“Yes sir,” Henry Othinn was saying into a cellphone. It was a blocky thing, with rubber buttons, destined for destruction after the call was complete. “No, this time will be enough. I can guarantee it.”

He ended the call, made sure he was no longer connected, and sighed. Months of tireless work had culminated to this moment, to this night. Funny how these sorts of milestones crept up. In truth the plan was supposed to have worked a while ago. There was more inertia to the status quo than what the city’s recent riotous energies had implied.

He retrieved a different device from his pocket and made another call.

“Paulo, how is Howard doing?”

There was a pause.

“They’re in the meeting now,” the Colombian said. “I talked to him beforehand. The committee is just going over some preamble topics before they begin discussing what to do with the current crisis.”

“Good.”

“…Are you sure the timing will work?”

“I’m the brains, remember? Stick to the brawn.” He ended the call.

Of course it would work. Every other event had been instigated without a hitch. It was the lawmakers. They were so reluctant, too milquetoast to react to the change happening before their eyes. Heroes and victims, gifted and ungifted, were not two sides of the same coin. They were powder and keg. This one last riot would finally stir change. It must.

He leaned back on his chair and glanced at his surroundings. A zebra décor of blacks and whites. He and Paulo had shared this sterile apartment for months now. They were almost flat mates, save for the part where they were both, technically speaking, criminals. And the fact that Paulo was just a kid.

An angry kid. Precocious, sure, and mature beyond his fifteen years. He still had an impressionable, plastic mind. To an optimist it meant a capacity to learn. Practically, it was the ability to sustain hypocrisy and contradiction. Children could simultaneously believe in sharing when they could gain from it, and selfishness if they stand to lose. Paulo was pursuing justice by performing antiestablishment terrorism. What did the young man know of supervillainy other than from the movies America exported worldwide? Each film had been so carefully cut to pander to each culture’s sensibilities. Not a single one offered even a mildly accurate window into how this toxic relationship between hero and citizen worked.

Paulo had met a real ‘supervillain’: the boss. A nameless, faceless man who sought to change the world for the better. It was that part that made him the villain of this story. Paulo was only interested in disturbing the nest, stoking the fires until whoever was responsible for the death of his family showed themselves. He couldn’t accept that the most evil things in the world were systematic, not individual.

But these past few days, something had changed.

Henry called Viktor. If Henry were the brains and Paulo the brawn, then Viktor was the butterfly knife.

“What is it Mr. Othinn?” An impatient voice said.

“When this is all over I want you to come up with a way to dispose of the kid.”

“What? He believes in what we’re doing.”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

“I mean he’s a nice kid.”

“Just in case. If he stays on track we’ll never do it.”

“Alright.”

Another point of business taken care of. All he needed to do was keep his eyes open and wait.

There had been much waiting in New Langshir. Miles away, in city hall, the umpteenth conversation was being had as to what to do. It took time to agree on a plan, then on the minutiae of that plan, then someone would point out some irreconcilable flaw with the whole idea, and they’d adjourn for the day. Weeks of this ‘brainstorming’. Paulo had realized very quickly the wishy-washiness was in reality a shield for the fear of being blamed if the plan goes awry. The councilors were more afraid of personal failure than hopeful for the possibility of solving this crisis.

He was also aware that he was among the ones causing this issue in order to force a specific change. Henry wanted the complete separation of gifted and ungifted. Paulo was beginning to wonder if this was the best way to achieve this.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He glanced at the disguised explosive on his wrist. The sign of loyalty in their very parallel organization. Over the weeks he had determined that there didn’t exist a substance in such little volume that could harm him. Barring an explosive produced by a gifted, but he knew of no such member of their troupe. Who had the power to make molecules more unstable, yet containable on a bracelet? He was confident that so such gift existed. Mostly confident.

The meeting droned on. He sat in the back, blending in somewhat as an extremely fit independent journalist. He wished the mayor would stop casting glances his way. Alan Howard would have made a terrible poker player.

“We can’t simply forget the role that heroes play in our community, especially outside of peace enforcement.”

“An argument must be made that New Langshir is a unique case. Very few cities have our population!”

“What about Apex Metropolis? Their sister school has handled such issues using the methods I’ve outlined in the briefing. Maybe if-”

“The only thing sisterly about Apex Academy is the fact that they teach superpowered teenagers just like M.A.G.E. We’ve no idea what the full picture of their methods are.”

“Not to mention the last thing we want is to create a stopgap measure based on another hero school’s ways. That’ll tide over the anti-gift sentiment.”

The same talking points, over and over. Paulo glanced at the armed guards standing vigil around the room, armed with the new, high caliber guns they’ve sourced for the city. There were more members of this militia scattered over the rest of the building, and even more around New Lanshir itself. They were ready at any time, waiting for the mayor’s orders.

Finally, after what felt like hours of talking, the meeting adjourned for a ten minute break. Paulo snuck around the backrooms. He found Howard shaking off a tail of press, striding towards him.

Be less obvious, old fart, Paulo wanted to say.

“I’m sorry,” Howard said, as if in response to Paulo’s thoughts. “I couldn’t steer the conversation the way I had intended.”

“You have the manpower, you have the precedent,” Paulo said quietly. He leaned against the wall with a casual outward demeanor. “Just bring it up.”

“No, it’s too suspicious,” Howard replied. “You’ve no idea the accountability, the kind of scrutiny we get.”

“People will thank you once this is over. Once they feel safe. Both sides will.” Paulo scarcely believed what he was saying. But this was the narrative they had all been working towards. Reality was framing, and they must all commit to a part. Right?

“I…”

The poor man was sweating. Paulo furrowed his brow. It was too late to pull out of operation. The mayor had already had dealings with them; their relationship was definite and provable. But this one last push may be too much. Americans were not used to power that wasn’t distributed. It was the strength and weakness of democracy.

Paulo sighed. He thought about what to say to Henry in order to convince him that Howard was not able to carry out this last step. Maybe they could find another way.

A liaison appeared around the corner, his ID tag flapping from his strides. He approached the mayor and whispered urgently in his ear. Paulo could see the whites of the mayor’s eyes intensify. Howard sprinted back to the meeting room. All eyes were glued to the giant screen in the wall. Footage was playing with the Channel 55 logo at the corner. It was a view from the sky. The sound of rotors beat the night air. An excitable reporter was describing the scene.

A veritable tide of protestors have gathered and are beating at the gates of the hero school! As you can see, a few heroes are already on scene. Everest is busy building a wall of ice to deter the angry citizens. Stonemason can be seen standing vigil, an unmoving monolith against their ineffective fists. More are coming. Where is Fleetfoot? Hawktress? Ace Pilot? What could be more important than this?

Oh! I have been alerted that a number of people have been roped into the crowd. The more astute among us would notice a few of them are M.A.G.E students themselves! And- oh no! That’s Megan Howard! That’s the mayor’s daughter! Why is she there?

Quiet gasps could be heard around the room. The camera zoomed in on her face. The helicopter’s mic could not pick up her words, but Paulo could read her lips. They took me and put me here! Father! Don’t do it!

Paulo turned to the mayor. The man was already on the phone.

The sick bastard. Paulo had not been told this part of the plan. That either meant Henry did not think he would approve, or he never really was in charge. He opened his mouth to speak, but Howard shot him a glare.

“Alright,” the mayor said. The yellow bellied look of a committee man had gone, replaced by something baser. “You win. You people will get your civil war.

“Everyone! This committee is disbanded. I have reached a decision for all of us.”

The disbelief in the room was palpable. Paulo turned away, distancing himself before camera flashes started painting him into the picture next to the mayor. Or would his title be different now?

“What are you doing?” A councilor asked.

“You can’t do this. This isn’t how a democracy-”

“Remove all non-essential personnel from this room,” Howard said.

Those men lined up by the walls went to work immediately, shoving everyone outside, councilmen and press alike. Their men, Henry’s men, graciously given by ‘the boss’.

“Did you know about this?” Howard asked.

Paulo had been spared the unceremonious evacuating.

“No,” he said. “I swear to my father and sisters.”

“Figures.” Howard’s hard expression softened for a moment. “You’re out of place, son. Didn’t get a chance to say this before. I don’t think your friends are what you think they are.”

Paulo did not respond. He looked away.

“I think you should find a way out of this business,” the mayor continued. “And-”

“Look,” Paulo said, pointing at the screen.

The perspective was shaking; the news helicopter was having trouble maintaining altitude.

We’re experiencing unexpected turbulence! Odd, we’re in the middle of the city. The reporter yawned. I don’t know why we’re…

The perspective was shaking, descending. Footage of the event blurred as the news vehicle slowly lost control, but not before they all saw the last few seconds of the riot. All at once, the thousands that had gathered at the gates of M.A.G.E fell to the ground like ragdolls.