Browning sits across from me at a desk in the center of a room tapping away at a tablet that obscures his face. When he concentrates, his face looks like a pug, I realize.

There’s a massive monitor on one wall showing vitals and other biometrics, presumably mine. And a huge mirror on another wall, presumably of the one-way variety transparent to lab coats on the other side. The room is devoid of any regard for aesthetics in favor of functionality.

At least this room isn’t taupe.

“What is this?” I say, as a pair of lab coats strap electrodes to my neck and temples. They have me in a chair, every limb strapped down.

“This,” says Doctor Browning, is essentially a lie detector, among other things. Very advanced piece of equipment.”

Everyone else in the room leaves, shutting the door behind them with a heavy metal clunk, and I’m left with only Browning for company.

“You have an interrogation room?” I say. “I thought this was a secret research facility not a police station.”

"Before we begin our prepared slate of experimentations, Mr. Cobb, we must first understand the origin of your ability and the encounter that led to it." Tap, tap, tap.

“And you don’t trust me to tell you the truth about it.”

“It’s just a precaution. Shall we begin?”

“This won’t hurt, will it? Like, if I get a question wrong you won’t shock me or anything, right?”

Browning put his tablet down on the desk and smiled. “Just be honest, Mr Cobb, and you’ll never have to find out. Now, let’s establish a baseline. Is your name Jack Bartholomew Cobb?”

“Yes,” I say. “However, I’m also known in some online circles as the Cobb Goblin or Bob the Cobb.

Browning stares at me. I can feel his eyes wanting to roll so hard, but the big man restrains himself. That’s the Asian woman’s job, I remind myself.

“I had a buddy once call me Hob Nob Cobb, but I—”

“Mr. Cobb,” says Browning.

“That too, occasionally, but not as often.”

“Respond only with either a yes or no if given a yes or no question. Only expand on open-ended questions, please.” The man has the patience of a saint, I give him that. “Let’s try again.”

“Is your name Jack Bartholomew Cobb?”

“Yes.”

He looks at his tablet, tap, tap, taps, and says, “are the last four digits of your social security number 0320?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Now, some multiple choice answers. “Are apples red, green, both, or neither?”

“Both,” I say, and I notice the metrics on the monitor flicker around.

“Do you consider yourself predominantly a weak man, a strong man, a clever man, or a wise man?”

I make a face. “That’s … I mean, all of them, I guess. Depending on the situation.” I expect Browning to reject that answer but he moves on, apparently satisfied.

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“What is the nine-hundredth digit of pi after the decimal point?”

“What? I’ve no idea. How’s that an establishing question?”

“The program requires you to respond to a question you couldn’t possibly know the answer to offhand.”

“Why don’t you come take these gloves off, I’ll show you offhand,” I say.

The two caterpillar shaped eyebrows on Browning’s forehead come together as a prominent scowl forms on his face.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist the obvious pun.” I look down, smile, and lift my hands up in apology. Well, try to anyway. I can only manage to move my fingers.

Tap, tap, tap. “Did you murder Agent Tom Barry?”

“Tom? No, I mean, not intentionally. Yes, but it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to?”

Tap, Tap. “Did you encounter an alien artifact?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Did you touch or otherwise engage said artifact?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to or otherwise communicate with an extraterrestrial entity?”

“Uh, no.”

“Did this encounter with the artifact affect you in any adverse way?”

“You mean besides gaining the ability to cut off heads and hands? Sure, I now have a gross looking coochie scar on my palm that occasionally wiggles for no apparent reason.”

“Have you had any telepathic experiences since your encounter?”

“Telepathic? Uh, no I don't think so.”

Tap, tap, tap. Browning looks up from his screen and squints. “What do you mean you don’t think so? Please expand on your answer.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t call them telepathic experiences, but I’ll occasionally get these weird feelings.

“Feelings?”

“Yeah, but it’s like they’re not my feelings. They feel … foreign. I don’t know.”

Tap, tap, tap …. Tap.

“Ouh, Jeez, what was that?”

Browing looks up at me.

“Ouh! There it is again. Does this thing really shock—did you shock me?”

Browning adjusts his spectacles on his nose and leans forward. “Why do you say that?”

“Uh, oh. Something’s happening,” I say.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I … I don’t feel so good.”

There’s a ringing in my ears and I’m suddenly deaf. I can see Browning’s plump lips responding to me but there’s no sound. The lights overhead are extremely bright. Were they like that before? Are they getting hotter? I can’t keep my eyes open, and my hands … I can feel the scar moving under the rubber glove.

There’s something stirring in the base of my skull now.

A buzz.

I’m sweating profusely and my face is on fire. Why is it so hot in here?

I’m pulled inside myself, spinning around the edge of a black hole. I seem to float there for an endless, timeless period. The vastness of it all is mind bending. Something … someone, encompasses me.

And then a thought forms. I can see it, but not with my eyes. It’s sort of a shape. Or rather the feeling of a shape. An infinite shape. A ring. No, not a ring, necessarily, it’s intention is not to be a ring. It has something of value associated with it. Or the absence of value.

“Zero!” I shout, “it’s a zero.” I’m nodding my head, breathing heavily. The void within me is gone and I’m back in the room with Browning.

I can hear again, the heat goes away, the pain settles and dissipates. There’s people standing around me now, holding medical equipment at the ready.

Browning is on his feet behind the desk, staring at me. A look of terror on his face.

“Mr. Cobb, are you alright?” he says. “You fell into convulsions.”

“Zero,” I repeat.

“What …is zero,” he says.

“The nine-hundredth digit of pi,” I say, then let out an exasperated raspberry that ends in an involuntary chuckle. “I have no idea how I know, but I am now confident that it’s zero.”

Browning sits back down, slowly, tentatively.

“Wow,” I say. “What a ride. Let’s never do that again.” I sniff, and try to shake the drop of water hanging off the edge of my nose. “Hey, real quick. Could someone come and scratch my nose?” I sniff again, shaking my head.

I’m lightheaded now. I feel myself flop forward. I only briefly register my forehead making contact with the edge of Browning’s desk before the world goes dark.