During the two days after I had found the little girl, there was little media-coverage about it. The local radio ran a small announcement about her being safe and sound, to contrast their earlier call for assistance, a few words on the local television-channel, tacked onto the end of a segment and maybe two paragraphs in the local newspaper. Nothing was really said about the circumstances, or the rescuer, which was quite alright with me. I had thought it over and decided that active coverage of me would be detrimental, it would strengthen conflict with the League, if they believed me to take their limelight.

No, what I needed was more circumspect, whispers and rumours, conspiracy-theories and half-truths, spread around the anonymous channels on the net. No, if it could be messaged by a single captioned picture or hundred and forty characters, information would be communicated far beyond rhyme or reason. Conspiracies were a human favorite after all and could be relied on to spread, often far beyond the scope of normal news and once they were corroborated with hard facts, parts of the media would jump onto the bandwagon to gain market-share. So, creating the right impression and putting it out there for people to find and spread around, it would be fought over, like magpies, fighting over a scrap of food. The original circumstances would cease to matter.

Powered in general, the Guild and the various, national Powered-forces were favorites for conspiracies, there was one claiming that the Guild had a robot-army, another that the League was in bed with the Illuminati and Freemasons, that Elvis had been Powered, using his voice to control minds, and had been killed by another Powered, that the Guild was acting as a front for space-lizards controlling the governments of the world and at least five different versions of the story who had really shot Kennedy, my favorite being the one blaming a time-travelling cyborg from the future, trying to set off World War Three but getting the date wrong. It was one of the more credible ideas out there.

With Galatea’s help, I decided on two images that would serve my purpose best, one taken from the hospital cameras, showing the nurse and me carefully placing the little girl on a stretcher, making it appear as if I was cradling the girl in a protective embrace and the other picture of the two police officers, waving their pistols around in surprise and looking like proper fools. Adding to that, captions about protecting children and I had something that should spread like wildfire.

After seeding the images I wanted to spread, I took a step back, knowing that actively pushing would be counter-productive, I needed to let others take up the banner and carry it forward, adding their own tone to the music, so to speak.

I was working out in my gym, when Galatea told me that Sophia was on her way, making me happy. I had not seen her for three days and had only received the message that she was ‘busy’, whatever that meant. Galatea had kept an eye on her communication and movement, but nothing indicated that she had betrayed me and now she was on her way. I stopped my workout and stepped into the shower to get rid of the accumulated sweat, I did not want to smell when seeing her.

When she entered the bunker, I called out, “Hey, Soph. I mi…” I did not get any further, the look on her face silencing me. She looked... forlorn, her movements reminiscent of a shambling zombie. Before the stupid question of ‘Are you alright?’ could escape me, I stopped myself and pulled her into a hug. It seemed the right thing to do, and clearly, she was not alright. The way she accepted the hug and clung to me, told me more about her mental state than a hundred words could.

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked. It might not be the best question, but I wanted her to know that I was here for her and would do whatever she needed. At that moment, it seemed appropriate. When I did not get any response beyond a squeeze, I moved us over to the sofa, pulling her onto my lap. The shuffling we had to do made me wish for the stronger muscles my gene-experiment was supposed to give me. That, or more time spent working out.

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Once we were on the couch, I simply waited for her to speak. She did not appear to be crying, just distraught but still, I was unsure if there was anything I could do, beyond waiting.

After an indeterminate amount of time, even if the clock told me it had been fifteen minutes, I realised that there would be no speaking, her soft breathing made it clear that she had fallen asleep. Rather than trying to carry her to a bed, I shifted a bit, so she was lying on the couch, with her head in my lap. I liked that position, she had lain like that at the river and I enjoyed playing with her hair and stroking her head.

Part of me started to think of situations that might have caused her to be in such a state, but I tamped down on it, as it served no purpose. Hopefully, she would tell me what had caused it and we could think of a solution together, instead of me, creating hundreds of possible problems and solutions, only to miss the actual one. No, for now, relaxation was a good idea and with that thought in mind, I rested my head and closed my eyes.

While sleep eluded me, I enjoyed the simplicity of letting my mind roam free, not purposely working on a problem, but letting my mind randomly flip from thought to thought. Ideas, some possible others not so much, problems and solutions, a flurry of images, formulas and relations ghosted through my mind, nothing truly sticking but stored somewhere in my consciousness.

My mental free-roaming ended when I heard a soft noise, almost like a purring cat, followed by a voice. “Hm, where am I…?”

“Good morning, sweetie. Have you slept well?” I asked, smiling at her adorably confused expression.

“Cat, what are you doing in my bedroom?” she asked, clearly still not fully awake, but even in that state, she used my current name, something I was thankful for.

“Soph, you are in my bunker. You stumbled into here about an hour ago.” I told her, getting a little worried.

“I did? I suppose, I just wanted to be somewhere I felt safe. Safe and welcome.” Her voice tapered off and, while I wanted to know more, I did not want to hurry her, so I simply resumed a soft, stroking caress of her face, without saying anything.

“It’s my parents, you know?” she asked. Not knowing anything about having parents, I kept silent.

“They fought again, yelling and throwing things. They have done so for days, my father yelling at my mother, my mother throwing things at my father, it’s horrible.” Nothing I could say would help her, not with that. I felt sad, seeing her reduced into such a morose state, her normal strength and vibrancy almost extinguished.

“You can always come here.” The words left my mouth before I had time to fully think about them and once they had done so, there was no taking them back. Not without destroying the smile on her face. It was a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Thank you, I appreciate it. But I don’t think I could leave them. They are my parents, you know?” Again, I did not know, but I made an acknowledging noise anyway. What else could I do, after all I had simply left my father behind, discarding my old life by literally burning it. Saying that, however, would not help her in any way.

We did not move our positions, but Sophia suggested to turn on some film, something easily done. Galatea made the selection for us, showing us a mindless, happy romantic comedy, just the thing Sophia needed.

After some time, Sophia asked about me, rescuing the little girl, apparently she had heard about it. I gave her the gist, leaving out most of the propaganda-parts. If she ever needed to talk to the media, an unaltered version of her would work better than a version trying to steer the narrative. At least if she talked to them in the manner Sophia talked. I had noticed a rather clear shift in mannerism when she was dressed as Anath. That might be a problem. 

Once the movie ended, Sophia felt that she had to go home, warning me that she was not quite sure when she would have time again. As long as her parents were fighting, it might be hard to come by, unless she could come up with an explanation beforehand. It seemed her coming and going was one of the fields the parental war was fought on, both sides blaming the other for any perceived wrongdoing or bad behaviour.

As she left, I simply gave her a tight squeeze, trying to remind her that I was in her corner.