“Here.” Viktor placed a bracelet on Paulo’s palm. “Just talked to the boss.”

“What is this?” Paulo asked.

“Put it on. It’s a test of fai- Christ, kid.”

Paulo had already strapped it on his wrist. The bracelet changed size a couple times before finding the proper fit on his wrist. He tugged it experimentally.

“This thing doesn’t come off, does it?” He asked.

“No. It has constant connection to a private satellite network. There are explosives in it. The kind that can hurt you so don’t fuck with it, capisce?”

“Crystal.”

“What are you smiling about?”

“No no. I was just happy I caught that uh slang. I watch a lot of movies.”

“There is a bomb on your wrist,” Viktor said.

“I haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

“I can’t tell if you’re really confident or really stupid. Come.”

A car waited on the warehouse driveway. It was a SUV from a popular brand that looked a few years used. Invisible. Viktor directed them to the back while he sat in the front. At the click of the doors sliding shut, the vehicle hummed into motion.

“Think you understand what corruption is?” Viktor asked.

Paulo glanced over to Henry, who had leaned his head towards the window, seemingly absent. Paulo realized the question was entirely for him.

“An antagonistic motivation within an organization,” Paulo said. “Like selfish officials or bought lawmen.”

“Where are you from again?”

“South America.”

“Checks out. That’s one definition for it. Here’s one more insidious. A motivation that’s antagonistic without anyone knowing, not even the corrupted. Look out the window for a few seconds. Say nothing, not even in your head.”

“Okay… done.”

“What are you thinking about? Just go with your gut.”

“Kind of hungry.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“Uh a-”

“Burger? Cereal? RaideRade?”

“I admit I did think those at first, but my preference would be something locally grown. I prefer cooking for myself.” Paulo looked out the window again. “It’s true though. There are a lot of screens and junk food ads.”

“Who cares about consumerism? I’m talking about the medium,” Viktor said. “Who’s telling you to eat high-fructose breakfast syrup?”

“Fleetfoot’s RaideRade?” Paulo remarked.

“Leave a trail of fire in your wake,” Viktor finished the slogan. “Those are professional heroes. People who are trained, often from the moment they can walk like some tiger mom’s vicarious pageant trophy, to protect our lives from the constant threat we face from ourselves. Look out that window again, but at the street level. One in two people are gifted. Usually at category 1 or less, but it doesn’t matter. Every other person you meet might be carrying a proverbial knife up their sleeve.

“The directors at M.A.G.E and Apex have engineered the public to believe in us gifted to keep them safe. They’ve integrated Supes into our lives at every level from commercial to legislative. Heroes waltz around like socially-acceptable ubermensch, and people willingly shower them with money and social favor. The gifted in turn obey the Consolidated Enhancile Operating Regulation to the letter, to make everyone feel safe. It’s fusion at the systematic level.”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“And that’s bad?” Paulo asked.

“We are not the same, you and I,” Henry said before returning his attention to the city vista.

“It’s not sustainable,” Viktor said. “One day, someone will wake up. Someone ambitious, charismatic, and ungifted will realize their neighbors are living weapons who can feel human emotion. They will feel the cumulative fear of an endangered species grazing in the same field as predators. They will lead an uprising, the gifted will be shunned by speech or by force, and they will think it’s the right thing to do. It’s happening already. Peaceful rallies are just the beginning.”

“What if, well, a gifted came to this conclusion you’re proposing?” Paulo asked.

“Something worse,” Viktor answered. He smiled, impressed with the question. “You see, Paulo, evil isn’t a choice. Good is whatever makes us comfortable. Evil is just the antithesis. If an ambitious, charismatic, gifted woke up one day and realized they had dreams, they might not care who they make uncomfortable along the way to achieving it.”

--

“Do you feel different?” Professor Verruck asked. A corner of her mouth was lifted in anticipation.

Lyssa glanced at her surroundings, her brow deeply furrowed. Her eyes then found her own hands. She noted the patterns of lines on them, the rosy blotches beneath the fair skin. Then she inhaled in a panic, having neglected breathing for a few too many seconds. She exhaled with the same amount of deliberation.

“Fascinating,” Verruck said.

Lyssa opened her mouth. A strange sound came out. Vocal cords. Complex. One needed to breathe out while talking to pronounce words. She took her time. In her concentration she forgot her legs and began to fall. Verruck caught her by the arm. Lyssa nearly jumped at the sensation. That was another human’s hand wrapped around her arm, pinching with just enough force to keep her from meeting the floor. But it was still perturbing.

“Wh…”

“Yes?” Verruck smiled.

“Why have you pulled me out?”

“Um…”

“Why?!”

Verruck thought about it for a moment.

“To see if I could,” she answered.

Lyssa scowled. She raised her hands. Energy coalesced around her fingers, translucent like film, tinged a spring blossom pink. The influence spread. The lecture hall seemed to change in shape, slipping, sliding down a tube into the confines of a snow globe. The vertical walls appeared to bend, the floors lift, and the doors shrink.

“This is marvelous,” Verruck breathed.

“Is this what you wanted?” Lyssa said through clenched teeth.

“To observe, yes.”

“Observe closely then.”

If someone were to peer into the lecture hall, it would look as though it were seen through a door lens; too much space in too little field of view, bordered by that bright pink glow. Then they would cease to see the hall entirely.

It was gone, replaced by a perfectly spherical cavity where a place used to be.

To the two people inside the hall everything would seem normal for a moment. Until physics caught up and the place began to fall apart. The chairs, parts of the walls and the floor, and the little tables no longer had foundation. The enclosure of the room disintegrated to gravity.

Lyssa watched Verruck fall with the collateral mirthlessly. It did annoy her immensely to see the satisfied look on Verruck’s face as it shrunk into the waters below. Lyssa alone stood aloft. The wind sifted through her clothes. The sky was a rich blue, turning light where the sun hung. Cloud drifted in front of her far, far away. As an afterthought she noted she was carrying a backpack.

“Studious girl,” she remarked.

--

Whitworth was not happy when he stormed into M.A.G.E’s astrometrics lab. The personnel quickly got out of his way. Jackson was already there, standing before a round console with a projection of the planet above it. The head of security looked more curious than worried despite the red alert.

“I was in the middle of a meeting,” the Director said with restraint. “What the hell is going on?”

“The Rachminau Protocol just activated,” Jackson said.

“What?!”

“A false positive, fortunately.”

“No no, this is the first I’ve heard of such a Protocol.”

“Like I said, Cormigieu, you can’t know everything.” Jackson entered a sequence into a console. The red alert stopped. “I had it commissioned after Twenty-Four. It’s designed to detect massive spatial ruptures, the kind Rachminau could do with his telekinesis. The sensors detected a spatial fold, but on a much, much smaller scale. About the size of an average room on this campus, actually.”

“Well where did it happen?”

“On this campus.”

“Casualties?”

“None. All of our students’ biometric chips are either nowhere near the incident site or…” A frown broke Jackson’s stony features. “One of the students is reading several miles in the air above Langshir Lake. Shall I take a Magpie to investigate?”

“No, I will.”

“Who did you have a meeting with, Director?”

“The Council.”

“I daresay keeping them waiting will not do. Why don’t you enjoy your chitchat? I’ll go.”

Whitworth considered it with a deeply troubled look on his face.

“Fine,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jackson said. He made his way to the hangars. “Been a while since I’ve gone outside.”