Mike spent Friday morning playing around with the teleotic talent. He hardened his entire hand and then practiced slamming his knuckles into various surfaces. The fridge didn't cause him any pain at all, though he managed to dent the side of it. The floor didn't offer much of a test as the carpet provided too much cushioning. While it didn't cause him any lasting harm, the frying pan did hurt. A lot. Not in the knuckles or even in the hand, but at the wrist where his teleotic work had ended. Apparently he had to harden way more of his body than he originally thought if he wanted to hit things with impunity.

After a few hours of that, he switched to training with his corona. Without expanding his mind, Mike moved around small objects. The mental strain of the precision work proved every bit as considerable as he recalled, though large area effects like lightening his body had become simple. He leaned into the more challenging tasks, trying to fine tune the skills least developed. That meant levitating a quarter around the apartment, threading its path through every potential obstacle. Figure eight around chair legs. Around the paper towel holder. Through the handle on the oven door. Down the toaster and back up without touching the sides -- too much, at least. Through the interior of a fan. Down the bathtub drain until it reached the trap, then back up and out. Despite the intense concentration required and the obvious increase in his dexterity that resulted, Mike couldn't help but feel like a kid playing with a toy car.

After a late lunch of less than satisfying vegetables, he drove to the gym to get a good sweat in. The gym owner began chewing him out the moment Mike entered the building for not showing up to teach class the previous Friday. Mike accepted the lecture without defending himself. He made promises to never let it happen again that he doubted he could actually keep. It wasn't like he could explain the circumstances behind why he had missed his class. And he definitely had not coordinated with someone else to cover for him. Immediately following that conversation, he took out his phone to text a quick message to Srinivas, informing his former coworker that their evening training session had been rescheduled to the next morning.

Then Mike hit the exercise bike for some slow and steady cardio work. He set an hour on the timer and found his pace for zone two training. While pedaling, Mike tried to get a sense of what his muscles were doing with his teleotic talent. The feedback from his corona made an intuitive sort of sense, which he could interpret tactilely. The teleotic talent, on the other hand, operated on a more conceptual, abstract level. If he used gravitas without animas, the spatial aspect of things became hazy. Breaking an object in a straight line could range from effortless to challenging depending on whether or not his corona was extended. The sense of his body was like a cross between grainy ultrasound footage and a magic eye picture where you had to squint and let your eyes go out of focus to see the hidden image. No great insights came out of his study, but Mike considered the effort the same as the cardio he did: you had to put in a lot of base work before results started to show.

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He did some strength and conditioning training with kettlebells once his time on the bike ended, then took a break to stretch out while waiting for his class to start. When start time rolled around, there were only three students, but by the time warmups ended another five had arrived. Mike taught a series on the kimura shoulder lock, covering entries to it from various positions: top side control, guard, north-south, and half guard. Since it was a beginner class, he had them drill each simple variation countless times and had to correct the newer students almost constantly.

At the end of the instruction period, Jimmy sauntered onto the mats and nodded at him. "Hey, Mike, you coming to my fight tomorrow?"

Mike blinked. "Uh, yeah, about that . . . I'm going to have to miss this one."

"Marius business?"

"Yeah," Mike said.

Jimmy shook his head. "You're in deep, man. You should'a bailed when you had the chance."

"I think I made the right choice."

Jimmy looked away. "Anyway, I thought I would come in and get a few light rounds tonight."

"Is that a good idea with just twenty-four hours to go?"

"Lately I've been really on my mental game . . . if you know what I'm saying. I'm not worried about injuries or tiring myself out."

Mike grinned. "Funny. I think I'm really on my mental game today."

"Let's get some rounds in."

Mike told the students to pair up, set the timer for five minute rounds, and then lined up across from Jimmy. They slapped hands and bumped fists, then Mike lowered his level as if about to shoot in for a double leg. As Jimmy mirrored his drop, Mike reached for a collar tie. Jimmy responded by pummeling his hand for inside bicep control. Mike had been waiting for that and cut the corner to grap a Russian tie. In a blink, Jimmy shot a deep underhook and then dropped to his side to hit a textbook perfect scissor sweep. As Mike hit the ground, he hipped out to escape the saddle position and protect his legs. Jimmy turned it around by launching into a ballistic guard pass. Mike kneed Jimmy in the tailbone and exploded up into a single leg. Then he postured up as Jimmy used an iminari roll to set up a triangle choke. Mike shrugged and threw the one leg past to escape the choke, then tapped as Jimmy snatched up a toe hold.

"Damn, Jimmy! You've never rolled like that before."

"I've been working on integrating my . . . new talents . . . with my game plan all week. It's all coming together beautifully."

"You're going to be unstoppable."

"That's the plan. Let's go again."