Several hours later, Brock was trying to balance his increasingly foul mood against the knowledge that being upset with Mikael was exactly how he was supposed to appear to feel, but it was getting harder and harder not to be genuinely angry. To say that Mikael was adept at pushing his buttons was like comparing an apple tree to a Yggdrasil.
It was also becoming increasingly clear that Mikael had, if anything, understated the dangers of Sekkies, even the seemingly benign ones.
Their first stop after Elvish Joe's was a fashion house located in a trendy district a quick walk away, its windows displaying creations of thread and fabric Brock wasn't sure were supposed to be worn or hung on the wall as art pieces. It also, after some prodding by Mikael (and what Brock felt to be entirely too many unnecessary comments on his inability to tell the difference between a cross-stitch and a buttonhole, not to mention whatever the hell a fusible was), revealed a neat cabinet in the back containing a pair of scissors nearly six feet tall with edges that looked like they could cut time in half. The owner swore they were solely for particularly troublesome materials, but Brock thought the handles were wrapped in a manner suspiciously similar to the hilt of Mikael's sword. Mikael, naturally, shushed him before he could point that out, and they left without issuing anything more than a mild warning for unregistered edged weapons, along with a promise from the owner to update Brock's "dated wardrobe" any time he wanted.
The next stop required another trip on the Miyazaki, during which Brock spent most of his time trying to stop Bindy from explaining the minutiae of various rock strata in an aggressively cheery voice, and deposited them in a row of industrial warehouses. Inside one was a mix between a mad scientist's chemistry set and an abattoir, whose inhabitant described herself as "the best potion-maker in the entire northern city," and whose fumes immediately had Brock wishing for another Hair of the Dog. After several cutting remarks from Mikael on the poor state of new recruits' stomachs these days, he pulled back a rug leading to a basement filled with what Brock could only describe as "stuffed horrors," and which the now-subdued proprietor assured Mikael were simply the result of a late-night taxidermy hobby, and yes, all the corpses were legally obtained. After confiscating several potions from a small chest in the basement (and writing a receipt for them), Mikael pronounced the wellness check complete, and thanked the owner for her early required monthly donation to the Cataclysm Squad's munitions stockpile.
At the third stop, a tea and sweets cafe featuring identical oiled, muscular men in frilly white aprons and nothing else aside from a G-string, Brock pled exhaustion from the previous visit and asked to wait outside for his head to clear. Mikael agreed, though halfway through his inspection one of the servers came out with a cup of tea for Brock along with a shoulder massage, which, while exquisite, did nothing to still the pounding throb beginning to develop behind his eyelids. Brock could only nod listlessly at the prescribed list of essential oils to balance his humors, along with a request to be elsewhere when he "finally exploded from a combination of pent up sexual frustration and necessary needs stress," and Mikael yelling something about the health department coming by the next day to reinspect the finger sandwiches for actual fingers hardly even registered.
The next four wellness checks passed in a blur of brief underground jaunts on the Miyazaki, casual strolls in progressively waning daylight to innocuous-seeming establishments, and a gradually numbing mixture of surreal normality amidst the lurking sense of something vast and terrifying circling just past the edges of perception, glimpsed only in vague flashes.
Mixed, of course, with a constant peppering of emotional manipulation from Mikael, and barely-concealed disgust from the Sekkies, each of whom seemed convinced Brock was a volcano on the verge of eruption.
"Mikael," Brock asked tiredly as they boarded the Miyazaki yet again, "why do all of these people think I'm going to explode at some point?"
Mikael leaned his elbows forward on the small table separating the two cushioned bench seats.
"Well, kid, there's a reason we use necessary needs sparingly. You notice many Sekkies back in the office?"
Brock thought back to his various trips through the department.
"Uhhh, George? The chef?"
"Yup, he's the only one, and we'll probably rotate him out in a month or so. Sekkies hate us, hate the restrictions we've placed on them, even when we're not around. Making them work with us can often be a bit... volatile."
"What," Brock yawned, "like they lose their shit? Haul off and hit somebody out of nowhere?"
"Kiiiiiiinda," Mikael drawled, "but with a lot more deranged screaming, mass-murder, and the leveling of city blocks involved. Check out the historical records on your phone sometime. We try to avoid necessary needs these days unless it's absolutely necessary."
He leaned back and stretched.
"Which, not coincidentally, is one of the reasons why the Council is so up in arms about the Director claiming you. They're not only worried about him misusing your power, they're worried about the fallout when it blows up in his face. Lucky for us you're not planning on blowing up, right?"
He winked, and Brock tried to muster up a smile, but it felt like the muscles surrounding his mouth weren't under his control. A strange feeling roiled his stomach, a mixture of anger, pity, sadness, and other, even more complex feelings he couldn't put a name to. Wetness suddenly prickled the corners of his eyes and he sniffed. Alarmed, Mikael leaned forward with real concern on his face.
"Whoa, hey, kid, you okay? We don't have to do these last stops if you're not up to it. I know it's been a heck of a day so far."
He rummaged in his coat, then held out a tissue.
"It's just," Brock started hesitantly, taking the tissue and dabbing at his eyes, "a couple days ago I was just a normal kid, you know? Just wanted to make the baseball team. And now I'm-" he gestured helplessly at the view outside the Miyazaki's window, showing the vast underground cavern studded with Yggdrasil roots and metal coils, sparks still churning far in the distance below, "-in the middle of all... this." He blew his nose nosily, and Mikael rummaged for another tissue. "I guess things just snuck up on me all of a sudden."
Mikael peered at him, then pulled out his magiphone and tapped on it several times. Whatever he saw made him grimace, and he put it away.
"Shit, kid. I messed up," he apologized. "I'm supposed to be watching your mental health, not pushing you into a breakdown."
"You are?"
"Brock," Mikael said earnestly, "I'm not just here for your physical protection. I know I've been messing with you the whole afternoon, trying to sell the Sekkies on you cooperating with us involuntarily, but the Director put me on close detail because I'm also the squad's emotional expert. Crap," he grimaced again, "I'm gonna get ripped by the old man for this. He warned me not to push too fast."
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Brock clutched his arms around himself, but they felt unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else.
Hahaha, of course they belong to someone else, I'm not me, I'm just a ghost haunting the corpse of the man I killed-
"Brock? Hey, you still with me, kid?"
Mikael snapped his fingers in front of Brock's face, startling him away from his thoughts. Confused, Brock latched onto the last thing the old swordsman had said.
"He did?"
Mikael sighed, running a hand over his short curls.
"The Director isn't cruel, Brock. He knew this approach might mess with your mind, but we couldn't afford to pass up the opportunity. I was supposed to make sure you didn't get hit by RD too hard."
Brock shivered.
"...what's 'RD?'"
"Reality displacement. Happens to most Sekkies once they've come to grips that this isn't a game, or something made up. It's a form of mental trauma that can take a while to resolve, similar to PTSD. It's usually accompanied by PTSD, in fact."
"Post traumatic stress disorder? You're saying," Brock found he was shaking uncontrollably, "this is all from stress?" He found his eyes returning to the window, staring into the void without seeing anything.
"Brock," Mikael said gently, "hey, look at me, yeah? There you go. Deep breaths."
Brock tried to take in air through a chest that suddenly felt like it was banded in iron. He gripped his arms around himself tighter.
"What's," he stammered, teeth chattering, "what's happening to me?"
"You were ripped out of your universe into another one, kid, along with experiencing," Mikael ticked off on his fingers, "at least four extremely high stress life or death situations in the past seventy two hours, five if you want to count the Council meeting this morning. It'd be concerning if you weren't suffering from some form of RD." He held up his magiphone. "Do me a favor, take a look at this, okay?"
Brock found himself staring into a soothing spiral of muted colors, slowly rotating into a gently pulsing center of liquid gold. It almost seemed to expand out of the tablet, drawing him in, and his racing thoughts slowing to match the mellow motion. Gradually the tightness around his chest and mind eased, and he felt himself relaxing his arms. His breathing fell back into a regular pattern, and he patted at his face. It felt like the crushing emotions that had engulfed his body were still there, but were now shielded by a thick veil.
"Whoa. What was that?"
"Mental trauma spell. Helps alleviate the symptoms of RD and PTSD, among others, but won't do much to affect the underlying problem. You'll need counseling for that, and if we weren't in such a unique situation, it's what you'd have been doing today instead of all this."
Mikael lowered his magiphone and stabbed at it in disgust, then placed it on the table. A familiar red-black haze rose around their seats, cutting them off from the rest of the train. Seconds later, the Director's face appeared on a glowing screen hovering in the air.
"Operator Thorne? What's the issue."
"I screwed up," Mikael said bluntly. "It was too much for the kid, too quick. I wasn't able to see past Starak to handle it. The kid just had a full blown RD episode, and he should be getting treatment instead of me mindfucking him."
"Ahhh." The Director's expression didn't change, but the screen turned towards Brock. "Brock, how are you feeling?"
"Better now," Brock said slowly, "but still not great. I'm angry at Mikael for treating me like crap, even though I know he was doing it to try and help me look like who you want me to be. Like bait," he added bitterly.
"I see." The dapper orc sighed. "The fault is mine, Brock. It seems I couldn't see past Starak either, and my desire to achieve my goal blinded me to the ethics of treating you with the dignity you deserve. Would you like to be done for today? We can begin getting you the counseling you need as soon as you arrive back at the department. Your mental health is just as important as your physical health, if not more so."
A part, a large part of Brock, wanted to say yes, to go lie down in soft sheets and drink something warm and try to figure out how to deal with the unthinkable, or at least figure out a way to ignore it.
The other part of Brock, the part that tried out for every single sports team despite his obvious and complete lack of skill, the part that kept pushing long past any point considered sane, the part that wanted to carry his team to victory instead of dragging them down took control of his mouth.
"How much was left to do? I mean," he shrugged, "we're almost done for today, right? Would be a shame to waste this bad mood Mikael's worked so hard on."
One of the Director's eyebrows rose.
"I... see. You continue to surprise me, Brock. Operator Thorne?"
Mikael gazed at Brock for a long moment.
"I was going to take him to see the Arena, and then the Love Shack."
"Hmmm. Risky, especially that last one."
"I agree. He'd be better off getting treatment."
"Well, Brock," the Director turned back to him, "we both recommend that you return to the department to receive treatment, but the choice is yours. And please, I am serious when I say there is no shame or harm in choosing not to continue. We have already pushed you too far, and I meant what I said about considering you a member of this team. What we're searching for has lasted a long time, and it can surely wait another day."
Brock placed his hands on the table and stared at them. Large, scarred, covered in coarse black hair slowly becoming familiar. The hands of a stranger. His hands.
"...can I ask one thing, first? Before I choose?"
"Of course," the Director responded graciously.
"What did you mean when you said you 'couldn't see past Starak?' You both said it."
Mikael and the Director exchanged a glance, but it was the orc who answered.
"You... share a great deal of his determination. His willingness to sacrifice for others. Squad Six's members are each highly capable on their own, but Starak was the heart that held it together. You've heard of the saying, 'the sum is greater than its parts?'"
Brock nodded.
"Many of Squad Six's successes wouldn't have occurred without him, and while you are not Starak, you have been acting in a remarkably similar role." The Director sighed again. "Subconsciously, it appears we thought you could handle the same burdens."
A stinging sense of anger ran through Brock, as if he was being told he wasn't good enough to join another team.
"I've handled myself okay. I beat that overlord guy."
"It's not a question of physical capabilities, Brock," the Director said softly. "You're eighteen years old, and from everything you've done since you arrived here, appear to be a decent person. You shouldn't have to deal with the problems we've placed on your shoulders, not without at least several years of training. Starak was a seasoned operative, and even he struggled at times."
"You're still a kid, kid," Mikael added. "You should be enjoying the fact you're not an adult yet, doing stupid things with other kids."
"Yeah," Brock replied slowly, trying to tease out the thought floating through his mind, "but I can't be a kid anymore, can I? Even if I didn't want to help you guys, that Conductor person is looking for me, right?"
A small frown crossed the Director's tusked face.
"As I said earlier, we would still do our best to protect you, Brock, even if you wanted to leave this very minute. We're not animals."
"I know, I know, and I believe you," Brock said, waving away the protestation, "but I'd still know, right? How am I supposed to ignore something like that and just go on with my life like nothing's wrong?"
"You'd be surprised at what people can ignore," Mikael muttered. "Your world's not the only one filled with idiots."
An involuntary snort escaped Brock's nose, surprising him. Even through the calming presence of the mental trauma spell, his emotions were still whipsawing all over the place, but he felt a little better for having learned something about Starak. Mikael's comment reminded him that despite the weirdness of this world, it was still remarkably similar to his own in many ways.
"Well, uhhh, then I guess I want to try and finish out the day." The knot of tangled emotions pulsed at the back of his mind, and he continued hesitantly. "But I think I should also check out that counseling stuff. Uhhh, if that's okay?"
"Of course it's okay, Brock," the Director said calmly. "We'll schedule your first appointment for tomorrow morning." The screen rotated back to face Mikael. "Operator Thorne, you may continue the rest of your schedule, but if anything appears amiss in your final two stops, you are to exfiltrate with Brock immediately. I will authorize any property damage charges."
"I'll try not to let it come to that, boss," Mikael responded drily. "One screwup for the day is enough for me." He tapped his magiphone and the screen disappeared, though the occluding red-black haze surrounding them remained. He fixed Brock with a steady gaze. "You sure you're okay with this, kid? These last couple meetings are going to be a bit more intense than before."
Brock nodded past the tension twisting his stomach.
"I said I'd do it, right? So let's do it."
Mikael looked at him for a second longer, then shook his head.
"It's your call, kid. I still think we should call it a day, but it's your call."
The vibrating haze disappeared, simultaneous with the Miyazaki coming to a halt.
"Let's go see Warlord."