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Half an hour slipped by in silence as Noah sifted through idea after idea, plans made and discarded in rapid succession. At last, his hands stilled, resting on the desk.
After several minutes of deep contemplation, he had finally pieced together a training regimen that could shape both his telekinesis and hypermotility.
Before committing to the plan, he had already run through several key principles of telekinesis, drawing not only on logic but also on the extensive meta-knowledge from his other life, visions of what he had seen telekinesis accomplish in fiction and theory.
The branching possibilities laid out before him only underscored how much potential the ability truly held, especially in his hands.
At its essence, telekinesis was the act of interacting with the physical world, matter itself, through the power of the mind. More precisely, it was mental interpretation imposed onto reality, and that interpretation could manifest in many different forms depending on how it was shaped.
He had modeled his training around that principle of interpretation, determined to squeeze every drop of potential from the ability.
The first area he would focus on was lifting capacity, a fundamental limit that had to be pushed higher no matter what. From there, he would move into push and pull force, aiming to drive linear motion at high intensity.
Next came explosive force. While closely tied to lifting strength, its application was distinct. Mastery here meant learning to apply immense force in the shortest possible window, striking with speed as well as power.
Beyond raw output, there was range extension. Increasing the distance at which he could apply telekinesis was essential; the broader the area he could affect, the more versatile and dangerous he would become. All of these fell under the umbrella of raw force and power.
But power without finesse was incomplete. Under fine control, his training would target precision, dexterity, and subtle manipulation, learning to command his ability at both conscious and subconscious levels.
Multitasking was equally crucial, the ability to maintain multiple streams of telekinetic control without faltering.
Then there was endurance and stamina. It was not enough to unleash bursts of strength; he needed to sustain telekinetic effort for extended periods, to attack and defend without burning out too quickly, energy efficiency, recovery rate, and so much more.
His telekinetic regimen would also include speed and reaction training, drills designed to sharpen the rate at which he could respond telekinetically and increase the velocity of his projected motions. The faster he could act, the less gap there would be between thought and execution.
Then came the complex training, the true crucible where every aspect of his practice would be tested. This was the stage where he would attempt derivative applications of telekinesis, pushing the boundaries of what the ability could become.
He envisioned creating telekinetic barriers for defense, developing a form of telekinetic sense to perceive his environment through subtle force feedback, and even experimenting with concepts that bordered on the far-fetched: telekinetic constructs, or micro and molecular telekinesis, where manipulation reached the level of individual particles.
At that scale, he theorized, he might be able to achieve pyrokinetic or cryokinetic effects by vibrating molecules until they generated heat, or slowing them down until they froze.
The potential was vast, he only needed to ensure he drove it to its peak. Hypermotility, in contrast, remained straightforward and direct; planning for it was far less complex.
After confirming that the construction bots were already at work, Noah rose from his station and crossed the warehouse floor, heading toward its true centerpiece, the very reason this branch existed at all.
At the heart of the space stood a massive Sync Engine, its low, steady hum filling the air as it ran endless simulations without pause. Unlike the smaller unit he kept at home, this one could operate continuously, twenty-four hours a day, and on a far larger scale.
It was this very machine that had helped him push his progress to the seventy percent threshold. Since it could run indefinitely, Noah usually only checked results and updates once a week.
But now, even though the week wasn't over, he figured he might as well review its findings while he was here.
He stepped up to the terminal, placing his palm against the screen to unlock access. A set of optic scanners flared briefly to life at the side, sweeping across his features, while the pressure plate beneath his feet confirmed his identity one last time. Only then did the system grant him entry.
The screen blared to life, streams of data cascading across the display before compiling into a single report. After several seconds, the interface stabilized, and a counter in the top-right corner caught his eye.
2 months, 12 days… until completion.
"Sigh… the timer is always changing," Noah muttered, exasperation slipping into his tone. Just last week the estimate had read three months, and now it had been reduced. But that was to be expected. Progress was never linear, never guaranteed.
By his own calculations, the serum could be finished anywhere between one to three months. The machine's shifting predictions only confirmed what he already knew.
He didn't linger on the readout for long. Brooding over shifting numbers wouldn't bring the serum any closer to completion. Instead, he decided to make use of the entire day for telekinetic training.
The warehouse wasn't ideal, but until the construction site was finished, it would have to serve as his proving ground.
Five hours later, the warehouse was silent except for the ragged sound of Noah's breathing. The air carried the faint tang of metal and dust, stirred by the repeated shocks of telekinetic force that had rippled through the space.
Crates lay scattered in lopsided stacks, some dented from sudden impacts, others carefully arranged in unnaturally precise formations that bore the stamp of his finer control drills.
The training had gone just as he'd planned, structured, brutal, and exhausting.
He had started with the fundamentals, pushing, pulling, and lifting with deliberate increments, forcing his telekinesis to strain against weights until his mental focus felt raw.
Then came the burst drills, explosive projections that slammed metal crates across the floor with enough force to rattle the girders overhead. For range, he pushed himself further than before, extending his reach until objects at the far end of the warehouse trembled under his mental grip.
But the hardest, by far, had been the finesse exercises. Balancing multiple bolts in the air while simultaneously manipulating heavier objects had left his mind quivering with fatigue.
Each slip had set him back, each falter sharpening his frustration, but still he forced himself through another round. By the fourth hour, sweat was dripping freely down his face and soaking through his shirt, and still he pressed on.
Now, as he stood in the aftermath, his entire frame ached, his mind burned with a dull, lingering throb. Sweat trickled down his jawline, stinging the corners of his eyes.
He was close to his limit. If he pushed any harder, he'd risk diminishing returns or worse, brain damage.
With a long breath, Noah staggered toward the small shower unit tucked away at the edge of the warehouse. Hot water poured over him, washing away the grime and sweat. It helped relax his muscles, and he could almost feel his fatigue being washed away.
By the time he toweled off and slipped back into clean clothes, the edge of exhaustion had dulled to something bearable, if heavy.
He picked up his backpack and powered down the auxiliary systems, casting one last look at the disarray left behind, bolts, toppled crates, faint dent marks where his control had slipped during high-speed drills. It was messy, but it was progress.
"That's enough for today," Noah muttered to himself. The sun had dipped lower in the sky by the time he stepped outside, the cool evening breeze brushing against his skin. He drew in a breath, steadying himself.
After making sure the security protocols were active, he hopped onto his bicycle and started pedaling back home. The city, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, was as lively as ever.
Cars crowded the streets, their horns punctuating the steady hum of traffic, while streams of weary workers made their way along the sidewalks, some laughing with friends, others silent and lost in thought after a long, stressful day.
Just then, Noah's phone buzzed against his pocket. He slowed to a crawl, pulled it out, and glanced at the screen. A message from Debbie. "Can you get eggs, cheese, milk, and bread on your way home?"
"Sure," he replied, already changing routes.
The grocery store was only a few blocks off his normal route. Noah coasted his bike to the side, chained it against a post, and stepped inside. The bell above the door gave a small chime as he entered, the smell of baked goods and faint detergent greeting him.
His head still ached from training, but at least the hot shower earlier kept him from looking completely wrecked. He moved through the aisles with quiet efficiency, basket in hand. Eggs, cheese, milk, bread. He double-checked Debbie's text, then added an extra carton of juice on a whim.
By the time he made it to the checkout, the line was short. Just one customer ahead of him. When it was his turn, he set the items on the conveyor.
The cashier, a girl probably a year or two older than him, looked up as Noah set his basket down. A faint smile tugged at her lips, the kind that came with recognition.
"You again," she said, pulling the milk toward the scanner. "I've seen you in here a couple times this week."
"Yeah, just running errands," Noah replied, his eyes fixed on the small screen as the total tallied up.
"That'll be thirteen seventy-five," she said after a moment.
Noah handed over cash. She counted out the change and dropped it into his hand along with the receipt. "Here you go."
"Thanks," Noah said, tucking it away as he picked up the bag.
"Mm-hm. See you around," she said, her voice soft but easy, like she wasn't trying too hard.
He gave her a short nod. "Yeah."
Back on his bike, he pedaled through the streets in silence, his thoughts fixed on the evening ahead. The plan was simple: get home, eat dinner, and collapse into bed. With any luck, he'd wake up tomorrow with a new ability worth having.
As he drifted into a quieter neighborhood, the stillness was broken by the sound of scuffling feet and muffled groans. Noah slowed, turning his head toward the source. At the corner of an alley, half-hidden by the shadows, three men had a fourth pinned against a wall.
The man's body jerked with each strike, pain radiating through him as he struggled to stay on his feet. His mind churned with bitter regret.
He had tried to play the hero earlier that evening, stepping in when these same men cornered a teenager for his sneakers. He'd shouted, distracted them just long enough for the boy to run.
Now, they were making an example of him.
"You should've walked away," one of them snarled, driving a knee into his stomach. "This ain't none of your business."
The man coughed, his mouth filling with blood, but there was no regret in his eyes, only grim acceptance. Better him than that boy. At least the kid had gotten away.