Chapter 8: Chapter 8
Too right we’re going to find out,” said Eddie, suddenly taking control. The giddy awe was gone from his voice, replaced by a focused calm that seemed to pull the chaotic energy in the room toward him. He looked from Steve to Andy, his dark eyes sharp. “Okay, establish the facts. The Institute gave you this… organism. And they’re happy for you to pass it on to anyone ‘worthy’? They don’t want anything in return? No dues, no favors?”
Steve nodded, sitting back on the dishevelled couch. “That’s the impression they gave. They called it a gift. A mutual benefit.”
“And they know it gives people abilities,” Eddie continued, pacing slowly on bare feet across the carpet. “But the abilities are random? Or unknown until they… surface?”
“Seems that way,” Andy chimed in. “They knew stuff could happen, but not what. The doc said it was about unlocking potential.”
Eddie stopped pacing, a grin spreading across his face. It was the grin of a puzzle-solver finding the first piece that fits. “Okay. So we have superpowers. Emerging unpredictably. We have a mystery involving a warehouse, a woman, and a guy to beware of. What we don’t have is a system.” He looked at them, his excitement palpable. “In every story, every comic, you need someone in the chair. The one who organizes, classifies, tracks progress. Tests limits. That’s me. That’s always been my thing. I just never had anything real to apply it to.”
Steve and Andy exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between them. Eddie was right. They’d been reacting, riding the shocking waves of pleasure and change. Eddie was thinking.
Eddie walked to his discarded duffel bag, rummaged past clothes, and pulled out an old, battered-looking laptop. The casing was scratched matte black, covered in faded stickers for bands and games they didn’t recognize. It looked like a relic.
“Don’t let the looks fool you,” Eddie said, settling onto the floor with his back against the couch. He flipped it open, revealing a pristine keyboard and a screen that woke to life instantly with a soft, purple-tinged glow. “This is unhackable. I mean, no-way-in-hell, air-gapped, completely shut off from the digital world. It’s a custom job. I built the OS from the ground up. It talks to nothing unless I physically tell it to.”
His fingers flew across the keys with practiced ease. A command prompt blinked, then a sleek, minimalist desktop appeared. He opened a program and began compiling a spreadsheet with quick, efficient strokes.
“Alright,” Eddie muttered, more to himself than to them. “Column A: Host name. Column B: Date of conversion. Column C: Known abilities. Column D: Physical enhancements. Column E: Notes.” He plugged in their names, his own, and what they knew about Lin and Doctor Armitage. Under ‘Abilities’, he typed for Steve: Perception filtering (active). For Andy: Density control (active). For himself, he paused, then typed: Lactation? Nutritional secretion (active). Prophecy? (uncontrolled, context unknown).
“Okay,” he said, looking up. “We have leads. We split them up. Steve, you’re money and property. Look into the warehouse on Terminal Drive. Andy, you’re personal connections. Cassandra Hale—find her. I’ll dig into Mitch Rourke. Use your phones for now.” He smirked, a flash of his old self. “A proper Batman setup would be preferred, but we’ll work with what we’ve got.”
Steve and Andy laughed, the tension easing into something like purpose. They reached for their phones, the three of them sitting in a triangle of focused light in the dim, sex-scented room.
The search was quick. The organism’s influence seemed to extend to their luck, or perhaps their perception, guiding them unerringly through the digital noise.
“Got it,” Steve said, looking up from his screen. “Warehouse Fourteen, Terminal Drive. Twelve-thousand square feet. Sold by a bankrupt packaging firm six months ago. It’s been on the market since. Clean. Available for immediate purchase. I’ve emailed the listing agent to set up a viewing for tomorrow.”
Andy scrolled, frowning. “The only Cassandra Hale I’m finding in the area… she’s a Chief Administrative Officer at County General. The same hospital my mom works at.” He looked up, eyes widening. “Shit. Miriam’s mentioned a ‘Cassie’ before. I think that’s her boss.”
Eddie whistled low, his own search yielding results. “Mitch Rourke. Owner and head trainer at ‘Rourke’s Iron Temple.’ High-end, membership-by-invitation-only gym on the west side. Specializes in… get this… ‘transformative physiques for discerning clients.’ It’s open 24 hours.” He checked the time on his laptop. “It’s 8 p.m. now. That’s the only lead we can physically follow tonight.”
The decision was unanimous. They began to move, pulling on clothes that felt strangely constricting over their sensitized skin. As Eddie stepped into his jeans, wincing slightly as the denim brushed his spent cock, Steve looked at him.
"You can't wear those, they barely fit you," Steve said. He and Andy headed back out to the car and returned with their bags of new clothes. Andy rummaged and found some new, smart looking sweat pants and threw them to Eddie who put them on gratefully.
“You up for testing that new body of yours, Eddie? For real?” Steve asked.
Eddie zipped his fly. “Absolutely. As long as it isn’t running somewhere. I hate running. Always have. It’s boring and it hurts.”
Andy pulled a tight black t-shirt over his head, his muscles rippling. “You might be surprised.”
Eddie groaned. “I’ll trust you. But no more prophetic bullshit if it still sucks ass. In the bad way.”
They all laughed, the sound warm and easy as they finished dressing and headed out into the cool evening air. The quiet street felt like a set from a play they’d outgrown.
Outside on the cracked front path, Steve turned to Eddie. “Don’t push it. Don’t try. Don’t think about your form or your breathing. Just… let your body take you. It knows what to do now.”
Eddie nodded, rolling his eyes with theatrical reluctance. “Yeah, yeah. Zen and the art of not wheezing. Got it.”
Five minutes later, they were jogging. Not the plodding, painful shuffle Eddie remembered from forced high-school cross-country, but a smooth, gliding pace that ate up the sidewalk. Steve set a brisk tempo, cutting away from residential streets into a labyrinth of industrial estates and abandoned lots, where the only light came from distant security lamps and the moon.
Eddie expected the burn in his lungs, the familiar leaden feeling in his legs. It didn’t come. His breath stayed even, deep, and effortless. His legs pumped with a piston-like rhythm that felt powered by coiled springs, not straining muscle. The world streamed past—chain-link fences, darkened warehouses, graffiti-strewn concrete—in a blur of easy motion. He wasn’t fighting his body; he was riding it. The 20-minute drive became a 30-minute run, and when they slowed to a walk a block from the glowing, sleek façade of Rourke’s Iron Temple, Eddie was practically giddy.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, not a hint of strain in his voice. He bounced on the balls of his feet, feeling explosive energy still banked within him. “That was… it was easy. I’m not out of breath. My heart’s not trying to bail out of my chest. How does no one know about this? This would sell for billions!”
Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder, his own body radiating a similar, calm heat. “I think it’s because not everyone can host the symbiont. The doc said it was about compatibility. So mass distribution is pointless. And…” He glanced at the gym’s entrance, his expression turning grim. “There are ways to make non-hosts keep their secrets.”
Eddie wanted to press, but Steve shook his head minutely. “Later. Let’s see what Mr. Rourke is about.”