Free Flex by Ferrett Steinmetz

emerged from the basement just as a SMASH team fired tear gas in through the kitchen windows. Four canisters punched through simultaneously, spraying green smoke, fired by four separate men combined into a single Unimantic weapon.
    “ I’m from Samaritan Mutual! ” Paul yelled. “ Don’t –”
    He doubled over, vomiting. Paul thought his hands had trembled before, but now they rattled like branches in a windstorm–
    – nerve agents , he thought. They’re taking no chances with a ’mancer –
    As Paul’s knees gave out, four gunmetal-black cylinders sailed through the shattered window, rolling on the tile floor–
    –flashbangs–
    –they exploded, a supernova that obliterated Paul’s thoughts.
    Rough gloves grabbed his shoulders, smacked his head until his hair stopped burning. They tugged a hood over his head, bound his wrists with plastic strips.
    I’m not a ’mancer , Paul tried to say, but his words turned into fountains of puke.
    They hauled him outside. Paul’s foot caught on something; they yanked so hard, Paul thought his artificial leg would pop off. They slammed him against a police car.
    “ Nerf him !” Someone jabbed a needle into his neck, and the remainder of the world spun away.
----
    B eing awakened by your own projectile vomiting was not a good way to come to. A young Unimancer in a gray camo SMASH uniform tugged Paul’s head back, wiped off his chest.
    “…Death Metal?” Paul asked.
    The kid cocked his head in a mechanical, birdlike way, trying to recognize Paul. Paul remembered busting this kid for making a new brand of Flex called “Death Metal”. Anyone who took it got musical powers of a distinctly rocking flavor, spewing hellfire and shattering windows. It hadn’t taken Paul long to compile a list of obsessed Death Metal fans.
    The kid’s long black locks had been shaved to a crew cut, his tribal neck tattoos laser-removed to pale scars.
    “Do I know you, sir?” His stare was robotic.
    Paul remembered Death’s Metal’s Flex as chaotic energy, mostly harmless – whereas actual death metal was guttural, horrific growls, Death Metal’s Flex was cartoonish. People who used Death Metal’s drugs filled the air with wild fountains of goggle-eyed skulls and skeleton guitars and gyrating groupies…
    “You…” Death Metal offered him water, which Paul drank gratefully. Two people screamed at each other, their arguments cutting into Paul’s ears like buzz saws. “I tracked you down. For making Flex. In Duff’s Bar in Brooklyn? In the pit?”
    Death Metal blinked, as if that was a long time ago. Except it hadn’t been; it’d been maybe a year since Paul had pointed SMASH at him. Now all of that glorious ’mancy had been squashed out of him, reduced to a sad telepathy so he could join the military hive mind.
    “Do you still rock out?”
    Death Metal’s impassive face hitched in a half smile, but then became distracted by something Paul could not see: his Unimanced allies. Two other soldiers placed a loving palm on each of his shoulders.
    “No, sir,” Death Metal said, shaking off the memory. “I think as one, now.”
    Then the three soldiers looked, their faces wrinkling with simultaneous concern, over at the argument between a beat cop and their commander.
    “… I’m overriding your authority!” That voice grated on Paul in familiar ways. “You think Paul Tsabo – the guy who’s put away more ’mancers than anyone else – is a ’mancer? No. You’re not taking him to the Refactor.”
    The Refactor? Paul thought muzzily, legs twitching. They can’t bring me to the Refactor; I barely survived police training…
    “Procedure is to bring every suspect captured within a non-Euclidean zone back for testing,” a stern female voice replied. “’Mancers have no look. I personally Refactored each man on this team; they all looked ordinary when they arrived. That’s why we leave detection to the professionals .”
    The three Unimancers kept their gazes on their