Two years later...
Aiden Mortensen, eight years old now, stood in the playground of Saint Augustine's orphanage, observing the scene unfolding before him with his round black sunglasses that never left him anymore.
Aiden Mortensen was eight years old now and he stood in the playground of Saint Augustine's orphanage, he observed the scene unfolding before him with his round black sunglasses that never left him from now on.
It was the only acceptable and plausible solution so that others wouldn't look directly into his eyes. He had long ago learned to look at a point on the forehead or mouth to avoid meeting their gaze and triggering his powers, but conversely this wasn't the case.
His little sunglasses were his little masterpiece of psychological manipulation without even using his powers.
- "My retina is hypersensitive to light, Mrs. Pemberton," he had explained in his little innocent voice at the age of six and a half, after having simulated several particularly convincing "attacks." "It burns my eyes and I get very bad headaches."
And since the orphanage was indeed too broke to afford ophthalmological consultations, thank you Great Britain of the 80s and its failing public health system for the outcasts, Mrs. Pemberton had simply managed to find him an old pair of sunglasses from the belongings of the late Mr. Henderson.
Mission accomplished, he had thought with satisfaction while trying them on for the first time. I'm Gojo Satoru now, haha should I dye my hair white?
Today, we were therefore two years later and these glasses were now an integral part of his character. He was little Aiden with the weird glasses but very nice and very intelligent.
The other children of the orphanage had been educated in a very convincing way to respect him, not to bother him and above all to follow him as if he were the guru of a sect. Adoration could be read in their eyes and that's normal, his look associated with his behavior with them was more than enough to win admiration in their hearts, he was a bit the superhero of the little courtyard and for children like them who need hope it doesn't hurt them.
Take for example in front of him in the courtyard, little Tommy Whitlock, he was nine years old, with red hair and freckles all over his face, don't ask Aiden why some are born with life stuck in difficult mode, he wouldn't know how to answer you, but seriously red hair... Anyway, he was recovering his lunch when Eddie Morrison, twelve years old and self-proclaimed the head of the orphanage mafia, was in the process of mugging his lunch.
- "Little redhead shit, are you going to give me your bread or do I beat you up?" Eddie was thinking with the mental subtlety of a broken bulldozer.
Tommy trembled with fear, his small fists clenched against his worn jacket, but his eyes were already looking for Aiden over Eddie's shoulder.
And Aiden was smiling behind his dark glasses.
He only had to nod slightly. Too easy.
- "Eddie," said Tommy with sudden assurance that surprised even the brute. "I think you'd better leave me alone."
Eddie burst out laughing.
- "Oh, and why's that, shrimp?"
- "Because Aiden doesn't like it when you bother the little ones," replied Tommy pointing toward where the boy with sunglasses stood.
Eddie turned around and his sadistic smile immediately vanished. All the other children in the courtyard who were a good dozen, had stopped their activities and were now staring at him with that particular expression they wore when someone upset Aiden.
- "Shit," Eddie thought with a hint of panic. "How can an eight-year-old kid be so scary?"
Easy when I know all your secrets, Aiden chuckled internally.
- "Leave Tommy alone, Eddie," said Aiden in his calm and composed voice, without even getting up from his bench. "You don't want Mrs. Pemberton to learn that you're still stealing food from the younger ones, do you?"
Eddie hesitated. He was taller, stronger, older than Aiden. In theory, he should be able to crush this weird kid with sunglasses. In theory.
Eddie hesitated, he was the tallest, the strongest, older than Aiden and Mrs. Pemberton's threat wasn't enough for such cases. So in theory, he should be able to crush this weird kid with sunglasses, unfortunately that was only in theory.
In practice however, Eddie Morrison had discovered that picking on Aiden Mortensen or his protected was a very, very bad idea.
The last time he had tried, he had found himself inexplicably seized with violent nausea for three days or had had... embarrassing accidents.
Hearing Eddie's thoughts, Aiden chuckled internally. I have other weapons than my powers while waiting to master them, you're 40 years too late, kid.
Eddie didn't understand how, but he instinctively knew that Aiden was dangerous.
- "This little bastard scares me," he thought while finally letting go of Tommy's arm. "There's something wrong with him. His eyes... even behind those shitty glasses, I feel like he sees everything."
More than you think, I even know that you secretly like Sarah and the beginning of your puberty isn't helping things. thought Aiden while capturing each of his panicked thoughts and trying to hold back from vomiting at the image that had just appeared.
Eddie walked away muttering insults, and Tommy recovered his lunch with a grateful smile toward Aiden.
- "Thank you, Aiden!"
- "You're welcome, Tommy. Don't forget to eat your apple, it's important for growing."
- "He always takes care of us," Tommy thought with sincere admiration. "It's like he's our big brother to all of us."
Aiden smiled softly, it's just so you don't come bother me and come rummaging through my stuff, kid.
Because that was exactly what he had become, the unofficial leader of the children of Saint Augustine's orphanage.
If Aiden had learned a lesson from his previous life and from the testimony of the greatest emperors in history, it's that brute force never led to anything, ruling by fear was sitting on a fragile throne that would break very quickly. No, fear wasn't the right way, but on the other hand, the subtle art of being a figure to lean on, to think about when you were at an impasse or in fear, thinking of Aiden as a reassuring figure in those moments, that's where he had really succeeded, that's where his throne could be calm and he could conduct his nocturnal experiments without anyone suspecting anything. Normal, he was Aiden the protector, not Aiden the social case to watch before integrating him into society because he kills animals in horrible ways.
When Mary, six years old for example, had nightmares, it was Aiden who came to console her with just and soothing words that no eight-year-old child would normally have had. When Peter, who was seven years old, had problems with his homework, it was Aiden who helped him patiently, explaining mathematics and grammar with disconcerting clarity.
And when brutes like Eddie picked on the weaker ones, it was Aiden who intervened. Not directly, never directly, but in a way that always gave spectacular results.
A word whispered in Mrs. Pemberton's ear at the right moment. A subtle suggestion to reveal their most shameful secret, even a child had one, of lesser importance for a mature adult but the greatest catastrophe for a child of that age.
And sometimes, when subtlety wasn't enough, Aiden used more... direct methods.
Like that time when Eddie had broken little Jamie's nose, five years old, just for fun.
That night had been terrifying for little Eddie, he hadn't slept at all because of spiders in his underwear or ghosts with orange eyes that had appeared, he had screamed so loudly that Mrs. Pemberton had rushed at full speed, forcing Aiden to slip away very quickly but the trauma had convinced Eddie to stay calm for a while.
The next morning, Eddie had become much more docile.
But his greatest success was his relationship with Mrs. Pemberton herself.
In two years, he had become her absolute favorite. Her little angel with golden eyes who never caused problems, who helped other children, who was always polite, always helpful, always perfect.
- "Aiden is an exceptional child," she regularly told other staff members. "Intelligent, mature, empathetic... He'll be someone important later, I'm sure of it."
What she didn't know was that Aiden knew exactly all her sensitive points. After spending years navigating through her deepest memories, he knew precisely what words to say, what gestures to make, what emotions to trigger to get what he wanted.
He knew that Mrs. Pemberton had always dreamed of having a son like William, the baby she had lost. He knew that she felt guilty for not being able to give more attention to each child. He knew that she admired intelligence and hated gratuitous violence.
So Aiden had become the perfect son she had never had. Affectionate without being clingy. Brilliant without being arrogant. Wise beyond his years but still childish enough to trigger her maternal instinct, in short the original suck-up.
Always big words, I'm just doing this for her... thought Aiden.
- "Mrs. Pemberton," he had told her one day finding her crying silently in her office, "are you okay?"
- "How does he always know when I need comfort?" she had thought while taking him in her arms. "It's as if he had a sixth sense for others' emotions."
If only she knew how right she was.
- "I was thinking about someone I lost a very long time ago," she had murmured against his hair. "A little boy I would have liked to see grow up."
- "He would have been lucky to have you as a mom," Aiden had replied with perfectly calculated sincerity. "Like all of us here."
And Mrs. Pemberton had burst into tears, holding this extraordinary little boy against her heart wondering how an eight-year-old child could have so much wisdom.
But beneath this facade of perfect child hid a very different reality.
Because while everyone slept, Aiden went down to the orphanage basement to continue his experimentations.
One hundred twenty-two. That was the number of animals on which he had tested his theories over the past two years. One hundred twenty-two rats, mice, spiders, various insects, and even a few stray cats he had lured with food.
All dead. All victims of that damn self-destruction instinct that triggered as soon as he tried to access their neuronal control center.
But Aiden knew how to be patient, methodical and very scientific.
Every night, after making sure everyone was sleeping deeply, he slipped out of his bed and went down to the basement with his equipment which consisted exclusively of a small flashlight "borrowed" from Mrs. Pemberton's office, a fountain pen, some ink and especially his notebook.
His precious notebook, stolen from school supplies and carefully hidden under a loose floorboard in his dormitory.
Experiment No. 98, he had written a few weeks earlier. Subject: gray rat, male, approximately 200 grams. Hypothesis: attempt at indirect approach to control center via peripheral sensory synapses.
Result: Failure. Self-destruction triggered after 4.3 seconds of intrusion. Subject convulsed for 12 seconds before expiration. Probable cause: detection of my mental "signature" by neuronal defenses.
Note: I absolutely must find a way to camouflage my presence. My mind is too "foreign" to go unnoticed.
And that was the heart of the problem. No matter his technique, no matter his subtlety, as soon as he tried to touch the control center of a living being, its automatic defenses detected him instantly as a foreign body and preferred self-destruction to submission.
Like a mental immune system, he had noted. Efficient, implacable, and fucking frustrating.
But in his seventh year, he had just celebrated his seven years with a homemade cake by Mrs. Pemberton and the songs of all the children, Aiden had had a revelation.
What if the problem wasn't his technique, but his form?
Experiment No. 115, he had scribbled feverishly in his notebook at three in the morning. Revolutionary new hypothesis: instead of diving directly into the target mind with my complete astral form, what if I only sent a part of me? A "thread of consciousness" subtle enough to pass for an ordinary neuronal impulse?
The idea was genius in its simplicity. Instead of being a burglar who breaks down the front door, he would become a computer virus that slips into the system by perfectly imitating legitimate data.
The first attempts had been... catastrophic.
Experiment No. 116: Attempt at partial separation of my consciousness. Result: atrocious pain, nosebleed, loss of consciousness for 20 minutes. Note: don't try to tear your soul into pieces, it hurts like hell.
But Aiden was stubborn. Obstinately, desperately stubborn.
Experiment No. 117: Gentler approach. Attempt at gradual extension of a consciousness "tentacle." Result: slight improvement. No fainting this time. But still impossible to reach the subject's control center (brown mouse). Mental thread dissolves as soon as it approaches sensitive zones.
Experiment No. 118: Work on the "texture" of the mental thread. Attempt to imitate target's neuronal electrical signals. Result: Progress! Thread managed to penetrate deeper before being detected. Subject (black rat) survived 3.7 seconds longer than normal before self-destruction.
Experiment No. 119: Perfecting neuronal mimicry. Thread must not only imitate target's electrical frequency, but also its emotional "flavor." Result: Even better! 8.2 seconds before detection. Subject seemed almost... confused before dying, as if it didn't understand why its defenses were activating.
Aiden was on the right track. He could feel it.
Experiment No. 120: Attempt at complete synchronization with target's neuronal rhythms. Result: 12 seconds! Record beaten! Rat even obeyed a simple motor command (raise left paw) before defenses triggered. EUREKA! Method works!
Experiment No. 121: Perfecting technique on a more complex mouse. Result: 15 seconds of partial control! I managed to make it take three steps to the left before self-destruction. Mental thread held better, but I still need to improve stability.
And tonight, this very special night, Aiden had in his left hand his one hundred twenty-second experimental victim.
A white shrew.
Not just any one. A shrew he had been observing for weeks in the basement, which he had fed discreetly, whose habits and reactions he had studied. He knew its heart rate, its breathing patterns, its fears and primitive desires.
He knew this little creature as if he had created it himself.
- "This is the big night," he thought while gently stroking the small trembling body. "If my theory is correct, if I've managed to perfect my neuronal mimicry technique... this time, there won't be self-destruction. This time, I'll have complete success."
He opened his notebook to page 122, ready to document what could be his first real victory.
Experiment No. 122, he wrote carefully. Subject: White shrew, female, approximately 8 grams. Preparation: 3 weeks of observation and acclimatization. Hypothesis: total control via perfectly synchronized mental thread.
Start time: 02:47.
Objective: First attempt at prolonged control without self-destruction.
He closed the notebook, adjusted his sunglasses - even in darkness, he never took them off anymore - and plunged his gaze toward the small terrified eyes of the shrew.
- "Here we go, my little one," he murmured with a predator's smile. "Show me if two years of experimentation are finally going to pay off."
The shrew squeaked weakly, as if sensing that this night would be different from all others.
Come on little one, be my miracle, be my blessing toward wealth and power. He thought with a short mental prayer.