[Day 15]
They'd searched for the room full of dead Arma bodies the goop mentioned, but hit a wall—literally. The "back room" was buried under fallen concrete, twisted machinery, and enough rubble to keep a demolition crew busy for weeks. No one wanted to push their luck with the three-hour deadline, so they called it quits with twenty minutes to spare. Diego especially seemed eager to get out, his usual swagger replaced by constant glances over his shoulder.
Lance crashed hard that night, face-planting into his own bed. Sweet Jesus, I missed these sheets.
Getting his phone back had been a mixed blessing. He'd spent hours catching up on social media, scrolling through NARS death counts and conspiracy theories until his eyes burned. After days without it—thanks to the police evidence locker—he hadn't realized how nice the forced break had been.
That wisdom hit him at 6:47 AM when his phone jolted him awake with a call from the police station.
He'd spotted Detective Yamada at last night's support group but kept his distance. Either she hadn't recognized him or was working undercover—either way, he'd decided to steer clear. Fat lot of good that did. Turns out, she did recognize him and wanted him at the station for questioning.
Just my fucking luck.
And so he mapped out his day between bites of toast: Lumberjack breakfast—just one this time—then the police station, swing by BioNova, grab lunch, Krav Maga, and cap it off with the support group. Hell of a Monday.
"So much for mastering my three new abilities and becoming a god, arma user," he said a little too loud while shooting Mrs. Miller an apologetic smile across Betty's before she answered with her usual knowing nod from behind the coffee pot.
Oh, and he'd almost forgotten—he'd woken up with a baseball-sized black mass sticking out of his shoulder. At least he hadn't melted into a puddle of tar overnight, so there was that. The thing looked like something out of a horror movie, and switching off Pain Nullification had been a mistake—the stinging had him tearing off his Titan's Den hoodie sleeve just to get comfortable. He'd have to figure out what the hell this new growth could do at some point, but that would have to wait. Like I said, busy day.
Lance pulled his blue NeoTech Phantom into Brad's driveway, twisting to check the crumpled front bumper over his shoulder. Brad could fix it—guy could work miracles with a wrench. From there, he sprinted to the police station—easy going with half the world's population still "under the weather"—his legs eating up the distance. Since the arma boost, running had become his go-to. Why bother with traffic and parking when he could cross town faster than an Olympic runner? His lungs didn't even notice the miles anymore.
He stopped in front of the Durham Police Department, catching his breath more out of habit than need. His shoulder throbbed where the black mass pressed against his shirt. The thing had started moving.
Keep it together.
He pushed through the glass doors and into the bustling lobby—officers shuffling papers, perps in cuffs, civilians looking lost and confused. Lance belonged with the confused crowd.
He walked to the counter, checked in with the receptionist, and moments later a burly officer holding a tiny white coffee cup and looking about as thrilled to be there as Lance ushered him into a cramped room with a rickety metal table, two chairs, and a mirror that fooled exactly no one.
"Detective Yamada will be with you shortly," the officer said, closing the door behind him.
Lance sat, his leg bouncing involuntarily. He glanced at his watch.
[8:03 AM]
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Standard police tactics… Thrilling stuff.
He knew the game. Make him sweat. Get him nervous. Waste his time.
Not gonna happen. As he had said before: Busy day. Lance closed his eyes, dropping into what he'd started calling meditation—his little joke for whenever he focused inward to see arma colors. Morphoplasm was proving tricky, its black hue almost invisible against the darkness of his mind.
He steadied his breathing, forced his pulse to slow, and concentrated on the river of arma. The trick was finding the sweet spot between focus and relaxation—push too hard and the colors scattered like startled fish. Let go too much and they blurred into meaningless smears.
Luckily, he didn't have to meditate long.
The door opened. Detective Yamada strode in, all business in a crisp navy blue blazer and slacks. She carried a thin file and a steaming cup of coffee that made Lance's mouth water.
"Mr. Lawthorn, thank you for coming in," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "How are you feeling today?"
Lance forced a smile. "Just peachy, Detective. Always a pleasure to start my week at the police station."
The detective's stern mask cracked briefly. "How's the apartment?"
"Clean. Finally. Though I'm still finding police tape in weird places."
“Sorry about that. And sorry for meeting you here.” she gestured to the interrogation room. “I don’t have an office. But as I said on the phone, you’re not in any trouble, Mr. Lawthorn.”
"Lance is fine.” He watched as she stifled another yawn. "Long day?"
"Long week." Mitsuki took a sip from her cup and let out a satisfied "mmm," the coffee clearly hitting the spot.
"I called you in because I saw you at the support group meeting last night. I'm investigating several deaths involving enhanced individuals, and I was hoping you could help me understand this community better."
Several… deaths, Lance echoed in his head. Are we looking for the same killer? Cool.
The only reason Lance was sitting in this room was because of his self-imposed investigation. He needed leads, and he had to earn Morphoplasm too—he'd made a promise to a dying man, after all. Detective Yamada had called him in, so it wasn't like he was pushing his way into police business. If—big if—she had useful information, all the better. Here we go, baby!
"Fire away."
“Perfect, thank you for your cooperation.” She opened the file, glancing down at it. "So, how long have you been a member of this group?"
"A couple of weeks," Lance said, going for that 'just passing through' tone. "It's been... helpful."
"I'm glad to hear that. And what exactly do you discuss in these meetings?"
Lance shrugged, careful not to disturb the growth on his shoulder. "Oh, you know. The usual support group stuff. How we're coping with the aftermath of NARS, the challenges of readjusting to normal life."
"I see." Mitsuki's tongue pressed against her cheek. "What about Dr. Rodriguez? How would you describe her leadership of the group?"
"She's great," Lance said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Very supportive, really knows her stuff."
Yamada scribbled something on her notepad. The scratching of her pen sounded like chalk on concrete in the silent box.
Scratch everything he’d said. Three questions in and Lance was already regretting this. Mental checking every word for potential landmines was fucking exhausting—one wrong answer and he might as well confess to having illegal powers.
"What about the other members? Like Wren - she hardly spoke last night."
"Yeah, she is pretty quiet."
"And Frank... he seems intense. Has he caused any trouble?"
Lance sighed. "Frank's... complicated."
She made another note. "I noticed you and Vicky seem close."
"Met her at group. We've become friends." Lance shifted in his chair, crossing his arms.
"And the other members?” Yamada asked while her pen scratched across her notepad. “What can you tell me about them?"
So she's fishing?
"Not much, to be honest. We're all pretty private. It's kind of an unspoken rule—what happens in group, stays in group."
"I see. So in general, have you noticed anything... unusual about any of the members? Any behavior that struck you as odd?"
Lance's heart rate kicked up a notch. Define unusual for a bunch of people who can bend reality, he thought dryly while forcing himself to maintain eye contact. "Unusual how?"
"Unexplained absences, sudden changes in demeanor, that sort of thing," Yamada said, waving her hand dismissively.
Lance pretended to consider this. "Can't say that I have. We're all dealing with a lot, you know? Everyone has their off days."
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Look, Detective, I get what you're trying to do here, but I'm not comfortable discussing other people's situations. Everyone processes trauma differently."
Mitsuki set down her pen. "I understand. I won't press you about the others."
“Thank you.”
Mitsuki nodded. "Would it be correct to assume everyone in the support group has arma?"
"Yeah." Lance shrugged. No point denying that.
"You didn't mention you were enhanced when we spoke."
"Because I wasn’t sure I was." Lance's finger tapped against the arm of his chair. "That's why I go to the group. I'm sure you've heard—this stuff happens randomly to people now. Courtesy of this godforsaken pandemic."
“Fair enough.” She pulled out a photo from her file. "I'm looking into the death of Ronald McMullan."
"What?" Lance's tapping stopped dead. "Rony," the name barely made it past his lips.
The lights guy. Damn. Lance’s heart met the floor. He'd actually been looking forward to talking to him again, maybe figure out more about those electromagnetic tricks. Here he thought the reason Rony hadn't shown up to group these past few days was because his joints couldn’t handle the stairs.
This killer was cranking up their body count. Perfect. Lance exhaled slowly. This was insane - him trying to track down a murderer? He wasn't qualified for this. But someone had to figure out what was happening, and he was already neck-deep in it anyway. Besides, he needed the practice with his abilities. Might as well make it count for something. Sound logic there, buddy. Really solid plan.
"You seem surprised. This hasn't come up in your meetings?"
"Not that I've heard."
"That's... interesting." Mitsuki leaned back, studying his face. “Is there anything at all that you can tell me about him?”
"I'll... need to think about this."
"That’s fair. If you think of anything that might help the investigation, please give me a call." She slid her card across the table.
Though he already had one from their first meeting, Lance reached for it anyway, his throat going dry as he stared at the card. “Sorry, I couldn’t be more helpful.”
"These things tend to come back to us when we let them settle." Mitsuki gathered her papers. "I'll check in with you next week?"
The scratch of her chair against the floor seemed unnaturally loud as she stood up.
“Thank you for your time. Please wait here, and Sergeant Williams will escort you out.”
Lance waited until her footsteps faded down the hallway before letting out the breath he'd been holding. His hands were steady - they were always steady - but his mind felt like a browser with too many tabs open. Rony's death, the other victims, his new powers, Mitsuki's questions. And underneath it all, that nagging feeling that he was missing something obvious.
His head elsewhere, he stepped out of the station, the morning sun warm on his face but doing nothing to lighten the weight in his chest.
He checked his phone - one hour had gone by. One hour of dancing around Mitsuki's questions while trying not to give himself away.
His feet carried him forward, muscle memory taking over as his brain struggled to process. Rony. Dead. Another enhanced person killed.
First the guy who'd given him this thing currently squatting on his shoulder, now this. The support group suddenly felt less like a self-help circle and more like a target list.
A bus rumbled past. Lance barely noticed. He was too busy replaying the interview, picking apart his answers. Had he said too much? Not enough? At least Mitsuki hadn't pressed about his own abilities.
He'd gotten himself into this mess, thinking he could play hero. It all felt like a fever dream, too surreal to be true. Yet here he was, walking down the street with a chunk of alien something growing out of his body.
He thought about Vicky and Diego, wondered if they were dealing with similar mind-bending situations. Probably not. They seemed to have a better handle on their abilities, on this whole enhanced individual thing. Classic Lance - analyzing everything to death while those two just rolled with it.
A crosswalk signal changed. Lance walked. Someone bumped his shoulder. He kept walking.
His phone buzzed - it had to be his mom checking in again. He'd call her back later. Maybe. If he could figure out how to lie about where he spent his morning.
He walked, then walked faster, then ran. Didn't even make a conscious decision to do it.
One thing was clear: master his abilities, find the killer. Simple enough on paper. He'd focus on the powers first - at least that was something he could actually work on. Though honestly, he had about as much idea how to do that as he did about playing detective. Great plan there, genius—
"Mr. Lawthorn?"
The marble floor swam into view beneath Lance's feet. Overly clean air. Glass walls everywhere. That stupid modern art sculpture that looked like DNA. The BioNova logo gleamed along the back wall. At the half-moon desk, Zara with her distinctive afro typed at her keyboard in her usual professional rhythm while the screens behind her cycled through their endless loop of corporate achievements and breakthroughs and meaningless statistics.
"Dr. Patel will be ready in five minutes. Please wait in the lobby."
"Thanks, Zara."
As he guided his body towards the lobby, a commotion near the main entrance caught his attention. From the elevators emerged a small delegation led by two figures in crisp military uniforms. One, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, carried the weight of four stars as naturally as he carried his own skin. The other, a woman with sharp features and lieutenant general's stars on her collar, matched his pace step for step. Behind them followed two officers in medical insignia and a pair of plainclothes personnel who radiated security training.
Holy shit, Lance thought, when a four-star shows up at your door, something big is definitely going down.
Lance's too-good-for-his-own-good hearing picked up fragments of their conversation.
"...can't keep this under wraps forever, Shannon."
"We don't have a choice, Chaps. If word gets out..."
The group strode toward the exit. Lance pretended to study a wall display in the waiting area, his ears catching the woman’s words as they passed.
"...containment is our top priority. These enhanced individuals..."
The rest was lost as they disappeared through the standard commercial glass doors.
Whatever fresh disaster that was about, Lance decided it could wait its turn in the queue of problems currently vying for his attention. Besides, his day was already looking up - there was Carl, walking towards him with that familiar look of someone who'd rather talk about anything except enhanced abilities.
"Hi there.” Lance nodded towards the two empty chairs next to him. “Almost forgot we had the same follow-up schedule."
"Turns out this is my last one. Dr. Harrison says I'm done with treatments.”
"That's great news."
Carl lowered himself into the chair, leaned back, and released a long and loud exhale. "They're not too happy I'm ignoring the little status updates. Keep asking why I don't check my stats or whatever they're calling it."
“I see.”
"Gotten pretty good at not seeing all that blue text nonsense. Don’t even show up anymore." Carl's shoulders relaxed slightly. "How about you?"
"Still playing along. Way more involved than I thought it'd be." Lance's tone was dry. "How're the kids? Everyone healthy?"
"Boy, they're keeping me busy. Math, English, whatever keeps their minds off things."
"No school yet, I presume?"
"Got an email about online classes starting next month." Carl's hand moved to the back of his neck. "Won't be the full curriculum, but it's something."
"Mr. Lawthorn?" Zara's voice carried across the lobby. "Dr. Patel will see you now."
"That’s me."
Carl gave a quick, half-hearted wave, his hand rising an inch before he let it fall again.
"Here." Lance pulled out his phone. "Let me give you my number. In case you need anything."
What a nice guy, he thought.
Lance called the elevator. It beeped as it arrived. He stepped in and pressed four. No more catching Carl in the lobby, no more sharing awkward minutes before their check-ups. The display ticked up - first floor, second. Carl's last visit ever. Good for him. Third floor. One less person stuck in this arma mess. Fourth floor. One less familiar face in a world that had gone to hell two weeks ago. The doors opened with their usual ‘ding.’ At least somebody was getting back to normal.
The sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit him first. Then the blue glow from Dr. Patel's computer screen reflecting off her thick pink-rimmed glasses. And finally…
Dr. Reeves.
Lance's shoulders crept toward his ears, muscles bunching. The lead researcher's presence at a routine checkup was about as normal as finding a penguin in the Sahara. He forced a smile, trying to mask the sudden surge of anxiety coursing through his veins.
Well, there goes my day again…
"Mr. Lawthorn, please come in," Dr. Patel said, her tone walking the line between corporate handbook and coffee with a friend. "I hope you don't mind, but Dr. Reeves wanted to join us today."
Lance picked through his memories like sorting through old files. Could BioNova see his arma abilities? His stolen power? No - Dr. Patel said it herself. Three times. The system messages are mine alone. Still, his fingers drummed against his thigh. So much for asking about that black mass on my shoulder. Dr. Patel would've talked him through it, no questions asked. But no way he'd bring that up with Dr. Reeves in the room.
"Not at all," he lied smoothly, settling into the examination chair. "Always a pleasure, Dr. Reeves."
The lead researcher nodded, his sharp eyes studying Lance with an intensity that made him want to squirm. "Mr. Lawthorn. I trust you're feeling well?"
"Never better," Lance said simply.
Dr. Patel began her usual routine, checking his vitals and asking about any new developments. Lance answered on autopilot, his attention split between her questions and Dr. Reeves' silent presence.
"Your readings are... interesting," Dr. Patel murmured, frowning at her tablet. "There seems to be a significant spike in your stats, and even arma energy levels. Have you noticed any new abilities manifesting?"
"Nothing major," he said, aiming for casual. "Maybe a bit more stamina? It's hard to tell with everything else going on."
"Great! Well, the first part was easy today," Dr. Patel said, passing the tablet to Dr. Reeves in a way that made Lance's fingers drum faster on his thigh, matching the rhythm they'd kept since he'd first sat down.
"Mr. Lawthorn, we've made some significant advancements in our gene therapy treatment," Dr. Reeves began. "Given your exceptional progress, we believe you'd be an ideal candidate for this new round of treatment."
Another upgrade? Lance questioned internally. When did I get the second treatment? One—two weeks since my last dose with Dr. Patel. That added the handy [Energy Classification] menu to his HUD, and if he had to guess, was what was categorizing all of his arma abilities. If this new upgrade would be that convenient, he wouldn't be opposed to it.
His system still pinged him about abilities he hadn't figured out. His veins itched to test them, to understand what he could do, but between the morning's police meeting and this follow-up at BioNova, he hadn't even had a chance to try. At this rate, I'll have a dozen new powers before I master the first one.
"The treatment could enhance your natural resistance to viral mutations," Dr. Reeves said in the background. "Our latest trials show a 47% increase in immune response. Given your previous positive reactions, you're an ideal candidate." He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "The potential benefits far outweigh any temporary discomfort."
As Dr. Reeves continued explaining the “potential benefits” and risks, Lance's eyes instinctively sought out Dr. Patel.
What he saw made his blood run cold. Behind Dr. Reeves' back, Dr. Patel's lips were moving silently, urgently. Lance focused, trying to decipher her silent message. His enhanced senses kicked in, slowing down his perception just enough to catch the words she was mouthing:
‘Don't do it.’
His lungs stopped. Why would Ananya be warning him against this new round? What did she know that Dr. Reeves wasn't saying? He forced his expression to remain neutral, not wanting to give away that he'd seen Dr. Patel's warning. Questions about what she knew—what Dr. Reeves wasn’t saying—piled up faster than he could process them. Hell, if Dr. Patel had doubts, that was all he needed to know.
"I think I'll pass on that upgrade."