There is undeniable proof of the concept of phenomenology. All things, alive or not by any definition shares the same objective reality. The phenomena is what differs; the subjective meaning behind the perception of something. A blade of grass is ‘lawn’ to a human being. To a cow, it is ‘food’. The same, objective thing can be two things at once, since there is no point in speaking of the objective thing outside of a life form’s perception of it. The world is therefore a kind of managed chaos, of many different individual perceptions, protected by barriers of individuality.

Telepaths, not to be confused with the lesser empath, are gifted who perceive those barriers to be optional. Ask a normal human if they could read someone’s thoughts and they would say, ‘How can I?’ Tell a telepath this response and they would say, ‘How can’t you?’ Telepaths need to be trained not to read minds. Telepaths circumvent human perception. A powerful one could redefine free will for an individual. This is public knowledge.

So why is the civilized world not in a state of chaos and paranoia? Why does democracy work if telepathy begins in a place deeper than grassroots?”

“A nation-wide psy-op?” A student suggested.

“Agents in the water supply,” another said.

“Democracy doesn’t work,” one more answered.

“Interesting answers but no,” Samuel Osprey said. “A category 2 telepath can convince a weaker mind that the sky is purple. Then this weaker individual goes around believing that for a while, until they see the color blue somewhere else. Then they look at the sky. A minute of very difficult dissonance later, the notion is corrected. Convince one mind to vote for your favorite politician instead, and they would question why they would for a long time. After all their beliefs originally made them want to vote for the other guy. It varies from person to person, but eventually the thought gets corrected. In order to change someone’s mind, you need to change every significant aspect of it. Their memories, their perception of reality, their ideologies, their personal logic, et cetera…

“That is why it is so important to think for yourself when it comes to the CEOR and Super Ethics. Inscribe it into your very being, so you know where you stand at all times. Psychic defenses courses only go so far, unless you are a telepath yourself.”

The bell rung. “Alright, next week we’ll start working on strengthening those defenses against ethical tampering from telepathic hostiles. Don’t forget that paper. If you don’t pass you don’t get to enter the tournament.”

The tournament seemed to be all anyone cared about since the past few days. Probably a good thing, since that was where most of the news traffic went instead of the inexplicable incident at the local pub.

Lyssa packed her things and filed out of the lecture hall. She had the rest of the afternoon off. Classes did not take up much of the student’s day, and Lyssa was beginning to realize it was to allow them to train on their own. Even the same gift could behave differently when used by different people. Training was mostly a personal process. And she had about a week left to catch up and complete her schoolwork. Not that she wasn’t on track. It was the games that worried her.

She had some shopping to do. On her way out of the campus a woman handed her a pamphlet that showcased the upcoming games and all their rules. Students would have one week to prepare any strategies as a result. Lyssa pocketed the pamphlet. Food was a bit higher on her hierarchy of needs.

The bus hissed to a stop, announcing its destination.

“Drewmore Boulevard – onto – General Super…”

Lyssa’s eyes lingered on the paid advert slot on the bus’s side.

A hospital bed. A horrifically injured young man connected to a series of tubes and machines. The weak, green line pulsating ever so saliently on the medical monitor.

‘We are not savages. Say no to violence for entertainment. This message has been brought to you by…’

The bus beeped. Lyssa quickly got on. The driver pulled his handle back, closing the door. He shook his head as he did so. Lyssa grabbed onto a handrail. There were empty seats, but she preferred to stand. While standing, she could more easily ignore the middle aged lady staring at her.

“You’re a M.A.G.E student,” the lady said.

“Yes?” Lyssa said.

“My son took the entrance practicum. One of those machines crushed his leg in nine places. The announcers made a joke out of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not. You’re just glad you passed.” The lady turned away. “People should be putting more trust and resources in the police, not cosplaying, vainglorious psychopaths.”

A door opened. Sethlana’s door. Lyssa could not stop her in time.

“M.A.G.E doesn’t charge to heal applicants, do they?” Lyssa said.

“No they don’t. What’s your-”

“You lost nothing and neither did M.A.G.E. Sounds like your son just didn’t make the cut. Petty people tend to decry achievements they initially failed to get.”

“How dare you?! My husband is an officer of the law! And I’m an attorney, before you think I’m living through family members. I come from a family of good old-fashioned justice. Not costumed nonsense.”

In her mind mansion, Lyssa was trying to shove Sethlana back in her room.

“I’m sure strongly worded letters to your congressman turn away supervillains,” Lyssa said. “Maybe a cease-and-desist to stop a man hurling semi-trucks.”

“There are businesses struck by Rachminau who still haven’t recovered, young lady. The only people who grew from Twenty-Four were corporations, Apex, and M.A.G.E. You people do good at a heavy cost.”

Lyssa finally managed to shut the door. She felt Sethlana sulk away back to the recesses of her thoughts. She pulled the cord. The bus’s stop alert lit up.

As she began to exit the bus, the driver spoke.

“You people saved my life once,” he said. “Not all of us think like that lady. Just thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” Lyssa said. She stepped onto the sidewalk and watched the vehicle rejoin the endless river of metal and gasoline. She wasn’t at General Super yet. She had stepped off prematurely.

The walk gave her time to think. It was not an enjoyable time. The fact was if that lady was even partially right, Lyssa could not continue studying to be a hero and be ignorant to their world.

They were not circus animals. Why was it so normal to see people break bone for entertainment? What place did capes have in a world without super-crime? Were they needed? Or simply wanted? Lyssa debated leaving the tournament. But she had made a deal with that fragment of herself deep in that cavern of her mind. Lyssa did not know what gift that fragment governed, but she remembered how confident and calm that self was. A departure from the insanity of her other selves. If she wanted to work as a hero, she would need that fragment most of all.