The first day of intensive training with Cassandane proved to be a bipolar experience. One moment it seemed like the hours had rushed past with him barely experiencing them. The next moment every tick of the clock on the wall felt like it was late and unenthusiastic. He started at five in the morning working on the bowl of Jello and wasn't allowed to stop until ten in the evening. During all that time, he received just three breaks for food and four breaks to visit the men's room, each of which were rushed affairs.

It took him half the training time to be able to harden the Jello so that he could stand on it without deforming it. When he could reproduce that trick on command, the next phase began. He would harden the Jello and Cassandane would point out all the spots where he had frozen the substance. Skin, bones, and muscles tolerated minor over-hardening with minimal problems. Brains did not. Their most essential function of transmitting nerve impulses relied on exchanging ions and neurotransmitters through their cell walls. If you shut down barrier permeability for a split second on ten percent of a muscle, your athletic performance dropped. If you shut down barrier permeability for a split second on ten percent of the brain, you got seizures or unconsciousness, neither of which were acceptable in combat. Vasting didn't help the issue much, if at all. While thinking continued to happen in a vasted mind, external senses and bodily control needed functional gray matter.

The afternoon had nearly turned into evening by the time Mike graduated to hardening his own brain. His satisfaction at moving on from Jello did not last long. Even laying on his back to let him concentrate entirely on the task at hand, he still messed it up every time. There would be weird tingling sensations. Or his eyesight would go pixelated. One time he forgot how to talk for a few seconds. Repetition did not take away from the horror of his body betraying him. It still terrified him the hundredth time as much as it had the first. Cassandane explained that over-hardening typically happened in random locations within the area of effect that constantly shifted about, meaning that his brain cells weren't being starved of oxygen for more than a second at a time, which they could survive without issue. Those assurances didn't ease the panic of feeling locked out of his body when it flew into spasms like a demon had possessed it.

Cassandane sent him to bed for the night when his performance began to get worse instead of better. She even gave him permission to sleep in the next day, no doubt motivated by a desire to increase his learning speed rather than kindness. He slept fitfully, too tired to relax properly, then rose when the smell of eggs and bacon coaxed him awake.

They resumed the marathon of training once he had sated his appetite. First a review with the Jello training, which he passed with flying colors. Then a test run with his actual brain. On his first try, he managed to keep the side effects minor enough that he could actually stand up and walk around. That began the next phase of his ordeal: incorporating brain hardening into other activities. Walking, performing jumping jacks, levitating, holding a conversation, performing mental arithmetic, and even simple corona wrestling. Splitting his attention proved maddeningly difficult. Even with his enhanced mental faculties, he needed about ninety percent of his attention dedicated to brain hardening to avoid mistakes. That didn't leave a lot of room for everything else. Using the kinetic talent in particular required a lot of processing power if you wanted to do anything with even a little bit of fine control. Cassandane promised it would become easier with a lot of practice.

By dinner time of the second day, Mike had once more reached his limit for training. He shoveled down chicken planks and tater tots before climbing onto his cot for some rest.

Sleep came fast. A deluge of associations in his vasted mind ensured that his slumber did not last long enough. Yearning for the nightly oblivion of his pre-ignited days, Mike lived through endless replays of things that had transpired recently. Woodrow's lifeless body being pulled from the river. Marius standing before Nallit, the both of them shrinking with distance. Varanelli informing him that Spencer had been shot. Sam warning him about Cassandane. And Cassandane . . . she was there, too. Every momentary quirk of a smile. Every wry eyebrow arch denoting one of their inside jokes. Every graceful stretch and piercing gaze and considering glance directed his way. It seemed his mind had faithfully recorded every interaction they'd ever had, sifted through them, and created a Powerpoint presentation of the highlights.

It had been a long time since he had felt desire. While Varanelli assumed he had been remaining celibate as some sort of misguided self-flagellation, the truth had been that a part of him had been hibernating for years. It awakened only recently, stirring so slowly at first that he had not noticed, then making its presence known with undeniable clarity when she had first taught him advanced corona wrestling. The thrill of discovering a new passion in the company of a beautiful, exotic woman had left him energized and breathless. Every interaction since then had held a subtle intensity.

He had tried to repress the obsessive thoughts, displacing them with the very real priority of keeping his soldiers alive. That had never worked for long. Stoic observation of military professionalism hadn't been more than a mask. Through it all, the primary limiter of his infatuation had been the uncertainty that she felt anything in return more than casual friendship or affection for a tool well suited to its purpose. Sam, though, had seemed to think there was something there. Or at least she had said so at the club. Her more recent views on Cassandane had been in a completely different direction. The proof offered up in his mind-vasted pseudo-sleep seemed to indicate there was something there.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

How many times was he going to face death in his role? How many bad days would he have, where events transpired to crush him? How much of his life would he sacrifice to the cause of the EDA? There had to be something good to balance all of that. Mike opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He needed to have the conversation with Cassandane.

Mike located her on the other side of the floor in the training annex by using his corona. She sat at a table in the hall there, composing an email on a laptop. When Mike entered, she locked the screen and looked up at him with expectation. "Did something happen?"

He took a moment to work up some moisture in his mouth. "Nothing like that. With everything going on tomorrow, I figured it made sense to talk about . . . ." He shrugged.

Cassandane stared at him impassively.

"Well, I mean, the thing is . . . ." He tried to push out a simple 'I like you' and it stuck in his throat. "We work well together," he finally managed.

"Yes," Cassandane said. "If I understand the purpose for your visit, you intend to confess romantic intentions." The clinical assessment froze his heart in his chest. He almost found himself hoping that she wouldn't continue. She did. "I will admit that I find you appealing. I enjoy your company and you have an intensity that matches my own. That would not be sufficient to justify a relationship. There would be complications with the organization. My preference is for the EDA over gaining a male companion."

Mike straightened his slounching posture. "But if you feel what I feel . . . ."

"I don't think I do, Mike," she said. "You came here to alter a relationship I prefer to keep as it is. I think it is important that you understand I will never be open to starting a relationship, even if concerns about the EDA are addressed to my satisfaction. Feeling some attraction towards someone is not enough. I would need to know that there is parity."

"Parity? What is that supposed to mean?" He found it easier to focus on that one word than the overall message.

"It means," Cassandane said, "that you are less than me. My mother was one of the lead mathemeticians of my world. My father created the polymer that allows for self-healing walls in the Fleet. In total isolation, I trained myself to be the most skilled practitioner of the three primary talents and the six synergies. You are a capable and loyal subordinate, but that is not enough for me. I don't say this to hurt you, Mike. It will be to your benefit if you redirect your emotions to a more receptive target. Can you accept this?"

"Yes, Imperator. I'll get out of your hair now."

She nodded. "Try not to be distracted by interpersonal concerns. Tomorrow you are facing the challengers Nallit has trained. That needs to be your focus."

"Understood."

"Back to bed, then. We will discuss potential strategy after breakfast."

"Yes, Imperator." Mike paused on his way back to the main section of headquarters to stare out at a night sky illuminated only by the reflections of light pollution from low clouds. You are less than me. He had known that. With half a second's serious consideration, he would have known such a thing would be an insurmountable issue for a woman like that. People might like their inferiors, but they didn't fall in love with them. And Cassandane probably wouldn't budge even for love. She was some kind of alien creature called an Aoleyen and she was hooked on achieving her goals like a junkie was hooked on the next fix.

Mike pushed the frightening immensity of his feelings down deep. He had other concerns to focus on and he couldn't be distracted by thoughts of 'what if' anymore.

As he stepped into main headquarters, Mike almost ran into a silent figure standing beside the door. "Sorry, Tracy, got distracted and didn't notice you there."

She nodded. "Things not go the way you wanted?"

"I, uh, what do you mean?"

Tracy folded her arms. "I see what goes on around here. I'm not part of your army group or your fighter group or even the Angelship group. I spend most of my time on the edges of groups so no one will see how I don't fit anywhere. Doing that, I pick up on a lot that other people don't notice. You and the boss lady have been orbiting each other for a while. Tonight you sneak over to see her, then come back looking like your dog just died. Seems obvious to me what went down."

Mike held a hand to his forehead. "Obvious to everyone or just you?"

"Probably just me. The rest have turned in for the night. It's just me and Smith on guard duty, and Smith watches videos on his phone the whole shift when we're paired up. He's all the way at the other end of the hall with earplugs in." Tracy waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about your reputation. I don't have anyone to share with even if I wanted to."

Mike studied the woman. "Seems like we're both feeling down tonight."

"That's how it goes sometimes." Tracy pursed her lips as she eyed him. "You intent on feeling sorry for yourself at the moment?"

"I am so damn tired of being in my own head."

"Meet me by the elevator in two minutes?"

"Yeah. Why not?"