People have entered the meeting room, made their report, finished their day, and done it all again twice over before someone noticed that Whitworth had not left.

“Have you tried showering?” Sokolov remarked. He peered over the director’s shoulder to try and understand the mess of graphics overlaid on the screen. The maps of New Langshir had been marked by different colors of digital marker and stuck with notes. A different color for a different day, perhaps.

Eliciting no response, Sokolov looked down at the slip of paper that had been freshly faxed to them. “They’re making a final decision on the Iranian situation,” he said. “They think the guy Victory zippered in ‘Ghan is a graduate from some gift induction program. Might be related to the nuclear material trail we thought we found. Assets have been placed to protect a few of the world’s leading biophysicists in case any of them start disappearing.”

“Think the Iranians have got it working?” Whitworth asked without leaving his maps.

“What, giving people gifts?” Sokolov shook his head. “Sounds like science fiction if you ask me. You either got it or you don’t.”

“Hm…”

“Why are you holed up in here?”

“There’s a connection I’m not seeing,” Whitworth said. “You didn’t see it on the news? Mayor Howard’s daughter got kidnapped the other night.”

“Dunno about that.”

“Guess Howard doesn’t want people knowing about it. His kid got ‘napped by a small team of amateurs. They tied her up in the derelicts and according to her they didn’t want anything. They didn’t even leave rope marks on her wrists.”

“Is that so?”

“Something tells me they weren’t supposed to talk to her at all.”

“What are you on about, Whitworth.”

“AKU found evidence of a one-sided firefight between them and an unknown assailant.”

“Don’t think any heroes were approved to intervene in something like that. Vigilante then?”

The director handed a brass casing over his shoulder. Sokolov held it in his hand, peering at it for a second.

“Looks like a АК пятнадцать cartridge,” Sokolov said.

“And this is the bullet we found embedded in the wall.”

“Seems ordinary.”

“Exactly. It’s not tipped with microalloy or even lonsdaleite. The bullets did not use any Gen. S propellant, and was not cored with denser metals.”

“Okay?”

“Sokolov. A group of idiots took a political figure’s daughter in our city, asked for nothing, and did not come prepared with bullets that can hurt the average enhancile.”

“I am not stupid, Whitworth. This just sounds like a problem for the police department. You need to stop micromanaging.”

“Second time someone’s told me that.”

“Well maybe listen to Jackson.”

“I want to elicit help from another like me. A powerful psychic.”

Sokolov raised an eyebrow.

“The asset?” He said. He hung on the last syllable with incredulity.

“The asset is not ready.”

“No shit.”

Whitworth sighed.

“There just isn’t enough time in a day…”

--

The first month of any school term always felt the longest. Time must work differently at M.A.G.E then. The first month was over. The third game of the Annual was next week. And Lyssa felt the passage of each day as heavily as the previous. Maybe it was all the exercises they had to do at Gift Application. They trained for combat almost fifty percent of the time, despite the fact that most incidents requiring heroic intervention did not call for it. And who would want combat to be necessary? The visceral feeling of watching a gift strike an opponent, watching their body bend the other from the impact—it was disturbing. Not because it felt wrong.

When Lyssa watched a man with a lizard morph rip another contestant’s skin apart, she cheered alongside her roommates, albeit quieter. Granted, the skin was made of gravel; an extension of the loser’s gift. No actual gore occurred. The loser yielded and the fight was complete.

“It was not a fair fight,” Amelia said. “Look at him. The man is an upright crocodile.”

“If people wanted to see fair fights, MGMA wouldn’t have outperformed MMA,” Carrie commented.

Lyssa stole a glance at Penny, who quietly sipped her soda.

“How’s your training coming along?” Carrie asked.

“Oh! Um, fine, I think,” Lyssa said. “I’ve been waking up sore more often.”

“Good, ‘cuz historically, very few contestants make it past the obstacle game.”

“Will there be another one on one arena game as a second chance?”

“Depends on how many do not make it,” Amelia answered. “If there is enough, they just might put three or more contestants in an arena and let one walk out. Higher stakes for a game at a higher stage.”

Or perhaps it was because the audience would have already seen a one versus one round robin. Changing the game probably made it more enticing to refresh a viewer’s ticket. Lyssa kept that theory to herself. One of their classes involved the history of heroism, revealing just how much money it really took to run an institution like M.A.G.E. Bleeding edge tech, cream of the crop personnel. And the overhead of keeping the entire operation secure against antagonistic interest. The cost was incalculable. Sometimes it seemed the case that honesty wasn’t productive.

“Only a few more rounds left,” Carrie said, scrolling through the roster on her phone. “Oh! Can’t wait to see this one. That guy can-”

A sudden event on the show interrupted her.

Whoa! Who let you in the booth? Catch him, Tim!

Slippery fella. Hey stop, that’s my microph-! This is a world of men, you gifted freaks! When cataclysm comes we all know who you’d side with! Your own kind. Not humankind. We’re insects beneath your boot waiting to be stomped. I know this. We all know this…

Get him outta here! You alright, Tim?

…ink he ucked up my… phone. Christ. Yo tech jockeys, I need… ew one in he…

The image was quickly replaced by a woman selling school supplies behind an overbearing smile.

“What was that?” Lyssa asked.

“Think the last time that happened was a few years ago,” Carrie said. “Just some pro-human… enthusiasts.”

“You mean bigot,” Amelia said. Her antennae was flicked back, the tips bristling ever so slightly.

Carrie did not pursue that conversation.

The games carried on as usual once the announcer was given a new microphone and a touching up from their make-up department. But Lyssa’s focus had gone elsewhere. Their rest had been brief. Soon it would be their turn again in the upcoming obstacle game. And after three training days with their gift instructor Lyssa never found out what elective suited her skillset the best. Whitworth must have grown busy as well. He had not contacted her about another session.

Lyssa had been going to class, sojourning at the biome gym, then she went straight home. She would try to sleep and then wake up, tired and nearly immobile without caffeinating, then repeat the cycle again. Nearly a full week of this rigorous schedule since she had clawed her way out of the first game. It was a lifestyle she had not been disciplined to withstand. The proverbial rope was fraying.

She looked at Carrie, watched her so eagerly cheer at the spectacle unfold on the television. The moment must have been universal, for she heard their neighbors shout as well through the thin walls. The energy was palpable, and yet she knew her roommates trained harder than her.

In the midst of her absentminded scrutiny, she noticed dark brown eyes turn towards her.

“Something wrong?” Carrie asked.

Lyssa realized she had not been breathing. She sniffed and shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

She tilted her head back upright, not realized her chin had nodded downward.

“Do me a favor then, would cha?” Carrie said. “Go to sleep earlier today.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Lyssa said with a smile. But even she was not convinced. There was something wrong with her, and there wasn’t a single person in the world who could tell her what.