The sparring mat is one of those thick foam affairs, blue and sticky with what I hope is just cleaning solution, sectioned off by white tape from the rest of the gym. Captain Plasma stretches lazily on the other side, not even bothering to change out of his khakis and button-down. The disrespect of it almost makes me laugh. Or maybe cry. Hard to tell these days.

  "Alright," Multiplex says from the sidelines, arms folded across his chest. "Standard rules. You try to hit Captain Plasma. He doesn't hit back. We stop when I say stop."

  "Or when I'm unconscious," I mutter, rolling my shoulders. I'm still wearing my workout clothes - a gray t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and black compression shorts that have seen better days. At least I get to keep my shoes on. Small mercies.

  "You won't be unconscious," Rodney assures me. "I'm not even going to touch you."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," I say under my breath.

  Nurse Sylvia sits on a folding chair, first aid kit open beside her like she's expecting a massacre. Can't say I blame her.

  "Begin when ready," Multiplex says.

  I circle Captain Plasma cautiously, looking for an opening that obviously doesn't exist.

  Captain Plasma, meanwhile, is just watching me, hands loosely at his sides, a slight smile on his face. The kind of smile you'd give a toddler trying to tie their shoes. Half encouraging, half amused.

  I decide to start simple. Jab at his chest.

  My fist gets within two inches of his sternum before it just... stops. Like hitting an invisible wall, except there's no impact, just a complete cessation of motion. I pull back, startled, and try again. Same result.

  "What the hell?"

  "Electromagnetic repulsion," Rodney explains, not even blinking at the near-miss to his face. "I can generate a field that extends about two inches at most from the surface of my skin. Anything conductive - metal, salt water, your body - gets pushed away."

  I circle a bit more, then try a hook to his ribs. Same result. It's like there's a Captain Plasma-shaped bubble around him that I just can't penetrate.

  "So what happens if I throw something non-conductive at you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "I catch it," he says simply. "But most things have at least some conductivity. Those that don't, well, that's what reflexes are for."

  I try a leg sweep. My shin stops two inches from his ankle.

  "Does it ever turn off?" I ask, backing up to reassess.

  "When I want it to," he says. "It takes concentration to maintain, especially at variable strengths. I can dial it up or down depending on the situation."

  I feint with my left and throw a haymaker with my right, putting everything I've got into it. My knuckles stop exactly where they did before, but this time there's a sharp zap as electricity arcs between my fist and his cheek. I yelp and pull back, shaking my hand.

  "Sorry about that," he says, not looking sorry at all. "Sometimes there's discharge with high-speed impacts."

  "Thanks for the warning," I grumble, flexing my tingling fingers.

  This is reminding me more and more of my early training sessions with Rampart. Spending hours and hours totally dedicated to the fine art of getting my ass kicked, because he can just no-sell anything coming at him. Like trying to spar with a brick wall. And about as fair as sparring with a brick wall, too.

  I had finally landed a hit on Rampart by realizing that his perfect defense, his kinetic nullification, only worked on threats he saw coming. If he was aware of it, it wasn't getting through. Even a bullet - if he sees it coming, it will just bounce. Captain Plasma is just like that but on steroids. That, with the 'thorns damage', as Jordan would say. That, but he can also fly.

  I try a jumping front kick. Stop. A spinning back fist. Stop. A double jab, cross combo. Stop, stop, stop. And zap on the cross because apparently every fourth attack gets the special electric bonus.

  "Having fun?" Rodney asks, still in the exact same position he started in.

  "Oh, yeah," I pant, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Living the dream."

  "You know," he says conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather instead of my repeated failures to hit him, "my field wasn't always this consistent. When I first got my powers, I could barely maintain it for thirty seconds at a time."

  "You're kidding," I say, throwing another jab that predictably stops short. "Mister Perfect had to practice?"

  "Of course," he chuckles. "Back in LA, I used to stand on freeway off-ramps during rush hour. Drivers in California are... well, let's just say I had plenty of opportunities to practice stopping vehicles mid-collision."

  "Sounds dangerous," I mutter, trying a leg kick that also fails. "For the cars, I mean."

  "It was," he admits. "Blew out a lot of electrical systems in those early days. Had to learn precise control to avoid frying every circuit within twenty feet." He gestures to my hands. "That's why the zaps you're feeling are so mild. I'm actually dampening the discharge significantly."

  "This is mild?" I ask, shaking out my stinging fingers.

  "Trust me," he says, and for a moment, his expression grows serious. "At full capacity, I can generate enough electromagnetic force to stop a bullet train. The human nervous system doesn't fare well."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  I step back, breathing hard, and try to think. Clearly, brute force isn't going to work. His electromagnetic field is too consistent, too perfect. I need to find another angle.

  "Can I ask a scientific question?" I say, stalling for time.

  "Of course."

  "How does the field affect non-magnetic metals? Like, say, aluminum?"

  "Still works," he says. "It's not about ferromagnetism - common misconception. It's about induced electrical currents. Any conductive material will experience a repulsive force when subjected to a rapidly changing magnetic field. That's why even your body gets repelled."

  "Huh," I say, genuinely interested despite myself. "So theoretically, if I covered myself in rubber or something totally non-conductive..."

  "You'd still have the problem of your body's natural conductivity underneath," he points out. "Though I suppose if you had a thick enough layer of insulation..." He shrugs. "It's an interesting thought experiment."

  While he's talking, I try a surprise uppercut. Same result, complete with another zap that makes my fingers tingle.

  "Ow!" I shake out my hand. "You know, a warning about the zapping would have been nice."

  "Sorry," he says, looking at least somewhat apologetic now. "It's just... most people don't try to hit me four times in a row. They usually give up after the second or third attempt. I don't really control the zaps. That's just static discharge, like when you rub a shag carpet and touch something metal."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not most people," I grumble.

  "So I've been told."

  I glance over at Multiplex, trying to read his expression. Nothing. The man could win a poker championship with that face. He's watching intently, arms crossed, maybe the slightest narrowing of his eyes. Is he expecting something specific? Is there a right answer to this ridiculous test?

  Nurse Sylvia is easier to read. She's wincing every time I get zapped, her fingers twitching toward the first aid kit. When she catches me looking, she gives a small shrug as if to say, I told them this was a bad idea.

  I back up again, reassessing. This is clearly impossible. His field is impenetrable, and even if I could somehow get past it, what then? The man can lift a bus. A punch from me would be like a fly landing on him.

  But there has to be a solution. Multiplex wouldn't have set this up without some kind of point, some kind of lesson. It's like those logic puzzles Pop-Pop Moe used to give me - the ones where the answer seems impossible until you realize you've been thinking about the problem all wrong.

  I study Captain Plasma again, looking for any pattern, any clue. The way his field activates, the timing of the zaps, the distance of the repulsion... there has to be something I'm missing.

  Multiplex didn't set this up just to humiliate me. There has to be a point to all this.

  I think back to my training with Belle. She always said that when you're outmatched, you have to change the parameters of the fight. Find a different advantage. Use the environment, use psychology, use misdirection.

  "So," I say, circling again, "how's the dating scene for superheroes these days? Ever try those superhero-specific dating apps?"

  Rodney blinks, clearly thrown by the change in topic. "I... what?"

  "Just curious," I say innocently, watching his face. I clench my hands until sharp, pointed teeth come through my knuckles. At this point, it's just sort of a thing that I can make happen. It barely hurts, more like a gentle itch. "Someone like you must have people lining up, right? Los Angeles's golden boy and all that."

  He actually looks uncomfortable. "I don't really have time for dating. The responsibilities of - "

  I lunge forward, hoping his momentary distraction might have weakened his field.

  Nope. Still stops dead two inches from his face. And another zap for my troubles.

  "Nice try," he says, shocked enough into a big, genuine chuckle, somewhere from deep in his belly. It almost feels condescending, but not quite. "Distraction tactics can work, but my field is... well, it's more instinctive than conscious at this point. Like breathing."

  "They can work?" I ask, trying to dig for clarification. What sort of distraction gets America's Man of Iron off his balance? "Can you give me an example?"

  "Going fishing?" He asks, laughing again. "Sure, I'll bite. There are specific situations where I have to deliberately power down - hospitals, for one. Can't exactly help someone having a heart attack if my field keeps shorting out their pacemaker."

  "So you can just... turn it off? Like flipping a switch?"

  He nods. "For emergencies, sensitive electronics, delicate extractions. Had to learn that control early. Rescue operations would be pretty counterproductive if I kept frying the equipment I was trying to save." He pauses. "It takes concentration, though. Have to consciously override the instinct to keep it running."

  I file that information away. Emergencies. Sensitive equipment. Overriding instincts. There's something there, but I'm not sure what yet.

  I shake out my hand, frustration building. "So what's the point of this? Just to show me how completely outclassed I am? Mission accomplished."

  "The point," Multiplex cuts in from the sideline, "is for you to understand what it's like to face an opponent who operates at a completely different level. To adapt your thinking."

  "Hard to adapt when nothing works," I mutter.

  "Not true," Rodney says. "You've already tried more approaches in five minutes than most people try in an hour. You're learning, even if it doesn't feel like it."

  I wipe more sweat from my forehead, trying to get my breathing under control. My knuckles are red from the repeated electrical shocks, and my belly is starting to feel weird, right where the bullet went through. A piercing headache from frustration is starting to twinge through behind my eyes.

  Hold on. I'm having a thought.

  I take a deep breath, looking at Captain Plasma's perfect posture, his superhuman confidence, his impenetrable defense. Then I look at Multiplex, who's watching with that inscrutable expression of his. At Nurse Sylvia, ready with her first aid kit.

  Maybe the point isn't to succeed. Maybe it's to learn how to fail gracefully. To know when you're beaten and find another way forward.

  Or maybe...

  I concentrate, focusing on my right forearm where it connects to my elbow. A sharp pain as I push a single tooth through the skin on the underside, hidden from Rodney's view. This is just not a position I'm used to them coming out from.

  "Let me try one more thing," I say, rolling my shoulders and stepping back into my stance.

  "Sure thing," he says, still relaxed. "Though I'm not sure what's left in your toolkit."

  I throw a textbook jab - nothing fancy, nothing he hasn't seen before. It stops at the field, just like every other punch. I retract my arm into the proper boxing position, but as I do, I twist my forearm against my side. Other arm goes up high, right arm goes into the back. Tooth goes back in.

  Warm blood starts trickling down my side, soaking into my gray t-shirt just about where my gunshot wound is. I don't say anything, don't call attention to it. Just keep circling, throwing another half-hearted combination that predictably fails.

  "Your form is better than I expected," Rodney says, still making conversation. "Multiplex has trained you well."

  "Thanks," I mutter, pretending to be distracted by frustration. I adjust my stance, subtly smearing more blood onto my shirt. Not tons - just enough to be noticeable when someone points it out.

  As I predicted, Nurse Sylvia notices first.

  "Sam," she says sharply from the sideline. "Your side - you're bleeding."

  Yeah I am. What would Jordan call this, again? "Blading"?

  I glance down, feigning surprise. "What? I don't - " I touch my shirt, fingers coming away red. "Oh."

  Captain Plasma's expression instantly shifts from mild amusement to concern. "Is that from the gunshot wound? Has it reopened?"

  I wobble slightly, letting my face go a shade paler. Not hard to do - I've lost enough blood in my short career to know exactly what it feels like. "I... I don't know. It doesn't hurt that bad, but..."

  "Let me see," he says, crossing the distance between us, electromagnetic field clearly powered down as he reaches for my shoulder. "Sylvia, you want to come - " is all he manages to ask.

  The moment his hand touches me, I launch upward with everything I've got, driving my fist straight toward his perfectly symmetrical face.