-- Kingfisher General Hospital, Los Angeles, USA
“Dr. that has got to be a first…”
Dr. Prioux nodded absently at the nurses’ comment as he continued to stare down at the child in his arms.
“What? What do you mean? Is there something wrong with my baby?!?” The mother’s hormone-ridden voice danced about the room excitedly. The two nurses present in the delivery room remained silent, apparently uncomfortable with answering the question.
Prioux ripped his eyes from the shimmering emeralds of the child’s, which seemed to quietly hide a wisdom far beyond their young age. He looked up cautiously to the mother. “Well, I would be inclined to say no at this point, but I think perhaps some tests might be in order.” That is, if he could find a test
“Tests, why?”
The old doctor took a few steps towards the mother, giving her back the towel-wrapped baby gently before crossing his arms. “Well, Mrs. Pye, you just gave birth to a baby and it didn’t cry once. What’s more, I’m watching its eye movements and there is lucidity in the child’s thought process I have never seen at this age. I mean… it’s like he’s fully conscious already” He shrugged slightly, glancing back down to the infant. “There is a good chance you daughter may be a genius Mrs. Pye.”
The mother smiled, looking down at her newborn lost in thought. “I can feel it, I can feel her…” she said, more to herself than anyone. “My little genius…”
Prioux wasn’t sure, but he felt as if perhaps he felt the child in some way as well. Somewhere deep inside of his mind there seemed to be a foreign element when studying the newborn.
“Have you thought of a name yet?” one of the nurses asked, biting her lower lip a bit as she whispered something to her co-worker.
Mrs. Pye smiled again, tossing her head back and forth a bit. “I have a few in mind” she paused for a moment, “I want to talk it over with Herald first…” trailing off, she glanced to the door.
Prioux nodded silently. ‘Herald’; so that was the name of the man who was ‘running late’. He pursed his lips slightly at his thoughts before his eyes shifted to the hallway outside of the particular delivery room they were in. Almost on cue, a young disheveled looking man rounded the corner in a slight jog, headed straight for them. “Mrs. Pye, I think your husband has arrived” he announced, starting to walk towards the door, “Right on time…” he uttered, rolling his eyes slightly and reaching for the doorknob with he gave a twist, pulling on the door.
Herald had clearly been about to reach for the door from the other side, and so when it opened the spectators in the room found him pulling his arm back in surprise. “Uh, Hey… is this…?” the goofball started, glancing about the room as he looked past the small doctor to let his eyes fall on Mrs. Pye, “Honey!” he exclaimed pushing past Prioux.
“Won’t you join us…?” Prioux offered wryly, pursing his lips again and shutting the door to follow the suspect man back towards the bed. Herald was a larger man with the makings of a beard on his face. This particular father figure was outfitted with wrinkled, badly color-coordinated clothing. It wasn’t so much the clothing of the man that bothered Prioux, for that is merely a layer of appearance. Rather it was the general character which permeated into his senses from through the weathered jean jacket and camouflage cargo shorts. The presence of this parent-to-be emanated a corrosive quality which Prioux figured surely must bleed over into all facets of his person, including parenting, evidently. This man was no disheveled intellectual; or some avid pursuer of his personal dream; this man was a fucking loser.
“We have a little genius on our hands Herald.” Mrs. Pye announced with a glowing smile before looking back down to her son.
“She’s perfect” Herald said, almost breathless as he leaned down to the child. “Hey there little— he stopped, frowning as he pulled his head back quickly. “Wait…. what the…f-”
The doctor glanced at the nurses, motioning to Herald with his head.
They shrugged, clearly with as much information as the Doctor at this point.
Herald continued to stand transfixed before the child, a puzzled look on his face which seemed to be shifting to fear by the second. “What the fuck…how can you know about that? HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?” The words flew out of his mouth at the child, who was sitting quietly in the mother’s arms.
With another surge of adrenalin though her already exhausted body, Mrs. Pye snapped out of her state of shock, “Herald don’t swear around the baby! What are you talking about?” she asked simply, glancing back and forth between her husband and newborn son. “Have you been…taking your medications again?”
Prioux had already figured this man was an addict of some sort, but this little stunt seemed to now make that definitive. “Nurse Camdon” he said simply, his arms folded as he glared at the moron before him. “Security” he mouthed, glancing towards her for a moment so she could see his lips. Prioux returned his attention to the scene before him: Herald was looking down on the mother and child, which meant that his attention was distracted. Even still, the father was quite a bit bigger than the aging doctor; if the physician was going to intervene at all, it was likely going to have to be with words.
“You fucking little brat…” Herald whispered, tears and sniffles now beginning to emanate from the junkie. “How can you…?”
“Herald you’re scaring me…” Mrs. Pye said softly to her husband. “He’s just a child; he can’t talk to you, yet.”
“Shut the fuck up!” the large man snapped at his wife, “What do you know?” he added, before staring directly at the completely calm baby, his anger subsiding back into his silent introspective torment.
“Herald, what are you feeling right now?” Dr. Prioux offered, attempting to delay the possibility of another, worse outburst of some sort.
The words washed over the large man’s shoulders but he did not turn away from the child. They did seem to have an effect though, as he stood silent for a moment in thought. “Invaded…” he said quietly, still facing away from the doctor.
Prioux attempted to digest the word with the rest of the situation, biting his lip in thought.
The two nurses stood beside each other watching the strange scene with a mixture of fear and intrigue dancing about them whispering emotion filled insights.
“Oh God Darlene I’m so sorry…” Herald sighed, seemingly with as much strength as he could muster before suddenly reaching down towards the child aggressively.
The frail Doctor thought about shouting ‘No!’ but it would have already been too late.
Herald’s life had come to a close and the baby sat unscathed, blinking into the bright hospital lights with a small smile.
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^
Ascension _/
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--Nagual, Mexico
A small Wichita native was seated cross-legged on the soft mexican soil beside an Acacia tree just outside the small rural town of Nagual. He used it for meditation often, and today would be a verification.
That which sets man apart from the animals, in part, is his ability to think about past and future events. These cleavages into intuition enabled humanity to self actualize, and see an individual staring back from the reflection in the calm lakes of Wichitas. Benigno remembered that grizzled face of his well, so long ago. Now, man does not like who is staring back at him from the mirror, but yet he does nothing to change this because his image has all but been evaporated by the bright lights of the modern age. The Wichitas lakes are all but empty now save for a small pond redeveloped into a water station named ‘Reservoir la Estación número treinta y tres’.
Mexico is not the same now, but from his seat on the ground he caught a glimpse of those shimmering waters once again -- for the first time in such a long time. If only the others could have seen it through all the way.
He closed his eyes, leaning back on the tree, thinking of another time.
Where his society fell into apathy, and eventually a period of disillusioned non-existence before death, Benigno and his few peers set into motion in secret a very special intention. Their entire culture was based on the premise that anything was possible, and Benigno was a man who stayed true to his roots. The others had even given him the nickname of ‘Tree.’
For years they meditated, clearing the skies a new path for an agent of heart.
Benigno felt it first, which was good as he was the last that remembered that he knew of.
“The old ways return.”
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-- Club Fikal, Los Angeles, USA
The young man stood there on the fringes of the limelight, holding his ground with the sickness. It was something he would run into often, a pervasive concept he had read about in many places, and many books. Hollywood certainly didn’t seem to be an exception. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but it just didn’t feel that everyone appeared to have a soul, like in other areas where it seemed the more-or-less socially accepted thing to have.
Marcello’s thin black frame was a stranger amongst the celebrities present at what appeared to be a standard CD launch after party – this made him a celebrity of sorts. Any time you are at a party like this and the people don’t know you questions start to fly. When you are carrying a large statue the questions and attention sticks to you like grated cheese on the counter. Getting the statue inside had taken long enough, if he could just make it to his employer’s table....
He was a thief, and he had stolen something. The final stage in the process is to sell said object without being overtly suspicious. Even in Marcello’s books, a public exchange at a well-known nightclub doused in press-cologne is essentially the definition of a failure for the final stage. Still, you go to where the cheques are.
His latest acquisition was a rather large rendition of the statue of liberty which he had found nestled quite securely within the intricacies of some wealthy estate just outside of LA. The statue was similar to the real Statue of Liberty, but with a few differences – for instance her book was open instead of closed. Not exactly his cup of tea for room decor but it was what Lil’ Parsons wanted, and he was somewhat better at the final process than Marcello seemed to be.
“Sup chief? You need a hand with that thing?” A slightly boozed-looking ‘hip’ looking young white guy asked. He wore a tight T-shirt which bore a some sort of fashionable picture and tight blue jeans.
Marcello was pretty sure he could see make-up on his face.
“Nah that’s alright homie, I got it” he replied, shrugging slightly at who he would later learn was Thomas Cantly – some Hollywood dreamboat or another. “… goin jus over there man…” he explained, motioning with his head over towards the small army of black people surrounding Lil Parsons. His younger employer was seated at the head of a throne-like table at the corner of the club.
“Oh…” the equally young celebrity responded, glancing over to the young rapper’s massive entourage, “Well you got this.—your good man, almost there and shit. Peace brotha!” Thomas Cantley exclaimed, taking one last glance at the large stolen antique which awaited selling before moving on in the opposite direction.
Marcello moved on, finally reaching a large sofa-surrounded table area where near thirty some people where trying to gather. He was trying to think of a way to push through the desperate floozies and other such male leeches surrounding the young billionaire rapper ‘Little Parsons’ – his employer – but Parson’s right hand man Calvin Solomon spotted the small Statue of Liberty right away, and whispered his arrival to the rap superstar.
Parsons raised a hand and pointed directly at Marcello, motioning for him to approach. Marcello hugged lady liberty close and endured the small gauntlet of robust nymphs with a small smile. “Ladies...” he said with a small nod as he passed by. “Aigh’t P, where you want your special date for tonight?” he exclaimed to Parsons and Calvin Solomon both over the music as he approached their seats at the head of the table.
“Yo, Cello... what it is? Put that bitch down right beside me here...” he said pushing an otherwise gorgeous woman away from her position beside him at the table. “Sorry shorty, but you ain’t gon try compete with freedom now is ya?”
The groupie laughed slightly and backed up enough to let Marcello set the statue down, giving it and him a cold stare. Sometimes just being around such a young rich ‘flaunt it’ superstar can get you a sum of wealth, like Marcello, the girl was just trying to get hers he imagined.
“Here you are.” Calvin Solomon said simply, handing Marcello a cheque somewhat discretely, though the girl who had been pushed aside noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow.
“So you gonna stay and have a couple drinks, take in these here tight sights...?” Parsons said putting an arm around his employee, slurring his words somewhat as he motioned to the small sea of female eyes now focused mostly on the pair.
“Uh... I dunno man, I should probably get going...” Marcello responded truthfully as a strange feeling washed over him all-of-the sudden. It was not painful, but not pleasant either, he could not find the words to talk, but he could see that Parsons, his manager, and the woman all seemed have puzzled looks on their faces. He was not sure if they were affected by the same feeling, or watching him. Raising a hand to his head for a moment he took a few deep breaths. There was a strange glow which permeated his vision for a couple seconds before it faded off, but not entirely -- a subtle feeling remained which he could not shake.
“I...think I drank too much...” the groupie groaned, somewhat disorientated by whatever had just happened.
“What the fuck was that....” Parsons asked quietly with a touch of fear in his voice, yet somehow still audible above the pounding music Marcello knew was playing out there, somewhere. “That wasn’t the booze...”
Everything had gone quiet for the thief, and looking around it appeared many of the people in the club were visibly shaken up, but it also appeared that many had not been, and danced on unfazed to the music, including the DJ presumably.
“I... I do not know” his manager responded, rubbing his temples.
“You guys felt that?”
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--Santa Monica, California, USA
“Listen, Steve-O, it’s a make it, break it, world out there, you know? I mean you come in here all geared up and energetic but what have you done? Did you release the sex tape like I said? No. Did you stay on the late night circuit? No. I tell you the secret over and over and the secret is exposure! The public doesn’t care what the fuck you’re doing, or who the fuck you’re screwing -- so long as you’re there for your viewing. You get paid to look good, and be interesting in a more or less non-controversial way. ”
Max rolled his eyes. Had his agent just given him advice in the form of a rhyme? What was going on here? Fuck Hollywood.
“First of all, my name is Max, alright; and secondly I didn’t come in here ‘all geared up’, I just sort of sauntered into the room. It was an average entrance at best.” He nodded at this thought slightly as it replayed in his head. “Yeah, average entrance” he repeated, more to himself. “Secondly, don’t give me the rhyming five-step routine alright; you sound like a fucking infomercial.” Max shook his head slightly, “For fuck’s sake Anthony, Steve actually has somewhat of a career. I know I don’t, but the least you could do is remember who the fuck I am.”
The greasy Agent tapped the sucker he was holding with his right hand against the front top teeth of his mouth. “Err…yeah, sorry Max.” he said quickly before popping the candy back into his mouth and taking a stroll over to the window positioned in the corner of the office. “How could I forget about the Duke” he added. The ceiling ran from the tiles above to the floor; Max considered it was to give the impression of there being a small ledge in the corner from where somewhere could see the city essentially unobstructed
Max sat in his seat quietly; glancing around he saw a couple seconds give him a wink as they flew by whispering thoughts before heading into the next room. He needed a gig. Not for the money as it was rather irrelevant, but simply because at the end of the day that was what made him feel good -- being seen. ‘The glazed-over gaze of the willfully dazed’ his parents would call it. What the fuck do they know? They use shitty rhyme phrases like his useless agent.
“I’ve got it.” Anthony said after a few more seconds and a few more annoying sucker taps. “I could get you guest celebrity coverage on CNN’s coverage from the Tsarion Complex for the anniversary stuff. It doesn’t pay, at all, but I know that you don’t need the money.”
Hmm, Anthony just got a bit less useless “CNF? Why would they need an Actor?” He doubted Anthony would know the answer, though Max was pretty sure he had a good idea himself. Either way he knew his parents would be simply delighted to have him working the Tsarion Complex Anniversary.
“I dunno what the fuck they’re up to…” Anthony shrugged, turning around to rummage through a couple pieces of paper on his desk. “Ok it says: A non-current celebrity of mediocre interest to handle some street level Q&A’s.”
Max rubbed his chin for a couple seconds. “The Tsarion Compex…”
The Welsh actor trailed off as a very strange feeling passed through him, leaving some sort of residual effect he couldn’t quite pin down. “Hey, Anthony…” he said, rubbing his head instinctually.
“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound like a yes…” he said, his smile turning once again to a sort of mock frown; almost as if to pretend he cared whether if Max took the job or not.
“No it’s not that…” Max looked around a couple times, struggling to think of the words. “Did you feel that just now?”
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--West Hollywood, California, USA
Darryl Tobasco sat parked in his ’02 Dodge Stealth in the parking lot of a McDonalds somewhere in West Hollywood. He had never seen this part of the hills before, so as he munched on some piece of shit byproduct or another his eyes darted about taking in the local sights. He didn’t let them stray for too long from the suspect’s door across the street, beyond which there was a good chance of there being a plethora of different narcotics.
Then something happened which put Darryl on alarm.
About one third of all the people walking on the street suddenly stopped; many putting hands to their temples or eyes. What was going on here? These people couldn’t have all eaten MacDonald’s. Darryl found himself mimicking the actions of the pedestrians, confused in general at what seemed to be afflicting them and him.
Many people on the streets looked about at each other confused – a couple were even laughing. The majority though, seemed to carry on with their busy selves completely unaffected.
“Hmm…curious” the old man said out-loud to himself. He sat for a moment or two trying to disseminate the situation before reaching for his radio. “Dispatch, this is unit 97 here, umm…I know this may sound a little odd but have there been any calls of a large scale emotional event of some sort? Over.”
“Unit 97 that’s a negative.”
Darryl rubbed his chin, studying the crowd for clues as they continued with their return to a more or less uniform stream of the latest aesthetic.
“Unit 97 what’s the matter you finally let your girlfriend out in public? Over.”
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--Madrid, Spain
Agent Tully Humphries looked up and down the candy rack at some gas station just outside of the Madrid. He took his time to carefully examine the different choices available. Spain had some great gum; a couple of the manufacturers really knew what they were doing when it came to the considerations of all the pasta in the Italian diet -- for some it can wreck havoc on the teeth. Yes, gum decision was an important one, albeit a little boring. For Agent Humphries, though, it was the boring things which he liked. The things he could meditate on for fun.
Then the phone rang.
In the world of Agent Humphries a single phone call can mean many different things, some of which include imminent death, loss of an identity which does not exist, and other rather nasty undesirables. With a small frown he put his gum decision on hold and reached into his Dockers for his communication device. Pressing the button to cause the metal tube to slide open lengthwise, Tully examined the world map on the screen to small red dot blinking at the bottom somewhere in Antarctica -- somewhere he knew well.
“Yeah” he grunted into the phone as he answered the call.
“Los Angeles, now. Kingfisher General Hospital. We’ll brief you on the way.”
Tully didn’t bother to respond before pressing end. The gum didn’t re-enter his thoughts until about halfway across the Pacific.
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--Just outside Palos Verdez, California, USA
The others just didn’t understand.
Marcello’s problem was never with his friends, it was with the situations they couldn’t see themselves walking into. There was something on the block he had felt in the back of his mind for a long, long time before he decided to find it out what it was. As it would turn out Marcello didn’t even need to read all that far into the dictionary to find ‘Apathy’.
Now it would seem there is a new nagging in the back of his mind, but somehow he didn’t think the dictionary would solve this particular problem. He had a hunch about this ‘event’, or so the night at the club had become, and his hunch was that it was something big.
“Yo, nigga, you wear that same lame ass black suit, and every time I see you continue on to these bleach blocks up derr.”
The voice came from behind, startling Marcello slightly. He turned to see some random punk rising from the seat behind his on the bus. The black man’s arm twitched slightly in the direction of his suit pocket, but as he noticed the bus was nearing the last stop any sane black man would be getting off at. “Yo whachu want Nigga?” he inquired in a tone roughly equivalent to the punk’s dialect.
The black punk raised his hands slightly – probably a decent guy. “Yo man, I’m just wondering that’s all, but I be seeing you on this bus all the time you always got this all this Black Panther shit going on you know what I’m sayin man?”
The bus had stopped and the few remaining black patrons as well as a couple of white began to move towards the exits. The punk moved in a bit closer so as to let them pass.
“It’s like, you’re headin up to Rollin Hills rockin with these funeral home threads; whatchu some white money funeral home director or something?”
Marcello let out a small, deep laugh. “Nah, Homie, I’m more of a lover. I be getting paid by them but they ain’t know I’m workin for em, you know what I’m sayin bro?”
The punk nodded a couple times as he started to move away with the crowd, evidently lost in thought. Perhaps he did not get what Marcello was saying. “Yo, you wanna help a nigga out…?” he yelled as he began to descend the stairs with his head turned back to the young thief, “You know where to find me!” he yelled even louder with his hands out indicating to the bus.
As the public transport shed the last of the black passengers save for one, the metal tube started up it’s on its journey again, climbing the road towards the turnoff for the Rolling Hills Estates. He had visited that particular neighborhood last time and so thought he would make his destination Palos Verdes -- even further on ahead.
Equally as important as the location for this particular endeavor was his nourishment. With a nice meal of fried chicken, rice and broccoli hanging out happily in his stomach waiting to be digested, Marcello felt the need to feed to finally feed the hunger.
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-- “HELP” Wellness Centre, Los Angeles, USA
Jocelyn Vaubon twirled her glasses lazily as she watched her latest patient stroll into the door.
At twenty-eight Jocelyn felt herself to be in one of those stages during life in which everything was clicking. Hard work and dedication and seen her rise through the University of Indiana Psychology faculty to graduate at the top of her class with a PhD in Psychology. This in turn landed her a position at Los Angeles’ upscale psychiatric facility ‘HELP’. It was a large private facility downtown which also had many overpriced day-spa amenities as well. Sure, in this type of upper class location she was mostly re-medicating the social churnings of the pharmaceutical gears, but she tended not to de-value the rich snobs she treated -- only their problems.
The fact was hard work and dedication had left Jocelyn’s own social skills somewhat foreign looking upon the conclusion of the trip. She had only realized recently; about two weeks into her cushy position, in fact. It seemed like at the end of it all the same system which she had utilized to get ahead left her suffering with the same people she had to try and fix.
As the rather lazily dressed young man took a seat Jocelyn reached to a glass of water to wash down the lastest anti-depressant she had access to; it sat on the back of her tongue, contemplating the dark cliff which awaited its entrance into the perialstalsis.
The young man took a seat in the soft chair which faced her desk.
Jocelyn’s office was complete with a classical psychologist’s couch – designer; it rested quietly in the corner. Honestly, the young blonde had simply assumed that patients would enjoy using the couch, but after a week of straight chair sessions she had opted for a more comfortable one. She watched the boy sink into it with satisfaction.
“Hello…” Jocelyn started after swallowing the sip of water along with the pill and opening up the portfolio which rested before her. “Lynus” she said, spotting his name on the report. The last name was Haas.
He shrugged casually. “Hey…Doc” was the response. He was busy looking around the room, which she had purposely left fairly ambiguous. “Hmm. Indiana…”
This caught her slightly off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Where’d you get your degree from?”
Jocelyn paused for a moment, attempting to read the young, smooth face on the boy before her. Clearly he had done his homework. Was this his gloating face?
“Do you like power, Lynus?”
The young boy shrugged, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair; it almost bordered on white. “Power? What is your definition?”
“Respect…”
The young boy laughed at this. “Respect?” he shrugged again, rolling his eyes as he studied the floor for a moment. “Let’s just say that I don’t know what I like.”
Jocelyn nodded, jotting down: ‘Research?’
“So, did you look up where I went to college?”
“No, I asked you a question – one I’m still sort of waiting on.”
The Doctor nodded again, pausing for a moment to think. The kid had a way about him, Jocelyn had to admit. Something about the way he seemed to stare through not only herself, but everything. It seemed unlikely for the young Doctor that this particular fellow was going to be another case of the suburban sickness. “How would it make you feel if I told you that you guessed correctly?”
He looked up directly into her eyes at this question; they sparkled a brilliant shade of turquoise. “I think to that I would say: that is the reason why I am here.”
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--Starbucks Coffee, Los Angeles, USA
“A week from today marks the 7th anniversary of the tragedy of December 20th and CNF will be broadcasting live, with twenty-four hour coverage from Tsarion Complex A. We will be…” The blonde anchor went on to talk about the anniversary event as Darryl’s eyes went on down to her shapely chest. CNF’s women aren’t just attractive; they’re this type of precision hotness that seems to seize his dick and his attention with surprising authority.
“Listen, T-bass, about that strange feeling...”
Darryl pulled his attention down from the small television tucked into the corner of Starbucks they were sitting in. The ‘TV Corner’ as some of the would be intellects had explained to him in a oh so cheerful mood. That is, before sauntering off with a copy of Cathay to the ‘Abstract Depression’ corner. There was no TV in that corner. “What do you mean that strange feeling?” The words came out without much thought as he then struggled to recall what him and his partner were talking about.
“Well what is it?” reported his partner, Violet. “You know, the one from the other day?”
“I didn’t say I felt it persay, just that I thought I did cause other people seemed to be feeling something odd.
“So you think nothing happened?”
“Well... something sure, but nothing important I don’t think. Just one of those...things that happens.”
“Well, how do you know?!?” she responded somewhat angered.
Darryl smirked slightly, reaching down to take a sip of his white chocolate mocha as Violet reached down for another sip of her bottled water. He always had admired her ability to operate so alert, seemingly regardless of any sort of sleep deprivation. After eight years of service together, and many long nights, he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a cup of coffee. She was a good cop. That is, except for the temper. “What makes you so sure you know?”
Violet shrugged slightly, exhaling. Her attractive face contorting into an expression of ponderance; the pale oval encapsulated by a few strands of her brown hair which escaped the confines of a purposefully messy ponytail. “I just feel…this angst all of the time since it happened... or didn’t happen.” She finally responded, her violet eyes flashing up to focus on her partner’s own.
Darryl chuckled slightly, downing the rest of his caffeinated beverage. “Angst?” he asked, more to himself than anyone, staring at the cup in his aging hands. “I haven’t heard that word in a while. Anxiety on the other hand…” he trailed off as the familiar feeling began to rise, seemingly on cue. His eyes drifted back up to the television as they flashed images of the Tsarion Event for what seemed like the millionth time.
“But what is the difference between anxiety and angst?” his partner asked, also glancing down at her watch and sensing the shift back into ‘work’ mode. Violet paused to think about her own question for a moment before downing the rest of her water and beginning to swim into her coat from its position behind her, draped over the back of the chair. When she was finished she had her arms in the sleeves, with the coat effectively on, though still draped over the back of the chair – an odd habit of Violet’s.
The difference? The question seemed rather redundant in Darryl’s eyes, which he rolled as his partner put her coat back on. She had always tended to be rather philosophical, which Darryl found useless a lot of the time, in their line of work. He was going to make an attempt at the question though, as he never liked to back down from these little debates the duo had to kill the time. That is, until he felt the subtle vibrations from the cell phone in his pants pocket. “Hold on, V, phone” he announced, reaching down to his pocket for the device.
“It’s the Sarg.”
Darryl raised an eyebrow at this proclamation just as the melodic sounds which had long since lost their appeal began to play. Raising an eyebrow at his partner he flipped open the sleek machine. “Tobasco…”
“Hey, T-bass, listen, I need you two to get back here ASAP, looks like we’ve got some sort of… incident at the Hospital. Looks like the feds have been there already but the Mayor wants a uniformed appearance...”
Darryl nodded into the phone, “Ten-four” he said simply before clicking the phone shut and shoving it back into his pocket. Standing up he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.
“What did he say?” his partner asked standing, and finally returning her coat to its rightful position next to her body.
“How did you know it was the Sarg?”
“Lucky guess…So what did he say?”
“Something at the hospital…” Darryl responded, starting to make towards the door. Over in the abstract depression corner he spotted Cathay boy crying about some injustice to the American dream or another. The aging detective took comfort in the fact that he was going to try and actually rectify one of those injustices first hand. He had read somewhere that ideas are bulletproof, but unfortunately for most people – humans are not. “Anxiety is caused by other people” he exclaimed over his shoulder upon the completion of this thought.
“What?”
“Your question: The difference between anxiety and angst -- that’s my answer.” By now he was standing at the glass doorway, staring through the Starbucks logo into the busy fall streets of LA. “Anxiety is caused by other people…”
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-- “Thirty Second Precinct” Los Angeles, USA
“I don’t know what you want me to say, I got a phone call from the Mayor saying it was taken care of.”
Darryl shrugged his shoulders at this, seemingly satisfied with this little internal investigation with the Sarg.
Above, in the symmetric center of the redundant cube of space that was the Sarg’s office, the air conditioning hummed ever so gracefully. Violet hummed along to the mechanistic debauchery of some lost symphony, in thought. Not only was something amiss here, but the Sarg’s office was a fung suey shitshow. I should ask to clean up this place she considered, as it would likely benefit everyone.
“I don’t know…something isn’t sitting right with me here” she announced finally, surfacing from the mental waves for a verbal breath.
The Sarg twitched his mouth and turned in his chair to stand. He made for the second story window in thought and Violet dove back down into the mental depths, trying to figure out where best to put the filing cabinets.
The day was quiet. A relaxing October sun provided the lighting for a playful duet between wind and fallen leaf. Violet couldn’t see the sidewalk from her place behind the desk, but she knew the Sarg was watching the people walking by -- he always had, ever since she had been positioned to this precinct, and she imagined before that too. In his mind, the city is his territory – his responsibility. In times of contemplation, the answer for him comes from the very thing he is trying to protect. This is the relationship the Sarg knows, the same one he’d known for his thirty-four years on the beat.
“Come on Sarg, it is pretty dead right now…” Violet coaxed with a small grin. The affirmation was on its way, she could feel it.
Darryl shook his head, resting his hands on his hips as he awaited his superior to turn back around with a response.
“Alright well say I was to entertain this little request…” the Sarg started, running a slightly wrinkled hand through his graying brown hair. “What are not going to do is cross any federal lines, or stir up and unnecessary shit” he paused again, giving a little stare to Violet. “What we are going to do is find out what happened, and then simply stop at the judicial tape. Things have been quiet the last little while, so let’s try and keep it that way.”
“Oh of course, Frank.” She responded with a smile.
Darryl rolled his eyes.
“I know, I know” the Sarg started, holding up his hands for a second in Darryl’s direction, “But ever since the Mutual Compliance Act the feds have been making a little too many of these secret interventions…” He turned back to the fall streets, “I want to know what’s going on in my city.”
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--Xel Lungold Facility, Antartica
It wasn’t that he hated the man before him; rather for Humphries, he hated the fact that he was so petrified of Donaldson. This was an environment of information and fear. In the ‘real’ world he could do pretty much whatever he wanted because of what and who he knew, but in this world -at work- he could not do anything other than what he was told due to lack of information. The system was all levels, and the levels are control. This is a type of fear which stems from a direct path to personal death; and when you live as a ghost, no one wants that.
What actually happened to the mother? Humphries hoped nothing malicious, but whatever it was that fat fuck Donaldson sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him. He stared at the report as it sat on the desk.
It was with that in mind that Humphries now decided that what he truly hated the most was being in a room with someone who so clearly struck unadulterated fear into the heart of Donaldson. Up until this point, the agent hadn’t even considered such a thought. In terms of levels and agencies, Donaldson seemed to be above them all.
The third man had not spoken yet; he simply stood at the doorway of the small office, deep underground the Antarctic continent in the Xel Lungold Facility. Besides the three men the only other occupants of the small metal room were a couple chairs, a desk, the report, and an unassuming computer which purred contently.
No video cameras in this room.
“Agent Donaldson, of course knows who I am, or rather…what I represent.” The man started. He was oddly dressed; wearing a white suit with a red stripe running down the center third of the front of the attire. Underneath the suit jacket the stranger seemed to prefer no shirt; rather his broad chest was littered with different tattoos. He looked Native American, though strangely, with short blonde hair. As he walked into the room the seated agent could tell he wasn’t an overly muscular man, but he moved with a rigid attentiveness almost as if cautious of the very air flowing around him. He slid past the chair Tully was sitting in to stare at Donaldson for what bordered on an unusually long time. “…That is a group known as the Incognito Cless.”
The words seemed to physically affect Donaldson; a wave of nausea flashed across his face, and Tully saw his aura ripple with a flash of undesirable shades of red and black.
There was no doubt in Humphries mind this new red-stripe-suited character was an assassin, possibly Scottish by his accent. The thing about assassins is that they always work for someone. The question at hand was: Who? That seemed too often be the question in Humphries’ world.
This man, surprisingly had no aura, and as he shifted his vision slightly, did not see any chakras either. What technique was this?
“What is this about?” Humphries inquired cautiously, glancing up to the Cless’ eyes. Donaldson had not been very forthcoming with questions about the child -- perhaps he was too scared?
There was a certain intensified quality which gleaned from the silvery iris’ which locked onto Humphries’ stare as soon as it washed over the tattooed man. Tully wasn’t sure but he thought he saw the silvery specks within the glistening oval start to oscillate before he looked away. Checking out the grey linoleum of the floor around his feet he could feel the Cless’ stare continuing to examine his person.
“As you have so failed to suspect, the reason I am here is to tell you ‘what this is about’” the assassin responded as Humphries raised his eyes again. “The both of you” he added, glancing over to the older Donaldson and then to the report on the desk.
The killer had a strange accent, it was hard to place.
Donaldson nodded his balding fat head.
Humphries gave a small nod.
The Cless continued, pacing about the small room slightly. “Agent Tully Humphries was sent to recover a small child from the St. Augustine Hospital on Tuesday for the disturbance it caused. It is the same child which is down the hall being cared for by the nursing staff here; the same child which the nurses have affectionately named ‘Eva’.” At this point the Cless moved back around to Donaldson’s side, seemingly to emphasize what he was about to say. “The reason she is important goes beyond psionics in the sense that both of you are aware of.”
The Cless paused at this statement in thought.
Humphries was almost sure he could see those silvery specks in his corneas moving.
“Anyways…” The incognition continued, “Set up a nursing unit for him in a level 5 prison and start preparing a convoy with the usual psionic safeguards as she will be moved shortly.”
Humphries nodded thoughtfully, beginning to sink into thought about what would need to be done. “Any idea where she’ll be moved to…Mr… Cless?”
“You can call me Red” he said with an element of indifference, motioning down with his head to the red stripe, “and prepare for somewhere in Nova Scotia, Canada.”
Humphries nodded. Nova Scotia? What the hell for?
Donaldson scowled.
“I suspect the child was pleasant for your trip to Xel Lungold?”
Humphries nodded, proceeding cautiously, “Yes…That is, she did not throw me through a wall as well.”
“You didn’t try and kill her. I will see you at the specified location, in the Canadian district.”
With this the blonde native turned to stride out of the room.
Donaldson let out a sigh. “Get out! Go! Do it!” he shouted at Tully impatiently, wiping some sweat from his brow before resting his head in his hands.
Tully did not want to be on Donaldson’s level.
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-- ‘Kingfisher General Hospital’ Los Angeles, USA.
“He got thrown through a cement wall?” Darryl exclaimed.
The nurse nodded.
“Telepathically, by the baby?”
The nurse nodded.
“Actually, T-bass, that’s telekinetically…” Violet announced, popping her head out of her notes long enough to interject.
“Thanks…” Darryl said dryly before turning his attention back to the nurse.
The trio stood just outside of the large whole in the pediatrics ward wall; inside an ordinary enough looking delivery room sat quietly. It appeared the hole was in the process of being patched up as there were various tools scattered, and some small red pylons surrounding the rubble. With it being late afternoon and with no workers around, Violet figured reconstruction had finished for the day.
“So the husband died?” Darryl continued with the questioning.
“Well…yeah.” A voice behind them started. “It takes a lot of force to make a human being plunge through a wall like that… too much force in fact.” Dr. Prioux finished as the two detective turned around. He approached with an extended hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. Prioux” he said simply, shaking their hands.
“Ah…perfect.” Darryl announced, taking the questioning over to the approaching Doctor.
“Thanks, Hun, that’s good.” Violet said quietly to the still awaiting nurse with a smile, watching the young woman nod and turn away.
“So what can you tell me I haven’t already heard from the nurses?”
Violet flipped to a new page in her notebook.
“Well…” the Doctor said looking around for a second, “Why don’t we go to my office?” The frail man motioned with his head to follow and he began to traverse the pediatric wards with the two detectives in contemplative pursuit.
Violet was sure there was more to this incident that met the eye, and already there was a quite a bit to consider. Each step on the polished off-white flooring seemed to further amplify her intuition.
The older man led them into a small office; practically a hole in the wall but the glass door seemed to make it a bit roomier at least. When they were both inside he swung the glass rectangle shut and drew the blinds. They clanged noisily against the glass for a moment, upon which violet now noted ‘Dr. Prioux’ spelled backwards.
“I don’t really know what to say, Detectives. That child looked at me in a way no one ever has – of any age. It affected me…” he spoke, trailing off slightly as he began to replay the incident behind his own eyes.
The younger female officer tapped her pencil lightly against her notepad as she continued to think about the case: Was this man saying that the NSA had taken away a telekinetic infant? Was it the NSA? It had to be.
As Violet struggled to comprehend the ramifications of such a scenario, Darryl was struggling to conceive of the scenario itself. The older officer exhaled slightly, “Alright, Doc…give me a hand here.”
Prioux raised an eyebrow.
Darryl made an ambiguous waving motion with his hands, “Well you’re a doctor, I’m a detective… and then we have this supposed magic infant.” he stopped, searching for the words. “I mean…isn’t there some sort of spontaneous movement phenomenon or… anything to explain this?”
“This…the case we can’t look into…” Violet scowled under her breath.
“I’m afraid not Detectives…” Prioux paused, rubbing his chin slightly with a boney old hold before sinking into his desk chair with a generous exhale. “If it wasn’t from behind those…eyes, then I don’t know how it happened.”
“Alright so tell us about this ‘agent’ that came to take the baby…”
Prioux shook his head, “The guy was brilliant…” he said, laughing slightly.
“What do you mean?”
The doctor shrugged, “He had that salesman type persuasion. You know the type where you don’t really think about what they’re saying in its entirety until later on? I find it hard to remember what he said exactly...” He shook his head again in frustration, “Him and his men were in and out of here within thirty minutes, tops. Mother, daughter, dad’s body -- all gone.”
“So what was the official explanation behind the…retrieval?” Violet asked quickly, a pen top hanging from the corner of her mouth.
“Ma’am, if you can manage to find out, I’ve love to know. The higher ups said the baby’s leaving; I questioned them to no avail. I asked the agent, ‘Simian’ I think his name was…” he pondered this for a moment, “Anyways, said it was classified -- made it sound quite unimportant though.”
“Of course” Darryl said simply.
Violet took the pen top from her mouth as she began to curse out the Federal government under her breath -- another flash-and-grab to cause confusion on both sides of the local law; and for what? Another secret.
Prioux wasn’t a dumb man, as the many certificates on his wall suggested. “This is something big, isn’t it?” he asked, looking up into Violet’s eyes.
She considered the question carefully. It seemed to penetrate deeper than she expected it to, and in doing so resonated off of something deep inside of the young detective. It was an indicative statement, and as she guessed, Prioux knew this as well.
“Yes…it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
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--Palos Verdez, California, USA
Marcello stood just outside of the light.
It was dark now, and the shrooms had kicked in. The young entrepanuer was positioned in what he took to be a fairly aesthetically pleasing, yet secluded bunch of shrubs one hundred paces or so before the entrance to Palos Verdez. Marcello had found that he could walk unimpeded and of low profile in the surrounding public land, but when it came to the upscale neighborhoods like this one there was no way he would be getting anywhere close to a house without utilizing some of his tricks.
There was a constant tugging; it seemed, in the back of Marcello’s mind. The sensation was not unfamiliar but yet without pinpointing the location it was stemming from would surely interfere with his much needed lucidity. After several thought experiments which ended in avail, the thief rolled his head back to stretch his neck and was caught off guard to see the moon positioned quite large in the sky.
“Of course” the black man whispered to himself. After not talking for quite a while the foreign noise danced about excitedly in his consciousness, the ‘s’ syllable playfully sending noise prickles down his body.
It must be the remnant of that elusive emotion from the other day. Marcello had somewhat learned to some to grips with it, incorporating it into his mental framework as best he could. It was not an unpleasant thing, though it really wasn’t overly pleasurable either. Perhaps he had hit some sort of plateau in his quest?
After discovering the mental tide and quelling it, Marcello decided it was about time to start on towards the security gate. He had not mastered this new crevice to his perspective, and he had not gone on a mission he wasn’t in complete control of for a while. Still, he was never one to play it safe, considering the utterly strange life he had. It was with this last thought --the closure of the self debate-- that he proceeded onwards.
The trick to thieving, for Marcello, was all about belief. Not belief that he wasn’t going to get caught – that’s dumb given the right circumstances. No, the trick involves much more fundamental beliefs, ones which aren’t so easy to shed without a little help. As the black man in the black suit neared the security post he could start to feel the two officer’s confusion – or was he projecting it? The trick always seemed to hover in the middle.
He didn’t need the black attire. In theory a multicolored one would work just fine. What mattered was one’s ability to be confident in their ability to forget to remember, and Marcello was one confident nigga.
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--Palos Verdez gates, Los Angeles, USA
“Did you see that guy?”
“The black kid? Yeah…I thought so. Might been that tree though.”
“Hmm…”
“Whatever; so listen the other day I had this really strange feeling, it was like--”
“Wait! You felt that too? I was trying to talk to my wife about it and she thought I was loosing my mind, but it’s really been bugging me…”
“Yeah me too, it’s a bit weird they haven’t mentioned it on the news.”
“Hey speaking of the news, what do you think this Divergence thing…”
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--”Deavons,” Los Angeles, USA
Humphries tapped the small silver spoon in his hand lightly against the side of his coffee cup. The other hand was concerned with trying to get some sort of beat going by hitting a knuckle or two off of the wooden table. Of course he couldn’t talk to his friend about the infant being a part of perhaps the strangest case he’d even partaken in, but just being around her and spending time with someone innocent seemed to relieve some stress.
The diner was a small one on Los Perez called ‘Deavon’s. The owner, presumably Deavon, was an attractive, robust woman who sang with a two-man ambience band for the small crowd. As she finished up her mid-day set, Agent Tully brought his eyes back to his lunch date with a smile. Since Humphries had left college halfway through to enroll in a ‘privately funded alternative education’ he hadn’t had much use, or time, for friends.
He needed Jocelyn, even if she was not quite quick enough to notice it.
The young doctor’s loose hair fell around her face slightly as she brought her coffee cup up to her tentative mouth. The Canadian gracefully sipped on the piping hot liquid, her eyes grazing up slightly to study Tully. “So you felt it too eh?” she said after a couple of sips, setting the cup down.
“Yeah… I did.” Tully’s response was casual but brief; he couldn’t let the psychologist catch him where he obviously knew more. “What did you think of it?” he offered, relying on her willingness to chat.
Jocelyn shrugged, “I’m not sure, you know?” She squinted in thought, her eyes staring through everything as she focused on the introspective. “It was bit abrasive at first, but now when I think of it; it’s almost…well…hard to pin down.” With this she thank into thought, bringing her cup back up towards her lips.
Agent Humphries nodded, his eyes flashing back over to Deavon as she stopped on her way towards the ‘Employees Only’ door at the sight of a very large black man with an ‘I fuck people up for a living’ type demeanor to him. He was dressed in black jeans with a rather tight black t-shirt. For Agent Humphries, he took the man’s appearance to narrow his character down to a few occupations which put him on his toes. “I wouldn’t worry about it…probably just one of those things, you know?” he replied, watching the exchange over Jocelyn’s shoulder.
Who was this man? Was his inquiry towards the ghost agent? These thoughts nagged at the spy’s perspective as he tried his best to say on his ‘break’ and simply have lunch with Jocelyn. As was evident by the exchange between the black man and Deavon, though, break never seemed to last that long. Since the birth of that kid Tully had seen an explosion of activity in the intelligence community and the corridors above it. For Agent Humphries if there was ever a time to be on alert this was it -- he knew the context -- and he knew who the black man could work for.
The Canadian was silent for a moment as she pondered Tully’s response before her head popped up quickly. “No, I don’t. What does that mean?”
“One sec…” Tully said half raising a hand in Jocelyn’s general direction while continuing to monitor the situation unfolding between Deavon and the large man. “And don’t turn around.” He added.
Jocelyn put on a small pouting face as she took another sip of coffee, no doubt concluding that this exercise was another instance of paranoid futility.
The black man talked for a couple minutes with Deavon before leaning in close to say a few words more. With that he turned and walked from the small diner crisply. He hadn’t visibly looked around to the other patrons, and he didn’t as he left. This guy was good, but Tully was better. “So anyways…” he said bringing his attention back to Deavon; best to divert her attention away from both ‘the event’ and this little surveillance incident which had just transpired. “How’s that new patient? The kid you were telling me about on the phone…”
Jocelyn seemed receptive to this question as her entire demeanor shifted into interest again. “I dunno exactly, Tully. This guy, he’s like eighteen or nineteen, he’s just… different from any patient I’ve had. He just knows things -- things I don’t know how he would know.” She was staring into her coffee cup now, looking a little depressed. “And ontop of that, or maybe because of whatever that is -- he’s brilliant. I mean it’s de-moralizing sometimes...” She shook her head at this and picked up the cup for one last final gulp of the brown liquid. “I may have to pass him on to someone more qualified…” she admitted quietly.
Sounds like a clever kid. Humphries quietly pondered the possibility of his recruitment by some agency or another. A little old perhaps-- it makes for easier control. “Pass him off!?” he exclaimed in a friendly manner, “No way, I know you can help this guy. He may be brilliant but so are you.” he said with a smile.
Jocelyn smiled back, giving him that oh so familiar look.
Humphries gave her a smile again. There wasn’t much doubt that his college friend liked him in a certain way. The problem for Tully seemed to be that after so many years of being whoever he needed to be, he wasn’t sure exactly sure if he had any original emotions left inside.
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-- ‘Thirty-second Precinct’ Los Angeles, USA
“What’s this about, T-bass?”
Darryl shrugged as he continued forwards towards the chief’s closed office door on the other side of the main room in the precinct. The lack of verbal response would be noticed by Violet of course, but he didn’t care -- let her think he’s pissed cause he was. Why did she feel the need to investigate this anomalous case further? A kid killing a man by throwing him through a wall? It’s just trouble. The guy was a junkie loser who was apparently about to attack the child -- this quest for the baby and the mother is ridiculous at best.
The main room had a few offices and a couple stairwells branching off it; the floor area housed many different desks and cubicles which had gone from orderly and easy to navigate to utter chaos. Violet paused so as to enable Darryl to squeeze between a chair and large case box before him, looking back to her she flashed her partner an icy look.
This was going to be an issue.
Darryl stayed along the wall, Violet behind him, passing different detectives and uniformed officers -- many of whom had already perfected some sarcastic one-liner which they tossed in the pair’s general direction. He reached the door and gave it a couple of knocks, turning back to Violet once more. “Look, you know me well enough -- put yourself in my place.”
“Come in” was heard from inside.
Violet simply shook her head, “I did, and things got scared.” She said before motioning for Darryl to enter.
He turned around and maneuvered the handle to swing the door open. He had admit, she had sort of halted him with that response. Scared? He wasn’t -scared- persay as simply jaded perhaps. This case just had trouble all over it, one which would likely never be resolved.
“Alright… listen, you two” the Chief started, motioning for them to sit in the two chairs in front of his desk.”
They sat.
“I just got off the phone with the CIA” he said, inhaling a little bit. “Basically… drop the case” he said simply, exhaling -- and tensing.
“What!?” Violet exclaimed leaning forward. “Sarg, this is fucking bullshit! This isn’t some vague incidence in the middle of nowhere with one witness -- something happened with at least 4 credible witnesses! There is no way they can just cover stuff like this up!”
The Chief spread his hands, shaking his head slightly. Looked like he’d thought about this for some time “Look, V… I just don’t know what to do. I tried to talk to them but when it’s all said and done, when they say to end something we have to -- especially since the Tsarion Event. There isn’t a lot of transparency in the government right now --I agree-- but it’s just something we’ll have to endure till the war’s over. “ he offered, shaking his head slightly as he strolled to the right corner of the room to take a look out at the city.
Violent sat in his chair in a silent fury as Darryl began to stand. He looked down at her and was positive she hadn’t noticed. The younger woman simply sat there staring through the wall behind the Sarg’s desk -- probably at some self imposed manifestation of the CIA agent that had shut them down. Why did she care so much? What was really going on here?
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--Haas Residence, Los Angeles, USA
Lynus lay deep in sleep that night, and although he was awakened, it did not occur in the physical realm. Somewhere near and far -- deep inside the brain of an unassuming sleeping teenager, an important conversation took place.
“Hello, Friend Lynus.”
The voice, along with the rest of the conversation came to the teenager in an automatic subconscious entirety, but as he rose from the depths of sleep it manifested within a linear fashion.
“Who is this?”
“Well... I’m a dream.”
“My dream?”
“No... that is yours and yours alone.”
“So why are you here?”
He remembered hearing laughter. “I’m here to awaken you from your ignorance.”
This time Lynus laughed. “I know everything...”
“Nah... but you certainly think you do right? In any case, you know what you really need Lynus?”
“A normal life?”
“Like a normal dream?”
“...”
“What you need is to wake up...”
“Wake up from this dream?”
“Sure. Or not -- I guess it depends -- do you want more? It’s all your choice, really. Totally up to you.”
“So why are you here then?”
“Well...that’s my choice.”
“How do I wake up?”
“Umm... You just will it I think.”
“Well,...I can’t, it’s not working.”
“Try having a scary dream...?”
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