Chapter 4 - Perception Training

"Focus, Mr. Peterson. Concentrate on isolating the ability."

Max gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead as he stared at the metal sphere floating six inches above his palm. For the past hour, he'd been trying to control the telekinetic ability Mentis had triggered in him, with frustrating results.

"I'm trying," he grunted. "But it feels like trying to hold onto water."

The sphere wobbled, then dropped. Max lunged to catch it before it hit the padded floor of the training room, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

"Perhaps we're approaching this incorrectly," Mentis said, making another note on his ever-present tablet. His blue scarf remained perfectly arranged despite the four hours they'd been at this. "The ability isn't truly yours—it's a manifestation of my belief in your capacity for telekinesis."

Max set the sphere down with a sigh of relief. This was their third training session in Mentis's private facility beneath the university, and while he'd made progress in understanding his powers, control remained elusive.

"Exactly!" Max said, wiping sweat from his brow. "So why are we trying to make me control something that's not really mine?"

Mentis raised an eyebrow. "An interesting philosophical question. Is any Awakened ability truly 'ours,' or simply a phenomenon we learn to direct? But in practical terms, you're right—perhaps we should focus less on controlling the specific abilities and more on managing the perceptual field that generates them."

"The perceptual field?" Max repeated, collapsing onto a bench along the wall. The training room resembled a high-tech gymnasium, with reinforced walls and various equipment designed to test different powers.

"The collective expectations surrounding you," Mentis explained, setting his tablet aside. "Think of it as an invisible aura of beliefs that adheres to your persona."

"That doesn't sound any easier to control," Max pointed out.

"Perhaps not. But it may be more productive to focus on shaping how others perceive you, rather than struggling to master each individual ability their perceptions manifest."

It had been a week since Max's confrontation with the Viper Gang, and his life had fallen into a strange new rhythm. By day, he delivered papers along his new Guardian-focused route. By evening, he trained with Mentis, learning to navigate his unpredictable powers. And occasionally, when circumstances demanded, he donned his makeshift mask as Rumor.

Word had spread about the new "hero" in New Harbor, and with it, Max's abilities had grown and diversified. After the market incident, people began speculating about what else Rumor could do. Some said he had enhanced senses. Others claimed he could anticipate danger before it happened. A few even suggested he might be bulletproof.

And to varying degrees, Max found himself manifesting all of these abilities—sometimes when he wanted them, sometimes not.

"So how do I shape perceptions?" Max asked, genuinely curious. "I can't control what people think about me."

"Not directly," Mentis conceded. "But you can influence it through your actions, appearances, and the narrative you present." He paced thoughtfully, his movements precise and economical. "Consider the Guardian members—each cultivates a specific public image that reinforces their heroic persona."

Max thought about Lumina, with her radiant confidence and compassion, and Velocity, whose flashy style matched his speed powers. Even Mentis himself maintained the image of the analytical, somewhat aloof intellectual.

"So I need a better costume than a bandana and my old courier jacket?" Max joked.

"Actually, yes," Mentis replied seriously. "Visual presentation strongly influences perception. But more importantly, you need consistency in your displayed abilities."

"How can I be consistent when my powers keep changing based on rumors?"

"By strategically establishing certain capabilities as your 'signature' powers," Mentis explained. "If you consistently demonstrate specific abilities, public perception will solidify around them, making them more reliable for you."

Max considered this. "Like the super-strength and reflexes from the market fight? Those seem pretty stable now."

"Precisely. The more frequently you confirm public expectations about specific abilities, the more consistently you'll be able to access them." Mentis picked up a small device from a nearby table. "Which brings me to today's final exercise."

He pressed a button, and a holographic display appeared in the center of the room—a three-dimensional model of what appeared to be downtown New Harbor, complete with tiny moving vehicles and pedestrians.

"This is a real-time security feed," Mentis explained. "The Viper Gang is currently robbing a medical supply depot on Mercer Street. Normally, we'd dispatch a Guardian team, but everyone is occupied with a dimensional anomaly in the harbor district."

Max stared at the display, watching the tiny figures of gang members loading supplies into a truck. "You want me to stop them? Alone? I'm not ready for that!"

"Three training sessions ago, perhaps not," Mentis agreed. "But you've made significant progress. More importantly, this is an opportunity to establish consistent abilities in the public eye."

"But what if I mess up? What if someone gets hurt?"

"That's precisely why I selected this scenario," Mentis said. "Medical supplies are valuable but not worth lethal force to protect. The Viper Gang members are armed but typically avoid fatal confrontations that might draw Guardian attention. And—" he pointed to the display, "—there are minimal civilians in the area due to the late hour."

Max bit his lip, unconvinced. "I don't know..."

"Consider it a field test," Mentis suggested. "An opportunity to apply what you've learned in a controlled environment. I'll be monitoring remotely and can dispatch emergency assistance if necessary."

The idea was terrifying. But also... exciting? Somewhere in the past week, Max had started to enjoy the rush of using his powers, of being someone other than just a chronically late courier.

"What about my costume? The bandana isn't exactly intimidating."

Mentis smiled slightly. "I've taken the liberty of preparing something." He pressed another button, and a section of the wall slid open to reveal a display case.

Inside was a simple but effective outfit: a navy blue bodysuit with orange accents that echoed his courier colors, reinforced gloves and boots, and a half-mask that would cover his upper face while leaving his mouth free. The chest featured a spiral symbol that seemed to shimmer slightly when viewed from different angles.

"It's made from adaptive fabric developed for Guardian use," Mentis explained. "Durable, flexible, and designed to accommodate various physical enhancements you might manifest."

Max approached the case cautiously. "You made this for me?"

"I anticipated its necessity, yes." Mentis's tone was matter-of-fact. "If you're going to establish a consistent perception, appropriate visual presentation is essential."

Looking at the costume—his costume—Max felt a strange mix of emotions. Pride, anxiety, excitement, fear. This made it real in a way that even manifesting powers hadn't quite managed.

"Okay," he said, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "I'll do it."

---

Fifteen minutes later, Max perched on a rooftop overlooking the medical supply depot, his heart pounding so hard he was sure the Viper Gang could hear it three stories below. The new costume fit perfectly, the mask providing better peripheral vision than his bandana had. The material moved with him like a second skin.

Through the large loading dock doors, he could see six gang members efficiently transferring boxes from the depot to their truck. All wore the signature green jackets with snake patterns, and all carried weapons—mostly crude electrical batons like the one from the market confrontation, though two had what appeared to be salvaged firearms.

Max took a deep breath, trying to channel the confidence that had coursed through him during the market fight. He could do this. People believed in Rumor now—believed he was strong, fast, agile. As if responding to his thoughts, he felt the now-familiar tingling sensation spread across his skin.

"Right," he whispered to himself. "Consistent abilities. Focus on strength, speed, and reflexes. That's your signature."

He stood, balancing easily on the edge of the roof—another ability that came naturally now, as people spread stories of Rumor's acrobatic feats. Looking down at the loading dock, he mapped out his approach.

Get in, disable the gang members, secure the supplies, get out. Simple.

Before he could overthink it, Max leaped from the roof.

The jump carried him farther than he expected, propelling him in a graceful arc that landed him squarely in the middle of the loading dock. The gang members froze, boxes half-lifted, expressions of shock visible even in the dim evening light.

"Evening," Max said, trying for a confident tone. "I think you have the wrong address. This isn't a self-service facility."

The gang members exchanged glances, then slowly set down their boxes and spread out to surround him. The leader, a wiry woman with reptilian tattoos coiling up both arms, stepped forward.

"Well, well," she said, twirling an electrical baton casually. "If it isn't the market hero. Rumor, right? Long way from your usual territory."

"Crime is my territory," Max replied, immediately cringing internally at the clichéd line. He'd have to work on his hero banter.

"Cute," the leader said. "But this isn't the market with its civilians and witnesses. It's just us and you."

She nodded, and two gang members rushed Max from opposite sides. Time seemed to slow as his enhanced reflexes kicked in. He sidestepped the first attacker, using the man's momentum to send him sprawling, then caught the second's arm mid-swing and twisted—not enough to break, but enough to make the man drop his baton with a yelp.

The fight that followed was unlike anything Max had experienced before. His body seemed to know exactly what to do, moving with a fluid grace that felt simultaneously foreign and natural. He dodged electrical batons, deflected strikes, and incapacitated the gang members one by one with precisely calculated force.

When one of the gunmen raised his weapon, Max moved with startling speed, crossing the distance between them before the man could pull the trigger. He crushed the barrel of the gun in his grip, the metal giving way like clay beneath his fingers.

"Not tonight," Max said, meeting the gunman's wide eyes through his mask.

Within minutes, five of the six gang members were groaning on the ground, nursing various non-lethal injuries. Only the leader remained standing, her confidence visibly shaken.

"You're making a mistake," she snarled, backing toward the truck. "The Vipers don't forgive."

"Neither do I," Max said, echoing his line from the market confrontation. Maybe consistency in dialogue was part of establishing his heroic persona too.

The leader made a break for the truck, but Max was faster, vaulting over a stack of crates to land between her and the vehicle.

"It's over," he said. "The police are on their way." This was a bluff—he had no way to contact authorities—but it sounded good.

For a tense moment, he thought she might attack anyway. Then she slowly lowered her baton.

"This isn't the end," she warned.

"It never is," Max replied, feeling more confident in his role with each exchange.

The sound of approaching sirens cut through the night—apparently Mentis had arranged for law enforcement after all. The leader's face contorted with fury, but she made no further move to escape as the police vehicles surrounded the depot.

Max took advantage of the confusion to slip away, scaling the side of the building with an agility that still surprised him. From the rooftop, he watched as officers secured the scene and detained the gang members.

"Not bad for a field test," came Mentis's voice in his ear, making him jump. He'd forgotten about the communication device built into his mask.

"You could have mentioned the police were coming," Max replied.

"And deny you the authentic experience? Besides, your performance was quite impressive. You maintained focus on your established abilities rather than experimenting with new ones."

Max had to admit, the fight had gone better than he'd expected. By concentrating on his "signature" powers—strength, speed, reflexes—he'd maintained better control than in previous outings.

"So what now?" he asked, watching the police load the last of the Viper Gang members into transport vehicles.

"Now you return to the lab," Mentis instructed. "We have data to analyze."

---

"You're developing a reputation," Mentis said, displaying several news feeds on the laboratory's main screen. Headlines about Rumor's takedown of the Viper Gang robbery scrolled past, accompanied by grainy security footage of the confrontation.

Max, back in his civilian clothes, watched with a strange mixture of pride and disbelief. "That was fast."

"Information travels quickly in New Harbor, especially concerning Awakened activities." Mentis tapped the screen, freezing on an image of Max—no, Rumor—deflecting an attack with seemingly effortless grace. "More importantly, notice the consistency in how you're being described."

The articles used phrases like "incredible strength," "lightning reflexes," and "acrobatic prowess" repeatedly.

"The public narrative is solidifying," Mentis continued. "This should stabilize these particular abilities for you, making them more reliable baselines."

Max nodded, beginning to understand the strategy. "So I focus on these powers until they become second nature, then maybe gradually introduce new ones?"

"Precisely. Controlled expansion rather than random manifestation." Mentis seemed pleased with his quick grasp of the concept. "Though we should also establish contingencies for unwanted abilities that might emerge from public speculation."

"Like what?"

"Invulnerability, for instance. Several witnesses described you as 'bulletproof' after you disabled the gunman. If that perception spreads and you begin to believe it yourself, you might take unnecessary risks."

Max hadn't considered that danger. "So how do we prevent that?"

"We don't, necessarily," Mentis said, closing the news feeds. "We manage it. Your costume provides actual physical protection that might be enhanced by perceived invulnerability. But we'll establish safe testing protocols before you rely on such abilities in the field."

The methodical approach was reassuring. For the first time since discovering his powers, Max felt like he might actually get a handle on them.

"There's something else we should discuss," Mentis said, his tone shifting slightly. "The Guardians."

Max tensed. "What about them?"

"They're becoming curious about you. Rumor is attracting attention, particularly from Lumina, who seems to remember your civilian identity from the Shock incident."

"Is that a problem?" Max asked, trying not to sound too interested in Lumina's perspective.

"Not necessarily. But maintaining separation between your identities is crucial for controlling your abilities." Mentis steepled his fingers beneath his chin, a habitual gesture when thinking deeply. "I suggest we bring one more Guardian into our confidence—someone who can help manage the team's interaction with Rumor while protecting your secret."

"Who did you have in mind?"

"Shimmer would be the logical choice. Her phase-shifting abilities make her excellent at covert operations, and her engineering expertise could be valuable for your equipment."

Max remembered seeing Shimmer in action on news feeds—a lithe woman in a shimmering purple and silver costume who could pass through solid objects. She was one of the more mysterious Guardians, rarely giving public statements.

"Will she be okay with keeping secrets from the rest of the team?"

"Shimmer understands the value of compartmentalized information," Mentis replied cryptically. "She'll help if I explain the unique nature of your abilities and the importance of perception management."

It made sense, though the idea of another person knowing his secret was nerve-wracking. Still, having an ally within the Guardian team besides Mentis could be useful.

"Okay," Max agreed. "When do I meet her?"

"Tomorrow evening. She'll join our training session." Mentis checked the time. "For now, you should return home and rest. Your body is still adapting to the enhanced physical capabilities, and recovery time is essential."

Max nodded, suddenly aware of a bone-deep fatigue he'd been ignoring. The adrenaline of the fight had masked it, but now his muscles ached in places he hadn't known existed.

As he gathered his things to leave, a notification flashed on Mentis's primary screen—a Guardian alert symbol accompanied by a location ping.

"Problem?" Max asked, noting the slight narrowing of Mentis's eyes.

"Possibly. There's been another dimensional anomaly detected, the third this week." Mentis's fingers flew over his keyboard, bringing up a map of New Harbor with several glowing points marked. "The frequency is increasing."

Max peered at the screen. "Is that bad?"

"Unpredictable, certainly." Mentis frowned at the data. "Dimensional rifts are typically random occurrences resulting from The Collapse. This pattern suggests..."

He trailed off, lost in thought.

"Suggests what?" Max prompted.

Mentis seemed to remember he wasn't alone. "Nothing conclusive yet. Simply another mystery to investigate." He closed the display with a dismissive gesture. "Go home, Mr. Peterson. Tomorrow's training will be particularly demanding."

Max recognized the deflection but didn't push. He had enough to worry about without adding dimensional anomalies to the list.

---

The Shallows district was quiet as Max made his way home, the elevated walkways that connected the stilted buildings creaking softly underfoot. After the collapse, the low-lying neighborhood had been prone to flooding, leading residents to rebuild on platforms and pilings.

Max's apartment building had once been a storage facility, converted to housing when living space became scarce. His unit was small but private, a luxury in the crowded post-Collapse world.

As he approached his door, Max noticed light spilling from beneath Mrs. Chen's apartment across the narrow walkway. Despite the late hour, his elderly neighbor was apparently still awake.

He hesitated, then knocked softly. She'd been surprisingly scarce since helping him that first day, and he had questions only she might answer.

The door opened immediately, as if she'd been waiting for him. Mrs. Chen looked exactly as she always did—silver hair in its perfect bun, practical clothes immaculately arranged, eyes twinkling with mysterious knowledge.

"The hero returns," she said, stepping aside to invite him in. "Tea?"

"How did you know I was out... doing that?" Max asked, entering her apartment cautiously.

Mrs. Chen's home was a stark contrast to his spartan quarters. Every surface held books, artifacts, and curiosities from before The Collapse. The walls were covered with maps and charts, some showing New Harbor, others depicting places Max didn't recognize. A phonograph in the corner played soft, tinkling music that reminded him of wind chimes.

"I know many things," she replied, pouring tea from an ornate pot. "Including that you've been training with Dr. Thorne."

Max accepted the cup she offered, inhaling the familiar bitter scent. "You don't seem surprised."

"Very little surprises me anymore." She settled into a chair that seemed designed for her small frame. "The question is, has he helped you understand your gift?"

"He calls it a power, not a gift," Max said, sitting across from her. "And yes, sort of. We're working on controlling it by managing how people perceive Rumor."

"Rumor," Mrs. Chen repeated, smiling slightly. "The name has served you well."

"You suggested it," Max pointed out. "At the market that day. You seem to know a lot about how my power works, more than should be possible."

Mrs. Chen sipped her tea, considering him over the rim of her cup. "I have observed many Awakened abilities since The Collapse. Yours is unique but not incomprehensible."

"But how did you know what to do? The gloves, the mask, the advice about perceptions—it was like you'd seen this before."

"Not this exactly," she admitted. "But similar phenomena. The world has changed in ways most people fail to recognize. The broken moon, the dimensional rifts—they've altered fundamental laws that once seemed immutable."

Max leaned forward. "What laws?"

"The separation between thought and reality, for one." Mrs. Chen set her cup down with precision. "In some places, belief can shape matter. In others, memories manifest physically. Your ability draws on this blurring of boundaries."

It sounded mystical, but no more unbelievable than what Max had already experienced. "Mentis thinks it's quantum fluctuations or something scientific like that."

"Dr. Thorne seeks rational explanations for irrational phenomena," Mrs. Chen said with a slight smile. "His approach has merit but also limitations."

"He's helping me control it," Max defended.

"Control is useful," she acknowledged. "But understanding is essential. Tell me, has he explained why your power manifested after the Shock incident? Why you specifically developed this ability?"

Max hesitated. "He's running tests, gathering data. He says it might be related to neural patterns or something."

Mrs. Chen made a small, dismissive noise. "Tests and data. Always the scientist's approach."

"Do you know why?" Max challenged. "If you have answers, I'd love to hear them."

She studied him for a long moment, then stood and moved to a bookshelf. After searching briefly, she withdrew an ancient-looking volume bound in faded leather.

"There are old stories," she said, returning to her seat with the book, "from long before The Collapse, about individuals who embodied collective beliefs. Figures whose very existence was shaped by the stories told about them."

She opened the book to a marked page, revealing text in a language Max didn't recognize alongside intricate illustrations of human figures surrounded by swirling patterns.

"These were called 'Consensual Entities' in some traditions—beings given form and function by shared narrative." She traced a finger over one of the illustrations. "In times of crisis, when reality itself becomes malleable, such entities sometimes emerge."

"I'm not an 'entity,'" Max protested. "I'm just a regular person who developed powers."

"Are you?" Mrs. Chen looked up, her gaze suddenly intense. "Or were you perhaps created by the moment—by the collective need for someone to stand against chaos? The courier who faced Shock, becoming the hero New Harbor required."

A chill ran down Max's spine. "That's crazy. I have a life, memories from before that day."

"Of course you do," she said, closing the book. "I'm not suggesting you didn't exist. Merely that the person you were and the power you now wield may be connected in ways science cannot fully explain."

Max set his cup down harder than intended, tea sloshing over the rim. "Look, I appreciate the mystical perspective, but I'm just trying to figure out how to use these abilities without hurting anyone or getting myself killed."

Mrs. Chen seemed unperturbed by his outburst. "A worthy goal. And Dr. Thorne's methods will help with that. But remember, Max—your power comes from stories. And the most powerful stories are those that contain truth."

"What truth?"

"That remains for you to discover." She stood, signaling the conversation's end. "For now, rest. Your body needs recovery after tonight's exertions."

Max rose reluctantly, feeling he'd gained more questions than answers. At the door, he paused. "Mrs. Chen, who are you really? You're not just a retired librarian, are you?"

Her eyes twinkled again. "I am exactly who I appear to be—and perhaps a few other things as well. Much like yourself."

With that cryptic response, she ushered him gently but firmly out the door.

Back in his own apartment, Max stared at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Same disheveled brown hair, same bright green eyes, same face he'd known his whole life. But was Mrs. Chen right? Had he somehow been changed more fundamentally than just developing powers?

The notion was unsettling. He preferred Mentis's scientific approach—measurable, testable, controllable. But as he crawled into bed, exhaustion finally overwhelming his racing thoughts, a small part of him wondered if there might be truth in both perspectives.

His dreams that night were filled with stories—tales of heroes and monsters that shifted and changed even as he experienced them. And through it all ran a single thread: a spiral pattern that both resembled the symbol on his new costume and something older, more primal, that he couldn't quite identify.

When he woke the next morning, Max couldn't remember the details, but the spiral lingered in his mind's eye—a reminder that some questions still awaited answers.

And some stories were just beginning to unfold.