The Fenton district, Faraday City ...

The residents called this place 'Old Town' and there was no irony involved in the name. Some of these buildings dated back to the Revolutionary War and Betty suspected some were even older than that. How it had survived in this state, she couldn't begin to imagine, with the modern skyscrapers of the rest of Faraday City surrounding it, looming over the ancient brick buildings. They remained in almost perfect condition, staving off every attempt to gentrify the area and Betty felt a little thankful for that.

Her search had revealed a copious number of people that purported to know more about psychic powers than anyone else, but one name seemed to crop up more than others. Not front-and-centre, but mentioned, in passing, as though even bringing attention to the person would bring down the wrath of the gods upon their heads for destroying a beautiful relic of a bygone age.

Madame Misstery. A stage name, obviously, but one that, were the name spoken out loud, it would come in a whisper, with heads turning this way and that to ensure no-one else heard. The name had seen mention in texts from long ago, and in recent web articles. Betty doubted it was the same woman, however. More likely a pseudonym passed down from master to apprentice over the years, keeping the mystery, as it were, alive.

That wasn't to say it wasn't possible. In a world where people often defied gravity, could call upon the powers of the elements and run faster than the human eye could perceive, the idea that someone could live for centuries wasn't quite as far-fetched as common sense would allow. Betty still doubted it. The thought of living forever terrified her. Mortality, to Betty, was a gift. It gave weight and substance to empathy. How small people must look to someone who had seen empires rise and fall?

To say she felt a little disappointed, upon finding the correct address her late-night dabblings had procured, would come as more than a understatement. A small building, little more than a shack, nestled between two muscular brownstones that sat either side like protective golems. A nondescript door and blacked-out windows made the place look abandoned, but for a small, old-style sign that swung upon rusted chains. And the sign held only a pentagram and the word 'Readings' upon it.

Betty half-expected the door to swing open at her approach. Sensing her presence and showcasing the arcane wonders that awaited within. It didn't and Betty had to resort to the ancient method of knocking upon wood that could once have felt the rap of knuckles from British Redcoats. When no answer came, she resorted to hammering with the heel of her fist. She had little time to wait around. There were others she could seek out.

"Alright! Alright! Enough with the banging!" The voice croaked from within, followed by the sounds of numerous locks turning and bolts sliding aside. "Do you know how long it takes to get here from the back room? Of course you don't! Children today. No patience!"

After a while, the door opened a crack, allowing a woman with a long, hooked nose to peek outside. She looked at Betty's feet for a long time, before curling her lips downward in distaste. Then her rheumy eyes moved up Betty's body until she stared, intently, over Betty's left shoulder. Another second or two passed as the old, old woman smacked her lips, as though tasting something unpleasant.

"My name is Betty Burns. I'm a reporter for the Daily Bulletin and I'm writing an article on psychics and psychic powers." Betty held out her office lanyard, dangling her credentials close enough for the half-blind woman to see. "I hear you are the foremost authority on such things."

"Heard that, did you?" The old woman squinted one eye, her long chin rising and falling as she chewed upon her gums. "What makes you think I'm the one you look for? Hmm? Could be I'm just an old woman wanting to live a quiet life without ruffians battering down my door!"

"Well, the address I found leads here and you do have a sign that looks like the kind of sign a renowned psychic might have." She pointed at the sign and the old woman's eyes followed Betty's finger. "It's not conclusive evidence, but I'd say it's pretty clear."

The old woman stared at the sign as though it had betrayed her before turning that stare back to Betty. Once again, she looked at Betty's shoes and grimaced, leaving Betty to wonder what, exactly, was wrong with them. They weren't too high, or too low. Not flashy or expensive. Just a pair of comfortable shoes that didn't make her look like a drudge.

"Fine! Missy 'Investigative Reporter'. Thinks she's clever." Without any ceremony, the old woman opened the door wide and turned, walking away. "Like I don't have better things to do on a Saturday night."

"It's Thursday morning." Betty hesitated before stepping across the threshold, a chill creeping down her spine. "Thank you for ..."

"S'only Thursday morning if you only see time as a straight, linear line from cause to effect, when, actually it's more like ..." For an instant, the old woman's voice changed as she spoke, lighter, more focussed. Then she looked over her shoulder and groaned. "Oh, you wouldn't understand if I told you. Tea?"

Whatever Betty had expected of Madame Misstery, she felt certain it wasn't a changeable, cantankerous old woman that appeared to dislike her shoes. In truth, Betty kind of liked her.

-+-

Sean Smith's apartment ...

The only way Zjahn could come to terms with everything that happened, he needed to drop all his psychic barriers, become more vulnerable than he had ever allowed himself since coming to this planet. Everything needed to end. His illusion of humanity, the barrier within his mind that stopped him from hearing every single thought of every creature upon the face of the Earth, even the most important psychic wall. The one that hid him from the ones that had destroyed his planet.

He had no need of that wall. The invaders had long since forgotten about him and his world, and they had no psychic powers, anyway, but fear had always maintained that wall. Fear that they would find him and complete the slaughter of his race, and fear that his presence could lead them here, to Earth. His current predicament superseded those fears. He needed to find out what was wrong with him and how to bring his mind back under his complete control.

"Oh, great Zjackajit, Lord of Time and Space, Master of us all. Creator. Benevolence. Heed my call in this hour of desperation." He didn't believe in gods, not the ones he had not met personally, but the ritual cleansing required the words. "Devour the doubts that infect my heart and mind. Deliver me from the darkness and lift me back to the light."

Eyes closed, legs crossed, Zjahn attempted to empty his mind of all distractions. The flood of voices cascading through his mind could only help in this moment, helping to drown out the inner turmoil he had felt since that night at the Oakmont Hotel. He buried deeper into his own mind, searching for the point in which he lost control. Where the demon created from his own mind had taken on a life of its own.

He saw the arrival of Phaross, the shower of glass that fell as the image descended. Zjahn had control in that moment. Phaross existed only as a fragment of his imagination. Shackled and powerless without Zjahn's strict plan. Mindless, Phaross parroted the words that Zjahn thought. The illusion had no consciousness. No presence of mind. An empty, soulless projection. What incited the fracture? What caused Phaross to become more than the fantasy Zjahn had created?

Zjahn explored the incident, his mind capturing everything and replaying it as he meditated, revelling in the chance to drop the illusion of humanity and being his true self for the first time in so long. He sensed the strain the series of illusions had placed upon his powers, but he had pushed himself hard before. That, alone, could not explain where he had become broken. Broken after that man had almost died. Wade Tompkins.

The growl erupted, unbidden from Zjahn's throat and his eyes snapped open. That was it. That was the point where he had crossed a threshold and now he was not certain he could turn back. He hated that man. Hated him more than he hated Principle. Hated him almost as much as he hated the monsters that had destroyed his world. The hatred burned within him as it had that night. Not because of his arrogance and presumption. Not even due solely to the vile, hateful thoughts Zjahn had sensed from the man.

He hated him for one thing. One relevant thing. Wade Tompkins had once been the lover of Betty Burns, and, in that moment when Zjahn had opened up his mind to one of the most complex, most demanding illusions he had ever created, Zjahn had wanted Tompkins dead.

Zjahn stared down at his clawed fingers. Had Tompkins died, the blood would have doused Zjahn's hands. He had attempted to murder a man. A human, yes, but murder was murder in the eyes of the law and, if nothing else, Zjahn followed the law.

He had only one recourse.

-+-

Madame Misstery's shop, Fenton ...

"You'll like this. I guarantee you have never tasted anything close to this." The old woman almost dropped the saucer onto Betty's hands, a slice of dull cake upon it. "I brought the recipe with me from the old country. You'll never eat anything like it."

"It looks ... lovely." Betty had no intention of allowing even a crumb past her lips. "The 'old country'. Which would be? I think I hear Eastern European in your accent."

"No country you'll ever find on a map, or in the history books. The Old Country." The woman slumped into a high-backed chair, adjusting cushions until she had them right. "So, you have questions about Psycona?"

"How did you ...?" Mouth gaping, Betty almost laughed at the smirk upon the old woman's lined face. That was her proof. That was her calling card. She had set out her stall and now waited for Betty to buy her wares. "I never mentioned Psycona. In fact, I'm pretty certain I didn't even think about him."

The old woman gave a solemn nod, fingers drumming in a rhythm upon her distended stomach as she watched Betty. Then, with a start, she sat upright and reached for her cup of foul-smelling tea, drinking it in one, long gulp. The cup clattered against the saucer as the old woman gave a satisfied 'aah' before sitting back once more, adjusting her cushions again. Her fingers returned to their drumming and Betty began to think the old woman about to fall asleep. Up until the moment she raised a finger, making a point.

"He's thinking about you. Right this moment. And he has fear in his heart. Such terrible fear. Fear of what he has done, of what he may yet do." It felt as though all light left the room as Madame Misstery spoke, her words resonating from the walls, deep and powerful. "He feels lost. Lost and alone. So very much alone. Pity the one who has lost everything. Fear the one who could bring loss to all."

The woman slumped and then, after a second, clapped her hands, a toothless grin crossing her face. She appeared quite pleased with herself.

"Is that it?" Betty looked down at the cake on her saucer and, very carefully, placed it onto a nearby table. "I was expecting ... something different. I really am writing an article and I need ..."

"Did you know you're psychic?" The old woman pointed a bony finger at Betty and winked. "I can help you with that."

Not for the first time, this old woman, Madame Misstery, left Betty speechless. Her mouth gaped in the process of starting to ask questions, but she couldn't find the words. Now she knew the old woman was mad. Psychic! Indeed!