You stare at the mob for a few moments longer. None of them so much as look in your direction. They only have eyes for the black woman standing in their midst. Except, for those who are dragging unwilling people closer and closer to the beating heart of their group. When they get close enough, they immediately stop struggling. In fact, they start obediently chanting "Syr-Rah-Dow". One man, a guy who'd fit in on an NFL Line, knocks the hell out of the three guys bringing him forward. He's almost broken free. About to make a good run for it, but as one the closest members of the mob turn. In seemingly choreographed unison, they dog pile the huge man. Half a dozen big strong men manage to carry him forward. Soon, he too is muttering their mantra.
The sun shines brightly. It gleams off the nearby fountain. The crowd moves like a thing alive, and you note motionless people here and there. Blood stains the ground here and there. Horror smashes into you like a sledgehammer. Those people are dead.
Fresh indecision coils about you. Your heart's beating a mile a minute. The sound of blood pumping in your ears is almost deafening. Ideas swirl through your mind. Every second that passes more and more people approach the shouting woman. You see several uniformed police in their number. With the huge form of City Hall inn the background, their numbers swell.
An approach begins to take shape in your mind. Maybe you can back off to a safe distance. Maybe go in a nearby building with a good view. The Central Library's right there, and you spent enough lonely days in there to know your way around the library. Observe what's going on. More information couldn't be a bad thing, right? Then what? You couldn't even trip that gangbanger without ripping off his foot. Could be dead for all you know. Probably is. You could wade in there and get your dad back. The scope of destruction you can wreak would certainly allow for that, but the thought of hurting so many people, of maybe inadvertently destroying your father? That's unbearable.
In the distance, the sound of an assault rifle rings out. Louder than you'd have thought. A man in black tactical gear and the word SWAT emblazoned on his back is facing down the crowd. He moves the barrel to aim at the center of the crowd- the rapport of a dozen guns sounds out in unison. The SWAT member goes down in a hale of bullets. Another corpse on the ground. One of the flock moves mechanically to grab the gun.
You should move, but you find that you can't. This is all too much for you. These new powers you did absolutely nothing to deserve, your hometown ripping itself apart, and now what looks like a burgeoning mob guided by another empowered person. A part of you wants to move, to get to safety. Another smaller part wants to put this lady down. Play the hero. An overriding voice impels you to seek higher ground and more information before doing anything else.
You do none of these things. Ever since you were a kid, you wondered what you'd do if you had superpowers or a chance to show you could save the world; who didn't, now and then? It'd be way better than being rich or a celebrity. Play Superman and swoop into save Lois Lane. Be loved and respected by the entire world. Every kid has those delusions of grandeur. But now you know: when faced with the opportunity to step up... you choke instead.
Can't move. Existential dread freezes you in place. The world slows down. You're having a hard time breathing. Can't catch your breath. Hyperventilating. Can't get it under control. Going to fall down. You stagger into the wall next to you. Barely, you keep from feinting. Despite the heat, you're suddenly and irrevocably cold. Chills race up and down your spine. You're lucid enough to know what's happening. You're having a full-fledged panic attack. The problems facing you are just beyond your non-existent experience. A potent cocktail of indecision, self-loathing doubt, horror, and adrenaline nails you to the spot.
There you stay for what feels like long minutes. All thoughts of playing the hero are blotted out. You can't do anything. You'll just end up making things worse. Better to have just sat safe and sound. Let the military take care of this. Or maybe there are other empowered people who could face this kind of situation without turning into a complete and utter mess!
Your surroundings lose meaning and texture as you try to regulate. Close your eyes. Close off that sixth sense. You can do that. Put your weight against the wall. Don't fall down. Breathe in and out. Deep breaths. Try to focus on nothing. Isn't that what all the gurus say when they talk about meditation.
You manage to calm down a bit, manage to regain some small amount of control, but then a hand the size of your head grabs hold of your arm in a steel grip. Your eyes snap open. Can't see anything besides a view of red bricks. An instant later, your sixth sense blossoms to life about you. Time slows once again. You know your situation immediately. The Big Guy from earlier has hold of you. A large handgun is stashed in the front of his belt. Two marginally smaller men are a few feet behind him. You know what they aim to do. Drag you over to that bitch on the truck, and try to make you into one of them. That new part of your mind informs you that you may have some sort of defense against her mind control shit. Not that you really want to test that out here and now.
What do you do?
[] Try to fend these guys off without hurting them. Then you can take the bike, and make a run for it. The Library is still close. Going there to scope out the situation is still a good plan.
[] Don't use your powers. You're definitely going to hurt them badly in your current state of mind. Let them take you to the queen bee. Your mental defense should provide you defense until you can escape.
[] Write-in.
