Either the drugs in his body had worn off, or the side effects had. The burning sensation in his veins had ended a long time ago. His vision had returned to normal. He’d survived long enough to wonder if he was about to die of thirst or starvation. Nightmare wasn’t interested in keeping his test subject alive. If Bernard died, the creatures would probably just move on to another child.

The sun burned against his skin as he fought desperately against the rope binding his ankle, straining his bones and scraping away flesh in his desperate bid for freedom to seek food, water, and shelter. The dark, crusty surface of his ankle bit and burned violently in protest, where he’d already injured himself several times. His fingers were no better off.

I’m not going to die this way.

This ends with me.

Finally, he worked his foot and the rope to a point where all he had to do was bite the pain and push and pull as hard as he could. ~BERNARD!~

He heard his own screams fade into the desert.

~Wake up!~

“Wake up, Bernie!”

He gasped and nearly leapt to his feet, backing away from . . . his bed. His skull smacked the headboard, and he slid down slowly, panting, until he was sitting on his pillow, staring at his right ankle, fingers delicately testing its smooth, healthy, miraculously unscarred surface.

It hadn’t always looked like that.

Odessa was watching him.

He could only stare into space, at a loss for words.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly, “Should I go get Mom?”

He shook his head violently. Anything but that!

Then he swallowed, looking for words to tell her, and a tongue to speak with. “No . . . I’ll be alright. Go to bed, ‘Dessa.”

She stared him in the eyes. “Just like that? You act like you’re dying, you wake up trying to jump through the wall, and suddenly you’re alright and I’m supposed to go to sleep?”

He sighed, “I’m sorry, but . . . thank you. I’m fine, now. Thank you, ‘Dessa, but I’ll be alright, I just need a few minutes, okay? It was only a nightmare.”

~You need to call your counselor.~

Over a dream?

~You should have already called her, just to make contact. If you do not, she will eventually come to you. You should call her at least once a month, even if you see no reason to. She will always see something that needs to be handled. Just call her. You will understand.~

“This is the second time, Bernie,” his sister argued staunchly, sounding eerily like her father.

He rubbed his eyes. “Please, ‘Dess. Go to bed.”

She glared at him, and didn’t look as though she would, but she finally backed away, sighing in resignation. “Fine. . . . Good night, Bernie.”

“Good night, ‘Dess.”

As soon as she was out of the room, he leapt out of bed and snatched his wallet off the nightstand, digging for Glenda’s number. Then waited a while, so his sister would have time to go back to bed, before he went into the living room, unplugged the phone, and took it into his bedroom.

Then he dialed the number.

At first, he didn’t think anyone was going to pick up.

Then he heard a woman’s voice, low and sultry. “You have made contact with The Mystic Miss Glenda. She stands waiting at the door to the mysteries of the spirit. A rare and exclusive opportunity has opened for you. The keys to your fortunes, your dreams, the wildest wonders of your imagination lie within.”

Bernard pulled the receiver from his ear, staring at it, and put it back again. Mom’s phone is finally biting the dust, isn’t it?

“Or perhaps, my dear, we have made contact before on this plane? Things do get a little fuzzy, when you spend so much time between domains. Do you have a membership number?”

Bernard flipped over the piece of paper he’d been given, and read uncertainly, feeling as if he’d been played for some kind of chump. “Um . . . 2-1-3-7, 2-8-6-2-oh-1?”

“Ahhhh a first time registration! Your birthdate, please? And the significance of your first four digits.”

“4-26-80,” he said, and paused a moment, wondering what she meant by the second part. “You mean what the numbers mean?”

“That is correct. Everything that transpires between us is kept in confidence, dear. I need to fully verify you before we can continue. This is an encrypted line to a secure establishment.”

He nodded to himself. Perhaps he wasn’t being played, after all. If he couldn’t say this much, then there wasn’t much they could say to each other. “It’s a . . . Terran number. For the state of Nebraska.”

Though her tone normalized, she still sounded a bit lush. “I was really starting to wonder if you were ever going to call me, Mr. Sparker.”

She had a kind, soothing voice, of a sort accustomed to speaking with the scared and lonely. He almost felt he could tell her anything—but that thought alone put him on guard. Just who was she?

“It is not every day I meet someone like you,” she went on, “You have undergone highly unusual circumstances. It is unfortunate that those of you most in need of help are so often the least likely to seek it. I was starting to worry about you, dear. I spoke to some of your team regarding their experiences with the incident in the mountains, but when I didn’t hear from you, I was beginning to think I would need to consider a different approach. I don’t want to appear forceful—it would do you no good—but you do understand how important this is, I hope?”

He tried to laugh. “I’m fine, really. I just didn’t know what I was supposed say. I mean, what good is talking supposed to do?”

“You say that as though you have nothing to talk about! I am aware of the things you have seen and done, Bernard. I was hesitant to approve the creation of this team, but it is my belief that you all have traits and talents you each can benefit from. If you aren’t able to talk about the things troubling you, however, you may find it more difficult to reach your true potential.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Bernard was reminded of Loren’s comment after Linville Caverns: So I guess we can expect to do this again, sometime.

“Why don’t we start from the top?” Glenda suggested. “Have you suffered any ill side effects since coming back? New reactions to things? Trouble sleeping? Trouble eating certain foods, or perhaps unable to follow your normal routines as you once did?”

He sighed involuntarily at the mention of sleeping. Yes, that was different, for sure. But they were only dreams. They would go away eventually, wouldn’t they? He’d also been more quiet and pensive at dinner, and his family had noticed. When they pressed him to talk about it, he’d chosen to talk about a car wreck he’d seen on I-26 when he and Loren were driving up to North Carolina.

“Bernard? I am assuming you did not call at this hour just to listen to me talk. The key to healing begins with the information you choose to give me. Tell me what’s on your mind. What happened?”

“I can’t sleep,” he finally confessed, “I keep having all these dreams, only they’re different from normal dreams. . . . They’re like . . . memories. Of someone else’s life . . . except. . . .”

“These are your real life?” she asked, as though it were natural to have two different childhood lives.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Would you be comfortable describing some of these dreams for me?”

He began with the most recent, and she took it from there, asking questions about how he felt in the aftermath. He wasn’t sure if she had offered any help, but he was glad she was so easy to speak to.

“We all get scared, dear. Even I feel frightened, sometimes. The important part is that we do not let our emotions control us. It is not easy. That is why I wished to hear you speak, because your emotions are a natural and valid experience. If you bottle them up, you risk injury to those around you. Injured feelings, injured egos, and the potential for reckless action rises when your head is not quite screwed on. Bearing all that tension also increases your body’s physiological stress response, and over time can damage your health. You may think you are stronger when you don’t speak up—that is what your culture has taught you to believe—but the truth is you become more fragile and vulnerable.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Are you angry?”

He blinked, bewildered, “What? No! Why would I be angry?”

“With ETHICS, dear. Or with me. Do you feel frustrated? Weakened? Betrayed by your situation?”

He stared across his room, past his TV and Sega system. Yes, it was true, he had felt these things, but he had largely started to accept his lot in life. He’d assumed it would all sort itself out in time.

In some aspects, his situation made him think of all the books he’d grown up reading, though this was far from any fantasy he’d ever read, and the stakes were quite real.

Oddly, despite the responsibility placed on him, some part of it all felt right. Perhaps it was because of Toby. Perhaps Toby was affecting how he felt, although that presence alone came with the feeling that it was meant to be.

Or perhaps it was because of his other life—his real life—that he felt this way. Still. . . .

~I have nothing to do with it. Your emotions are your own. I only help you when you really need it. I do not change the way you think.~

He sighed again, but didn’t notice himself doing it until Glenda responded. “You’re in a difficult place, thanks to ETHICS. You were forced into your position, and unless I’m mistaken, you are not the sort of man to call for help. You young men are too often are made to think that help is a crutch, and there is pride and glory in the stubborn refusal to seek aid. Seeking help and seeking a crutch are two different things. Yours is a species evolved to form complex social structures, more so than any of ours. Everyone needs support, sometimes. Sometimes, all we really need to do is talk through our feelings. We may also find other ways to manage those feelings, but sometimes all we really need is a friend to listen.

“That’s what I’m here for, Bernard, dear. I’m here to give advice. Yes, I am a fully certified counselor, a Ryozae, and a high-ranking member of ETHICS, but I also hope to be thought of as a friend. We are here to support our agents, many of whom have faced incredible strife in their time, and most of whom work alone, or with a single partner. Can you imagine how frightful that might be? I am trained to handle that, and I am here to help you talk through the things you might have trouble discussing with your teammates.”

“I guess I’ve felt betrayed, a little,” he admitted. “Weak? I’ve always been that. That’s nothing new. I never really expected myself to be stuck in a position like this, that’s for sure. It sounds silly . . . but . . . when we think of our favorite stories, we always think of ourselves as protagonists, you know? Even if the hero’s a complete fool, we always think we know better. We gravitate towards the strong and capable characters with a lot of stamina and will power, or maybe just a lot of smarts and skills. That just isn’t me. I’m the fool. Just a mediocre geek who likes his video games and a good story now and again, but now I guess I don’t really have any choice except to do the best I can so the whole damn galaxy doesn’t go to hell.”

“There are many kinds of strength,” she said, sounding mildly amused. “You do not have to be athletic—it will come in time. You certainly do not need to be like Samra Rizek.”

She certainly made a good role model for what a hero trying to save the galaxy might look and act like.

“In fact, I would prefer if you didn’t try it,” Glenda said, as if reading his thoughts. “Take her advice, but be yourself. Your companion chose you for a reason. He chose you, Bernard. He chose to go into battle with you before, to save you from what you might have been, and he has chosen to go into battle now, against a universal threat that he believes you have the strength and presence of mind to face.

“You will find your talents, Bernard. You do not have to be a superhero. You only have to be you. Sometimes that is enough. When it isn’t enough, you have good friends, both Terran and Extraterrestrial. There is strength in numbers, and it is a strength to be someone others will fight for. ‘Weak’ is a self-defeating word, dear. You are only as weak as you think you are. Do you feel helpless? Hopeless? Sometimes we all do. All we have to do is remember that so long as we are doing the best we can, we are all we need to be, and sometimes far more than we thought we could be.”

It seemed like such an obvious answer, but it meant so much more to hear her say it.

“Feeling better, dear?”

“Yeah . . . I guess so.”

She answered with a sound bordering on an amused warble: “Hmmmm, I am glad. The best years are ahead of you, and we understand that. We would do nothing to impede you from your own hopes and dreams. If anything, we will stand behind you—beside you, even—and we will help whenever we can. We only ask that you trust in your own strength. Have a little more faith, Bernard. You never know who you can truly become until you give yourself a chance.”

He smiled, and suddenly realized it had been weeks since he’d genuinely smiled that way. “Yeah, I guess we’ll just have to see how that goes.”

“We’ll have you work on your affirmations. Do you think this helped, any?”

“Yeah.” He had to laugh. “Yeah, it helped a lot, really. Like I said, though, I can be kinda lazy, sometimes. . . .”

“Mmm . . . well, we all have our personal battles to fight. I think confidence is your problem. Hopefully we’ve taken a step in the right direction. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

He glanced at the time. “No, not really.”

“Very well,” she conceded, to his surprise. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe another kernel of wisdom? Instead, she said, “Don’t hesitate to call me, dear. I would like the chance to chat with you, some time, to get to know you better. I really would like you to think of me as a friend, not just the doctor you see when you’re not feeling well—although if you’re not, that’s what I’m here for!”

“You don’t ever get tired of hearing people complain?”

“A complaint to me is an open wound, which needs a balm. Stitches alone can lead to infection, and the same applies to coping. Opening up your cares and concerns gives me something to work with. Sometimes, people are just crying for help. Sometimes they’re just crying because they need to. What annoys me, my dear, is when people feel entitled to guard their self-righteous misery. Those are the conversations which frustrate me. The ones where my client refuses to talk about why they’re upset, or what they’re doing to drive that upset, and instead whine about everything and everyone they take it out on. I don’t like having to be forceful, Bernard, but I can be if I have to. I do have our security and stability to care for. —Oh! I believe it is getting late for you?”

Outside his window, the sky was beginning to lighten. It was after four in the morning. Drestan would be waking soon.

“I should be getting back to bed.”

“Sleep well,” she said. “I will be here, any time you wish to call, unless I am with another client. I will call right back if you ask me to, but please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Sounds good,” he said, stifling a well-timed yawn.

They bade each other farewell, and he took phone back to its place in the living room before going back to his room, though he never went back to sleep.