“Spare a dollar?” Asked the beggar, more pathetically than usual. Though not as an attempt to convince more charity. The pain in his knee had gotten worse as of late. He had a line to a dealer for meds, but for people of his economic stature, life was a daily choice between drugs or food. Guess which one many of his ilk chose. It’s okay. No one would judge. For every soul that didn’t deserve to be on the streets, there was probably a soul who did. But everyone deserved a second chance.

“Spare a dollar?” He asked again, this time to a shadow bearing over him. It was the strangest thing. He knew it was a young lady, but he couldn’t see her face. Her features were occluded in memories of better times. She smelled of cathode ray tubes and green apple fizz.

“Come,” she beckoned, “Dine with me.”

And the beggar found that he could stand. In fact, he practically flew. He saw the city in a new light. New Langshir had been miserable as of late. Tensions were palpable, even among the passersby. He had been getting less change as well. Though things were calming a little.

The young lady was right. Everyone just needed to lighten up a little. And they did. For every person they passed, a new smile lit up the street. Before he knew it, he was no longer alone. He had become the first in a line of the homeless, all trailing behind the young lady.

Who was this being? Just looking at her made him dizzy. His senses swam and crisscrossed whenever he looked at her. All he knew was she had eased his pain, and she could make reality bearable. It was her wake. She left a trail of life wherever she walked. In this part of the city, the walls were covered with still images spray-painted through stencils. With a wave of her hand they came to life. The stylized letters bobbed and danced. The cartoons leapt out of the walls and joined them, leaving smoky afterimages of static where they had been.

Their procession grew. People in dirty coats and wrinkled scarves mingled with animated letters and caricatures. Citizens stopped their cars, got out, and joined them, their eyes glazed over and their smiles wide.

Then they began to hug each other. The beggar had never seen Langshirites do this before. There was a hardy cynicism to this patchwork city. He was used to stone-cold faces, even from the people who flicked a coin his way. Now they smiled, laughed, and shared their joy. The same joy he now felt just from being alive. He looked at the lady leading the way, this prophet, this herald of change. What did she know that they didn’t?

A giant stood in their way, stopping the procession in its tracks. People bumped into each other like a compressing accordion.

“I’m going to have to ask you all to disperse,” the giant said. He wore a tight suit over metallic skin. He was the hero named Vigil, and he wore a mask of impatience. There didn’t seem to be a day of calm in this city. Even heroes needed breaks.

But even his steely demeanor dissolved once the lady weaved her strange energy over him.

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“Hey, have I seen you before?” He asked, each word less coherent than the last. Vigil’s mask relaxed into one of bliss, and he too joined their way.

--

Whitworth left the conference chased by flash photography. He slammed the door to the backrooms shut, only to have a dossier pressed against his chest.

“Jackson?” He said in mild surprise. “Thought you didn’t go outside.”

“You might want to handle this one personally,” Jackson said.

“You’re the one who said I ought to rely on other people,” Whitworth said. He skimmed the document. The good humor fled his system. “What the hell?”

“It’s like mass hysteria,” Jackson said. “It’s not setting off any psychic alarms, but people are…”

“Are?”

“Happy. Best way to describe it. Like their boundaries are gone. People are hugging and kissing each other. Some are…” Jackson made a face. It took Whitworth a moment to catch on.

“If it was psychic I would have felt it,” Whitworth said. “It’s always one thing after another in this place.”

“Well, the thing is there’s been zero casualties. No property damage. Not so much as a sprained ankle.”

“Then why is it my problem?” Whitworth peered closer to the set of images in the dossier. “Is that?”

“Yes.” Jackson nodded. “That’s your Ms. Hyde.”

“Shit.”

A part of him knew he shouldn’t have left her alone. Lyssa was too volatile. Freedom was reserved for those in control of their faculties. He was a bit disappointed. The device he had given her should have stemmed the chaos somewhat. He must have underestimated her mental condition.

As he and Jackson walked, the doors to the conference room opened. Reporters had overpowered security, and began to pour out into the backrooms.

“I think I’ll leave you to it,” Jackson said. He started to leave. The Director stopped him.

“It’s fine,” Whitworth said.

The reporters filled the room, inquisitorial eyes glaring through cameras and recorders. They scoured every inch of the room, then came away confused.

“He’s probably out in the hall,” one of the legmen said. They filed back out of the room.

Whitworth followed the crowd on the way out, gently shoving shoulders as he walked beside them. Jackson trailed closely behind. They exited the building out into the parking lot.

“Excuse me,” Whitworth said, patting the shoulder of one of the reporters. They made way for the man and his friend, then resumed their dogged search.

Whitworth stood by the curb and hailed a cab.

“Aren’t you in deep enough water?” Jackson said.

“Why? What did I do?” Whitworth quipped.

They got in a cab and Whitworth set the destination.

“So, what do you plan to do?” Jackson asked.

“Show’s over,” Whitworth said. “This is just clean-up.”

“The girl’s been through a lot.”

“I know.” Whitworth mulled through Lyssa’s situation. “If I keep an eye on her twenty-four/seven she won’t trust me-”

“She already doesn’t.”

“She won’t trust the institution. That’s the problem. I’m not M.A.G.E.”

“Many would disagree,” Jackson said.

“I don’t care what ‘many’ thinks.”

Jackson rubbed his chin.

“You could cut your losses,” he said. “Let her go. Let her live a normal life, away from heroism. Our background check revealed that she has a small amount of savings from her late father. Enough for a couple years—three or four if she’s frugal, plenty of time to find a life. She was troubled before matriculating into M.A.G.E., but her condition only became this severe due to the stress we’ve been putting her through.”

Whitworth gazed out the windows in thought. The streets had grown busy again. Citizens went to work, performed errands, or ventured outside for the fun of it. That was the advantage of the big city, wounds were easily absorbed. The people within did not have that luxury. They needed protection and guidance.

Lyssa had too much potential.

“No,” Whitworth said.

Jackson threw up his hands in mock defeat.

“Alright boss.”

“I’ll talk to her, get her to settle down.”

“Sure thing.”