The light shone on the door, illuminating the black mask the soldier was wearing. He watched the door, continually giving hand signs to his allies, who were standing nearby.

Something inside the room moved, noticeable thanks to their thermal goggles.

The soldier gave another sign, moving a finger to the left. His allies nodded.

He picked out a remote from his belt, and motioned for the others to move out of the blast radius. About one and a half meters.

Checking again through his thermal goggles, the soldier caught a slight warmth in the room.

'Target's on scene,' he whispered into his mic. 'Stay back.'

His allies nodded. Never mess with the Field General.

With a breath, he pressed the button.

Nothing much happened, besides the fact that the door blew apart, not a speck of shrapnel landing on the soldiers. The blast was cleverly focused straight forward and dissipated nearly immediately, merely knocking down the door. All the soldiers stormed in, except the General. These rookies knew nothing. Was that the only thing they learnt in the Army? Just storm in? With normal targets, maybe. But this was not normal.

No one was dumb enough to mess with him.

All soldiers got a sudden headache, and fell to he ground, clawing at their helmets in agony. It got worse all the time.

Swimming into view, the rogue psychic smiled, and reached out a hand. Instantly, all the General's technology buzzed and whirred. Devices went haywire, spreading electrical sparks that flew onto his suit. Another flick of his hand and the General was against the wall, his eyes blinded and his head whining with shock.

The psychic went back into his room, gathering up his money in large wads. He dug them into his pockets - anywhere where they could fit, besides his backpack. Doesn't pay to lose any, he thought. Stolen money doesn't do anything for my inconspicuous identity. Not a cent.

He paused, thinking about everything in his life. Why was he doing this? He didn't even remember. He thought it had something to do about all the other humans. Because of that, he wasn't one. Revenge, he told himself. They made me wrong - so I'm going to find them and stop them. It might not be . . . the right thing to do, but it feels right.

And they killed my family - after mutating their minds into unbelievable states first. So I'm getting them back.

Half a minute later, he had filled his backpack with money. It weighed him down - it was reasonably heavy; ten kilograms of bills, more than he had ever stolen before.

So why am I doing this? Give yourself one good reason. His new-found conscience cut in. One reason. It doesn't even have to be very good.

The reason is that I don't have a good reason, he thought back. I can't keep this forever.

With a nostalgic sigh, the psychic slung his backpack over one shoulder. Though the soldiers would be physically alright, they would suffer from incurable amnesia for the next two weeks.

No witnesses, thought the psychic as the closed the door behind him. The perfect crime.