Sean Smith's apartment - Upper Brompton - Faraday City ...

Zjahn had not told his colleagues about all his powers. Some of them were too much like villainous powers, such as his pyrokinesis, the ability to create and control fires with his mind. Others were dubious in their morality. He could control minds. If anyone knew that, they would no doubt fear and distrust him even more than they already did. He could also create illusions so perfect that they had presence, a solidity to them almost as though they were real objects.

He looked now upon one of those objects, allowing himself to see the illusion. Another him. A very different him. Taller, not as bulky as the body he projected into people's minds in order to better assimilate into Earth society. A visage of terror, with sharp teeth beneath a mask of metal. Eyes that burned with internal fire. The costume he created for his doppelgänger accentuated the evil that he wished to project.

The full-length mirror showed both forms. His heroic persona beside the being that he would use to rain terror down upon the citizens of Faraday City, perhaps even the world, in order that he, the real him, could defeat the unbeatable foe. At last, a chance to prove himself, to draw himself out of the mire of mediocrity into which the world, and its heroes, had forced him.

"You will bow before the might of Flame Lord!" The words emerged from the mouth of the illusion, but it wasn't quite right. Too human. Not nearly intimidating enough. The name, too, felt wrong. "No. No. Fear the might of ... of ... Phaross! Yes. Yes! Phaross!"

The illusion created a beacon of fire above its palm, above his palm, and Zjahn laughed. Of course, he would ensure no innocents would come to harm in this project, he wasn't a monster, after all, but he needed to make it as real as possible. Sometimes he would need to come close to true villainy, but, mostly, he would choose the perfect situations for their battles.

The voice still needed work. A little more sibilant, more animal-like and primal, like a Zorn beast from his own planet, a reminder of his home. He changed the doppelgänger's cape to a deep crimson and made it flow in an illusory wind. Better than his own cape, for certain, but, then again, his own cape was real, hidden from view with the power of his mind when in his human persona.

"Fear me! Phaross!" There! That was much better. A terrifying sight and a fear-inducing voice. "Now you die, Psycona! Now you ..."

A knock came to his door and the illusion disappeared in the blink of an eye. In the same instant, he took the form of Sean Smith, the weedy, short man that spent his days buying and selling stocks in the privacy of his own home. A tedious practice, but these humans had no understanding of any form of society that did not require money, and the body he chose looked nothing like his heroic form, for obvious reasons.

He knew who called. Only one person could come to his door without his knowledge. He suspected Betty Burns had some form of telepathy, but she had never shown it. Only a psychic could hide from Zjahn's powers and this world had a number of them. He would have to remain vigilant about that. True, no human had the extensive psychic powers he controlled, but even low-level psychics could see through even the most powerful illusions unless Zjahn put in the effort.

When he had first come to this city, he had accepted the offer of this apartment, given him by the industrialist, Peter Skein, the man that fancied himself a hero, creating a series of ever-more sophisticated drones. He even pretended that he was those technological marvels, calling himself 'Drone' and taking Psycona's place in the super-team, Bastion. Another slight against Zjahn that he could never forgive.

"Hi! Watching a movie?" For an Earth woman, Zjahn supposed Ms Burns was not un-pretty, in her way. She tried to look beyond him, into the apartment. "I just heard voices. Anyway, I made pie! A little too much, you know, and I thought you might, you know, um, like some?"

She held out a dish bearing something these humans considered edible. As he accepted the dish, the stench of the food making his stomach turn, she tucked errant strands of hair behind one of her ears, eyes flickering between the projection of a human face and the floor at her feet. She expected some form of social interaction.

"That is most kind of you." He sniffed the 'pie', forcing himself to smile. "Thank you."

The woman worked for a newspaper, the Daily Bulletin, the information sheets still prevalent on this world, despite technology not requiring the use of pulping plant life to create paper. Not a particularly successful reporter, but she made a living. If she only knew the truth about him, she could become world famous, but Zjahn ensured that she never suspected a thing, his powers too strong even for her nascent psychic abilities.

She hadn't moved and Zjahn wondered whether she still wished to converse. Human's did that. There were so many social expectations and conventions that, even now, after all these years, Zjahn still struggled to recognise them. Many he still did not understand. She moved one of her feet, lifting the heel and twisting upon her toes. Betty inhaled and looked up once again.

"I was, uh, wondering, but it's okay if you don't want to, or you're busy, or you have, like, a ... girlfriend, or something, but that's okay, too, you know, and ..." She rolled her eyes and clenched her fists, so tiny compared to his hands. "See, there's this dinner, press association, and I've been nominated for, like, this award? I won't win! That would be ridiculous! But, uh, my invite says 'Plus one' and I was kinda, you know, thinking that, uh, maybe, um, it could be, uh, you? You could be my ... plus ... one? Or not?"

Zjahn wished humans could simply communicate telepathically, like civilised beings, instead, he had to suffer this stream of superfluous words and incoherent meanderings in order to understand what the woman wanted. About to dismiss it with little interest, he stopped, reconsidering. This could prove a perfect opportunity to debut Phaross to the world. Only a little demonstration. Something to pique the interest in the character before the real work began.

"I would be delighted." He made his best approximation of a smile toward the woman. "When is it?"

"Saturday. This Saturday at the Oakmont, and, I know, a little warning would have been nice, but I wasn't going to ask and then I wasn't going to go and then I found out that Patrice is taking my ex, but you don't want to know about any of that, right?" She was not mistaken. "So, the car will arrive at eight, it's black tie and ... and that's it. Drinks are free and I'll be taking advantage of that, I can tell you. Not too much, though! A little! I'm not a drunk! Oh, god. I'm just going to go and try not to explode through embarrassment."

"See you Saturday at eight." He had half-closed the door before realising he needed to affirm his intentions. At that, Betty appeared to slump in relief, almost thankful.

He waited until she entered her own apartment before closing the door and allowing the illusion of his human persona to fade away. The 'pie', he tipped into the kitchen trash can, placing the nauseating painted plate on the counter. He never allowed anyone into the apartment. It would look empty to a human, but Zjahn could create any furnishing he required with a thought.

The only thing he allowed to litter his surroundings sat upon the counter beside the plate. A computer. Or what these primitive humans considered a computing device. The Oakmont. Zjahn knew of it, but to make an effective entrance for his new nemesis, he would have to have a far greater knowledge of the hotel. Within seconds, he had furnished himself with detailed plans of the building.

Betty Burns would soon find herself entrenched in her own story.

-+-

Meanwhile, next door ...

That wasn't the first time Betty had heard strange noises from Smith's apartment, the walls of the building thin enough to hear the odd noise or two, but it was the first time she had heard two voices in that apartment. Smith seemed like a nice guy, but she had felt something 'off' about him from the very first day she had moved in to the building. Something that itched at the back of her mind every time she spoke to him.

The light of her laptop illuminated a face that had lost the shy, tongue-tripping character she had shown to her neighbour. It wasn't a lie that she had handed to him. She had made too much pie, deliberately, and she had received a nomination for an award. What she hadn't told Smith was that she could have taken anybody to the dinner, and Patrice wasn't taking her ex.

Her fingers skipped across the keys before sliding across to the mouse, clicking the search and then scrolling through the results. It wasn't the first time she had performed searches on Sean Smith, and it wasn't the first time her search had come up empty.

That wasn't strictly true. Plenty of things came up, after a certain date a couple of decades ago. Except, that wasn't possible. Sean Smith appeared from nowhere, fully formed, drivers license, Social Security number, everything someone needed to live in the world, but he had come from nowhere. No school photos, no college admissions, no arrests, no parking tickets. The man didn't exist, then he did. And, what was even more intriguing, he still looked in his mid-twenties, and that, frankly, was pretty much impossible.

Something was wrong in the next apartment. Something was wrong with Sean Smith, or whoever he was, and Betty Burns would find out exactly what.

She could practically smell the Pulitzer.