Cool winds brushed over the remainder of the squad, the air like a constant reminder on their scarred skin. Much of the data had been preserved. The mission was a success.

While the others waited by an opening in the woodland, Sokolov and another operative dug through the rubble of the lab. They were the only ones relatively better off after that gifted attack. Physically speaking. Sokolov kept the young man talking.

“What’s your name?”

“C-Carpol, sir.”

“Yeah? Where are you from?”

“Liverpool.”

“Got a favorite place?”

And on and on. The talking seemed to help. Before, Carpol looked lost, staring at nothing, his index finger shook next to the trigger of his gun, held back only by discipline. A lot M.A.G.E operatives were trained out of high school. No different than the heroes themselves, or the military in general. The young man could have been taking his last college year. Instead he was here, covered in electrical burns.

“There.” One last piece of concrete revealed the last member of their squad. They carried the body back to the landing zone and placed it next to several others. When evac came, they would be able to go home together.

“Could have been worse,” Carpol said.

“You’re right, it could be,” Sokolov said, smiling. “It could have been worse.”

It had already happened. The experience had already taken root and the change would come. One day the young man would wake up and realize he had become different. This was how it went.

For normal folk.

Sokolov glanced at the individual that stood a ways away from the surviving members of the squad. Or rather it was the operatives that sat away from her. If she minded, she did not show it at all.

Lyssa had stopped glowing, which could be construed as a good thing. Her skin still moved, as if there were multiples of her occupying the same space, copying her movements with some delay. She seemed to be unaware of the world around her.

Sokolov walked over.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

Lyssa turned her head. The movement was noticeably slow.

“Fine,” she said.

“Really now.” Sokolov gestured to their surroundings. “You were about as lost as they come when this started.”

“Was I?” She appeared to think for a moment. “I suppose I was. But I’m fine now.”

“So you’ve said. Why don’t you turn off whatever it is you’re doing? We can feel it prickling on our skin.”

“That may be the burns,” Lyssa said. “Not me.”

An operative stood abruptly from a log, shouting, “Just turn it off!”

Lyssa looked at him squarely.

“It isn’t me,” she said.

The operative strode forward. Lyssa stayed still.

“Hey,” Sokolov said as he stepped between them. “Stop! Get back over there! Sit down!”

“She could’ve done that the whole time!” The operative shouted. “She let us die!”

“It’s more complicated than it seems,” Sokolov said.

“It really isn’t, sir.” Fuming, the operative returned to the others.

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Lyssa watched dispassionately, her expression unchanged.

“Is he right?” Sokolov asked. “Could you have done something earlier?”

Lyssa tilted her head. “I did not exist until moments ago,” she said.

“Fantastic,” Sokolov said. He chuckled, but not out of humor. That resource had just been spent.

The dour mood lingered until the familiar sound of rotors drew closer. A Chinook in M.A.G.E blue cleared the canopy of the trees and lowered onto the clearing. Reinforcements poured out. Medical personnel prepared the injured for transport. The ramp rattled from men with stretchers running on and off.

Whitworth let them past before he stepped off the ramp and onto the earth. He took in the situation quietly. Sokolov greeted him half-heartedly.

“That bad, huh,” Whitworth said.

Sokolov pulled the Director by the arm away from the landing zone.

“I need to know what you’re thinking,” Sokolov said. “When you told me about this asset of yours I thought you would be spending the next couple of years cultivating it.”

“I am,” Whitworth said. “And it is being cultivated.”

“What the hell is she?”

“Multi-gifted,” Whitworth said. “A unique case, even for her kind. She develops abilities in life-threatening situations.”

“She said something about ‘not existing’ until moments ago.”

“Yes. Severe dissociative identity disorder would be a close match. For trauma victims, a coping mechanism. For her, a neurological necessity.”

“We’re Clandestine, not a psych ward. And why don’t you tell me this shit? Some of my guys are dead. The survivors blame her. We can’t ever tell them what happened either.”

Whitworth nodded. “We’re only talking freely because I’m here. She has telepathy. Cat-6. If she was inclined she could force herself through shielding.”

The last of them had entered the helicopter. Whitworth gave Sokolov a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

“Sorry, old friend,” he said. “If it’s any consolation we likely won’t do this sort of op again. One could get used to danger. I need her to experience new things.

“Anyways, get on and get fixed. I don’t like seeing this much of your face.”

Sokolov scoffed and went aboard. The helicopter took off, leaving just two at the site.

Whitworth walked over and reached out to place a hand on Lyssa’s shoulder. His hand shook just a centimeter above her skin. The aura felt like a resistive cloak, sapping away all force and energy. Except evidently light; he could see her just fine aside from the visual aberration warbling over her skin. He withdrew and made a mental note, reminding himself to have Jackson prepare something with lasers.

“Walk with me,” he said.

As if nothing had happened, they took a stroll through the dark woods. The ransacked facility ducked beneath the trees behind them.

“Were you hurt?” He asked.

“Yes,” Lyssa said.

“How are you now?”

“I got better.”

“I am curious how you’re able to do that.”

“I think it was the first. It stitches living molecules back together, but needs to sleep for a long while after.”

She was being amiable. Uncharacteristic.

“What’s your name?” Whitworth asked.

“Isn’t it Lyssa?”

“It should be. But I suppose this happens every time, doesn’t it?”

“You’re a very good liar,” Lyssa said. “She thought she hid details about her life from you.”

“She did,” Whitworth said. “I did not know about her— your grandfather.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Why?”

“You’re here alone. Next to me.”

“I’ve stood beside far more dangerous gifted. Besides, you don’t come across as the violent type.”

“I don’t?”

“What are you feeling, at this very moment?”

Lyssa appeared to think about it.

“I don’t know. Nothing at all?” She said.

“Are you under her thrall?”

“No. The others are. For now. She’s coming back though.” Lyssa glanced at their surroundings. The leaves whispered chill words. “From the forest.”

“What?”

“The dark forest. She is angry. At you.”

“Are you angry at me?”

“No.”

“No, you don’t seem moved by much. What are you motivated by then? What do you want?”

“Grandfather took me to the beach once. When he had strength. We sat on a rock overlooking the sea. The waves broke over the boulders endlessly. The patterns were chaotic, never the same. I would like to be there.”

“I can make that world happen,” Whitworth said. “I just need time, and understanding.”

“What do you need from me?”

“A little patience, and a little… restraint.”

Lyssa blinked rapidly several times. Her breaths quickened, then evened again.

“She is reasserting,” she said. “I will have to retreat in my realm soon.”

“Restraint,” Whitworth said again. “That’s all I need.” He hovered his hand over Lyssa’s head.

Lyssa took a deep breath. Her eyes jittered. The aura dissipated.

“How are we doing?” Whitworth asked. “Lyssa?”

She looked up, meeting the Director’s gaze. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed out reluctantly.

“What happened?” She asked. “I wanted to be…”

“You did well on your first mission,” Whitworth said.

“No. I nearly died. You sent me to a terrible place.”

“But you came out of it stronger. And my men were never going to let you get hurt.”

Lyssa grimaced. “This new one. This Self. She’s far more difficult than the others.”

“I see,” Whitworth said with an awkward smile. “I thought-”

“Did she talk to you?”

“She said she wanted to go home.”

“Yes. I want to go home too.”

“Good idea. I won’t send you on another mission until you’re ready. I admit I can get overzealous.”

Whitworth walked ahead, leading them both back to the clearing. A second helicopter rushed over head. Lyssa appeared satisfied, though something continued to give her pause. One thought was clear. She would not trust the Director again. If he would play his character, so would she. They would have to meet in the middle under the dance of half-truths.