Confusion was very, very good for that purpose.

 

Ghetsis knew the score, knew how effective a solution it had been in the past, and if he could get one solid hit in, was certain he could get an advantage over the so-called Countertype Conductors; they wouldn’t get in his way if they were too busy trying to figure out which of them was which, and by the time they recovered enough to think straight, he’d have already secured his victory.

 

That had been the plan, at least. When he managed to trip up the pyrokinetic one long enough to put it into action, though, things began to go wildly off script.

 

There was a moment where everything looked perfectly fine, and he’d advanced on the agent in white, eager to deal with the most prominent threat first. Even if the other managed to put two brain cells together early, the facility’s arid nature would prevent him from fully utilizing the hydrokinesis he was famous for, forcing use of a less honed psychic ability.

 

Or so Ghetsis had assumed. As he loomed over the lighter twin, however, a prickle began at the base of his neck, rapidly becoming the burn of psychic energy. His robes whirled around him as he turned, backing up to escape the fiery radius.

 

That was completely impossible. The other agent wasn’t capable of using pyrokinesis. His people had watched for months and he’d never shown an ounce of affinity for it-- had never even tried to use it in the middle of the arctic.

 

The agent in black advanced on him, lips quirking up into a dangerous grin, but the dazed fog remained settled over his eyes. He’d still been affected, then-- just as he should’ve been, once his brother was hit-- and hadn’t managed to recover in such a short window. So then what--?

 

A dome of fire roared to life half a centimeter from his nose. He stepped back, as any reasonable man would, and readied himself. The aggressor crossed the temporary field of safety to his partner, who remained unsinged by way of their mental connection, and urgently called a name.

 

The wrong name.

 

That was it, then. While the one in black should have been the hydrokinetic, the wires had gotten crossed mid-fight; somehow, instead of scrambling their abomination of a mental world into a useless mess, the confusion had swapped one twin’s mind for the other.

 

It had to be a fluke; in all their months of examination, the application of confusion had never produced a result like this. He readied another measure of confusion gas as black-turned-white pulled white-turned-black to his feet, but threw it a moment too soon. White coat’s head snapped up as the lingering fire consumed the attack, and his scowl drew deeper.

 

As the last of the protective field burnt away, they started toward Ghetsis in lock-step, elbows linking together. It made for an easy target and he tried again, careful to maintain the distance between them and keep a steady head in spite of the complication.

 

The confusion landed. He knew for a fact that it did. They weren’t even trying to sidestep the psychohazardous fog that lay before them-- but neither so much as blinked as they kept their pace, focused on him and him alone.

 

In unison, their interlocked arms raised, obscuring the contrasting curve of lips.

 

A worrying flash of heat passed over him, or-- or maybe it was cold?

 

To his horror, Ghetsis found he could no longer tell the difference.