“How does it feel?”

“Good,” Lyssa said. She flexed her limbs experimentally in the new suit. She did not mind; the FASE suits always chafed ever so slightly. But she did feel like the odd one out among the other students, who all received a piece of gear that complemented or enhanced their skillset.

“The fibrous adaptive smart ester suits are useful, but they can’t keep up with stronger gifts,” John Wicham, the games coordinator explained. “You’re wearing a standard issue body piece professional frontline heroes use. It’s made of Mimicrine. It will absorb and copy the properties of whatever state your body is in.”

“Feels like a second skin,” she said. “But this is something I would get anyways when I work as a hero, right?”

“According to the workshops your data didn’t really give them much to work with,” John said apologetically. “Sorry. I realize it doesn’t seem fair.”

“No. It’s more than fair,” Lyssa said. The unique nature of their situation had not left her mind. “Are you okay? You seem stressed out.”

“Hm? No no I’m fine… It’s just that this year has been very weird right off the bat. It’s the biggest Annual yet and we’ve had all sorts of problems. We’ve had hacked drones. Someone’s piggybacking on the video feeds. And then the warehouse problem. If I was paranoid I might think someone was messing with us.” He cleared his throat, realizing he was rambling. “Anyways. Don’t worry about stuttering or saying something strange on air. Looks less rehearsed that way.”

“I didn’t rehearse.”

“That’s good. You’re on in a minute. Take a few deep breaths.” The coordinator began to breathe deeply himself.

Would people forgive her if she told the truth? Even as Lyssa wondered, she realized how farcical the notion was. People weren’t necessarily angry at her to begin with. She wasn’t a real human being, not while she was only visible from a digital screen. Much like how sports fans denigrated players that disappointed them, to the viewers of the games, she was just an obstacle to their enjoyment.

Mr. Wicham told her to avoid searching for herself online. She had done so anyway. The discussions were not pleasant. Gifted serial killers tended to be secretive about their abilities, so clearly she was in a Venn diagram with them. The worst part wasn’t the criticism; it was her growing community. A loud minority of people had become quite taken with her performance. Video of her hovering in the air, obliterating military assets while cackling like a witch was making its way around the web. Unofficial estimates placed the gift somewhere in the upper end of category 4 force projection.

Dealing with the new Self had given her a headache in the morning as well. Eury was boisterous, independent. She would not be contained in a mental room to be called upon when beckoned. So Lyssa imagined a tower spiraling into an open meadow sky. She would have to call for help at the base of that metaphorical staircase, and Eury might answer. If she felt like it.

Lyssa had to remind herself all her Selves were her. Is there a part of me that flippant? Or perhaps it was a part of her that was so desperate to feel free. She would have to introspect another time. The coordinator gave her a gentle pat on the back. She inhaled deeply and walked into the improvised press tent.

--

The television was just noise. Pablo had it in the background while he laid on an elevated platform, benching a thick bar with a car welded at both ends. But he had quit that warehouse job; it had served his purpose of getting into the country. He could go back to being Paulo Ramos-Ortega. The last notable bearer of his family name.

He listened to the show as he pushed the weight up and down in slow, steady repetitions.

“…pologize for the- the dishonesty. My forgetfulness was a coping tool to deal with the difficulty of my youth. I plan on fully using M.A.G.E’s mental health resources as I continue my career.”

“What makes you think you’re fit to be a hero at all, much less a frontliner, if you’re struggling to this extent?”

“I-I… We’re here to be made fit. Regardless of origin. I think no matter where you come from, or- or what um has happened to you, you can still make the right choices.”

Paulo chuckled bitterly.

“Strike a nerve?” Henry Othin said from behind the cluster of monitors and spaghetti bundles of cables. He was stationed on the other side of the garage they had made their island.

“That’s always been their way, hasn’t it?” Paulo remarked. “Forget, forget, forget. Even as they make holidays so they never forget. A minute of silence in the classroom to educate the children.”

“What do you have to say about your exceedingly worrisome behavior in the games?”

“I got caught in the heat of the moment. I was enthusiastic, nothing more.”

“That’s the word,” Henry said. He took a break from hammering rapidly on his keyboard to adjust his glasses and look at the television screen. “I’ve been collecting the data on the fresh blood, and this one is a wildcat. She’s the whole nutcracker suite.”

“Then let’s hear some honesty now! What are your gifts?”

“I can move in high bursts of speed. I can cover myself in stone. I can generate stasis fields and project force. I can move metal as well.”

“Thank you for the honesty.”

“She’s still lying,” Henry said. “Hiding something. I just don’t know wh-”

“Pain,” Paulo said. He grunted as he lifted his weights a final time and rested it on the reinforced rack behind him. “She’s hiding pain.”

“Okay, guru,” Henry quipped, rolling his eyes.

“Where are your parents in all this? What was their reaction to what happened and where you are now?”

“… They are dead. 2024.”

“Then what would they have thought?”

“Jesus…” Henry said.

“They would have been disappointed. I will do better.”

“The answer is ‘I don’t know’,” Paulo said. “Or she was never close enough with her parents to know. I know those expressions. It’s nice to see your country’s media is as ruthless to its own as they are to everyone else.”

“Not out of journalistic fairness. This sort of thing just sells.”

Paulo leaned his arms on top of a monitor, eliciting Henry’s chagrin. He regarded the meager man carefully.

The technology whiz was in his element behind a desk with slender fingers prattling on unmarked keys. His short blonde hair grew in chaotic tufts, made messy by minute-long showers on budgeted water. He did not belong in hiding.

“Why are you helping me?” Paulo asked. “I do not have good intentions here. I’m here for revenge.”

“I can’t say,” Henry replied. “But it should suffice to know that I have been wronged as well. We share similar interests.”

“Aaaand here we go again!” The TV blared. The press talk was over. The games resumed.