Part I: 05:00

I really try not to be materialistic, but it’s hard sometimes. One of the benefits of being a Nova is that you’re almost guaranteed to be wealthy unless you make a nuisance of yourself, and I’m no exception. I can afford the cute little alarm clock that wakes me up with my choice of aromatherapy, the extra comfy bed sheets, and the luxurious pajamas that are almost better than sex.

Almost. I spare no expense on my pajamas. It’s the one part of my wardrobe that I don’t have to share with the world, the only piece that’s really mine and mine alone. Nobody sees me in them unless I have guests, and my guests are always close friends. That comes with celebrity. The constant photos, interviews, press conferences, publicity tours…about the only thing that’s left after everything else is taken from me are my pj’s, and I spoil myself with the comfiest of them all.

After switching off my alarm clock, I hop out of bed and immediately into my slippers. Downstairs, cappuccino is already ready for me, my auto-timed brewer set to start up a few minutes before my alarm clock. I have a box of fruit-filled pastries in the freezer and nuke every last one before I set them on a plate and sit with my cappuccino at the kitchen table.

I normally check my favorite OpNet sites during breakfast, mouthfuls of pastries vanishing as I do. I should get a better portable terminal, but then again I’ve been telling myself that for months. Fact of the matter is that I don’t really need one, I just have trouble resisting the desire that I can afford a much faster one if I wanted it. Hearing Endeavor spout off about her equipment often made me want to get all high-tech, but I just never had the time to do it.

Thinking of Endeavor reminds me of an acquaintance of mine in Japan, someone even more a fan-girl who actually took as her Nova name Otaku. If there was ever proof that eruption grants unconscious desires then that girl is it. How in the world anyone aberrates to so closely resemble a real-life anime character is beyond me. Big eyes, small mouth, an honest-to-god “transformation scene” whenever she dorms up…it’s pretty wild. I wonder sometimes if the two of them have ever met. I imagine it would be huge, like having a real-life Tsukino Usagi meet a real-life Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV. Then again, I guess Endeavor is already a combination of those two characters, but Otaku really has the magical girl angle cornered.

Of course, work e-mail comes first. The itinerary for today’s press meeting is highlighted “high importance,” but the Director is just overzealous. I’ve had a copy of it for a week now. A letter from my dear friend Tourmaline, still on active status for the Europe team, is much too brief. We went through the training class together and were the best of friends then, but time and duty are keeping us from seeing each other as we’d like to. Hmm, that’s not unexpected, Agnelli left. Good riddance. I know she’ll spin it some other way on N!Prime, but none of us really wanted her around. I’m honestly surprised she kept her job as long as she did. She had to be sleeping with someone in authority to get away with the crap she was spouting on the boards; I got a pretty stern talking to after my spat with Avenger way back when. Nobody said much to me about my harsher comments towards Sandy Davis, but I think my feelings about her are for the most part echoed by the entire Team. Still, though, that was just me being rude, not giving The Most Ineloquent Arguments Ever ™ about why Project Utopia good, United States bad.

Nothing much else of interest: the required updates on Sandy’s trial and incarceration, a few possible leads on wanted Terats, and a nice memo reminding everyone of December’s upcoming birthdays. Slow day, actually. For a moment, I consider checking out N!Prime to see how Sandy and Agnelli are spinning their respective circumstances, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I wonder if Jack Chance has sent any messages from space, or if ronin has admitted that yes, he is actually Avenger, if Babylon decided to start posting again, if there’s been any public word from Malu Hekili, or if either Father Ryan or Hazzard have resurfaced. I imagine the regulars are all pretty much the same as always. I wonder if any of them think about me over breakfast like I occasionally think of them.

Finishing off the last pastry, I close down my terminal and run back upstairs to get dressed. Got a big day ahead of me, one that I’ve been agonizing over for a few weeks now. But, work first, then play.

Part II: 09:00

When you’re a Nova, little kids look at you with a wonder that adult eyes can never match. I have this theory, mostly developed from times at publicity stunts like this one, about baselines and how they view Novas. Adults are of two minds: either they love us or they hate us. They are envious and at the same time awestruck. Most of those that love us do so because of the things we’ve done collectively, because we’ve done something for them personally, or every now and then, because we’re a little bit like a modern day sports superstar. After a certain age, the chances of erupting become less and less and most of them have given up hope that they can actually become one of us, they identify with us the same way they’d identify with someone in a sport they love but could never play professionally.

Teenagers, and young adults, shine with the hope that they can erupt. Full of the energy and vigor of youth, most of them look at us as something they still have the potential to become. Even those of us the same age as them, we’re the reflection of who they want to be. Sure, there’s some resentment because they haven’t yet, but all of them know the day of their eruption can’t be too far off.

But kids, the little ones, their eyes are bright and full of wonder. For them, you’ve really stepped off the page of a book or out of a cartoon and are this amazing faerie tale come true. I never get tired of signing pictures for little children, or getting my photo taken with them. I just can’t describe how seeing their faces light up when they come walking into the room) with a little doll or action figure that looks like me) and spot me warms me. Or so it did, once.

Part of me, I know, has to see myself as a little girl in them. I wasn’t even six when N-Day happened. I remember my tiny fingers pressed up against the television as I watched the first Team Tomorrow get introduced. I so wanted to be Allison Pflatzgraff back then. The first time I got to meet her the following year is as real to me now, with my quantum-enhanced memory, as it was then. It was in a convention center very much like this one I’m in now. The tightening of my stomach, the nervous shuffle, holding my stepmother’s hand as I took those final few steps. She knelt down to speak with me, this larger-than-life heroine, instead of making me look up at her and the simple, kind words she spoke would keep me warm in bed before sleep found me for weeks to come. I had Psyche posters, dolls, figures, stickers, and even dressed up as her for Halloween a few times. My stepmother never quite approved of my costume for obvious reasons but yet couldn’t fault me for having such a role-model on Team Tomorrow.

I told Psyche, back then in 1999, that I would one day be on Team Tomorrow with her. She grinned, quite amused, and said she’d look forward to it.

Times change, of course, and as I became older, life made me forget my T2M fascination. My stepmother divorced my father, and he began abusing me. She had probably left him for the same reason. When I was nine, my teachers finally reported my injuries to social services. My father was put in jail and I went into foster care. Perhaps I felt betrayed that Novas hadn’t prevented that from happening to me, but I was damaged by then. Damaged people don’t always think clearly. Novas never completely left my mind, but the adventures Allison Pflatzgraff no longer dominated my imagination.

Especially when my hormones started kicking in and I was noticing people like Skew and Bender more and more. I was in high school, dealing with normal high school issues and going on dates. I wanted to be Alejandra then, glamorous and elegant and desirable. The world was becoming more complicated. The Equatorial Wars broke out and never really went away. I was fourteen when the Null Manifesto was released. Ashnod began her crusade when I was fifteen. Slider was killed and Bender went on the run when I was sixteen, and everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. At the time, though, I was only dimly aware of it.

I would erupt in 2009 when my father, released on parole, tracked me down. High school graduation, of all places and times to pop in out of nowhere. I don’t know if he would have done anything to me, or if he just wanted to see me after all that time. The sight of him was enough to make me panic, make me flee, and in the end, cause whatever is actually necessary for eruption to happen to happen. Suddenly, and violently, connected to all the bio-electricity in the area, I exploded. Or something exploded from me, doesn’t really matter. The blast consumed both my father and my best friend.

Nothing can console or comfort you in those moments when you become human-plus with the price of blood. There’s no joy or wonder, no memory of being in awe of the first Novas and longing to be one yourself. Just death. Death and guilt.

Wrapped in blankets and crying uncontrollably, I went willingly with the Utopian Intervention Team to the New York Rashoud Facility. After some training and a few hours with a counselor, I decided that I could atone for my friend’s death by working with them. I applied to T2M as soon as they’d consider me and have been there ever since.

In 2010, I would finally run into Psyche again. By then, I’d altered my hair to violet to match the public face I’d been developing, and was a decade past the naïve little girl that had made that promise to her. I felt empty then, remembering my words as a child. I hadn’t earned my spot amongst the heroes of the world. I got wrapped up in my own tragedy and everyday girlish things, and only ended up with the T2M insignia on my shoulder to help assuage the loss of my friend. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but remind her that I pledged to her that I’d be here someday.

Psyche, herself, seemed different, a bit distant and sharper, but after that many years with the Team I’d imagine it’d be natural to be jaded whenever some dewy-eyed newbie says hello. Of course, she didn’t remember me. Apparently, thousands of children have told her the exact same thing.

Her final words of that conversation still haunt me. After I’d told her that I didn’t feel like I’d earned a shot to be part of the team, she said, “Even if you’d trained, all the education, dedication, and heart wouldn’t have made any difference. You’re the only one who ever had the genetics to make good on the promise.”

I think of cynicism of that moment, the brutal reality of it, as I kneel down, just as Psyche did for me all those years ago, to smile at my first child fan of the day, a young boy holding a still-in-the-blister-pack figure of me. The pen he hands me has nervous teeth marks around both ends.

“What’s your name?” I fill my voice with as much enthusiasm as I can.

“Knox,” he responds. That’s a name you don’t hear too much any more these days.

“Knox,” I repeat, signing the figure for him, “I’m V.”

“I know,” he interjects with a happy grin. I chuckle, also smiling.

“It’s good to meet you, Knox,” I continue, making certain that I sign the autograph with his name in the message.

It’s rare that I see little boys with my figures. Normally they tend towards the men. Jason “Poltergeist” Nguyen in the area to my left and Anthony Chang to my right have a ton of them. I do tend to get some of the teenagers, and more than my share of the men.

“You’re my favorite Tomorrow Person!” he chimes immediately and awkwardly. I withhold a laugh. He’s too young to remember The Tomorrow People television show, for that matter so am I, but it’s kind of an in-joke amongst some of us on the Team.

“Why, thank you, Knox!” I exclaim back, giving him a hug. He holds onto me tightly. I whisper in his ear, “Most of the boys like the guys more.”

“Not me,” he doesn’t whisper in mine, as I let him go. “You’re the best! You saved my uncle’s life!”

Oh no, not one of these. The ones that seek you out for saving someone are rough. Sometimes it’s beautiful, sometimes not. Sometimes I can’t give enough hugs and sometimes I don’t want to give another. Depends how needy they are. But no matter how they feel, they always leave you emotionally drained when they leave. The thanks you get when saving someone on the spot is far different from those who come looking to give you more thanks later.

I look up at his father, who nods soberly. Even he has mist in his eyes. I look back down to Knox.

“Who is your uncle?” I say gently.

“Gene Neuman,” his father answers for him. I remember everyone I’ve rescued. Quantum in the brain ensures that I can’t forget, even if I wanted to. Still, they are going to tell me the story, and I have to listen.

“He was trapped at work and you got him out!”

Which is a child’s way of saying a five-story construction sight collapsed and left his uncle and four others trapped in the basement. I was able to transmit through the electrical wiring and get to them. I gave him and two others medical treatment until my teammates could unearth him from the debris.

“I remember,” I say just as gently. “How is your uncle doing now, Knox?”

“He’s really good! He talks about you all the time!”

A lot of kids get embarrassed or nervous when talking to me. They hide behind their parents or don’t say as much as this one. I’m starting to like Knox. And then he has to ruin the mood by those dreaded ten words.

“I’m going to join Team Tomorrow when I’m old enough!”

I have to fight to keep my smile from dropping.

“I want to be just like you!”

I hate lying to children. In the beginning, I found it easy to tell them the little white lie that Psyche gave to me. After a few years, it’s been harder and harder, and I hate myself whenever I hear my voice say,

“I look forward to it.”

Part III: 12:00

Sometimes I feel like a comic-book character come to life. You have to admit, we all have “origin” stories. Nobody’s eruption is routine, and every single of them is a tale by itself, complete with dedicating ourselves to Project Utopia as the final two pages turn. Our villains have origin stories, made more colorful by the ones that used to be in our ranks. While many think Bender is the prime example of our prodigals, I personally believe James Meehan is the foremost of them. Corbin might have a more colorful history, but Babylon’s words many months ago were dead on. Prodigy’s departure hurt our potential, Corbin’s was actually welcomed.

Even those Novas that never join any organization, or claim any allegiance, have fascinating stories. Our rags to riches stories, or our religious epiphanies, and our stories of bodily mutation make the most fascinating transition from real life to printed page.

Three hours of signing memorabilia and collector items with my face and name on them reinforce that idea.

But at least it’s better than the public forums I have to attend. The older members of the team remember a time before Jennifer Landers was killed, a time when nobody was going for the conspiracy theory angle whenever they ask us a question. The younger members of the team are instructed to defer answering any of those questions today to Anthony Chang, the senior team member here, unless we’re questioned directly. Standard practice, of course, since he actually knew Jennifer and because of that his word carries a lot of weight. I didn’t even erupt until after Jennifer died, so most of my questions on that end tend to lean on whether I’m comfortable working for Utopia with all the questions surrounding her death. Every now and then, someone will surprise me with something original.

Today was not one of those days. I think I understand how Count Orzaiz feels. There are only so many ways you can ask a question and only so many ways to answer them, and while we are tired of answering them the media never seems weary of asking. We go through the same verbal dance, with a few questions directed to the Project’s latest efforts. Word has leaked about Agnelli’s departure, and one or two people ask of it. Anthony declines to answer, saying that the Director of Teen Tomorrow will be making a public statement later in the day.

The questions that come from non-media people tend to be a little more varied, and amusing. I always love when someone has the courage to ask me if I’ve ever seen Lucious Clay naked, and if yes, is he as yummy as he with his thousand-dollar suits on. Poltergeist, who can decrease his density to the point of invisibility, interrupts before I can answer to say, “No, but I have, and trust me, he’s hot.”

Moments like that almost make this event worth it. Perhaps if there were more of them, because contrary to common misconception, most people on Team Tomorrow have delightfully peculiar senses of humor. My first week with the Americas Team, Ana Texeira kept having the facilities manager open the lock to my room, and the entire team (minus Ricardo) would sneak in and relocate the entire contents of my room to a different one. This happened for six days before I got Ana back by getting the facilities manager to let me into her room, and pretended to be asleep in her bed after giving the place the appearance of a pretty wild night. Her bedroom was separate from the bath, so Ana didn’t see me or the mess I’d made when she came in. When she went to the bed wearing mostly nothing, I hit the remote control on a camera and then transmitted out of the room through the outlet her reading lamp was plugged into. She freaked and hunted me down, but not in time to stop me to from sending the digital pic to Gvuthbjorg Danielsdotter’s mailbox. Well, it appeared to her that I sent them, anyway. When she found out that Guggie knew nothing at all about it, she was both furious and in stitches. She would get me back good the next month with a prank so elaborate it took fully a month to pull it off, but no force on earth will drag that story out of me.

That’s the kind of stuff that most comics of us leave out, however. It’s more interesting to focus on the battles, the heroism, the emergency rescues, and the death and tragedy. We certainly look the part with our EuFiber uniforms and beautiful faces.

I’m thankful that this little PR event is over once the two-hour Q&A session is finished. All the quantum-endurance in the world doesn’t make it any easier for me to work one of these gigs. Few of us actually enjoy doing them after the second year, though as I understand it Pax simply adores them. No surprise there.

I’m a bit jealous of the first teams, who got to be there for the heyday of the Project’s popularity. It must have been exciting to be the trailblazer. Being just another traveler becomes wearisome after a while.

Part IV: 17:30 EST

The November sky is a kaleidoscope of light purples, pinks, oranges, and a sliver of blue. The sun is beginning to set. A winter sky, even though it isn’t winter by the official calendar. The clouds during the summer rest lower in the air, and don’t always reflect color as the higher, winter clouds do. It’s cold enough that my breath is visible, and without my EuFiber, which I’ve intentionally left at home, I have to wear a coat to be comfortable. No snow at the moment, thankfully. No ice, either. The thin gloves I have on my fingers allow the heat from the cup of my hot chocolate through, and the liquid itself warms my throat and stomach as I drink it.

I’ve spent the last three hours trying to do mundane things: walking through the park with my hot chocolate, buying hot pastries from a local shop, and sitting on a park bench watching the people of New York. Bundled up as I am, I went unnoticed by most of the passers-by. A few still recognized me. More autographs to sign, more kind words that I have to both give and receive from people I’ve never met, more friends that I didn’t know I had demanding to share my personal space and time. More photographs taken that will doubtlessly end up on someone’s personal OpNet page.

I could have altered my appearance a bit, just enough to make me completely unrecognizable, but that kind of defeats the purpose of having time to be yourself. Price of celebrity, again.

Every now and then you find yourself reflecting on the simple moments like this. Mostly because it’s quiet, like my time at home, and it’s not something I have to share with anyone. A reminder of simpler times, maybe? Nostalgia, perhaps, for my years in high school with my foster family.

But that isn’t the truth. It’s a little lie I’m telling myself to mask that maybe I’m never going to do this again. That maybe I don’t want to this again. Am I going to give all this up? Will I, in the words of a song I loved during my adolescence, take the person I am now and find the courage to throw that all away, strip down to nothing…

Almost time now.

As I sit on a park bench, I look at the wonderful little wrist device that lets me access the OpNet from anywhere. The interface isn’t quite as user-friendly as my terminal at home, but I can’t really lug that around anywhere I want to go. I put the display glasses on and access my personal account.

No messages stating cancellations. No hints that my communications have been intercepted. I guess that’s kind of obvious, though. If anyone knew, they’d probably let me do this and then bust me after the fact.

Getting jittery now. My knee is shaking and I can feel my stomach tightening up. I’m about to violate several rules of conduct for a Team Tomorrow agent. Maybe that’s being overly dramatic. I know that this will be highly frowned-upon at the very least if I’m found out. Could get me in a lot more trouble than that, I don’t know if there’s any precedent for dealing with T2M members who do this.

One last check, and sure enough, no messages. Well, there is one reminding me to return to Mexico City next week to get my new field assignment now that my time on the PR tour is over.

As if I could have forgotten.

I pack everything away, finish my hot chocolate, and toss the empty cup into the proper bin by the bench. It’s time to go.

I’ve never really given much consideration to how much someone’s utility bill might increase whenever I travel through the wiring. I don’t know if anyone’s ever tried to find out. Every now and then I imagine someone opening their mail to find a twenty-dollar increase from the previous month and having no idea why it happened. You’d think I’d notice from using the circuits in my home, but I travel that way so frequently that I wouldn’t know unless I really scrutinized the bills. Which, to be honest, I don’t pay too much attention to.

That’s a thought I have sometimes when using someone else’s electrical connections, like the outlet in the convenience store I walk into. A few people will see, but this isn’t really a secret or anything. Watching me change will be their touch with the unreal today, something they can chat about with friends and co-workers later.

A brief moment always occurs, one that if they’d ever make a film about my life would probably be done in a weird slow motion effect, before my transformation where everything just seems statically charged. That sound, you know, that tiny, almost imperceptible ring that smacks of electricity (not the hum of it though) hangs in air. Gathering ambient electrical energy to me, my body breaks down from matter to energy faster than can be perceived without Nova eyes. It’s that moment right before, when everything seems charged that you can tell something happened. One minute I’m there, the next I’ve vanished, with only a whiff of ozone remaining. Unless I’m transforming for combat, but seeing a person suddenly become an electrical, sparking and arcing blue humanoid is fairly startling.

I smile at the curious gentlemen at the counter conversing over something I can’t hear clearly from this far back in the store. With a wink, the air charges momentarily, I stick my finger into the outlet, and I’m gone.

Part V: 15:30 MST

Electrical networks are curious things. You'd think you'd get lost trying to navigate inside them. I mean, there are so many different avenues and connections and joints and overlaps. One grid becomes another, or many grids make up one larger grid. I know that logically, I shouldn't be able to become electrical energy in New York and simply arrive in Denver a few seconds later. There's simply too much cable, or fiber optics, transformers, power stations, etc, between here and there, and I've never studied how they're all connected. I sometimes think I must have somekind of ESP that I don't know about to be able to travel them like I do, somekind of innate directional sense. Maybe it's my connection to the Collective Unconscious that guides me, as if I'm touching the minds of those who know the layouts and just absorbing the directions I need. That's the only answer I can think of.

I haven't ever met another Nova that travels via electrical transmission, though I know they're out there somewhere, to ask them how they do it. I wonder if they see little green tunnels and corridors like in sci-fi movies, or if it's like me, and it's just a windy, freefall through blue light that lasts little more than a second before emerging at my destination.

I must admit the extremely guilty pleasure of loving such mobility. I can't get to all places on the planet, but I can get to most of the ones that have electricity. I can even get to places that aren't "wired" to each other. I don't know if I'm somehow going through satellites or becoming a different form of energy or maybe even data, but I can do it. I've heard some of the white coats at the Project tell me on a subconscious level I probably equate all transmitted energy as electricity despite the actual differences on a scientific level, and so it works for me that way.

So I can get anywhere I need to be, more or less. Less because I don't always know where I'm gonna emerge if I haven't been to the area before. I once had orders to get to Missoula, Montana without ever having been there before, and ended up coming out of a half-working electrical outlet in the men's washroom in some seedy little bar. Some poor local man nearly had a heart attack watching me do it, and then I had to sit on the scene until the EMT's arrived to help him. My assignment was delayed about 30 minutes as a result, and consequently, I've always made it a point to try to get a picture of a landmark, any landmark, in a destination I'm not familiar with before leaving so that I know just about where I'm gonna arrive. I've heard that technique worked with Novas that open warps, and it helped with me too.

Larkspur, Colorado doesn't really have any pictures. It's an itty-bitty speck of a town about halfway between Colorado Springs and Denver. The only thing it really has going for it is the Colorado Renaissance Festival, and there are pictures of it out there. Thankfully, despite the anachronistic sounding name, the site is equipped with electricity. I emerge there, on that mountainside, in the middle of the afternoon. Fortunately, it's not during business season and is thankfully empty. I wander the grounds for a while before I find the jousting area. Just like the rest of the park, it's empty, and I take a seat on the ground next to the main tower.

And I wait. And wait. I got here early, after all. Wasn't gonna take the risk of being even a second late. Some temporal Novas are really fickle about time. I know that Timeslip, one of the Asia/Pacific Auxiliary members, is exceedingly anal about it. She judges everything by that unerringly accurate internal clock of hers and doesn't tolerate tardiness by anyone. I guess being so connected to the passing of seconds does that to someone.

I'm aware of the shifting of the bio-energy around me before the footsteps can be heard. Kinda like a nice little warming sensation. Novas are like that. Definite hotspots in the patterns of bio-electricity, and if I'm concentrating, as I was, I can spot them coming from quite a distance. The grass crunches a little under hard soles as I look to my left. Rising, I brush the dirt from my jeans. I made sure not to wear anything that marked me as a T2M’er.

For a moment, I take a moment to stare at her, at her white clothing which doesn't hide the luminous crack of energy and makes her right half look a bit pink. White slacks, white boots, and a white tank-top. Stupid clothing to wear into the mountains. Probably will get all stained. The cold, however, doesn’t appear to bother her in the slightest. Lucky. I suddenly feel self-conscious of my winter outerwear.

Her hair is braided in a single twist down her back. The rest of her, her revealed shoulders with the visible crack extending up her neck and across her face, and those famous eyes, hold me a bit more captive. I'm surprised at just how toned her arms are. I didn't expect that. Plus, there's just this sense of power to her. Not quite like being next to Pax, but still terrifying.

"Ms. D'Aronique," she says smoothly.

"Ashnod," I nod my reply.

And there it is. By saying her name, I'm suddenly overcome by her presence. This is, to quote the mysterious Meridian, the Ashnod. Self-appointed Teragen publicity defender and Teras mouthpiece. N!Prime's Damn Scary Woman. For some stupid reason I'm momentarily lost in the pseudo-celebrity of it all, like those people eyeing me in New York earlier, while she just continues looking patiently at me with those spooky, glowing balls of light.

I’m the one who requested she meet me. You’d think that I could summon some words to say, but now that she’s here, I’m beginning to think meeting her was a mistake.

“How come you don’t call me V?” I ask before really thinking about it.

“Would you prefer that?”

“I dunno,” I admit. “I just noticed that you refer to Prodigy by his Nova name, though his real name is listed. Some of us you only refer to by our birth names.”

She smiles faintly. “That is true. Would you prefer that I address you by your Nova name, then?”

“Why don’t you call me V?”

“Because it’s not what you really wish.” She speaks as though her words are truth. Part of me hates her for it, that arrogant certainty.

“You still wish to be identified by who you were,” she continues, “rather than who you are.”

“Maybe,” I shrug carelessly. “I think you’re getting needless picky.”

“I’ve answered your question,” she ignores my remark, “but you’ve yet to answer mine. Would you prefer that I call you V?”

I suddenly really hate her. Really really hate her. She’s trying to back me into a corner. Or I feel that way, at least. If I answer yes, I’m admitting a desire to be recognized as more Nova than human. Answer no, and I’m admitting the reverse.

“You’re good,” I mutter. “I can’t win either way I answer.”

“You assume that you have something to lose, then.” She watches me without blinking, giving me her full attention. “By default, you also assume you have something to gain, and more importantly, that I’m testing you.”

“It seems like you’re trying to get me to admit I’m not human,” I nod.

“What do I have to gain by that?”

“All your precious diatribe would be validated,” I say with a bit more venom than I’d intended.

“My ‘precious diatribe’ isn’t dependant on your admittance,” she says evenly. “Or your acceptance.”

“But it’s all just pointless hypothesizing to me unless I believe it.” Immediately, I regret saying that. She smirks, one of those smirks that indicates she’s likely humoring me. Or that she wants me to think she’s humoring me. I can almost hear You just keep telling yourself that, behind the silent wall of her thoughts, except her mind is strong enough to prevent me from touching the surface. Either way, this isn’t going the way I wanted it to. Her next words confirm it.

“Did you invite me out here to argue?” She looks up momentarily at the sky. “We could have done this via N!Prime without having to meet so clandestinely. You went through a great deal of trouble to get in touch with me. Your message indicated a bit more urgency than this conversation warrants.”

I shake my head slowly. “No, no I…”

Can’t think of the right thing to say, damn it. After a moment she nods, and starts walking away from the jousting fields towards the fairgrounds.

“Walk with me, then,” she offers.

We pass the little wooden buildings, all unoccupied and seemingly abandoned. The fake King’s English and cute decorations are charming, like a little faerie village come to life. Leather shops, metal shops, and everything in between. I would have loved this place as a little girl. I can almost imagine all the people here, bustling with life and wonder. I haven’t developed my sensitivity to bio-energy to the point where I can feel out past events, but I believe it’s possible. If I can connect to the Collective Unconscious to see the present, there’s no reason to believe I can’t do it to see the past. But now isn’t the time to try.

“Is this about your conundrum?” She stops in front of a knife-throwing game booth. I’m suddenly aware of just how fragile this entire little world is as I listen to the wind ripple through the structure, how easily a Nova could inadvertently damage it.

“The confusion you were asking the forum members for advice on,” she continues. “The falling out between you and your baseline lover?”

“It wasn’t much of a falling out,” I mumble, “as much as a recognition that things couldn’t work between us.”

I must have had more hurt in my voice than I knew because she pauses a moment before answering.

“My apologies for my choice of words,” she oozes sincerity without sounding trite, “I didn’t mean to insinuate that your separation wasn’t amiable. I assumed, wrongly so apparently, that the relationship had gotten quite unpleasant near its end.”

“Well, that much is true,” I acknowledge. “It wasn’t very pleasant. But there wasn’t lots of shouting or anything. Lots of moodiness, and funk.”

She nods, and perhaps sensing that I’m not finished, remains silent.
“There was one time, and it seems like such a little thing.” I lean against the gaming booth. It creaks once, just once, under my weight. Probably needs some fixing before the next season.

“He had a very bad habit of losing things,” I shrug. “I have a certain intuition about being aware of things that other people might have forgotten.” It occurs to me that I’m openly admitting an ability that I’ve kept quiet about to my Utopia superiors to someone I’m supposed to consider a terrorist. “He was really bothered by my knack for finding things. I’d always know where his car keys were. I always knew where he’d left his wallet. One day, he’d forgotten where he’d left a report he needed to give his manager. I asked if he wanted help and he said no, but after thirty minutes he gave up and asked me to find it. I found it for him instantly, and he just glared at me without saying anything. Then he walked out. That night we didn’t talk about it, and by the next morning it seemed to be over and done with, but there was still that lingering resentment.”

She nods wordlessly.

After a weird moment of silence, she asks, “And?”

I can’t explain why this angers me, but it does.

“What do you mean, and? I’m telling you more than I’ve ever dared tell a counselor at Utopia, and that all you have to say to me?”

She pauses, looking me over once, and then sighs. “What is it you want me to tell you, Ms. D’Aronique?”

“I’m not certain I understand?”

“I could play the part of your Utopian counselor,” she calmly explains, “and tell you that you’re assigning more meaning to an argument than should be. That fights of this nature happen between men and women all the time, and that your heightened memory only agitated what is essentially a common, everyday occurrence. If the tables were turned, and you the forgetful one and your lover the mindful one, you too might get upset at constantly being proven incorrect. What you’re dealing with is simply an issue of relationships, and anyone, Nova or baseline, must learn to adapt.

“Or, alternatively, I can play the part of a transhuman activist. I can tell you that what you’ve experienced is common between the more evolved and the less evolved, a symptom of jealousy that extends beyond the normal bounds of male/female interaction. I can tell you that you’re not alone, that inevitably, jealousy will ensue because it is human nature to want what cannot be attained, and it is also human nature to desire to become more than what already is. Jealousy, in its wicked way, will eventually give way to outright resentment.”

She takes a few steps away from me, bending at the knees to pick up a greenish-gray stone. Rolling it over in her fingers, her head turns back to me as she crouches.

“So, Ms. D’Aronique, which is it do you want me to tell you? Why did you ask me to meet you? Was it to tell you not to worry, that this is a normal, commonplace facet of being in a relationship, in some ways healthy? That you will eventually find someone unerupted, if you so desire, that you’ll be more compatible with? Or do you want me to congratulate you on taking a small first step, to hold your hand and lead you, perhaps push you, over a precipice which might require you to restructure much of your current life?”

She rises to her feet, stone still in her open hand. “Obviously, you desired a point-of-view contrary to what you’re familiar with, or you would have asked any number of other people.”

“Perhaps,” I shrug, “I wanted to see if you’d recognize this wasn’t a transhuman problem, but just a relationship problem.”

She smiles faintly.

“I doubt that,” the stone drops from her hand as she tosses it idly aside. “If that were the case, you’d have queried me online. Meeting me like this, there’s obviously something greater that you desire from me. Willing to go behind the backs of your superiors to test me specifically? I highly doubt you’re that reckless.”

Her movements are so precise, almost too precise. Fluid and graceful, but without a hint of wasted energy. Economy of movement, that’s how it was phrased by William Miller in the Rolling Stone interview she did a few years back. It’s simply, and I hate myself for saying it, inhuman. It’s a level of finesse that I’ve noticed with other Novas, mostly those with dancing or martial art training, but not once have I seen it in a baseline.

Not too mention that spooky demeanor of hers. Her voice carries with it the hint of being unconcerned with all of this. Not indifference, no, it’s just something more like being treated like a child, or a student. That’s it. She carries herself like a teacher in a classroom.

“I guess I wanted,” I begin, “to be face to face with someone who really believes they’re different from the rest of the world. To see if you were really that different after all, and to see if I recognized any of that in myself.”

She considers this, or at least I assume that’s what she does in her silence. Finally, a nod.

“I see. Is such a thing visible to you after so brief a span with me?”

And to that I don’t have an answer. I mean, yeah, she’s different than anyone else I’ve ever met, but that could only mean she’s a freak. Doesn’t mean it’s true of all Novas.

“Your answer should be no,” she continues only after a few beats, “unless I am more charismatic by presence alone than I believe myself to be.”

Good advice, really, but I’m not convinced. For some inexplicable reason I am unconvinced.

“But,” she resumes, “I can see by your expression and silence that something else is troubling you.”

She tilts her head. “Perhaps you want me to convince you.”

I shake my head, “No, no. I think that maybe I was hoping you could give me definitive proof one way or the other.”

Her eyes form into the rough shape of what I think is amusement.

“Ms. D’Aronique,” she begins, “V,” and with her voice saying my Nova name like that my heart leaps and I nearly orgasm on the spot, “that depends on what you would consider definitive. If you’re seeking something irrefutable, undeniable, without debate or controversy, I cannot give you that peace of mind any more than Utopia can. If either side of this division could offer such a prize it would have been offered before.”

I sigh. At least there’s some honesty to her. It’s still unfortunate that my answers are eluding me.

“Perspective,” I mumble, still recovering from the delirium of hearing my name from those lips. “You’re going to tell me that it’s a personal viewpoint and some people are delusional in accepting one over the other.”

Her lips flow into a smirk. “No, not at all. In my mind and others like me the matter of whether or not we are different is simply fact. Accepting it, at least for the first generation of our kind, is the personal decision, since we are the first and have to be the ones to recognize it.”

I laugh softly. That’s the stuff I expected her to say. Her smirk slowly fades into a light smile.

“At any rate,” she continues, “you’re obviously no longer of the opinion that you’re completely human, a baseline with really kewl powers. You wouldn’t have sought me out unless you had feelings that you are different. If I’m right, you’re just starting to wonder about how different we are from them, probably how you are different in specific. You didn’t feel that you could trust your companions in the Project with your feelings, I gather.”

I nod absently. That’s true enough. I mean, it’s not like I think I’m some kind of goddess or anything. But they still don’t want us thinking that any part of the Null Manifesto might be somehow in the right.

“Did the non-Terat members of N!Prime fail to alleviate your concerns when you asked for their advice?”

“Not really, no,” I admit. “Vixen’s situation really confuses me. I don’t see how a ‘normal’ man is attracted to a humanoid-fox. Makes me think he’s gotta be a Furry or a Furry-lover. I mean, how do you passionately kiss someone who doesn’t have proper lips? Doesn’t that take the spontaneity out of sex?

“Jordan’s comments were almost comforting, but I have to wonder how his lovers see him. You know, do they feel they’re touching the divine when they sleep with him, or is it something a little more grounded like all those celebrity sportfuckers. I lay awake at night sometimes, or rather, I did when we were still together, and worried that my boyfriend was with me because I was a Nova. He denied it, of course, but I could never really know.”

She nods again. “It is within human nature to desire to be close to that which is larger than themselves, that which embodies their own desires.”

“Isn’t it possible, though,” I ask, “even a little bit, that they actually see him for a person and not a-

“Not what?” She interrupts me. “Not a Nova?”

“A possibility always exists,” her voice indicates undeniable amusement, “no matter how insignificant or infinitesimal. Is it possible that even on a subconscious level that Jordan’s lovers are not influenced by his Nova social prestige, quantum-enhanced presence, or the lure of being with a Nova for whatever personal satisfaction it entails, and would love him for who he’d be without those qualities? If you’re asking me if this possibility is a probability, I would have to say not very likely. Not because Jordan isn’t worthy of that kind of love, but rather because it’s often impossible to separate all the reasons that being with a Nova is attractive from the Nova himself.”

I feel that this argument could be applied to any kind of celebrity, but I can anticipate her response enough to know I don’t have ask her thoughts. I didn’t really want to debate her on this stuff anyway.

“What about Apep’s comments?” I ask instead. “The whole, it’s the same as sleeping with an animal?”

Another smirk creeps to her face. “That’s perspective. Whether or not you consider interspecies breeding to be attractive. Obviously, while Nova and baseline are capable of coupling, some of us would find it tasteless to do so. I, for one, am not as sickened by the thought of it as my daughter is, but I would not consider doing it either.”

“You couldn’t love a baseline?”

“Love a baseline?” She tilts her head. “Love has many shades and degrees. Could I care for a baseline? Yes. Would I look out for one’s well-being? Certainly. Would I ever have a relationship with one or seek to be intimate with one? No. Not only would it be impossible for one to understand me, they couldn’t relate to me on anything more than a surface level, nor I to them.”

A few moments pass then that neither of us says anything. She watches the ever-darkening sky absently during this, until she looks back to me.

“Is there anything else you wanted to say? I doubt I have helped you, but we are not likely to speak like this again.”

“You don’t think so?”

Part of me, in saying that, realizes I don’t want this to be the only time I speak with her.

“Given the state of your employment,” she shrugs, “I don’t see how you can afford to take risks as this with any degree of repetition.”

Her eyes narrow. “You sound, however, as though you’re hesitant to part ways. Perhaps as though you’re afraid of losing something?”

“Am I that obvious?”

She shrugs without shrugging. Something about the flow of energy in her eyes shifting subtly.

“You tell me,” she answers. I walk idly out a few steps before turning back to her.

“I don’t have anyone I can talk to about these feelings, worries, whatever you want to call them. I don’t like having to be so clandestine about this.”

“You mean, you don’t have anyone to encourage you to explore them.” She walks towards me, looking skyward again. “At least within the Project, correct? You don’t know who will be sympathetic, or at the very least open to the idea, and who will not.”

I nod. “Some of them have to feel the same way.”

“Naturally,” she agrees. “Some of them, of course, will not.”

She stops next to me. “Why not speak with those you meet in Ibiza, next time you’re there. Or be anonymous on any number of forums. You could create a false persona on N!Prime if you do desired. Others have no doubt down so. Methods exist for exploring these ideas other than meeting with me.”

“Not without running the risk of getting caught,” I mumble.

“Getting caught implies that you are doing something wrong,” she says softly. “Is that how you feel?”

“It’s definitely how it would be looked upon,” my time to shrug now. “Eventually, something would get out. N! would discover or be told something, or someone I share a drink with will have a loose tongue. Then I’d be dragged into the Director’s office and given another stern talking to, if not dismissed.”

“Do you honestly feel so many eyes are upon you?” She looks down now, back to me. “That your every move is monitored, that all of your personal time is recorded and analyzed for signs of shifting loyalties?”

“Well, no,” I admit, “since you put it that way. Still, there’s the celebrity of being part of T2M. Something would happen eventually.”

Another long silence.

“Are you trying to guide me into telling you,” she begins carefully, “that you should leave Project Utopia?”

And there it is at last, but not quite in the way I had imagined it happening. I thought she’d say something like, You’ll never be able to express yourself while under their yoke.

“I gather by your hesitation and silence that you’re torn right now,” soft words that seem so distant come from her, “but will my consent, or my command, whichever you desire, make this any easier for you? You must already know that I can’t tell you which path you must take.”

And, there that is too. I was half-expected her to do that.

“I figured as much, sure,” I mumble again.

“Are you seeking an excuse, then? A reason?” Her eyes wander skyward yet again. “If you’re unhappy there, you should leave of your own accord. If you’re looking for justification, or validation, then this meeting has been a waste of both our times.”

Her next words almost destroy me.

“What could I possibly tell you in person that would be more convincing than all the arguments, evidence, and controversy that already exists?”

“V,” she continues with a much gentler tone, sending yet another shiver along my spine. “accepting that that you’re transhuman, a different species, or however you’d like to label the differences between yourself and baseline humanity doesn’t mean you have to leave Utopia. Don’t misunderstand me, you’d still be representing an organization that endorses the Zurich Accord as both scientific fact and binding law. While I personally would find immense distaste in working for them, simply the acceptance of what you are doesn’t immediately sever you from your current life.”

“I’d expected you to offer me an invitation to the Teragen,” I say softly. She pauses, obviously caught off-guard. It takes her a moment to recover. I’m glad she’s not completely unflappable.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she eventually replies, “but you’re saying that you expected to be offered an invitation, but not that you’re expecting an invitation?”

She doesn’t allow me any time to respond. “Because accepting a truth for yourself, and working towards getting the world to accept it or taking action because that truth so motivates you, are different situations and both require different sacrifices. And honestly, I don’t think you desire to be thought of in the same sentence as I, Apep, or Prodigy. I don’t think you’d enjoy working with Geryon if the scenario necessitated. I don’t believe you’re prepared to have the rest of the world view you as a traitor or a terrorist, to have those close to you in Utopia think of you as an enemy of the highest caliber. Many Novas hear the Null Manifesto and feel that what Mal had to say holds merit, but they don’t ever consider joining the Teragen.”

I want to disagree with her, mostly because I feel rejected that she didn’t hear my words and work tirelessly to recruit me. Truth be told, she’s right on all counts about me. I hate being read so easily.

“I thought as much,” she says softly. “The time may come when you feel differently, or circumstances dictate that you must seek us out. Now is not that time.”

“Maybe I’m not just ready to compromise, sacrifice, whatever, my morality. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn. Is it required that I become a criminal in order to be a student?”

“You want an instructor, then? And what exactly,” she raises an eyebrow, “do you want to learn? Teras?”

“I’m definitely curious,” I admit quietly. “Obviously, different perspectives exist on what it means to be a Nova, and I want to know more. You and your people have this knowledge the rest of us don’t and you never share it.”

Her arms cross and her posture stiffens. I said the wrong thing, apparently.

“And is that little guilt trip supposed to make me more inclined to reveal our ways to someone I just met, who just happens to work for the organization most dedicated to eliminating the movement I espouse?”

“I’m sorry,” I hastily get out, “I didn’t mean it that way. I just, I just don’t want to have to become a monster just so I can be shown what I know I’m missing.”

She begins walking back down the path. “I see. Well then, you have some reflecting to do, decisions to come to about where to go from here.”

Her anima, the crimson waves, spreads out around her and illuminates the nearly-dark fairgrounds. Before they envelop her, she turns to say one last thing.

“I’ll be waiting for you when get everything straightened out.”

“V.”

Part VI: 20:00

When I rematerialize in my home I immediately check to be sure all the locks are secure, and after that, the windows. Not that there aren't other ways inside, obviously, I just used one myself, but I can’t help it.

What have I done? What on earth was I thinking? Meeting with her, with that woman? What has she done to my head? All those questions, those damned what do you want questions…she’s good, no doubt about that, twisting my thoughts, making me believe those conclusions were my own.

I collapse in my comfy chair, the one I’ve had since high school. What now? Crap, if anyone finds out about this, how long can I expect to keep this a secret? What if she says something, anything about this on N!Prime? Can I trust her to keep her word?

Unfocused, unfocused, need to regain focus…

Think, V, think, no, that’s the problem, you need to stop thinking.

Why the hell did I feel like such a child when I was with her? I’m not some immature, naïve new eruptee. God, I’m questioning myself now. Stop thinking, V, stop thinking, find a center and stay there, stop straying.

No good.

Can’t stop thinking, too many thoughts to shut them all down. Need to call someone, need to talk to someone. But who? Can’t tell anyone, can’t say a word.

Don’t misunderstand me, you’d still be representing an organization that endorses the Zurich Accord as both scientific fact and binding law.

It’s not that damn simple! It’s not! I refuse to believe that one sentence can completely shake my foundations!

Or is it?

The Zurich Accord states that Novas are human beings with all rights and responsibilities that normal people have. It is endorsed by Project Utopia, who when necessary has the backing of the United Nations.

Ergo, the majority of the world.

It can’t be so black and white. It simply can’t be!

The real world doesn’t exist in black and white terms! Why the hell is this being presented to me in such a black and white polarity?

V, accepting that that you’re transhuman, a different species, or however you’d like to label the differences between yourself and baseline humanity doesn’t mean you have to leave Utopia.

Sure, so long as I don’t mind living a lie, representing something I don’t believe in, right? You bitch! You deceitful, manipulative bitch! Backing me into a moral corner and I didn’t even see it coming! I thought you were just trying to be helpful, trying to say that I didn’t need to make radical changes! You bitch! Everything you told me was just guiding words to get me to leap off your precious fucking precipice, wasn’t it?

DAMN YOU!

DAMN YOU!

Because accepting a truth for yourself, and working towards getting the world to accept it or taking action because that truth so motivates you, are different situations and both require different sacrifices.

That was so subtle, wasn’t it? You’re talking about my current situation, not my possible future, right? That I can continue to work with Utopia as long as I’m willing to sacrifice, to compromise, my own perspective.

I scream until my voice dies and I’m sobbing, holding my knees tightly against me.

You…bitch…why couldn’t you have lied to me…

Deep breath, deep breaths, V.

Okay.

Deep breath, get a Kleenex, clean yourself up.

If the chick cannot break free of its shell...

Oh fuck, V, don’t go there.

It will die without truly being born…

Laugh, have to fucking laugh. Endeavor would so laugh.

We are the chick, the world is our egg…

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha, so crazy.

If we don’t break free from the shell of the world…

Thank you Divis Mal by way of the Ohtori Academy Student Council.

Then we shall die without truly being born...

Undercurrents and layers of damned symbolism upon symbolism…

Smash the shell of the world! For the revolution of the world!

Okay, okay, get some fucking cohesion, girl.

“I guess I wanted,” I repeat softly to myself, “to be face to face with someone who really believes they’re different from the rest of the world. To see if you were really that different after all, and to see if I recognized any of that in myself.”

To gaze upon someone who had smashed the shell of the world.

To touch someone who took the person they had been and found the courage to throw it all away.

To look in that mirror and see if I was reflected back.

Where the hell is my clarity when I need it the most?

To strip down to nothing.

We do indeed lead comic book lives, after all. Only in a place where individuals possess such unfathomable power can this kind of absurdity suddenly be given devastating importance and world-shattering significance.

Deep breaths.

Alright.

I will not end up like so many others I’ve seen, with jaded eyes and resentful grimaces. Forcing smiles to mouths that want to cry out and scream but do not dare make a sound.

I make my way downstairs to my kitchen where the OpNet terminal waits for me.

I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Fin.