The atmosphere in the communal living area of the Bureau's barracks was thick with the scent of cheap disinfectant and stale coffee, a stark contrast to the revolutionary theories being discussed. Pulse, sat on a worn synthetic sofa, his posture relaxed despite the intense scrutiny his mind had just performed. Crystara, perched opposite him like a cat ready to spring, listened with an unnerving stillness.
"I couldn't exactly explain why it felt good, Crystara. But... the thing that I sensed or saw inside you is the same as Revara," Pulse reiterated, running a gloved hand over his own armored chest, "though 'thing' is a poor word for it. I couldn't explain exactly what it looks like, but it's emitting some kind of organized energy, a specific frequency. I'm starting to think every person has this, but everyone has a vastly different size and frequency."
He paused, letting the scope of the potential discovery sink in. "Revara's, yours, and Celestial Muse's, they all have different sizes, different power outputs, and unique frequencies. It's like a signature."
Crystara's lips curled into a half-smirk, though her eyes were sharp. "Oh, so your ability could now peek on our organs and you actually peeked inside Celestial Muse when you were giving her that ridiculously thorough massage, huh?"
Pulse shrugged, a faint flush creeping up his neck beneath the collar of his armor. "Yeah. I actually forgot to ask permission if I could peek inside her. Sue me."
Crystara leaned back, crossing her arms, the movement causing the subtle gear strapped to her meager attire to click softly. "It's alright... I guess. Just don't let Muse hear you say that. She claims to be immune to privacy breaches, but I think she'd still vibrate you right out of your own skin if she knew."
Pulse ignored the playful threat and focused. "I'm going to call this mysterious thing inside us the Resonant Core. So, to break it down: Revara's Resonant Core is small, somewhat powerful, and has a unique, tightly wound frequency. Your Core, Crystara, is significantly bigger and more powerful than Revara's, and of course, it has a frequency unique to you."
He took a slow, deep breath, recalling the overwhelming sensation from hours prior. "But... the Resonant Core of Muse... it's ginormous. I mean, monstrously vast and so incredibly powerful that just observing it momentarily overwhelmed me. I felt the sheer power of it in my own head; it was physically and mentally affecting."
Crystara listened carefully, complete curiosity replacing her habitual sarcasm. She straightened up, tapping a finger lightly against her chin.
"You might actually have stumbled upon the cause of us getting superpowers, Pulse. The 'Awakening,' as they call it. The size, I guess, shows how inherently powerful one is, or how much force they can output." She studied Pulse, whose brow was furrowed in profound concentration. "Got something else to say? You look like you're calculating the trajectory of a rogue moon."
Pulse nodded slowly, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "I just felt like... I could touch the Resonant Core inside us. Not physically, but with my power. And maybe... do something to it."
He didn't wait for permission. He placed his left hand flat against the center of his chest. His right hand remained free, ready to focus the subtle, highly controlled vibrations that were his trademark. He channeled his power inward, not to shake or destroy, but to analyze, to perceive the specific resonant signature of his own being.
Pulse knew the irony: his power made him immune to external vibration. He was the eye of the storm. But this was internal. This was a core piece of his own mechanism. It took intense focus just to perceive it.
He couldn't feel anything physical at first. I guess that's the result of my powers being immune to vibration itself, he thought.
But his internal sight, the way his power allowed him to map frequencies and structures, he soon saw it. His own Resonant Core. It was mid-sized, compact, and hummed with a fierce, tightly regulated rhythm. With deliberate curiosity, Pulse began to use his power to understand its exact wave pattern. He spent a long time, sitting rigidly on the sofa, his armored body completely still, locked in this internal investigation.
Crystara broke the silence gently, recognizing the depth of his concentration. "Reminder, we will explore Kharavel tomorrow, bro. Don't burn yourself out trying to rewrite fundamental physics tonight."
"I know," Pulse muttered, his eyes half-closed. "I'm so close."
He was tracing the pattern. The unique, complex, almost fractal arrangement of his own frequency. It was a self-study of unparalleled precision. And then, he had it. He mentally copied the exact power and pattern of the Resonant Core's frequency.
Now, manipulate it.
Slowly, using all the will and focus he commanded, Pulse intentionally introduced a minuscule, steady increase in his own Core's output pattern. He didn't introduce a foreign frequency; he just amplified the existing one.
His resonance very slightly grew bigger, a fraction of a millimeter wider in his internal view, and its frequency also became very slightly stronger, more defined.
He felt it immediately. The change was minuscule to an observer, but profound to him. His powers felt more pronounced, heavier, more readily available. An immediate, excited surge of triumph shot through his brain. It works.
But that excitement was his undoing.
In the fraction of a second Pulse allowed his iron will to lapse, the moment he felt success he lost the perfect control required to manipulate such a fundamental piece of his existence. The amplification stuttered. The copied pattern he was maintaining slipped, and the frequency became instantly cluttered, distorted, like a perfectly tuned instrument suddenly struck by a hammer.
The feedback was instantaneous, catastrophic, and absolute.
It didn't feel like a physical blow. It felt like the resonant frequency of Lark's being had hit a discordant note, and the universe was attempting to correct the error by destroying the source.
An incredibly intense pain, one he had never conceived, flashed through every nerve ending, every molecule of his body. It was the sensation of his whole being, his consciousness, his body, his very self being ripped apart by internal sonic waves.
Pulse screamed.
The sound was not just loud; it was primal, ragged, and ended abruptly as his throat spasmed. His jaw locked, and a thick, dark froth, flecked with bright red blood, gurgled violently from his mouth and around his lips. His armored body seized up, convulsing against the rigid plastic of the sofa. His hands clenched into useless fists, nails tearing against the fabric of his gloves.
He used every last reserve of his fractured will to regain control, trying desperately to force the chaotic, screaming frequency back into its organized, rhythmic pattern. The pain was deafening, blinding; he was drowning in the sound of his own existence shattering.
Crystara was on her feet instantly. Her veneer of coolness completely disintegrated, replaced by sheer, gut-wrenching horror. The blood and the agonizing, silent scream that followed the initial outburst were terrifying.
"Pulse!"
She rushed towards him, grabbing his convulsing, bleeding body. Her speed was immense, her strength phenomenal. She scooped him up, cradling him against her crystalized chest, not caring that the hot blood immediately smeared across her skin and light attire.
"We are going!" she roared, turning toward the door, intending to rush him down the labyrinthine halls and out to the ground-level triage center.
As she barreled past the doorway, a weak, blood-slicked hand tapped her shoulder.
"Wait... stop," Pulse managed, his voice a ruined, vibrating whisper. "I'm alright now, Crystara. You could put me down now."
His Core, bruised and battered, had stabilized. The blinding pain had receded, leaving only a profound, shaking weakness.
Crystara didn't slow her pace, her crystal eyes blazing. "You are screaming, spitting blood, and looking like you just fought a sentient blender! No, we are going to check you up. We are going to the clinic at least to check you up!"
She burst out of the living corridor, the sound of her heavy boots thudding against the floor becoming a swift, relentless rhythm as she carried the injured, trembling body of Pulse toward the relative safety of the Bureau's medical ward.