I logged into the WeElMed app on my way to the aerial garden, and was greeted by today’s inspirational message:

Power without discipline is the embryo of dissolution.

I was familiar with that saying. It was kind of odd to think that those particular words were first spoken by the Daikenja some twenty-five hundred years ago, as he sat upon the smooth river stones beneath the Mezame-no-taki’s mist, imparting his disciples with his final teachings. In my mind, the phrase “ancient wisdom” conjured images of sages in billowing robes wandering through labyrinthine libraries in search of forgotten tomes, not, you know, an app. Still, any figure capable of launching a religious movement which would grow to encompass nearly a third of the world deserved an earnest—though not uncritical—hearing. Fortunately, today’s inspirational message was actually helpful. Perhaps, if I’d heeded the ancient sage’s advice, my recent power problems might have played out differently.

I arrived just in time to greet the Sun.

WeElMed’s aerial gardens were hybrids of patios and balconies. They were scattered around the hospital’s modern parts, where they clung, like shelves, from its outer walls.

And sometimes the inner ones, too.

The aerial gardens offered outdoor green space for anyone who needed them, and I couldn’t think of a better place to practice my powers than in them. I chose a garden on the fifth floor of the Administration Building, just past the Suture. It was close enough to Ward E that I wouldn’t have to run like a madman to get to the Ward if an emergency reared its head.

Like all others of its kind, the aerial garden was enclosed by a wall inlaid with thick panes of frosted glass, though no two had quite the same patterns. From where I sat, the frosting looked like ferns’ fronds, fossilized in glass. As for the seating area, it was a mix of benches, tables and chairs, the latter covered by awnings and umbrellas, respectively. The awnings’ and umbrellas’ stripe-patterned canvases were made from a special synthetic polymer that would change its shape in response to moisture. The canvases would unfold when wet, like chanterelles in bloom. At the slightest sign of rain—even just a general mistiness—the awnings and umbrellas would grow together in a matter of seconds, locking in place as they completely covered the patio in a watertight canopy.

In most places, having these kinds of weather-reactive outdoor amenities would seem like a luxury. But in Elpeck, it was a necessity. Elpeck Bay was the largest in the world, and it gave the city and its greater metropolitan area a unique microclimate, and a uniquely fickle one at that. The skies could tear open at the drop of a hat and pour down a thousand years’ worth of rain. As the old joke went, if you didn’t have an umbrella, it would be better to steal one or die trying.

At the moment, the canvas polymer was off-duty. The clouds were little more than a scattered herd in an open prairie sky, and would probably stay that way, so long as the weather didn’t decide to change its mind. The Sun had just begun its ascent, and the air was moist and cool. The patio still held the Night’s chill in its concrete floor; a brisk breeze had pulled the fog off the Bay and into the city.

The “garden” component of the aerial gardens took the form of large, decorative ceramic pots spread around the patio, bearing plants that—for once—were actually real. The plants drooped oddly in their pots. Discolored patches blotted the leaves, trunks, and stems with strange textures. Aside from that, however, the whole place was empty. It was just me, the plants, and my demons—especially the one in the nightgown with the blue eyes and hair.

I sat on a metal stool by one of the larger tables, wearing my PPE, my arms crossed on the table in frustration. It seemed that I was a stool person now—well… stool wyrm. Stools were quickly proving to be the least uncomfortable seating format for me and my brand new tail. Unlike chairs, benches, or sofas, a stool didn’t have a back, and so I didn’t need to worry about sitting on my tail or pinning it between my back and back of the bench over by the plants. And while that was certainly frustrating, it didn’t have any bearing on what was currently bothering me. No, that was something else altogether.

And, of course, Andalon was involved.

The spirit-girl stood on the patio with her arms up high. Yes, she was still frail and nearly as pale as her perpetual nightgown, but her sky-blue hair seemed less ratty than in days past. There was just a hint of rosiness in her cheeks, and the oceans in her eyes had calmed.

The long and the short of it was that Andalon had just finished an explanation, and I found myself more confused than ever before. I was about to open my mouth to ask her to repeat herself, when I realized that wouldn’t be necessary.

I could do it for her; I had the clarity of memory to do so. Besides, the idea that had come to me would make for good practice with my hyperphantasia skill!

Pursing my lips, I furrowed my brow, focusing my imagination. I scanned through my mind like it was a piece of ticker tape, sifting through the constant output of new material. I traced back along the ever-lengthening strand by a couple minutes, until the weird chittering sounds of remembered conversation rewinding in my ears came to the fragment I’d been looking for. I felt briefly lightheaded as the memory came to life.

A ripple passed through the air in the shape of a large rectangle. It cut the table down the middle like a wall at a service counter. Faint at first, the rectangle solidified, swirling with colors that soon came to a stop, forming an image that blocked out the other half of the table—a window into the past. Through it, I saw myself as I had been, minutes before, asking Andalon for help with better understanding the psychokinetic powers she’d lent to us transformees.

Call it a flashback on demand.

It was really reassuring to see the hyperphantasia working out so nicely. That made me confident that it was only a matter of time before I mastered it. I just wished I could have said the same about my psychokinesis.

I admit, part of my struggle with my psychokinesis was psychological in nature. The power went against everything that I thought I knew about the line between reality and fantasy.

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What would happen if I probed that line too deeply?

But that was just the tip of the iceberg. As I’d learned yesterday, things had gotten outright scriptural. The one place Lassedile scriptures needed to be clear as day—the part where they talked about the apocalypse—everything was visionary metaphors and creatures with too many limbs. Hell was supposed to raise some sort of demon army, and the Angel would summon “the Blessèd”, special people who would somehow protect the righteous and guide them to Paradise.

What were the Blessèd? No one knew for certain. But, having seen Nina Broliguez and Dr. Suisei Horosha wield powers above and beyond my measly psychokinesis, I’d be willing to bet that those two were among the Blessèd. Not only had I seen them (Well, mostly Nina) manifest the same psychokinetic abilities that I now possessed, they’d also demonstrated entirely different powers: commanding freezing temperature, the creation of light, and likely even the manipulation of electrical charge.

Whatever the truth was, I needed to get my powers under control—the sooner, the better. Other than general mastery, I suppose I had two goals—actually, three.

No: four.

The first was to get enough control of my powers that none of my ghosts could take control of my powers and wreak havoc the way Frank had. The second was to figure out how to make things levitate. I’d seen Merritt do it; I’d seen Letty do it. I imagined it would come in handy, so, the quicker I could acquire it, the better.

Thirdly, I wanted to be able to use my powers at will with relative ease, much like how I now seemed to be able to summon and dismiss Andalon on demand.

Finally, if Nina could manifest abilities other than psychokinesis, there was a chance I could do the same—and, that being the case, it behooved me to at least investigate the possibility.

Taking a deep breath, I crossed my arms and let my memory play. In the memory, I’d only just sat down on my stool. Memory-Me turned to face Andalon as she floated into view.

“So,” Memory-Me asked, “before I start trying things and probably making a fool of myself in the process, do you have any advice for me about using these powers, Andalon? Is there anything you can do to help me?”

The instant the words left my mouth, Memory-Andalon positively trembled with excitement. She tucked her arms into her chest, rubbed her knuckles together, tilting her head left and right, tousling her sky-blue hair, bangs and all, beaming with joy.

She hollered, jumping up and down with delight.

“Andalon gets to help! Andalon gets to help!”

In the now, Andalon gaped. “Woaaaaah.” She turned to face me. “Is that what Andalon sounds like?”

I nodded.

So, Andalon could see and hear the things my memories conjured. It wasn’t just me. That was useful to know.

“So… what can I do?” Memory-Me asked, crossing his arms on the table. “What’s inside my psychic bag of tricks?”

Memory-Andalon’s arms shot up. “You got a supah-mind!”

Memory-Me’s eyebrows rose. “A what?”

“Wyrmeh are supah good at thinksing. They need to be, to hold all the ghosts they save. They can think many many thinks, all at once. It’s like,” she tilted her arms to the side, “here’s a think,” she tilted her arms to the other side, “and there’s a think,” she stuck her arms up, dangling her nightgown’s poofy sleeves, “and there’s another think.” She brought her arms down. “Lotsa thinks, but they’re all the same think, and they’re all in one wyrmeh.”

I could feel the way my thoughts had spun around in the memory.

This is completely new information, I’d thought. On the other hand, it’s completely incomprehensible information.

Perhaps she was referring to the footnotes?

At the time, I’d made an executive decision to shelve this “super mind” thing—whatever it was—and ask about other things, hoping the “super mind” would clarify itself in time.

For the record, it would, and in a way that would make me feel like I needed to reach back in time and slap myself in the face for not having pushed Andalon more about it, but again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

“That’s… interesting, I guess,” Memory-Me said. “Though, really, it was a rhetorical equation.” He scratched the back of his head.

Memory-Andalon’s brow scrunched in confusion. “Reh-roh-rih-rull?”

Memory-Me chuckled. “A rhetorical question is a question you ask without intending for it to be answered.” He gestured along with his explanation.

Memory-Andalon narrowed her eyes. “Wuh? Why would you do that? That’s weird.”

“I’m just trying to get myself focused,” Memory-Me replied. “I need to get a handle of the psychokinetic powers, and rhetorical questions are a way of helping to get yourself thinking.”

“Well, there’s lotsa stuff you can do,” Memory-Andalon said.

“Yes, that’s what we’re talking about,” Memory-Me said.

“You can make stuff!” Memory-Andalon said.

In the now, Andalon pointed at the memory playing out in front of us. “Yeah! Just like you made that!”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“And you can move stuff!” Memory-Andalon said. “You think it to move it!”

As soon as the word think was out of her mouth, Memory-Andalon bounced in her seat as if she’d been zapped, jabbering excitedly. “Thinking! I remember that! It’s a lot of thinking.” Crossing her arms, she nodded, smiling in self-assurance. “Yep yep yep!”

Memory-Me raised an eyebrow. “Could you explain it to me, please?”

A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed that anyone could have ever rivaled Rayph’s adorable antics, but the performance the little spirit-girl dished out proved me wrong. Had Pel been there, she’d have whipped out her console and filmed it, ready to make it into a home movie.

Well, not really; only I could see Andalon, and there was no evidence that recording devices could detect her presence.

Andalon pointed at her memory-self. “Ooh! This is the part where I did the thing!”

Groaning softly, I gave her a reluctant smile.

Yes, this was where she did the thing. In this case, “the thing” was her explanation of the psychokinetic powers that I was developing. (The same was almost certainly true for the other transformees, as well.) But this wasn’t just any run of the mill explanation, oh no. It was chaos incarnate; spurting gesticulations, gratuitous sound effects, vague attempt at being sung, the whole nine yards. It was like watching a three-year-old reënact the latest entry in the Primo Cinematic Universe’s canon of superhero movies in all its spectacle. Lights! Camera! CGI!

I’d given her an A+ for effort at the time, and watching it over again only cemented my judgment.

And this was what she’d said:

“One two three, those are the steps! You gotta make the shimmery-wimmery before you can make it go woo woo!” She spun around and ran her hands through her hair, letting it trickle through her fingers. “And so you shake it, a shake-a shake-a shake-a, and some parts are loud and tasty, and other parts are quiet and they tickle. You bounce it, you shake it, you really, really make it, and then the thing happens! But sometimes it’s hard, because it doesn’t always listen, but, when it does listen, you just let it go all yaaaaaaaa and then it’s wow and all the cool stuff happens.” Memory-Andalon stuck her hands together and shot them forward while flapping them like a butterfly’s wings. “But… sometimes you make it all windy-loo, and then you go, ‘I’m gonna put you, I’m gonna put you again, I’m gonna put you again, again’—and that’s how you make wyrmehs, you know! And that’s how you do it!” For a moment, she stuck a triumphant pose, her fists at her waist.

I dismissed the memory rectangle window thing with a strong thought of this is enough. The memory was about to reach the point where I had created the memory window, and I was nervous about what would happen when it came time for me Memory-Me to become the me I had just been as he started to make the memory rectangle thing.

Would I end up watching Andalon’s performance on a forever-repeating recursion?

I did not want to find out.