Chapter 30: "Ghost Armor and Parental Overkill"
In which my parents decide I'm ready for war, I meet a machine-gun drone named Daisy, and somehow, I don't explode anything.
By the time I got home, I was starving.
Not like ooh, I could go for a snack starving.
More like:
Feed me or I will gnaw through this drywall.
Apparently martial arts, rooftop flips, community service, and existential conversations with Asterion worked up more of an appetite than I'd realized.
So when I stepped into the kitchen and caught the scent of Selene Mercer's famous six-cheese lasagna—
yes, six cheeses.
My arteries are screaming just thinking about it—
I nearly ascended to another plane of existence.
"Hey, kiddo!" Dad boomed, his voice loud enough to vibrate the refrigerator magnets. "We made your favorite!"
Correction:
My favorite.
Garrick's favorite.
And possibly the neighbor's dog's favorite based on how loudly it was sniffing from two houses away.
I blinked at the table.
There were mountains of food.
Multiple lasagnas.
A small tower of garlic bread.
A salad bowl large enough to bathe a toddler in.
And then...
a special plate.
At my usual seat.
It was at least twice the size of Dad's.
"You guys expecting a linebacker to show up or something?" I asked as I sat down.
"We're expecting you," Mom said with a wink. "Your appetite's gone through the roof lately, Evan. You're training harder, growing, and apparently trying to consume our entire grocery budget."
Dad gave a proud nod and patted his stomach.
"That's my boy."
I dug into the food like a polite tornado while my parents exchanged looks across the table.
Uh-oh.
That look.
The:
Let's talk to Evan about something, but don't scare him off before dessert
look.
"Evan," Mom began, folding her hands, "we're really proud of how brave you've been lately."
I slowed mid-bite.
"We know you've been stepping up. Helping people. Getting involved when supernatural threats appear..."
"Thanks?"
"But," Dad chimed in, "you've also been running into danger with your fists and some very sneaky martial arts."
"Which, to be clear," Mom added, "is impressive."
Then:
"But also very reckless."
Here it comes.
Dad's grin widened.
"We were thinking maybe it's time you started training with us."
I stared.
"For real!"
He spread his arms.
"Gear! Suits! Blasters! Drills! The supernatural obstacle course!"
My fork stopped.
"You mean the one with the slime tunnel and the flamethrower treadmill?"
"That's the one!"
Dad looked delighted.
"We can start you on Level One. Beginner setting."
A pause.
"Only two laser turrets."
I slowly lowered my fork.
For a second, I hesitated.
Old Evan would've found an excuse.
Homework.
Migraine.
Sudden religious conversion.
Anything.
Then sprinted in the opposite direction.
Possibly through a window.
But now?
I looked at them.
At Mom's excited eyes.
At Dad practically vibrating in his chair.
And weirdly enough...
I felt happy.
These were my parents.
Yeah, they were eccentric.
Yeah, they possessed a slightly unhealthy enthusiasm for things that went boom.
But they loved me.
And they wanted me to become part of their world.
Really part of it.
"You sure I won't slow you guys down?" I joked, pushing my empty plate away.
Dad snorted.
"You survived that DJ ghost mess."
Mom smiled.
"And you've clearly been training seriously."
She reached across the table.
"We'll take it slowly. Minor hunts only. Controlled environments."
Then:
"And we'll make you a suit that actually fits."
"Can it not have neon-orange flames?"
Dad's smile disappeared slightly.
"...No promises."
I laughed.
Maybe supernatural hunting with my parents wouldn't be so bad.
As long as nobody made me wear goggles and a lab coat simultaneously.
After dinner, Dad clapped one giant hand onto my back and spoke the four most terrifying words in the Mercer household:
"Let's hit the lab!"
Normally, that sentence led to chaos.
Minor explosions.
Ectoplasm.
Possibly all three.
But tonight, it came with so much excitement that I couldn't say no.
I followed Mom and Dad downstairs.
And instead of just walking into the laboratory like I'd done hundreds of times before...
I actually looked.
Really looked.
And it hit me all at once.
This place wasn't a basement crammed with sci-fi cosplay props.
It was...
impressive.
Like NASA meets Ghostbusters with several PhDs impressive.
Machines I couldn't name.
Glowing blueprints covering walls.
Containment chambers humming softly.
Equipment that looked like it belonged in a Marvel movie.
One scanner was literally labeled:
DIMENSIONAL ECHO REGULATOR
And here I was standing in the middle of it, trying not to feel like the human equivalent of microwaved marshmallow.
You're proud of them.
The thought hit unexpectedly.
Because...
yeah.
I was.
My parents were geniuses.
Actual pioneers.
They built this.
With their hands.
Their ideas.
Years of work.
They protected people.
They studied things most of the world didn't even know existed.
They were heroes in lab coats.
And I was just...
Evan.
The kid who used to panic over gym class.
And right on cue, my old friend Anxiety crawled out of whatever basement I'd locked him in.
What if I can't live up to this?
What if I mess everything up?
What if I'm just pretending to be strong?
Then Asterion's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Enough."
I blinked.
His spiritual image stood beside me, arms folded.
"We've already discussed this."
I sighed internally.
"I know."
"Then stop comparing yourself to them."
He looked toward Garrick and Selene.
"Their accomplishments belong to them."
Then his eyes returned to me.
"Yours will belong to you."
I swallowed.
Asterion's expression softened just slightly.
"You're improving. Keep doing that."
Simple.
No dramatic speech.
No destiny talk.
Just...
keep going.
Before I could spiral any further, Mom grabbed one arm while Dad grabbed the other and dragged me toward what they called the:
Mercer GhostPhys Readout Machine.
In normal-person language:
Sci-fi gym checkup on steroids.
They attached sensors to my arms.
Legs.
Chest.
Forehead.
By the end, I had more stickers on me than a kindergartener's water bottle.
Mom tapped her tablet.
"Alright, Evan. We need a physical baseline so we can tailor your training."
Dad nodded.
"Nothing major. Strength, endurance, flexibility, reflexes."
Then his eyes lit up.
"OH! And the ghost treadmill!"
I stepped toward the equipment, fully expecting to embarrass myself.
I didn't.
First came the bench press.
I warmed up.
Then kept adding weight.
Forty kilos.
Sixty.
Eighty.
Finally—
one hundred kilograms.
I pushed it up.
Not easily.
Definitely not like paper.
But clean.
Controlled.
For several repetitions.
Dad stared.
Mom checked her tablet.
I stared too.
"Huh."
Asterion sounded almost bored.
"Your training is working."
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
Next came a fifty-kilogram metal block.
I lifted it.
Carried it.
Managed a controlled toss onto the padded testing platform.
Then the treadmill.
Speed climbing.
Ten kilometers per hour.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
That one hurt.
But I stayed on.
My lungs burned.
Heart hammered.
Still...
I lasted far longer than Old Evan would've survived before requiring emergency pizza.
Then flexibility.
Deep lunges.
Forward folds.
And finally—
full split.
No screaming.
No torn pants.
Major victory.
When the tests ended, Mom and Dad stared at the results.
Mom looked genuinely stunned.
"You're in extremely good condition."
Dad rubbed his chin.
"Strength, stamina, coordination..."
He looked at me.
"Kiddo, you've been training hard."
Mom narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Very hard."
Uh-oh.
"Your mentor did this?"
"Mostly."
Technically true.
Mom studied me for another moment.
Then smiled.
"Well..."
She glanced back at the data.
"Whatever you're doing, it's working."
Dad threw one arm around my shoulders.
"You might actually survive Mercer training!"
"Such confidence."
"That's my boy!"
And this time...
looking at their proud faces didn't make me feel like a fraud.
I felt seen.
Accepted.
Maybe even...
ready.
Asterion's voice came quietly from beside me.
"Told you."
I smiled.
"Don't start."
"Ask about the large cannon."
I looked across the lab.
There was, in fact, a very large cannon.
Oh no.
He was learning my weaknesses.
Okay, so there's something terrifyingly exciting about your parents telling you they want to arm you to the teeth.
One minute you're just trying to digest six-cheese lasagna.
The next—
"Evan, we think you're ready to start using equipment."
That was Mom's version of:
Here, sweetie. Have a tank.
They led me deeper into the laboratory.
Past containment pods.
Past floating ectoplasmic specimens.
Past a vending machine that apparently dispensed ghost-repellent gum.
Then we stopped in front of a sealed weapons vault.
Dad entered a code that I was ninety-percent certain was his high score from some eighties arcade game.
The doors hissed open.
"Welcome," he announced dramatically, "to the Mercer Arsenal!"
I stared.
Tony Stark would've cried.
Batman would've taken notes.
Inside was every weapon a comic-book nerd crossed with a supernatural survivalist could dream of.
Let me break it down.
The Ghost Cannon
Imagine a bazooka had a child with a space laser.
Then feed that child steroids.
The thing was enormous.
It hummed with menace.
One shot looked capable of putting a new window through a house.
Possibly several houses.
"Don't touch that yet," Mom said.
My hand immediately withdrew.
The Ghost Net
Looked almost normal.
Until you noticed the glowing ectoplasmic fibers and built-in charge system designed to restrain non-corporeal entities.
Dad proudly informed me it could also restrain a rhinoceros.
I did not ask how he knew.
Ghost Grenades
Shaped like limes.
Bright green.
Designed to produce concentrated bursts of anti-spiritual energy.
Also absolutely the sort of thing Dad would accidentally leave beside actual fruit.
The Ghost Rifle
Sleek.
Silver.
Green glow along the barrel.
Multiple output settings.
Stun.
Knockback.
Containment disruption.
And one setting Mom refused to explain while Dad whispered:
"That's the fun one."
Mom hit him.
Ghost Axes and Swords
Because apparently shooting spirits wasn't dramatic enough.
Drones
Oh yes.
They had drones.
Small aircraft crossed with angry robotic wasps.
Tracking systems.
Spectral scanners.
Weapons mounts.
Dad pointed proudly toward one.
"This is Daisy!"
The machine rotated toward me.
One little mechanical arm lifted.
It waved.
I stared.
Then waved back.
I don't know why.
It felt rude not to.
And then...
came the armor.
It stood on a platform like it was waiting to audition for:
Power Rangers: Paranormal Warfare Edition.
White plating.
Sharp green accents.
Smooth surfaces.
Full body protection.
Ports for equipment.
Environmental seals.
Integrated sensors.
A helmet with a built-in HUD and voice modulation system.
Basically:
The Please Don't Die Suit™.
"It's not flight-capable," Mom explained, adjusting her goggles, "but it has adaptive shielding and can synchronize with several of our weapons."
Dad nodded.
"And it looks awesome."
Mom sighed.
"That was not a primary engineering goal."
"It was one of mine."
They stepped aside.
There it was.
The Prototype Mercer Suit.
For me.
"Try it on, kiddo."
I'll be honest.
I was terrified.
Not ghost-terror.
Responsibility-terror.
A few weeks ago, my most advanced combat equipment consisted of sarcasm and a baseball bat.
Now my parents were putting me in tactical armor.
I stepped forward.
Asterion stood at the edge of my vision.
Silent.
Then gave one small nod.
That was enough.
The suit locked around me piece by piece.
Chestplate.
Leg armor.
Forearm guards.
Boots.
Helmet last.
Click.
The HUD illuminated.
Target markers appeared.
Status information.
Heart rate.
Armor integrity.
Environmental readings.
For a moment, all I could hear was my own breathing.
Then Mom placed the Ghost Rifle into my hands.
Light.
Balanced.
Power humming through it.
She smiled.
"Welcome to the team."
You ever walk into a room and realize your parents have secretly been Batman-level rich in square footage this entire time?
Yeah.
That was me.
Ghost Rifle in hand.
Prototype armor on.
Standing at the top of a ramp leading down into what could only be described as:
Area 51: Mercer Edition.
The training facility was huge.
Not:
Wow, that's a big basement.
No.
I'm talking:
Olympic stadium meets underground military bunker.
Platforms.
Turrets.
Rotating obstacles.
Training drones.
Movable walls.
Probably a snack bar hidden somewhere.
I wouldn't have been surprised if Dad had installed a bowling alley behind one of the titanium doors.
"We purchased most of the underground infrastructure beneath the block years ago," Mom said casually.
I stared.
Dad grinned.
"We got a deal!"
"Why?"
"Nobody wanted to build over the dimensional instability."
...
I chose not to ask further questions.
Training time.
I had the rifle.
Armor.
Two very proud parents watching from the control booth.
And Asterion acting as my private coach.
"Keep your shoulders relaxed."
I adjusted.
"Don't stare at the weapon. Look where you're shooting."
"Got it."
"And don't pull the trigger merely because something surprises you."
"That feels targeted."
"It is."
Phase One:
Stationary targets.
Glowing ectoplasmic dummies rose from the floor.
I aimed.
Fired.
PEW.
First target down.
Second.
Third.
My aim wasn't perfect.
But weeks of throwing drills, observation training, fighting mental projections, and Asterion repeatedly correcting my hand-eye coordination had apparently done something.
PEW. PEW.
Targets dropped.
A buzzer rang.
Green lights appeared.
One Mercer training bot actually gave me a thumbs-up.
"Nice shooting, kiddo!" Dad's voice boomed over the speakers.
Then came the words every sane person fears:
"Let's kick it up a notch!"
Phase Two.
Moving targets.
Walls shifted.
Drones activated.
Targets moved across rails.
Others emerged from the floor.
One had a padded bat and actually charged me.
Bold little machine.
I stepped aside.
Movement Skill.
Roll.
Behind cover.
Turn.
Fire.
A drone dropped.
Another target moved across my right side.
Shot.
Missed.
"Ah."
"Correct and continue," Asterion said.
Right.
No freezing over mistakes.
I adjusted.
Next shot landed.
One target disappeared using an optical camouflage system.
Cute.
I watched for the distortion.
Fired through the shimmer.
Hit.
Asterion's voice came again.
"Better."
Then a mechanical dummy swung at my head.
I ducked.
"Could've warned me!"
"You saw it."
"I saw it trying to remove my head!"
"Which is why you moved."
Ancient mentor logic.
By the end of the trial, sweat was running down my back.
Important note:
Mercer armor desperately needs better air-conditioning.
But I was standing.
All targets down.
No burns.
No accidental discharges.
One minor bruise from getting overly enthusiastic and clipping a barrier with my knee.
Honestly?
Excellent day.
Mom checked her tablet.
A score flashed across the wall:
MERCER COMBAT ASSESSMENT: B+
I stared.
Mom smiled.
"You're already performing around trained cadet level."
Dad punched both fists into the air.
"One step closer to full ghost hunter!"
I removed the helmet.
"Can I request a cooler title?"
Dad frowned.
"What could possibly be cooler than ghost hunter?"
I considered this.
"Fair."
As I powered down the rifle and headed toward the lift, I caught my reflection in one of the mirrored observation panels.
Armor.
Weapon.
Sweat-soaked hair.
Tired eyes.
But standing straight.
For a second...
I didn't see the kid who used to hide whenever something became difficult.
I saw someone who could stand up.
Take a hit.
Learn.
Come back stronger.
Someone who was actually becoming...
a hero.
Asterion's voice came softly from inside my mind.
"Better."
I smiled.
"That's all I get?"
A pause.
Then:
"Much better."
Yeah.
I'd take it.