His chest heaved.

  Breath in.

  Hold.

  Release.

  Again.

  Each step a controlled explosion as he pushed his body to its absolute limits.

  The wind battered Lance as he sprinted down the track. Despite the morning sun peeking through the clouds, an icy January rain pelted his skin and fogged up his Corps-issued goggles. But thank god the USEC had insisted everyone wear them for the hundred-meter dash test. Without them, he’d be running blind.

  The finish line approached rapidly. His heart hammered. Boots squealed on rubber. Rain shattered against his uniform. Energy cycling kept his muscles primed. Morphoplasm braced his joints. Modified Saltatorial drove his legs harder. Faster. Faster.

  Faster!

  He crossed the line at full tilt, not daring to slow down until several strides past.

  “Six point five six seconds!” Staff Sergeant Beatrix Remington bellowed over the rain. “Not bad, Lawthorn.”

  Lance bent over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. The time was superhuman by any normal standard—the current world record for the hundred-meter sprint was 9.58 seconds. And he’d just crushed it while running in the rain.

  Still wasn’t good enough.

  Diego jogged past, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nice run, bro. But watch this.”

  With his lungs finally tamed, Lance straightened, wiped the sweat from his goggles, and watched his friend take position at the starting line.

  The Beast’s legs morphed subtly, muscle and bone reconfiguring themselves through his Adaptive Limbs ability. Even after days of seeing it, the sight still amazed him. Where his own copied version of Saltatorial gave him enhanced jumping and running capabilities, Diego’s full power let him completely reshape his lower body for maximum performance. Still, even without such drastic adaptability, Lance had caught up with The Beast when his body entered Stage 3 of his second evolution process. But also—

  His mouth hung agape.

  Arma circulated through Diego’s legs. Fast. Impossibly fast. Blindingly fast. Super-mega-ridiculously fast. Had Diego achieved Energy Circulation without even realizing it? Was that the reason he ate so much during breakfast?

  “Ready!” Remington called out. “Set...”

  The starting buzzer blared, then Diego launched off the line while he sliced through the rain until he zipped past Lance toward Sergeant Remington at the finish line.

  “Five point nine eight seconds!” Even Remington seemed impressed by that one., which was practically unheard of. “New cell record, Ramírez.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Diego pumped his fist in celebration. His legs gradually shifted back to their normal configuration as he walked back toward Lance. “Told you I’d beat your time.” He flashed that insufferable grin of his while not even winded from his own run. “Looks like the student has become the master.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Lance rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help grinning. Next time, buddy. Next time.

  They moved to the sidelines, joining the rest of Papa Cell to watch their remaining cellmates run.

  Their eyes drifted to the starting line, where a woman named Daisy Angler dropped to all fours. She was like a cheetah. Her time of 7.12 seconds was impressive, but still couldn’t touch what he and Diego had done. In fact, everyone in Papa Cell had managed to beat the normal human world record, but the gap between them and the two friends was substantial.

  The last runner crossed the finish line.

  “Alright people, five-minute break, then we move to strength testing!” the drill sergeant called out. “Hydrate and stretch—I don’t want anyone cramping up during squats!”

  “Think anyone in Oscar Cell broke six seconds?” Diego asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The rain seemed to energize him, like some kind of hyperactive puppy.

  Lance shook his head. “Doubt it. Though Carter might come close with that liquid metal form of his.”

  “Please. Metal boy probably rusts in the rain.”

  Lance grabbed his water bottle and took a long drink. The cold rain had actually been refreshing during the sprint, but now it was just making him sticky. He and Diego found a relatively dry spot under an overhang to wait out the break.

  “What do you make of USEC so far?” Lance asked quietly.

  “Still feels surreal.” Diego said. “A month ago I was doing construction, breaking my back for minimum wage. Now I’m in a military branch for people with superpowers.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I wake up thinking this is all some fever dream from the gene therapy.”

  “You having second thoughts?”

  “Nah. Just...” Lance crushed the empty plastic bottle. “Never thought I’d end up in anything like this.”

  “Hey, the world got weird. We got weird with it.” Diego grinned. “Might as well get stronger and see where this goes.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Remington’s whistle called them back to attention.

  The training facility was another hangar, smaller than the one they’d used for orientation this morning. They hurried through the already-open doors.

  Someone tossed them each a towel—hardly enough time for a quick wipe-down before Remington barked at them to line up. At least the rain wasn’t a problem anymore.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  As long as Lance kept his Energy Circulation active, the friction it generated within his body kept him comfortably warm. Now that he thought about it, Diego had to have Energy Circulation too. That explained the mountain of food he’d demolished at breakfast—his body was burning through calories like crazy. No wonder he seemed fine in his half-frozen PT uniform while the rest of their Cell’s teeth chattered like bingo balls tumbling in their cage.

  They jogged over to where heavy squat racks had been set up under a covered portion of the training area.

  Industrial-grade power racks lined one wall, while specialized machines filled the center of the room. The air smelled of chalk and sweat and that particular brand of determination that came with pushing limits.

  The weights looked almost comically large—these weren’t normal plates, but specially reinforced ones designed to test enhanced strength.

  “Alright recruits, time to see what you’re made of!” Remington paced in front of the racks. “We’ll start with squats, then move to deadlifts and bench press. Safety spotters are in place, but don’t be stupid—if you can’t handle the weight, rack it! Sergeant Steele already lost one recruit today to ego, I don’t need the paperwork.”

  “Partner up and claim a rack,” she continued. “I want to see proper warm-ups before testing. I’ll come around to each station when you’re ready.

  Lance and Diego claimed a power rack in the corner, loading the reinforced hundred-pound plates as casually as they used to load their old forty-fives at Titan’s Den.

  “Remember when we thought four plates was heavy?” Lance asked as he added another hundred-pound plate to the bar. The math was getting ridiculous—they were well past a thousand pounds now.

  “Remember when we couldn’t count the plates without a calculator?” Diego countered.

  “That one was only you.”

  Ignoring Lance and chalking his hands, The Beast said: “Alright, what’s the target for squats?”

  Diego’s eyes gleamed. “Two thousand pounds or bust.”

  “You first, Beast.”

  He knocked out fifteen quick reps at just over a thousand pounds, making it look easy. “That should do it.” He racked the bar and stepped back. Lance took his place, matching Diego’s reps without bothering to adjust the weight. They each completed another quick warm-up set and a couple of minutes later:

  “Lawthorn, Ramírez!” Sergeant Remington commanded. “You’re up first.”

  Diego settled under the barbell loaded with 1875 pounds and took a long breath. Adaptive Limbs activated. Muscle fibers realigned. Bone density increased. Tendons reinforced themselves. All in the span of heartbeats. He unracked the weight with a grunt that was half effort, half showmanship.

  The lift itself was almost anticlimactic—the descent was controlled, almost graceful. At parallel, Diego paused for a moment, just to show off, knowing him. Then he drove up like he was lifting an empty bar, but not before unleashing his signature roar, which had several other recruits turning to watch.

  “Beat that, copycat,” Diego said, re-racking the bar with a clash of metal.

  “Show off,” Lance breathed, but he was smiling.

  He stepped up to the rack, adjusting his stance. He couldn’t reshape his legs like Diego, but he had other tricks. Energy Circulation optimized his muscle recruitment while Morphoplasm reinforced his spine and core. Dark resonance... well, that was just there for the stat boost.

  The weight crushed down on his shoulders—one thousand six hundred and ninety-eight pounds of pure gravity trying to fold him in half. He descended slowly, fighting for control every inch of the way. At parallel, his quads screamed in protest. He drove up, teeth clenched, every fiber of his being focused on not dying under nearly a ton of iron—or if he had to guess, tungsten.

  “Lock it out... lock it out...” Diego’s coaching seemed distant through the blood rushing in his ears.

  The last few inches were pure hell, but he managed to stand, knees locked, before carefully returning the bar to the rack. His hands shook as he stepped back.

  “That’s,” Lance panted, “my max.”

  “Not bad,” Diego said, but the corners of his mouth had an edge to it now. “For someone working with hand-me-down powers.”

  “Save the trash talk for the next lift.”

  They stripped the bar and reloaded for deadlifts, the growing pile of plates drawing attention from around the room. Lance caught snippets of whispered conversation:

  “—think they’re showing off?”

  “—bet his compensating for something—”

  “—gonna hurt themselves—”

  A recruit from their Cell—Bessette, quiet as usual—wandered over. “You guys really pulling that much?”

  “Nah, we just like loading plates for fun,” Diego said. “Helps pass the time.”

  Lance shot him a look. “Ignore him. Yeah, we’re pulling it. Want to work in?”

  Bessette’s eyes went up as he did the math. “I’ll... uh... pass. Still sore from squats.”

  Smart man. With Oscar Cell already down one recruit, the last thing they needed was their own Cell taking casualties.

  Just like normal deadlifts, he thought. Set up, brace, pull.

  He gripped the barbell and took a deep breath. The Morphoplasm, darker and denser than before, snaked around his lumbar vertebrae, forming a lattice of organic support. The alien substance sent a cool tingle through his spine, akin to mint spreading under his skin. The weight came up smooth and controlled. Lance locked out his hips and shoulders, held for a moment, then lowered the bar with perfect form.

  “Good lift!” Remington said. “Setting the bar high, Lawthorn!”

  Diego’s jaw dropped. “No fucking way.” He stormed up to the bar, clearly agitated. “That’s my lift. I’ve always been better at deadlifts!”

  His first attempt with the same weight stalled at his knees. Lance could see Diego’s legs trying to adapt, but something wasn’t quite right. The barbell crashed back to the platform.

  “God DAMMIT!” Diego kicked the rubber matting. “It’s the nerve damage. Has to be. Or the...” He trailed off, but Lance knew he meant the injuries from their fight at Titan’s Den. From when Lance had almost killed him.

  “Ramírez!” Remington’s voice cracked like a whip. “Control yourself or get off my platform!”

  Diego took a few controlled breaths, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “Sorry, Sergeant. Won’t happen again.”

  Once Diego logged his final deadlift numbers for USEC’s records, they lowered the safety bars, and Lance wheeled in the bench.

  The bench press test went much like the deadlift, with Lance’s combination of abilities giving him a slight edge. His one thousand eight hundred and fifty pounds beat Diego’s one thousand seven hundred and fifty by a comfortable margin.

  “It’s because Adaptive Limbs isn’t affecting your arms yet,” he offered as consolation. “Once it evolves more—”

  “Don’t patronize me, bro.” But Diego’s tone had shifted from angry to determined. “Just means I need to train harder.”

  “Speaking of training harder...” Lance lowered his voice. “Should we maybe dial it back a bit? You know, keep a lower profile?”

  Diego stared at him as if he’d suggested they start doing aerobics. “What, like those heroes on TV? Always hiding their true power level or whatever?”

  “Well...”

  “Fuck that noise. You’re an antihero anyway—”

  “Allegedly.”

  “—and I’m the awesome mentor figure who—”

  “Not according to your directive.”

  Diego rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, man, you must’ve misheard. Pretty sure it said something about being a champion. Or a leader. Memory’s kind of fuzzy on the details.”

  “Uh-huh. I distinctly remember you yelling ‘sidekick?’ at the abandoned warehouse.”

  “Oh, it is ON now—”

  ‘CRACK!’

  The sound brought them up. It wasn’t the dull thud of dropped weights, but that distinctive snap that meant someone’s body had just lost an argument with physics. The sharp, unmistakable sound of breaking bone.

  His stomach dropped as two power racks crashed down around Angler, leaving a dent in the reinforced floor.

  Lance and Diego were halfway across the room before Remington’s bark froze them in place.

  “Nobody move! Stay at your stations!”

  A raw scream ripped through the hangar.

  “ANGLER! What part of ‘if you can’t handle the weight, rack it’ was unclear?”

  “S-sorry Serg—AAGH! I-I just th-thought—”

  “No, you didn’t think. That’s the problem. Medical!”