“Get the President on the phone.”

In the darkened night Giselle’s command rang out over Morningstar’s Infirmary, the speedster striding forward, blurring to turn on the lights. Row upon row of white linen single beds, a lot of them occupied, stretched out before them, their occupants blinking up with blurry eyes.

“Private room,” Giselle demanded, pointing at the healer Delores, who had stumbled out of the medic’s station looking bewildered and as if she’d likely been asleep. Her gaze darted from the leader of the Legion to the stumbling figure of Matt whose shoulder she was clasping, to Will and Wally’s hard, fearful faces following close behind.

“I don’t-”

“Did I stutter?” shouted the Legion’s leader, “Private room!”

The larger woman tried to stammer but a moment later she simply quailed and scurried off under Giselle’s furious glare. The speedster turned back to Will.

“Go!” she cried, “Run, what are you waiting for, go to Azleena, get her- link me up a call.” She spun on Wally. “Jane’s still not answering.”

“She’s turned off her phone.”

“Jesus freaking Christ! Okay. How fast can she move?”

Wally stared at her, incredulous. “How the hell should I know?”

Giselle mashed her knuckles into her temples, forefingers massaging the black bags under her eyes. “Okay. Will. Another question for our genius. How freaking fast can Lady Dawn move, and how long do we have before we’re at war?”

Will ran off without a second glance. Giselle sucked a deep breath between her teeth.

“Get him to the room.” With Wally’s hand on the other shoulder, the speedster and the psychic wheeled Matt past the rows of hospital beds, their battle‑damaged occupants sitting up and rubbing their eyes, squinting at the source of the commotion. On the far side of the Infirmary, Delores’ shaking hands were struggling with the keys to a small square examination room. Giselle resisted the urge to kick in both her and the door.

Finally the room was unlocked and Giselle and Wally dragged Matt inside. The Legion’s leader deposited him sitting, swaying on the muted green examination bed while Wally hurried over to close the blinds.

“Healer,” Giselle demanded, clicking her fingers at Delores. The woman’s chubby face paled.

“I… I’m on night duty.”

“Great,” the speedster replied, jabbing her finger at Matt, “Patient. Night-time!”

“I…” the medic stammered, “I need to go get Editha.”

“So help me God-” But the big healer was already stumbling away, running back across the Infirmary with a pace Giselle had rarely seen her achieve. Wally put his hand on her arm.

“It’s alright. Editha’s a better fit anyway. She good at toxicology.”

“I know that,” snapped Giselle. Immediately regretting the hostility she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and again rubbed her temples. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s getting the better of me.” She breathed out, lips in an ‘O’. “Good leadership. Goooood leadership.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m doing dogcrap. Why the hell did I take this job?”

“Because you are the absolute best person for it and I love you.”

“Thanks.”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“Feels like I haven’t slept in a week,” said Giselle.

“Day just doesn’t seem to end, does it?”

“Freaking… undead monsters and conspiracy theories and disasters and- you know what I was doing last year?”

“What?”

“Running on a salt flat. Practising really, really hard at running on a salt flat.”

“The more things change.”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“I should apologise to Delores,” she sighed, clutching her forehead, “When did I get so rude?”

“About the time dead people started coming back to life.”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“Yes, thank you Jane, thank you just so, so much for that. Thank you for everything. I swear, one day I am going to strangle that girl so hard they’ll write sapphic fiction.”

“You do just want to slap her around some, don’t you?” said Wally, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Worst part of her getting that stupid Dawn power, nobody will ever properly slap her around again.”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“And you!” Giselle snapped, rounding on Matt, sitting on the sheer green medical examination bed, his expression still glazed and distant, “As soon as you recover from this I am going to castrate you! What the hell were you thinking? Oh, I know what goes great after a long day of life and death, a quick trip to the Big Easy! Couple’a po-boys and bourbon! Gonna mosey on down like it’s Mardi Gras. Honestly!” She threw up her hands. “I am just so through.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“It’s Celeste I’m mad about,” Wally said darkly.

“Oh yes, Celeste,” Giselle cried, “Possibly dead, possibly passed out in a bowl of gumbo, possibly having sex somewhere with some furry pretending to be a dog. I am going to sell her to the freaking glue factory!”

At that moment the door opened and Editha, the petite mousy‑haired healer, stepped in.

“What happened?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” Giselle replied, “The military got him. Some sort of drug? But he’s not getting any better. And he doesn’t seem to be responding.”

“There’s something wrong with his brain,” Wally added, his expression worried, “I keep telling you, I have seen Matt wasted and his thoughts have never been like this. They’re practically leaking out his ears.”

“Some sort of hallucinogen?” Giselle asked the healer as she strode over towards Matt, “A narcotic, maybe, poison? Electroshock?”

Editha leaned in, flicking the silver pen‑torch from her top pocket and shining it in both Matt’s eyes. “Pupils are responsive, but they’re not following anything around him.”

“I noticed.”

“Not to cause undue alarm,” the healer said, glancing Matt over, grim, “But my main concern wouldn’t be any external interference. This man was dead this morning.”

Giselle and Wally both paled. “I hadn’t considered that,” the speedster admitted.

“Well, I’ve got a few movies that might be worth watching,” Editha said, the words dry, not looking away from Matt. She pocketed the torch. “I’m going to see what I can feel.”

“Do it.”

The healer put one hand on Matt’s wrist and another on his neck. She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing, her lips a thin frown.

“I’m not getting anything.”

“There’s no heartbeat?” Giselle gasped.

“No,” scowled Editha, “His heart’s fine. His body’s fine. I’m not… there’s nothing wrong with him. Nothing’s responding when I try to heal.”

She closed her eyes and pushed against Matt’s skin for a few more seconds before releasing him and stepping back.

“There’s nothing wrong,” she repeated, “Nothing’s happening.” Wally turned his gaze confused between doctor and patient.

“So what?” said the psychic, “He just needs to sleep it off?”

“No,” Editha replied, her face blank, “I’m saying there’s nothing bioactive in his system. He’s not injured. He’s sober.” She glanced between Giselle and Wally’s disbelieving stares. “When you go to heal someone you get feedback, a sense of how much is broken. If you’re good you can sort of get better at listening to it and eventually figure out what’s wrong. If he was intoxicated or somehow poisoned I’d be able to feel it and treat it. But I can’t. I’m just hitting a wall. The health bottle is full, so to speak.”

Wally stared at her and Giselle felt the pit of dread in her stomach deepen.

“Matt?” she asked trepidatiously, "Matt honey? Can you hear us? What’s going on?”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“So if his health is fine,” Wally asked, “What’s wrong with him?” Editha fixed the human with a pained stare – then once more leaned forward with the pen‑torch, only this time she was not looking in Matt’s eyes, but in his ears, his nose. She pulled the skin down beneath his eyelids.

“Rupturing of the capillaries,” she said quietly.

Wally’s indignation was titanic. “The Bleeds?! The freaking Bleeds?! You’re saying psychic possession and-”

“I’m saying it’s the only explanation!” Editha snapped back sharply, retreating from Matt and once more tucking away her pen, “Patient presents, unresponsive to healing, no outwards physical injury, severe mental impediment and fugue state and ruptured pericranial vasculature. You tell me what it sounds like!”

Wally blew air through his lips, leaning back and holding the base of his head between his hands, but he said nothing. He could only stare at Matt with renewed, sickening concern.

“He needs an MRI,” Editha told them, taking another step away, shaking her head, almost fearful, “I need to consult other physicians. We need metrics.”

“Can you compare his blood toxicology?” asked Wally.

“To what?” replied Editha, “He never let anyone take any.”

“Taking blood might be problematic,” Giselle agreed, “The rest – go.” She dismissed the dainty medic with a weak wave. “Make whatever arrangements you need.” The healer hurried out, closing the door behind her. Once again, Giselle and Wally were left alone.

There was a moment of horrible, horrible silence.

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human.”

“I know buddy. It’s going to be okay.” Wally turned to her. “What’re you thinking?”

Giselle gnawed on a knuckle, staring at Matt with roiling concern. “I think Jane’s going to destroy the US military.”

“We have to warn them.”

“They’re being warned. Azleena will tell them.” She put a hand over her face, and it took every piece of her remaining strength not to break down and cry. “Oh Matt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We screwed up. I should’ve… I should’ve been more assertive, I shouldn’t have let Jane-”

“It’s not your fault,” murmured Wally. He slipped an arm around her shoulder. Giselle lowered her head and drew three deep, shuddering breaths, then sat back up, hiccupped and wiped her eyes. As she blinked, she noticed Wally still staring at Matt as the human sat there, rocking, mumbling his mantra.

“Wal-”

“I don’t believe it.” The psychic’s words were almost too quiet for her to hear.

“What?”

“I don’t believe it. It can’t be true.”

“Wally.” Giselle’s voice was pained. “Editha’s right. It’s the only thing that makes sense. They picked him up, those…” she let slip a few violent swear words, “…bastards, and then when they had what they needed they broke his mind so he’d never be able to tell anyone what they’d done. Maybe they didn’t even mean to. Maybe he just fought back too strong.” She sniffed. “It’s a miracle he managed to snag that bit of paper. His last sane act. He must have known. He must have known.” Her vision blurred, and she reached forward to take Matt’s hand. It was warm and rough. “You were so brave. Nobody ever said that to you, but I always thought… you were so brave.”

Her touch brought no response. Giselle let Matt’s fingers drop and retreated back to sitting, staring at the linoleum floor, speckled white and green like seaweed. After a few moments she forced herself to look up, swallowing and blinking away tears, trying to push down the pain – only to find Wally leaning in towards Matt beside her, his eyes narrowed, shaking his head.

“No,” said Wally, and there was something in the way he said it, the anger, the certainty, the absolute confidence, that made Giselle’s breath catch, “No. This is wrong.”

Suddenly the psychic rounded on her, eyes ablaze. “They broke his mind?! He fought back too strong?! Matt Callaghan – Matthew frigging Callaghan – who fought Natalia unaided to a standstill. Who kept any trace of his identity secret from me, me, for six months? Who mind‑gamed the Black Death, the Black‑” he swore, “‑Death, alone and under threat of torture. You’re telling me some government psychic, some federal employee, broke that man, mentally, to the point of only being able to say his name and power. In half a day? No.” Wally shook his head with a vehement fury Giselle had rarely seen. “I refuse to believe it. Something else is going on here, I know it.”

Giselle could only stare. “Like what?” she asked.

Wally scowled. “I don’t know,” he told her, “But I intend to find out.”

He rose. “Lock the door,” Wally commanded. His eyes bored into Matt, unblinking and determined. “Tell Editha to delay her tests. I’m going in. I want to see exactly what’s happened.”

Giselle knew little more about telepathy than the basics they taught at the Academy, but even she was horrified. “You’re going to free‑dive into a shattered mind?”

“I’m going to help my friend,” Wally growled.

“You’ll lose yourself! The madness-”

“I know who I am,” the psychic muttered, “No amount of insanity will change that.”

“My name is Matt Callaghan. I am human,” Matt murmured.

“I don’t want to-”

“I know Matt,” swore Wally, “I know me. And I will pull him back from a million pieces before I let him fall into the void. So sit down and shut up.”

Then without another word the red‑headed psychic grabbed Matt’s head on either side, pressed their foreheads together, and stared into the human’s soul with fierce, unblinking eyes.