"Bullet Time? Nice Matrix reference," Richard said, raising an eyebrow in wry amusement.
The skill had clear limits: it required a bullet already in flight to activate. Rather than targeting Anomalies, it was clearly designed for humans—Anomalies generally don't use human firearms.
Still, it wasn't useless against Anomalies; it just meant he'd have to keep a gun in hand during combat and train hard in that style of fighting.
Curious to test the skill's power, Richard stuffed foam plugs into his ears, stepped into the basement, and fired a shot inside the cramped ten-square-meter space.
[Bullet Time]
The instant he pulled the trigger, every muscle snapped taut, blood roared through his veins, and his heart hammered. The world slowed to a crawl; with naked eyes he could track the spinning bullet.
He jogged a few steps, overtook the fresh round, and slapped a brick into its path—watching the slug punch clean through.
Two seconds later time snapped back to normal. The bullet became a streak he could barely see, drilling through the brick and burying itself in the wall.
Moments afterward a fierce ache rolled through him—especially in legs and arms—as if every fiber had been strained.
"All I did was move a bit in Bullet Time and I'm wrecked. What happens if I sprint or fight flat-out in there?" He shuddered; for now the skill would stay an emergency ace—life-saving or lethal, nothing more.
If even his peak physique could only manage this much, he'd need another way to push his body further.
Learning formal martial arts sounded good, but Richard had been brawling since childhood and brawled well. The skill panel refused to recognize that talent—frustrating.
No famous masters lived in the little town. As for the sheriff's office… the deputies meant well and had heart, yet their professionalism was doubtful. One glance at Hopper's build and fighting skill told the whole story.
Given equal stats, Richard could take every last one of them in a straight fight.
In this federation, after all, the gospel was hot-lead "American jūjitsu," not fisticuffs.
Still, he could scout for a genuine instructor; if the town had none, he'd simply import a coach. Money wasn't an issue.
Richard went upstairs, raided the fridge, and used [Hyper-digestion] to convert the food into instant fuel, patching up the weariness.
Hyper-digestion paired decently with Bullet Time, but it had ceilings: soft-tissue aches vanished fast, yet damage to organs or bones would likely remain.
Richard believed derived skills could level up—just like personal ones—once he earned another promotion, the way he had after defeating the Doll. One day the skill panel might unlock new functions… Jonathan barricaded himself in his room, day after day devouring photography textbooks. Come spring he would leave home to study under a famous director, and he meant to arrive prepared rather than clueless.
He knew the opportunity was precious, owed as much to luck as to Richard—without Richard's "found-footage horror" concept, no one would have dreamed of shooting a feature on a home camcorder. Jonathan had merely directed the world's first such film.
Those were his public reasons for hiding away; the private one was simpler: he was dodging his own feelings.
Not friendship, not family—his feelings for Nancy.
He had loved her quietly for ages, but she was dating his best friend Steve. He tried to bury the hope, yet the itch never quite died; sometimes when their eyes met he swore the spark went both ways.
To shut out those wrong thoughts and keep them from tormenting him, he forced his attention elsewhere, trying to numb his emotional confusion with studies and future plans.
After all, a life isn't made of love alone—career and ambition matter just as much, and they fill most of the road we travel.
So Jonathan now tried to bury himself in work. At first it went badly; he couldn't stop imagining scenes with Nancy. But gradually his mind, crammed with knowledge, grew numb. He settled, obsessed.
These textbooks on photography weren't Buddhist sutras, yet to Jonathan they might as well have been profound dharma, bringing sudden enlightenment.
"Photography really is fascinating," he thought. When he recalled Nancy now, he found his heart unexpectedly calm.
He owed it all to "The Self-Cultivation of Photographers and Directors." Treat everything as performers in front of a lens, and you adopt a director's discipline: feel nothing extra toward the actors; see them merely as objects possessing aesthetic qualities.
In that way, the mind finds peace.
Knock knock knock.
"Jonathan!"
The sudden rapping and shout jolted him awake at a desk strewn with camera parts. A page clung to his cheek. He stared blankly around the room, glanced at the door, then at the light leaking through the curtains, and realized he'd pulled another all-nighter.
He peeled the paper from his face, rubbed his bleary eyes, yanked the curtains open, and shuffled to the door. "Coming," he called.
He recognized Richard's voice and assumed only Richard had come, so he let his guard down—boxer shorts, old tank top, and an unwashed bird's-nest of hair.
The door swung open to reveal Richard and, behind him, a teenage Indian girl. Jonathan's brain was still booting up. He yawned. "Heard you left town for a few days—back today?"
"Got back yesterday and brought a friend to meet you," Richard said with a grin.
Jonathan's mind finally woke. Seeing the punk-rock girl eyeing him with sardonic amusement, he gasped, "Damn it, Richard! You could've warned me you weren't alone!"
He slammed the door and scrambled to change. "Interesting personality," Carly said to Richard, entertained.
Richard chuckled. "Let's wait in the living room—give the gentleman time to spruce up."
Carly shrugged. They settled on the sofa; ten minutes later Jonathan appeared, hair half-dry, face washed. He sat awkwardly, popped back up. "What can I get you to drink?"
"Coke," Carly and Richard answered together.
"Coming right up," Jonathan said with a forced smile, heading for the kitchen.
They clinked ice-cold Cokes, the tension easing, and Jonathan finally asked, "So, what's up?"
"This is Carly—another victim of The Lab. Subject Eight, the illusionist. Brought her to meet you," Richard explained.
"Carly Prasad," she offered, sparing the words.
"Jonathan Byers," he replied quickly; both turned to Richard.
Richard said, "You've been studying photography, right? Sometimes framing and imagination feel slippery, so I introduced Carly. Her illusions should help you practice."
"Well…" Jonathan hadn't expected this and almost refused, not wanting to impose.
Carly shrugged. "No big deal. Daily power workout—helping you is just a bonus."
Left speechless, Jonathan hesitated.
Richard pressed on. "You can't learn in a vacuum. Real practice is the best teacher. Carly's illusions are powerful; they'll spark ideas for you, and she gets to stretch her ability. Win-win."
"All… all right, then." Jonathan, already tempted, agreed.