[TD-009]

  The table flipped. Metal trays clattered against the floor, plastic cups bounced, and mashed potatoes splattered across the polished concrete like abstract art. Silverware pinged against the ground in a discordant symphony.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Thad shouted, leaping away from the spreading pool of gravy.

  Lance’s world spun as he materialized directly into Diego’s lap, both men toppling sideways in a tangle of limbs. His spatial anchor had worked perfectly—unfortunately, so had Diego’s prank.

  “What the—” Lance grunted, shoving at the mass of muscle crushing his ribcage. “Get off me, you asshole!”

  The mess hall filled with Diego’s hearty laugh, drawing attention from every table, every chair, and every corner. “Your face!” he wheezed, making no effort to move. “Should’ve seen your face!”

  “Should’ve seen yours when a hundred and eighty pounds of me appeared on your lap,” Lance retorted, finally extracting himself from beneath his friend. He stood, surveying the disaster zone their table had become.

  Cairo looked down at the chocolate pudding staining his uniform shirt. “Dude,” he said mournfully. “That was the one decent thing on the menu today.”

  Thad’s face suggested someone had just deleted his favorite dataset. “I was actually enjoying that meatloaf. Do you know how rarely that happens?”

  “It’s my fault,” Lance admitted, grabbing a handful of napkins from a nearby dispenser. “I set the anchor on my chair before getting seconds. Didn’t realize Diego would plant his ass there.”

  “Worth it,” Diego declared, still grinning as he righted the table. “Best use of your teleport thing yet.”

  “It’s called Spatial Anchoring,” Lance corrected automatically, dropping to his knees to scoop up the worst of the spill. “And it’s not technically teleportation.”

  Joaquim appeared beside them, carrying a mop and bucket he’d acquired from somewhere. “Here,” he offered, his voice typically soft. “This will be faster.”

  “Thanks,” Lance said, taking the mop. “You guys grab fresh trays. I’ll have this cleaned up in a minute.”

  He stayed behind and kept at it while everyone else returned to the serving line. Second Evolution had left him clumsy, but he pushed through it. The blue glow that had filled his eyes after the procedure had mostly faded, though Diego insisted he could still see it whenever Lance channeled arma. Five days had passed since his transformation, and he still occasionally misjudged his own strength or speed. Just yesterday, he’d crushed a coffee mug to powder when Sergeant Remington startled him during breakfast.

  “So that’s the famous teleport ability, huh?”

  Lance didn’t need to turn around to know Vicky was standing behind him. Her energy signature had pinged his awareness the moment she entered the chow hall. A warm, crackling energy like a distant campfire. Before he could respond, she threw her arms around him in a surprise hug.

  “Careful,” he cautioned, still holding the mop. “I’m covered in dinner.”

  Vicky released him, stepping back to assess the damage. “I’ve seen worse. Kind of reminds me of that time we fought those armed robbers at Sacred Valley.”

  Her tone was light, but Lance caught the flicker of discomfort in her arma. A momentary spike of anxiety that rippled through her field. She’d been doing better lately, no shadows under her eyes, her movements more animated. The haunted look that had dogged her since their confrontation with Rick was fading. She was healing.

  “Yeah, this is decidedly less dramatic,” Lance agreed, resuming his mopping. “Though Diego might disagree. He’s currently telling everyone within earshot how I ‘teleported right into his lap’ and ‘was drawn to his undeniable appeal.’”

  Vicky snorted, grabbing some paper towels to help with the cleanup. “Sounds like Diego. Oscar Cell has been running bets on which one of you is going to break the obstacle course record tomorrow.”

  “My money’s on Tesia,” Lance said. “That muscle recomposition thing is insane. She basically turns herself into a Formula One car.”

  “True, but you can literally teleport past obstacles now.”

  “For three minutes at a time, within fifty meters of my anchor point,” Lance clarified. “And only if I’ve touched a surface for at least a second to mark it.”

  “Still beats running. I can’t believe you can just add random abilities to yourself like that. Such a cheat.”

  Lance shrugged. “It has its limitations. If I’m not careful about placement, I can end up in someone’s lap—as we’ve just demonstrated.”

  They finished cleaning just as the others returned with fresh trays. Vicky joined them, sliding a chair beside Lance as Cairo distributed the replacement meals.

  Lance watched his teammates settle in, grateful that USEC actually gave them downtime like this. Back in ROTC field training, his flight commander had scheduled every minute for maximum efficiency. Personal time? Forget it. Meals were for refueling, not socializing. This—just hanging out with his squad over dinner—felt like a luxury unbecoming of the military.

  “What do you think our Cell Commanders are doing right now?” Diego leaned forward, chin propped on his hand. The meatloaf he’d brought to the table thirty seconds ago had already vanished. “While we’re just sitting here eating?”

  “Heard from Wraith they huddle up and go over our progress, state of the world, shit like that,” Cairo said.

  “Who the hell is Wraith?” Diego asked.

  “Beaumont,” Lance said. “It’s her call sign.”

  “Wraith.” Diego repeated, pushing back from the table and standing up. “Wraith. That sounds cool...”

  “So, Lawthorn,” Thad said between bites, “that spatial thing—is it getting any stronger? My models suggest you might eventually extend the range or duration.”

  Lance paused at the question. The truth was, all his abilities had strengthened significantly since his evolution. Energy Classification had expanded to include thermal signatures. Dark Resonance could now detect hostile intent from nearly a hundred meters away. His partial Saltatorial adaptation had integrated more fully, allowing greater leg strength modification. Even Pain Nullification had evolved, creating a feedback loop that converted pain signals into additional energy. All in all, Second Evolution had made him insanely powerful, but he wasn’t strong enough to face her. Not yet.

  “It’s stabilizing,” he answered, deliberately vague. “Range is holding steady at about thirty meters, but the anchor lasts closer to four minutes now instead of three.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The lie came easily. Lance had discovered his anchors could actually last up to six minutes, and his maximum teleportation range had extended to nearly fifty meters, but he’d been careful to demonstrate only the capabilities he’d reported to USEC. The rest he kept in reserve—an insurance policy against the day they might try to use him in ways he couldn’t accept.

  Diego returned to the table, balancing two trays piled improbably high with food. “Talked the kitchen staff into extras,” he announced proudly. “Said it was compensation for our traumatic teleportation accident.”

  “Your traumatic accident?” Lance lifted an eyebrow. “Pretty sure my spine was the landing pad.”

  “Details.” Diego shoved half a roll into his mouth. “So,” he continued while chewing, “anyone else notice they’ve been upgrading the obstacle course? Saw them installing these weird panels this morning.”

  “Probably trying to make it challenging for people who can teleport,” Cairo suggested. “Or freeze water. Or turn into mist.”

  “They’re motion-activated shock plates,” Vicky said, lowering her voice. “I heard Sergeant Steele talking about them. If you step on one, it delivers a jolt strong enough to disrupt most abilities.”

  Lance frowned. “That seems excessive.”

  “It’s smart,” Thad countered. “In real combat situations, we need to be prepared for counters to our abilities. USEC wouldn’t be doing its job if it didn’t push us.”

  “Speaking of pushing,” Cairo said, “anyone else getting pulled for MED lately? My readings have been crazy high all week.”

  The table fell silent. Mandatory Energy Discharge was becoming increasingly common as recruits grew stronger. Lance had been flagged twice already this week, and it was only Wednesday.

  “I’ve had three sessions,” Joaquim said. “The regeneration makes it difficult to stay below threshold.”

  “At least they’re letting us burn it off in controlled ways now,” Vicky said. “Last month it was just ‘punch this concrete wall until your levels drop.’”

  Lance nodded, remembering the bruised knuckles that had resulted from those early sessions. Now they had specialized chambers and targeted exercises designed to safely discharge excess energy.

  Beneath the table, he let his fingers brush against Vicky’s forearm—a touch that would appear casual to any observer. As they connected, he activated Emotional Resonance with the subtlety that had come from six days of practice. A gentle pulse of calming energy flowed between them, easing the tension he’d felt building in her signature.

  The ability had evolved significantly since his evolution. What had started as crude emotional manipulation had refined into something more nuanced—a harmonic exchange that could soothe anxiety without dulling other emotions. They’d been using it discreetly, helping each other process their Durham trauma without official intervention.

  “Everyone ready for DAS?” Diego asked, checking his watch as they finished their meals. “Ten minutes until we have to be at the scanning facility.”

  “Should be quick for most of us,” Lance commented, gathering his tray. “But my scan got flagged for additional review yesterday. Might be there a while.”

  “That’s what happens when you evolve,” Cairo said with a trace of envy. “They start paying extra attention.”

  The conversation shifted to tomorrow’s training schedule while clearing their trays. Lance participated automatically, his awareness split between the discussion and the faint pulse of energy signatures surrounding them. Since evolution, his perception had expanded dramatically, allowing him to track dozens of individual arma patterns simultaneously. He could identify most of his cellmates without looking, distinguish between ability classifications at a glance, and detect the subtle flares that preceded power activation.

  After dinner, Lance made his way to the Enhanced Training Complex for his scheduled Daily Arma Scanning. The facility hummed with activity even this late in the evening, technicians and medical staff moving purposefully between monitoring stations. He offered quick waves to familiar faces and quick energy scans to everyone he passed, noting the subtle shifts in their patterns. The slightly elevated signatures suggested most enhanced personnel were operating at higher capacity than usual.

  [Human (Unawakened)]

  [Human Enhancer (Nascent)]

  [Human (Unawakened)]

  [Human Shifter (Nascent)]

  Eyes darted between personnel as classification results streamed through his mind. The Shifter technician’s unstable signature pattern drew his attention briefly—nothing overtly dangerous, but filed away nonetheless. These small assessments accumulated with each passing person, creating a mental map of potential variables in the room.

  “Recruit Lawthorn,” Dr. Prakash called from an open doorway. “Right on time.”

  [Human (Unawakened)]

  └─Arma Potential: Minimal

  The quantum physicist’s fingers tapped against his metal vacuum flask—a nervous habit Lance had noticed during previous sessions. Prakash’s energy signature buzzed with the characteristic pattern of a researcher who’d consumed too much caffeine and too little food.

  “Evening, Doctor,” Lance greeted, following him into the scanning room.

  “You know the procedure,” Prakash said, gesturing toward the cylindrical chamber that dominated the center of the room. “USEC ensures all recruits expend 98% of their arma daily to maximize development potential and prevent dangerous accumulation.”

  The boilerplate speech was the same every night, delivered the exact same way each time. Lance stepped into the chamber without comment, positioning himself on the bright yellow footprints marked in the center. The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss, and the sensor array activated, floating nodes rising to encircle him in a three-dimensional grid.

  “Beginning scan,” Prakash said through the intercom. “Please remain still.”

  Lance closed his eyes as the diagnostic array activated, washing over him in waves of invisible energy. The process lasted approximately ninety seconds, during which the sensors created a comprehensive map of his arma pathways and energy reserves.

  That didn’t happen yesterday…

  As the scan progressed, Lance noticed something unusual—a subtle resonance in the energy field around him, almost like an echo of his signature rippling outward beyond the chamber’s containment. The sensation was faint but distinct, a harmonic pattern that seemed to interact with the scanning beams.

  “Huh,” he murmured, opening his eyes to study the floating sensors.

  “Remain still, Recruit,” Prakash reminded him.

  Lance complied, but continued monitoring the strange resonance. It felt connected to his own energy somehow, yet distinct—as if part of his signature had detached and was operating independently. This wasn’t the machine, he was certain. He’d experienced this sensation before, though couldn’t place when. Before he could analyze it further, the scanning beams deactivated, and the sensors returned to their resting positions.

  “Scan complete,” Prakash announced. “You may exit the chamber.”

  As Lance stepped out, he noticed Dr. Nazari had joined them, reviewing his results on a tablet. Her expression revealed nothing, but the slight tension in her shoulders suggested concern.

  “Interesting readings tonight, Lawthorn,” she said, turning the tablet to show him a spatial rendering of his energy pattern. “Your levels are 42% higher than last week, despite consistent activity.”

  “Is that unusual?” Lance asked, studying the complex web of glowing pathways that represented his energy circulation while knowing full well that last week he wasn’t even a Second Evolution arma user.

  “For most recruits, yes. For Second Evolution subjects...” She hesitated. “It’s within expected parameters, but at the upper end. Your current expenditure is only at 95%—below our required threshold.”

  “Which means MED,” Lance concluded, already moving toward the door. “I’ll head to the discharge chamber.”

  “Not so fast,” Nazari said, holding up a hand. “Your particular energy signature is becoming more complex. Standard protocols may not be sufficient.”

  Lance glanced back at the chamber. “Maybe your equipment isn’t giving you accurate readings,” he suggested with a hint of sarcasm.

  Both doctors sighed in unison, exchanging a look that Lance had seen countless times from academics whose expertise was questioned.

  “My proprietary algorithms predict discharge risk with 99.8% accuracy,” Prakash said stiffly, tapping his tablet with obvious pride. “The margin of error is negligible.”

  Lance didn’t argue further.

  The machines consistently produced results that mirrored his system interface, matching his own internal readings digit by digit. Yet the difference was that his interface displayed the information instantaneously, whereas DAS required the entire ritual of preparation, scanning, and analysis. So he could theoretically tell them everything they needed to know and save everyone valuable time, but this particular advantage was yet another card he wasn’t interested in revealing, since sharing that information would likely just replace one battery of tests with another equally time-consuming series designed specifically to probe the limits of his analytical capabilities.

  “We’ve prepared a specialized chamber for evolved subjects,” Dr. Warren Prakash explained. “More robust containment, better monitoring capabilities.”

  “Lead the way,” Lance said, curious despite his weariness.