“Oi, Ryan, mail for you,” Thomas said, walking in and brandishing a pack of letters. He proceeded to the counter and began sorting them out, shuffling his letters into a separate stack from mine, before picking his up and walking to his bedroom.

It had been a week since the party, and things had been surprisingly quiet. I had been doing fine in my classes, and happily we had moved on from precogs to maker type manifestations, a much less tense, albeit oddball subject. Inventors tend to be weirdos, but are fine enough people generally.

Aside from that, I was back in stilted conversations with Anna, the girl who decided my ribs were begging for percussive maintenance. I am pretty sure she still feels guilty, but decidedly less so with more exposure to me. Which is fine by me. I don’t really like leaning into social manipulation particularly, so its not like I care to exploit her guilt.

I hadn’t seen Alice from the library, but I had seen that she spent a session at the gun range last Wednesday. I’ll see about showing up in a couple days, see if I can catch her this Wednesday.

I lethargically dragged myself off of the couch, making sure to brush my clothes down in a vain attempt to remove the wrinkles that had accumulated over the past hour of watching television. I shuffled over to the kitchenette, grabbing the stack of letters, pausing a moment as I deliberated with myself, before shrugging and popping a vitamin supplement in my mouth and washing it down with some water.

Hopping back on the couch with a audible squeak that made me cringe a bit, I began sorting through my letters. It was mostly spam, offers for credit cards and loans. I got to the last letter and jolted upright as I saw the sender, eyes wide in anticipation. It was the letter from the Power Regulation Agency, the letter which would determine whether I would become a PRA agent.

My hand trembled slightly as I slid my finger into the gap in the envelope, dragging it across and neatly tearing the flap open. I pulled it out and opened it, eyes nervously glancing through.

To Mr. Ryan Cardano,

We regret to inform you that your application to join the Power Regulation Agency has been denied. Despite your admirable scores in the PRA track, and acceptable college transcripts, the Agency harbors deep misgivings about the nature of your mentalist manifestation. Due to the political realities of our work, we believe it unwise to nominate individuals with a controversial background or power-set.

As part of our mission statement, the Agency commits itself to diversity and inclusion, in order to better represent the needs of the American people. That said, we cannot in good conscience bring onboard any individual who would, directly or indirectly, compromise the operation of this organization. Doing such would be a grave disservice to the American people, and we are unwilling to be put in that position at this time.

We hope that you understand our decision and we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. Thank you for your interest in the US Power Regulation Agency.

Sincerely,

Haley Garcia, PRA Staffing Specialist

My hand clenched involuntarily. My nails dug into the paper, leaving behind crescent indents as the letter crumpled and wrinkled.

I was seething. I am normally a pretty calm dude. I tend to be mellow, very go with the flow. Its a neat little trick of self delusion isn’t it? If you pretend to not care, if you present yourself as a cool dude, too aloof for emotions, you can start to believe it yourself. Believe that you are unaffected by it all, every snide whisper, every little mutter. Just brush it off, it doesn’t matter. Laugh, as if they said something hilarious and make them think they missed. Make them think they didn’t hit you. Maybe when they get tired of missing, they will stop shooting.

Its all a delusion. A wonderful, beautiful, disgustingly fake little delusion. Of course I am affected. Of course it matters. The naysayers, the bullies young and old, the bigots who don’t know better and the friends who do. It hits. It never misses the target, never stops feeling like needles of ice piercing your heart, slowly dissolving into your veins and diluting your blood with ice-melt.

I heard a loud crash, the noise taking on an eerie muted quality, as those underwater. I smiled grimly, as I saw a phantom of myself grab yet another ghostly glass and hurl it against the wall, a dull shattering noise ringing in my ears as shards of ghostly glass exploded everywhere before dissolving into mist once more. I really, desperately, wanted to break something. Someone.

My hand twitched, and my lips drew up into a feral snarl, straining the muscles and forcing blood into my undoubtedly reddening face. With a silent grimace, I hurled the now crumpled ball of paper across the room, where it bounced off the coffee maker with a light crinkling noise, which might have been comical, but now only served to enrage me further.

How the fuck did those assholes justify rejecting me. And in that fucking manner. The sheer audacity to claim to value inclusion in the same breath as coldly telling me to fuck off, because I had the misfortune of being born an acceptable target.

I barely realized what I was doing as I stalked towards the door, a burning wetness gathering in my eyes. I slapped the screen door open and made my way to the bike rack, shaking in anger. I slipped once, twice, trying to open the bike lock, which I could normally pop open without even looking at it.

I got on my bike, and paused a moment. I really, desperately wanted to go to Sr. Asno’s. I couldn’t go. I couldn’t break my own rules, nor Gabe’s rules. Never go to the range when angry or depressed. The only thing worse than an emotionally unstable person, is an emotionally unstable person with a gun.

With a monumental force of will, I snarled and began pedaling in the opposite direction, towards the college gym. It felt like time passed in a second, despite the twenty minute ride, so deep I was in the pit of anger.

I slammed the bike into the rack, and made my way in, not even bothering to lock it up. At this point, I was in a haze, only barely self aware enough to know that I needed to hurt something that couldn't be hurt, or hurt me back.

In the end, it was a punching bag that garnered my wrath. It was lime green, slightly faded and the faux leather worn with use. It was the ugliest piece of shit I had seen, and for that crime, it needed to die.

I bared my teeth at it, before leaning back, and driving my bare fist into it with my weight added to the strike. A dull thud rang out, and it moved an inch or two before settling back in its spot.

A series of blows flurried into the bag, jab after jab. Every time I hit it, every time it failed to move like I was truly affecting it, only served to piss me off more. The visions of possible futures were going haywire, lines of gray static briefly forming into discernible shapes before collapsing.

Mental state is terrifyingly important to understanding manifestations. A person isn’t temperamental because they have fire powers. They have pyrokinesis, because they are temperamental. Peoples powers change, and act differently under different pressures, different emotional states. They can even change to a new power in the most extreme cases.

My form of precognition is generally a passive affair. An analytical tool, meant to plan the future. For the most part, it does it’s best to describe reality. I prefer truth to fiction, hard realities to soft fantasies. But now? Now it’s active. Because I really don’t give a god fucking damn about what reality is. I care about what it should be. What I want it to be. And at the moment, it was all I could do to try and want this stupid green punching back to break, to split at the seams and fall to the ground.

Because even now, even in the absolute depths of my anger, I couldn’t lose control over my thoughts. I couldn’t think the things I wanted to think, couldn’t consider the possibilities I wanted to consider. People can read minds, and I am not about to sign my death warrant yet. Because if I thought the things I wanted to? If I went to the gun range instead of the gym? My precognition would seize on those thoughts. Every idle fantasy, every moment I wondered what if. Times like those, my manifestation isn’t a genie on my shoulder, its a devil waiting to damn me.

I flicked my fist out at the bag. Two percent chance it would break, but the whispers, the possibilities. Add a percent here, another percent there. Lean this way, lean that way, and maybe it will break. Break before the seven percent chance my fingers break. I really couldn’t give a damn. My fist impacted the leather with a sharp report, a slick wetness beginning to ooze. Probably should have wrapped my fists.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and without thinking, I slapped it away, rounding on whoever the fuck had the audacity to interrupt.

Anna stepped back warily, hands held up in surrender. She looked slightly sweaty, with a reddened face, as though she had been working out.

“What?” I snapped at her, trying to fight the urge to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business.

“Do you want to spar a bit? You look like you need to work something out, and from what I recall, I am one of the few people around who can take the kinds of hits you can put out. I promise not to break your ribs this time,” Anna said, throwing in a bit of forced humor at the end to try and lighten the mood. It did not work.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I spat out unconvincingly, as I turned back to the punching bag. I didn’t want to look at anyone, let along talk to them.

I heard, rather than saw her shrug at that. “Fine by me. Feel free to break your knuckles. Just remember to clean off the blood once you are done, since it seems you skipped on any wraps.”

She began to walk away, clearly done with the situation. I let out a sigh.

“Wait. One round.”

I heard her pause, and turned away from the punching bag to face her. She reached into a pocket, and grabbed a set of hand wraps, and tossed them to me.

“Come on, padded room in the back. The controlled defense training ended twenty minutes ago, and the room isn’t scheduled for use till the end of the hour.”

I sullenly wrapped the fabric over my knuckles, blood already starting to stain the nylon. As we walked, we passed a wall covered in mirrors presumably for yoga. I looked like a right mess, a frightful mix of sweat blood and tears mixing together and making it hard to tell which was which. I snatched a towel from a side table as we walked, and dragged it over my face, removing the grime which would inevitably drip into my eyes.

We entered the room, and Anna closed the door with a hollow thunk. I watched Anna mutely, as she removed a jacket and sweatpants to reveal form fitting exercise wear. Perhaps someone else would have found it sexy or titillating, but frankly, I really did not care.

“Are we good to go?” Anna asked, looking at me with a slight look of concern on her face.

I nodded mutely, unable to trust myself to speak without a telling waver in my words. I slowly put my fists up, and Anna got in a stance herself.

Anna was sparring. She had sparred with me weeks prior, and was doing the same thing now. I wasn’t sparring. I was fighting. I wanted to hurt someone, and she volunteered. Who am I to turn that down?

I shifted my foot slightly, and Anna shifted again in response. I lunged at the movement, fist making a glancing blow even as Anna pulled away. I know how to fight. The back and forth, feints and counters, defensive and offensive. But really, I am not in the right head-space to play defensively, to exploit weaknesses and mistakes.

I exploded forwards, moving my arms to dodge and jab below Anna’s rib-cage. It felt like hitting wet sand, but the hiss of pain and surprise vindicated me, and spurred me on more than the punching bag ever could. Anna warded off my next two attacks, but the third slipped in and left a mark on her jaw, and the fourth skidded off her forearm as she barely got it up in time.

She began moving to attack, but the red haze was clouding my vision now, almost literally as the phantoms began exploding in number with a scarlet tinge bleeding in as they pulsed in time with my heartbeat, which was thundering through my body. What was a small quantity of predictions, enough to count on one hand, became hundreds, clouding my vision as they each branched out into thousands of possible futures. I was pushing, straining, harder than I had ever done before.

Twenty futures warned of the blow to my side, seconds before it landed, and thirty futures celebrated the dull thud of my fist on her back, as I grabbed her arm and hammered into her shoulder before pushing her off balance.

Seeing an opening, I threw all of my body weight, all of the force I had available into punching her right in the solar plexus. Immediately, thousands of futures screamed at me, as hard as possible. I had fucked up.

My fist, moving as fast as I could reasonably push it, hammered into her chest, and I screamed as I shattered my hand, knuckles crunching with a dull wet sound. My arm rebounded as the jolt ran up my forearm like a tuning fork, vibrating deep in my bones as I collapsed to my knees.

The red haze exploded as my concentration broke, and the phantoms vanished like mist in the daylight. My head collapsed into my mangled hands as an indescribable pain hit, like needles made of frozen steel being pushed through my brain. It was so distracting, it took several minutes before I realized that blood was dripping onto my hand, not off it. I gingerly wiped my face with my left hand, violently shaking with pain and adrenaline, and the as yet clean part of the hand wrap came away stained scarlet. I blinked, and the red haze shifted as I realized that it wasn’t my power. I was bleeding from my eyes and nose, the blood pooling in front of my pupils. I blinked, and saw the crimson tears patter onto the ground in confirmation.

I chanced a look at Anna, struggling through the headache. She looked like she had been better, but was sitting up, gingerly nursing a water bottle, as she eyed me warily, rubbing her chest. She certainly looked better off than I did. Durability would do that for you I suppose.

“Bouts over,” she croaked, clearly not feeling well herself. “Lets head over to the medic and get patched. After that, maybe we can get coffee?”

I nodded limply, not trusting myself to speak. I winced trying to shift my body weight, letting out a hiss of pain as I put my weight on my broken hand. Readjusting, I pressed my right hand against my stomach as I used my left hand to push myself to my feet.

Looping her arm in my good arm, Anna helped walk me down the halls, steadying me as I began to wobble. I barely remember walking, before we found ourselves in front of the Health Office, distracted by the throbbing in my hand.

Anna pushed the door open, letting me walk in. Behind the counter was a tall black gentleman, bald and wearing loose-fitting, teal, doctor’s scrubs.

“Oh dear, that looks like it hurts,” he said, moving from behind the counter with a sense of measured urgency. “My name is Dr. Avery. Now, please rest your hand on the pad here.”

He pointed to what appeared to be a padded armrest attached to a chair. I sunk down into the seat, grateful to sit down, and set my arm on the pad.

“Good. Now, I am going to go ahead and remove the hand wraps. I am guessing you were fighting with this young lady here? I will get to you in a moment,” Avery said, looking meaningfully at Anna. He pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a pair of tweezers which he used to start peeling back the bandage. After a minute, he was able to get it off, nonchalantly tossing the now rusty brown bandage into the biological waste container.

“Now, there are several options here. I can give you a painkiller, and you can go to the hospital for full numbing and healing. Alternatively, I can give you a topical anesthetic, and deal with it here. The latter will be more uncomfortable, but your hand will be dealt with faster.”

“Here,” I said, gritting my teeth. The hand was feeling worse as the adrenaline from the fight faded, leaving a horrid throbbing sensation.

Dr. Avery didn’t say anything, merely nodding as though he expected my answer. He unlocked a cabinet in the back and retrieved several sealed packages, looking somewhat like the packets that band-aids or wet wipes come in.

He dragged his chair over to mine, as he sat down and began tearing open the paper packets, revealing the wipe amid the plastic lining.

“Now, this part will be a touch painful. First I am going to wipe your wrist with an sterilizing wipe, using isopropyl alcohol. Once that dries, I am going to use medical sandpaper, 360 grit, to lightly abrade the skin. This is decidedly uncomfortable, but removes dead skin and makes it easier for the anesthetic to leach into your bloodstream. After that, we can apply the anesthetic patch.”

I nodded to show my understanding. Its not like I hadn’t had patches after all, they tend to be amazing for maintaining a steady level of chemicals in the bloodstream over a couple weeks.

With that, Dr. Avery began rubbing my wrist with the alcohol wipe, steadying my flinch with his other hand holding my hand in place. Once he was satisfied that the area was sterilized, he opened a new package, retrieving a dull red bit of sandpaper. I gritted my teeth as he began rubbing it on my skin, easily removing the epidermis, pausing ever couple seconds to wipe away the shreds of skin.

“I know it hurts, but think of how much money you are saving. Exfoliation is usually a racket.” Avery said jokingly, as he finished up with the sandpaper, leaving a square patch of skin red and raw, blood starting to ooze out.

I let out a pained laugh at that, a bit of tension leaving my body as I no longer had my teeth gritted. Avery smiled at his joke landing, before tearing open a new packet, this one silvery. He retrieved what appeared to be a square band-aid, metallic on one side, with skin colored fabric on the other, to disguise it. He gently pressed the four corners onto the skin immediately outside the area he had scrubbed, before running his fingers firmly over it, pressing it into my skin as it sealed.

I let out a sigh of relief as the abraded area immediately began to fade in pain, a cool liquid sensation dribbling into the hot inflamed skin.

“We will give it a few minutes for the medicine to spread to your hand. In the meantime, lets have a look at your friend.”

“My name is Anna. I am fine, Ryan is the one who got injured.” Anna quickly replied, seemingly hesitant to have the doctor see her.

“That’s what they all say,” Avery said dryly, clearly skeptical. “Nevertheless, I would like to see if there is anything you may have missed.”Anna walked over to him reluctantly, but not willing to argue after being called out once already. She held out her hand, which Dr. Avery took and held for a moment.

“Bruising in three places. Looks like you took a nasty hit to your chest, but no broken ribs. You are lucky. I am a soft tissue specialist. Blood vessels and strained tendons are quite easy to take care of. Bones, less so.” Avery said, as he rubbed the spots he had mentioned with his hand, a golden glow faintly emanating from the area.

“I have a strength and durability manifestation. That’s probably why. But I am worried about Ryan. He was bleeding from his eyes and nose, despite not having been hit once.”

“I noticed that, but wanted to check you first,” Avery said, moving back to me and grabbing a tissue box. “Facial bleeding, usually from eyes, ears, nose, occasionally mouth is a fairly common symptom of mental strain. It is rarely dangerous however, unless the patient has underlying conditions, and even then, I would have noticed the problem when I first touched him.”

“I’ve never had that happen to me before,” I said, grabbing a tissue that Avery offered, and wiping my eyes. I screwed my eyes shut, and felt several drops escape as I rubbed the tissue against my tear ducts. Opening my eyes again, I was relieved to see the red tinge from the blood lessened. “Can I have a wet wipe? I think some of the blood has dried by now.”

“Of course,” Avery said, getting a wet wipe. Rather than letting me wipe my face, he took the time to scrub my face, and once it was clean, dragged his thumb across my facial features, a soft glow emanating from it, presumably healing whatever caused the bleeding in the first place.

“I confess, I am curious though. It’s not something that happens all the time, but is quite common for any manifestations which interact directly with mental processes. The idea being that a positive feedback loop occurs. Mental energy is used to enhance your manifestation, which then gives feedback in the form of mental input. Usually blood pressure spikes at this point, bursting thin blood vessels, with some other odd happenings, as the mental activity is reflected in Mentum, and then back again in Mundane. I mostly see it in telepaths and empaths though. What manifestation do you happen to have, if you forgive my curiosity?”

I grimaced a bit at that. “False precognition.”

“I see,” Avery said, jotting down a note on his tablet. “Yes, that would make sense. Most manifestations prone to feedback strain are encouraged to ride the line, to understand their limits fairly early on. Precognitives on the other hand are discouraged from exploring those limits, or even use of their abilities.”

“Yeah, that tracks. I am not feeling particularly inclined to explore those limits right now. Hurt like a motherfucker.” I said, thinking back to the headache that it gave me. “Are you allowed to tell me that though? That sounds like restricted information, and I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Dr. Avery shrugged a bit. “Yes, it is restricted from educational material. However it falls under a different restriction category. Medical professionals have a degree of discretion to reveal the information, so long as we fill out the paperwork. Since you are clearly capable of experiencing them, and have already gotten one, you already have most of the relevant information, and could probably draw the right conclusions. No need to keep that secret anymore.”

“Thanks doc. I think the medicine has kicked in by now.” I said. While I had been relaxing, the cool liquid sensation had crept up and down my arm, a slowly moving wave of relief that eventually left my hand and forearm comfortably numb.

“Good. I can heal bone, but I don’t have the same kind of kinetic aspect to my manifestation as I do with soft tissue. I will have to hold it in place, and nudge it into the right spot,” he said.

Dr. Avery proceeded to take my hand, and splay the fingers, laying them flat against the surface of the pad. Without pain it was a strange, somewhat unsettling process, as he pulled my fingers and realigned the bones, as they began to twitch inside my muscles and align themselves, fusing together. After about ten minutes of work, he sat back and eyed my hand skeptically.

“That should be good to go. The bone is still fragile, so please refrain from punching anyone, or putting too much strain on it. Other than that, you should be good to use it, and it should be fine for normal use in about a week or so. The patch is medicated, so it will help the strengthening process, and shouldn’t be removed during the week. It will continue to numb the area for five days, dropping off in potency on the sixth and seventh day. At that point the secondary medicinal layer will kick in, with a skin regenerating solution and anti-scarring mixture. After day seven, feel free to remove the patch and return to any licensed medical drop-box. You should be fully healed by then.”

With that, Dr. Avery stood up and began to throw away the materials and packaging used, while I filled out paperwork about the treatment received, and added my information to the sheet.

With that out of the way, I got up, and followed Anna out to the sidewalk. I looked at her awkwardly, not really wanting to make eye contact.

“There is a coffee place down the street. Are you interested?” Anna asked gently.

I nodded, and fell in step with her as we began making our way down the street. It was decidedly quiet, as most students were in class at this point, and I enjoyed the slight breeze which served to cool us off. After a couple minutes, we stopped at Red Lily Coffee Shop, a small place tucked into the corner of an intersection. It had a faded sign depicting a red lily emblazoned on a coffee mug.

We entered, the bell on the door ringing as we stepped inside. It was a cozy place, with hardwood floors and a rustic feel, with private alcoves where couples were chatting over their coffee. We stood in line for a couple minutes, ordering our drinks, before picking them up and retreating to a corner booth.

I gripped my mug, hands wrapping around the ceramic, as if to leach the heat coming off the mug into my fingers. I looked at Anna, really took her in.

She honestly looked a bit like a mix between a goth kid and a jock. She had black hair, cut short to frame her face, which had a bit of a strong jawline. It didn’t look bad however, rather it served to give her a sort of chiseled look, that made her resemble a Roman statue, albeit decidedly more tan than marble. She was wearing a ragged black leather jacket over her black athletic clothes, with a few patches and pins sewed in and attached. But under the jacket, her muscles were clearly visible, well defined under her form-fitting clothes.

“Don’t say anything yet,” Anna started, cautioning me. “This morning I got my letter from the PRA. Is that related to what happened at the gym?”

I closed my eyes and leaned back, not even trying to hide the pained expression on my face.

“Rejected. Grades didn’t matter. Personality tests didn’t matter. Hell, aptitude tests didn’t matter. It was the precognition. Plain and simple.”

Anna sucked in a breath, air hissing between her teeth as she grimaced in sympathy.

“Seriously? The PRA track is supposed to be a easy ticket in. As long as you make the right scores and don’t break the major laws, you are in without any other considerations. They are understaffed as hell, how do they justify turning you away?” She asked, seemingly getting worked up on my behalf.

“I don’t fucking know,” I replied wearily. “They said something about a precog compromising the mission of the PRA. Which everyone knows is bullshit anyways, because they have plenty of precogs working for them. I almost wonder if it is the track itself. The fact that I tried to get in through those channels.”

“Christ,” Anna said, shaking her head in dismay. She took a sip of coffee, and I took one too. Bitter, but the syrups used cut the coffee flavor to where it was tolerable.

“What are you going to do?” She asked, putting the coffee down.

“I can’t say I really know. In the short term, probably work for a buddy of mine, who owns a gun-shop and firing range. Pay the bills that way. Not really sure what I can feasibly do with four years of specialized PRA training though. Law enforcement maybe? Private security?” I mused to myself, really trying to imagine it. It was frustrating because all I wanted to do was to join the agency, and really make a difference. Now that the door had been closed though, I felt...directionless. I had no idea what I could do, what I even wanted to do.

“Could double down. Try for academia. You know what they say, those who can, do, those who can’t, teach,” Anna said, before flinching as she realized that the last sentence might be a touch insensitive. Which, granted it was rubbing salt in the would a bit, but I had an appreciation for darker humor, and I try not to shy away from the truth. Because she wasn’t wrong, strictly speaking, and it was something I would have to take into consideration moving forward.

“I’ll look into it, but I don’t think I have the temperament to be a teacher. Still though, a job is a job.” I said, grimacing. A job is a job eh? I suppose that means I shouldn’t be discounting the casinos at this point either. I can hate them all I want, but at the end of the day, they are a decent paycheck for a false precog, and one of the few professions which openly uses our abilities.

There was a tense moment of silence, as neither Anna nor I seemed to know what to say.

“Listen,” I started, breaking the awkward pause before it got drawn out too long. “I wanted to say I am sorry for what happened in the gym. I wasn’t really thinking straight, and I should never have put you in a position of having to deal with my problems.”

Anna sighed a bit at that. “Don’t sweat over it. You got me pretty good back there, but nothing really severe, and any bruising got taken care of by Doc Avery. I saw you needed an outlet, and I thought I would provide. Good deed of the day and all that shit.”

“Thank you. Sincerely. I needed to take my mind off things, or else it would go in...unfortunate directions.”

Anna nodded slightly, picking up on the implication. “Truth be told, I wasn’t being completely altruistic. All my life, I have only really lost in fights, or won them. When I was really young, play fighting with my siblings, I would always lose. Because I was younger, weaker, not really that smart.

After my teens, and my powers developed, I never lost. The situation was flipped. I was stronger than all my family, so much stronger. Its like an adult fighting a kindergartner. So I stopped fighting. I wasn’t going to lose anyway, unless I ran into another strength power, and it was just too dangerous for them.”

“I can’t really imagine that,” I admitted ruefully. “The fights I tended to get into were woefully one-sided, mostly because people ganged up on me.”

“It makes for an interesting family dynamic to be sure. If nothing else, it ensures I am always recruited for manual labor. Back to my point though. I rarely fight these days. My spar with you, a few weeks ago, was one of the first times I’ve fought someone on my terms where I could conceivably lose. It was a close thing, and I am pretty sure you were holding back anyways.

It made me think, you know? I had to wonder, what would the fight have looked like if it were for real. And if you pulled a knife? Most people are deadly scared of getting in close range of me. You tagged me multiple times, and with a knife, could probably have left me bleeding out in a back alley, easily. So I’ve been taking defense courses, trying to really work with my manifestation. So I see you wailing on a punching bag like it owed you money, and I saw an opportunity to see how much I improved.”

“I mean, I am sure you did improve,” I replied, lamely. “Your balance was better, and blocks were on point. Besides, your durability significantly reduces the danger of edged weapons at least”

“You dismantled me like a butcher dismantles a hog. You hit me directly four times before I hit you once, before promptly wrecking your hand and proceeding to bleed from every orifice. Most of them anyways. If that’s what it looks like when you are playing seriously, when you are pushing to the limit? I never stood a chance at all.” Anna said, gravely.

“I am actually not much of a brawler,” I said sheepishly. “I can do it, but mostly it leans on my power, which isn’t perfect. I get blind-spots. Bad information. And obviously I know now that I can’t push to my limit without undergoing feedback strain. Honestly, gun-play is much more my speed.”

“Fair enough,” Anna said. She looked like she wanted to argue the point a bit, but decided against it. She downed her coffee and stood up. After a moment of hesitation, she pulled out a bit of paper, and scrawled her number on it. “I am currently in the defense classes, and I get a plus one with my membership. If you are interested, call me up. You make for a hell of a sparring partner.”

I finished my coffee, and stood up as well. “I may take you up on that. Just make sure to have a medic on hand. An uncomfortable pattern seems to be emerging here, but maybe third times the charm.”

I rifled around in my wallet, before pulling out a couple dollars and leaving a tip at the table. At this point, all I wanted was to get my bike, and get home.