The door closes gently behind me in perfect time with my sigh of relief. That… could have gone a lot worse. To be honest, the last hour of class was so utterly normal that I had forgotten that I was in trouble. All Guy did though was remind me that he’s accountable for everyone in his class (despite not taking attendance) and that he’ll get worried if I leave for extended periods again, ask if I was okay and if there was any reason I left so suddenly. That was trickier, but the open-ended phrasing let me get away with some handwaving and vague answers. I had feared for a second that he might have noticed something weird, seen me suddenly disappear or whatever. After all, I have no idea how this “memory erasing” Minerva mentioned would account for one student having left in a zone that never happened.

  From how Mr. Wilfort treated it, I “simply got up and ran out of the classroom” for no apparent reason and without so much as stopping to check with him.

  The whole conversation lasted maybe two minutes, leaving me three to get to my next class. Which class do I have next? History. Right, yes. Shoot, Ms. Inges is just about the only teacher left who actually takes attendance. I take off at a sprint down the hall, out the door, shoving past the ever-thinning crowd of underclassmen.

  ?????

  “You know, I’ve been wondering,” I say aloud. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear me up here. “The whole ‘talk in my head’ thing. That makes sense and all, but if being your vessel is what bound our thoughts, how did you talk to me before that?”

  I half expect Minerva to ask me to clarify what I mean.

  I was wondering when you’d ask that, she ‘says’ instead. Right, AGI and all. Also the bit where our thoughts flow into each other’s.

  Before you, how to say… before you accepted the chalice — I grimace at the memory — It is true that we did not share such a bond. Even so, you might recall that I am one of the most advanced, capable Autotech to have ever been created, and am self-improving and constantly learning. Telecommunication is trivial when you can near-instantly read and manipulate brain waves to simulate thoughts artificially or to key into others’ thoughts.

  Huh. Okay, that makes sense, I guess. It’s also moderately terrifying.

  Add it to the list, I guess.

  My curiosity temporarily sated, I turn back to looking over the rail that lines the roof of my apartment building. It’s an old building, signs of age visible all along the rain-weathered surfaces of stone and concrete, the rust collecting on the metal things that stick out of the electricity or water or whatever room.

  It’s not a bad place, all things considered. I rarely have anyone over, partially because I have no one to invite, so it's a little messy at the best of times. I make it work, and have done for the last two years. It’s like college life, or so I hear. Now, I’m not so confident I’ll even be alive in two years to go to college.

  Unless, of course, I do something about it.

  Which is, handily, exactly what I’m standing here for.

  “So, how exactly are we doing this?”

  Simple, Minerva says. Drop and give me fifty.

  “... What does that mean?” I ask, giving her a quizzical expression before realizing that I am, in fact, making a face at seemingly no one. I must look crazy to the hypothetical onlooker right now.

  Pushups, Rowan. Pushups.

  “Okay, but hearing you say my name in my head is mildly disorienting.”

  Just get to it already, she chides.

  Fine, fine! I got the point. Wait, if you’re like autopilot, can’t you just do it for me whether I like it or not?

  As of right now, no.

  “What does that mean?” I say aloud, only vaguely noticing that I forgot to talk out loud before.

  Well, the way most autopilot works, it really only requires a single implant chip, as you already know. Usually, doing so circumvents the need for any direct augments on the limbs, since those are controlled by muscles and the tech only needs to signal to the motor cortex to tighten this muscle and release that one.

  Right, I nod along. We learn this in sophomore year.

  However, you never received an implant, she continues. Instead, the stuff you imbibed was something of a… let’s call it my blood.

  “Wait, so I was drinking your blood?” I gag again, my stomach thankfully still too empty for anything more.

  Minerva does the mental equivalent of letting out an exasperated sigh, so palpable I can practically hear it.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Like I said, let us call it blood, because that is the closest equivalent. If you must know, that liquid was actually composed of millions of microscopic nanofilaments. The instant you swallowed them, each filament was absorbed through the walls of your sarcophagus and stomach and diffused into your bloodstream. I am not an augment; your body is not adapting or getting used to my presence the way most would with their augments. No, you are transforming as we speak. Every cell in your body that dies is replaced by a new, stronger version — one that has been rewritten by and infused with my own blood and code. The faster the transformation, the better; otherwise, your cells will collapse in on themselves from the strain and pressure of the transformed ones around them, and your vitals will fail one by one. The more you train, the faster you rebuild your muscles and old biology, the faster your new biology can replace it.

  “So instead of my brain, you’re in my blood, and I’m turning into a high-end cyborg. Nice.”

  That is accurate enough, she says.

  Okay, so basically I have a bunch of nanobots in my blood now because I drank the electric blue blood of a roman goddess. I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry.

  “Hang on,” I say. “If you’re in my blood, do I now have, like, purple blood or something?” That would be kind of cool, in a freaky way.

  I find myself utterly unsurprised by your strange choice of priorities.

  “But do I get purple blood?”

  I have no idea.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?!”

  It’s not like I have done this before, child.

  “Don’t call me a child!”

  You didn’t have purple blood during that fight, though, Minerva points out in lieu of responding. Though, that could just as well be because it was still integrating at the time. Maybe now, you’ll scrape your knee and it’ll look like you’re bleeding grape juice.

  “Way to make it sound lame as fuck,” I mutter.

  I was more so expecting you to ask something like why we’re focusing on integrating with your body and not your brain first. To which the answer would be that I’m actively preventing any of the integrated blood from affecting your brain because your current body is still not strong enough for that.

  “Great, makes sense. Wait, how do I make my brain tougher? Like, do really hard math problems?”

  The mind must follow the body, is all she says. Now, get in form!

  Rolling my eyes, I lower myself to the floor, only for my companion to let out what can only be described as an annoyed hiss.

  Stretches, child. I meant form for stretching. Fifty pushups will do you as much good as a bat to the face if you’re too sore to move after the tenth. Do you not remember any stretches from PE?

  “Not a child! And no, I don’t remember any pre-workout stretches. That’s what I have a personal AGI assistant for,” I quip.

  Assistant my ass, she snorts, but gives me the relevant information anyways. Start with lunges, hold for eight seconds on each leg, five times per side…

  I spend the next fifteen minutes doing a sequence of movements that are supposedly not actual exercise, but leave me sweating and out of breath nonetheless.

  Alright, good enough. Now, first set of pushups. Go.

  “Wah… Water,” I pant, swaying on my feet. I swing my torso around, searching desperately for a chair to sit on.

  Did you not bring a bottle up with you?

  I didn’t think to!

  What, you thought you’d just be out for a walk in the park?

  I didn’t think anything, because I had no idea what to expect! Why didn’t you say something? You’re literally with me at all times.

  I didn’t realize you were this… stupid, Minerva replies flatly.

  You can literally read my mind, I think back at her.

  Minerva gives me the mental equivalent of an eyeroll, before acquiescing. I run back down the stairs of the apartment building, all four flights of them from the top down to the tenth floor, and practically burst through the door of my home with her still yelling in my ear to go faster.

  ?????

  The next hour and a half passes in a kind of fever-dream-esque way, feeling quick and slow at the same time. Mostly, though, it feels like torture. Why did I ever sign up for this? Oh wait, that’s right. I didn’t.

  Less talking, more working, Minerva says in my head.

  I wasn’t even talking!

  One more set of pushups.

  I groan, but obligingly get back down on all fours and stretch my legs out until I’m in position. My core already burns just from doing that, and I haven’t been able to feel my arms since fifteen minutes ago—

  Nine minutes and forty-three seconds, Minerva corrects me.

  —but I shove all of that aside in favor of lowering myself once more until my body hovers just above the ground, my arms actually quaking from the effort.

  The only silver lining is that I’ve finally begun to feel the effects of the exercise on my body. It’s not the sort of improvement of muscle building and whatever else normally happens to people who work out daily for years. No, I can feel Minerva in my veins now. I’ve begun to understand just what exactly Minerva meant. Every time I lift myself back up, sweat pouring down my neck, whole body trembling, there’s this burning inside me, like a fire has been lit. Every movement is slightly easier than the last.

  Oh, it’s slow. Painfully slow. The difference is infinitesimal, so minute that I would hardly notice it if I weren’t actively looking for it. Still, I can feel the integration, can feel my flesh slowly transforming, hardening, becoming not just stronger but more compact.

  With a final grunt, I complete the last pushup, promptly collapsing on the cold concrete. The hard chill of the ground feels so good on my skin that I’m of half a mind to just lay down and sleep right here and now.

  The hell do you mean, sleep? Minerva’s voice cuts through my thoughts. We still have physical conditioning, stamina, and efficiency to train.

  “I don’t even know what you mean by efficiency,” I groan.

  Only one way to find out!