Whitworth set the dossier aside.
“This is a mistake,” he said.
The images in the semicircular slabs of glass before him flickered. A gentleman in a dark three-piece leaned forward, interlinking his fingers together on an invisible desk. His face was in shadow. Only his greying hair was apparent.
“Whitworth, see our side of things,” he said, “We’ve just approved your recent expansion. Now you want this?”
“I don’t need money,” Whitworth said. “Or resources. I need permission.”
The second image prepared to speak, a thin woman in a blazer and scarf, with an equally obscured face was equally obscured.
“The CEOR review is scheduled as usual,” she said. “You will wait until the next POTUS. Then we could consider making the changes to accommodate this project of yours.”
“This is too important to wait two years,” Whitworth said.
“M.A.G.E isn’t the only academy,” the third image said. “We cannot let your institution be solely responsible for the defense of the West.”
“Apex is a fine school. But you know mine is better.”
“This isn’t a competition. It’s assurance,” the woman said. “Apex will be receiving our consideration for now. We need bulwarks of all kinds, at all levels.”
“Even the gaudy kind, apparently.”
“No more than your capes and symbols,” the first image said. “Trust your peer institution. And come reelection we will-”
Whitworth looked away, his eyes focusing elsewhere.
“Sorry, councilmen,” he said. He stood from his seat.
“We understand.”
The lights snapped back on. The images faded from the slabs of glass.
“Check the scopes again,” he said. His lips stayed still. “Verify it twice.”
He left his office and into the halls of M.A.G.E headquarters. Administration members saluted him as he passed. Whitworth briefly acknowledged them, saying nothing.
“Where?”
He entered a room full of a series of tubes. He entered one set to the side. There were no buttons, no commands. The tube only had one destination, and was only visible to a few people.
“Pull the freshmen back. No. No don’t tell Lecturer Osprey. No need to overreact.”
The tube slowed to a full stop. He entered a circular room full of personnel behind keyboards and monitors. At the center, clusters of screens displayed maps, figures, graphs, camera feeds, some pointed down, others pointed at the mezzanine above.
He walked to the other side, where double doors opened at his presence.
“Ready the Magpie.” He switched to his voice as he entered a hangar bay. “I have to check this one out personally.”
The officer he had been speaking to approached.
“The Magpie is fueled,” he said. He produced a paper. “The data we have.”
Whitworth swept his eyes through it, absorbing the information instantly, then handed it back. He made his way to the vehicle waiting in one of the slots of the bay. It had V-shaped wings, bent backward. Six engines revved, like a blue-tinged tail of a blackbird.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“Hell of a time for one of these to surface,” the officer said.
“I tend not to trust serendipity,” Whitworth said as he began to board the jet. “Borrow the Nova satellite over Syria and give me overwatch until I get back.”
“Yes sir.”
--
“Let me out!”
“You’re more experienced than me,” Lyssa said. Her voice had no source, as ambient as nightfall.
“We are on the same side! I glimpsed what had happened to you. Negligence! It’s our common ground! Let us help you!”
“Look out.”
In the sky, a jet circled a tower and exploded as a bolt of energy licked it like a hot knife through butter. Its hull followed a lazy arc downward, barreling towards the ruined street the vigilante was standing in. He ducked behind an overturned car. The ground shook from the impact, and a plume of fire smeared down the asphalt. The air smelled of fuel and melted steel.
“You have very vivid memories of this,” Lyssa said. “It’s before my time.”
“Nevertheless, you must understand. Nine-Eleven. Twenty Twenty-Four. When next? Institutionalized heroism is too slow. And their fixation on franchise and costume… saving lives isn’t a game, or something to dramatize for box office millions.”
A sphere of dark energy began to build at the upper levels of the tower in the distance. It grew until it covered half the building, then collapsed inward. The shockwave, a visible wall of expanding air, swept down the city, carrying tons of broken glass, concrete, and dust with it.
But the man did not seek cover.
“I’ve lived multiple disasters,” he said. “Do you want to as well?”
Curtains. Dim yellow. One bulb snapped on. A single cone of light shone down. They were once more in cupboard sized room. They had never left. Lyssa stood from the chair. Scraps of burnt rope and bent handcuffs fell on the floor, useless.
“Don’t try to help me,” she said. “I scoured your mind when you looked at mine. You’re just one of many vigilante cells in this country. You don’t even know who your leader is. Even if I wanted help, I wouldn’t trust you.”
“Shame,” he replied. “High category telepaths like you are rare. You’ve no idea the kind of good you can do.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do. You dream of law school. You-”
“I don’t. She does. The Primum.”
“What?”
“You won’t remember me.”
--
From the air the city looked like a grid of mismatched shapes. Streets that had been built and rebuilt. Housing of different eras and architectural plans, betraying a long but simple history. New Langshir was not a new city.
“Anything?” Amelia asked above the buffeting wind.
“Nothing,” Penny said. “There’s not enough plant life in this part of time. It’s hard for me to see. Let’s try over there.”
“What a problem child.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I suppose. I could tell from the moment we met that she would be interesting. Someone as fidgety as her making it past the entrance exam could not have been a fluke.”
“Everybody has shadows on the inside. Why, we would know, wouldn’t w-? Wait. Down there!”
Amelia withdrew her wings partially. They dove like a hawk, swooping in a momentum ablating arc before landing squarely on the grass. They had arrived in a park. Children from the sandpit and plastic gym sets pointed at the two strange people in M.A.G.E uniform approach a third sitting on a bench. Lyssa had her face buried in her knees.
“What happened?” Amelia asked.
“I don’t remember this time,” Lyssa said. “I usually do what this sort of thing happens.”
“What sort of thing?”
“I… Sometimes I get moments where I become someone different, but still me. It happened a lot when I was young. When I saw Stonemason dig up that body it made me angry. I chased this guy into a bar. I got knocked out. Now I’m here.”
Penny knelt down.
“Let me see,” she said. “I think your nose is broken. Let’s get you back to the academy and patch you up. We’ll walk.”
“Okay.”
--
The chimes tolled. The sole occupants of the bar stopped their heated discussions to see who had entered yet again. From the beginning they had only ever expected one person to enter. This was the second stranger to come into a place that people weren’t even supposed to notice.
“Who are you?” The bear-like man said. His fur bristled.
“You kids are very tired,” Whitworth said.
The apprehensive looks faded from the vigilantes’ expressions. Each took a seat and laid their head down. Snores sounded as Whitworth walked up the stairs to the second floor. He made a cursory glance at the disheveled place, full of old chairs and dusty tables, before heading straight for a specific cupboard. He grasped the knob and opened.
Inside, a middle-aged man sat in a chair, alone. His eyes were unfocused. A single line of drool crawled down a corner of his mouth.
“Hm…” Whitworth examined the man. He then placed a hand on his head. “Rob… Robert. Pavlow. Forty-eight. Hmm. Not even you know who he is, huh? Oh well. I’ll fix you and your crew up. Maybe we could use you.”
He left the cupboard and retrieved his cell from his pocket.
“Sokolov? Put this on the watchlist. Rogue telepath. Violent, untrained, undisciplined. Tentative category 6… Me? No, not a chance. But I’m not always in this city… Do it.”
He ended the call.
“One thing after another,” he said tiredly.