January 8th, 2049.

A large, glowing object passed through the solar system at velocities exceeding the speed of light.

Nature: Unknown. Origin: Unknown. Destination: Unknown.

The object emitted radiation of an unknown type, and everywhere its light fell, it wreaked unmatched devastation, almost casually wiping out all of South Africa and Central Asia.

Over two billion dead in the blink of an eye.

Nearly as many died in the following year, from earthquakes and tsunamis, from food and energy shortages, from local conflicts in collapsed governments. The world stood on a brink, searching for someone, anyone to blame.

Then, a video.

A short clip, less than a minute long, taken with a shaky phone camera. A clip of a man wielding strange and unnatural powers to wrestle down a tornado.

The world found its scapegoat.

It would take years of fact gathering and blatant speculation to fully build a picture of what happened. Societies of the wise, of those seeking out words and symbols of power, existed for a long time. They existed in the British Empire, they existed in Rome and Egypt and every epoch before that. The knowledge of what was colloquially known as magic, whether it be seidr or orenda or witchcraft, was carefully gathered and hoarded, ever-expanding and ever-hidden from the uninitiated, for it was a power as dangerous as it was coveted. Though the masquerade was strained at times – few could watch the suffering of their friends and family, knowing they could alleviate it with the wave of a hand – the breaches were swiftly covered up, and the secret remained secret for many a century.

The age of global communication blew it wide open in under an hour.

The response was everything the wise feared and more. Ancient sites of power torn down, knowledge lost, countless students of magic perishing in modern-day witch hunts. The survivors were covertly recruited, at gunpoint, if necessary, by the world's governments, rushing to get their hands on a shiny new weapon in a universe that was suddenly revealed to be so vast and uncertain.

The years 2050-2052, with their worldwide hysteria, numerous local conflicts and an escalating arms race, would later be written into history books as the first of the Extraordinary Wars.

***

Despite having nothing planned for the day, I still woke up at 5:30.

I turned around and attempted to go back to sleep. It promptly took evasive action. I pursued it doggedly, but after fifteen minutes of twisting and turning was forced to admit that my lazy Sunday morning was not meant to be.

So I moved to plan B.

Snuggling under the covers, I settled into a comfortable position and closed my eyes.

{“Then get to it! I'm not leaving until I'm sure every security breach is taken care of!” “Eggs and bacon, no salt,” “Honey, I was at work, honest,” “Shit! You triggered the alarm!”}

Sifting through my connections did not take long, if only because most people were still – or already – sleeping, so I switched to the next part of my mourning routine.

Memories degraded. Seventy percent of new information was forgotten within twenty-four hours and ninety percent within a week. That was something of a problem, since memories formed the foundation of my power. I could enforce foreign perceptions through my connections, but those perceptions were based upon the ones I experienced myself. Though I could fudge some things and my target's mind filled in the details, the core effect relied on the sights, the sounds and smells and tastes and feelings that came from my own memory. To keep my arrows sharp and quiver full, I recounted recent events each morning and every night, focusing on new and useful sensory information.

The crush of the falling ceiling, the dust and the rumble; hazy figures, only visible from the corner of the eye; the disorienting feeling of the floor wobbling beneath your feet; a shrieking sound, so loud and piercing it left you rolling on the ground screaming.

That last one went into my special folder. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger – literally so, in my case.

The pop of a silenced gun, smoke getting into your throat and clouding your vision, the whistling of arrows and the crack of a bullet hitting the wall centimeters away...

The next time I opened my eyes, the clock showed 8 am.

***

“I'll need a car of my own.”

The words were confident, self-assured and said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

I raised my head from the cereal to look at the eleven-year-old girl sitting across the table.

“My birthday's coming up next month,” she explained. “I thought you'd want to know.”

She was serious.

“Casey, no,” I sighed.

“Casey, yes,” she countered. “You're always gone, and I need a way to reach my friends. I'm certainly not spending all day here,” she waved her hand at the dusty kitchen.

We lived in a fairly small two-story house, taller than it was wide and colored a brilliant undulating crimson to match the rest of the street.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Though Steele's Regime made noticeable strides when it came to rebuilding, the focus was on big, global things like energy and housing and infrastructure. On survival, not living. Little things fell through the cracks, things like paper books and rocking chairs and children's toys. Everything was a functional and utilitarian grey, no thought spared toward creativity or individuality. As the discontent slowly gained momentum, people started using vibrant dyes and vivid hues as a subtle form of defiance, rebellion against the forces attempting to crush them into a single uniform mass. When the old government was finally overthrown, colors exploded all across the city, in walls of buildings, in walkways and tree carvings, as men and women looked toward a brighter future.

We followed the trend in that if only to avoid scrutiny. The rest of our residence was much more subdued. The hallway and the living room were decorated, just in case we had unavoidable guests, but the rest of the rooms were left free of personal touches and affectations. Walls remained unadorned, shelves empty, furniture at a bare minimum. Everything important or meaningful was stored in small satchels, easy to grab and run. Claude once called our place a hollow abode.

It was a house, but very much not a home.

“That's reasonable,” I agreed, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt. “But an eleven-year-old behind a wheel might attract a little attention.”

“It's not the first time I'll be driving a car,” Casey pulled on one of her reddish-brown pigtails, huffing in annoyance when the yellow butterfly hair tie rolled up. “You should know.”

“That was in case we needed to move out quickly and I was absent or incapacitated,” I argued. “What will you do if someone stops you?”

“I'm not actually doing anything illegal,” she pointed out.

I winced.

There were enough Patchmen in the city that it was not particularly surprising to see horse-drawn carriages move side by side with twenty-first-century cars. Between that and a general shortage of working automobiles, legislation regarding road safety was never really seen as high priority. Nothing prevented an enterprising preteen girl from owning and operating her own set of wheels.

Well, then. I'll just have to be blunt.

“We can't afford to buy a new car,” I told Casey. “Not with our current finances.”

“You're literally a millionaire!” she burst out.

I waited a little for her to calm down and shook my head.

“That's for business expenses only. A new car would attract attention, it would invite envy, suspicion, maybe even result in an investigation. Frivolous spending above the reported income is how villains get caught.”

She squinted at me.

“So we can buy toys for you, but not for me. Sure. Totally fair.”

I suppressed a sigh. Casey was the kind of morning person who took advantage of people who were not. I was torn between being annoyed and being proud.

“Why do you even need a car?” I switched to bargaining. “You could just use a bus, the way most people do.”

“Because it's cool, duh,” she rolled her eyes like it was self-obvious.

“Of course,” I deadpanned. “How could I forget the coolness factor?”

Casey narrowed her eyes.

“Don't parront... patronize me,” despite stumbling over the word, she continued unabated. “You constantly throw out money and make grand gestures to establish your reputation, Carnival. This is me, building my street cred.”

“Peter A. Rade,” I reminded her automatically. “Not Carnival. Not in civvies.”

“It's easier than remembering whatever your current alias is,” she brushed me off. “Don't change the subject.”

I raised my arms in surrender, almost upending the bowl of cereal.

“I'm not. You're right. That's important, and I want to support your aspirations,” I paused.

We lived in the newer, outer parts of the city because they had neither the time to develop a sense of community nor the heavy hand of all-pervading bureaucracy. It was the kind of place that allowed for a little leeway.

“We can't afford the attention buying a new car would get us,” I said slowly, thinking it through. “But, maybe, you can borrow my car when you need one? Pretend it's your own?”

Absorbed as I was in my thoughts, it took me a few moments to register Casey's smug grin.

Oh.

That's what she was after from the very start, wasn't it? Aim for the stars; that way your opponents will breathe out in relief when you settle for conquering a single small planet. I'd just been outmaneuvered by a girl who's yet to enter her teens.

I decided to take that as confirmation of my stellar parenting skills.

***

With her goal achieved, the rest of the morning passed in relative peace. I sat back, finishing the cereal and lazily flipping through my mail. Casey cheerfully chattered enough for both of us. It was almost idyllic.

“I'm dropping by New Venice today,” I mentioned off-handedly. “Want me to pick something up for you?”

Casey hummed.

“Well, there's a cute new skirt I saw...” she shot me a judgemental look. “But I don't trust your fashion sense.”

“Hey,” I responded half-heartedly.

“Just pick up some Italian pastries,” Casey nodded. “I'll go shopping later with Olivia and her parents.”

“I'm meeting with Sceptic at noon, but Roman sent a liskmail to cancel on today's barbeque plans,” I told her. “We can spend the evening at home, maybe watch something together?”

“I'm having a sleepover at Emily's,” Casey shook her head, putting the plates away. “We don't see each other as often after I moved away.”

I felt that momentary twinge of guilt again.

“Do you... want to enroll in school?” I put forth carefully. “To spend more time around people your age?”

Casey rolled her eyes at me.

“Ungh, no,” she wrinkled her nose. “I know the school curriculum until college level, at least, and sitting around for hours listening to people drone on is not my idea of a fun time. Stop trying to be parental, Carnival.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief. I had no idea what I was going to do if she ever said yes. Between countless false identities, the need to move every couple of months and attention from a bunch of munchkins who were much more observant than most grown-ups gave them credit for, the school was a major risk to my civilian identity. The last thing I wanted was to come home after a long day and find a couple of heroes on my porch.

“You're happy, then?” I asked conscientiously. “Or, at least, content?”

Casey rolled her eyes again.

“You're overthinking things. If I want something, I'll tell you,” she tilted her head. “Or trick you into giving it to me.”

I let out an amused huff.

Selfish and manipulative, independent and outgoing.

Some days even I could believe that she was my daughter.