Walking out of the restaurant, I stretched and rolled my shoulders. The absence of gunfire was a novel experience for these meetings, and I decided it was a welcome change.
I headed back toward the subway, mentally reviewing the encounter with Reynolds. The rail pistol was out of my hands now, verification pending. I'd slipped up twice. Once with the computer talk, and by not anticipating the whole....existence of the Dire Wraiths, but I'd walked away with a deal in place and all my blood still inside my body.
Swings and roundabouts.
As I descended into the subway station, Marcus's warning surfaced in my mind. "You've got this really strong resonance around the name Quinton. A more malicious psychic could pluck what I'm guessing is your real name right out without much effort."
I fed coins into the turnstile and pushed through. The monk. Marcus had given me a number for someone who taught mental discipline techniques. I pulled the folded paper from my wallet and glanced at it while waiting on the platform. The handwriting was neat, precise. Just a phone number, nothing else.
The meeting with Reynolds had been exhausting in ways I hadn't fully anticipated.Taking a concrete step toward fixing a vulnerability would make me feel better.
The train rattled into the station, and I boarded it, settling in for the ride.
A while later, I emerged from the subway into Hell's Kitchen. The early afternoon sun cut through the buildings, and the streets had that lazy afternoon lull.
I adjusted my route toward my usual payphone. The booth was mercifully unoccupied, and I stepped inside, feeding in quarters.
Looking at the paper, I dialed the number Marcus had given me.
The line rang four times before someone picked up.
"Tranquil Mind Meditation Center, this is Edwin speaking." The voice was male and younger than I expected, with a hint of an accent I couldn't quite place.
"Good afternoon," I said. "Marcus Washington gave me this number. Said you teach mental discipline techniques. Psychic defenses."
There was a pause, then the voice perked up noticeably. "Oh, Marcus sent you?" I could hear the shift in his tone, genuine interest replacing fatigue. "I can always make time for someone Marcus recommends. People he sends my way tend to be interesting."
"Is that good or bad?"
The man chuckled. "Depends. When were you thinking?"
I glanced at my watch. 1:30 PM. "Today, if you're available. I'm free this afternoon."
"Today works. I'm at the Tranquil Mind meditation center in Chinatown. It's on Canal Street, near Mott. You know the area?"
"I can find it."
"Good. Come by around 4:30. Ask for Edwin Lau at the front desk. They'll point you to the right room."
"Edwin Lau," I repeated. "Got it. What's the rate?"
"First session's free for Marcus's referrals," Edwin said. "After that, we can talk about what you need and work something out. Sounds fair?"
"Sounds fair."
"See you at 4:30, then."
The line clicked dead.
I walked back down the street, my thoughts turning to the meeting, then a thought hit me like a bolt from the blue
Fuck, I forgot about that whole ongoing gang war in Chinatown. It's a weekday though, so hopefully I can just get off the street quickly.
I paused briefly.
If I didn't need to work on mental defense so badly, I'd never go back until I know things are calmer, but I don't exactly have better options.
I walked back into the warehouse, and took the elevator down to the bunker, still thinking about ways to minimize risk. I paused suddenly.
The equipment lockers. Could scrounge something up there.
The beekeeper suits were right out. Too distinctive, and wouldn't fit under my clothes. I might be able to get away with wearing a SHIELD bodysuit under my clothes, but it didn't look bulletproof at all. The SSI uniform looked like my best bet. Pulling it out of the locker, I gave it a closer look. There was a helmet, but the torso section had a bulky bulletproof vest built into it. I examined it further. It looked like it'd stop smaller caliber rounds cold, but even if I got it off the rest of the uniform, it would be obvious to everyone with functioning eyes that I was wearing a vest.
I should look into a low-profile vest. Have they invented plate carriers yet?
I frowned and put the SSI uniform back, then pulled out the SHIELD bodysuit again for a closer look.
It was a dark blue one-piece that zipped up the front,with the SHIELD logo on the right shoulder. It was made from some kind of synthetic material with a slight sheen. The suit had red-orange bands running across the upper arms.
Color-coding for something, probably rank.
Multiple belt pouches were integrated into the design, most of them empty now, along with what looked like holster attachment points on the shoulders and thighs. Thankfully, they appeared removable.
After taking them off the bodysuit, I checked the pouches out of habit.
Empty, empty, empty... wait.
My fingers closed around something in one of the front belt pouches. I pulled out a small spherical device about the size of a golf ball. It was unmarked, but had a pin mechanism at the top.
Weird. Must be some type of smoke bomb.
On impulse, I grabbed one of the knives from my workshop and tested the fabric on the sleeve. The blade skidded off the surface without catching. I pressed harder, trying to puncture it.
Nothing. Not even a mark.
I blinked and examined the material more closely. It looked like regular fabric, moved like regular fabric, but apparently it was reinforced somehow. Slash-resistant at minimum, maybe stab-resistant too.
Well, that's interesting.
I held it up to the light. The torso section seemed slightly thicker than the arms, but not by much. Certainly nothing that would show under a jacket and jeans.
If things go sideways in Chinatown again, this is better than nothing.
I stripped off my jacket and button-down, then pulled the bodysuit on. It fit snugly but not uncomfortably, and the material had some give to it despite the reinforcement. I pulled my clothes back on over it and checked myself in the reflection of a metal cabinet door.
You couldn't tell. The suit was form-fitting enough that it didn't add any obvious bulk. Just looked like I was wearing my normal outfit, unless you looked closely at my collar.
I pocketed the probable smoke grenade and closed the locker and checked my watch. 1:40 PM.
I decided to stay in the bunker until an hour before the meeting. I didn't want to be hanging around in Chinatown longer than I had to with the prevailing atmosphere there. That sounded like a perfect way to get into trouble.
The subway ride to Chinatown was uneventful. I emerged at Canal Street just after four, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the crowded sidewalks.
The tension from my last visit was still in the air. Storefronts had their gates partially lowered despite being open for business. People kept their heads down and walked quickly. Thankfully, the White Dragon wasn't in evidence, but that didn't mean I needed to tempt fate by staying on the street for too long.
I walked as fast as I could while trying to look unhurried.
The meditation center wasn't hard to find. It occupied the second floor of a building sandwiched between a restaurant and what looked like a traditional medicine shop. The entrance was marked by a simple wooden sign with Chinese characters and English text below: "Tranquil Mind Meditation Center."
I climbed the steep, narrow staircase. The sounds of Canal Street faded as I ascended. The hubbub of the street was replaced by the faint scent of incense and something herbal I couldn't identify.
The second floor opened into a small reception area. Hardwood floors, off-white walls decorated with simple calligraphy scrolls, and a low desk where a middle-aged Chinese woman sat reading a book. She looked up as I entered, her expression polite but questioning.
"Good afternoon," I said. "I'm here to see Edwin Lau. I have an appointment at 4:30."
She nodded and gestured toward a hallway to the left. "Room three. He's expecting you."
"Thank you."
The hallway was short, with three doors on each side, all closed. Soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers. I found room three and knocked twice.
"Come in," came Edwin's voice from inside.
I opened the door, and stepped into the room.
The room was spartan. Padded floor mats, a low desk against one wall, a few cushions scattered about, and the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. Edwin Lau sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured. He was a Chinese man in his mid-twenties, wearing a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants. His posture was relaxed but centered, the kind of stillness that came from years of practice.
He opened his eyes as I entered and stood up in one smooth motion. "You must be Quince." He stood around five-eight,with a lean and compact build.
I blinked. "How did you know my name?"
Edwin's expression remained neutral. "I called Marcus after you made the appointment. He mentioned he'd referred you here for help with mental defenses."
Right. Of course he did.
I nodded. "That's about right. I'm worried about psychics plucking things out of my head."
Edwin gestured to a cushion across from him. "Fair enough. Sit."
I lowered myself onto the cushion, trying to mirror his posture. He waited until I'd settled before speaking again.
"Let's start from the beginning," Edwin said. "What do you know about psychic powers?"
I shrugged, uncertain what the baseline public knowledge was supposed to be. "I only have the popular science understanding. Some people have mental powers, mutants, mostly. They can read minds and influence others mentally."
Edwin hummed, a sound that somehow conveyed polite disagreement. "Not entirely."
He shifted slightly, settling into what I recognized as a teaching posture. "First misconception: psychic abilities aren't exclusive to mutants. That's one path,but it's not the only path."
I frowned. "So... magic users?"
"Some, yes. Sorcerers like Doctor Strange develop psionic abilities as a side effect of mystical training." He paused. "There are also people who unlock psychic potential through pure discipline. Meditation, mental exercises, pushing the limits of human consciousness. Moondragon, for instance."
"Huh." I filed that away. "So anyone can learn it?"
"Theoretically." Edwin's tone suggested he'd heard that question before. "In practice, most people lack either the aptitude or the dedication. It's like saying anyone can become an Olympic athlete. It's technically the truth, but very few people can achieve it." He shrugged.
"And you?" I asked. "Which category do you fall into?"
"Discipline," he said simply. "I trained in martial arts under a sifu in Hong Kong when I was younger. Later, I studied under a Monk of Dakoth-Kuru for several years. They're an old order who pursue enlightenment through meditation and herbalism. The goal is to unlock the brain's full potential. Most monks achieve enhanced mental clarity and resistance to psychic intrusion. Some develop psionic abilities."
"And you developed...?"
"Enough to sense when telepathy is being used and enough skill to structure my mental defenses." His eyes focused on me with that same assessing quality I'd noticed on the phone. "Which brings us to why you're here."
I shifted on the cushion. "Marcus said you could teach me to protect my mind."
"I can teach you techniques that will make it harder for a telepath to access your thoughts," Edwin corrected. "Mental discipline, compartmentalization, redirection. Think of it like this." He gestured to the space between us. "Right now, your mind is like a room with an open door. Anyone with telepathic ability who walks by can see inside. What I'll teach you is how to turn that room into a fortress. Walls, locked doors, and the awareness to notice when someone's trying to get in."
"How long does that take?"
"Depends on your discipline and how much you practice." Edwin's expression didn't change. "First session, I'll assess your current mental structure and teach you the basic technique. After that, you'll need to practice. At least an hour of meditation daily. In a few weeks, you should have rudimentary protection. A few months, and you'll have something reliable."
He leaned forward slightly. "But understand this: what I'm teaching isn't a psychic shield. It won't stop a determined telepath from getting into your head if they really want to. What it does is make you harder to read casually, and it gives you a fighting chance to notice when someone's probing. That split-second of awareness can be the difference between them taking what they want and you being able to resist."
"Better than nothing," I said.
"Vastly better than nothing." Edwin nodded once. "Now. Let's see what we're working with. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing."
I closed my eyes and settled into position on the cushion.
"Breathe in through your nose, four counts," Edwin said, his voice taking on a measured cadence. "Hold for four. Out through your mouth for four. Hold for four. Keep it steady."
I followed along, the rhythm feeling mechanical at first.
"As you breathe, visualize your thoughts as crates in a warehouse," he continued. "Each memory, each piece of information, sits in an open crate. Right now, anyone can see what's inside. We're going to teach you to close those crates. Pick a recent memory—something from today. Picture it in a crate. Now close the lid."
I pictured myself walking down the street in Hell's Kitchen, then mentally shut a lid over it.
"You're forcing it, but that's normal. The goal is for this to become automatic. Keep breathing. Open that crate again, then close it. Practice the motion."
I lost track of time. Opening and closing mental crates, maintaining the breathing pattern, trying to keep my focus from drifting. By the end, my mouth was dry and my head ached, but I felt like I was improving.
Edwin opened his eyes and nodded, seemingly satisfied. "That's the foundation. Practice that daily, and in a few weeks you'll have basic compartmentalization."
"What happens if I run into a telepath before then?" I asked.
"Hope they're not interested enough to push," Edwin said dryly. He stood up in one fluid motion, stretching. "But understand, what I'm teaching you isn't just meditation. It's about staying centered under pressure. Keeping enough presence of mind to act even when things are chaotic."
He paused, studying me with that same assessing look. "Marcus gave you a combat download, didn't he?"
I tensed slightly. "Yes."
Edwin nodded, as if confirming something he'd already suspected. "You've probably noticed a small amount of skill degradation in the time that's passed."
"You seem to know a lot about this," I said carefully.
"Marcus refers some people to me after he's done a download." Edwin moved back toward the center of the mats. "The implanted skills work, but they need reinforcement. Mental discipline helps anchor them, makes them degrade slower. Plus..." He shrugged. "People who've had someone in their head, even someone as well intentioned as Marcus, tend to be more motivated to learn how to keep others out."
"Makes sense," I said.
Edwin gestured to the open space on the mats. "Part of mental discipline is maintaining it under pressure. Want to see what that looks like?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You want to spar?"
"Light sparring," he confirmed. "Mental discipline isn't just about sitting still. It's about staying centered when things are chaotic,when someone's trying to hit you, when adrenaline is pumping, when you need to think clearly under stress." He moved toward the center of the padded floor. "You said you recently learned to fight. Let's test that."
I hesitated. "Right now?"
"Why not? You're already here, and the room's set up for it." Edwin's expression remained neutral, but there was a glimmer of something—maybe curiosity—in his eyes. "Besides, if you're worried about telepaths, you should know what it feels like to maintain mental discipline while someone's actively trying to attack you."
He had a point. And honestly, I was curious to see how the implanted skills would hold up against someone with actual training, even if Edwin described himself as having not pursued mastery.
"Alright," I said, standing up and moving to the center of the mats. "Light sparring?"
"Light sparring," Edwin confirmed, settling into a relaxed stance. "And try to maintain that breathing pattern I just taught you while we move. See how long you can hold it."
We began circling each other. Edwin moved with an easy confidence, hands up but not rigid. I threw a probing jab, testing his reaction. He slipped it smoothly, and didn't counter.
I pressed forward with a basic combination, jab, cross, hook. Edwin blocked and weaved, still not attacking back, just observing.
My confidence grew. I feinted left and threw a kick at his midsection. Edwin stepped back, letting it pass.
"Not bad," he said, circling. "You've been practicing since the implant."
"How can you tell?"
"Your technique is solid, but there's a slight... looseness to it. Like a photocopy of a photocopy." He blocked a jab easily. "That's the beginnings of degradation. But you're drilling regularly, I can tell. Keeps the pathways from dissolving too fast."
I threw a combination. Jab, cross, hook. Edwin slipped the first two, caught the third on his forearm, then threw a counter jab that I barely weaved away from.
"The rule of thumb for Marcus's implants," he continued, still moving, "is that you'll forget most of what you don't regularly use within a calendar year. Your brain hasn't built those connections naturally, so they're fragile. But-" He stepped back from my kick and snapped a quick palm strike at my shoulder that I blocked. "-if you practice consistently, some of it sticks. Not all of it, but the fundamentals."
I came in again, mixing up my rhythm with a low kick aimed at his leading leg. Edwin lifted his foot and let it pass under him, then immediately capitalized on my lack of balance. He circled left and sent a palm strike toward my ribs, faster than Catherine had moved during our sparring session. I tried to step out of range, but wasn't quite quick enough. His palm tagged my ribs lightly, more of a tap than a strike, but the point was made.
He's fast and he's just testing me.
We circled each other. I was much more wary, cautiously looking for openings.
"How much will I lose?" I asked.
"Depends on how much you drill. The advanced stuff, the really technical combinations? That'll fade first if you're not using it constantly."
I jabbed, hoping to catch him off guard while he talked, but Edwin deflected my strike with his forearm and followed with a quick centerline punch that made me step back.
"The basics," Edwin continued, moving back, "stance, footwork, fundamental strikes-those you'll keep, if you train."
I got a little too confident and threw a rapid combination. Jab, cross, hook, then lunged forward with a high kick that had more power than control behind it. My weight shifted too far back,
Edwin moved in a burst faster than anybody I'd ever seen. He'd been weaving, maintaining distance, and the second my kick reached its apex he accelerated forward. One moment he was just outside my range, the next he'd closed the distance and tapped my sternum lightly. It was more of a touch than a strike, just marking the point. My kicking leg had barely returned to the ground when he was already moving again, flowing around to my side with that same heightened speed. I spun to face him and he dropped into a searingly fast leg sweep that put me flat on my back, knocking the breath out of my lungs.
Good GOD he's fast. He was sandbagging that hard?
I lay there, winded and staring at the ceiling, back flat against the cold mats.
Edwin stood over me, not even breathing hard. "That was a chi-enhanced speed burst. I channeled energy into my movement for a few seconds."
"That's ..impressive" I wheezed, still catching my breath.
"I can maintain that speed for around ten to fifteen seconds before I'm drained. A master could keep it up for minutes, or use it more efficiently." He brushed off his sweatpants. "My old sifu in Hong Kong could move like that for sustained periods, and he was faster than me. There are martial artists out there who make him look slow. Iron Fist, for one."
I finally caught my breath. "That's... not something I'm remotely equipped to deal with."
"Most people aren't," Edwin said. "But knowing it exists helps. You won't be caught completely off-guard if you run into someone using it."
Edwin extended a hand and pulled me off the mat.
"You lost the breathing pattern about ten seconds in," Edwin observed, dusting off his hands. "That's standard for your first time. The goal is to keep it even when someone's trying to put you on the ground."
He paused. "Keep practicing the routine I taught you. At least an hour daily. You should be on the right track."
I shook his hand. "Thanks for the help."
Edwin nodded. "Call me when you want to set up your next session. I'll tell you the rate then. I have a few more tricks I can teach you."
I walked out of the meditation center and back onto Canal Street, my thoughts churning.
If Edwin was what a low-end, semi-trained chi user looked like, I didn't even want to think about encountering a mid-range one in melee. The speed burst alone had been disorienting enough, and anyone faster was going to be a nightmare to fight.
I shook my head and kept walking.
This universe....