The chubby shopkeeper was thinking about the latest news from mars, and the pie he planned to eat for dinner. He was mildly irritated because the shipment of flour which he had ordered was running late, and he had been hoping to turn a profit on it. Lyta waited patiently as he rung up her purchases, a task which he performed with a dull efficiency that seemed to take up all of his attention.

'That will be fifty credits,' he informed her at last, placing the last of her items in a bag. Lyta narrowed her eyes;

'That's ridiculous!' she protested hotly. 'This is barely enough food for three days, and that's if I eat like a squirrel!'

The large man shrugged.

'Feel free to shop around. I doubt you'll find a better offer on human food, and while you could try the alien sectors, I wouldn't personally recommend it.'

Lyta made some hasty calculations. Fifty credits; she could just about afford it, but unless she found some way of earning money soon she would find herself in trouble. Otherwise it was only a matter of time until she was left as penniless as the residents of down below. Then again she needed to eat.

'Be reasonable! I will give you forty, and you should be ashamed of yourself,'

'Now look here young lady!' the shopkeeper began, and then recoiled as he finally recognised her. The hum of his thoughts flared from background noise to a tirade;

Fear/Hostility/ Scorn;

-and Lyta felt the familiar stirrings of a headache as she forced her defences into place. She was no longer a P5, and what had once been a manageable if unpleasant response now threatened to drown her.

The man was considering refusing to serve her on principal, she could tell, and the thought of going through this again at another shop decided her.

'Fine! You win! Fifty credits - take it!'

The man took her card grudgingly, and his glare followed her out of the shop and onto the station. Now that the insolating presence of the shop was behind her, she was once again buffeted by the general chaos that was Babylon 5 on any normal day. People late, people happy, worries, concerns, stress, pain, love, they all rushed over her at once, threatening to drown her with their multitude.

-But that was ok; Lyta had been caught in these currents for long enough that navigating them had become familiar. So she closed her eyes (too much information and she risked overloading, and besides she could see this area sixty times, from sixty different viewpoints) and forced her focus inwards, blocking out everything but the rhythm of her breathing.

Breathe in; I am Lyta.

Breathe out; they are other.

In; Lyta.

Out; other.

In, and then out.

That was the first exercise that new telepaths learnt, when the voices threatened to overwhelm them. As shields went it was embarrassingly basic, and the Lyta of years ago would have scorned it, but that Lyta was a trained P5 in a manageable environment. Now her abilities surpassed classification, but her training was still that of an average talent, and the voices were so loud.

So she closed her eyes, and breathed, and somehow clung on to sanity. After a little while the crisis began to pass; she was still aware of the crowds but they no longer sought to overwhelm her. She was about to resume her walk, suitably grounded when someone collided with her painfully, the impact shattering her concentration so that she saw.

The man was called Clive. His wife thought he was working late but that was a lie. He was headed for down below where the women were more accommodating.

Then she slammed her walls down, ending the connection with a shudder of distaste. Of all the minds to be thrown into it had to be the seediest, oiliest, most vile! For perhaps the thousandth time since making her home in space Lyta longed for the luxury of a bath. But that was impossible; she would just have to settle for the stability of her rooms, and a barrier from the throng of mundane minds.

With a hastily voiced 'excuse me,' she entangled herself and her overpriced shopping and was about to hurry away, when his arm shot out catching hers like a vice.

'Not so fast, telepath.'

This was not good. His grip had restored the channel between them, and the depth of his hatred floored her. Many people felt uncomfortable around telepaths, but this went deeper. This was a loathing that bordered on madness; his thoughts were a tangle of violent images, chaotic impulses, all centred on her.

'Let go of me,' Lyta growled. 'Now!'

She could feel the Vorlon strangeness rising within her in response to the perceived threat; the darkness that would shine forwards from her eyes, as she put this mundane in his place… and with considerable effort she forced it back down.

She might have been designed to be a weapon, but the days when Kosh and his kind had protected her were as far gone as the Vorlon's themselves. They had lifted her out of her world, turned her into a freak to fight their battles and then discarded her without a second thought, once their ancient enemies were defeated.

If Sheridan had not offered her sanctuary…well Lyta did not think that earth would have welcomed a rogue telepath with the capacity of a nuclear warhead, and once the corps got hold of her… She suppressed a shudder. As grateful as he was for the part she had played in saving their collective asses from annihilation, Sheridan had made it abundantly clear that her stay was conditional.

'I will not have a telepath abusing their powers on my station.' He had told her, his boyish face uncharacteristically serious as he laid down the law. 'You are free to practise within reasonable conditions of course but…'

'Psicorp conditions?' she had interrupted sharply, not able to believe what she was hearing. At least he had the decency to have looked slightly abashed.

'No one is asking you to re-join the Psicorp, Lyta. But I can't have you performing illegal scans. Do so and I would be forced to withdraw my protection, and I would hate to have to do that.'

His sincerity had made the situation that much more annoying. His desire to help her was genuine, but he would turn her over to the Corps without hesitation if stepped out of line.

-Which had brought her here; the most powerful human telepath in the galaxy; cornered by a mundane. Well, damn.

Clive leaned closer, and his breath proved almost as offensive as his thoughts.

'Let you go? I don't think so,' She could feel the spike in his adrenalin. This was a man who got off on conflict, and he hated to back down. 'You're that freak aren't you? the one that even the teeps don't want.'

If only you knew…. The Psicorp had in fact been angling for her return since the war had ended, offering a variety of threats and incitements. To do him credit Sheridan had stood his ground…so far, but she knew that the pressure must be mounting. But that was a problem for another time. The current one was proving difficult enough.

If she could only use her powers, but that was simply too risky… it was even possible that the Corp had arranged this situation, as an excuse to have her released into their custody. That was just the sort of convoluted thinking that would amuse Bester.

Of course Bester would not need to scan this man, she thought with some bitterness. He would have fallen back on intimidation and it would have worked, because he was good at it.

Of course you could be good at it pointed out a rebellious part of her. Bester is what, a P12? You are beyond classification!

With that thought something in her snapped. Five years she had spent down playing her own potential, five years of playing by their rules, all so that mundanes would feel comfortable. For what exactly? So that they could install her in a cheap room and forget she existed until they wanted something?

Surely she deserved better than this!

So she leaned forwards, swallowing her distaste to invade his personal space. 'That's right Clive,' she told him softly, with a feral smile of her own. 'I'm the one the freaks are scared of, and now you're standing in my way.'

It was with some satisfaction that she sensed his anger make way for uncertainty. He had been so sure that she was bound by station regulations. If he had been wrong about that he might be in more danger than he had realised…He hated that she had shaken him and so resorted to bluster.

'You read my mind! That's illegal!'

It was, Lyta thought with a flicker of amusement, the very last thing he ought to be worried about. Not when the Vorlon strangeness lingered in the background of her thoughts, whispering of destruction. But this was a mundane, and to him telepathy was telepathy. It was not difficult to summon condescending amusement this time. She was almost enjoying herself.

'Really?' she asked, conversationally. 'Because those rules apply to the Psicorp, and you know what, I don't see a badge on me…'

That did get through to him. Doubt flared through him, he had thought her as defenceless as the other bitch but could he be wrong?

'You will regret this,' he told her at last, dropping her arm as though it were poisonous.

'I already do,' she had assured him.

That night her dreams were troubled.

She was walking through the corridors of the psicorp institution in Canada where she had grown up. They were full of corpses, and the president of the earth alliance was beaming benevolently at her, over a blood stained table.

Then she was paralysed, suspended in the tank the Vorlons had used for their experimentation. The oxygen was rapidly running out, which must be why her tormentor appeared to her as a tired looking cartoon duck. 'I am sorry Lyta,' it was telling her, shaking its oversized head wearily. 'I wish there was a way to make an exception for you.'

Then she was on mars. The Psicops had just dealt with the mundane who had been killing telepaths, and she was struggling under the weight of her horror when she became aware of his eyes on her, dangerous and assessing. 'I have found fear to be a powerful tool,' Bester was telling her conversationally.

'The mundanes are afraid because they know in their hearts that we can reduce them to this. It keeps them from harming us…most of the time,'

She woke to the sound of someone hammering against her door. 'Alright!' she snapped irritably. 'Lay off! I'm coming already!'

Grabbing the closest night robe, she took a second to straighten her hair, before throwing open the door.

'I hope that you have a good reason for this…' She trailed off, wondering if she wasn't still caught up in the dream. Standing in her doorway was a small security squadron, grim faced and very obviously armed. At its head was Zack, and for once he wasn't smiling.

'Lyta Alexander I am placing you under arrest for abuse of telepathy against a citizen. You have the right to an attorney, but be warned that anything you say may be used against you in a tribunal…'