"They were wrong," she says. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that, but there are lies spread by the media and governments from other countries, especially in the United States, about what it's like to live here."

"Oh, good."

"Now, the problem with just putting São Paulo back is that this wouldn't be—the best possible thing. São Paulo could be bigger and better and house more people in better places than it used to, if it were designed rather than evolving naturally the way it did."

"Yeah, I know, I get it, I just want to be doing stuff because I feel so - alone - when I'm not doing stuff and if it's new it'll be nice for people but it won't be like I remember it. If Brazil's not a military dictatorship what is it?"

"It's a democratic republic. The military and the parahumans protect our citizens from threats like Behemoth, drug cartels, gangs, and other dangers, and they are an arm of the government chosen by the people."

"Okay. As long as people have nice lives and don't have to be scared or small I don't really care."

"We certainly hope we can keep everyone happy and fulfilled."

"I can help a lot with that."

"You can, it's true. You could help a lot of people."

"My parents and Boots'll be so proud of me."

She smiles. "I'm sure they will." She writes a small note on the clipboard. "If you could do anything right now, what would you do? Other than put São Paulo back, I mean."

"...sleep? I haven't. Since I got powers."

"Do you want me to leave you to it? We don't need to talk right now."

"It can wait a bit, if this is important."

"This is just to make sure you're alright, and to understand what you need. If what you need is sleep, you should sleep."

"Then - yeah, probably."

She nods, and stands up. "I'll be back later. Do you think there's anything else I can do for you?"

"Only if you can get them to hurry on letting me do stuff."

She pauses, seeming to genuinely consider this. "I'll see what I can do." And she leaves.

He gets in bed. 

He crawls under the covers.

...he teleports over a foot and goes invisible and makes a basement-dweller Fëanáro where he was. There'll be a blip on the recording but hopefully 1993 cameras aren't very good.

He teleports back to Chicago.

He flies and sings for a little and then he divebombs Lake Michigan because it makes him feel better and then he goes back to the Wards building. 

People are made aware of his presence by his singing. The girl called Miss Militia—Hannah—looks up at him from a children's book. "H-hello," she tries.

"Hi."

...that seems to be the limit of her English. She tilts her head at him, though, not wanting to shut him out or anything.

How to communicate "I have translation magic." He makes a handheld Andalite tech translator, plays a dozen languages off it, gives her a questioning look.

She blinks slowly at this, and asks, "Can you understand me?" She's speaking Kurdish.