Imagine a world where the apple never fell on Newton’s head. Devolve to a timeline where every invention branching from an understanding of classical mechanics had been shifted some years later due to missing genius. The observer with the context of both times, concludes: that apple must have had insurmountable weight to have inspired such world-changing knowledge. The logos would say that it is impossible; an apple is an apple. But it was attractive to think the fall of an apple could inspire such change in history.

It’s all a story, of course. Because words which travel from the pen gracefully last longer on the page and make its mark deeper in human memory. Even Newton had told that story. In all likelihood, it didn’t happen that way, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Romantics staked too much on the flaps of a butterfly’s wings. Had Newton not formulated his work, someone else would have. Someone else actually did with regards to calculus. Every Newton likely would have had a Leibniz. For every invention, there would be a first. History and progress had its own plodding momentum. The apple had no more weight than its 100 grams. So how heavy did the apple need to be in order to truly divert history?

I’ve seen things in the minds of men while we dreamt. Wild thoughts echoing within the confines of skulls or in the theater of forum. The more they echoed, the louder and more distorted the narratives became. Storytellers attributing cause and effect, action and consequence, motivation and execution. Some say Rachminau was never insane, and that his divine vision saw an immense evil hidden in man’s harness. Some say he saw the future and his finalis opus was to drive mankind towards that path. The meteors fell from the sky. Mortal lives were ruined. Victory’s fist saved millions. And superheroism became our ambrosia. Rachminau brought this age of dependency on us. Rachminau, the mutant preeminent, the god-gifted, sought supremacy for his kin, and he achieved it at the cost of a measly few hundred thousand deaths including his own for martyrdom’s sake. It was an ingenious, villainous play. That was why we needed superheroes, to foil supervillains and their dastardly plans. No, that was why superheroes must be stopped. They were the homo superior. Their breed would replace us, make us obsolete in a world we built. The ungifted were meek, and the meek ought to inherit the world.

I’ve seen men and women do horrible things in an attempt to escape this truth as they saw it. I’ve seen a gang of ungifted grow brave like mice in a feeding frenzy attacking what their research told them was a category two gifted. The girl is not a fighter. She uses her power like a child flails their fist. It tears two of the ungifted apart, loosening their entrails onto the concrete sidewalk. This emboldens the gang as much as it terrifies the girl. She panics. They get a lucky shot with a metal bat onto the back of her head. It dazes her, and they give no quarter. She is beaten on the ground and languidly brought towards death by each strike. The ungifted had started the fight, now they cannot stop. If they did, they feared she would recover and retaliate. In their minds they were defending themselves from her, and from the future of gifted supremacy. Yes, the species must defend itself. Several bystanders notice and stop. Their hands reach into their pockets to retrieve their phones.

Her? She is clueless. Even now she wanders. A street is cordoned off by policemen with plastic shields and batons so the procession of ungifted could pass with their banners and signs, unmolested. They wear angry faces. Their minds? Empty. You could hardly tell them apart, all individuality welded unceremoniously into a purpose no single one of them could define the perimeter of. Their diktat is for M.A.G.E to pay reparations. For their cars, for their homes, for their loved ones. Everything bad that had happened as a direct or tangential consequence of the gifted rampage. By what policy and to what extent? They couldn’t tell you. I’m in their heads. The city smells of ash and stings with every breath. She filters it through the cloth of her sweater and hurries away. Their angry, dolorous expressions, it is too much for her. But try as she might to bury her guilty thoughts deep, she cannot escape from the fact that she was finding it hard to care. She has been on both sides now. The ones who have survived disaster and the ones who escaped it entirely, simply glad it wasn’t them. This was just the way people are.

But the danger isn’t a thing as banal as human nature. The real danger was the story, the belief that history was a narrative, able to be changed upon the introduction of an inciting incident. Who could be blamed for believing this? Everyone knew of Newton and his apple. Only a tiny minority understood that the academically inclined mathematician would have likely made his discovery anyways, apple or not. The real danger was believing dropping a rock would inspire progress. Especially because it can.

--

The riots were still going strong despite weeks having passed. It wasn’t like the ones Lyssa was used to reading on the news. People usually forgot whatever it was they were angry about quite quickly. Not this time. She suspected that it had been brewing for a long time, biding its time to be released when people were the most amenable to new ideas. Nobody cared when they occupied two-lane streets waving their signs about how the mutants will take over. Nobody even remembered when one of these so-called ‘baseline bigots’ stormed into the casters’ booth in the middle of a game and made their message to an audience of millions. The message hadn’t changed. But the city had. The city was listening.

She had entered the café in a rush to escape the rows of marching protestors. Seeing them made her feel oddly nostalgic, and guilty, though she had no idea why. The chimes sang briefly before the door shut, turning the chanting into a quiet murmur. It was still audible, but ignorable. She ordered a medium, black, and found her eye caught on the television screen at the corner of the room.

“This week we will have the great heroes Stonemason and Rebarbara assist in repairing 50th Ave. As you can see behind me, many still do believe in the institution. Some have even taken it upon themselves to help. Though it’s not all faith and teamwork here in New Langshir. In Langshir Square, where a great statue of Victory once inspired little girls everywhere, now seems to be a bust for a number of vandals.”

“What the hell are they doing?” The barista said, leaning on the counter to watch.

“As you can see behind me, a spirited attempt at pulling down the statue is taking place. They’re not having much luck. They’ll just have to be satisfied with that debasing graffiti. The police are on their way.”

Lyssa watched the vandals leave their ropes and paints, clutching onto their hats as they ran.

“I think I know that guy,” the barista said, pointing to one of the dozen or so people on screen, running.

“You do?” Lyssa said.

“Friend of a friend. Doesn’t even live in this city. Always did like being a part of things.”

“Hm…”

“How have you been? Get your crisis sorted out?”

It took Lyssa a moment. The caffeine hit just in time.

“Right, you’re the- uh…”

“Nosy coffee guy. Empath.”

“No. You were a big help.”

“Big?”

“Tiny, forgettable amount of help.”

“I aim to please,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m Norman.”

“Lyssa.” She shook his offered hand.

“Did you end up getting accepted?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at her shoes sheepishly. “I’m learning about ethics and civil engineering. Apparently heroes are often employed to help rebuild roads and homes. Never would have guessed from the movies.”

“Guess going to technical school for two years can make a hero out of you then.”

“I guess so,” Lyssa said, smiling.

“You seem a lot better than when we met on that bench outside. Either that or you’re full.”

“Real useful gift you’ve got.”

Norman gave his head a shake. “Either I know just what to say or I’m super insensitive. Anyways, that guy is starting to glare at me, so if you ever need an unqualified counselor…” He began to write on a slip of paper. “…hit me up. Or just come by.”

The glaring customer crossed his arms. “By all means, keep chatting! I’m not in a hurry or anything.”

Lyssa had accepted the slip of paper without thinking. It wasn’t until she left the coffee shop that she realized what had just happened.

“Seriously?”