Chapter 14: THE GRIND
[DEO Headquarters, Various Training Areas — October 2016, Days 3-7]
Day Three.
Alex attacked with the same combination for the fiftieth time. Jab, cross, hook, body shot. The pattern had burned itself into my nervous system through sheer repetition.
On rep fifty-one, something shifted.
I blocked the jab. Deflected the cross. Slipped the hook. And countered with a straight punch that stopped three inches from Alex's nose.
We both froze.
"Better," she said calmly. "Again."
Rep fifty-two. Same combination. I countered faster this time.
Rep fifty-three. Faster still.
By rep sixty, I was anticipating her moves before she finished initiating them. My body had learned the pattern, internalized it, turned conscious recognition into automatic response.
Alex increased her speed to something beyond normal human capability—augmented by DEO combat enhancements, I guessed. I adapted. Not instantly, but faster than should have been possible.
"Your reflexes improve during sessions," she noted afterward, reviewing combat footage. "That's not normal progression. You're physically adapting in real-time."
I thought about the Adaptive Evolution mentioned in the power documents I'd studied. The ability for Daxamite cells to learn from repeated stress, adjusting to become more efficient.
"Daxamite physiology," I offered. "We evolved under harsh conditions."
Alex didn't look entirely convinced, but she didn't push. "Whatever the mechanism, we can exploit it. Tomorrow, new patterns."
Day Five.
Kara joined the training session. "J'onn's orders," she explained with obvious reluctance. "He wants to see how you perform against actual Kryptonian-level opposition."
"Lucky me."
We squared off on the reinforced platform. Kara in her training suit, me in borrowed DEO workout clothes. The sun was high, feeding both of us.
"I'll pull my punches," she said.
"So will I."
She came in fast—not her full speed, but several times faster than Alex. I blocked the first strike. The second. The third caught me in the ribs.
Something cracked.
I staggered back, gasping. The pain was immediate and intense—definitely fractured, maybe broken. Kara's "pulled" punch had still hit with enough force to damage a Daxamite.
"Sorry!" She moved to check on me. "I thought your durability—"
"I'm fine," I managed through gritted teeth. "Keep going."
"You have broken ribs."
"I said keep going."
She hesitated, then resumed. Slower this time, more careful. I blocked, dodged, absorbed hits. Each impact hurt less than the last.
Twenty minutes later, Kara threw the same punch that had cracked my ribs. It connected with my side—same angle, same force.
I barely felt it.
Her eyes widened. "That should have—"
She hit me again. Testing. The impact registered as pressure, nothing more. My body had learned from the damage, reinforced the vulnerable area, adapted.
"You're hardening," Kara said slowly. "Your body is... what is this?"
"Evolution," I said. "Apparently, it works fast."
She stepped back, studying me with new intensity. The suspicion I'd seen in early encounters was gone, replaced by something more complex—curiosity, maybe. Scientific interest mixed with something else.
"Can you do that on purpose? Trigger the adaptation?"
"I don't know. It seems to happen automatically after injury."
"That's..." She trailed off. "That's actually remarkable."
Not the word I'd expected. But I'd take it.
Day Seven.
The flight breakthrough happened at sunset.
I'd been trying for hours. Jumping, hovering briefly, crashing. The same pattern from every previous attempt. My brain understood the mechanics—manipulate local gravity, reduce attraction to the planet—but my body refused to cooperate.
Then Kara said something that changed everything.
"Stop trying to move up. Think about pushing down."
I blinked. "Pushing down?"
"Against the air. Like it's solid. Like you're standing on something invisible."
The TK field. The warmth that wrapped around objects I touched, protecting them from my strength. What if I could extend it beneath my feet? Create a platform of force to stand on?
I closed my eyes. Focused not on rising but on pressing down. Felt the air beneath me, imagined it solidifying, becoming a surface I could grip with my strange ability.
My feet left the ground.
I didn't look. Didn't break concentration. Just pushed down, pressed against invisible resistance, climbed stairs that existed only in my mind.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Then my focus wavered. The platform dissolved. I dropped three feet and stumbled but stayed upright.
"That was flight," Kara said. Her voice carried something new—genuine approval. "Different technique than mine, but flight."
"Felt more like standing on nothing."
"Whatever works." She almost smiled. "Same time tomorrow. We'll work on sustained duration."
That night, alone in my quarters, I floated an inch above my bed. Thirty seconds of sustained effort. The concentration required was exhausting, but the sensation was incredible—weightless, free, disconnected from the planet's pull.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
Winn had started naming my recurring training bruises. The one on my shoulder that appeared every Tuesday was "Frank." The rib bruise from Kara's early punches was "Gerald." It was morbid humor, but it made the pain feel manageable.
I was getting stronger. Learning control. Becoming something resembling a hero.
One crash landing at a time.
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