Imposter Syndrome

Potentielle

Potential: noun, "latent qualities or abilities that may be developed and lead to future success or usefulness." Per the online definition.

Potentielle: French. Potentieel: Dutch.

Whatever the language, she hated the word. Curled up within her pristine faux fur throw (another ill-gotten gift from Boss herself), she went back and forth atop the walnut wood rocking chair, as if swinging herself into another meditative dimension...lulling herself to sleep yet another dreamless, somber sleep...but she was far too wired from the previous day's events to drift off completely.

The promise of talent...this entrancing-yet-insidious idea had lent itself to gradual, unrelenting disappointment as far as she could remember. Sly skill had led to exhaustion and burnout, too many times to count. And now, she inherently understood that such—potential—she cringed—was altogether useless without something more, whatever that was supposed to be.

Greater Manchester Police Headquarters, Northampton Road, UK

With a shuffle of a manila folder, Gregory heard the familiar swish of winter coat. Detective Lazlo.

Turning to the detective, he noticed his compatriot looking a bit tired, but somewhat self-satisfied. "I take it you've learned the 'who'...and the 'why'?"

Lazlo thought aloud. "Yes...and no." Pacing back and forth, he continued. "See, the who isn't so crucial, so long as we are cognizant of why—"

Gregory frowned. "Come again?"

"In other words, motivation. Why else does a smart, sensible super-empath take a mercenary job, nullifying the world of magic, be it in the culinary, technological, media, or hospitality industries?"

"Money?" A simple guess.

"Yes, Gregory—money! And, inevitably, as if often does, one's upbringing, one's conscience, interferes with the job they were hired for...what then?"

"They...er...leave?"

"But—therein lies the rub—if Veronica monitored...no...she has monitored—doing so would be dangerous—impossible, even, absent an extraordinarily convincing feat defying the laws of nature itself."

"And..." the man studied the detective's visage. "Such a feat has occurred, I take it?"

Helena's calling card, exchanged via astral projection. "You might say that..."

Brussels, Belgium

Between two separate factions spying on her—Veronica and the notebook, and Lazlo's tracker—goodness knew how many more ways—and her mysterious injury weeks before—she realized she needed to continue her job search. Even if she had to de-program herself to do so. How does one job search, if perpetually skittish around surveillance cameras? A question for the ages...

And how does one achieve independence?

She imagined, perhaps, by squirreling money away, five dollars—ten dollars at a time—storing cold, hard-earned cash in secret compartments stashed around her belongings, her luggage. That, and selling artifacts online—clutches, scarves, gloves—other means to a desired end. Shared calendar "family" labeling to avoid interviews unceremoniously interrupted by hers truly.

Was she brave enough? Strong enough?

She studied the card again, and its notes too.

Helena. A friend. If you ever change your mind.