Sphinx was never quite comfortable in the Citadel. He supposed it was the atmosphere that bothered him the most. The bleak, grey-toned days, filled with dust and silence, seemed to drag on forever. Perhaps the city did not seem this way to everyone, but it always did to him. Where he went, the hustle and bustle of the Citadel’s many workers and residents seemed to grind to a halt. Not that he could blame anyone; he was quite deliberately among the most mysterious and conspicuous members of the Council. The image of the erudite and mystic Sphinx, a man who knew your innermost thoughts, and could kill you without moving a muscle, was one that he had raised up about himself to keep the population at arm’s length. Sometimes he felt like it had worked too well.

Population centers, even when silent to his ears, had a “chorus” of thoughts, which Sphinx was almost always passively listening in on. Chicago had sounded like a busy restaurant, a low roar of many passionate voices. The Citadel, Sphinx found, sounded more similar to the hushed, clipped tones of a church. That was something else that unsettled him; it was too quiet, perhaps even depressingly so.

In any case, he had arrived at the temporary housing district to screen the newest batch of aspiring residents. This was a rather unpleasant duty of his, for even as strange as it sounded for a man privy to the true thoughts and intentions of those around him, he was not a paranoid person by nature. These policies were Pariah’s, not his. He supposed that there was a certain value to weeding out those with violent tendencies and such other deficiencies, but people like that very rarely showed up at their doorstep. Sphinx knew that these protocols had been ramped up purely in response to contact from the other colony. Pariah wasn’t afraid of criminals, he was afraid of spies.

Still, Sphinx did his duty. He was comfortable where he was, and didn’t have much reason to protest his responsibilities. At the very least, he was keeping the Citadel safe (from itself, more than anything else). He arrived at the processing center (honestly a shack, but these more bureaucratic names comforted Sphinx in a nostalgic sort of way), and was cheerfully greeted and handed the information gathered on the in-processing refugees. Sphinx cast an imperious glare to the receptionist, feeling that she was far too friendly than his public persona would permit. He took the information and set out into the housing slums, his cadre of guards in tow.

He arrived at the residence of the first person on the list. He detected a presence inside of the small shelter, and so didn’t bother to knock. Sphinx didn’t even feel the need to let the person know he was there. Rather, he simply entered their mind to conduct his business, standing outside the premise, encircled by his guard. At first he merely probed the person’s mind, feeling the surface for reactions and responses. The last thing he wanted to do was plunge into the mind of another telepath, and end up being attacked in retaliation. Finding no defenses or psychic reactions, he delved deeper into the murky pools of their mind. Thoughts, emotions, memories, all of these things flowed and reflected within the pulsating core of their brain. Sphinx treaded lightly, merely skimming through their memories for anything that stood out as unusual to him. This discretion was partly to preserve some of their privacy, mostly because he had a lot of people to work with today. Once he felt satisfied by the lack of unusual memories, he briefly examined the neural structure of their mind for any outstanding psychological conditions. A mind that was sick or broken was much like a car engine in disrepair; something was clearly wrong, but careful and skillful observation was needed to discern exactly what. Despression and anxiety (characterized by a dark, foggy quality, and a teetering instability, respectively) were relatively common among refugees, and weren’t deal breakers. If he had turned away everyone that had come out of the Wastes a little bit broken, no one would be let into the Citadel.

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Sekhem was easily the sharpest-dressed person in the room. One could even say that he was overdressed for the occasion. He liked it that way; it let the others know where they stood in relation to him. That is to say, well below and on far worse footing. His grey, pinstripe suit was clean and pressed, accented with a gold tie and handkerchief, his signature coat had minimal traces of dust and wear, and his bandages were fresh, white and neatly wrapped about his face. As the council’s meeting proceeded, Sekhem leaned back in his chair luxuriously. Gloved hands laced behind his head, and he crossed one leg over the other in a gesture of urbane boredom.

Orders were barked to the lesser attendees, and as they left to carry out the tasks at hand, Sekhem stayed behind. He had no orders to attend to; the pompous “leaders” of the council knew better than to try to order him around. The most pressing matter of civil unrest was brought up, and Sekhem listened in with a blasé expression. Sekhem was already well aware of the tension among the populace, as he had his ear to the ground, so to speak. His closest associates in the Morale Committee were among the more vocal of the dissidents, and Sekhem may have encouraged them to vent their frustrations. Just a bit, nothing implausibly deniable.

The idea of a democratic election was a joke; the superhuman elite had deliberately stacked the house of cards to put themselves at the top, and they had no intention of letting go of their power. The supposed tension between the Citadel and the other enclave of survivors that they had just discovered seemed too conveniently timed. Sekhem had encountered them on a scavenging expedition with his personal team more than a month ago, but they were easy enough to avoid. This “conflict” would likely boil over in time for the elections to be suspended. An obvious move, but all of Pariah’s moves were obvious.

A few nobodies offered limp-wristed solutions to the growing civil unease. Hearts and minds campaigns, that sort of thing. Sekhem found them to be distastefully cowardly. They stood uncomfortable on the fence between a autocracy and democracy, refusing to truly commit to either. The population could sense their weakness, and lashed out at the scapegoat presented to them: the superhumans. They were trying their best to project an aura of strength and authority, but their half-hearted commitment to justice and social responsibility left their weaknesses obvious and glaring. They demanded respect, but refused to earn it, and so were only given scorn. Pathetic.

Sekhem stood to voice his opinions (or, at least, what he wanted the council to think were his opinions), and spoke loudly and clearly for all. His voice was deep and commanding, but had a dry, papery quality, like a thundering rainstorm gathering over a desert. “This is a superficial solution, and a poor one at that. If the masses are finding time and reason to rebel, it is because they are either not busy enough, or because you are failing to meet their needs.” Sekhem was sure to distance himself from the council with this accusation. “Increasing employment and productivity will alleviate most of the dissent. More patrols, more excursions, and longer hours worked. Compensate them with the surplus fruits of their labors.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, the leather of his gloved hand sliding against the linen bandages. “Additional resource allocation to the Morale Committee would also be beneficent. [i]Panem et circenses[/i], quoth the Romans.” Sekhem stood standing after his declarations; he would not be talked down to by any of the spineless worms present on the Council.