...Perspective...

Dive down. I burrow deep in the hot desert sand. As the plane flies over, searching for a target for its guns, I leap upward with the force of a dozen jets and course a trail of sandstorm in my wake, blinding the pilot and phasing through to the cockpit, where I wrest control of the plane and guide it back to Central Command, saving the President from an unexpected  kamikaze attack on his private yacht...on holovid.
I'm back in Mental Training, determined to improve my faculties and never again lose someone innocent if I can help it. The images of several recent heroic disasters are still fresh in my mind.

I managed to secure the teaching of a very apt Dai-Sensei in Mental Martial Arts, Mr. Gouda, and he is helping to strengthen my fighting technique and ability to absorb large amounts of verbal abuse without getting ruffled.

"You call that a phase?" he huffs as I emerge from the holodeck, sweaty but triumphant. "Your atoms were spread all over the place. It's a wonder you emerged in the cockpit rather than some jungle in the amazon! You need to concentrate. Your mind must be focused like the energy of a lazer beam. Take less time for theatrics like your sand-spreading, and more for the infiltration. It takes less time to use a visibility shield to slip in, and you're much less likely to get shot, too. And what were you thinking, wrestling for control of the plane like a warring primate? You had no thought to teach the criminal the result of his actions, rather than follow in the footsteps of his kind? Come with me. I will show you how it is done."

Dai-Sensei Gouda leads the way back into the holodeck on silent feet, waving the signal to restart the program. "Now, shield and stand beside me." He waits, silently, for the approach of the plane, rather than openly chasing it through the desert as I had, which had forced the pilot to open fire. At the exact moment when the plane appears on the left of the horizon, Gouda whispers, "Now," and with an imperceptible lift of a few grains of sand, rockets to the air exactly when the plane crosses overhead and phases neatly into an empty seat. Struggling to follow, I slide in beside him and glance around. Our entrance is so casual that none of the passengers notice our sudden appearance, but continue reading magazines and drinking gently fizzing beverages. "First class," he smiles, handing me a pillow and a packet of complementary caviar.
 "Now. Something you rash, young superheroes need to understand, before you go crashing into a situation with your mind made up to save everybody, is that the lines dividing good from evil are not always as they seem. Take a look around you."
I look around. The people in the seats next to me are wealthy business executives with large briefcases, politicians on cell phones, technology buffs typing lightning-fast on cutting-edge laptops, and then there is the typical spoiled rich kid, slumping low in his chair in expensive sneakers, who is currently trying to flirt with the stewardess. And then- there, in the corner- a small curly-haired girl, dressed in black, gazing out the window and fingering a necklace strung with voodoo dolls .
"Do you think it is purely decorative?" He smiles. "Notice the color of hair on the particular doll she is holding." I peer closer. It is a light brown-grey color...the same as the pilot's.
"Oh." I say.
 "Yes," he laughs.
"I thought you were going to fly in here and interrogate the pilot to find the source of his mission in some obscure underground Arabian compound. But this is...a little girl!"
"Power and corruption can come in all shapes and sizes, Weaver, just as good is not the product of one civilization alone. Do not forget that." He rises, and phases out of the plane once more saying, "Now, let us see you resolve this one!"

I shuffle over to the curly-haired girl. "Hello," I begin, almost shyly. "That's a very interesting necklace you have there."
She looks up with burning amber eyes. "Shove off," she replies in the sweetest of voices.
"Uh...okay..." I turn to leave, then blurt out, "Look-- what you're thinking about doing-- you don't have to do it, you know. There are other ways to get excitement, than-- "
"Than WHAT?" she interrupts angrily. "I don't know what you're blathering on about, so if you'll please mind you own business! You couldn't help anyway..." The girl looks out the window, her face drooping forlornly.
Her hands absently move to a small, heart-shaped locket draped round her neck. I use my x-ray glasses to explore its contents from my chair. The composition appears to be ash. Human ash. I run the molecular structure through the database of a nearby laptop and bounce the information back to my glasses, using a covert channel, and come up with a man, aged forty, name Herbert Brandt, husband of Melissa Brandt, who died not two months ago as the victim of a drive-by shooting by some disgruntled fired employee. Since then, reports say his company stock crashed, and increased taxes on the wealthy prevented his family from escaping into leisure to grieve. His daughter is listed on the missing children website, and the mother is listed as having committed suicide. Angry at the world for taking her father's life, for hurting her mother beyond recovery, young Myra must have decided to take her pain out on the man who caused it all- or at least the man who often gets blamed for such problems- the President. But, how did she acquire the ancient and evil skills of voodoo manipulation? This is beginning to become a very difficult holo-tutoring session...
Unless...
"I can bring him back," I whisper across the isle to the girl. She starts, looks over.
"What did you say?"
I lean further, staring steadily into her eyes. "Your father. I can bring him back. I know the pain you've gone through, and the way life's kicked and cursed you, but you don't have to do this. I can find him."
Her eyes wide, the dam in her heart breaks and tears flood out. "But I can't even do that, and I've tried for so long! Can you really? But why would you want to help me?"
I reach over and take her hand. "Well, I don't know exactly how, but I promise I will try. Because deep down, no one is really evil. I am your fellow human, your sister in the Human Race, and when you fall, I fall, and when we rise, we rise together. Because I don't believe there is ever an excuse to turn against one's fellow man, and if I can keep you from responding in kind to the virus of selfish pain, than I will have saved myself from the same. Because I love you, Myra. And I will do whatever it takes, impossible or not, to see joy in your heart."

The image fades, and there in front of me is Dai-Sensei Gouda, smiling his quiet, knowing smile.
"So, have you learned the real reason why you needed to come here?"
"Because-- the real reason I have failed my missions, was because I thought in terms of hatred against villains, and that I thought I could only go so far in achieving right. There is an extreme and ultimate good, and the contradiction of it must be stopped at all costs, but I must not assume I know the answers for others' behavior. Human beings are complex, multifaceted entities, not machines that must be reprogrammed or else destroyed."
"Good," he replies. "And now, I think that is all I have to teach you. Continue on your journeys, and do not forget to look deeper into your surroundings. Also, although I don't want to encourage you to ignore blatant evils, perhaps a little fraternization with the Other side would do you good. Help you to further understand motivation. Just a recommendation."
I bow, and take my small sack of belongings which he has placed before me.

"Thank you, Sensei."