Chapter 7: The Gauntlet
Monday, May 7, 2018 - LAPD Training Facility
Tim didn't announce the scenario. He just nodded at the training instructor and stepped into the mat area with Officer Davis, who'd volunteered as the practice suspect.
"Disarm technique," Tim said. "Watch close. You get one look."
Davis pulled a rubber knife. The kind that felt real enough to trigger adrenaline. Tim moved—three steps, fluid and precise. Wrist control. Body rotation. The knife clattered to the mat.
Three seconds. Maybe less.
My copy ability activated automatically now. Hands twitching, muscles cataloging the movements. I'd been hitting the gym every night for two weeks. The muscle memory was there, waiting.
"Mercer. Your turn."
Lucy and Jackson watched from the edge of the mat. They'd already completed their turn—standard Academy-level disarms. Nothing special.
Davis picked up the knife. Tim stepped back, arms crossed.
Don't fuck this up.
"Start."
Davis lunged. My body moved before conscious thought—grab the wrist, pivot like Tim had, use momentum. The knife dropped. Davis stumbled back.
Silence.
Tim's expression didn't change. But his eyes narrowed slightly. "Again."
Davis reset. Attacked from a different angle. My hands found the same sequence, adapted automatically. Disarm successful.
"You're a fast learner, boot." Tim walked a slow circle around me. "Show me the third variation. The one I didn't demonstrate."
He's testing whether I actually understand or just copied.
I thought about the principles. Wrist control. Momentum. If Davis came from the left instead of the right—
I demonstrated. Slower this time, thinking through each step.
Tim nodded once. "Good. Hit the bags for conditioning. Chen, West, you're up for sparring."
Tim Bradford's POV
The kid had copied my technique perfectly. Not just the movements—the principle behind them. Three weeks ago he'd fallen on his ass trying the same move. Now he executed it like he'd trained for months.
The coffee thing. The danger instincts. The impossible memory. And now this.
"He's creepy good at learning," Lucy said, toweling off after sparring with Jackson.
"He's dedicated." I watched Mercer work the heavy bag. Form was solid. Power behind the hits had improved. "Puts in the work."
"That's not dedication. That's supernatural." Lucy grinned. "Think he's an alien?"
"Chen."
"I'm just saying, Bradford. Nobody picks up techniques that fast. Not even you."
I didn't respond. But she wasn't wrong.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018 - South LA, Interview Room
Lopez sat across from the witness—middle-aged woman, nervous hands, story that didn't quite fit the timeline. I stood behind Lopez, taking notes.
"And you saw the suspect at what time?" Lopez asked.
"Around eight. Maybe eight-thirty." The woman's fingers twisted in her lap.
My chest tightened. Lie detection. She was shading the truth.
"Are you certain about that time?"
"Yes. Definitely eight."
Sharper pressure. Full lie this time.
Focus. Remember the similar case from last month. Recall filed it under home invasion, witness tampering.
My recall activated, pulling details. Timeline inconsistencies. The previous case had the same pattern—witness protecting someone.
Meanwhile, my danger sense hummed. Not about the woman. About the location. Something wrong with the building itself. Old construction, maybe? Structural issues?
Three powers running simultaneously. My head started to pound.
"Mrs. Chen," Lopez said, using the coincidentally shared last name, "is there someone you're protecting?"
The woman broke. Started crying. Her son had been involved. She'd been covering for him.
Standard outcome. Good police work.
I documented everything while my brain felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.
Angela Lopez's POV
Mercer's pen stopped moving mid-sentence. I glanced back. His face had gone pale, jaw tight.
"You okay, boot?"
"Fine." But his hand shook when he resumed writing.
The interview wrapped. We walked back to the shop. Mercer moved like each step took effort.
"What's wrong?"
"Headache. Nothing serious."
"You've been off since we started the interview. Talk to me."
He stopped by the shop, leaned against the hood. "I was trying to remember details from that home invasion case last month. For comparison. Got distracted."
Plausible. But not the whole truth. I'd worked with enough people to know when someone was holding back.
"Take five. Get water. We've got two more calls before end of shift."
He nodded. But the tension in his shoulders didn't ease.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018 - Mid-Wilshire Station, Parking Lot
Ethan sat in his Honda for twenty minutes after shift ended. Keys in the ignition, engine off, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
The mental exhaustion was worse than any physical workout. Three days of pushing his powers—copying techniques, detecting lies, recalling case files, sensing danger. All while maintaining the appearance of a normal rookie.
His hands shook. Head pounded. The world felt too bright, too loud.
A knock on the window made him jump.
Nolan's concerned face peered through the glass. Ethan rolled down the window.
"You okay?" Nolan asked.
"Just tired."
"You look worse than tired. You look like you're about to pass out."
"Long week."
Nolan opened the passenger door, climbed in uninvited. "Talk to me, neighbor. What's going on?"
I have powers I can't explain. They're growing stronger but the cost is mounting. I'm trying to save people who don't know they're going to die. And I'm terrified I'm not strong enough.
"I think I'm overtraining. Gym every night, shifts every day. Catching up with me."
"Then take a break. Rest day. Sleep in." Nolan's earnestness was almost painful. "This job is a marathon, not a sprint. You won't help anyone if you burn out in month one."
"Yeah. You're right."
"Mexican food? My treat. Nothing helps exhaustion like tacos."
Despite everything, Ethan smiled. "Sure. Tacos."
Thursday Morning, May 10, 2018 - Ethan's Bedroom
He'd spent two hours before bed researching meditation techniques. Breathing exercises. Mindfulness practices. Anything that might help him manage the mental load of running multiple powers simultaneously.
The meditation app guided him through progressive relaxation. Focus on breath. Release tension. Clear the mind.
It helped. Marginally. The headache faded to manageable levels.
Can't rely on powers alone. Need discipline. Control. Strategy.
His recall pulled up memories of every power activation from the past three weeks. Patterns emerged. Lie detection fired automatically—no control. Copy required conscious activation. Danger sense was involuntary but could be acknowledged or ignored. Recall was constant, passive, unavoidable.
Three involuntary powers. One semi-voluntary. No wonder I'm exhausted.
The meditation app's voice droned on. He followed the instructions, feeling muscles unknot one by one.
This is sustainable if I'm smart. Space out high-intensity situations. Don't push all three powers at once unless necessary. Rest. Recover. Adapt.
He'd survived three weeks. Saved Jackson. Established himself as competent if mysterious. Built real friendships.
The powers would keep developing. The dangers would keep coming. But he'd figure out how to manage both.
One breath at a time.
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