Week eight brought new additions to Marcus's routine.
Monday morning before class, he stopped by the police station. Not for anything official—just dropping off coffee for Bullock as thanks for the advice. But while he was there, walking through the bullpen, copying opportunities happened.
Click - from a detective working a murder board. Pattern recognition for crime scenes. The ability to see connections between seemingly unrelated evidence.
Click - from a forensics tech passing through. Basic fingerprint analysis knowledge.
Two abilities in five minutes. Both investigative skills he'd needed.
Marcus logged them during his walk to campus, his ability count climbing to 124.
Tuesday evening at I-Ching's dojo brought a surprise.
"Today we spar," I-Ching announced to the class. "Controlled contact. You will learn more from one minute of actual combat than one hour of forms."
Marcus was paired with another student—a woman in her thirties named Lisa who'd been training for several years. She moved with confidence, clearly experienced.
"Don't go easy on me because I'm new," Marcus said as they squared up.
"Wasn't planning to."
The spar was educational. Lisa was technically skilled, her movements precise from years of training. But Marcus's enhanced speed and strength, combined with his growing collection of combat abilities, gave him an advantage.
He won the exchange, but not easily.
"You're faster than you look," Lisa said afterward, slightly winded. "And your defense is getting better."
"Good teacher." Marcus bowed respectfully.
I-Ching had watched the spar with his usual quiet attention. After class, he approached Marcus.
"You integrate knowledge quickly. Too quickly." His blind eyes seemed to look through Marcus. "Most students take months to apply new techniques under pressure. You do it within weeks."
"I'm motivated. And I practice a lot."
"Or something else." I-Ching adjusted Marcus's shoulder position. "But motivation is good. Continue as you are. Just remember—speed without control is dangerous. To yourself and others."
"I'll be careful."
Click.
Finally. After three weeks of training, Marcus copied from I-Ching.
The ability settled in like water finding its level. Not just martial arts technique, but something deeper. Combat flow state. The ability to enter a mental state where techniques flowed naturally, where thinking became unnecessary, where body and mind united in action. Years of meditation and training compressed into instinctive understanding.
That's huge. That's what makes masters different from students.
Marcus tried not to show his excitement. "Thank you, I-Ching. For everything."
"Thank me by not using what I teach you for violence." I-Ching's tone was serious. "These skills are for protection. For discipline. Not aggression."
"I understand."
"Do you?" I-Ching tilted his head. "I hear many things, Marcus Reid. Sirens in this city. Screams. Violence everywhere. And I hear young men with new abilities wondering if they should intervene."
Marcus froze. "I don't—"
"I was young once. Faster than others. Stronger than others. Thought I could fix the world's problems with these hands." I-Ching raised his scarred, weathered hands. "Learned eventually that fixing problems requires wisdom, not just strength. Remember that."
"I will."
"Good. See you Thursday."
Wednesday brought an unexpected copying opportunity.
Marcus was at the library working on a project when he noticed a woman at a nearby table analyzing what looked like legal documents. Mid-forties, professional appearance, making extensive notes.
He moved to a closer table, pretending to study. Just being in proximity for potential copying.
Click.
Legal analysis. The ability to read contracts, identify loopholes, understand legal implications of complex language. The woman was a lawyer, clearly, and her expertise transferred partially to Marcus.
He logged it: ability 126. Another investigative skill acquired passively.
Thursday's boxing session with Coach Rivera pushed Marcus harder than usual.
"You're getting cocky," Rivera said, watching Marcus work the speed bag. "I see it. You think you're ready for real fights."
"I'm not cocky. Just confident."
"Same thing, different words." Rivera tapped the heavy bag. "Ten rounds. Full power. Show me what confidence looks like when you're exhausted."
Marcus worked the bag for ten three-minute rounds with minimal rest. His enhanced stamina helped, but by round eight he was genuinely tired. His technique started slipping. His combinations became simpler.
"There it is," Rivera said after round ten. "When you're tired, you revert to basics. That's when real training shows. Your basics are good but not great. Need more drilling."
"More drilling. Got it."
Rivera studied him. "You train somewhere else too, don't you? I can tell. Your stance has other influences."
"I-Ching's dojo. Mixed martial arts."
"Good. Multiple styles make you harder to predict." Rivera nodded approval. "But don't spread yourself too thin. Master fundamentals first, then branch out."
Marcus noticed the absence of the familiar click. He'd already copied from Rivera weeks ago. The one-per-person limit holding firm.
Makes sense. Can't keep getting new abilities from the same people.
After the session, Marcus was wrapping his hands when another fighter approached. Older guy, maybe fifty, with the build and scars of someone who'd been boxing his whole life.
"You're Rivera's new student," the man said. "Name's Eddie. Used to fight middleweight back in the day."
"Marcus. Yeah, been training here for a few weeks."
"You move well. Natural or trained elsewhere?"
"Bit of both."
Eddie grabbed a towel, wiped sweat from his face. "I run the morning sessions here. Six AM, serious fighters only. You ever want to step up your game, come by. We do real sparring. Not the light stuff Rivera does with beginners."
"I might take you up on that."
Click.
Marcus felt it settle in. From Eddie: Endurance pacing. The ability to manage energy over long fights, knowing when to push and when to conserve. Decades of ring experience compressed into instinctive understanding of stamina management.
"Good to meet you, Marcus. See you around." Eddie headed to the showers.
Marcus logged the new ability. 127 total. Another combat-related skill from an experienced fighter.
Friday brought Sarah's weekly review.
They met at a coffee shop near campus, Sarah's laptop displaying her tracking spreadsheets.
"One hundred twenty-seven abilities. That's five new ones this week." She scrolled through his logs. "And two major acquisitions—I-Ching's combat flow state and Ted Grant's boxing expertise last week. You're accelerating."
"That's the plan."
"It's working almost too well." Sarah zoomed in on a chart. "Your copying rate is increasing. Week one you got maybe three or four abilities. This week you got five. And that's with strategic positioning, not random encounters."
"More people means more opportunities. Basic probability."
"Or the ability itself is evolving. Becoming more likely to trigger." Sarah made a note. "We should track this. If your copying probability is increasing over time, that changes our timeline estimates."
"Good way or bad way?"
"Unknown. Could mean you reach capability thresholds faster. Could mean you hit some kind of saturation point where you can't effectively integrate new abilities." She closed that spreadsheet, opened another. "How are you feeling? Psychologically. Any personality changes? Intrusive thoughts?"
Marcus thought about it. He had copied from over a hundred people now. Each one adding something to his mental landscape. Skills, knowledge, personality fragments.
"I feel like me. Just... more capable. More aware. I notice more things. Process information faster. But fundamentally I'm still Marcus."
"Good. That's what we want to hear." Sarah marked something on her checklist. "Jackson's worried you're accumulating too much combat ability too fast. Thinks it might make you more aggressive."
"I'm not more aggressive. I'm more controlled, if anything. The martial arts training emphasizes discipline."
"Which is good. But stay aware of it. If you start feeling different—more violent, less empathetic, whatever—tell us immediately."
"I will."
Sarah pulled up another document. "Next week's targets. We've identified a few more high-value opportunities."
Saturday's hospital shift brought complications.
Marcus was helping in the ER—his usual routine of transporting patients and assisting nurses—when a trauma case arrived. Gunshot wound. Gang shooting. The victim was maybe seventeen.
The ER erupted into controlled chaos. Trauma team swarming the patient. Shouted medical terminology. Blood everywhere.
Marcus stayed out of the way but watched everything. His copied medical knowledge let him follow what was happening. Bullet had hit the femoral artery. They were trying to stop the bleeding, stabilize for surgery.
Click.
He copied something from the trauma surgeon. Emergency arterial repair knowledge. Theoretical understanding of how to stop catastrophic bleeding.
Click.
And again. From a nurse. Crisis management under pressure. How to stay calm and efficient when everything was chaos.
The victim survived. Barely. They wheeled him to surgery while Marcus stood in the hallway, processing what he'd just witnessed.
This was why he was training. This was what happened in Gotham every day. People bleeding out from gunshots. Kids dying in gang violence.
And he was building abilities to maybe, eventually, help prevent some of it.
"You okay?" One of the nurses noticed Marcus standing there. "First trauma case?"
"Yeah. Is he going to make it?"
"Maybe. Depends on surgery. But we gave him a chance." She squeezed his shoulder. "That's all we can do. Give people chances."
Marcus logged the abilities later: 129 total. But the numbers felt hollow after watching a teenager nearly die.
Sunday brought another visit to Ted Grant's gym.
This time Marcus arrived alone. Jackson had studying, and Sarah was working on her project deadlines.
The gym was packed. Weekend open session meant more fighters, more intensity. Ted was in one of the rings, sparring with a younger boxer who clearly had professional aspirations.
Marcus worked the bags, drilled combinations, practiced footwork. The advanced boxing knowledge from Ted had fully integrated now. He could feel the difference—his movements were sharper, more efficient, more instinctive.
"Reid!" Ted called from the ring after his spar ended. "You're up. Three rounds. Let's see if you learned anything."
Marcus climbed into the ring, his heart rate increasing despite his enhanced calm. Sparring with Ted Grant. A boxing legend. Even at sixty-plus, the man was dangerous.
"Control only," Ted said, pulling on headgear. "We're drilling, not fighting. You push too hard, I'll push back, and you won't like it."
"Understood."
They touched gloves.
The spar was educational and humbling. Ted's technique was perfect—decades of refinement making every movement optimal. His defense was impossible to penetrate. His counters came from angles Marcus didn't expect.
But Marcus held his own. His enhanced speed let him avoid most of Ted's attacks. His copied boxing knowledge told him where to move. His combat flow state from I-Ching kept him calm and reactive.
Three rounds passed in a blur. Ted called time.
"Not bad." Ted pulled off his headgear. "You've got natural talent. Real natural talent. But you telegraph your right cross. I could see it coming every time."
"How do I fix that?"
"Practice. Drill it slow until the telegraph disappears." Ted studied Marcus with those sharp, assessing eyes. "You train a lot, don't you? More than just here and wherever else you mentioned."
"Yeah. Few different places."
"Thought so. You're picking things up too fast to be only training twice a week." Ted leaned on the ropes. "Whatever you're doing, keep at it. But be careful, kid. In Gotham, people who get good at fighting tend to find fights whether they want them or not."
"I'm just training for self-defense."
"Sure you are." Ted smiled slightly. "Same thing I said when I was your age. Right before I started fighting professionally, then... other things."
Marcus wondered what "other things" meant but didn't ask.
After the session, while Marcus was unwrapping his hands, a younger fighter approached. Maybe mid-twenties, clearly gym regular.
"You're pretty good," the guy said. "Name's Tommy. I train here most days."
"Marcus. Just started coming here."
"Yeah, I noticed. Ted doesn't usually spar with new people. You must have impressed him." Tommy gestured to the bags. "You want to work combos sometime? Always good to have a partner."
"Sure. I'm here Sunday afternoons."
Click.
Marcus copied something from Tommy. Not a major ability—just enhanced hand-eye coordination. Minor but useful.
They exchanged numbers, agreed to meet up next week for partner drills.
Marcus logged everything on the bus ride home.
DATE: May 15
TOTAL ABILITIES: 130
WEEK 8 SUMMARY: Major progress. Copied combat flow state from I-Ching (huge). Trained with Ted Grant (sparring). Witnessed ER trauma case (sobering). Multiple minor investigative abilities acquired. Training intensity increasing. Feels sustainable but exhausting.
PHASE 1 PROGRESS: 130/150 abilities. 2/2 master combat disciplines (getting there). Medical knowledge improving. Tactical awareness developing.
NOTES: Starting to feel the accumulation. Abilities integrating faster. Personality stable but more alert/aware. No concerning changes. Hit the one-per-person limit with Rivera - confirms copying mechanics. Three more weeks to Phase 1 completion. Two months until Phase 3 readiness.
He sent the summary to Sarah.
She texted back immediately: You're ahead of schedule. Good work. But don't burn out. Take tomorrow completely off.
Marcus stared at the text, then at Gotham passing by outside the bus window.
Take a day off. Rest. Recover.
Can I afford to?
His enhanced hearing picked up sirens in the distance. Police response. Ambulance. Fire truck. The eternal symphony of Gotham's emergencies.
Somewhere, people needed help. And he was still training. Still building. Still preparing.
Two more months. Just two more months.
Then I'll be ready.
Marcus leaned back in his seat, feeling the accumulated fatigue of a week of intensive training. His body was enhanced, but even enhanced bodies needed rest.
Tomorrow off. Then back to it.
Twenty more abilities until Phase 1 completion.
One hundred twenty more abilities until Phase 3 readiness.
And then... then I can actually do something.
The bus rolled through Gotham's twilight. Marcus closed his eyes, catalogued his new abilities, felt them integrating into his growing capability.
One hundred thirty abilities.
Eight weeks of intensive training.
And the knowledge that he was becoming something Gotham might actually need.
If he could stay patient long enough to get there.
Soon.
The word had become a mantra.
Soon.