Morning sun falls through clouds and Elia's studio window, casting the room in a dream-like glow. Bamboo circles in front of the stairs. Her usual slick grey-brown fur a puff of anger or frustration with each strand standing on end. Elia's teeth clench and she tries to push the furball out of her mind.

Bamboo stops circling and strikes a pose like a lion preparing to pounce. And she meows. Just ignore the cat, don't worry. Elia wraps her hand over the round, wooden knob of a drawer on a dusty dresser; the drawer she throws all her junk into.

Bamboo roars. Familiar distortions of light cascade out from a pinprick of swirling unreality just above the dresser, more chaotic than usual.

Elia's clenching teeth turn to gnashing, grinding stones. Damn cat won't leave her alone. She shields her eyes with a forearm from whatever unknowable truths seep through to twist her mind.

Crack

Bamboo drops out of the rift mid-pounce and onto all fours. She snakes her body around a dustless picture frame that's home to a young woman with a purple graduation gown, Elia's curly hair, and someone else's hazel eyes.

Elia forces her grinding teeth apart and pays careful attention to her tone, but she speaks in words that don't feel like her own. "You can go down stairs. I'll be fine."

Bamboo nuzzles the edge of the frame.

Elia slams the picture face down. "Fine. Sit there."

The cat swishes her tail and fixes her emerald eyes on Elia's. A cold trickle of guilt pools in Elia's chest and gnashing teeth settle for a moment: then Elia wrenches the drawer open.

Forgotten knickknacks and rubber bands and unopened boxes of staples obscure even more layers of unknown junk. Elia's heart leaps into her throat and her palms slick with sweat. It's at the bottom. She digs through the drawer, sending its contents raining onto the ground around her feet.

Half the drawer now on the floor, a glint of gold light sparkles off a piece of metal somewhere under the remaining junk. There! Elia wraps her hand around the tiny gold disk and yanks it out.

A pocket mirror. Every surface is a spotless matte gold; flowers coil around the edges of one face in intricate detail. Elia feels her heart pounding through each fingertip resting on the cool metal surface, little thumps that grow in intensity and speed with each moment. She pushes in a pushpin on the outside edge of the case and it springs open.

Her own face stares back at her from a mirror set into the underside of the case's lid. Brown eyes, short locks of hair springing down across her forehead, and the rest gathering in an oversized bun at the back of her head. Elia's throat goes dry: painful scraping sensations with every breath.

Just another look.

Bamboo puts a paw forward and whispers a meow with pointy teeth peeking through the crack of her mouth. Elia hesitates for a moment. Then she stares right into her reflection's eyes and lets the lock on her power fall away.

Her irises turn from brown to hungry voids of darkness, swirling with otherworldly power. Warmth shoots across her face in lightning-like patterns and sweat beads along her hairline.

A couple moments longer.

Blue lights flicker to life one after another at the edges of the voids and spiral along invisible currents. They fly around what used to be Elia's irises, drifting toward the center. Then one disappears into the void like a star tumbling into the event horizon of a black hole.

That cold pool of guilt in her chest doesn't drain: it vanishes without a trace.

Another light passes the center of her iris. Her shoulders straighten, the weight of unknown sadness flowing into the ether. More lights flow in until all that's left is anger. Gnashing teeth, pounding heart.

Hate.

A stubborn light trudges away from the void, struggling against whatever gravity wills it to cease its existence. That piece of shit. It should go away forever, leave her alone forever. Die forever. Elia widens her eyes and forces the void to pull harder.

The light jerks back toward the center, struggles for a few moments, then slips the rest of the way into darkness. Grinding teeth fall silent, her heart slows down. Everything just exists. No good, no bad, no neutral. Only the facts that her senses tell her with no coloring from her own biases. Elia blinks at her hazel eyes in the reflection and closes the mirror with a click.

Bamboo jumps up to Elia's shoulders, coiling around her neck like a scarf. She licks Elia's face and lets out a whimper of a meow.

Elia slips the pocket mirror in her chest pocket. "Work."

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Music seeps from the door at the bottom of the studio's stairwell. Otto again. Elia pushes through and she beelines to her station. A sky blue 2032 Mustang that needs an oil change, an air filter replacement, and a new catalytic converter.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Elia grabs her tool belt off her tool cabinet and clicks it around her waist. Everything not her current task disappears: Otto's pop music and his bald head bobbing along, Duffie donning a headlamp and hopping into the cab of the Chrysler 300C, Bamboo licking her face every five minutes.

Elia's perception returns once the Mustang's checklist runs out and she dabs a cloth across her brow. Duffie stands at the edge of the Elia's workspace. "Done with that 300C now if you want to look over my work." They point a thumb back toward Otto's workstation. "I'm surprised you haven't said anything to him yet."

Otto drums his fingers across the hood of a minivan to the tune of Lump. A memory of a teenage Elia pops into her head: listening to an old album by The Presidents of the USA that her dad said was a classic. The one that had Lump, her dad's favorite.

Just a memory. Elia pushes past Duffie and heads to the 300C. "I'll check it."

Duffie stumbles back at the contact. "Excuse me?"

Elia turns back and stares at Duffie with soulless eyes. "Yeah?"

"You bumped into me? Normally someone says sorry after something like that."

Crack. Bamboo teleports from somewhere in the rafters back to Elia's shoulder, then she brushes a furry cheek against Elia's.

Elia keeps her eyes on Duffie. "Oh, sorry."

Music stops. That doesn't normally happen without Elia saying something, odd. She turns toward Otto's workstation. The scarecrow of a man that Otto is, he covers the distance between them with a couple bounding strides. His eyes drift onto Elia's. Pain strikes across his face and he slaps a hand on Duffie's shoulder, talking in a voice loud enough to hear from the next lot. "H-hello. It's all good, right? Come please Duffie, I have things to talk about."

Elia glances between the two, waiting for someone to address her. Maybe one of them needs her. Bamboo must with how clingy she's being.

Otto hunches his shoulders and pulls Duffie into a huddle. "She's out of it right now. I don't know all of it, but she use to be like this every day. Her power does something with her mind."

Duffie's eyebrows scrunch together with a tilt of their head and concern paints their eyes. "Addiction?"

They don't need her, she supposes. Elia turns away and heads to the 300C.

The deep rumbles of Otto's voice still carries across the garage. "Don't tell her about the thing yet, give it a week please."

What thing? It's not important, she supposes.

Duffie's voice takes on a defensive tone. "I already held off with that priest woman upsetting her. I can't wait anymore!"

Otto hushes himself to the level of an average person's usual talking volume. "You'll both regret it if you do it today. Trust me."

Duffie sighs, then there's silence except for the shuffle of feet in opposite directions and the occasional meow from Bamboo. Guess they didn't need her. She hops into the cab and checks over the new console installation.

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Sickbay doesn't have a single person besides staff during lunch hour. Mitchel's undercut is less unkempt, the booths are cleaner than usual with only one discarded banana peel in sight, and the chef smiles beyond the metal-lined kitchen window. Elia ignores it all and slips into her usual booth right next to the entrance.

Bamboo slithers down her shoulder and waits at the edge of the table. Moments later, Mitchel drops a full bowl of milk next to her. "What're you having?"

Elia looks up into Mitchel's hazel eyes; her voice comes out as a monotonous hum, like a running generator. "The usual."

Mitchel squints his eyes and lowers his head toward Elia, searching for something. "You're not..." Recognition dawns and panic contorts his face. "No, no, no. Not again, Elia. Did you use your pocket mirror?"

"Yes. Can I have the pancakes?"

He runs a hand over Bamboo's fur, then taps his fingers across the table. "Oh god. This isn't good, this isn't good at all. What caused it this time?"

Elia opens her mouth to respond.

He shakes his head side to side like a twisting bobble head on a tight spring. "Wait, don't answer that. Wait until you're sober."

"Okay. And the pancakes?"

He pushes up off the table. "Okay. I need the time to think. I'll come back with your food and we'll talk."

Elia stares out the window for a while. People pass by wearing loose jackets and long sleeves, minus the one guy wearing shorts despite the frigid air. A thick blanket of clouds flow by and saps the warmth of any rays of sun that fight their way past. Time passes, clouds don't change. The people don't either.

Passing blurs, she supposes. Meaningless observations to pass the time until she can eat.

A plate of syrup laden pancakes slides in front of Elia and Mitchel lays a plate with an omelet and toast opposite her. "So we need to talk about the mirror. I don't want to hear why you used it, but how many times? Just once so far?"

Elia crams a slice of pancake into her mouth and talks through chewing. "Yes."

Mitchel places his hands on either side of the table around his plate, refusing to touch his silverware. "Not that bad yet then." He snaps in Bamboo's direction. "Hey, Bamboo."

The pancakes taste sweet, but they don't make Elia's brain tingle with pleasure like usual. She shoves another butter-drenched slice in her mouth.

Bamboo peeks up from her bowl of milk at the call of her name and pushes her cheek into Mitchel's hand. Mitchel tilts her head up so that they make eye contact. His eyes take on a wet, unnatural sadness for a moment before returning to normal: then he furrows his brow and stares at Elia. "She's worried about you, Elia. I don't think I've ever felt a cat this concerned about a human before."

"Guilt tripping pushed me to do it," Elia says in an even tone, as if she was remarking on the color of a passing car.

Mitchel cringes, twisting his head to the side and raising a palm just off the table. "Don't! Don't tell me why, wait and share if you want after it wears off. I'm sorry though. I just thought you'd want to know what the cat thought."

"Okay."

"Would you be willing to let me hold onto the mirror so we can have a chat after your power wears off?"

Elia looks up and into Mitchel's eyes for the first time. "No. I might need it."

He sighs and shoves a slice of veggie-filled omelet in his mouth. "I'd give it right back, I promise. Just as soon as it wears off and we have a —"

The plate is empty and she has no reason to stay. Elia drops her fork and knife onto the plate, a couple ten dollar bills, and slides out the booth.

Mitchel raises a hand, shooing her back to sit. "Wait, wait! I can get you another plate if you want. A drink. Anything."

She's full, her movements are more lethargic with all the butter and flour and syrup. She turns and strides toward the door. "No thank you."

Mitchel calls from the booth with a screech of the tables legs along the floor. "Wait!"

Weird that he keeps calling after her, she supposes. She pushes out the door and a blast of frigid air runs past her. It sends her mechanic jumpsuit's loose fabric whipping about like the crests of sand dunes shifting with the wind. She crosses her arms and starts on back to the garage.

The door crashes open behind her and Mitchel calls out over the parking lot, emptying his lungs of air to fight through the roaring wind to reach her. "Elia! Come on!"

She doesn't acknowledge the crash or Mitchel's voice, the latter growing more quiet with every step. There are more cars to fix.