She didn’t think of the passage of time. The gradually dimming sky was the only indication that the seconds became hours. The golden disk became orange, enlarging as it drew closer to the buildings where perspective bloated its face. The city grew a halo, from the sun’s setting. Then it became dark. She hadn’t moved in all that time, thinking and not knowing what to think. She knew what it was to be self-conscious, but never before has she felt a stranger in her own skin. Did all the Selves feel that way?

Lyssa leaned back, letting gravity lay her out on the bed. There was no answer in the blank stipple ceiling. There would be no answer when morning came, but eventually, she had to sleep. She was started from a knock on her door.

“Come in,” Lyssa said.

A thin crack of hallway dawn spilled into the room and was promptly closed again. A familiar silhouette depressed the bedsprings beside Lyssa.

“Are you okay?” Carrie asked.

“No,” Lyssa said. “But there’s nothing anyone else can do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because depending on how you look at things, what I have isn’t even a problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

So Lyssa told her. About what she was, and how she might not be real.

“Nobody in the world has ever experienced a problem like this,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean it does not exist,” Carrie said.

“But it does. It’s not something anyone could ever understand. Things that are not heard don’t exist in the world.”

“Well I’ve heard it now.”

“You’re a nice person, Carrie,” Lyssa said with a sigh. “But you know what I just explained sounds utterly insane. It is, and the people around us will never not see it that way. I remember sitting on the swings as a young girl, and seeing two kids fall onto the pavement. One scraped their elbow, and the other their knee. It wasn’t that bad, but the elbow kid was crying their eyes out. Eventually, their parents found them, and showered them with nurturing cajolery, promising a band-aid and candy when they get home. The other kid picked himself up and walked back by himself.

“That’s why children wail. They get attention from it, and that attention brings them care from people who empathize. I don’t think people ever stop being children. We just get older, and we’re expected to be more resilient all while we become less patient. If a child calls for help and they don’t have a single scratch on them, people aren’t going to treat them seriously from that point onward.”

“You think no one could ever empathize with your issues?” Carrie asked.

“I don’t need a band-aid,” Lyssa said. “If I tell people the story I just told you, what kind of response do you think I’ll get?”

Carrie said nothing. They both knew the answer.

“I can’t speak to a shrink,” Lyssa said. “Especially a psychic one. There’s someone in me who would probably melt their brain if they aren’t as strong as the Director. So I’m alone with these voices, until the day I die or stop seeing them as a problem.”

“Then you don’t have a choice, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That kid you remember seeing, the one who went home by himself. Just because he wasn’t crying doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. He just knew that no one would come if he did, so why bother. Everybody interesting has something they can’t tell other people because no one would ever understand. Granted in your case it’s a bit more… advanced. But as long as it’s real for you, that’s all that matters. You just need to deal with it on your own.”

“How do you know this?” Lyssa asked.

“Just pontificating I guess. I’m not that interesting. It’s easy for me to say that because I never had a difficult life.” Carrie stood off the bed. “You should rest up. We have a game to win on Monday.”

The week has felt long. So much had happened in a few days. Lyssa had forgotten about the games. She took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said. “Good night.”

The door was opened and closed again, leaving Lyssa alone in the dark.

Carrie didn’t seem like she got it. After all, who could understand how it felt to realize you were created by… yourself because you didn’t think life was worth living anymore? She wasn’t real in the sense that it had not been her who was born. She was made. But she had real emotional connections to all her memories. Those were hers. And after spending all that time in the cave, those gaps in her life had been filled. She was more complete than ever before.

Maybe there was no need for complexity when it came to what was or wasn’t real, as long as she thought she was. All she needed to do was never let go. But that was easier said than done.

--

Whitworth made it to the town hall more or less on time. The meeting had barely started. He lingered outside the wooden double doors to the room to confirm with his teams that the situation had been dealt with, though he said nothing to them about what he saw.

Then he entered and joined the crowd of press and other spectatorial attendees. The discussion already seemed heated. He glanced at the sides of the wide, rectangular room, where tall poles with parabolic dishes had been placed. Telepathic alarms. If he so much as extended his thoughts beyond his skull, whoever was monitoring them would know. Standard affairs for sensitive topics. Discourse was based on truth and deception in equal parts, after all.

“We really would like to know what your thoughts are on the rising rate of unsupervised crime,” a reporter near the front asked. It didn’t seem like it was the first time the question had been asked. The term was a pun, meaning crime that did not warrant a hero’s attention. It was hard to imagine a superstrong man in red, white, and blue with a star on his chest busting into a living room to stop domestic abuse.

Mayor Howard took a sip from his glass of water.

“This is farcical,” he said. “You know my answer on the matter. We need more honest men and women in blue, not capes, but here’s the thing about the situation. About fifty percent of unsupervised crime are gift related. Our gifted policemen undergo gift discipline. They catalogue each power expenditure like a bullet fired. Criminals do not have this responsibility.”

“Are you suggesting the job isn’t being done because criminals don’t have a policeman’s reserve?”

Even Whitworth felt a tinge of second hand frustration from that, and he wasn’t even close to the front of the room.

“I’m saying our brave men and women are giving everything they’ve got,” Howard said calmly. “We need more personnel, we need more training per personnel, we need more everything. And that takes time.”

“But this happens every year, does it not?” Another reporter asked. “Every time the M.A.G.E Annual rolls around it seems to inspire more crime, unsupervised and gifted. Why do we have this issue year after year?”

“There’s no causative link between them,” Howard replied. “Here are the facts. Heroes are protecting us from powered crime, but can’t intervene in household crime due to the potential for collateral. We’re respecting our citizens’ intelligence and privacy by not proposing surveillance equipment on every street corner.”

“What are you proposing?”

“I have been speaking with a private security firm on the matter. We’re pleased to announce a stopgap measure for our citizens’ protection. Mr. Razler?”

The mayor waved a man behind him to the microphone. The man looked entirely out of place for a conference, wearing a dark jacket in lieu of a suit and tie.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Viktor Razler. I represent Bulwark Private Security Solutions. I’ve been briefed on New Langshir’s unique nature. This city has history. For generations people have flocked here believing they would be safe living where superheroes are born. But we all know the real world ain’t like the movies. There’s just too many fires, and not enough hands to snuff it out, not to mention the notion that some fires aren’t worth a hero’s time.”

Whitworth frowned. Something didn’t seem right about this whole thing. He looked towards the back where the man had stepped up from. He had two escorts with him, a large man whose musculature seemed to strain his clothes and a scrawny one who looked entirely bored being there.

He grabbed his phone and issued an order to his intelligence team.

“Give me everything you have on ‘Bulwark Private Security’,” he whispered.

“Enough faffing about,” someone from the crowd said. “What are you offering?”

“Something this great country was built on,” Viktor answered. “Tools for defending our property and loved ones.” He seemingly produced a black device out of thin air. An audible murmur reverberated throughout the crowd.

“This is the BPS-11 PDW, designed in-house. It fires 12.7mm rounds with enough energy to stop someone with category 3 strength. Its length is just above the limit for what constitutes as a concealable firearm and comes unsuppressed, fully abiding by the Consideration for Ungifted Individuals Act of 2024.” Viktor stopped briefly to make a sign of the cross on his chest at the mention of that date. Whitworth rolled his eyes. “We’ve been paid by contract to provide our personnel for assistance as well.” He brandished a buzzer that looked like the kind a senior citizen would press when they fell. “Our men have been stationed in neighborhoods farthest away from New Langshir police forces and have been authorized to stabilize any situations until the arrival of professional heroes or policemen.”

“When would these services be made available?” Someone asked.

“They have been for the past few days,” Viktor said. More murmurs, louder this time. “Now, I’m ready to answer any questions you may have.”

Whitworth had heard enough. No small arms had the capacity to harm someone with category 2 gift related to physical strength, let alone a category 3. He left the room and waited for the meeting to end. Once they left the protection of the telepathic alarms he would pull information out of their heads and find out who they really were.