Megan Howard had always done what pleased her father. She could barely recall when it all started. Was it when she fell off her first bicycle? Was it that hairline fracture in her skull when she had first begun to skate? Or was it the meteors, after which she was all he had left? More likely than not the protective shield over her life escalated incident by incident.

This was a world of lunacy. She watched it become this caricature of human nature. Rage, resentment, selfishness, desire; human extrema amplified their gifts. If you were kind, you became kinder yet. If you were ambitious, all the more prolific your works became. If a crack marred your character, it became a ravine.

People never could wrap their minds around that. Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of gifted could be peaceful, law-abiding citizens. But one murdered ten people in a bar. One act of violence could magnify into public perception. M.A.G.E had an entire office dedicated to managing such events. Horrendous news were interlaced between layers of positive press. Not hidden, of course, but put into perspective. Only the most observant noticed just how much gifted didn’t belong among normal folk. Amidst so much positive press, they had been relegated into the same class of opinion shared by conspiracy nuts.

This didn’t work if one hundred cases—and counting—of gifted overran the city. New Langshir was becoming a burden on the nation’s zeitgeist.

Megan did not know if this was the reason behind what she was currently witnessing through a sliver inside her father’s wardrobe. She had to stay very, very still. The slightest movement produced a crinkling noise from the plastic-wrapped suits hung beside her. Mayor Howard wore his best suit, a thin smile and a face he kept dry with a handkerchief in his inner pocket. He was in the middle of a meeting with a strange group of people who most definitely did not look like civil servants. One of them dressed like a biker. Another was huge and muscular. They were discussing the future of the city.

Megan had entered the office to talk with her father, to convince him despite all that has happened in the city, she should be allowed to live alone. Lord knows what had compelled her to hide the moment the door knob twisted. She had to wait a long time before she could leave. What she had eavesdropped was a lead weight in her stomach, and she found it very hard to speak at all.

--

Navigating the school grounds used to feel like a magical experience. Perhaps all new students went through this honeymoon. Eventually everyone fell into habit and succumbed to the rigors of routine. The stresses of expectations, the promises they imposed upon themselves, all these things tended to dull the sparkle in their eye.

There was a great intersection in the middle of the campus that conjoined many roads into one big roundabout where a statue of Victory stood tall in the middle of a fountain. The majestic bronze was not the focus of the day; it had not been for weeks. Somebody had put up bulletin boards a couple days after the outbreak of insanity. The boards now swarmed with pinned pictures taken at candid moments, organic and unprocessed. Bunches of flowers were laid at the feet of the boards. Wilted ones disappeared throughout the day, but the amount always seemed unchanged. And there was always a thin crowd at least gathered there.

Lyssa stopped there momentarily on her way to Whitworth’s office. She had not lost anyone to the recent disaster. But she still felt the need to pay a minute of respect. A voice mocked her.

“What posturing,” it said. “Making up for the lack of concern you felt when it all happened.”

At first she feared that another Self had splintered from her without her knowledge, but in the end, she realized the voice was all hers. And she was right. People who supposed to get more sympathetic if bad things happened to them, or at least that was the socially acceptable narrative. But that meant normal people were the least sympathetic there was. The only thought Lyssa had when she first learned of what happened to the city was, ‘it finally happened to someone else’.

It was easy to appear kind if one’s kindness has never been tested. Anyone with a keyboard whose roof had never caved in or whose life had never been threatened, could afford a platitude or two.

A conversation took her out of introspection. It was between a student who was armored with an integument of roiling slime and another without an apparent gift.

“You alright?” One said to the other.

“I feel sick,” the other replied. “She was registered, but she almost never used it. They only did it ‘cuz she was a cat-2. And they came in a group. Baseline bigots.”

“We’ll prove them wrong.”

“Maybe I… I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to keep doing this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who knows?”

And then they pretended to forget the exchange. Lyssa continued walking.

She arrived at Whitworth’s office in time to see several men and women in suits leave with clipboards and laptops. She entered cautiously.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” the Director said. He set the dossier he was reading aside. “How are you?”

Pleasantries. Lyssa kept her mind blank.

“Good.”

Whitworth smiled tiredly. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t read minds unless I need to.”

“You said you had an… elective for me?”

“Just for you. You’ll be receiving instruction from a few teachers. I’ll have you see them soon.”

It all seemed so odd. But Lyssa’s schedule was too sparse. She had little choice.

“For now, let’s talk.” Whitworth gestured to an empty chair near his desk.

Lyssa took a seat.

“How have you been feeling?”

“Less exhausted,” Lyssa said honestly. She guessed that it had something to do with Bil hiding away. But she was also getting a stronger, firmer grasp on herself. At least she felt that way.

“No episodes? No blackouts?”

“None. Though I haven’t used my gifts outside of class.”

“I see.”

“Sir, what is Clandestine?”

“Right to it, then.” Whitworth cleared his throat. “Heroes are the frontend. The zeppelins, the frontline, the support roles, all of it is necessary to suppress overt threats. Most villains don’t do everything themselves. In fact, the most dangerous ones employ many others to enact their plans.”

“Henchmen.”

“Right.” He laughed. “The movies would use such vernacular. Henchmen, yes. They do most of the work below public perception. And so hero institutions employ an equivalent counter. Ours is called Clandestine. We have special permissions from the government to operate above and below the law, but only if gifted are involved.”

“But Sir I… I’m a first year.”

“There is no age prerequisite for what must be done. And well…” He made a face. “I’m swamped, to tell you the truth. I’ve been leading the clean-up process and trying to convince the White House the situation is under control. The city is likely swimming with bureau agents. I need someone like me. Someone with a powerful telepathic gift.”

“That’s also a problem,” Lyssa said. “She- I don’t know where she is. The Self that governs my telepathy. She’s dug deep.”

“What?”

“This has happened before. But never for this long. The last time this happened was when you chased her away. She came back different, stronger.” She didn’t know why she was being so candid. What would the Director do with that information? What would he think?

“Fascinating,” he said.

“I don’t think I want to do any sessions either,” Lyssa quickly added. “I’ve been doing better. I think I have a handle on myself.”

“There is a part of you loose in your consciousness where you can’t see, Lyssa.”

“I know, but-”

“I can help you help yourself, however.” Whitworth dug into his desk. Things clattered from place to place before he reemerged. He set a ring-shaped device on the table. It looked like a jury-rigged toy from a Victorian fashion convention.

“What is that?”

“This is a neuro-stablizer,” he said. “It should keep your borders clear and the flow of mental energy steady. Use it tonight and search your mind. You’ll need all your pieces in order for this to work.”

She took it in her hands. It was light, but numb to the touch, despite being inactive.

“Why do you have this?” She asked.

“I used to need it,” Whitworth said. “When I was… younger, and tired of hearing voices which I had thought were mine.”

“It’s so old.”

“Very. Be careful with it.”

--

“I almost feel bad.”

“For what?”

“She can’t seem to decide between trusting and distrusting you. Then you give her that.”

“Touché. Trust doesn’t matter to me as much as efficacy. What about that presence you told me about?”

“It left the city already. Whoever they are, they’re one of my kind.”

“What the hell is your kind, Jackson?”

“Gifted, just like you sir.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. You’ve verified the information in this dossier?”

“Yes. Dr. Terelich was thorough with that lead I gave him. She is quite possibly the first truly successful case of gift transplantation.”

“This can never get out, understood?”

“Of course. Lord knows how people would panic if they knew gifts could be given.”

“Or taken away.”