His inbox showed another automated reply: [Your message has been received…]
"They're going to fire us."
Let them try.
The office chair creaked as he jerked upright, then slumped again. Been wanting an excuse to show them what we can do anyway.
"That's not—we can't—"
"Why not? Look what we did to that asshole at the bar."
His hand trembled over the mouse. "I don't remember..."
Because you're weak. Always hiding.
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and cutting. Oh, let him hide. More fun for us.
"I just want things to be normal again."
Normal? The mouse cracked in his grip. We're gods now. And you want to answer IT tickets?
Not gods. Just—just different.
"Different? Is that what you call it when we—"
Shut up shut up shut up!
His fist slammed into the desk, splintering the wood. The monitor wobbled.
See? Even you can't control it. The power wants out.
"I didn't mean to..."
Of course you didn't. You never do. But I do. And I'm getting stronger.
We're all getting stronger. Even little Zack here, though he fights it—It took him so long just to hear us.
The chair spun toward the window. City lights blurred below.
"Lance could help us. His ability—"
Lance is nothing. We'll crush him when the time comes.
Unless he crushes us first.
Fingers dug into the armrests, metal groaning. No one can touch us. Not anymore.
Tell that to the last guy who tried.
"What last guy? What did we—"
Shhh. Don't worry your pretty little head about it.
The office lights flickered. His reflection fragmented in the glass.
"I want to go home."
We are home. All of us. Together.
Together? That's rich coming from the one who tried to jump ship and run off with Lance.
Lance was... an experiment. Something new to play with. But his mind was like tissue paper.
And we’ll break him the same.
"No—no, don't hurt Lance… he's just trying to help-"
Help? He wants to help everyone at Elena’s little playgroup. Like we're broken.
Poor little Lance. Always trying to save everyone.
Not for long. Changes coming. Big changes.
"What changes? What did you do?"
Laughter echoed off the walls. What did WE do, you mean.
"Please, I don't want—"
What you want doesn't matter anymore.
The chair creaked again. The screen went dark.
"None of us get what we want. Not really."
Speak for yourself. I'm having a blast.
His hands pressed against his temples. "Make it stop..."
It's never going to stop. This is who we are now.
Who WE are. Remember that, Zack.
The office fell silent except for ragged breathing.
"What... what happens now?"
Now? Now we get stronger. Whether you like it or not.
And anyone who gets in our way...
The rest was lost in static.
***
[Day 20]
Lance lay on his bed, throwing a tennis ball at the ceiling in steady rhythm. Up. Down. Catch. Up. Down. Catch.
Diego and Vicky did not learn energy cycling. The session had left them drained - more than Lance expected given how little they'd actually managed to manipulate their arma. Still, exhaustion meant something was happening. Progress, maybe.
They'd been too wiped to train the next day, but the day after showed promise. Vicky claimed she could feel the arma now, even if she couldn't direct it. Diego was... different. His arma cycled chaotically, flowing without purpose or pattern. He couldn't seem to sense it at all, but those random surges translated into lightning-fast strikes that caught Lance off guard more than once. It was enlightening—Lance had grown too dependent on sensing arma to predict attacks rather than watching actual movements—who knew.
At least he'd managed to disrupt Vicky's heat once with Dark Resonance… sooo it works. Small victories.
If only he knew how to activate it on purpose when he actually needed it. That's where having a mentor would come in handy.
Unfortunately, Rick remained out of reach - he’d forgotten to ask for a phone number, and Maverick Munson might as well have been a ghost online. A shame, since Rick could've taught energy cycling better than Lance ever could.
Wren's continued absence worried Vicky, though Diego kept insisting she was fine. Lance hoped he was right.
But for now, things were... quiet. No support group drama. No calls from Durham PD. His apartment had stayed clean these past few days. He could finally breathe.
Yesterday's training was even more brutal than the first one, meaning Diego and Vicky needed another recovery day - complete arma depletion required deep sleep to replenish, as Lance knew too well. Yes, he could finally breathe—
[Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3]
Subject: Lance Lawthorn
Path Analysis: Antihero classification confirmed
Primary Objective: Evaluate arma energy utilization in group influence scenarios. Secondary Objective: Assess subject's ability to identify and counteract hostile arma interactions.
Parameters:
- Location: St. Michael's Cathedral
- Situation: Mass influence through arma-enhanced vocal resonance
- Time Constraint: Duration of evening service
Data Collection Priorities:
1. Analyze resistance to mass influence techniques
2. Document effectiveness of counter-manipulation abilities
3. Study arma signature variations in group settings
Note: This directive contributes to ongoing research on arma-human influence mechanics and group dynamics.
Phone in hand. [5:38 PM]. Messaging app.
Lance: Anyone else get a directive about St. Michael's?
Diego: nah man nothing here
Diego: wait you got one??
Vicky: No directive
Vicky: What does yours say?
Lance: Mass influence testing. They want to see how I handle arma manipulation in crowds.
Diego: dude that sounds sketchy af
Diego: like what if everyone starts going all children of the corn or something
Diego: and then youre just there like trying to not get possessed and everyones singing creepy hymns
Vicky: Shut up Diego
Vicky: Lance don't go alone
Lance: I’m going. I'll handle it.
Vicky: I want to come but I literally can't move
Vicky: Everything hurts
Diego: same bro im like a corpse rn
Diego: pretty sure my arma is in a coma
Lance: It's fine. Church crowd should be manageable.
Vicky: Text us if anything feels wrong
Vicky: I mean it
Lance: K
Diego: dont die bro
He was already out the door.
The streets were still as empty as ever, though Diego had been right – a few businesses were starting to reopen. He passed a new smoke shop and made a mental note of the Thai restaurant next door for dinner after the church visit.
Picking up his pace, Lance covered half a block in three strides, water spraying in his wake. Rain pelted his face, but did he noticed? No. As always, his anxieties outpaced his supernatural speed, spinning theories about what awaited him at St. Michael's.
Why a church? The question nagged at him as he dodged a startled pedestrian. And why so many people? The pandemic should have kept crowds to a minimum, yet his directive mentioned a packed service. Something felt off.
In. Out. In. Out. Breathe.
He forced himself to slow down, both physically and mentally. The last thing he needed was to arrive at the cathedral in a panic. Lance ducked into an alley, taking a moment to collect himself. He closed his eyes, internalizing the steady rhythm of raindrops hitting the ground around him.
Energy cycling came naturally now, almost instinctive. His arma recharged, replenishing what he'd spent on his mad dash across the city. As his reserves filled, a familiar clarity settled over him. Whatever awaited him at St. Michael's, he'd face it with a clear head.
Lance emerged from the alley, moving at a brisk but human pace. The cathedral's spire loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. As he approached, he saw a steady trickle of people entering the building. Too many people. Even a group this size violated pandemic restrictions.
Something's definitely wrong here.
He joined the small crowd, letting himself be swept along by the flow.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and... more. An electric charge that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Lance took in everything as he searched for anything out of place.
"My brothers and sisters in Christ, we gather here today to experience true unity. True peace." The priest's voice rolled through the cathedral. "Think of how divided we've become. Think of how alone you've felt. But you're not alone anymore. You're here with us. With me. Let my voice guide you to that deeper connection we all seek."
The pews were packed, shoulder to shoulder - at least fifty people crammed into the space. No social distancing, no NARS precautions, no unease. Just an eerie uniformity in the congregants' blank expressions. Lance felt a pressure building in his head, a subtle push urging him to relax, to let go, to join the collective.
"Feel the weight of your worries lifting. Feel the barriers between you and your neighbor dissolving. We are one congregation. One body. One mind. Let go of your doubts. Let go of your fears. Let go of everything that separates you from the person sitting beside you."
Fuck that.
He bit down hard, focusing on cycling his energy to create a barrier against the invasive force. Three assumptions flashed through his mind: this had to be the foreign arma the Directive warned him about, he could shield his brain by flooding it with his own arma, and the attack was targeting his neural pathways. If this is brainwashing, that makes sense... right? RIGHT? The pressure eased, but didn't disappear entirely. Lance settled into a pew near the back, feeling his muscles relax one by one against his will—even his Adaptive Limbs seemed to quiet down, his Saltatorial ability dissolving like sugar in hot coffee, all while the insidious compulsion tried to worm its way into his mind.
The priest stood at the altar, his voice resonating with unnatural power. His voice carved through the church as visible waves of arma that pulsed outward.
"The Lord speaks of unity. Of coming together as one flock. But we've strayed so far from that vision. We've built walls. Created divisions. Isolated ourselves. Tonight, we break down those walls. Tonight, we become what we were always meant to be - truly unified. Truly connected. One mind. One purpose. One will."
He’s our arma user, alright. He had felt enough arma to know - this was the real thing.
If only finding our killer were that easy. But as he thought that, another idea popped into his skull. Wait, could this be our killer? He dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. Let’s hold off on assumptions…
His head felt heavy. His hands too. He eased up from the pew, moved forward three rows, and studied the priest from his new vantage point. The man's eyes were unfocused, glazed over like everyone else in the cathedral. Is he being controlled too? Lance wondered. Or is this all him?
He moved up another row.
Now, Lance could make out more of the cathedral's details through the haze of arma. Dark water stains crept down the stone walls like fingers, and the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow above the hanging brass chandeliers. A statue of St. Michael stood guard behind the altar, looking crooked and unstable—Lance wouldn't be surprised if the recent tremors had weakened its mounting. Its bronze sword pointed downward – straight at the priest, Lance noted with grim amusement.
"Don't resist this gift. Don't fight against this blessing. Let it flow through you. Let it join us all together,” the priest intoned, his voice seeming to press directly against Lance's thoughts. “Feel how much lighter your burden becomes when you share it with us. Feel how much clearer everything becomes when you let go of your individual struggles and join our collective peace."
The rail-thin priest gripped the pulpit, shoulders hunched forward as he gripped its edges. When he opened his mouth to speak, Lance wasn't sure if it was one of his abilities or what, but he could almost see the sound waves rippling from the man's throat – distortions in the air tinged with pale gold arma that spread out over the congregation. The energy moved with too much precision to be accidental. So he's not being controlled, Lance thought, watching each calculated movement. The priest knew exactly what he was doing.
Lance leaned forward. Perfect. He was within range.
[Human Psion (1st Evolution)]
He'd never seen that classification before - probably one of hundreds swimming around in the Arma Integration databases. Psion? Like mind controller? The thought confirmed his suspicions, and a cold weight settled in his stomach as he remembered Mack crawling through his thoughts, leaving oily fingerprints all over his mind. He'd need Dark Resonance for this. And as if responding to his thoughts, the ability flashed a warning:
[Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]
└─Unable to disrupt foreign arma influence - insufficient resonance strength
Yes. He could see it. He couldn’t do anything about it yet, but through Dark Resonance, Lance could see how it all worked - like lines of code executing in real time. The priest's chant created a root frequency that branched into dozens of individual signals, each one probing and adjusting until it found the right wavelength for its target. Every time someone's resistance dropped, their signal stabilized into a steady pulse. A program running on human brains. He watched new connections form with each word, spreading through the crowd like a network coming online.
Good, now neutralize it! Dark Resonance, GO! Or whatever—Fuck. The words barely formed in his head when the organ pipes behind him erupted into sound, the vibrations slamming into his back and scattering his concentration.
"Together, we will know true harmony. Together, we will experience perfect understanding. Together, we will become something greater than ourselves. LET GO. JOIN US. BECOME ONE WITH US."
Turned out, flooding his brain with his own arma did not shield him.
His body stopped. He swayed gently with the rhythm of the priest's words. Around him, people nodded and murmured in agreement, leaning toward each other like old friends. He wanted to move forward, but his body sank back instead. The wood bench pressed against his back as he fought against his own relaxing limbs. He could still move - if you called dragging yourself through syrup moving.
Is this my world now? Mental warfare every other week? That was his last coherent thought before succumbing completely to the intense calm. He'd faced death before, stared it down with a cocky grin and a witty quip. But his life wasn't in danger here. This was violation. This was his body betraying him, becoming a prison of flesh and bone. For once, he was the one being appropriated.
The priest's litany droned on, each syllable a hammer blow against Lance's mental defenses. He couldn’t make out the words anymore, but he wanted them. Somehow, needed them.
Lance's heart thundered in his chest, the only part of him still responding to his commands. He tried to focus on that rhythm, using it as an anchor to keep himself from drifting into the sea of collective consciousness surrounding him. But even that felt like it was slipping away, his pulse slowing to match the synchronized breathing of the congregation.
That stubborn heartbeat bought him a moment of clarity.
Dark Resonance, come on! He screamed the thought, willing the ability to activate, to disrupt whatever hellish frequency was holding him captive. Nothing. The ability remained dormant, leaving him helpless against the psychic onslaught.
How can I make it work, damn it?
Sweat gathered at his temples. He couldn't wipe it away. Couldn't scratch the maddening itch it left behind. Every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive, aware of the slightest sensation - the brush of fabric against skin, the cool air from the vents, the press of the person next to him.
This isn’t brainwashing, it’s bodywashing. The priest might have his emotional brain in a stranglehold, but Lance's logical mind remained untouched. And that meant there was a way out.
He fought each motion even as his body obeyed. The rising - he made it take six seconds instead of two, muscles trembling with the effort of that tiny rebellion. The clapping - arhythmic, just slightly off-beat, enough to draw irritated glances from those nearest him. The kneeling - an inch higher than everyone else, thighs burning as he strained against the downward pull. His fingers refused to interlace properly during prayer, remaining awkwardly splayed. When they sang, he kept his voice a half-step behind the congregation. Small victories that cost him everything to achieve, but each one reinforced the same truth - he wasn't completely under control. Not yet.
The priest's voice grew louder, more insistent.
"Your doubts are fading. Your resistance is crumbling. Soon, you will know the bliss of true oneness."
A haze settled over Lance's thoughts, gossamer threads of foreign consciousness weaving through his own. Memories settled behind his eyes - but were they his? Fragments of other lives, other experiences, bleeding through the weakening barriers between minds. A child's laughter. The ache of arthritis in aging joints. The thrill of a first kiss. The bitter sting of rejection.
Lance's breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of those around him. His eyelids grew heavy, the urge to close them nearly overwhelming. It would be so easy to let go, to surrender to this ocean of shared experience. To lose himself in the comfort of absolute belonging because now he knew with complete certainty that every single muscle in his body belonged to the priest and there wasn't a fucking damn thing he could do about it.
No.
Not everything, he realized with sudden clarity. Not every muscle. There was another part of himself that remained untouched by the priest's hypnosis.
He doesn't know, Lance realized. Of course he doesn't know. A part of Lance twitched, writhed, pulsed, itching to be used.
Following instinct, he began cycling his arma. The arma felt sluggish, resistant to his commands.
Slowly, agonizingly, he felt the current begin to move. A droplet at first, then a steady stream.
With every other muscle claimed by the priest, his power had but one path left: Morphoplasm. And so it pooled within the baseball-sized, black mass on the back of his shoulder, building pressure like water in a blocked pipe. Using Diego's problem as his solution.
The substance stirred, responding to the influx of energy. Lance pushed harder, forcing more and more arma into the confined space. It hurt. Then it really hurt. Then it went beyond hurt. His shoulder felt ready to burst. Still, he kept going, pouring everything he had into this desperate gambit.
"Your resistance is futile. Allow your personal struggles to fly away. Become one with us. LET GO!"
Lance ignored the words, focusing instead on the growing pressure of his contained energy. The Morphoplasm strained against the force, but held. More pressure. More energy. Until...
[Warning: Internal arma pressure exceeding safe threshold]
[Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]
└─Source: Internal pressure anomaly
└─Activate defensive protocols? Y/N
Yes.
The dam broke. Dark Resonance surged through his system like a tidal wave, and everywhere it touched, the priest's control shattered. Lance's body became his own again, one piece at a time, radiating outward from his shoulder through his entire frame. First his neck, then his spine, then limb by limb until the last traces of foreign influence burned away.
He stood, muscles trembling with returned autonomy, and for the first time since entering the cathedral, took a breath of his own choosing.
"So that's how it works. Mental intrusion creates false control signals, just like phantom pain. Dark Resonance just needs to recognize them as threats,” Lance breathed, the words meant only for himself.
Dark Resonance. Lance had always suspected it wasn't something he could just switch on and off like Pain Nullification. More like an automated defense system that kicked in when certain conditions were met - like the pressure building in his shoulder just now. His strongest ability was also his most useless one, at least until it decided to wake up and do its thing. Typical.
He could feel it working now, a constant disruption field that pushed back against the priest's compulsion whenever it tried to seep back in.
He rolled his shoulders, savoring the simple pleasure of voluntary motion.
Now what? He inspected the cathedral, considering options - not that many came to mind. The priest was still at the pulpit, and the congregation remained locked in their trance, swaying gently to his words. If Lance moved too suddenly, he'd give himself away. If he stayed too still, he'd lose his chance. And like hell I'm letting him try that mind control crap again.
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This prophet was clearly dangerous, his ability to control minds a threat to everyone in the city. But was he the killer they'd been searching for? Lance couldn't be sure. Either way, he couldn't let this continue.
A primal instinct demanded to reach out and appropriate the priest's power. It would be so easy. One touch, and he'd have a new ability in his arsenal. Mind control - the ultimate offensive weapon.
No. He wouldn't stoop to that level. This wasn't just irresponsible; it was dangerous. Who knew what long-term effects this psychic manipulation could have on these people?
He sensed the familiar disruption, Dark Resonance at the tip of his fingers. Ready to cancel out other forms of arma. This time he was sure he could do it. If he could just...
Screw it, let’s try it.
Carefully, he reached out and touched the shoulder of the woman next to him. Nothing happened. He frowned, concentrating harder. The energy within him surged, and suddenly he felt it—a connection forming between them. Through that link, he could sense the priest's command, a sickly golden thread woven through her consciousness.
‘Snap’
Dark Resonance flowed through the connection and severed the thread as the woman blinked rapidly and the vacant expression on her face gave way to confusion.
"What... where am I?" she whispered.
It worked. Well, that was easier than expected.
Decision made, Lance moved.
He brushed past an older lady standing next to his first target, letting his hand graze her sleeve. Another spark of Dark Resonance passed through the contact, and another glazed expression cleared.
"But ho—" she began. However, Lance was already moving to the next person.
One by one, he weaved through the pews, touching people as discreetly as possible. With each contact, he felt the drain on his energy reserves. It wasn't much individually, but it added up quickly. By the tenth person, his hands were trembling from the arma expenditure.
"The time has come to show your devotion through your generous offerings, as we build something greater than ourselves."
Lance touched a man with a patched tweed jacket. He stumbled back, shaking his head.
"Your worldly possessions hold you back from true enlightenment, from perfect unity with your brothers and sisters."
His shoulder bumped the teenager with neon-green braces. She gasped, spinning in place.
"Release your material burdens and embrace our collective purpose. Let your wealth serve our higher calling."
His hand found the shoulder of a woman wearing three different floral prints. Her eyes cleared as she clutched her purse tighter.
"Together we will build a new foundation through your faithful contributions."
He grazed the arm of a man with a crooked bowtie. The man's mouth formed a silent 'oh'.
"Give freely, give completely, become one with our sacred mission."
A woman with mismatched earrings—gold hoop on her left ear, silver pendant on her right—grabbed his leather jacket as he passed, her fingers slipping off the material.
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Confused murmurs grew louder.
"Your sacrifices will be rewarded a thousandfold in our new world order." The priest's sermon turned frantic, sensing the disruption in his flock. "Stay with me, my children! Don't let doubt creep in!"
The elderly man with the whistling hearing aid was next. His confusion turned to anger as the influence broke.
Each contact broke another thread. Each broken thread weakened the priest's hold. Each step brought Lance closer to the altar.
On the next row, a man with thick, wavy blonde hair—styled upward and slightly messy—grasped Lance's arm. Black-framed glasses, knuckles white from gripping. "Thank you, brother," the young man breathed.
Arma user, no doubt. No time.
He reached the halfway point of the congregation when disaster struck.
The cathedral erupted.
Phones out. Screens glowing. Emergency calls.
An elderly man, newly freed from the priest's control, stood up suddenly.
"What in God's name is going on here?" he bellowed.
Shit.
"Everyone please remain seated—"
Whispers turned to voices turned to shouts.
"What's happening?"
"Where am I?"
"—police are on their way—"
"Return to your seats, my children—"
Footsteps. Creaking wood. Doors opening.
People began to stand, voices rising in confusion and anger. Some stumbled toward the exits, while others turned to confront the priest.
The priest's voice cracked. "Please, maintain order—"
Lance stumbled, caught himself on the side wall, and saw the system message.
[Alert: Arma Energy Diminishing. Energy Reserves at 50%.]
We're good, he thought while pushing off the wall. Last row, then the priest.
But what would he do with the priest once this was over? Turn him in? To whom? The police were barely functioning in the wake of NARS. And explaining any of this would just make him look more suspicious to Detective Yamada.
"Who dares disrupt our unity?" If the priest had noticed Lance's work, he didn't show it.
Five more. Three. One.
Done.
Lance emerged from the final row onto the massive red carpet—a crimson path that stretched from the entrance straight to where the priest stood gripping his pulpit.
"You!" From his podium, the priest thrust his hand toward Lance, rings glinting on every finger. "God gave me this power to unite them! Can't you see? In this broken world, I was chosen!"
"Ugh, shut up already," Lance growled. Not only was the religious ranting getting old, but Dark Resonance kept picking up the arma laced through every word—a constant hissing that felt like steel wool scraping the inside of his skull.
Phones flashed everywhere. A hymnal hit the floor. Someone screamed about demons. A child was crying. The cathedral doors slammed against stone walls as people fled.
Lance coiled, ready to move, ready to strike, ready to end the priest’s—
‘Whoosh’
Something shot past him on both sides, pale and stretchy, like pulled taffy. The things whipped through the air, arching up behind the priest. They were arms, impossibly long, wrapping around the statue of St. Michael.
Lance whirled, caught a flash of blonde hair and glinting glasses in the back row. Of course.
Behind the altar, the bronze figure of the archangel began to ricket back and forth as people pushed their way out of the cathedral. The pair of super-stretched arms wrapped around the statue tightened, veins bulging out with strain. The tension built until, with a final, violent tug, the whole sculpture came crashing down.
As if in slow motion, a ton of bronze plummeted, sword first, straight toward the pulpit.
The first point of contact was the priest's collar, the blade shearing through flesh and bone with ease. A spray of blood erupted, painting the altar and the stone floor and the panicked people in the front row who were clawing over each other to escape in a grim, crimson hue.
The sword continued its deadly arc, splitting the priest from collar to navel with a wet rip. Intestines spilled across the marble floor like uncoiled rope, steam rising where they hit the cold stone. Blood and bile pumped from severed arteries as the priest's body separated, his spine snapping like brittle wood. His eyes, still wide with shock and horror, stared lifelessly as the halves of his torso slumped apart with a sound Lance wished he could unhear.
Screams filled St. Michael's like a chapel whose congregation just watched their priest get cut in half. Disturbingly long arms snapped back. Police sirens wailed outside. Red and blue lights bounced off stained glass.
What the actual...
Lance stood rooted in place while his brain desperately tried to process what just happened along with wondering if he should chase the killer or help the crowd or run from the cops or call Diego and Vicky or do literally anything besides stand there like an idiot, but before he could decide, something grabbed his jacket and yanked him sideways through a side door as he realized with horror that it was the same elastic arm that had just split the priest in half.
The mind control priest was dangerous, but this was different. Watching someone get literally torn in half wasn't the same as breaking their psychic control - and it would've been so easy to handle this without turning the cathedral into a slaughterhouse—he had the toolset. But this... this was Preston’s hired gun all over again. The wet sounds. The way death didn't look anything like the movies. How a body could just... come apart.
"Jesus fucking Chri—”
His throat tightened as phantom copper filled his mouth, that same taste from when he'd killed his attacker. He'd told himself that was different - self-defense, no choice, heat of the moment. This was calculated. Deliberate. The blonde guy clearly had no problem with collateral damage, given how many phones had recorded the whole thing.
First priority: figure out who this stretchy-armed killer was and what the hell he wanted, before anyone else ended up in pieces. He couldn't afford another frozen moment like this - not with a killer who could turn statues into guillotines.
[Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]
Makes sense, Lance thought. He remembered scrolling through ArmaTalk a few days ago, after getting Morphoplasm, reading post after post about Shifters. Zoe had broken it down pretty clearly - their type revolved around the arma infusing itself into cellular structure, granting the ability to alter physical form." Stretchy arms? Textbook Shifter stuff.
Lance dug his fingers into the elastic arm that was pulling him toward the exit. With a grunt, he yanked hard, using his enhanced strength to force the stretchy limb to slacken. He could do it right now - one touch and he'd have the killer's power. He could already see the purple-tinged arma flowing through the stretched tissue, just waiting to be appropriated. Was taking someone's power against their will any better than the priest's mind control?
Fuck it.
Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha II)] activated
└─Target: [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]
└──Assimilation in progress…
Taking this guy's ability would keep everyone safe until he figured out what the hell was going on. If the stretchy killer turned out to be harmless, Lance could always return the power later with Redistribution - he'd done it before.
Error: Target resistance detected
└─Unable to establish arma connection
└─Assimilation failed
└──[Required parameter not met: Target consent = false]
The stretchy limb suddenly retracted with a sharp snap, nearly taking Lance's jacket with it.
"Dude, what the fuck was that?" The blonde man's voice echoed from the shadows.
Lance stared at his hand as the error message faded. Since when had target consent been a variable? Every power he'd taken... Diego had begged him to take his ability. Zack had practically shoved his power at him. Even the Morphoplasm - its previous owner had entrusted it to him. He'd never tried to take power from someone who didn't want to give it up. Now this changed how he would approach threats.
"Sorry, I... I panicked," Lance stammered, his heart in his throat. "We need to move. Now."
Sirens and screams intensified outside, but him and the other arma user leaped over the remains of St. Michael's bronze leg and ducked through a back door behind the altar.
"This way," the blonde man hissed, grabbing Lance's sleeve and pulling him toward a narrow corridor.
They ran.
Saltatorial kicked in, but he forced himself to match his companion's pace. He couldn't afford to lose track of the man who'd just bisected a priest.
"I'm Lance," he panted as they rounded a corner.
"Owen," the blonde replied, not breaking stride.
They burst through the sacristy door into the rainy night. The alley behind the cathedral was mercifully empty.
"Keep going," Lance urged, glancing over his shoulder.
Owen nodded, his glasses fogging slightly in the damp air.
They sprinted down the alley, scattering standing water with each step as questions piled up in Lance's head, but survival took precedence. They needed distance. Safety.
Three blocks later, Owen slowed to a stop, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Lance leaned against a brick wall, but he could have run another five miles.
"I think... I think we're clear," Owen gasped.
"What the hell happened back there?" Lance grunted, still wary.
Owen's face fell. "I... I got a directive. Didn’t you get one too?"
"Directive?" Lance knew all too well what Owen meant, but this was a chance to gauge how much the guy knew about what was happening.
"Yeah, you know. The messages. The missions."
"I see. What did your directive say?" Lance kept his voice neutral.
"It said to go to the cathedral. To stop whatever was happening there. I didn't know..."
His words stopped, and Lance caught the exact moment Owen realized he'd just cut a man in half.
"Look," Lance said. "That priest was controlling people's minds. You stopped him." He left out the part about there probably being less violent ways to do it. Then again, he had just learned people needed to consent to having their powers taken - so maybe the priest couldn't have been stopped without force after all.
“I’m just a construction worker.” Owen's face twisted. "But I killed him. I fucking cut him in half."
"You saved those people," Lance insisted. "If you hadn't stopped him, who knows what he would have made them do?"
Silence stretched as rain pattered against the pavement, washing away the blood on their shoes. Lance noticed a dark stain on his sleeve and tried rubbing it away with his thumb. Another person had just died in front of him. It was necessary, he told himself. Someone who could make anyone do anything they want - no prison could hold someone like that. Not really.
"You were a hero tonight, Owen," Lance said quietly. "Remember that."
Owen let out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Hero? You're the hero, Lance. You saved those people. I just..." He scrubbed roughly at his face. "I just killed someone because I was so fucking angry. He was in my head, making me... and I just couldn't..."
Lance looked away, giving Owen a moment. Emotions weren't exactly his strong suit. Better to focus on the problem they could actually solve.
"How long have you been getting the directives?" Lance asked, trying to change the subject.
"A couple weeks, maybe? At first, I thought I was going crazy. But then I started meeting others like me. People with... abilities."
"Same here,” Lance said. “Have you gotten other types of system messages?"
“What do you mean by that, like other directives?”
For less than a second, humor passed over Lance's features. “Not like that. Don’t worry about it. There's something else I've been wondering. What path were you assigned?"
"Oh yeah, path of the Hero."
Lance focused on Owen's pulse, trying to detect any sign of deception. The heartbeat seemed elevated, but he had no idea if that meant anything - for all he knew, Owen's heart was still racing from sprinting three blocks.
Still, something about the construction worker felt genuine. Though after splitting a priest in half, Lance doubted the system would let Owen keep that path classification for long.
"Listen, you should get out of here. Lay low for a while."
"Why?"
"Because someone's hunting people like us. People with arma."
"Is that why you're asking all these questions?"
"Just trying to figure out who's on what side."
"And what side are you on?"
"The side that doesn't want any more dead bodies." Lance straightened his jacket. "Be careful with those directives. They're not always what they seem."
"Yeah." Owen's response got lost in the rain. "I thought I could help, but I… I got that tonight.Thanks, I guess."
Lance watched the guy with the rubbery arms disappear into the rain and the inevitable system message appear across his vision.
[Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3 Complete]
Subject: Lance Lawthorn
Path Analysis: Antihero classification confirmed
Analysis:
- Successfully identified mental manipulation threat
- Demonstrated strategic information gathering
- Showed restraint in ability appropriation attempt
[ERROR: Arma Frequency Destabilized]
[WARNING: Integration Protocol Forcibly Terminated]
[System malfunction - Directive results incomplete]
[Ability augmentation mapping failed]
[Accumulated arma energy dissipating...]
"Are you kidding me?" Lance snarled at the empty alley. There went his chance at a new ability. Perfect end to a perfect night.
***
Preston watched the cathedral from his black Aston Martin, rain droplets accumulating on the windshield. His fingers drummed against the leather steering wheel as another group of sheep filed through those ridiculously embellished doors. The directive had promised a convergence of arma users here, but he knew the real reason he'd come.
He'd been born into wealth, groomed for greatness from the cradle. Who was Lance to deny him what was rightfully his?
Every time they'd crossed paths, Lance had looked down on him. At BioNova, treating him like some spoiled brat. Disrespecting him during the first directive. At the warehouse, embarrassing him in front of other superpowered beings. The memory made Preston's fingers curl into his palms, manicured nails leaving crescents in the flesh.
"You're nothing," Preston whispered, his breath fogging the tinted window beside him. "Just some nobody who got lucky."
But luck wouldn't save Lance forever. Preston could feel the difference now - the raw power thrumming through his veins, growing stronger each day. Soon, he'd show Lance what real power looked like. Soon, he'd wipe that self-righteous look off his face. Very soon all will be right.
With a premeditated set of nimble movements, Preston climbed to the cathedral's shadowed alcove and he watched as Lance freed more of those mind-controlled sheep from the priest's influence.
A muscle twitched beneath Preston's left eye as he watched Lance work his way through the congregation. Each person Lance freed was another reminder of their last encounter, of Lance's dismissive words: "Want to quit while you still have all your teeth?"
The memory sent a hot flush crawling up Preston's neck. His reflection in a stained window showed a face he barely recognized - features sharp with hatred, pupils contracted to pinpoints. Good. Let the anger fuel him. Let it feed the thing growing inside him, the power that would finally put Lance in his place.
Preston smiled as he watched the statue slice through the priest like butter. Clean. Efficient. No hesitation - exactly how he would have handled it. He leaned forward as screams filled the cathedral, his attention shifting to the blonde man with the stretchy arms who'd just torn the priest in half. Interesting. Very interesting.
Another of Lance's little friends? Had to be. The fool always seemed to collect strays. Whatever. At least that guy knew how to get things done, unlike some people. Preston's lip curled as he spotted Lance standing there like an idiot, frozen in place while chaos erupted around him. Seriously? This was the same loser who'd gotten lucky against him twice? What a joke. While every other person was actually doing something, their so-called tough guy couldn't even move. Pathetic. Maybe next time they fought, Lance would just stand there and make it easy for him.
"You think you're so special. But I've seen what you really are - a thief. A fraud. And when I'm done with you..."
The rain caught Preston’s bared teeth as his prey disappeared through a secret door with the priest-killer. This changed things. Of course Lance would be connected to the arma killings - probably playing hero while bodies piled up across the city. His father's business contacts had mentioned the deaths, but Preston never thought he'd catch proof this easily. Now he had something real to use against the self-righteous prick.
"Run while you can," Preston whispered to Lance's retreating form. "It'll make breaking you so much sweeter."
He retreated back into his car and followed Lance from the cathedral - tracking arma signatures made stalking almost too easy. And now, he found himself presented with an unexpected opportunity.
Alone.
Isolated.
Vulnerable.
The perfect chance to teach Lance a lesson he'd never forget.
Preston's hand hovered over the door handle, itching to spring into action. But no, he couldn't rush this. Patience had never been his strong suit, but he'd learned the hard way that acting on impulse often led to disaster. He needed a plan, something foolproof that would leave Lance broken and humiliated.
Physical violence was tempting, but too risky. Lance had proven himself surprisingly resilient in their previous encounters. No, this required a more subtle approach. Something that would strike at the very core of Lance's being, leaving him shattered and alone.
A cruel smile, along with an idea, began to take shape. Lance's friends could be useful - especially that girl who never shut up at the warehouse. His family had a connection at Durham PD, building a case against Lance would be easy. All it would take was a few well-placed hints, some evidence linking him to tonight's murder. He'd strip away everything Lance cared about, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.
Preston checked his watch, annoyed. Screw playing it smart - he wanted payback now. Every second he sat here was another second Lance got away with acting better than everyone else. Who did that guy think he was, anyway?
Preston cranked up his wipers in frustration. Where was that arma-stealing freak? If he'd lost him now... Preston's hand tightened on the steering wheel. The leather creaked, metal groaning beneath his grip until the wheel warped inward. No way. Nobody got the better of him and walked away. Nobody.
Preston's gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching sight of his target. His hand found the door handle. Your time is up, Lance.
[Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3 Complete]
Subject: Preston Calloway
Path Analysis: Path of the Sovereign classification confirmed
Analysis:
- Failed to engage with identified threat
- Demonstrated passive observation rather than action
- Showed preference for personal vendetta over directive objectives
[ERROR: Arma Frequency Destabilized]
[WARNING: Integration Protocol Forcibly Terminated]
[System malfunction - Directive results incomplete]
[Ability augmentation mapping failed]
[Accumulated arma energy dissipating...]
***
Another young soul lost to rage.
Such raw emotion, such unfocused anger - it reminded him of other talented students who'd lost their way.
Rick's fingers traced idle patterns in the rain-slicked door handle before pulling it open and sliding into the passenger seat.
Preston's body went rigid, hands clenching the warped steering wheel. "How did you—"
"Get in? The same way you tracked Lance - by following the arma signature." Rick settled into the leather seat, brushing water from his sleeve. "Though I must say, yours burns rather... distinctively."
Preston's jaw worked silently, tendons standing out in his neck.
"Get out."
"Come now, is that any way to treat a fellow performer?" Rick's smile carried the warmth of stage lights. "We're all playing our parts, aren't we?"
Preston's fist shot toward Rick's face. The punch stopped inches from impact, Preston's whole body freezing mid-motion.
"Interesting." Rick studied Preston's straining muscles. "Your strength has grown considerably. But strength without purpose is just noise, isn't it?"
"What... did you... do to me?" Each word seemed to cost Preston tremendous effort.
"Just a little trick I picked up in theater. Sometimes actors need help finding their stillness." Rick's voice took on the measured cadence of a lecture. "You have such potential… Preston, was it? Such fire. But you're letting petty grudges consume you."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I? The wealthy heir, trying to find his place in all this chaos. I've seen how hard this transition can be for everyone." Rick said softly. "It's a compelling narrative. But this vendetta against Lance? That's beneath you, and Lance’s a good friend, so I won’t stand for it."
"That coward can't do anything without his little posse to watch his back."
Rick's laugh held no humor. "Oh, my dear boy. Honestly, Lance doesn't need protection. You're the one who needs saving."
Preston's sneer faltered.
"You see, I've been watching Lance. The way his arma flares when he's cornered. How quickly that polite smile vanishes." Rick leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You should have seen him in group – how casually he'd reach for someone else's power. Even our therapist started choosing her words more carefully around him.”
Rain drummed against the roof, filling the silence.
"So this is a warning?" Preston grunted.
"Think of it as... professional courtesy. Go. Get stronger. Find your purpose. But stay away from Lance until you're ready for the consequences."
Rick's influence released Preston, who slumped in his seat, gasping.
"And if he can't control it? His darkness?"
"Then perhaps we'll need someone strong enough to stop him." Rick opened the door, pausing halfway out. "Though I do hope it doesn't come to that. It would be such a waste of potential. Both his... and yours."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Preston alone with his thoughts and the endless rain.
You better stay away from the people I care about.
A moment later, Rick watched Lance trudge through the rain, shoulders hunched against the downpour. Such powerful abilities, yet still so unaware of his own presence. Like an actor who hadn't quite found his light.
"Rough night?"
Lance spun around, droplets flying from his leather jacket. His stance shifted instantly - defensive, ready. Good instincts, at least.
"Rick? Didn't expect to see you here. You catch the St. Michael's shitshow too?"
"Tell me about it." Rick studied the slight tremor in Lance's hands, the way his weight favored his right side. Exhaustion, perhaps. Or a sign that warranted closer attention.
Something flashed across Lance's face - concern? Suspicion? Such delightful complexity in every micro-expression.
Rick watched Lance's hands – steady now, but the bruised knuckles and faint rusty stains beneath his nails told their own story. Such careful control in his movements. A command performance hiding something raw beneath the surface. But there were... slips. The way his pupils dilated at sudden noises. How his fingers kept twitching toward a weapon that wasn't there.
Another one struggling to find their way through this new reality, Rick thought. Just like his students from before.
“Are you doing alright?” he asked.
"Yeah, but… listen. There's something I've been meaning to tell you.” Lance checked both ends of the deserted street. “Someone's hunting down arma users."
Rick dipped his chin slightly, cleared his throat, and said, "I know. I've noticed fewer faces at group lately. Been doing some digging myself."
The rain intensified, and he watched it trickle down Lance's neck, noting how he suppressed a shiver. Always trying to project strength, this one.
"You know Zack? The quiet one who shares Frank's body?" Rick paused until Lance showed he was following. "I think there might be another personality in there. Something darker."
"Makes sense. Frank's unstable enough already."
"And I’m not talking about Mack... well, let's just say there's more going on there than meets the eye."
Lance adjusted his footing, water squishing in his shoes. Such obvious tells - he'd need to work on that if he hoped to survive what was coming.
"We've started training together. At Titan's Den. Learning to control our abilities. You should join us."
There it was - Lance taking the first step without being pushed. Magnificent.
"Who's we?"
"Diego, Vicky. Trying to get Wren on board too."
"The quiet girl?" Rick raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "She's training with you?"
"Haven't been able to reach her, actually. But we want her there."
"Titan's Den, you said?"
"Yeah, it's a gym nearby. Owner's cool, knows about our situation."
"I'll drop by tomorrow then. Hope I can be of help." Rick pulled out his phone, grimacing at the cracked screen as he handed it over. "Mind if we exchange numbers? Just in case anything comes up."
"Thanks, Rick. And see you tomorrow."
"Stay dry."
***
[2:47 AM]
The numbers blurred together on Mitsuki's tablet, swimming in her vision like koi in murky water. She'd been lying in bed for hours, case files spread across her comforter. They held all the answers. If only she knew which questions to ask.
Lance Lawthorn.
Her eyelids fought to close as she studied his photo for the hundredth time. The image showed him leaving BioNova's glass tower, caught in profile by their security cameras. Nothing remarkable - just another face in the flood of enhanced individuals seeking treatment. But something in his expression made her skin prickle. That slight curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knew a secret no one else had figured out yet.
Her bedroom fan clicked with each rotation, marking time like a metronome. Tick. Evidence folder. Tick. Witness statements. Tick. Crime scene photos. Each revolution bringing her no closer to proof.
Something was off, but she knew it was him. The same way prey knows a predator is watching - some primitive instinct that bypasses logic and screams danger. But instinct wouldn't hold up in court.
Her fingers traced the timeline she'd constructed, dates and locations forming a spider's web across her tablet screen. Every death connected back to him somehow, through the support group or BioNova or those mysterious "directives" she kept hearing whispers about. But the connections were gossamer-thin, dissolving the moment she tried to grab them.
A car alarm wailed somewhere in the darkness outside. Mitsuki's hand jerked, scattering papers across her bedspread. Her neck muscles coiled like steel cables as she stiffened, her back going rigid. Was someone out there?
Stop it, she chided herself. Now you're getting paranoid.
But that's what he did, wasn't it? Made you doubt yourself. Made you question every shadow, every coincidence, until you felt crazy for suspecting anything at all.
Mitsuki pulled up the warehouse incident report. Twelve more dead in the ashes. She added them to her mental list alongside Rony McMullan, Thaddeus Walsh, and Ryland Kestrel. Fifteen victims in total - all men, all found in fires, all confirmed arma users.
The fan clicked again. Tick.
She thought back to the support group, to Lance's reaction when Dr. Rodriguez mentioned his Appropriation ability. The rhythm of his breathing changing, revealing something harder underneath. Now she understood why. He wasn't just uncomfortable talking about his power - he was hiding what it could really do. Steal abilities from other arma users, drain them until nothing remained.
"It has to be you," she whispered to his frozen image. "I just can't prove it yet."
The familiar tension headache crept up her neck, spreading tendrils of pain across her skull. The one that claimed her every day since the NARS nightmare began. She needed sleep. Needed to look at this with fresh eyes.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lance's face. Saw that careful mask he wore, hiding something darker underneath. Like watching a tiger pretend to be a house cat - the disguise was good, but if you looked closely enough, you could see the predator's true nature bleeding through.
The fan clicked once more. Her tablet dimmed to save power.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she'd find the proof she needed. Tomorrow she'd stop him before the body count rose. She didn’t know if it was her instincts talking, but tomorrow would reveal the truth.
For now, all she had were theories and shadows and that gnawing certainty in her gut that said she was hunting something far more dangerous than she'd first believed.
The numbers on her clock blinked: [3:33 AM]
Sleep wouldn't come easy tonight. Not with Lance loose.