Mike slumbered fitfully, his sleep disturbed in turns by Varanelli's shenanigans next door, some alcohol-fueled dizzies, the garbage pickup, and the love birds leaving the nest to go to work. When his alarm clock brought him to wakefulness yet again, he surrendered his dream of a peaceful recovery day and rolled out of bed, pausing only to pop his hip back into proper alignment. As every morning, Mike limped through the apartment like a geriatric while his joints warmed up to the idea of a proper range of motion. He idly wondered what his body would be like when he was old for real.

If the Angmari deserter showed up that night, his body in twenty years might be in better condition than it was now. He wasn't sure what to expect from the new powers. The third one had proved too challenging for him to use properly. Hell, he hadn't used any of them properly. Memorizing license plate numbers and rustling the grass in some stranger's yard? Not quite in the 'mind-blowing' range of abilities. Mike munched on a stale bagel, chugged an energy drink, and did a quick shit, shower, and shave.

By eight in the morning, he found himself ready to step out the front door but with nowhere to go. He had taken the day off from work so he could recover from his party. That turned out to not be necessary, but Mike didn't feel like canceling his vacation day. At the moment, he wanted some one-on-one time with Tyler Marius, which wasn't happening until that evening. He couldn't find the man any sooner. Even if he could, one didn't exactly dictate the schedule of a man with god-like powers.

He texted Srinivas: "Did you use charge yet?"

The reply came fast. "Yes. Was not lot to work with."

Mike punched another message into his phone. "I made some grass move."

After a few minutes, he realized Srinivas didn't feel compelled to respond to his statement and switched to Jimmy. "You training today?"

That response was no more promising. "Working now. Swing by gym at 3." Not only was the designating meet-up time seven hours away, but it seemed clear that further messages were not wanted. What did Jimmy do for work again? He seemed to recall it was something boring and non-physical. Exactly the opposite of what he expected of Jimmy. Of course, no one at the gym could picture Mike measuring components with calipers, either. They all knew each other in a very specific context that didn't translate well into the real world. Punches, kicks, throws, trips, chokes, and joint locks made for a thrillingly savage dance unrelated to the anesthetic drudgery of the daily grind.

So . . . what should he do with his free day? No options presented themselves to him. He had already left the warmth of his bed for the day, so lounging around wasn't happening. Any activity costing money was off the table given his financial circumstances. After a solid five minutes of indecision, Mike yanked open the fridge to retrieve a can. He popped the top and took a swig of the cheap IPA. In the living room, he turned on the television and collapsed back onto the couch.

They couldn't afford cable or internet, so only broadcast channels came through. At this time of day, that meant news programs or talk shows. He slurped some more beer while a panel on a program discussed the various purchases being made by the Angmari. Metals such as steel and aluminum and copper, industrial materials like ammonia and helium and carbon powder, and more technical products such as compressors and pumps. All of their purchases were being delivered to locations where the Angmari could pick them up. Their method of payment had not been disclosed, but the panelists speculated designs for advanced technology.

Mike squinted at the screen while he finished his beer. He couldn't stand the constant speculation. FIrst it had been about the stars. Then about the ships. And now it was the occupants of those ships. Poll after poll said that people were exhausted on those topics, but nobody on television or radio could stop talking about them, spinning in rhetorical circles while their audiences tuned out. The Angmari were rapidly joining politics and religion as topics to be avoided in polite company.

One beer turned into five and the television hosts decided to bring on a priest to speculate on whether or not the Angmari were followers of Christ. Mike changed the channel before the man could start quoting Bible passages. The next talk show was criticizing the President for cozying up to the Angmari 'invaders' and suggesting the American people were being sold out for personal gain. Mike switched to another station. That one had a baking show on. Mike checked the fridge and discovered he had killed off all the beer in the house. Returning empty-handed to the couch, his eyes glazed over while the guest chef made some cheesy pasta dish. The program cut back to the studio to start a discussion on clothing trends. At that point, Mike turned off the television and considered for the first time that maybe he should have canceled his vacation day if he was going to waste it like this.

After a shower, he packed his gym bag with shoes, clothes, and bag gloves. Belts squealed as his sedan came to life and Mike breathed a sigh of relief. With rumbling from the muffler he'd never got around to replacing, Mike took off down the street. Five minutes later he arrived at the empty MMA gym. He used his key to get in the door, changed in the locker room, strapped on his gloves, and got to work on one of the heavy bags. Double jab, cross, hook, cross, bob and weave, hook to the body, circle. Mike threw hard fists, letting the power come from his legs and hips. He kept a rapid tempo and soon sweat began to shiver free of his body with every punch.

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He worked the bag in intervals, five minutes of intense striking followed by two minutes of active recovery on the stationary bike. At the end of an hour, he stripped off his sweat-soaked gloves to switch up the workout. He launched into a circuit of kettlebell swings, box jumps, pullups, walking lunges, and burpees. When Mike could barely stand, he collapsed onto a weightlifing bench to catch his breath. He waited until the flush left his skin before jumping onto the treadmill for an hour jog.

A shower followed his workout. Once more in his street clothes, Mike drove back home to make himself a peanut butter sandwich and grab what he considered a well-deserved nap.

Mike passed quickly into sleep, then woke what felt like moments later to the buzzing of the alarm he had set, hot and sweaty and more than a little dehydrated. He threw fresh clothes into his gym bag and grabbed a gatorade from the fridge. For the second time that day he arrived at the gym. This time the door was already unlocked and there were a handful of people present. One of the trainers was holding mits for an overweight man who seemed to require a constant stream of encouragement to continue his MMA-themed fitness workout. One of the prospective fighters was putting in some time on the bike. Jimmy was stretching off to one side and nodded to Mike. "Looks like you were here already today."

"How did you know that?"

"First, the garbage in the bathroom was full. You are the only idiot around here who thinks paper towels are actual towels. Also, you left your funky smelling gloves in the middle of the floor again."

Mike shrugged. "I can't be carrying towels around all the time."

"God forbid you have to bring a towel from home," Jimmy said. "I'm surprised you made it in after last night with all the drinking."

"Come on, Jimmy. I barely drank at the Millennium. Afterwards I was going to hit a local bar, but I decided against it."

"Is that right?"

"My gloves were on the floor, right?"

"Yeah, you put in the work. Just imagine what kind of results you would be seeing if you laid off the beer and cleaned up the diet. You'd be pro by now."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I had an amateur record of one and one, Jimmy. That was fighting at one seventy. At this point I doubt I could even cut down to one eighty-five."

"Your skills are ten times better now. If you got your body back in shape you would clean up. I'm telling ya."

"I'm too old, Jimmy. Late thirties is not the right time to be starting out in the ring."

"Maybe not, but you could at least get back to the grappling tournaments. You always did good at that."

"Are we going to train or what?" Mike nodded towards the other people in the room. "Besides, we have other things to talk about."

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, let's do some ground work with the four ounce gloves. I want to work my escapes from mount and side control. Light punching, heavy pressure."

"You just don't want my smelly bag gloves touching you."

"Dude. You have to stuff the insides with newspapers to draw out the moisture. Or this would be a valid use for paper towels."

They moved onto the mats at the far end of the gym, far from anyone else.

"You going to the fountain tonight?"

"Hell yeah," Jimmy said. "I want another charge. A bigger one this time. And I want to figure out where Tyler Marius is getting the power from."

Mike sat on top of Jimmy's chest. When the darker man gave a nod, Mike began to rain down pitter-patter punches.

Jimmy covered, then bridged explosively to dislodge him. Mike clamped his heels to the ribs of Jimmy and stayed on top, touching one glove to the mat for just a moment to stabilize before resuming his strikes. When Jimmy tried a second time, Mike got wrist control and rode up to high mount. Jimmy shoved his fists into MIke's armpits and pushed, then managed to crunch himself up so that one foot could lodge itself on Mike's back. Mike tumbled over, turning the movement into a roll that saw him on his feet and turning around . . . just in time to meet Jimmy's double leg attempt with a tight guillotine, both legs squeezing from high guard as he worked his elbow higher. Jimmy tapped.

"Does your opponent have a lot of experience on the ground?"

"He's primarily a striker." Jimmy massaged his neck as he spoke. "Very similar style to me, actually. Lots of leg kicks on the outside, then turns into a brawler when you get in close. His grappling seems to be limited to ground and pound."

"I'll ease up on the chokes then."

"Don't bother, I need to get better at defending them."

They started over again and ran through several more escapes. Mike varied his responses to keep Jimmy mentally engaged while they worked. Nearly an hour passed before they were kicked out by the arrival of the kid's class. The two of them moved over to the other room to hop on stationary bikes. Mike opted for slow cardio work while Jimmy did insanely intense intervals. They couldn't talk until after the bikes, when Jimmy's breathing returned to normal. And once Jimmy recovered, others were in the room.

"I'll see you tonight, Mike. Try not to use all of the paper towels."

He waved Jimmy away, then proceeded to shower and return home. The sight of Varanelli on the couch greeted him.

"Hey, roomie, did you use your charge?"

She winced. "I never got around to figuring it out. I was preoccupied last night."

"What? That's insane. Varanelli, you had superpowers and didn't even use them?"

"I thought it would still be there in the morning." She nodded towards the bathroom. "Smith is hanging out with us."

Mike's smile faded. "Again? Is this going to be a thing?"

"Ski. Behave."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Oh, Ski? Did you drink all of my beers?"

"I'll replace them."

Varanelli gave him the look. "How about you pay your rent on time instead?"

"Replacing the beer would be cheaper . . . ."

"Rent is due next week. Can you have your half ready by then?"

Mike took a moment to calculate his lack of funds. "Maybe?"

"Ski, the rent happens every month."

"My budget is a bit tight. You know . . . the IRS thing."

"I swear, if you are late again, I am going to talk to Susie's parents."

Mike gritted his teeth. "You'll have the rent. Get off my case already."

"Fine," she said.

He went to his room and collapsed back onto his bed. If he didn't eat out for the next week, he could get most of the way towards paying the rent. He wouldn't be able to purchase any beverages either. Ramen noodles, green beans, and canned tuna were his go-to when he couldn't afford real food. The alternative was Varanelli getting a loan from the mother of his dead wife, which he couldn't let happen. "Well, Jimmy wanted me to go on a diet," he muttered.