Lance broke from his trance, frustration etching lines across his forehead. The group exercise room at Titan's Den took shape around him, its mirrored walls reflecting his scowl back at him. He'd been at this forever, trying to tap into the Energy Cycling ability that kept slipping away.
HIs gaze dropped to his palms. The compression band around his right wrist had done its job. No throbbing, no stiffness - he could move every joint in his hand without discomfort. As he unwound the elastic wrap, loop by careful loop, he reviewed his mental checklist:
Energy Cycling
Morphoplasm
Dark Resonance
Behold, the mighty arsenal of the world's most pathetic enhanced being!
Faced with Dark Resonance, Arma Parasitism, and Essence Fusion, the choice had been clear. Arma Parasitism sounded like a bargain-bin version of his core power - and he'd had enough of that for now. And Essence Fusion? He snorted. He could barely handle one power at a time, let alone combine them. With Dark Resonance, well... no more cheap shots. Hopefully.
But first things first. He had to get this damn energy to move within his body.
Come on, fucking work already.
He tuned out the room again, forcing his breathing to slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The gym's hardwood made itself known - firm and chilly beneath him, grounding him in the physical world even as he sought to transcend it.
The ‘bangs’ and ‘booms’ of metal crashing against metal in the weight room faded into white noise. Lance reached inward, searching for that spark of arma energy he knew resided within him. It was there, he could feel it—a subtle warmth pulsing beneath his skin, just waiting to be harnessed. Waiting to be cycled.
But every time he thought he had a grip on it, the energy vanished like a snuffed flame.
Dammit.
His temples pulsed—he could see it in the mirrored wall. This shouldn't be so difficult. He'd mastered other abilities with relative ease. Why was Energy Cycling proving to be such a stubborn bastard?
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Lance ignored it, pushing deeper into his meditation. He visualized the energy as a river flowing across his body, imagining himself dipping into that current, redirecting its flow.
For a moment, he felt something. A tingling sensation spread from his core, racing along his limbs. His heart rate sped up. Was this it? Had he finally cracked the code?
‘THUD!’
The sound of a fully stacked barbell dropping in the free weights room shattered his concentration. The energy dissipated, leaving him feeling hollow and drained.
"Son of a bitch," Lance whispered, eyes flying open.
He pushed himself to his feet, muscles protesting the movement. How long had he been sitting there? He checked his watch and groaned.
[12:56 PM]
Two hours. Two hours of his life, wasted on fruitless meditation.
He stretched, joints popping. The black mass on his shoulder—Morphoplasm, his mind supplied—shifted uncomfortably beneath his shirt. Each new ability emerged like a puzzle box with missing instructions. So much for those fantasy stories with their helpful system messages and tutorial chapters—NARS hadn't bothered with a user guide.
Genius, he laughed at his own joke. What am I doing wrong?
He'd tried some New Age mumbo-jumbo he'd found online—from the same brilliant minds who'd convinced him that sweet-talking to houseplants would unlock his powers. Because that had worked out so well.
He'd even followed all the visualization techniques from Dr. Patel's last real consultation. This morning's appointment had turned into a sales pitch for more treatments instead of the power training he'd hoped for. Still, watching Dr. Patel's subtle resistance to Dr. Reeves' plans had shown him something precious: she was on his side.
Back to square one, though—nothing worked.
He stopped in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. Disheveled hair. Dark circles. He looked like hell. Felt like it too. Exhausted. The man staring back at him looked tired, frustrated, and more than a little lost. This wasn't the Lance Lawthorn who'd confidently strode into that BioNova facility and secured a gene therapy dose for himself weeks ago.
This was... something else.
Someone else.
Lance pressed his palms against his head as if he could physically force the answers out. His mind drifted to the conversation with Detective Yamada, to Rony's death, to the list of enhanced individuals turning up dead.
Focus, he told himself, then almost laughed—his new favorite word these days.
But how could he focus when the world seemed to be falling apart around him? When every day brought new challenges, new dangers? When he couldn't even master his own abilities?
Once again, Lance blocked out the mirrored walls and weight room clatter. He needed to approach this differently. Brute force clearly wasn't working. Maybe...
Wait.
He'd been treating Energy Cycling like a brute force algorithm, throwing processing power at the problem until it worked. But what if it was more like state management? The system wasn't failing—it was responding exactly as designed to his emotional state. Clean input, clean output.
That made sense, right?
Right?
Lance assumed the universal programmer's debug stance—crossed legs, straight back, and the distinct air of someone prepared to outlast a stubborn while loop.
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This time, instead of trying to force the energy to bend to his will, he chose to observe it. Felt its natural flow, the way it ebbed and surged within his body.
There… yes… I… see it.
A pattern emerged. Subtle, but unmistakable. The energy didn't simply flow randomly—it followed specific pathways, like blood through veins or electricity through circuits or variables through a call stack..
Lance's restless movements ceased as understanding hit. He was onto something, he could feel it. Carefully, oh so carefully, he reached out with his mind, not trying to control the energy, but to guide it. Unlike Appropriation's forceful drain of others' energy, this was internal—the same force expressed in completely opposite ways—one taking, one redirecting. To nudge it ever so slightly along its natural course.
The tingling sensation returned, stronger this time. It built slowly, a warmth spreading from his core outward. His skin buzzed raw, hot, wild.
Don't force it, he told himself. Let it happen.
The energy flowed faster now, picking up speed as it cycled inside his body. Lance felt a surge of excitement, but tamped it down. He couldn't lose focus now, not when he was so close.
The studio's cool air did nothing against the heat rolling off his skin that plastered his shirt to his back while the energy built through each cycle until he thought it might overtake him.
Hold on.
Lance set his jaw hard, fighting the urge to break the connection. He was balancing on a knife's edge, teetering between control and chaos. One wrong move and—
"Hey, Lance! You in here?"
Marcus's voice ripped into his meditation. The energy snapped back like a rubber band, leaving Lance gasping.
"Yeah," he rasped. "Just... stretching."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Looked more like you were trying to bench press the air. Come on, time for your lesson."
Lance joined Marcus in unrolling the training mat. The workout room already smelled like leather and old sweat, which seemed unfair since they hadn't even started.
While Marcus squared up into his fighting stance with all that bulk ready to pounce, Lance couldn't stop grinning because despite his failed attempt, he was pretty sure he'd finally cracked the energy cycling thing even though his body felt wrecked from the earlier attempts.
“You're thinking too much about defense," Marcus said. "At your level now, it's about finding that sweet spot - knowing when to hold your ground and when to redirect. Balance isn't always about staying centered.”
After a nod, Lance jumped into a fighting stance. Muscles taut. Ready for action.
Marcus didn't wait. He launched forward with the speed you'd expect from someone half his size, that massive fist coming straight for Lance's face. He caught the incoming strike and fired back, aiming for the weak point under Marcus's ribcage that they'd drilled a hundred times last week.
Marcus was fast. He caught Lance's arm, twisting it behind his back.
Lance felt the hold but not the pain—not anymore. Each power he'd appropriated had pushed him a little further past normal human limits, stacking up like weights on a barbell. He wasn’t as strong as when he rocked Impervious skin, but he wasn’t too far off either.
Now Marcus, despite all his skill and bulk—a non-enhanced's arms might as well have been pool noodles.
He could break the hold easily—a simple burst of speed, a flex of superpowered muscle. But that wasn't why he was here. He'd started Krav Maga to learn control, to understand how normal people fought and moved. Raw power wasn't the point.
"Good instincts," Marcus grunted, "but you're telegraphing your moves. Stay fluid, unpredictable." He released Lance, who stepped forward and rolled his shoulder, playing the part of the winded student. It wasn't entirely an act—his technique really did need work.
Fuck, not again, he unexpectedly thought.
Something clicked wrong in Lance's head, like a door he thought he'd closed suddenly creaking open. This fake struggling, this pretend weakness—it was the old him sneaking back in. The him that wore masks, that played parts. And he was doing it to Marcus, who'd never been anything but real with him. The thought made his stomach turn.
No. I won’t be that person again. Lance stepped back from their sparring stance, squaring his shoulders.
"I need to tell you something."
Marcus lowered his hands, head tilting slightly.
"About why I started coming here. And why I've been holding back."
"You mean why you're pulling your punches even though you could probably bench press my truck?”
Lance’s chin snapped up. "You knew?"
"Son, I've been training people longer than you've been alive. Body mechanics don't lie."
"And you're not... I mean, this whole time..."
"What, mad? That you're trying to learn control and not rely on raw power?" Marcus adjusted the wraps on his hands. "Hell, that's the smartest thing I've seen you do."
"I don't want to pretend anymore. With anyone."
"Good. Then let's drop the act and work on your technique. All that strength won't mean jack if you telegraph every move like a rookie."
"You're really okay with this?"
"Lance." Marcus clapped his hands once, the sharp sound ricocheting off the walls. "The body already knows what to do. Your job is to get your mind to stop fighting it. Ready to sync those up?"
Those words hit like a simple truth, hidden in plain sight.
Wow... I've been overthinking this whole thing, Lance thought. Energy Cycling follows the same logic—forcing control just creates resistance. "Let's do it."
"Reset!" Marcus called out, returning to his fighting stance.
They circled each other, but Lance turned his focus inward. He traced the arma's pattern in his mind—the way it had cycled through his core, branched through his limbs, created those perfect loops of power. Rather than forcing control, he let his awareness settle into its natural rhythm.
Marcus attacked again.
Left hook. Lance's forearm swept up to block—and a heartbeat later, arma surged through the same path.
Roundhouse kick. His body pivoted away—then the energy followed, spinning through his core like an echo.
Right cross. Lance's shoulder rolled back—and the arma rippled through his muscles, matching the motion a fraction too late.
Front kick. Lance's hips dropped, deflecting the strike—after a moment, the arma caught up, flooding the same muscle groups.
Palm strike. He deflected the blow outward—while the energy traced the same arc through his arm, just out of sync.
With each exchange, the lag between his movements and the arma's response grew shorter. Like learning to play an instrument, where mind and muscle gradually find their rhythm.
Movement, then energy. Signal, then echo. Until they weren't quite so separate anymore. Then…
It made sense.
The lag disappeared.
Now the arma flowed with his movements instead of chasing them, and each block and strike felt lighter, sharper, more precise.
For a moment—only a moment—Lance felt invincible. The perfect harmony of mind and body, enhanced by the cycling arma running inside him. He could see every possibility, every angle of attack and defense.
Lance felt the energy surge into his left shoulder, and it rushed across his tendons, and it flooded his muscles, and it charged within his veins, all the way down to his knuckles, and the pressure built like a hydrant about to burst, and the raw force gathered in his fist, and he threw the punch—and froze it right before impact, close enough to stir the air near Marcus's face.
The Krav Maga instructor took his first step back since they'd started training.
A second passed. Then two. Then—“Holy shit, kid! Where'd that come from?”
“I think I’ve got it,” Lance said.
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, trainer mode forgotten. "Modest, too. Come on, let's grab some water and then we'll go again. I want to see if you can pull off that move twice."
Energy Cycling
Morphoplasm
Dark Resonance