Chapter 22

“There you are!” Dr. Rousseau chirped, his smile a mile wide. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” Isaac challenged.

“Of course. It was inevitable. After all, I’ve read the Super Jesus sequel script. This meeting has been ordained just as your arrival to our Koreatown apartment was.”

“...” Isaac’s brain hurt again. He never stood a chance, set up from the start.

“Are you ready?” Dr. Rousseau asked.

“La-la-la-la-la-la-la!” Isaac yammered after plugging his ears with his index fingers until they were each buried up to the second knuckle. This time would be different. Isaac wouldn’t let Dr. Rousseau cast his ready-steady mind control on him without a bit of aural resistance. “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!”

“Is that any way to treat someone who saved your life?” the doctor wondered aloud, successfully baiting his patient into engaging with him.

“Say again?” Isaac demanded, a finger still hanging out of each ear.

“Is that any way to treat someone who saved your life!” Dr. Rousseau shouted.

“Oh, I heard you the first time, but I just couldn’t believe you had the balls to say it.” Isaac was furious. Even though Isaac had believed Seth’s story that Dr. Rousseau was wrapped up in the Illuminati, it was another thing to have it confirmed independently and be powerless to do anything about it. This was a betrayal of the highest order. This was the man entrusted to protect Isaac! When Blake Snyder predicted the bad guys would close in, he wasn’t joking. Isaac was encircled with no means of escape.

“You owe me a debt of gratitude, Isaac.” Dr. Rousseau spoke from behind a simple metal desk. His office at the Twin Towers was a far cry from his plush setup in Beverly Hills. One was built for comfort, and one for speed. Thick carpets were traded for lime-colored linoleum, and instead of a bowl of complimentary Andes candies on his desk, there was a bowl of human fingernails. Nevertheless, Dr. Rousseau appeared more at home here, confident enough to wear his Slytherin badge openly. There was no reason to hide his allegiance. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be in prison.”

“Prison?”

“For the heinous murder of Maria Rodriguez, naturally.” The lenses of Dr. Rousseau’s glasses glinted harshly under the glare of the overhead fluorescents. It was painful to look at him. There was no soothing Himalayan salt lamp here. Dr. Rousseau smiled. “Here. You’ve earned it.”

Isaac looked into Dr. Rousseau’s outstretched hand, where there was an official Slytherin House badge. He left the doctor hanging. “No fucking way.”

With a frown, Dr. Rousseau pulled Isaac’s badge back. “You should consider yourself lucky, Isaac. Whether through careful planning on my part or by happy happenstance, you’re a registered Slytherin, which offers me, the county’s foremost authority on Slytherin, the unique luxury of plucking you out of the system to offer you salvation, even if you’re a murderer. You’re welcome.”

The accusation of murder was enough to make Isaac clear his ears. “Who the fuck is Maria Rodriguez anyway? I’m not going to kill anyone I don’t know. That’s a personal creed of mine that I would never cross!”

“The LAPD beg to differ. She was shot to death in a Koreatown apartment. They found you and a gun registered in your name alongside her body. It’s what they call in the business an ‘open and shut case.’” The doctor sighed, “Another grisly end to another Amber alert. Such a shame.”

“I didn’t do that! I was trying to save her. The gun was a plant. The stuntman killed her.” Isaac was indignant. “It was the stuntman! It’s so obvious!”

Dr. Rousseau took down a note. “The stuntman, yes, yes, of course. Very good. This will help build your case for an eventual insanity plea if you decide to forego my hospitality and return to the LAPD, a matter to which I can lend my expertise. In the past, I’ve been told I make for a compelling expert witness.”

“I’m sure.”

“Unfortunately, my services do not come pro bono, of course. I prefer more of a quid pro quo arrangement.”

Isaac chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m sure you do. Let’s hear it. Or should I have to guess?” Isaac tried to think of jobs-for-hire suitable enough for the Illuminati. “You need me to assassinate the president? No? Blow up the 405 and 10 freeway exchange and shut the entire city down? Too easy? Or do you need me to get you a reservation at Jon & Vinny’s?”

“Heavens no. Nothing as difficult as all of that,” Dr. Rousseau chortled. “What I need you to do is to identify Zee Shirley’s whereabouts.”

“I should have guessed that first. Can’t you just use the Super Jesus sequel script to find her or to see how I find her without making me do all your dirty work?”

“I’m sorry, Isaac. Zee didn’t leave us any breadcrumbs in her script, and your storyline was inconclusive as far as this goes. Don’t worry. For you, finding her should be a rather easy assignment.”

Isaac cocked an eyebrow. “For me? What do you mean? And what conclusion is there to my storyline?”

“Well, you’re one of the parts she was re-writing, so it’s hard to say. Anyway, I believe you know what I’m referring to when I say this should be easy for you. You were born for this.”

“The screenplay,” Isaac muttered, “do my scripts really reflect reality? Like Zee’s?”

“Indeed they do. Your words are a window through time and space. But some screenwriters have more talent than others. For example, Zee is the best. So if you find her, and if she completes the Super Jesus sequel rewrites — to our and our focus group’s satisfaction — we’ll cut you loose. It’s happily ever after.”

Seth had been right. Isaac was a tool. He was a sleeper agent, and his mission was to use his screenwriting prowess as a scrying stone to find Zee Shirely.

“You didn’t produce any pages for Mr. Lennox. But that won’t be the case this time, will it?” Dr. Rousseau threatened.

“I can’t. I haven’t been able to write anything since my dream, and I don’t even remember writing those pages. I don’t even remember dreaming the dream, remember?”

Dr. Rousseau sighed. “Have you tried writing, Isaac? Have you physically sat down yet and put your fingers to the keys?”

“Sure!” Isaac said reflexively before realizing the truth. Actually, he never even attempted a writing session. Not once. Instead, Isaac had procrastinated, choosing to save the world instead of writing. “Well, no, not exactly. I’m still brainstorming. You know, reading a couple of scripts for inspo.”

“Typical writer,” the doctor impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk. “You all make this so troublesome. Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

“Is that a metaphor or an order?” Isaac asked, crossing his arms to hide them.

“It’s a quote for inspiration. It’s simple. Each writer’s muse demands a different blood sacrifice,” Dr. Rousseau explained.

“And what did Zee’s muse demand?” With all this talk of blood sacrifices, Isaac wondered if she was MIA or KIA.

“When considering the themes of her work, Zee’s muse was the interior lives of pathetic men. I imagine yours would be different.”

Isaac scoffed, forgetting for a moment that he was the subject of one of Zee’s scripts. “Does pathetic men include her boyfriend? Mr. Lennox?”

Dr. Rousseau answered Isaac by glowing with all his power.

Isaac continued. “If I had to guess, to satisfy my muse, I’ll have to sacrifice my life or some shit. Am I right?”

“It’s a small price to pay for immortality.”

“Immortality?”

“To participate in the production of Super Jesus is a legacy worth leaving, Isaac! It would be an honor and a privilege to do what she and you are tasked to do. We should all be so fortunate,” Dr. Rousseau said with a twinge of bitterness, remembering how the pinnacle of his own screenwriting career was a single writing credit on a Scott Caan-era episode of Hawaii 5-0.

“Zee seemed to think differently. She doesn’t seem to give a fuck. Otherwise, she’d be here, wouldn’t she?”

“Just because Zee is a clairvoyant does not mean she thinks with any clarity. Some of us know better than others. Some of us can see the bigger picture.”

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Isaac knew he couldn’t count himself among those who could. He was still blind to the bigger picture. He had earned a lot of data points since he found the missing cat poster, but they hadn’t taken shape yet. Instead of having braille to read, Isaac had birdshot.

Everything was random, and everyone seemed at odds with one another. Anne wanted the cat, who was wanted by Zee, who was wanted by Dr. Rousseau and co. But who did the cat want? Was the cat hunting Super Jesus? This whole affair was a big fat circle, nothing more than an ouroboros deep-throating itself.

And what do space lizards have to do with the day-to-day production of a superhero franchise anyway? Isaac would think that such matters of media would be trivial to a spacefaring species seeking world domination. Was the appeal of superheroes so, ahem, universal?

And if his and Zee’s scripts were true to reality, then had every other superhero film before Super Jesus been real too? Was it possible the whole canon of superhero stories was true, including the space villains from far-flung galaxies, such as Galactus and Thanos? If so, then it would stand to reason, by any logical assessment, that the space lizards were only here on Earth for reconnaissance, using human screenwriters as a medium to find out what their cosmic compatriots were up to. It was an interstellar scouting mission!

And if superheroes did exist IRL, then what did that make Isaac? It put the whole super strength and thermal vision physical transformation he experienced in the tunnel into an entirely new context. Was he the world’s first sleeper agent superhero? He was the world’s first sleeper agent superhero! How cool? he thought, having forgotten the relevant Captain America storyline(s).

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Dr. Rousseau broke Isaac’s train of thought when he reached into his bowl of fingernails and popped a couple of them into his mouth with a crunch, crunch, crunch.

“...”

“My apologies, Isaac. Forgive me my manners. Here, have some,” the doctor said after he finished chewing. He held the bowl of fingernails out to Isaac. They looked lightly salted.

Instinctually, Isaac went to grab some but stopped himself. He turned away with disgust, not at the offer but at himself because he was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming craving for keratin. Dr. Rousseau smiled at his patient’s hesitation.

Isaac had to distract himself. “Why me? Why Zee? Why are we your screenwriters?”

“You two are special. No two ways about it. Not every screenwriter for Fox Studios can hack it. Sure, many get the chance, but most fail, destined to be deported back to the Midwest from whence they came or to the nearest monkey sanctuary, depending on the species.”

Isaac thought he could detect some jealousy in Dr. Rousseau’s voice. “I thought you said writing was easy.”

“Again, only if you’re willing to make the requisite sacrifices.”

“Is it a sacrifice if your handler demands it? Or is it extortion?”

“Handler? Me? A ‘handler?’ Such a dirty word with so many unpleasant connotations. If I may, the term I’d prefer for my role is ‘dramaturge.’ My responsibility is to be a creative midwife, a nurturer to neurotic writers. They’re a special breed, after all. They require a deft hand to either guide or pull them along.” Dr. Rousseau grabbed a pair of pliers from a desk drawer and snapped them at Isaac.

“And when you’re not grooming psychic screenwriters and developing Save the Cat-styled therapy treatments, you oversee focus group responses for Fox?”

“Among other endeavors,” Dr. Rousseau said, lifting his chin. “It’s not easy to fine-tune a movie to provoke the right psychological responses from an audience. My profession is an unheralded part of the rewrite process. You may have seen my handiwork in movies such as E.T.''

“...”

“Before I got involved in the project, Spielberg was going to end the movie by having Elliot snuff E.T. out with a pillow.”

“...”

“Rather than let E.T. get into the hands of the feds,” Dr. Rousseau explained. “It was a mercy killing. Spielberg thought it would signify a real maturation of the character and symbolize the loss of childhood. I thought it was stupid.”

“Whatever.” Isaac had had enough of these extraterrestrials. “Let him die.”

“Now, now. I know you may be frustrated by recent events, but let’s not let a bit of emotion get the better of us and say things we don’t mean.”

“Fuck E.T., that little circumcised dick of an alien,” Isaac spat.

“You don’t say that!” Dr. Rousseau hissed, leaping over his desk. Before Isaac could blink, Dr. Rousseau’s hand was at his throat. Isaac’s eyes bulged because of the lack of oxygen and the surprising speed at which the elderly doctor moved.

“Sorry,” Isaac choked out.

Dr. Rousseau put his head next to Isaac’s ear, whispering, “I believe it’s time you began work on your screenplay. What do you think?”

Isaac nodded in vicious agreement.

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page if you’ll excuse the pun.” Dr. Rousseau smiled as he released the chokehold he had on Isaac, who, once free, began to massage the feeling back into his neck. His head radiated with new and renewed pain.

He was exhausted.

Dr. Rousseau escorted Isaac out of his office and down the busy halls without help from the orderlies, who must have been dispatched elsewhere when Isaac wasn’t paying attention. The doctor was casual as they walked, working the room, dispensing pleasantries left and right to every patient they passed. There was a “What beautiful weather we’re having,” a '“My, you’re looking mighty cogent today,” and even a “Do you have any notes on the Atlantis mermaid love story C-plot?”

But most of the patients were unresponsive and unable to tell Dr. Rousseau apart from Adam. Those who could identify Dr. Rousseau knew to avert their eyes and hide their fingernails behind their backs.

Isaac kept quiet, doing his best to try and gain his bearings around the asylum, but it was useless. All Isaac knew was that he wasn’t returning to the room he had shared with Mark. They were going somewhere new.

“I think we can both agree that a little peace and quiet will do you and your writing some good, and I have just the medicine for you… A room of one’s own,” purred Dr. Rousseau, who was steering his patient toward the Twin Tower’s Solitary Confinement Ward for Slytherin Subjects.

“You can’t put me in there!” Isaac pleaded. “I know my rights. That’s cruel and unusual punishment. I’ll sue you!”

“I welcome you to try because I’m well within my rights as a licensed Harry Potter therapist to treat you as I see fit, and a little therapeutic writing is just what the doctor ordered.”

“No! I’ll appeal the decision to the Slytherin Board!”

Dr. Rousseau laughed. “The Slytherin Board? There’s no such thing. I am the Slytherin Board. I am the Minister of Magic. Who do you think graded the answers to your Sorting H.A.T.? I own you.”

Isaac reflected on his history with Dr. Rousseau and wondered how he didn’t see this coming earlier. It was so obvious in retrospect, especially how Isaac’s finances were tied directly to his weekly attendance, a pair of golden handcuffs that Isaac had put on all too willingly and without question.

By accepting this arrangement, he had given Dr. Rousseau and those behind his dealings the perfect opportunity to keep tabs on his mental state and guide his growth according to their needs. His entire life had been a fabrication. He was livestock.

Isaac wondered who had been cutting his trust fund checks. He’d hate to think his parents would sell him out like that. Shock gripped his heart. What if his parents never died in a car crash brought upon by a violent sneezing attack? What if that was a lie, too?

He knew almost nothing about them. It was the car crash and two fun facts: they had a summer house in Montauk and loved Monarch butterflies. Could they still be alive? Mommy! Daddy!

A stream of questions erupted from Isaac’s mouth, each directed to Dr. Rousseau:

1. what was Isaac’s origin story?

2. who murdered his parents in broad daylight?

3. what is the nefarious purpose behind the Super Jesus franchise?

4. what other superpowers did Isaac possess?

5. who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?

6. where’s the beef?

7. and why does adrenochrome taste like chicken?

The doctor responded, “I will answer what I can, but only after you write some pages on Zee’s hideaway. Doesn’t that sound more than fair?”

Isaac grumbled out a protest, but it was useless, and he knew it. Dr. Rousseau held all the keys, including the one to his new solitary confinement cell. Together, they stood in front of its door.

“Here we are. Your room will be perfect. Imagine it like a sensory deprivation chamber. This will open your mind to creativity you didn’t think possible,” Dr. Rousseau said with a self-satisfied smile. “I expect to see a first draft exposing Zee’s whereabouts by tomorrow morning, or else, as they say.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Isaac was aghast.

Dr. Rousseau smiled. “Nothing motivates a writer quite like a deadline.”

Isaac murmured more inaudible curses to himself.

“Do you have everything you need? I’m giving you all the essentials. You’ll find paper and a typewriter inside your new accommodations.”

What Isaac needed was a weapon.

He’d rather die by suicide than face the blank page and the torture that would likely follow when he didn’t produce any pages. The paper was an okay start, as death by 1,000 papercuts was an unwelcome idea but feasible. Then there was the typewriter itself. If he threw it really, really high up into the air and ran underneath it… Isaac thought about it. “Yeah, I got everything I need.”

“Excellent. Are you steady?” Dr. Rousseau began the familiar incantation.

“I’m steady,” Isaac said, trying his best to resist the doctor’s charms.

“But are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Isaac responded.

“Good,” the doctor said with satisfaction.

Isaac then checked in with himself to see if his mind was still his own. He seemed normal enough, all things considered. He didn’t feel like he was under the sway of any particular influence. Then again, Isaac had never realized he was being mind-controlled in the first place. So, did that mean he was still asleep, or was he always woke?

Why did being a superhero sleeper agent have to be so complicated? Isaac sighed.

“I look forward to reading. I blocked out my entire morning for it,” which was the last thing Dr. Rousseau said before ushering Isaac into his newest cell.

Inside was a room decorated even more sparsely than his previous one. Gone were the amenities of a window, double beds, flowers, and the 2-in-1 sink/toilet combo. Moreover, the color of the white paint was even brighter than in his last room. In combination with the severe lighting, the room was genuinely blinding. Isaac squinted his eyes. If Isaac were to stare at these walls for too long, he knew that he would come out on the other side of this experience no different than Nelson Mandela.

Isaac shuddered when he heard Dr. Rousseau close his cell door and snap its bolt into place. He was scared. Aside from the aforementioned suicide (which he knew was only a playful, diversionary fantasy on his part), Isaac had no alternatives. He had to take his medicine. He had to write. But when he turned to face his destiny, which took the shape of a typewriter, Isaac was shocked to discover he wasn’t alone. Someone else was already at the typewriter’s helm, furiously punching away at its keys.