Chapter 13 : Control Freak
The coffee mug phased through my hand at 4:47 AM.
Hot liquid splashed across the kitchen counter, pooling around my laptop and seeping into the stack of training notes I'd compiled. I cursed, grabbed a towel, and watched my fingers flicker between solid and intangible three times before stabilizing.
Day twenty-five. Phasing sync rate stuck at fifteen percent. The power had a mind of its own.
[SYNC RATE: 15%] [ACCIDENTAL ACTIVATION FREQUENCY: HIGH] [TRAINING PROTOCOL: RELAXATION-BASED CONTROL RECOMMENDED]
Relaxation-based. The system's recommendation was almost insulting. How exactly was I supposed to relax when my hand kept falling through solid objects at random intervals?
I cleaned up the coffee, salvaged what I could of the notes, and returned to the exercise I'd been practicing for three hours.
Paper first. A single sheet suspended between two books.
I focused on my right hand. Willed it to become intangible. The sensation was like unclenching a muscle I didn't know I had—a release rather than an effort.
My hand passed through the paper. Clean transition, no resistance.
I pulled back. Solid again.
The paper was undisturbed. Perfect.
I tried again. This time my entire forearm went intangible, and I stumbled forward as my balance shifted unexpectedly. The books fell. The paper scattered.
"Damn it."
The problem was precision. Tank's strength enhancement responded to intention—I wanted to be stronger, the power delivered strength. Simple input, simple output.
Phasing was different. The power wanted to spread, to encompass my whole body, to make everything intangible at once. Limiting it to just my hand required constant focus, and that focus was exhausting.
By 7 AM, I'd achieved consistent two-second phases. By noon, I could hold intangibility for five seconds without losing control of the affected area.
[SYNC RATE: 18%]
Progress. Agonizing, incremental progress.
Day twenty-six brought new challenges.
I graduated from paper to books—heavier objects that required more confidence in the phase state. My hand passed through a hardcover dictionary without resistance, emerged on the other side, resolidified holding nothing.
The physics still confused me. Where did the displaced matter go during a phase? The system offered no explanation, and my understanding of quantum mechanics was limited to half-remembered documentary fragments from my old life.
It works. That's what matters.
The real test came at 3 PM, when exhaustion finally caught up with me. I'd been running on coffee and determination for thirty-six hours, and my body had decided enough was enough.
I fell asleep on the couch.
Woke up on the floor, having phased through the cushions.
The fall wasn't painful—I'd only dropped a few inches—but the implications were terrifying. Unconscious phasing. My power activating without any conscious input at all.
I couldn't sleep in a bed until this was controlled. I couldn't sleep anywhere elevated. One wrong dream and I'd phase through the floor into my neighbor's apartment below.
I dragged a sleeping bag into the corner and set my alarm for ninety-minute intervals. Fragmented sleep was better than no sleep. Probably.
The coffee supplies I'd stockpiled were running low by evening.
Day twenty-seven. STAR Labs.
I'd postponed the visit twice already, citing "consulting conflicts" that didn't exist. But Cisco had sent three messages about containment protocol revisions, and Caitlin was starting to sound worried in her texts.
The gloves helped. Black leather, fashionable enough to avoid comment, thick enough to mask minor fluctuations in solidity. I kept my hands in my pockets when possible, touched nothing I didn't have to touch.
[SYNC RATE: 20%]
Twenty percent. Better than eleven, but still dangerously unstable.
"Harry!" Cisco waved from the central console as I entered the cortex. "Finally! I've been waiting three days to show you the modifications we made."
"Sorry. Other clients demanded attention."
"Other clients? You wound me." He grinned and grabbed a tablet from the console. "Come look at this. The redundancy routing you suggested? I improved it."
He crossed the room, tablet extended. I reached to take it.
Our fingers brushed.
My hand flickered.
The tablet dropped—fell through my palm for a split second before I caught it with my other hand. The motion looked like fumbling. I hoped it looked like fumbling.
Cisco blinked. "Did you... did that just..."
"Butterfingers." I laughed, adjusting my grip on the tablet. "The surface is slippery."
"It's a rubberized coating. Specifically designed to be non-slip."
"Must be the gloves, then." I held up my leather-covered hands. "New pair. Still breaking them in."
Cisco's frown deepened. His eyes dropped to my hands, lingered there, then returned to my face.
"Right. The gloves."
The moment stretched. I could see him processing, filing away the observation for later analysis. Cisco Ramon was a genius—his mind made connections that others missed. If he decided to investigate that brief second of wrongness...
"So." I turned my attention to the tablet with deliberate casualness. "Show me these modifications."
The distraction worked. Cisco's enthusiasm for his work overrode his curiosity, and soon we were deep in technical discussion about power routing and failsafe triggers.
But I caught him watching my hands twice more during the conversation.
The rest of the visit was an exercise in aggressive normalcy.
I asked about Cisco's weekend. Discussed sports I barely followed. Kept my hands in my pockets or flat on surfaces where phasing would be less noticeable. When Caitlin appeared with coffee—blessed, wonderful coffee—I wrapped both hands around the cup and didn't let go until it was empty.
"You look tired," she said, settling into the chair beside me.
"Busy week. Multiple clients, overlapping deadlines." The lie came easily. "I'll catch up on sleep this weekend."
"You should take better care of yourself." Her hand found my arm, squeezed gently.
I forced my arm to stay solid through sheer willpower.
"I'll try."
Barry breezed through around 4 PM—literally, though he pretended the speed was normal human rushing. Another "emergency" at CCPD, another apologetic exit. The man spent more time apologizing for leaving than actually being present.
Wells was conspicuously absent. According to Cisco, he was "working on something in the back lab." The phrasing suggested secrets no one was supposed to ask about.
Reverse-Flash business, I thought. Planning Barry's destruction while everyone treats him like a mentor.
The knowledge sat heavily in my chest. I could warn them. Could reveal what Wells really was. But that would require explaining how I knew, and that explanation would destroy everything I'd built.
Not yet. Not until I had the power to survive the aftermath.
I left at 5:30, citing dinner plans that weren't entirely fictional. Caitlin walked me to the exit, her hand brushing mine in a gesture that had become familiar.
"Text me when you get home," she said. "So I know you didn't fall asleep at a stoplight."
"I'll try not to die of exhaustion before dessert."
Her laugh was worth the risk of being here.
But as I walked to my car, I caught movement in the cortex window. Cisco, watching me leave. His expression wasn't suspicious exactly.
Curious.
That might be worse.
Day twenty-eight. 3 AM.
I phased my hand through the coffee table. Pulled it back solid. Did it again.
Again.
Again.
[SYNC RATE: 25%]
Twenty-five percent. Still not safe, but approaching functional. The random activations had decreased from every few minutes to every few hours. The duration of intentional phases had increased to ten seconds.
Almost there.
My body disagreed with the assessment. Four days of fragmented sleep, countless hours of repetitive training, and a caffeine intake that would have killed a lesser man. I was running on fumes and stubbornness.
But the control was coming.
I phased my hand through the coffee table one more time—smooth transition in, smooth transition out—and felt something click into place. A mental switch I hadn't known existed, finally finding its proper position.
The power was becoming mine.
I intended to phase just my index finger. Just the fingertip.
It worked.
For three glorious seconds, only my fingertip was intangible. The rest of my hand stayed solid. Precision. Control.
The exhaustion hit like a wave. I'd been fighting it for hours, and now that I'd achieved my goal, the fight ended.
I slumped back on the couch—careful to keep my weight on solid cushions—and let my eyes close.
The last thing I saw before sleep claimed me was my hand, still partially phased through the coffee table. Still under control.
Tomorrow, I'd push for thirty percent.
Tonight, I'd finally rest.
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