Once upon a time there was a girl with a dream. It was a simple dream - simple and grand, though it contained more tanks than ponies and more decimation than pink lace. In truth, it was a dream shared more by psychopaths than by good little children - for our girl dreamed of world domination. And as her mind raced through visions of conquest, her fingers and eyes flew through books like a shark through herring. Her classmates taunted her and called her Pages, for they were always in her thoughts, and in her hands. They did not realize that this was in fact her name, by yet another cruelty of Fate or of those who bore her - as to which, it matters little. She was well on her way to following her dream to its natural conclusion, when she realized that there was an obstacle in her path - Reality. Reality told her that she was not an omnipotent force capable of crushing all in her path. Reality instead showed her that she was nothing but a mere girl, reminding her that her hair was a shambles when she walked past a mirror, reminding her of her feeble nature when she lost her breath running up a hill, reminding her that despite her paltry efforts, she was no closer to world domination than an ant was to conquering downtown Brooklyn. Yes, Reality... a most implacable foe, for any hero or villain. Her answer came, as answers often do, on a chilly October morning racked by nausea and red leaves too lazy to maintain their grip on Life. She found the Book on a dusty shelf behind a stack of magazines on Comparative Anatomy and its effects on Global Politics. Its cover was worn and faded, and only by squinting and frowning a great deal could she make out the title, traced in large, bold letters long since smoothed to obscurity by years of fervent abuse. "First Love," and then, in smaller print, a subscript: "Age of Champions." She opened the Book, flipped through the yellowed pages with eager abandon, and stopped when a sudden chill running over and around her spine gave her pause. She looked down onto the page, and read her Name. She smiled, for what seemed like the first time in an eternity, and in that smile and that moment, our little girl Lost herself. She was closer, and farther away from herself than ever, but none of that mattered. Here, she had found solace. Here, she would chase her dream.
Of course, even having escaped Reality, our little girl found herself having to face it's bastard offspring, Common Sense. Out of the frying pan, into the fire - how can a small human child conquer a world full of superpowers? Simple - that which would prevent her from continuing to read the story can be prevented, undone. First and foremost, blades, bullets, streams of power racing through her young form simply wouldn't do. Yes, she was willing to endure pain for her dream - but surely there was a method by which she could avoid all such unpleasantness. The one who would rule amongst the ashes of Khazan must be more resourceful. Given enough time, even the most grievious of harms can be erased, explained away, put into "context."
Super Speed: Standard
Page meets Captain Destructo. With one easy motion, Captain Destructo reaches into his spandex tights, pulls out a bazooka, and blows Page away. Now, that simply won't do. Instead, let's mark out that sentence, before he can act, and write in the margin: Shot misses, the damage is averted - "Blows away" is assuredly a euphemism for "impresses." Damage shall be undone quicker than it can occur. The Pencil is mightier, and quicker than the sword.
Our little girl found her control also extended to those acts which would alter her ability to perceive the story. Blasted by bolts of mental power, rendered helpless by images of peace and horror, Page found herself time and again able to correct and ignore the effects of Khazan's greatest mentalists as if they never happened. She might have thought it due to her superior mental faculties, but the book explicitly stated that, while assuredly clever, she was not by any means among the greatest of Khazan's minds in terms of raw intellect. She made a note that the author of the story would be the first one against the wall when the revolution comes.
Super Speed: Standard
Noggin the Hypnotist has entranced Page. *skip down a few lines* Still in the thrall of the valiant mentalist, Page can do nothing but stand and nod. What's this? I don't recall any enthrallment. Let's note in the margin: Inconsistency, Page was never affected. Never stop reading or the story will end. Be ever vigilant, save when vigilance in memory serves you ill.
Body Armor: Standard
The book may not have been written in this light, but to our little girl, it's obvious: She is the Protagonist. As we all know, the focal character of any body of work is afforded some... greater importance to the body of literature in question, and won't be offed as lightly as, say, a member of the supporting cast. Clad in her relevance, Page has paused to give silent thanks to Flawed Perspective many a time.
Far from Life
Closed Mind: Standard
We can forgive our little girl if she was a bit distracted at times. This was all a new world for her. Skimming through chapters of history and seeing them unfold before your eyes is bound to be disorienting. Though she knew that she was a part of this world now, in as much as anyone can be, a part of her still felt... alien. Hearing the scribbles of her pencil running through the back of her mind only added to her discomfort, though at times it was only this very disconnect that prevented her from being overwhelmed by the mental carnage that surrounded her stubborn psyche.
Mind Control: Standard
It wasn't easy, but our little girl found that it was indeed possible to influence the actions of those around her. Not directly, nor dramatically, but decisively nonetheless. She could not write "Mr. Z is dead," but she could note in the margin that Mr. Z's desire to shroud his identity in mystery must speak to a lack of self confidence, and it would be so. She could note that The Devastator appeared to have no motive whatsoever for his random acts of violence, and she would eventually see her foe wander off in confusion. She could note that The Grappler's employment of skimpy leather clothing and his penchant to get close and sweaty with male counterparts truly indicated... well, you get the drift.
"The Silent Stalker brooded patiently, awaiting his newest foe's arrival. He'd heard Page was a tough nut to crack. The assassin grinned. No matter, she's doomed to fall to my deadly blades once I use my stealth to get the drop on her. The killer felt his heart sink a little. What if she has a bunch of detection powers? What if she knows my secret fear: Teddi Bears? What if she knows that the only way to detect my approach is a brief gust of wind and a faint scent of sulphur? The merc steadied himself. No WAY she knows all that. Phew." Page smiled demurely, and marked off several passages in the book. Thank heavens for Third Person Narration.
Illusion Creation: Standard
Like most little girls who spend most of their time indoors, cloistered away from sun, wind, and other harmful elements, Page has a natural affinity for drawing that which she is loath to experience herself. After all, stuck in a room with nothing but paper and pencil to call her friend, it's only natural that she take up the high art of emulation - it's part of what led her to Khazan in the first place. One somber day some time after she began her quest to take over the world, faced with an interminable meeting in the Fallen Tower (and afraid to skim over that part for fear of missing something important), Page took to doodling in the margin slowly, idly, as the Powers that Were droned on. To her surprise and chagrin, the little dragon she'd drawn on the page found life (albeit a short one) in Khazan's reality, before being quashed by an annoyed Fallen mentalist. Over time, she found herself better able to control these little anomalies, sketching them on the outskirts of the action to bring them to life, directing their movements with quick little captions. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but it brought her a certain grim satisfaction to know that she could give the fears of her foes a life filled with dark purpose, however brief, however illusory.