Ren hung in the center of the anti-gravity chamber, limbs twitching as he drifted with all the grace of a puppet snipped from its strings. The metallic walls hummed softly around him, and the blue training grid flickered with soft pulses beneath the floor—a floor he hadn't touched in the last twenty minutes.
His breath fogged the visor of his helmet, his hands curled into fists, and his brow furrowed in frustration.
"Come on... come on…" he muttered, trying to force the Essence out through his core. It was supposed to be simple: focus, breathe, exert. But nothing happened. No energy stream, no flash, no glow. Just him, dangling like a human balloon in zero-G.
"Boy, you look like a microwave dinner someone forgot to peel the plastic off," Andre's voice crackled through the comms, followed by the hiss of the chamber door opening. His boots clicked with casual swagger on the entry ramp as he strolled inside, arms folded, eyes gleaming with amusement. "All heat, no flavor. Ain't nobody hungry for that."
Ren twisted midair to face him, scowling. "I'm trying, Andre."
Andre chuckled low, with that slow drawl of his that always sounded half-joke, half-lesson. "Tryin' don't make the gumbo good, son. You gotta season it. See, Essence ain't somethin' you force out like bad gas. It's more like cookin' a proper meal."
He plucked a holographic controller from the wall and tapped the gravity settings. The chamber trembled as pressure subtly shifted, but Ren kept floating, rotating gently like a leaf caught in a breeze.
"Listen here," Andre continued, pacing the outer ring of the chamber. "You ever had a slow-roasted brisket? One that been sittin' in a smoker for twelve hours, bark crisp, fat rendered just right?" He kissed his fingers and flicked them. "That's Essence. Deep, layered, deliberate. You ain't gon' get nothin' worth eatin' if you just slap some power on a plate and call it supper."
Ren shut his eyes. Focus. Breathe. Feel. He centered his attention on the strange current inside him—the potential that never quite obeyed. He pictured the brisket. The slow build of heat, the control. Not too fast, not too rough.
He exhaled, and a pulse answered. A shimmer of silver-blue flared around his palms.
"There you go!" Andre shouted. "Now we cookin'! Keep it comin'—steady now—"
Ren clenched his fists and pushed harder.
Essence erupted from his back like twin jets. His eyes shot open as his body began to spin, feet over head, rotating faster and faster like a corkscrew in a wind tunnel.
"Too much spice! Pull it back!" Andre bellowed, cackling so hard his shades slipped down the bridge of his nose. "You gone and turned yourself into a Beyblade!"
Ren flailed mid-air, arms and legs pinwheeling as Essence poured from his limbs in bright arcs. He spun faster with every breath, a wild comet of panic and power.
"HOW DO I STOP?!" Ren shouted, voice cracking as he twisted through another uncontrolled flip.
"Now you know how my mama felt when I tried fryin' chicken for the first time—hot grease everywhere and one burnin' ceiling fan," Andre quipped.
"NOT HELPFUL!"
A sharp buzz snapped through the chamber like a wasp caught in a tin can.
"For god's sake," Bonk's voice crackled from the overhead speaker, all static and scorn. "He's been at this for a week. One. Whole. Week. Spinning around like a malfunctioning ceiling fan and screaming like you're being deep-fried."
With a final grunt, Ren jerked his Essence just enough to slam himself into the padded wall. He bounced off it with a groan, limbs sprawled, drifting back to the center like a broken marionette in slow motion.
Andre clicked his tongue and grinned. "Ain't about bein' quick, Bonk. He learnin' how to bleed a little without breakin'. That blade don't mean squat if he swingin' it like a broomstick."
Bonk let out a static-laced snort, the kind that sounded like he'd just chewed a wire. "Bleedin'? That ain't bleedin'. That's floppin' around like a damn trout in a gravity blender."
Andre chuckled low. "Always a pleasure hearin' your sweet voice box, Bonk."
Bonk's mechanical eye flashed, his voice rising in pitch and irritation. "You think this is cute? 'Cause from here, it looks like you're babysitting a live grenade and callin' it growth." He jabbed a finger at the screen like Andre could see it. "I'm tryin' to figure out why this kid's frying his nerves raw instead of—I don't know—sleepin' like someone who isn't clinically unstable."
Andre's grin faded. The lightness in his face dimmed like someone turned the sun down a notch. He exhaled through his nose—slow, steady, the weight of memory anchoring every syllable.
"A week ago," he said, voice quieter now, "the kid went toe-to-toe with a nightmare that damn near gutted him. Him and Celia both. If I hadn't shown up…" His jaw tensed. "They'd be dead. Thing tore through 'em like it was born to."
The silence that followed was thick, static-laced, and heavy enough to press against the walls.
"He's scared," Andre continued. "Scared of losin' people he cares about 'cause he wasn't strong enough. So he trainin' like the devil's on his heels, 'cause to him, it is."
Ren floated silently now, chest rising and falling as Essence shimmered faintly around him. His fists were clenched, eyes closed, but his face—tense, jaw tight—said he'd heard every word.
Just then, a shrill chime burst from the control console. A red glyph blinked into life across Bonk's display.
His antenna flicked up. "Finally. Something useful."
Andre turned, instantly alert. "What you got?"
Bonk tapped a few keys with fast, twitchy movements. "The Essence signature from the monster that wrecked them?" His eye narrowed. "I just got a clean trace. High-level spike. Stable pattern."
Andre leaned forward slightly. "Where?"
Bonk turned to face him, expression sharp. "Narai-juku. Japan. Middle of nowhere. Tight little village tucked in the mountains. Remote enough to hide a corpse—or a monster."
Andre's face hardened, every line on it turning to steel. "You sure?"
Bonk snorted. "Do I look like I'd speak if I wasn't?"
Andre grinned. "Heh... Look at you, lil' fuzzy bloodhound. Knew you had a nose for somethin' other than attitude."
Bonk froze mid-tap. Slowly turned. And pulled the comically large bat from his back with one sharp motion. The thing thudded against the floor like a meteor.
"Call me that again," Bonk growled, "and I will roll you up like a goddamn tortilla and yeet you into the sun."
Andre threw both hands up, laughter bubbling in his throat. "Aight, aight! Shit, calm down, Captain Cuddle-Rage."
Bonk's eyes narrowed into pinpricks. The bat twitched like it wanted blood.
Andre held up a finger, still grinning like the devil at a barbecue. "I respect you, Bonk. Swear I do. Just not deep enough to shut my mouth."
Bonk re-strapped the bat with a heavy clank, claws twitching, eye twitching harder.
"You're so fuckin' annoying," he muttered. "I don't even feel mad anymore."
Andre gave a slow, satisfied nod, still smirking. "Ey. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Then he cracked his knuckles, turned toward the chamber, voice dropping back into business. "Now it's time to pay that village a visit."