The target was a collection of structures, wrought in brick and cement. Solid, foundational materials for an honest business built upon beer. The nectar of mankind. The true test of a successful civilization was to have a ready supply and an even readier demand for alcohol. Langshir Brewery had been a tight knit family who knew neither rain nor sleet nor outbreak would ever slake the people’s thirst.

That had been approximately seven years ago. The place was empty now, collecting webs and rats. And apparently evildoers. The federal agents who had spent the past who-knows amount of days in the city narrowed down their base of operations in the abandoned plant. Too little too late. All over the city, superpowered incidents tore the rift between gifted and ungifted into a widening schism. Sokolov could see the trails of smoke rising from all around them, even from the industrial sector of the city. The villains’ plan had already happened. And they don’t even know exactly what it had been. Or maybe they did and the federal agents were simply withholding that information, standing by the idea that security was secrecy. Sokolov wondered if all this could have been prevented if gifted and ungifted organizations worked together from the beginning instead of in parallel. He entertained the pointless speculation briefly.

They paused behind a fraying fence beyond which the target waited. One of the unit members released a small drone into the air. It flitted like a bumblebee at eye level for a moment, then turned invisible, though up close Sokolov could still see its shimmering dimensions.

“The suspect vehicles are here,” the operator reported.

“Looks like we have ‘em,” Woodhouse said. “Ready?”

Sokolov checked with his people. “They’re ready by the East entrance.”

“Three. Two. One.”

“Now,” Sokolov whispered into his collar.

The men blurred into action, running up to the empty brewery. The drone hovered at the level of the clerestory, peering inside the place. The heavy smell of melting metal stung Sokolov’s nose as the lock to a set of double doors were burned open. Six armored operators moved ahead, clearing corners and behind doorways while the unarmored agents stayed behind.

It was too quiet—that much was obvious—but the operation had already begun; it was too late to entertain doubt. They moved like phantoms through the corridor. Sokolov’s utterly normal eyes had to adjust to the dimness while the fully geared operators flipped their goggles down. They moved past offices and locker rooms, some entirely cleaned out. Others remained with a fine layer of dust and the appurtenances of work. A framed photo sat tilted towards the seat.

A large empty hall waited for them ahead, palely lit by light pouring through the glass ceiling. Old tanks, fermenters, and other equipment sat in a line. The operators performed their rapid, silent language in hand formations and rushed forward. The right side was cleared, then gun barrels were turned to the left. One operator fell.

Bits of concrete were dislodged as bullets struck the corridor they almost emerged from. The projectiles had been silent until impact. Wordlessly, the men shrunk back into cover, with one staying long enough to drag their fallen back. Shots continued to pepper the walls. The sounds of shattering material were like an intense hail.

“We’re outnumbered,” the wounded operator reported weakly. “I count at least a dozen up by the mezzanine.”

“Shit, how did they know?” Jakobs said. They turned to Sokolov.

“Mezzanine, at least twelve,” Sokolov said into his collar. “I’ll take point.”

He grabbed the fallen operator’s rifle and moved towards the light. Weapon fire echoed from the left side, not from the enemies up on the mezzanine however. Another squad had suddenly tested their mettle and they were forced to respond. Sokolov took that instant of distraction to roll out of the corridor and behind the cover of an abandoned tank. Several shots chased his shadow, none coming close. He shot back, aiming without leaving cover.

“Ten tangoes. Mezzanine level,” someone said through Sokolov’s collar. “We’re pinned. They seem to know exactly where we are. Possible psychic overwatch in the area.”

Sokolov switched sides behind his cover, took aim, and fired. One enemy went down before a shower of metallic rebuke chased after him, but he had already ducked back into safety.

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“Is that going to be a problem for you people?” He asked.

“No.”

The enemies were retreating. Seeing this, the operators began peeking to fire on them.

“Don’t let them get away!” Sokolov said.

The ungifted team sprang in pursuit. Sokolov took point, running up the metal stairs to the mezzanine door. He took one side while someone else took the other. Together they breached into the space.

The floor was littered with bodies. Bearing over the still forms were three personnel in dark blue. A small patch on their shoulder spelled out their allegiance. A M.A.G.E trident. Woodhouse lowered his pistol.

“I thought you freaks didn’t do guns,” he said.

“These freaks aren’t flashy enough to put on tights,” Sokolov said. “Nor do they want to.”

“This one’s alive,” one of M.A.G.E unit members said, pointing at a man by his feet with the muzzle of his rifle.

“Right, we’ll take it from here,” Jakobs said, stepping forward.

“That’s alright,” Sokolov said, raising a hand casually. “We have better resources for getting information out of people than your bureau.”

“That’s not how this works, Rusky. This is our op. You’re riding shotgun.”

“This is gifted business,” Sokolov said. “We ran out of time yesterday. I can’t afford to wait for your organization’s findings.” He turned to his own unit. “Stabilize him. Pack him up. We’re bringing him back to base.”

He caught the whisper quiet sounds of weapon barrels being raised behind him. Two out of the M.A.G.E trident raised their weapons while the third casted a knowing glance before continuing to patch up the survivor.

“This is bigger than this city,” Woodhouse said behind the unwavering sights of his pistol. “We need this evidence.”

“Explain,” Sokolov said.

“We can’t.”

Sokolov shrugged and began to walk to the opposite door leading out of the mezzanine.

“Stop! Stay right here!” Jakobs shouted.

The survivor was packaged in a bag of life-sustaining technologies. One of the trident carried the bag out while the other two walked backwards with their weapons trained on the operators. The operators looked over at the agents for orders, shuffling uncertainly. But no order was given, and not another shot was fired. Sokolov left the brewery, returning to the rising chaos of the city.

--

Several helicopters hovered above the crater, throwing down ropes. M.A.G.E personnel rappelled down. Scientists, and soldiers alike. With the jamming effect gone, teleporters were arriving onto the scene as well. The student with the shattered legs were quickly ferried away via stretcher. The rest were offered blankets and given medical checkup. Lyssa refused. She had suffered no real injury. Like most of the students who had not made it past the finish line, she had been forced along the current as events unfolded. She had not been expected to do anything of course; their education had just barely begun. Still, a hollowing feeling bristled within.

When the dust settled they were called back to their dorms. Lyssa shambled back as usual after a long day. She opened the door to a pair of arms embracing her. If she had not been exhausted, she would have jumped.

“C-Carrie? What’s going on?”

“You’re alright,” Carrie breathed.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The other two were deeply immersed in the events unfolding on a laptop screen.

“What is this?” Lyssa asked.

“The beginning of the true test, I would guess,” Amelia said.

Lyssa watched with guilty fascination as found footage played of giants thrashing neighborhoods, beings hovering in the air, transformed humanoids crawling out of fissures in the roads. Heroes were working to stop them, of course, but there weren’t enough. Evacuations were taking place, but not fast enough to take the city’s dense populace to safety. The footage swapped to the sight of ordinary citizens taking up arms against the superpowered menaces themselves. They squinted as automatic weapons in their grips roared with flame. Most were clearly not used to having a weapon in their hands. But the success was evident. Ungifted brought down their fair share of uncontrolled gifted.

The next few days felt unreal. While investigations were under way, the city could only wait. When Lyssa went out with her friends, people didn’t just look at Amelia funny. They were all a part of their scrutiny. The onlookers’ thoughts were a swirling maelstrom of wariness, fear, anger. Hate, most of all. Lyssa had had to take a long way home after a shopping trip after a major road got taken over by anti-gift rallies. New slogans flooded the streets and online. Smug I-told-you-so’s from concerned citizens who just knew the whole time that gifted were trouble. They were vindicated by the violence, perhaps even glad it happened. The investigations were thorough and conclusive. Every single incident of an out-of-control gifted displayed clear signs of psychic tampering, confirmed by multiple high category telepaths. But that didn’t matter. The atmosphere had changed overnight.

The worst part was Lyssa did not even know what she was supposed to feel. She had not even seen it all happen. They were all too busy playing their games. On her way back home she walked around yet another cordon, adding a few more minutes to her commute. The road had been shattered. A gigantic body of a centipede like creature with a human face laid on the asphalt, half-emerged from the ground. Teams of excavators were working to dig it out.

The closer she came to the school, the emptier the roads became. Police roamed the streets around M.A.G.E. They had caught multiple young teens attempting to toss bottles of lit alcohol over the gates, so now security was warranted. A policeman stopped her. She quietly revealed her student card. The officer flashed a light over it, looked at the photo and then her face. Then she was allowed through. Overhead, one of several helicopters roamed past. They were not alone. Lyssa could feel eyes upon her, though she could not pinpoint where they were coming from.

Before her career had truly began, everything had changed. Though this was just the beginning.