For a time, I felt unstoppable. There was always someone stronger, but also a path to greater strength. I knew I would kill them all.

Lucia had never been on a boat before–not that she could remember, at least. The trip had taken over a week, and it had been a boring, anxious journey. K-Tech had revolutionized most types of transport, but apparently the ocean presented challenges that weren’t worth the cost to overcome. Lucia had grown very used to staring out at the endless sea.

There were good parts to the journey though. It was undeniably beautiful to look across a blue horizon, watching the waves and the clouds, and she sensed the tempting freedom that lured sailors to the life. The crew was also very small, despite the ship’s size. It was a massive shipping vessel, rusted and ancient, with only twelve people keeping it afloat.

Lucia took frequent walks around the craft, mindlessly navigating nearly a mile of rust-colored metal. Huge shipping containers were her most constant companions, though she often spotted Gretta nearby. The woman was of Indian ancestry, but may as well have been Arthur’s twin despite their difference in appearance.

Gretta was lovely, with large dark eyes, and wavy black hair that Lucia envied. Her own was the same glossy black, but turned into a ghastly perm if she tried to do anything other than leave it hanging straight. The same was true when it was humid, so the ocean had been doing Lucia no favors, and she kept her hood up to avoid comparisons to the stunning woman.

Gretta had given no second name, merely towered over her by half a foot, and proclaimed she was a ‘Guardian’ from the London branch, responsible for Lucia’s safety. She claimed not to be authorized to give much information on the Cult until they arrived, but was otherwise much like Arthur: quietly competent, outwardly appearing friendly, and always, always around.

Lucia was her charge, apparently, and that meant privacy was a thing of the past. This might not have been so bad if the woman was better company, but she was more like the concept of professionalism transposed into a human body. The break from the constant foreign thoughts in the city was nice, but despite her odd protector, Lucia was surprised to find herself a little lonely.

She knew that was about to come to an abrupt end, however, as she’d spotted land over an hour ago. She was at the bow of the massive vessel being pummeled by wind, while trying to control her own anxiety. She was heading into the belly of a beast she’d long thought was dead, and supposedly embracing powers she’d long despised.

Still, she’d had a lot of time to think without the constant whispers of others in her mind, and Lucia believed she’d found the resolve she’d lost this past year. She didn’t like who she’d become since her powers Manifested. She hadn’t been a scared little girl since the day she’d watched her mother send her father into the fire, and she refused to be one now.

She’d escaped the Power farm and the NGG. She’d fought off a murderous Psychic. She’d kept herself and her little brother alive after losing both their parents. She wasn’t going to be a victim, and she wasn’t going to let this world break her.

Lucia realized she was glaring at the distant land, and made herself look down at the tablet that Arthur had handed her before she left. ‘Something Vincent wanted her to see,’ he’d said. Details about Veridicus, of all things. Apparently the man was aware of his own shortcomings, and having trouble utlizing the massive following he’d developed.

Vincent thought she could help. Possibly add some emotion and perspective to the endless conspiracies and incendiary claims the madman was known for. Lucia wasn’t sure if she should be surprised that Arthur had been able to put Vincent in touch with Veridicus, but it was a shock to find out that the theatrical nut-job was apparently open to receiving their help.

Truthfully, she didn’t really care what the man’s motivations were, so long as he was willing to listen to her. She was about to join the Cult of the Mind. She would be surrounded by mind readers, and mind destroyers. The people the whole world feared, and rightly so. But they didn’t know Lucia Villari. They didn’t know what she was capable of, and–thanks to her brother’s surprising request–they didn’t know she was coming with an army behind her.

***

Lucia watched the city of London speed by as the small, unassuming car drove her to her fate. Gretta was seated next to her, remaining vigilant while the silent driver concentrated on the unusual roads. They were on the left side, which might have been jarring to Lucia if she’d been in a car more than a few times since childhood, but it was nothing compared to the scenery they drove past.

London was, and would likely always be a famous city. There was massive history here, of course, but it was all overshadowed by its more recent claim to fame: the place where the Great Hero began his journey. Where other cities alternately tried to hide, or embrace the remnants of the Invasion, London was a living monument to humanity’s side of the conflict.

Being a major population center, the city had been leveled during the invasion, and little of the old architecture remained. Like in New Technopolis, the NGG had rebuilt some monuments and meaningful structures, but it was largely new–though ‘New London” had never caught on. Whatever it might have looked like before the war, it was essentially a single, city-sized museum and tourist destination at this point.

The car passed by endless hotels and themed businesses, and no less than a dozen battle sights where the Great Hero had either killed something or saved someone. It would have been fascinating–should have been–fascinating, but Lucia found it impossible to think of the world’s savior outside the context of the NGG. He’d been so synonymous with the propaganda she’d been drowning in at the Farm that he didn’t seem like a hero at all anymore.

The NGG flags and banners didn’t help the situation, and Lucia began to wonder if the Cult setting up in the heart of hero-worship central was the point. Whether it was a matter of hiding in plain sight, or an act of defiance, she doubted it was coincidental.

After what seemed like an endless ride through an NGG fever dream, the buildings started getting older, and looked to be repaired pre-Invasion structures. They were uniformly uninteresting, being a series of brown, stained warehouses and ancient, forgotten homes. Still, there were people everywhere.

“Why does this part of town seem so different?” she asked.

Stolen novel; please report.

“The NGG did exactly enough to give the world a lovely facade of what they think London should be,” Gretta answered in her crisp, British accent. “That didn’t leave room for the countless refugees and London natives that came here for sanctuary. Thus, the slums,” she gestured out the window, “the last remnants of the real city. Stains from the industrial revolution and an alien Invasion; quite remarkable, really.”

Lucia found herself staring with renewed interest, but her limited education lacked the historical context to appreciate what she was seeing. Soon it was moot, as the car slowed in front of a large building that felt oddly familiar. It was three stories, and large, and looked like it may have been a school once. The same brown bricks and disrepair as every other structure should have let it fade into the background, yet Lucia was immediately certain they were looking at the local branch of the Cult of the Mind.

Gretta got out of the car as soon as it came to a stop, and Lucia followed suit. Gretta took the small, solitary bag of luggage from the trunk, then proceeded up the concrete steps to the surprisingly white doors without a word. Following, Lucia began to focus her thoughts, uncomfortably aware of the company she was about to surround herself with.

Gretta surprised her by stopping at the door, however, and reaching into her long jacket. She retrieved a silvery metal circlet that bent on a single hinge, and held it out for Lucia to take. “Have you seen these before?”

Lucia took the object and felt its weight in her hands. Strangely, she felt like she did recognize it, but couldn’t remember from where. “What is it?”

“It’s a dampening collar. It won’t affect any of your outward powers, but it will prevent your thoughts from being read by other Psychics.”

Lucia’s eyes widened, and vague memories of seeing the collar in her childhood resurfaced. “I didn’t think Psychic shielding worked that well,” she said.

“It doesn’t. It won’t prevent any hostile powers directed at you, it just keeps your personal thoughts contained. Even that only works because it resonates with your powers; it won’t work on anyone who isn’t a Psychic. Still, it’s common practice in the Cult. Free thought is the only path to trust.”

Lucia nodded, though she was surprised by the ironic sentiment. Taking a deep breath, she snapped the collar into place. She was already more than aware that her life was in these peoples’ hands, and hesitating at a necklace seemed comparatively silly. As soon as it was on, Gretta placed her hand on the heavy door handle, which beeped quietly after a moment, then swung open.

Lucia followed the taller woman inside, and was immediately shocked by the building’s interior. It may have looked like a dilapidated schoolhouse on the outside, but the inside was that of a lavish mansion. A massive, sprawling staircase was directly ahead, splitting in two directions toward each wing of the house. The floor was covered in beautiful carpets, mostly red, and every surface was covered in art.

People were walking by, some nodding politely in her direction but most content to go about their business. Lucia was struck by how ordinary they all were. While they were dressed better than most of those she’d seen on the way here, they were otherwise unremarkable. They were just…people.

Her examination was interrupted as a boy around her own age came running up. He was dark skinned, and his short hair spiked out in every direction. “Gretta!” he called, “I’m sorry I’m late. Master Ilara’s lecture went long.” He quickly grabbed the bag from her hands, then turned to Lucia. “I’m Jeff Lockley. I’m supposed to give you the tour. Pleased to meet you!”

He held out his free hand for her to shake, and Lucia did so, trying to decide if she liked or hated his cocky grin. “I’m Lucia Villari,” she replied.

“Oh I know,” he said, the smile growing wider. “Everyone’s been talking about you arriving. If it weren’t for Arthur vouching for you, I don’t think we would have believed it.”

“What do you mean?”

His expression shifted to one of surprise, “You don’t know? We all thought the New York branch was entirely wiped out. That someone survived, and a Villari no less? Well, if it’s not a scam, then it might just be a miracle.”

Lucia cocked an eyebrow, surprised by the answer. “It’s New Technopolis now, you know.”

Both Jeff and Gretta laughed aloud at that. “While you’re in England, it’s New York. Trust me on that,” he said.

“Maybe you can start the tour?” Gretta broke in. “I need to speak to the Cultivator.”

“Of course,” Jeff answered. “Let’s get your stuff to the dorms, then I’ll show you around.” She obediently followed up in the stairs and to the left, into the West wing. Gretta disappeared somewhere downstairs, and Lucia concentrated on her earlier declarations of confidence as she went deeper into the compound.

Soon Jeff opened a door which led to a small, but extravagantly decorated room. He placed her bag on a large bed with a thick, wooden frame, then started gesturing around. “You’ve got facilities in there, but showers are in the big room down the hall. Food is downstairs; I’ll show you where. Did you want to settle in, or see the sights?”

As the room was effectively a smaller, British version of the cell she’d spent the last half-year in, Lucia didn’t hesitate. “Show me the sights, they’re why I’m here.” Jeff flashed his wide grin again, then led the way. They went back downstairs, then slowly explored each wing.

Each time they passed an open door, Jeff would give a different spiel. “That’s Dr. Wen’s class. She focuses on how Psychic powers relate to the biological brain. Oh, that’s Master Glenn’s class, he specializes in mental attacks and fortifications, you’ll want to pay attention to that. This here is Master Ilara’s room, but the door is always closed. She’s more about meditation and mindfulness.”

After a half dozen such descriptions, Lucia finally interrupted. “This isn’t what I expected,” she said.

He turned back to her with a curious expression. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know…victims chained to walls to practice our abilities on? People praying to the dead Prophet in circles of blood? Hell, even the ‘classes’ are a surprise. I thought we just used our powers and they advanced, this is almost all theory.”

Jeff surprised her by laughing. “Sounds like you only know the NGG version of the Cult,” he paused, a finger on his lips. “In fairness, the whole ‘Cult’ thing doesn’t help, but there’s a story there too. Look, I think you should speak to the Cultivator, he’s the one with the answers you really need.”

“The guy Gretta was speaking to? Is he the leader?”

“As much as anyone is,” Jeff replied, then gestured for her to follow. A little nervous, Lucia did so, and soon they were taking a flight of stairs to a lower level. While similarly decorated, the lack of natural light made it seem more ominous, but she resolved not to let it show as she followed her tour guide down a long hallway.

At last the hall opened into a large chamber, with seating and a podium. It reminded her of the central chamber back home, except it was fancier in every possible way. Red drapes and tapestries decorated the walls, and there were pews instead of chairs. The large room was empty save for Gretta, and a man she was speaking to near the podium.

He was wearing a black robe, and facing away from them as they walked in. Gretta noticed the two, and whispered something to the man who was presumably the Cultivator. He nodded, and Gretta moved toward the pair, gesturing for Jeff to come with her as she made to leave the room. Lucia turned to say something, but a friendly voice interrupted her.

“Lucia!” the man called, and she turned back to the robed individual, her eyes widening. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was certainly familiar. His black hair was thick, shiny, and came almost to his shoulders, but otherwise he looked shockingly like Vincent. Except for the scars.

“It’s been so long, Lucia,” he said, smiling wide. “I promise I didn’t know you were alive, or I would have had you out of that godforsaken Farm years ago. I hope you can forgive me.”

Lucia was speechless, staring at the long-healed burns that spread up from his chest to cover the left side of his face. “Dad?” she whispered.