The morning crowd at The Crossroads Market parted like water around Mrs. Chen. Despite her diminutive stature, she moved with purpose, her ornate hairpins catching the light as she navigated the bustling lanes with surprising agility. Max followed in her wake, acutely aware of the glances and whispers that tracked his progress.
"...that's him, the courier from yesterday..."
"...stood up to Shock single-handed..."
"...heard he didn't even flinch when..."
With each comment, Max felt a strange tingling sensation ripple across his skin. He flexed his gloved hands nervously, terrified of accidentally crushing something—or someone.
"Mrs. Chen," he whispered urgently, "everyone's staring."
"Of course they are," she replied without turning. "You're famous now."
"I don't want to be famous! I want to be normal!"
Mrs. Chen led him to a small tea stall tucked in a quiet corner of the market. The elderly proprietor nodded to her with familiar respect and disappeared into the back without taking an order.
"Sit," she commanded, gesturing to a worn wooden stool.
Max eyed it dubiously. "I might break it."
"You won't," she said with quiet confidence. "Because I don't believe you will."
Puzzled by her choice of words, Max carefully lowered himself onto the stool. It creaked but held.
The tea vendor returned with two steaming cups of amber liquid. Mrs. Chen accepted hers with a graceful nod and took a sip. Max left his untouched, afraid of shattering the delicate porcelain.
"What's happening to me?" he finally asked.
Mrs. Chen set her cup down with precision. "You have manifested an ability. This is not uncommon since The Collapse."
"But powers don't work like this," Max protested. "The Awakened get their abilities from radiation or dimensional energy or alien tech. Not from... gossip."
"And yet," Mrs. Chen said, gesturing to his hands, "here we are."
Max looked down at his gloved fingers. "It started after I went to sleep. I had this weird dream where I could hear everyone talking about me, and then..." He trailed off, struggling to describe the sensation. "It was like my body was changing to match what they were saying."
Mrs. Chen nodded as if this confirmed something. "Your power is unique, as far as I know. You manifest the traits that others believe you possess."
"But that's impossible," Max insisted. "People's opinions can't physically change someone."
"Many impossible things have become possible since the moon broke," Mrs. Chen replied. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small object, placing it on the table between them.
It was a pebble, unremarkable except for the faint purple glow emanating from within.
"Pick it up," she instructed.
"I'll crush it."
"No," she said firmly. "You won't. Because I don't believe you will."
There was something in her tone—a certainty that transcended normal confidence. Max hesitantly removed his right glove and reached for the stone. As his fingers closed around it, he felt an unexpected sense of control, as if his strength had recalibrated.
"I don't understand," he said, turning the pebble in his palm without damaging it. "How...?"
"My belief temporarily overrode the others," Mrs. Chen explained. "At least concerning that specific action. Your power responds to perception—both individual and collective. The stronger or more widespread the belief, the stronger its effect on you."
Max stared at her. "How do you know all this? Who are you, really?"
Mrs. Chen's eyes twinkled. "I am exactly who I appear to be—your elderly neighbor who runs an underground library. I simply have... experience with unusual phenomena."
Before Max could press further, his attention was drawn to a commotion near the market's main entrance. People were scattering as four figures swaggered through the archway—three men and a woman, all wearing distinctive green jackets with snake patterns stitched along the sleeves.
"Viper Gang," Mrs. Chen said quietly. "Looking for 'protection' money, no doubt."
Max had seen the local thugs before. They controlled several neighborhoods by monopolizing clean water supplies and intimidating residents. Usually, they traveled in larger groups and stuck to their territory. Seeing a small contingent at The Crossroads—traditionally neutral ground—was unusual.
The apparent leader, a muscular man with a reptilian tattoo creeping up his neck, approached a produce vendor. Though Max couldn't hear the conversation, the vendor's frightened expression and hurried fumbling for money told the story clearly enough.
"This isn't right," Max muttered. "Why isn't anyone stopping them?"
"The market has no Guardian protection this morning," Mrs. Chen noted. "They're still dealing with the Shock incident. And the regular security won't challenge the Vipers directly."
Max watched as the gang moved to another stall, repeating their intimidation routine. His hands clenched into fists, the pebble still clutched in his right palm.
"I should do something," he said, surprising himself.
Mrs. Chen raised an eyebrow. "With your newfound strength? Without control? You could kill someone accidentally."
"But I can't just sit here," Max insisted, feeling an unfamiliar courage swell within him. Was this another effect of people's perceptions? Did they see him as brave now?
"If you truly wish to intervene," Mrs. Chen said carefully, "there may be a way to channel your abilities more safely."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a faded bandana. "Cover your face. Anonymity will protect both your identity and your ability to control your power."
"How will hiding my face help control my strength?" Max asked, confused.
"Because they won't be seeing Max Peterson, the courier they've heard rumors about," she explained. "They'll be seeing a new figure—one they have no preconceptions about yet. It creates a perceptual reset."
It sounded crazy, but then again, so was developing super-strength overnight because of gossip. Max took the bandana and tied it around the lower half of his face.
"Now what?"
"Now," Mrs. Chen said, "you decide who you want to be."
---
Max approached the Viper Gang with his heart hammering in his chest. The bandana covering the lower half of his face was scratchy against his skin, and he'd pulled his courier jacket hood up for additional anonymity. He still wore the gloves Mrs. Chen had given him, but they now felt like part of a makeshift costume rather than just protection.
The four gang members had moved on to Charlie's newspaper stand, where the boy was defiantly refusing to pay.
"I don't have protection money," Charlie was saying, his young voice steady despite the dangerous situation. "And this is neutral territory anyway."
"Rules are changing, kid," said the leader, his hand moving threateningly to a bulge in his jacket that Max suspected was a weapon. "New Harbor belongs to the Vipers now."
"Actually," Max said, surprised by the steadiness in his own voice, "I think you're mistaken."
All eyes turned to him. Max had positioned himself to block the gang's exit route, forcing them to deal with him if they wanted to leave.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" asked the female gang member, her green jacket adorned with more snake patches than the others.
Good question, Max thought. "Just someone who thinks you should leave these people alone."
The leader snorted. "Nice mask. You think you're some kind of Guardian now? Playing superhero?"
"I'm not playing anything," Max said, channeling the strange fearlessness he'd felt earlier. "I'm giving you a chance to walk away."
By now, a crowd had begun to gather at a safe distance, watching the confrontation with wide eyes. Max could feel their attention like a physical pressure against his skin.
"You hear this guy?" The leader laughed, turning to his companions. "Thinks he can take on all four of us."
"I'd rather not fight at all," Max said honestly. "Just leave without the money, and we're good."
For a tense moment, Max thought the leader might actually consider the offer. Then the man lunged forward, swinging a fist aimed directly at Max's face.
Time seemed to slow. Max could see the punch coming with crystal clarity, as if his senses had sharpened beyond normal human capability. He stepped aside with a grace he'd never possessed before, the blow sailing harmlessly past.
The leader stumbled, surprised by the miss. His companions moved to surround Max, who found himself calculating angles and distances with impossible precision. When the female gang member attacked from behind, Max ducked without even looking, her knife slicing through empty air where his head had been a moment before.
"He's fast," someone in the crowd murmured.
"Did you see that dodge?" whispered another.
With each comment, Max felt his reflexes sharpening further. He wasn't just avoiding their attacks—he was anticipating them, moving before they even began.
"Stand still!" growled one of the thugs, swinging wildly.
Max caught the man's wrist mid-swing. "I think it's time you left," he said, applying just enough pressure to make the man wince.
"Let him go!" The leader had drawn a crude electrical baton, one of many weapons cobbled together from salvaged pre-Collapse technology. He jabbed it toward Max, the end crackling with energy.
Acting on instinct, Max shoved the gang member he was holding away—perhaps a bit too hard, as the man flew backward several feet before sprawling on the ground. With his free hand, Max caught the leader's wrist, stopping the baton inches from his chest.
"I said," Max repeated, his voice low, "it's time for you to leave."
He squeezed slightly, feeling the bones in the man's wrist grind together. The leader's eyes widened in pain and shock as the baton fell from his numbed fingers.
The remaining gang members looked at each other, then at their fallen comrades. Their confidence had evaporated.
"This isn't over," the leader hissed, nursing his wrist as Max released him. "The Vipers don't forget."
"Neither do I," Max replied, surprised by his own boldness.
The four gang members retreated, helping their dazed companion to his feet. The crowd parted to let them pass, then erupted in whispers and exclamations as soon as they were gone.
"Did you see that?"
"He moved so fast!"
"Who is that guy?"
"He took on the Vipers single-handed!"
Charlie pushed through the onlookers, his eyes wide with excitement. "That was amazing! Who are you?"
Max opened his mouth, then realized he needed a name that wasn't his own. "I'm, uh..." His mind raced. What could he call himself?
"He's Rumor," came Mrs. Chen's voice from somewhere in the crowd. "Because that's all it takes."
"Rumor," Charlie repeated, testing the name. "Cool! Wait till everyone hears about this!"
The crowd pressed closer, and Max suddenly felt claustrophobic. Their attention was doing something to him—he could feel it, like layers of expectation settling onto his skin.
"I should go," he said, backing away.
"Will you be back?" Charlie called. "Are you going to protect the market regularly? Are you working with the Guardians?"
"I... I don't know," Max said truthfully. Then, before anyone could ask more questions, he turned and ran—faster than he'd ever moved before, the world blurring slightly around him.
Behind him, the excited chatter grew louder as the story of the mysterious "Rumor" began to spread throughout New Harbor.
---
"You're fired."
Mr. Donovan's bushy mustache quivered with indignation as he glared at Max from behind his cluttered desk. It was nearly noon—Max had missed half his shift after the incident at the market.
"I know I'm late, sir, but—"
"Late?" Mr. Donovan interrupted. "You're beyond late, Peterson. You're in an entirely new temporal category of employee negligence."
Max winced. After leaving the market, he'd ducked into an alley to remove his makeshift mask and gloves, then circled back to his apartment to change jackets. The delay had made him even later for work, and now he was paying the price.
"I can explain—"
"Can you explain why half your deliveries from yesterday never arrived? Or why Mrs. Abernathy on Fulton Street hasn't received her paper for three days? Or why you were apparently involved in some kind of altercation at the Guardian Tower that made it impossible to complete your route?"
Mr. Donovan slapped a paper onto the desk. Max was horrified to see his own face staring back at him—a grainy security camera image from the Tower lobby, caught mid-conversation with Lumina. The headline read: "LOCAL COURIER FACES DOWN NOTORIOUS VILLAIN."
"I, uh..." Max struggled for words.
"And now," Mr. Donovan continued, his voice rising, "I hear there was another incident at The Crossroads Market. Something about a masked vigilante confronting the Viper Gang."
Max's eyes widened. News traveled fast in New Harbor, but this was ridiculous. "How did you already hear about that?"
Mr. Donovan's eyebrows shot up. "About what, Peterson?"
"Nothing!" Max backpedaled frantically. "I mean, I heard something about it on my way here, but I wasn't—"
"Save it." Mr. Donovan held up a hand. "I don't care about your excuses or your extracurricular activities. What I care about is that Harbor News has a reputation for reliable delivery, and you are singlehandedly destroying that reputation."
Max stared at his shoes, waiting for the inevitable dismissal. His life was falling apart, and he'd only had powers for a few hours.
"That's why," Mr. Donovan continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I'm reassigning you."
Max's head snapped up. "You're not firing me?"
"Don't tempt me." Mr. Donovan shuffled some papers on his desk. "Starting tomorrow, you're on special assignment. Exclusive Guardian Tower deliveries and related locations."
"I... what?"
"They specifically requested you," Mr. Donovan said, sounding slightly bewildered himself. "Called this morning. Apparently, you made quite an impression yesterday."
Max's mind raced. Why would the Guardians want him back? Had Mentis somehow discovered his new abilities?
"There's something else," Mr. Donovan added, pulling another piece of paper from his desk. "They want you to deliver a personal package to Mentis's private laboratory in the University District. Today."
He handed Max a small, carefully wrapped parcel and a printed address. "Don't screw this up, Peterson. If the Guardians are taking an interest in Harbor News, I don't want your usual antics getting in the way."
"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I won't screw up," Max promised, taking the package. It was surprisingly heavy for its size.
"And Peterson?"
"Yes, sir?"
Mr. Donovan's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Try not to get yourself killed playing hero. Couriers are hard to replace these days."
Max nodded, oddly touched by the gruff concern. "I'll be careful, sir."
As he turned to leave, Mr. Donovan called after him, "And for heaven's sake, fix that jacket! You look like you got dressed in a wind tunnel!"
Some things never changed, powers or no powers.
---
Mentis's laboratory was located in what had once been New Harbor University's physics department. The campus had survived The Collapse relatively intact, though many of the buildings had been repurposed for more practical needs in the post-apocalyptic world.
Max approached the imposing stone building with trepidation. His encounter with the Viper Gang had left him exhilarated but confused. The way his abilities had adapted to the situation—enhanced reflexes, speed, even combat instincts—seemed to confirm Mrs. Chen's explanation about his powers responding to perception.
But it also raised disturbing questions. If he continued to use these abilities publicly, how would people's expanding beliefs affect him? What if they expected things from "Rumor" that he couldn't deliver? What if their perceptions changed in negative ways?
The laboratory door slid open before Max could knock, revealing a sterile white corridor that contrasted sharply with the weathered exterior. A digital voice announced: "Courier detected. Please proceed to main laboratory."
"That's not creepy at all," Max muttered, stepping inside. The door hissed shut behind him with concerning finality.
The corridor led to a large, circular room filled with equipment Max couldn't begin to identify. Holographic displays flickered with complex equations and models, while various machines hummed and whirred in the background. At the center stood Mentis, his silver hair gleaming under the bright lights, blue scarf meticulously arranged despite the laboratory setting.
"Ah, Mr. Peterson," he said without looking up from a display. "Right on schedule."
Max checked his watch, surprised. He was actually early for once.
"I have a delivery for you, sir," he said, approaching with the package.
Mentis finally turned, his piercing blue eyes studying Max with unsettling intensity. "Yes, the calibration module. Thank you." He accepted the package but made no move to open it.
Instead, he continued to stare at Max, head tilted slightly as if listening to something inaudible. The scrutiny made Max intensely uncomfortable.
"Is there... something else you need?" Max asked, resisting the urge to fidget.
"Fascinating," Mentis murmured. "Absolutely fascinating."
"What is?"
"You've manifested," Mentis stated matter-of-factly. "Within the last 24 hours, I'd estimate. An extremely unusual ability, if my readings are correct."
Max froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Mentis gestured to a device on a nearby table—something like a cross between a microscope and a radar dish, pointed directly at Max. "No need for denials. This equipment detects quantum fluctuations associated with Awakened abilities. Yours are... quite distinctive."
The jig was up. Max sighed, shoulders slumping. "How much do you know?"
"Not nearly enough," Mentis replied, his eyes lighting with scientific curiosity. "That's why I arranged for you to deliver this package—to confirm my suspicions after our meeting yesterday. Even then, I detected something unusual about your neural patterns."
"You can read minds?" Max asked, alarmed.
"Not precisely. My telepathic abilities allow me to sense thought processes, but not specific content without concentration." Mentis moved to a control panel, adjusting settings on his equipment. "What I sensed from you was a mind unusually susceptible to external perceptual influences."
Max shifted uncomfortably. "So you know what I can do?"
"I have theories," Mentis said. "But I'd prefer empirical evidence. Would you consent to a demonstration?"
The last thing Max wanted was to become a laboratory specimen, but refusing a Guardian seemed unwise. Besides, maybe Mentis could help him understand his unpredictable new abilities.
"What kind of demonstration?"
Mentis gestured to a metal bar on a testing platform. "Can you bend that?"
Max approached cautiously. The bar was solid steel, at least two inches thick. This morning, he might have managed it with his borrowed strength, but now? After leaving the market, he'd noticed his enhanced abilities fading—presumably as he got farther from the people whose perceptions had empowered him.
"I don't know if I can anymore," he admitted. "It seems to fluctuate."
"Try," Mentis encouraged. "I believe you can do it."
Something in the Guardian's tone triggered that now-familiar tingling sensation across Max's skin. He wrapped his hands around the metal bar and pushed.
To his surprise, the steel bent like warm taffy.
"Incredible," Mentis breathed. "My belief alone was sufficient to trigger the ability."
Max released the bar, staring at his hands. "How did that work? I couldn't have done that ten minutes ago."
"Because ten minutes ago, no one around you believed you could," Mentis explained, rapidly taking notes on a tablet. "Your power appears to manifest physical abilities based on others' perceptions and expectations of you."
"That's what Mrs. Chen said," Max mumbled.
"Mrs. Chen?" Mentis's head snapped up. "Your elderly neighbor? She's aware of your abilities?"
"She helped me figure things out this morning," Max said defensively. "After I woke up super-strong and started breaking things."
Mentis frowned. "Interesting that she was so... knowledgeable. I may need to speak with her." He tapped a few more notes into his tablet. "The morning incident at the market—that was you, wasn't it? The mysterious 'Rumor' confronting the Viper Gang?"
Max winced. "News travels fast."
"In New Harbor, gossip is one of our few renewable resources," Mentis said with unexpected dry humor. "Particularly concerning Awakened activity."
"I'm not trying to be a superhero," Max insisted. "It just happened."
"Few of us planned this path," Mentis replied, his tone softening slightly. "But your ability presents unique challenges—and opportunities. If your powers truly manifest based on collective perception, they could theoretically encompass any capability people believe you possess."
"But I can't control it," Max protested. "And I don't want people making up random powers for me. What if someone decides I can fly, and I can't, and I jump off a building?"
"A legitimate concern," Mentis acknowledged. "Which is why I believe you require training."
Max stared at him. "Training? From who?"
"From whom," Mentis corrected automatically. "And the answer is: from us. The Guardians."
"You want me to join the Guardians?" Max asked incredulously.
"Not precisely. At least, not yet." Mentis set his tablet down and faced Max directly. "What I'm proposing is a controlled study of your abilities, combined with basic training in their application. For your safety as much as others'."
It was tempting. The chance to understand his powers, to learn from actual heroes...
"What's the catch?" Max asked suspiciously.
"No catch," Mentis said. "Simply mutual benefit. You gain control over your abilities, and we learn more about a fascinating new power manifestation. Potentially quite valuable information."
"And if I say no?"
Mentis's expression remained neutral. "Then you leave here with my best wishes and the knowledge that my door remains open should you change your mind. We don't coerce cooperation, Mr. Peterson."
Max considered his options. On one hand, he barely knew Mentis, and something about the man's analytical intensity was unsettling. On the other hand, who else could help him navigate this bizarre situation? Mrs. Chen was knowledgeable but mysterious, and Max had a thousand questions she might not be able to answer.
"When would this training start?" he asked cautiously.
"Tomorrow evening," Mentis replied promptly. "After your courier duties. We have a facility in the sub-basement here that's suitable for initial assessments."
"And the other Guardians? Will they be involved?"
"Eventually, yes. Particularly those whose expertise might be relevant to specific abilities you manifest." Mentis paused. "Though I suggest limiting knowledge of your identity for now. The fewer people who connect Max Peterson to the abilities of 'Rumor,' the more control you maintain over your power's triggers."
It made sense. If his courier identity remained separate from his powered persona, people's perceptions of him wouldn't constantly fluctuate.
"Okay," Max decided. "I'll do it. But I reserve the right to walk away if things get too weird."
A slight smile crossed Mentis's face. "Mr. Peterson, given the nature of your ability, I can almost guarantee things will get 'weird.' The question is whether you prefer to face that weirdness with guidance or alone."
Put that way, the decision was easy.
"Tomorrow evening," Max confirmed. "I'll be here."
As he left the laboratory, Max couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just crossed a threshold from which there was no return. For better or worse, his ordinary life was over.
Rumor was just beginning.