The front of my overalls were caked in dark drying blood. Some of it mine, some of it Tommy's. Trying to rub it off in front of the toilet sink mirror using a paper hand towel proved as useless as expected. I had drawn a lot of attention on my way along the maze of white corridors to the men's toilets; even standing inside guys continued to and fro around me.

My neck hurt something fierce, both my cheeks were swollen, and there was a cut on my upper left gum that stung in a way that reminded me of a shrieking guitar chord. My hands were fine, though it took a good deal of hand soap to get off the worst of the blood.

I hated that it was at this time I felt the most at ease with myself. I had beaten Tommy's nose to the point it broke and had taken quite the beating myself; the adrenaline was wearing off and the pain remained and continued to climb, every minute adding a new nuance to the pain that wasn't there before.

The world and all of its problems had shrunk to the simple act of washing up the blood that was on me. For a good ten minutes I had even felt in a strangely good mood as if oddly proud of what I had done to Tommy. Sick, twisted, wrong, bad; more words laden with guilt told me how disappointed in myself I was; how disappointed I should be too.

What was I supposed to do? Let myself get beaten half to death over a bunk bed spot? Live in terror of Tommy for weeks, if not months? Delay the inevitable conflict that was going to happen sooner or later? The thoughts, the excuses for what I had done, piled up. I tried to believe in any one of them but none of them stuck. The clean thing to do; the right thing to do, would have been to let Tommy have his way. What did a bunk bed matter anyway? I could go sleep in a corner somewhere; was I so important that I couldn't sleep on the floor?

I chuckled to myself. I was no Marcus Aurelius; I was no stoic for the ages. I had about as much self-discipline as a twelve year old raised in front of a television all his life. Perfect ideas of humility and 'being the better man' were just that; perfect and too far off for the likes of me.

People like me threw the punch eventually.

"Burgess O'Bannon," said a gruff voice at the entrance to the men's toilets.

Two Pied Piper officers were standing facing me.

"Come with us," said the same officer in a way that left no room for questions.

Whatever, I thought. The calm mood I was in soaked me down to the bone and I wasn't going to let anything ruin it just yet.

I checked my Meter device and saw I was still in the green, so that wasn't what they wanted me for. I had expected the Pied Piper officers to come get me eventually because surely fighting at the facility was prohibited. I had expected them to take longer than ten minutes post-fight to find me however. The speed of that response seemed oddly quick to me.

The Pied Piper officers led to the Level Three elevator. One entered inside with me and the other stayed behind. We rode the elevator one floor up to Level Two, got off, and went through the checkpoint just like how I had done it upon first entering Level Three.

Level Two appeared to be a mixture of offices and small laboratories. It was busy on Level Two, but not nearly as much as the official's floor at Lintern's Gym had been. The offices were nicely furnished and the people working them moved in a slow, methodical kind of way that told me they had the kind of authority that meant they weren't in a hurry to go about their duties.

The Pied Piper officer led me along one carpeted hallway filled with offices after another. This floor also, in its own way, had a maze-like quality to it; though the dominant colour was gray instead of white, and everywhere there were a mix of clear glass panes to see through as well as the occasional hazy-glass-pane offices too.

We reached an office that was situated at the very top left corner of Level Two, all the way at the back. Even from outside I could tell it was one of, if not the largest office on the floor. The Pied Piper officer with me tapped the hazy glass door with his knuckles.

"Come in," said a voice from within.

The Pied Piper officer gestured with a look for me to enter, opening the door ajar enough for me to slip through. The glass door was closed behind me. The office I found myself in was huge; but also uniquely adorned; there was a large wooden desk in the far corner, and a huge leather coach of some expensive design dominated the middle of the office. And, to my surprise, there was even a little kitchenette area off to the left hand side with a mini-fridge, coffee machine, and even a sandwich press.

A short, gray-haired man, possibly in his mid-fifties or early sixties, dressed in a tan suit that looked like it belonged to the Nineties, was standing at the kitchenette. I could smell the scent of melting cheese and cooked tomato and toast.

The man kept his back to me as he finished the last touches to preparing his grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.

"Be with you in just a moment," he said in what to me sounded like a New Yorker accent.

All I could do was stand and wait for him to finish what he was doing. I spotted a nameplate on his desk, it read: Robert Hoffman.

Robert took a bite of his toastie, holding the plate the other slice was on in his other hand.

"Please take a seat, Burgess," he said.

He gestured to the leather couch. I did as he asked, sitting at the far end. Robert sat on the other end of the couch, making a large gap between us. I wanted to ask if I was in trouble but I decided to stay quiet. Seconds ticked by as Robert finished one half of his toastie.

"Okay," he said, swallowing the list bite of his mouthful and nudging his plate along the couch a little bit. He clasped his hands together and looked at me.

"Hello, Burgess," he said, smiling in a professional manner, "You're wondering why I brought you here?"

"You read my mind," I said, tiredly.

Robert smiled, nodding.

"Yes," he said, "I'm no Wizard of Oz; reading minds is not part of my repertoire."

Robert let the comment linger for a moment, then said, "You might think the reason you're here is because of that little fight you just had with Tommy in B-9. Whilst that did draw you to my attention I see it as completely understandable that you would stand your ground and not let that bully dictate unfair sleeping arrangements."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

My eyes narrowed. Who the heck is this guy?

"Who am I?" said Robert, "Well you've already made the acquaintance of my daughter, Abigail. She spoke highly of you; said you had a little something special about you that wasn't quite there with most of the other mice she spoke to."

I had seen the surname Hoffman but didn't put two-and-two together. It seemed obvious that Abigail was his daughter now he mentioned it, there was even a resemblance; the same slight olive-tone to his skin that Abigail had too.

"I'm here to learn more about you," said Robert, "The goal at this facility is to find out everything we can about these abnormalities occurring all across the world; there are plenty of scientists at this facility learning everything they can about the physical chemistry of teenagers such as yourself; my focus is on what really matters: the mind."

"You're a shrink?" I said.

"I dabble in a lot of things," said Robert, holding up his hands. He seemed to notice the other half of his toastie anew.

"Where are my manners, would you like this? I'm usually full after one slice."

"Sure," I said.

After a moment of wondering if Robert expected me to get up and take the plate he said, "Well I'm not a delivery boy you want it come get it."

I stood up tiredly and walked over to the plate, picked it up, and then went back to the same spot I had gotten up from. I bit into the toastie; it was really good.

"Thanks," I said, my mouth stinging from the cut on my gum rubbing against the hot melted cheese; I didn't care, the delicious food was well worth the pain.

"What do you want to know about me?" I said, feeling a bit more enthusiastic about talking with Robert after a few bites of the toastie. It was a simple gesture on his part to make me warm up to him and it didn't bother me much if it worked.

"That's just it," said Robert, smiling again, "I don't know what I don't know. We can talk about anything. Your favorite sports team- something tells me you're not much into sports, is that right?"

"Yeah," I said, "Never really got into it much."

"What about your Dad? Was he a sports guy?"

"Yeah," I said, chewing up the last of the toastie, "He loves football."

"Which team?"

"Tottenham."

"Spurs!" said Robert, "How about that? That's my favourite team, too."

The more I looked at Robert the more he kind of reminded me of my Dad. Same height, similar build, same gray hair; I'd hardly ever seen my Dad in a suit (besides Wedding videos and his Chellam Lodge meetings); never would my Dad wear a nice tan suit like Robert was wearing; he would never be able to afford it.

"Why don't you like sports, Burgess?" said Robert, his tone dropping a little.

"A bunch of guys kicking a ball around just doesn't appeal to me," I said, "I get why people enjoy it but it just seems like they're having all the fun and I'm just watching. It also doesn't help that most of the players are from other countries, so there's no sense of community pride watching the team either."

"Is that sort of thing important to you, Burgess? Community?"

I shrugged, "Sure," I said, "I like the idea of it."

"Just the idea?"

"I mean," I said, "Being a part of a community sounds great. In Stowchester people know each other but there's no real sense of community."

"I know what you mean," said Robert, "There's pockets of communities here and there but by and large people in society are starting to ignore each other. Trust is breaking down. Everyone afraid. This crisis is another nail in that coffin, you can be sure of that."

I nodded. Robert was surprisingly easy to talk to. In a way it was like talking with my friend.

"What is community to you, Burgess?"

I thought about Robert's question for a moment but then felt a wave of tiredness hit me. Strangely, that tiredness, once I acknowledged it, seemed to ebb away as if shy. My thoughts cleared up a little; I reconsidered the question.

"People I trust who mostly believe in the same sort of thing I do."

Robert hummed, he had a very nice, deep voice, commanding yet not aggressive, "And what is it you believe in, Burgess?"

My mind exploded with options for answers. This was the sort of thing I asked myself ten times a day yet now, asked point blank what my beliefs were, my mind raced to find a good answer.

"Being a good person," I said, "Making the most out of life."

"Right, but come on," said Robert, "Those are good but what do you believe in? Who or what do you look up to? What gives you purpose?"

"I don't know," I said, "I don't believe in God if that's what you're asking."

"Maybe I was skirting around that question," said Robert, shrugging with one shoulder, "And, if you don't mind me asking, why is it you don't believe in God, or a God, or Gods?"

"It just doesn't make sense to me," I said, "I think people make up things to believe in because they're afraid life is meaningless."

"Right," said Robert, "Do you think life is meaningless, Burgess?"

I sighed, "I think we give our own lives meaning," I said, "I guess."

"Ah hah!" said Robert, pointing his finger at the ceiling like a gun, "Interesting. To be clear, Burgess, other than what I or anybody else may believe, what you're telling me doesn't have a right or wrong answer in this conversation because we're talking about your truth. But, in the spirit of this conversation, I would like to challenge your thinking. Answer me this Burgess,; if you give your life meaning, then does that not mean that in order for you to live a meaningful life you must know yourself as well as you can?"

I nodded, "Yeah," I said, "I think the more I know about myself the better I can decide what to do with my life."

"And who are you Burgess?!" said Robert, opening his arms wide and shouting out the question theatrically.

I blushed shyly under the fanfare of it all.

"I'm just me," I said, forcing a smile.

"So," said Robert, calming a little, but still giddy like a professor loving his profession, "You say life only has the meaning we bring to it, and in order to do that you need to know yourself better, and if I'm understanding correctly at this very moment you're not really sure who you are?"

"I guess," I said, nodding, "I'm just eighteen. I don't know who I'm going to be in the future."

"I like that," said Robert, as if proud of me, "That's wisdom right there. Ah to my eighteen again. The world is still so new, so much of life to explore; trust me kid when you get to my age you feel like you've just about seen and done it all already."

Robert saying this made me think of my Dad. My Dad who seemed to settle into a mundane day-to-day routine at the age of thirty and hardly changed at all beyond that identity he created for himself.

"Are you thinking of your father?" said Robert.

I flinched. "Are you sure you're not a mind reader?" I said, "I wouldn't be surprised given the things I've seen today."

"Yes," said Robert, "Jay and Amar gave you a demonstration of their abilities, didn't they?"

Several moments of silence followed. There was the obvious implication that every moment on Level Three was available to Robert to oversee. How much did he know about me already? Had he listened to my conversation in the cafeteria with Tiffany? How would he have listened in?

I looked at my lap and the answer came to me. My Meter device. So obvious, really.