The following day, when Wally was in the bathroom, Matt placed a call to Azleena. The genius answered in her usual emotionless tones, which Matt knew by now was just a symptom of her intellect, or of being fifteen.

“Az,” he said into the phone, “Hey. I need a favour. Is there any way you could get me a computer I can do stuff on that’s utterly untraceable? I mean a hundred percent. Nobody able to check it, ever. Not the government; no one.”

To his somewhat disappointment, Azleena did not seem particularly thrown by this request. Matt had prepared this whole story – a convoluted tale involving Jane, public humiliation and a penchant for pretending to be horses – ready for deployment, only for the diminutive genius to say “Sure” in her usual monotone and simply disconnect the call.

The next day, when Giselle arrived, she came bearing gifts; a new, sleek silver laptop complete with case and corresponding instructions.

‘This computer spoofs itself onto local mobile networks,’ the note accompanying the laptop read, ‘Which then reroute part packages through separate VPNs with randomised- it’s secure.’ (Azleena had obviously gotten bored). ‘Nobody can conceivably remotely trace or retrieve anything you do on this. The only way would be local, so when you’re done put in the case, do up the zip, and push all four green bobbles on the corners. That will dissolve it in hydrochloric acid. Six minutes and there’ll be nothing left.’

‘Enjoy your porn’

The nerve, Matt bristled; he’d never been ashamed of his pornography. Still, he was reassured that he could now research with impunity, and without having to worry about government technopaths hacking into and uncovering his plans.

With the Child summoning a non‑starter, Matt now turned to commencing his scheme in earnest, and the preliminary research required. Figuring the monkey shouldn’t let go of the branch until it had a new branch to swing to, he started off with ways to assume a new life.

After only twenty-four hours of researching, Matt was convinced he was going to have to involve Azleena. Although he’d been initially uncertain, it soon became clear that utilising the Legion’s resident genius was pretty much his only option, because holy heck were modern antifraud measures nothing to scoff at. In the age of technopaths, psychics and widespread shapeshifting, governments around the world took identity fraud very, very seriously; spurred on, Matt noted ruefully and with a degree of irony, in recent times by his own well-publicised clairvoyant stunt. The American Department of Powers Regulation in particular had significantly tightened up their processes in light of the scandal his revelation had caused, and their mandatory-issue Ident-Cards were now pretty much essential to accessing any kind of social services or safety net. This fake would have to be elaborate. He couldn’t just grow a moustache.

A regular new identity probably wouldn’t be sufficient either, unfortunately. Matt Callaghan was famous – globally famous. To ditch that yoke and slip into obscurity, Matt was going to need facial reconstructive surgery, or at the very least some sort of device to make his features appear different, both options mandating Azleena’s involvement. Then there was getting a power – either faking one or imitating it, if that was even possible. The clairvoyant schtick was done now, that duck never again to fly. Again, Azleena was pretty much his only choice.

But presuming he could make himself appear as someone else, where would he go? It had to be somewhere remote, practically off the grid, Matt reasoned, in order to minimise the possibility of ever bumping into anyone who knew him. Hiding in plain sight was fine when nobody knew you were hiding – but when the world knew who you are, when even one tiny slip up could alert nations, any well‑populated urban area carried too many risks. Remote was good. The more removed the better.

“Listen to this,” he told Giselle between mouthfuls of ramen, unable to resist sharing his findings (and admittedly probably going to eventually loop her in anyway), “‘Pressing Paws – Life Among the Dog People.’”

“What’s that?”

“There’s this community in California, up past Sacramento, where everybody lives as dogs.”

“What?” The speedster blurred from the other side of the table and appeared beside him, peering over his shoulder at the laptop. “No way.”

“Yeah,” said Matt, reading down, “It’s a mixture of faunamorphs and real dogs. Apparently they live in dog form all the time, one hundred percent. There’s no interaction as people. It’s this big estate and-‑” he squinted, reading on, “-‑I guess someone brings them dog food? Or acts as trustee?” He looked up at her. “That could be fun?”

“Too many fleas,” Giselle replied, making a face, “What’s this got to do with Constitutional law?”

“I don’t know,” Matt shrugged, “Does the Constitution still apply if you’re a dog?”

Giselle opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. “That,” she said after a moment, “Is an excellent essay question. Can you renounce humanhood?”

“Can dog-men own property?”

“Enter into contracts.”

“Maybe I should specialise in dog law.”

“It’s amazing how well that suits you,” she remarked, and Matt chose to take it as a compliment.

Giselle returned to her seat and Matt continued delving. Here; this might be a bit more feasible. There was a community in the Maldives – a conglomeration of depth-adjusted water-breathers – who lived apart from human civilisation and entirely on the ocean floor. By the sound of it they were self‑sufficient, had little cities and everything, not to mention they were isolationists and… wait, no, no. Matt clicked through some additional links. Apparently these novus-Atlanteans were periodically raided by local authorities for looting cargo ships and sinking fishing trawlers. And for some reason a tonne of them seemed bizarrely fanatical – Matt found a disconcerting number of articles about children who manifested water‑breathing being kidnapped in an attempt to ‘organically’ grow the tribe. That didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound like something he wanted to be a part of.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

But it was a start. There were isolated pockets out there. Little communities of the likeminded, the likepowered, the closed off… maybe it was a less a question of where he could possibly go, of what powers Azleena could give him – and more a question of where he’d best fit in.

*****

“That’s them.”

The police sergeant was a tall man, maybe in his mid-forties, who clearly took pride in keeping his hair short and his uniform neat. Standing behind the line of wooden blue barricades set up where the grassy slope of the cemetery met the street, he glared over at the protestors assembled across the road, his back straight, his jaw clenched. Jane didn’t need Matt’s powers of observation to understand. She’d spent enough time around soldiers.

“What are they doing?” she asked. The sergeant kept his expression neutral, but it was a close thing.

“Same as always.”

“Breaking the law?”

The police officer worked his jaw. “Technically, no.”

Across the street from the cemetery, maybe thirty members of the Eastborough Baptist Church had assembled, holding large bright signs bearing various repulsive slogans, monocolour beneath bold black text. ‘Soldiers Die God Laughs’; ‘God Hates Powers’; ‘You’re Going To Hell’; ‘Repent Or Be Doomed’. Their chants carried more of the same. They were mostly white and middle-aged, although Jane saw some children amongst them. Her stomach churned with disgust.

Up the small grassy hill behind the police line, a funeral service was taking place. Though the barricades put some space between them, the protestors’ signs would have still been clearly visible to those in attendance, the shouts persistent in the background to the mourners and priest.

Jane turned to the sergeant. “I’m not sure what I can do,” she said, the words a pill bitter yet truthful, “I can go scare them, flash some light. Beyond that…”

The police officer shook his head. “It’s not right.”

“No disagreement.”

“Walt Burbank was a good kid,” he said, prying the words from his lips like the teeth of a steel trap, “He don’t deserve this. His folks don’t deserve this.”

“I agree with you. The question’s still what we do about it.”

The tall man looked down at her. “Your boyfriend,” he asked, “Saw what he said on Leno.”

Jane sniffed. “What of it?”

“They worship him?”

“In a way.”

“They listen to you, seeing as you’re seeing him?”

“Doubt it. Might listen if I blast them.”

The sergeant’s face remained hard as he stared out over the protestors. “Going heavy’s no good. They’re asking for it, all of them. Angling for a lawsuit. Half the reason they’re out here.” His bristling head shook. “Didn’t ask you out here for your powers. We can handle two dozen lunatics. Just figured you might have an in. Be able to talk this lot into making them go away.”

Talking was more Matt’s thing, Jane grimaced internally. Nevertheless she squared her shoulders.

“Happy to try. Can’t promise anything.”

The police officer’s features remained taut as he glared off down the road. “Any attempt.”

Jane gave him a curt nod, then manoeuvred between two blue barricades and out into the street beyond. There was little traffic along the Kansas motorway and she paid no heed to cars. As Jane advanced, she let her powers stream out behind her in a trail of lightning gold. The crackling of her energy induced a temporary lull in the Baptists’ chanting, and by the time she reached their sidewalk, two dozen pairs of eyes were boring silent hate into her skull. Jane’s own eyes narrowed into slits.

She stopped about five feet away, cracking and flexing her gloved knuckles. The foremost protestor, a gaunt stubble-faced man with sports sunglasses and tufts of grey hair sticking out the corners of his red baseball cap, stared at her in wide-eyed revulsion, physically recoiling in contempt.

“Devil-born,” he spat.

Oh good, they had a special name for her. Jane met the contempt in his glare with her own.

“Leave,” she demanded.

“Morningstar. False light. Pride of Satan’s Horde.”

“Walker. It’s Jane Walker. Partner of Matt Callaghan. Who I know has told you to stop.”

There were hisses amongst the assembled Baptists. Their spokesman at the centre of them scowled at her, his lips pursing to bare rat-like teeth. “How dare you speak his name.”

“Matt Callaghan? He’s my boyfriend.”

“Vile harlot. Deceiver. Babylonian whore.”

What the hell did Matt see in these people. Jane swallowed a dozen insults, forcing her temper back. Don’t say what you want to say, her partner’s words echoed in her head, through their many long debriefs and discussions; say what you think will get the best results.

“Your Pastor isn’t with you,” she observed, angling her neck slightly to take in the full extent of the crowd, “Where is he today?”

“His business is none of yours,” the spokesman sneered.

“Fine,” Jane responded, “But you might want to check with him what you’re doing.” This met momentary silence, which Jane seized on to push forward. “Matt’s made it clear. I know it, your Pastor knows it. No more of this funeral crap.”

“We know our rights,” a dumpy woman who looked as if she moisturised with butter piped up from amongst the crowd, “You can’t make us, the First Amendment-”

“I’m not making you do anything,” Jane scowled, fixing the woman with a stare, causing her to flinch, “Just like you can’t make Matt take your phone calls. Everyone’s free to do what they like.” She swept a glare across the sullen, silent Baptists. “Maybe go check with your Pastor. Ask him what’s important. Access to Matt, or making this poor family’s life hell.”

There was a muttering as the protestors exchanged glances, and to Jane’s amazement she saw some of the signs droop. Is this how Matt felt all the time, she wondered, feeling a rush of unexpected giddiness; being able to make people do what you wanted just with talk?

The spokesman however was undeterred, and fixed Jane with an acidic glower. “Your words are poison, golden idol. Your devil‑gifts consume you. You will not command us. We reject the apple, we are children of God.”

“I’m not commanding anyone,” replied Jane, “There are actions, and there are consequences.”

“There are consequences, oh yes, there are,” the gaunt man warned, jutting out his leathery, tendon‑strung neck, “A lake of fire waiting for you and all sinful souls. Repent, let the false strength consume you. There is no true light but God’s.”

“I’m calling him right now,” said Jane, reaching into her pocket. She held up her phone. “I’m calling Matt, and I’m putting him on camera, and you can all explain to him why you’re not listening to a word he says.”

There was further discontented muttering, but after a moment the murmuring was accompanied by the reluctant lowering of signs. Jane pressed on. “You’ve done your job. You’ve made your point. The world saw you.” She gestured at the funeral atop the hill. “Give this family some peace. Go home. You’re done here.”

The Baptists grumbled, but continued to shrink before the sight of Jane’s still-raised cellphone like vampires before the cross. Jane spied one of the children clutching their mother’s hand and whispering something worried as they leaned over. Slowly, the protestors began turning away.

The rat-faced man was the last to go. “The day is coming,” he warned, “Beware the reckoning, Lady Dawn. God sees those who fail his test, and your sins most of all. He will make an example of you, and all others like you. The Devil’s Legion. The day will come when the chosen will be free of you, and we will ascend, one family at His side.”