV. His senses were overclocked—the gritty cement under his shoes, the urban racket bombarding him from all sides. He flexed his hand, surprised by the effort it took.
Lance breathed, and breathed, and breathed, filling his lungs with dry December air and ridding his nostrils of the stench of sweat and ass that oozed from every corner of that seedy gym.
Weak.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
That’s what the people around him were: scurrying about like ants, oblivious to the power that he would one day unleash.
Lance eyed the building next to Titan’s Den. A concrete column caught his eye. Sturdy. Unyielding. This will do.
He sidled up to it, his fingers skimming the surface. The cold, rough texture made his arm hair stand on end.
Something felt off. Something has been feeling off since he woke up. This body didn’t hum with the raw strength he’d expected, yet facing down the reinforced concrete, no alarm bells rang in his mind. No voice whispered that this was a bad idea. This is fuckign weird. He flexed his hand, puzzled by the disconnect between what his eyes saw and what his instincts—or lack thereof—told him.
He drew back his fist, arm tightening as he tuned into his inner self, willing the strange energy he’d come to know as arma—all of it—to flow through his body and concentrate in his fist.
The sensation was unlike anything he’d felt before. Instead of the jagged, painful pulses he expected, the arma flowed through him in a smooth current, painless and easy. His fist began to shake, not from strain, but from the sheer amount of energy packed into it. The skin got tight, veins sticking out weirdly. This isn’t right, he thought, clenching his jaw. It didn’t feel like his hand was about to burst—
Suddenly, a translucent blue rectangle materialized in his field of vision, throwing him off balance. Alien text hovered before his eyes:
New skill unlocked: [Arma Cycling]
└─Arma Cycling: Ability to circulate and refine energy within the body, enhancing physical attributes
The fuck? Before he could further examine the sorcery that impaired his vision, another completely different message materialized.
[Arma Energy Alert]
Accumulated energy from Directive #1 dissipating. Time remaining to crystallize augmentation:
[06:49:37]
Select ability augmentation to preserve arma energy.
Failure to choose will result in energy loss.
Lance squinted, a hazy recollection lurked somewhere in his brain. He’d seen words like this before, hadn’t he? Floating text, blue boxes... The memories were there, but just out of reach. Then again, his grip on consciousness had been pretty damn weak last night.
Huh. Maybe this meat suit had some tricks up its sleeve after all. Lance poked at the air, surprised when the system responded to his touch. A smirk crossed his face as he scrolled through a shit-ton of data about his arma abilities. It was impressive how much info was crammed in there. Too bad the numbers meant jack squat to him. Without knowing where his old body stood, these stats were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Another menu popped up, looking totally different from the first one. Lance snorted. Two systems? Why the hell would anyone need two systems? And why did they use different terminology for everything? But quite frankly. He didn’t give a fuck.
He skimmed through a list of new abilities, most of them sounding like nonsense. After a minute of this crap, he picked “Redistribution.” Seemed like it might come in handy if he needed to bail. With that sorted, Lance closed the menus and got back to what really mattered - testing out this body’s limits.
The world, all his arma, he focused everything into this single moment. Then, with a primal growl, he unleashed his punch.
‘Crack.’
The sound was deafening. Dust and debris exploded outward as his fist connected with the column. There was a slight indentation where his fist hit. The concrete had buckled slightly, but so did his hand.
Lance withdrew his fist, marveling at the lack of pain. Not even a scratch marred his knuckles. A result of his… what did it call it? Impervious skill? Whatever.
Guess I was right. Lance huffed in disappointment.
He tried to flex his fingers, but couldn’t. His wrist gave way, and his hand bent inward at an unnatural angle, like it had folded into itself.
He stared at his broken hand. You’ve gotta be kidding me. What a let down. This was a downgrade after all.
[Alert: Arma Failure Imminent. Energy Reserves Critically Low.]
Great—
***
[Day 14]
Antihero. He cringed at the term. Was that really how the universe saw him now? A guy who did the right thing, but for the wrong reasons?
Maybe they’re right, he mused, remembering the satisfaction he’d felt pummeling that robber at the Chinese restaurant. The rush of power when he’d confronted Preston.
Shaking off the disquieting thoughts, Lance blinked the world to reality.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Marcus asked.
He found himself perched on the cold, hard surface of Titan’s Den’s front counter, Marcus’s concerned face looming over him.
Did I really sleep here? he wondered.
“I... what?” Lance slurred, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative.
Disquiet frowned Marcus’s brow as he gently prodded Lance’s swollen hand. “You don’t remember punching the column outside? Christ, Lance, you’ve done a number on your hand.”
“The last thing I remember is...” He trailed off, images of flames and smoke dancing at the edges of his consciousness. Vicky. “A burning building. We saved people, didn’t we?”
Was it even real? Or did he dream it?
Diego’s voice broke through the fog. “What are you saying, man? We’re talking about you waking up and acting like a total asshole.”
Each one of his friend’s words was a knife of resentment.
Lance’s head snapped towards Diego, who sat in his wheelchair with arms crossed and accusing eyes.
“I... what?” Lance repeated, feeling like a broken record. “No, that can’t be right. I was with Vicky. We saved an old man and some kids from a fire.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, hermano,” Diego said. “I have no idea where you went after the meeting the other day.”
“And you slept until seven o clock,” Marcus added. “Today.”
The other day? Today? Confusion screeched in his mind. That can’t be right. “What day is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“It’s Sunday,” Marcus replied, eyebrows raised.
Lance did some quick mental math, piecing together the timeline. Holy shit. I slept for over 30 hours? The realization hit him hard. A whole day, gone. Just like that.
[10:0—
He tried to peek at his watch, but it was difficult to turn his wrist.
“Easy there,” Marcus said, stabilizing Lance’s hand and throwing a pack of ice on top of it. “We will have to take you to the hospital for this one.”
The room stopped tilting. He stretched his neck, feeling less dizzy, and with a lungful of air, cataloged flashes of memory against the blank spaces. Lance looked left, then right, then at his swollen hand and the half-melted ice pack from Marcus’s minifridge.
“Marcus, can you align it?”
Titan’s Den’s proprietor leaned back, crossing his tree-trunk arms. “Align it? You mean your wrist? Lance, this isn’t a simple sprain. Your hand needs proper medical attention.”
Lance tried to bend his fingers. A mild ache pulsed in his hand, but it felt far away. He knew it should hurt more. Much more.
“Trust me,” Lance said. “I heal fast. Really fast. By the time we get to a hospital, it’ll be too late.”
Marcus rubbed his shaved head, exhaling sharply. “The pain alone—”
“Won’t be a problem.” Lance locked eyes with Marcus. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I need you to do this for me. Please.”
Diego wheeled closer, sharing his own sharp exhale. “It’ll be fine, Tank. If you can fix his wrist, do it. Otherwise it’ll heal all jacked up.”
“Is it because of this arma thing the two of you have?” Marcus asked.
Both Lance and Diego nodded.
“Fine.” Understanding dawned on Marcus’s face. He nodded slowly, years of medical training warring with the impossible reality before him. “Aight. I’ll do it. But if anything feels wrong—”
“I’ll let you know,” Lance assured him.
Marcus retrieved a large plastic toolbox containing first aid kits and other medical items from behind the counter, and began examining Lance’s hand more closely, while Diego wheeled even nearer, his earlier anger seemingly forgotten.
“Bueno, brother. Care to explain why you were acting so strange?”
Good question, Lance thought. Why was he acting so strange?
Diego said, I woke up an hour ago, that explains how I got to this point. And the broken wrist. But I can’t remember that.
“Diego,” Lance started while drumming his finger on the counter. “What exactly did I say when you saw me earlier?”
“I’m not even sure. You stormed out of here like a racist asshole, spouting some real nasty shit. Then we heard this godawful crack and found you out cold next to the pillar.”
Racist asshole… the words reverberated in his mind for a hot second, before.
Fucking Frank!
His conversation with Frank—Zack—last night replayed in his mind. The way Zack described Frank taking over his will fit a little too well with what he was experiencing. And he’d “appropriated” Frank.
He knew, bone-deep.
“Shit, Diego... I’m sorry about before. That wasn’t... I can explain.
Diego crossed his arms in response. “I’m listening.”
“Remember how I took away your leg pain? I did something similar with Zack, and I think it went wrong.”
“Wh—What do you mean, ‘wrong’?”
“Frank’s in my head now. Like, literally.”
“Joder, cabron. That psycho from group? In your head?”
“Yeah. Turns out, my powers are more complicated than I thought.”
“¿Qué demonios? So you’ve got, like, two personalities now?
“Yeah, that’s... pretty much it,” said Lance, pausing for a moment. “Or more like an unwanted mental roomate.”
“Joder. The guy mentioned something like that in group. But why’d you do it, man?”
Why, indeed. I guess…
“Two birds, one stone,” Lance said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Figure out my powers, maybe fix a broken man. Turns out, it’s not that simple.”
“Whoa, hold up. You’ve got some psycho sharing your body now. Hermano, that’s not the same as fixing my legs. What were you thinking?”
Marcus saved him from having to answer that question.
“Aight,” grunted the gym owner, garnering their attention.
“So, Tank, ready to work your magic?” Lance asked.
“Already done, soldier.”
“Really?”
Lance looked down at his wrist. The swelling had gone down, and the bones no longer jutted out randomly. It looked almost normal, just a bit red and bruised, and he could tell it didn’t work properly yet.
“Ya, I just need to wrap it.” Marcus creased his forehead. “You seriously didn’t feel a thing?”
“Nope, nothing. Thanks, Tank. Sorry for the hassle.”
“Don’t make this a habit. I run a gym, not an ER.”
“And next time, try not to piss off the whole gym,” Diego said.
“Trust me, I’m not planning on making this a habit.”
Diego responded with a soft exhale before Marcus cut the banter short.
“Look, that’s one hell of a story, Lance. Don’t know what’s going on with you and this Frank guy, but you’re damn lucky I’ve known you so long. Otherwise, I might’ve rearranged your face earlier.”
A dry chuckle escaped Lance’s lips.
As Marcus wrapped, Lance filled him in on the basics – his enhanced strength, speed, and healing factor. He glossed over the more complicated aspects, like his ability to appropriate others’ powers. Some secrets were better kept, at least for now. But the big man had already picked up on the gist of it, primarily during their krav maga lessons. And that was when the Titan’s Den phone rang.
“Yes?” Marcus answered. “Okay. He’s here.” Then, he pressed the phone to his chest. “Lance, it’s for you. It’s the police.”
Marcus and Diego exchanged a look that made Lance’s insides revolt.