James spent the next two weeks becoming the most accidentally informed eight-year-old in Blüthaven's history.
It wasn't intentional. Well, mostly not intentional. The problem with telepathy was that once you knew how to open the door, it kept creaking open on its own whenever you weren't paying attention. And James's attention span, while exceptional, was apparently terrible at maintaining constant mental shields while also doing normal eight-year-old things like eating breakfast.
"James, pass the butter please."
—looks tired again, probably stayed up reading, why won't he just—
"James? The butter?"
James blinked, realizing he'd been staring at his mother while accidentally eavesdropping on her thoughts. Again. "Sorry. Here."
—definitely distracted, should we schedule a physician visit? No, he'd just argue his way out of it like last time—
"Mom, I'm fine," James said before she could voice the concern.
Eliza's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it. With your face."
—is he guessing or does he actually—no, that's impossible, he's eight—
"I'm just observant," James added quickly. Too quickly.
Grayson looked up from his newspaper, his suspicious dad-sense clearly tingling. "Observant how?"
"Facial expressions. Microexpressions. Body language. I've been reading about it." All true. Also completely irrelevant to his actual mind-reading, but truth was the best foundation for good lies.
His parents exchanged one of those looks. The silent married-people communication that apparently didn't need telepathy to function.
—he's hiding something—
—but what? He's eight, how much can he be hiding?—
—you were eight once, you hid that entire bug collection in the attic—
—that was different, these were distinguished bugs—
James bit his lip to keep from laughing. His father had collected bugs. Distinguished bugs. This was the quality intelligence telepathy provided.
"I'm going to study in my room," he announced, escaping before he accidentally revealed that he knew about the bug thing.
In his room, James pulled out his journal and added a new entry:
Day 14 of telepathy practice. Current problems:
1. Can't maintain shields while distracted
2. Accidentally hearing EVERYTHING
3. Parents are not hiding nefarious secrets, just normal parent anxiety about having a weird kid (disappointing but also relieving)
4. Dad apparently had a bug collection. Must never mention this.
Need to develop better control. Selective targeting without full shield activation. Like turning down volume instead of switching off radio entirely.
He spent the afternoon practicing, using his parents as unwitting test subjects. Could he hear just his mother's thoughts? Just his father's? Could he filter by emotion, only catching worried thoughts, or happy ones?
The answer was yes, but it required intense concentration. Like trying to have a conversation at a loud party. It was possible, but exhausting.
By evening, James had developed a technique: a partial shield with selective openings. Not fully closed, not fully open. More like... mental windows he could open and close as needed.
"James! Dinner!"
He headed downstairs, mental windows carefully adjusted to "mostly closed with small crack for warning signs of danger."
Dinner was pot roast, which should have been pleasant and normal except that Miranda Hollis's family lived three houses down and apparently she was having a very loud thought-argument with her brother.
—YOU ATE MY DESSERT—
—DID NOT—
—DID TOO, I CAN LITERALLY SEE THE CRUMBS ON YOUR FACE—
"James? You're making that face again."
James realized he'd been grimacing at his pot roast. "Sorry. Just... thinking about school."
"Anything specific?" Grayson asked.
"How many people live on this street?"
"About forty families. Why?"
"Just wondering about population density and noise levels."
Eliza then pulled Grayson to a corner.
—he's so strange sometimes—
—he gets it from your side—
—MY side? Your mother talks to plants—
—plants are excellent conversationalists, very attentive listeners—
James shoved pot roast in his mouth to avoid commenting on his grandmother's botanical social life.
After dinner, he retreated to his room again and documented his findings.
Telepathy range: Approximately 150 feet, maybe more if I push it. Currently hearing neighbors' thoughts during dinner. The Hollis siblings fight about desserts. A LOT.
Problem: Can't fully block ambient thoughts without exhausting constant concentration. It's like trying to ignore a conversation happening next to you. Technically possible, but it takes effort.
Solution attempt: Instead of fighting the input, learn to process it as background noise. Let thoughts wash over me without actively engaging. Like how you stop noticing traffic sounds when you live near a busy road.
This will require recalibrating my entire sensory processing, but if it works, telepathy becomes a passive defense rather than an active drain.
He practiced this new technique for an hour, lying on his bed with eyes closed, letting the neighborhood's thoughts flow through his awareness without trying to understand or block them.
It was like meditation, if meditation involved other people's grocery lists and relationship drama and one very concerning gentleman two streets over who had opinions about the mayor that were probably illegal.
Gradually, the mental noise faded to background static. Still present, but ignorable. James could focus on individual threads if he wanted, or let them all blur together into meaningless noise.
"Better," he muttered.
A dangerous and tempting thought then occurred to him.
Could he project? Not just receive thoughts, but send them?
James focused on his mother, downstairs reading by the fireplace. He concentrated, trying to push a thought toward her.
You should make cookies tomorrow.
There was nothing. No response. Either projection didn't work, or he was doing it wrong.
He tried harder this time, really pushing.
COOKIES. MAKE THEM. CHOCOLATE CHIP.
Eliza suddenly stood up, looking confused.
—did I forget to buy chocolate chips? I feel like I need to make cookies tomorrow—
James's eyes widened. It had worked. He'd just successfully implanted a suggestion in his mother's mind.
"Hmmm," he grunted like an adult. "Mind control."
Another ethical dilemma sprung up in his head. This was something he needed to understand completely before accidentally turning his parents into mental puppets.
He spent the next hour testing projection carefully, seeing if he could make his mother think about other things. Books. Tea. Whether the curtains needed washing.
Each suggestion took immense effort and only worked about half the time. And his mother never seemed to notice the thoughts weren't her own. They just felt like natural ideas occurring to her.
"This is so wrong," James told his ceiling. "This is violation of free will. This is exactly the kind of thing villains do."
But why should I handicap myself with ethics and morals?
James thought about that for a long moment, then made a decision.
He wrote in his journal:
Telepathic projection confirmed possible. Can implant suggestions, approximately 50% success rate, requires significant effort. Subjects don't realize thoughts are external.
RULE: Never use projection except in threatening situations. Never use it for convenience, manipulation, or personal gain. This ability is too dangerous and too violating to use casually.
Although...
James knew how petty he could be if pushed. So at the end of the day, even his own rules may not stop him.
He closed the journal and finally, actually tried to sleep.
Downstairs, his mother added "buy chocolate chips" to her shopping list, completely unaware that the idea had come from her eight-year-old son's experimental telepathy.
Tomorrow, James decided, he'd start on teleportation.
That couldn't possibly go wrong.
Right?