“Here.”

The police car stopped near the gate Strucka had indicated. It was part of a perimeter fence that was well past its intended lifespan. The black posts had mostly browned with rust, and he was sure some of them would shake loose after another storm or two. The rectangular ID lock on the gate looked too out-of-place; An old structure dressed in new technology. He never understood the landlord’s decision to upgrade the fence security without upgrading the fence itself. Superficial changes were never the ones that made the difference.

The apartment complex itself was ready for a remodel as well. Weeds sprouted from in between the sidewalk gaps, which he knew was a subtle rebellion from the underpaid maintenance crew. The buildings’ new coat of white paint was already showing signs of wear. Near-constant ocean storms had no remorse for artificial structures. Ridgemire, perched on the edge of Sormera Valley, always took the brunt of the fury, and nearly all the structures had been built to tolerate the intense westward winds and rain. Strucka was always a bit surprised when the run-down apartment complex survived year after year.

He secretly hoped a particularly strong gust would blow the roof off the building housing his apartment. He’d been trying to convince his mother to find a better place to live, but she always came back with the same response: “When you can help pay the bigger rent.”

The front door creaked as he opened it, as though whining from a rude awakening. The familiar musty smell hit his face. He frowned. Welcome home, punk.

He put his sack of clothes on his bed and showered. After putting on his work jeans and shirt, he went to the downstairs garage and was relieved to find everything as he’d left it. The mess of tools was still there on the ground from the day the officers had arrested him. He’d thought he’d been clever, stealing a car engine part from a used car lot in the middle of the night. It wasn’t even essential for the car to run, but the owner had identified him and tracked him down.

The screen on his crowded desk flickered on at his presence. Strucka slumped into the padded wooden chair. Even the computer state was the same as he’d left it. A modelling program was open to a diagram of modified power armor provided by a recent client. He’d stolen the car part for that suit. The power consumption would have been similar to a car’s output, so he'd needed a comparable power module. Once he was caught, he offered the client a full refund in addition to the partially functional modifications he’d made. So much for saving money. The least he could do was show some good will, even in the aftermath of a felony. And he had to try to minimize the bad word-of-mouth.

The two other commissioners had also withdrawn. His spreadsheet, having updated automatically, was blank. The weight in his chest grew heavier as he stared. Way to go, moron.

He refreshed all the commission sites and social media pages where his services were described. As each page came up empty of requests, anger began to boil up. He was on the verge of furiously slamming the table when the refreshed Connect page showed a new commission request. He straightened in his chair.

Request submitted one day ago. Project: Hoverboard engine, board will be supplied.

He read the commissioner name several times over, unable to believe what he was seeing until he spoke the name aloud. “Evan Norallis!?”

This must have been a mistake. Of all the engineers out there, Evan had chosen him. And that was a day ago, *before* he and Brandon were released from prison. The only thing Strucka had over other comparable engineers was a lower price.

He sat back in contemplation. He must be on a budget.

He then felt a subtle constriction in his chest. You'd better make a good impression.

Promptly, he got to work replying to Evan's request, using all the professional language he'd learnt over the few years since college. That was one of the things they never taught you about being a contractor. Sometimes, a deal can be made or broken on the basis of a word or phrase. In the beginning, he'd naturally engaged in a friendly, informal manner, but then found clients would mysteriously stop responding, often just before sending in the first payment. He had a note written on the wall next to the screen to remind him of the lesson from the early days: First impressions are everything.

He went through his first-response checklist to make sure he'd hit all the points, then triple-checked his response for typos. Clarification was needed for the types of parts he'd be working with, as well as expectations for time-frame and testing. He hit send before he succumbed to the urge to edit any further. That urge had delayed previous responses by as much as half an hour, and if there was one thing he could change about the world, it would be the people that took forever to respond when they clearly had no other obligation.

He relaxed in his chair again, still not completely convinced this was happening. What an opportunity! If he nailed this job, that would be the best word-of-mouth advertising for his business to date. He could even put this specific project on his resume when he found an Aetheric engineering company that didn't make him want to throw up.

Perhaps that's what he would change about the world instead. Actually moral business practices. Open-sourcing world-changing technology. What a concept!

He spent the next few hours cleaning the garage of equipment. The garage had never seen this level of organization before, and then he realized, neither had he. He would have to get used to the tools and equipment in their new places. While in the middle of scrubbing the floor, the front door lock clicked.

Strucka checked the time. It was late afternoon. He should’ve known his mother was returning from work. But did she know he was back? He hadn’t been able to talk to her since being incarcerated. He’d ended up wasting his phone time trying to get a hold of her. He knew that talking to her would result in the inevitable scolding, but somehow her lack of willingness to even talk to him had been worse. She had no excuse for missing a call; He always had her wristpad nearby incase an emergency cropped up at her construction job.

He braced himself internally as the old carpet stairway creaked under her weight. Even if she didn’t know he was there, she would have pulled the same passive-aggressive tactic. Wait for his guilt to bring him to her. It worked every time, and he knew this time would be no different.

He left the cleaning supplies on the floor and opened the door to the rest of the apartment as quietly as he could. Each step up the stairs was punctuated by his quickening heartbeats. The sound of rustling grocery bags came from the kitchen to the right of the top of the stairs.

She was stuffing things into the shallow pantry. Her favorite canned fruit and vegetables. Strucka couldn’t see what else she had stored away, as her girth blocked the rest of it. Strucka stuck his hands into his pockets and waited with apprehension. When she took forever sorting the items on the shelves, he decided to take the initiative.

“Hi, mom,” he creaked. Even his voice didn’t want to approach her. He forced volume into his voice. “Mom.”

His shoulders tensed as she whirled around. The moment hung in the air forever as he tried to predict her response. Her eyes were wide, but was it in fear, surprise, or anger? Her round face grew redder with each passing second.

“What. Did. You. Do.” She demanded with her high-pitched voice. She dug the knuckles of her fists dug into her waist.

Strucka stared at her feet. “They didn’t tell you?”

“They took you during work hours,” she said.

“Why didn’t you take my calls?”

She stomped her foot. “Because I didn’t want to hear it!”

Silence took over for a few moments as Strucka contemplated the implications. He continued cautiously. “Hear what?”

“The excuses. The blame. The pleading!” She shouted, throwing her hands into the air. Her arms hung limp as she glared at him, then she shook her head and resumed unpacking the groceries.

He blinked. “But you don’t know what I did—”

“What did you do?” She jabbed as she frantically unloaded the grocery bags onto the kitchen island.

“I stole a part,” he said, raising his chin high. “It was for a commission.”

“You were trying to save money.”

“Why else?”

She turned to him and waved a milk carton at him. “Being thrown in prison and getting a felony on your record doesn’t save you money, Strucka! How could you be so naïve? I raised you better than this.”

He shrugged his shoulders in defense. “I didn’t know—”

“See, here we go again!” she exclaimed, slamming the refrigerator shut and leaning on the handle. “So long as nothing’s your fault, you’ll never learn.”

He leaned forward slightly. “It is my fault, mom! Can you let me finish?”

“Not when I know what’s coming.”

“Did I not just admit fault?” he demanded, gesturing to himself. “Yes, I was desperate then. What more do you want from me? Do you not think I already feel like shit?”

“I know how you feel, because it’s how I feel,” she shot back. “What happens if you lose all your income? What happens if they jail you for years? I’d have to downsize to a single apartment, and you’d be living on streets!”

“Yes, I know,” he mumbled. They’d had financial discussions several times over the past year. She made just enough from her construction job to pay her part of the rent and her monthly alimony. Strucka made just enough for his part of rent and the food. If either income dried up, their financial balancing act would fall apart and they’d descend into poverty.

She held up a stubby finger. “One more mistake like this, and I’m starting the search for a new roommate.”

And there was the inevitable threat. He closed his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“And?”

He suppressed a scowl and forced his gaze to meet hers. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s better.” She pointed to the groceries on the kitchen island. “Put these away and do the dishes. I have a few more errands to run.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He stood there with a contemplative frown as she strode past. He wanted to tell her about Evan’s commission before she left, but he found his enthusiasm drowned in other, heavier, emotions.

She had her way of getting to him like that. She had many years of practice.

***

Brandon sat in one of the dozens of chairs in the lobby of the Haven Center. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. Despite the long-sleeve shirt and pants, the room was still barely too cold for his taste. His legs couldn’t keep still either.

Was it the cool blue texture of the walls? Surely, they had designed the lobby and waiting room to be comforting to the eyes. One could expect as much from a mental hospital. But he was put off by it. Even the soft and soothing background music and the decorative water fountain behind the front desk offended him.

Once more, he found himself pulled in opposing directions. He knew they could help him, that he needed help, and yet he wanted to escape. The most recent episode of hallucinations had ended on the way here, but he was certain it was going to start up again. He didn’t know what triggered it, but surely they could find the cause and solution.

The other patients scattered around the lobby didn’t look much better. One woman was constantly taking deep breaths as she stared at the floor, her skin glistened with sweat. A parent a few seats over had her arm around her son, who sat still as a statue. On the opposite side of the room, an elderly man rocked back and forth in his chair, mouthing something silently to himself.

Maybe he wanted to escape only the lobby? He’d checked in to the front desk ten minutes ago, but it was early evening. Staff was lower than normal working hours. He’d seen only two nurses calling patients up to start their appointments, and only one new patient had arrived after him. The wait would be almost an hour.

Just before being taken in, he started to experience the symptoms again. The uncomfortable tingling and pressure graced his forehead, and there was an odd awareness of the passage of time, one so acute it seemed to slow down time itself.

Then the voices came. The voices of all the others in the room. Some were quieter, some were loud and rambling. One strung together sentence after sentence, each complete in and of itself but had hardly any relation to any of the others. Another repeated itself a couple times a minute, varying its complaint slightly with each succession. The transparent, churning hazes around all the other patients’ heads.

Then one started calling Brandon’s name. He looked around, scanning for the source, until he realized the nurse was the one calling him. She said something to him as they entered the long hallway, but he’d been too absorbed in listening to all the other voices.

“Sorry?” he said as he caught up to the nurse. He then backed away slightly as he realized he was almost inside the woman’s haze. Now was not the time to discover what happened if he got too close.

The aged woman glared at him with impatience, and haze said, “Nobody listens!”

Then she opened her mouth. “We’re to get your vitals, then you’ll be handed off to Kelly.”

He nodded, holding back an inflammatory comment. Handed off? He wasn’t some object to be casually tossed around.

His weight and height were normal. At least those hadn’t changed. In an odd way, he was glad the symptoms were purely psychological. Changing shape or height in addition to all that would make things even more confusing… and it would be an enormous giveaway to others that something was off.

His pulse and blood pressure were both elevated. He would have been surprised if they weren’t.

The cranky nurse left him in a room with basic medical examination equipment. He almost laughed to himself. A month ago, he wouldn’t have guessed he’d be staring at a basic human anatomy chart in boredom. At least there was a newer poster detailing the components of a basic neuron along with its relation and interaction with the Aether. There were only general statements. Next to nothing was known about how it actually worked, and Brandon was skeptical science would make any real progress within the next decade, with most of Eredore’s financial resources being allocated to the war with Trellendek. The political strife with Sylga wasn’t going to speed things up either.

Sometimes he wished Lativa wasn’t a waterworld. Having only three nations on the entire planet was a recipe for eternal conflict. Resources weren’t spread out enough, so monopolies cropped up very quickly in new industries, strengthening the ever-present struggle for power and domination. Though the oceans were vast, there wasn’t much of interest in terms of Aetheric mining. The ocean floor was mysteriously sparce of Aether crystals, and some parts were too deep for even the most durable craft.

The door opened and a doctor walked in. She wore the generic green uniform all workers wore at the hospital. A miniature wristpad hung on her arm. There was a glint of recognition in her young eyes, but he'd never seen her before. It was a familiar feeling thanks to fame, though if he'd had a choice, he'd remove that feature. It felt as though half the people he met for the first time had judged him already.

She pushed her blond hair behind her as she sat in the chair opposite him. "Hello, Brandon, I'm Kelly. I understand this is your first visit?"

He leaned back and put his hands on his knees. "Sure is, hoping it'll be my last."

Kelly nodded. Her posture was attentive and her hands were folded in her lap. "We'll certainly do our best to see what you need, but we can't make any guarantees. It looks like you came for symptoms of... psychosis and hallucinations?"

"Yes," he said, "at least, that's what I hope they are."

A smirk flashed on her face before she concealed it in a professional manner. "We can help determine what they are, exactly, by using your descriptions as well as analyzing the current state of your nervous system. Do you mind if we start with the descriptions of the hallucinations? If not, we can skip to the scanning."

"Sure, descriptions are fine," he said, uncertain of how seriously she would take him. He described the ominous red hazes that seemed to follow people around and emit voices. He told her it was as if he was reading their minds, but he didn't know how that was possible. Just when he told her that, he noticed that he'd only heard faint flickers of whispering coming from her voice. Her interest seemed to be growing as he continued. The pressure between his eyebrows was still very much prominent. He finally admitted that he was experiencing an episode currently, though he could hardly detect any sign of it on her. She raised her eyebrows when he hold her about the mild physical symptoms of the tingling and pressure. He left out the slowing-of-time effect, as he didn't know how to describe it accurately. He also figured it didn't count as an actual phenomenon to report.

After he finished, he waited intently for her response. She typed in the wristpad projection for a few more seconds before speaking again. “How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Less than a day. It started earlier today.”

One of her thin eyebrows popped up for a moment while she recorded his response. Her green eyes flicked back and forth as she scanned over her notes, then she nodded. “You certainly have commonalities with other cases of psychosis, but while you’re experiencing the current episode, it might be worthwhile to do a scan. Do you agree?”

He shrugged. “Sure, if it helps.”

She stood. “Then if you’d follow me?”

She led him to another room farther down the hallway. This one had a row of unique chairs lining the far wall. Each one had a hemisphere that hinged at the top of the headrest, as well as short barriers that framed the sides of the head and body. Brandon sat in one tentatively, feeling like he was going to be tortured and interrogated rather than examined.

Kelly lowered the cap over his scalp and tapped on her wristpad. Supports extended from the inside of the cap and molded to his head, forming a ring of soft pressure. Somehow, he could still feel the original pressure and tingling on his forehead, as if it went deeper than just his skin.

“Give it a moment while it calibrates,” she said, her attention absorbed in the projections from the wristpad.

The same old nurse from before passed the open door, and her haze was complaining about the habits of a recent patient. He closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the distraction, but the voice still echoed from the hall for several more seconds. He heard his pulse racing in the background.

After over a minute of silence, he shot an expectant look at Kelly. “Anything yet?”

She tilted her head at the rectangular projection. “It doesn’t look like anything’s immediately wrong. Your right hemisphere activity is elevated slightly, along with your amygdala. How would you describe your current emotional state?”

“Uh…” He blinked. “Terrified.”

Kelly nodded, pursing her lips. “That would explain that.”

She swiped the projection a few times, then used her thumb and index finger to zoom in. She narrowed her eyes, frowning.

Brandon saw a flicker of the red mist beside her head. The voice was distraught. “How is that possible? After all the work I’ve—”

She blinked, and the voice went silent. Brandon raised his eyebrows. “Have you experienced anything like I’ve described?”

“No,” she said with a hint of irritation.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “How much longer to you need?”

She lowered her arm and looked at him, her head still tilted. “I think we’ve collected all the useful data we can get for now.”

He flicked his eyes up at the cap attached to his scalp. “Can I get out of this now?”

“Yes.” She tapped her wristpad. The cap retracted the supports and swung up from his head. He stood and massaged his forehead. The tingling was still there, and he wondered if the scanning had even intensified it.

She eyed him suspiciously. “Do you use recreational drugs?”

“What?” Brandon stuttered. “Absolutely not. Well, not recently. I tried blasphia decades ago, but it fucked me up so bad I had to retake an entire year’s worth of college courses. Why do you ask?”

“Right, I apologize for the direct question, but I’m seeing something that’s commonly seen on trips.” Kelly went to his side to show him the projection. It was a shimmering image of the cross section of his brain. Colored webs cascaded through each other, some areas more intense than others. She pointed to a small, bright blue icon in the middle of the image. “You have abnormally high activity in your pineal gland.”

“Hm,” he mumbled. It wasn’t an icon. “What does that mean?”

“The pineal gland has several functions,” she explained, “including the regulation of sleep and wakefulness, but it can also induce hallucinations. It can also be highly active during vivid dreams.”

Brandon folded his arms across his chest. “But what could cause something like this if not for drugs?” He thought back to his ordeal with Zandith. Did he drug me?

Kelly turned off the projection and faced him. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much science on how the pineal gland works or how its activated in this particular way.” She glanced out the doorway, then spoke in a more hushed tone. “I can give you my personal opinion. It will, however, have to be off the record.”

He frowned. “Why off the record?”

She tilted her head back and forth, biting her lip. “Science doesn’t like referencing anecdotes.”

“As well it shouldn’t.”

“Are you interested, or not?”

He paused for a few moments, filling his cheeks with air before exhaling. “Go ahead. What’s your unprofessional opinion?”

She leaned toward him slightly. “I have known a few people who have been able to increase their abilities to manipulate the Aether by activating their pinea—.”

“Uh,” Brandon blurted, making a cutting motion across his neck. “No way. All I want is to deactivate it so that I can live my life. Are there any medications that can do that?”

She stiffened from his response, averting his gaze for a moment. “… Yes, there are medications that can help with that, but those people I mentioned before report their lives improving greatly from—”

“Good for them!” Brandon said. He gestured to himself. “But it’s making my life, mine, much more difficult, and I need to reverse it ASAP before everything around me collapses!”

A dark look crossed her eyes for a fraction of a second, and a red distortion flickered around her head. The voice sounded distant, barely audible. “He thinks he’s omnipotent?”

Then she spoke for real. “How has your sleep been?”

He blinked. “I didn’t sleep particularly great last night, but I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”

She nodded with a sense of finality. “Given that you have only experienced these symptoms for less than a day, my professional opinion is that starting on medication right now would be a rash decision. Poor sleep can definitely have negative effects on the brain, especially if you wake up in the middle of a sleep cycle.”

“All this after one night of mediocre sleep?” he demanded, holding up a finger. “I’ve missed several nights of sleep before, in a row, and didn’t experience anything close to this.”

She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. Norallis, I can’t say much else given the circumstances. Things like this can definitely wear off over time. Give it a few days, maybe a week. Just make sure your sleep is good. Avoid blue or green light starting an hour before bedtime, try not to eat less than three hours before your bedtime, and make sure it’s colder in your bedroom than all the other rooms in your house.”

He rolled his eyes. “I already do that.”

“Then keep at it,” she said, unfazed. “I’m sure we can find the cause over time. Try keeping a diary and see if you find any patterns.”

“I take it you’re not going to prescribe medication?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, we need to address lifestyle factors first.”

“Huh,” Brandon said. Maybe I should have lied earlier about when it started.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

She smiled. “We can schedule a follow-up appointment in a week if you like?”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

So they set up the appointment, shook hands, and parted ways. Brandon stormed out of the Haven Center, eager to get some distance between himself and the incomprehensible mutterings of the remaining patients.