Lyssa left the tent as more students were coming through the entrance. She watched them from the corner of her eye while her feet followed the director to an eight-wheeled APC parked away from the tents. She did not catch sight of her friends. They would arrive later. She was sure of it.

The hiss of pneumatics gave her a jolt down her spine. The ramp-door of the APC unfolded. The director entered and sat down. He looked at her expectantly. Lyssa fiddled with her fingers. She wanted to leave. She felt like a kid again, with two adults by her flanks taking her towards the doctor’s office at the end of an impossibly long hall. Except her escorts this time were men in masks with rifles in their arms. She entered and took a seat opposite to the director, fully expecting the door to begin closing, trapping her inside.

“I don’t get a lot of fresh air these days,” Whitworth said. He gazed out at the orange sun, a glowing disk about to be eclipsed by white-tipped peaks. “Hard to believe it’s only been a few years.”

“Seven,” Lyssa blurted out.

“Right. Seven years.” He exhaled bitterly. “People have such short memory spans nowadays. I used to blame smart phones. But the truth is we live in an exceedingly dangerous world. Anybody could be taking a stroll down one of the most secure cities in the developed world, only to have a skyscraper collapse on them. And that’s just the immediate threat. People think only humans can evolve gifts. Any intelligent animal can mutate and control a gift. We’re fucking this planet up for more than just ourselves. You remember hurricane Majestica, don’t you?”

“I know it.”

“But it doesn’t evoke emotion because you weren’t there. Truth is we never did find that whale. But it never struck us again. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

“I had a psychic amplifier built. A prototype at the time. I had it focus all the pain and misery that hurricane caused for the survivors, and directed it into the ocean. Did you know whales felt empathy?” Whitworth laughed, once. “I didn’t. We poison their oceans, steal their food—and sometimes kill them for food—and we fill their waters with the cacophony of our ships. But that whale never came back. And we never stopped doing all of the above.

“We live in relative peace, not because secret organizations like the CIA or some other acronym group fill our tap water with agents, lace trails in the sky with chemicals, or hide subliminal messages in commercials. We are at peace because we just don’t care so long as we are entertained and think winners are up there in the sky protecting us. That is how precarious our peace is. That is why paranoia isn’t swimming in the streets as our citizens lose sleep, wondering if and when they die to some supervillain’s collateral damage.”

“I-I understand,” Lyssa said.

“So why. Are. You. Fucking with the games?”

“I…”

Whitworth retrieved a tablet from underneath his duster. He played a clip of the announcers speaking.

This year’s teams are doing fantastic. But what are we going to do about the elephant in the room?

The cheater?

Well let’s not go there yet.

Well why not call a spade a spade? You can’t hide your powers at the school registry! The students’ oppositions are balanced around knowing what your gifts are. How else would an ungifted versus gifted game be fair? Not to mention people’s bets are being screwed with. A lot of people want a refund! Angry people! Millions of dollars!

Whitworth shut the tablet off.

“You have a couple options,” he said. “One. Mea culpa. Admit foul play and withdraw from the games, and from the hero program of your own accord. We’ll find a different position for you in M.A.G.E under our supervision. Two. You let me in your head. And I root out your true motivations so I know what kind of person you are and what you’re trying to do. Hiding your gifts is correlated with being a serial killer, after all.”

Lyssa’s fingers curled together, too weak to form a fist. She was trembling. And the sheer noise inside her skull was becoming untenable as her selves argued.

“Threaten him! We’re stronger!”

“We should withdraw.”

“He’s right there, and we are fast enough.”

And then there was the new self. “I just had my first taste of liberation. I will not be denied.”

Lyssa felt herself slip. The energies of her gifts were rising like a clenched muscle. She felt the bile of hot flame stop right at her fingernails. Force-fire brimmed throughout her veins. Black mist collected around her limbs, willing her to lunge forward faster than a bullet. She barely held herself back.

“You…” Her breaths became heavy.

“Hm? Speak up, girl. You’re an adult.”

“You’re not safe around me. I don’t have enough control. You need to run.”

Sethlana was the first to break through. She stood to her feet. Flames leapt from her fingers. Black scales grew over her entire body like pyroclastic flow. The soldiers just outside the APC opened fire. Rifle rounds ricocheted off her armor.

“At ease,” Whitworth said.

Lyssa could feel herself sink somewhere in her mind’s cellars. With the last of her strength, she shouted, “Run!”

“Why?”

The armor dissolved into harmless flakes. The fiery claws dissipated. Sethlana fell back into her room, screaming with fury the entire time while Lyssa returned with full control. She fell back into her seat, taking panicked breaths.

“Relax,” Whitworth said. “I’ve turned it off.”

“No, you don’t understand. There’s another. She’s like you. She’s—”

Lyssa had never been awake at the same time Bildungsroman ruled. This time she was allowed to stay. She watched the walls of the APC bleed and the sky outside tear open. Thunder screamed and lightning flashed. Many-legged creatures made of carapace and fang crawled out of the crannies of the vehicle, constricting around Whitworth’s torso, and then his arms and neck. A centipede the size of a python snapped its fangs beside the director’s face, affixing him with its beady, dead eyes. Lyssa was afraid, more for him than he was, apparently. How could he still maintain a blank face? Muffled shouts came from the soldiers outside. One was frantically patting nothing off his arms. Another was rolling on the ground, possibly to put out a fire that wasn’t there. One simply opened his mask to retch uncontrollably.

Bil did not rise alone. Lyssa felt a feverish sensation as Absinthe was dragged up with her.

“Whoa pardner, ah ain’t drunk enough to be out here…”

“I need you,” Bil was saying, seething with anger, “To induce pain. Unimaginable pain.”

“Ah could. But that ain’t my style, sister.”

Lyssa had no say in the conversation between her selves. She was paralyzed in her seat. Bildungsroman was always capable of this. Lyssa had control only when it did not matter to her.

The walls had become flesh, the only exit out of the vehicle a maw of gnashing molars. The sharp legs of insects crawled all over her skin, pricking her with their every step. She could only curl underneath the orchard tree in her thoughts, taking refuge in one of the few pleasant memories she had with her father, and cry. So much for unity. Lyssa was never close to being her own master.

But she wasn’t sitting in the shade of that tree next to her father. She was sitting in the present, in the seat of an armored vehicle, facing a man with dense brown hair and an indomitable poker face. The sky had returned to normal. No monstrous creature gnawed at them. The soldiers were picking themselves up, groggy but recovered. And her resentful self was nowhere to be felt.

Lyssa was completely alone in her head.

“I think I understand,” Whitworth said. He adjusted his tie.

“You… do?” Lyssa said uncertainly.

“I went through your past. Your memories.”

“How did you…?”

“That self of yours doesn’t know how to do anything but intimidate with illusion and theatrics. She isn’t a trained telepath, and she isn’t as powerful as I am.” He glanced outside. "You boys okay?”

“Yes sir!” They reported.

“I am going to give you a third option,” he said. “Don’t withdraw from the games. Use this as training. Gain some semblance of control. But you will be reporting to me.”

“I can’t hear them.”

“I put them to sleep. You’ll have a quiet night.”

“Thank you,” Lyssa said with genuine gratitude. The smile on her face faded quickly. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No. You will be appearing before a camera. You will be making a statement. Be honest. Cite your affliction as ‘mental illness’ caused by a ‘very troubling childhood’. That will be why you failed to be frank in the registry process.”

“That’s enough?”

“Sure.” Whitworth shrugged. “Mental illness is making a return as a hot topic in social justice this decade. You will be attacked by people who don’t know you, and you will be defended by people you don’t know. Neither will really care about you. And both will eventually forget about you if you follow my orders.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It’s social media, young lady. Take it seriously at your own peril. Lord knows kids like you should understand that better than me.” Whitworth stood from his seat and held his arm back towards the camp. “Your equipment should be arriving. A problem at the warehouses delayed it. We have prepared something special for you.”

“Alright. Thank you.” Lyssa exited the APC. She could feel the man’s gaze on the back of her head as she walked away. The feeling of unease settled as she returned to the camp. She never really had any say in that interaction. Authority still hung over her life. If it wasn’t internal, it was external. She looked back when she heard the vehicle roll away. There was one consolation in all of this. At least she could be sure that the director was not as bad of an authority as her own demons.

--

“Sorry. I had to take care of something. I’ll meet you at our usual place, Sokolov.”

“Did you get ‘em?”

“The asset? She’s on our side for now. Who could’ve known letting more applicants in would lead to a catch like this.”

“Haha I told you to let her through the shrink. You dismissed me.”

“Hmm.”

“She never wondered, huh? Not even a little?”

“We tend not to question evidence that makes us normal. We can be sure she’s human.”

“A real, twisted fruit loop of a human.”