

# Isle of Noise

## Edited by

## Michael Staniforth

## and

## E.A. Stokes

# A UoN SFFSA Anthology

"Bleeding Heart" copyright © 2017 Nat Wassell

"Golden Memories" copyright © 2017 E.A. Stokes

"Smoke and Mirrors" copyright © 2017 Sam Kurd

"Like A Circle In A Spiral" copyright © 2017 Rachel Tonks Hill

"Anomaly: Claire" copyright © 2017 Emily Cooper

"Side Effects" copyright © 2017 Amy Maidment

"Nemo" copyright © 2017 Michael Staniforth

"Obolus Protogonos" copyright © 2017 John Steele

"The Andromeda System" copyright © 2017 Jonty Levine

"Kansy" copyright © 2017 Nel Taylor

### All other written works in this book copyright © 2017 the above named contributors

### All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

***

#  Contents

The Beginning

Bleeding Heart — Nat Wassell

Interlude 1

Golden Memories — E.A. Stokes

Interlude 2

Smoke and Mirrors — Sam Kurd

Trophy Killer Nabbed – Justice At Last

Like a Circle in a Spiral — Rachel Tonks Hill

Interlude 3

Anomaly: Claire — Emily Cooper

Interlude 4

Side Effects — Amy Maidment

Interlude 5

Nemo — Michael Staniforth

World War III by Timmy Benton

Obolus Protogonos — John Steele

Interlude 6

The Andromeda System — Jonty Levine

Interlude 7

Kansy — Nel Taylor

The End

***

#  The Beginning

Since men have been intelligent enough to understand the world around them they have asked questions; some of them have mistrusted the answers. In the twentieth century people called them conspiracy theorists but back in the tense days of the sixteen hundreds these people were simply ignored.

John Cartwright was one of these men. For years he had seen things happen that didn't make sense and when questioned he was told to hush. To passers-by in the street he was a normal man who worked in a relatively well-paid job when work was hard to come by. He worked, in fact, at the House of Commons, not as anyone of note of course, he was only a son of a Cartwright. No, he was the one that cleaned the floors and swept out the huge luxurious fireplaces.

But he saw things other didn't, he asked questions when others accepted and the day he finally realized that he was right was a day that changed many other people's lives as much as his own. The date was the fourth day of the first month and tensions, as always, were high, but like most of the servants that worked in the house he simply kept his head down and hoped he didn't get in the way.

John was washing down the windows when he heard the voices; but he didn't pay them much mind, as they didn't to him.

"You have to leave and it has to be now."

"He would never do such a thing; he would never enter the House of Commons."

"He is on his way now. All of you must go or your heads will be forfeit."

"Where shall I go?"

"Don't tell me and I will grant you the same privilege if I am asked. There are carriages and drivers ready to take you from this place but you must go now!"

The hushed voices moved through the passageway behind John and through the windows he saw six figures hurry passed him; five went out the door and the sixth slipped deeper into the halls. John didn't dare to turn to look at who it was. For a commoner to look a gentleman in the eye was unheard of. The air moved passed him and the thick scent of oils and pipe tobacco swirled under his nose before, like the men, it was gone.

Slowly, he moved through the hall washing the windows and sills with his cloth and bucket, forgetting the men, just repeating the actions till he came to the end of the hall and to the crowd that had gathered in the way. Unlike the crowds that gathered in the halls and open areas, these people were, like him, workers. He even spotted liveries meaning some were servants of the politicians. All were gathering, peering through the small gaps they could find in the huge doors that closed off the main room in the houses of commons.

"What's happening?" he asked one of the women at the back of the crowd.

"The king.... He's here," she said in an excited voice. No, she wasn't excited, she was scared. Even with her limited education she knew this was something to be frightened of.

"What's going on?"

"Don't know," she hissed. "Won't know if you keep asking me questions."

John sighed and moved through the crowd. People were reluctant to move to give up their place in the off chance they would see something but John was only a little man. He was able to move right to the front, he looked through the door and into the room.

The man wasn't anything like he thought. Many a time had he helped replace the fixings holding up the king's portrait that was in the main entrance and the man in the picture was tall and proud with strong features, he held himself high. But this man, he looked fragile and weak, his skin was pale and ruddy, his cheeks were drawn as he looked round with sunken watery eyes. He looked old before his time, his make-up hiding years of scars and marks, his hair obviously sticking out from under his wig. He had sat himself on the speaker's chair and was gazing over the members as they sat in stunned silence.

"I see the birds have flown," he called out to a silent room. Even his voice seemed thin and weak as it echoed through the room and into John's ears. No one moved, nobody breathed; they simply sat silently looking at the floor or their own expensive boots and shoes. One man did dare to look at the king.

"William Lenthall.... Where are the five of them?" the king asked, his voice soft but filled with menace.

The speaker of the house tried to keep calm as the two men watched each other.

"Your highness?" he simply spoke,

"Well? Do you see them, or hear them?" He seemed to gain confidence as he spoke. His voice took on a patronising but demanding feel.

* * * *

Even from where John was hidden he could see the man was caving under the relentless stare from the man who was meant to be King Charles, the first of his namesake to take the crown. It was as if his legs gave in under the rest of his body, his knees buckled and he fell heavily on the floor, his highly polished boots scuffing on the wood.

"May it please your majesty? I have neither eye's to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as this house is pleased to direct me whose servant I am here; and humbly beg your majesty's pardon that I cannot give any other answer than this is to what your majesty is please to demand of me."

The silence became deafening, every heartbeat could be heard in that moment. Blood thundering through everyone's veins, or was it just his own muscle thundering in his own chest?

To have the king enter parliament? To have him try to arrest five men for treason? Everyone knew at that moment that this was something that would be remembered for years to come. A hand touched his arm and a soft voice in his ear urged him to come with them. The defiance was clear in the room as the man urged the king to move more and more till soon his voice was clear.

"Your highness, we have to leave," he was begging.

Finally the man nodded, stood and turned silently on his heels heading quickly for the great doors. The servants behind John scattered but he held his ground. The king burst through the doors into the entrance hall and John found himself alone.

He froze.

The king turned his gaze to John and instinctively he looked down at the cloth that twisted in his hands.

"I fear today I have lost this city," the king said softly as he walked passed him.

To him, John was invisible, he was nothing more than a pillar he now passed, nothing but background.

"John," someone hissed, breaking the man out of his frozen state. He shuffled over to the corner where the people stood. They silently watched the king and his men leave and then the main room beyond suddenly came to life again. The din of people talking was a sudden and jarring change to the silence that had been coming from that room, as someone closed the door and left the group to look on the great doors.

"That was not the king," John declared.

The people who knew John simply sighed and rolled their eyes.

"Why would you say that?" a voice said carefully.

John turned his eyes to the picture all of them had seen day in and day out.

"He looked nothing like that."

The crowd dispersed with tuts and mutterings as John watched the proud figure of a man staring down at him with his armour.

"This was not him.... this is all a lie."

* * * *

It wasn't just servants that watched the room but others sets of eyes watched from the shadows with great interest, men who were not thought to be there, men who were never mentioned in the history books. These men worked and lived in the shadows when it came to the world and its participants. These people didn't participate, they were not thought to have wives and children, they didn't have friends, no one looked for them other than the other silent watchers of the world.

They were made of the same material as man; they were made of flesh and blood. They had heart and minds for emotion and logic but they were not the same as the men that they manipulated and twisted to their own use. The king was in fact the man that went into that room but those were not his words, nor would they have been his actions. It was amazing what a simple root and leaf could do when boiled in alcohol and the hair of a person, its steam collected then added to a person's drink. You would be amazed at how easy it was for a second to enter the first person's dreams to whisper in their ear.

"Divine right of the king.... The king is infallible in the eyes of the lord..." they would say night after night.

"Go to parliament. Arrest the men."

Soon after that day the king raised his standard at Nottingham castle, the wind whirled round the hill and took the fabric, blowing over the standard. It was an ill omen and one that made the men that watched the world smile.

Their job here at least was done.

* * * *

The mud was seeping into the fabric that separated his body from the dirt. Years had gone by since the first time the man thought to fight for his people and his religion and now, on a chilly October morning, finally his struggle was at an end. Abraham quietly looked down at the grave in front of him and then, with steady hands and calm eyes, he looked at the men in front of him, one by one, making sure to look them all in the eye. Not one looked back at him.

"I will not blame you here right now. I know you aren't the men who wanted to do this. You are the men who have been told to do this. And when I am gone from this world and free from the pain that came to us all, I hope you live a long and healthy life; then you will all live with this moment from now till the day you die.... You will live knowing that 100,000 of my brothers and kin were killed by your hands. And for that I feel sorry for you. I will not forgive you, but I pity you the torture that will follow you through this life."

The bullet ripped through the man's chest and then another and another until all had fired one bullet and the man lay bleeding on the ground. As he lay there, the pain gone, the cold feeling of the Ukrainian soil under him slipping away, he looked up to the men and frowned. There were two men more, both not touched by the muck and the blood that surrounded them all; two men who were just watching from the distance.

* * * *

It was time to go. The house was empty finally and it was time for him and his family to head south. It wasn't seen as going over the boarder any more, Scotland and England were now the same thing and Robert had been chosen as one of the Scottish representatives and so he was to go to London.

"It's a huge honour Robert," his wife had soothed. "We will make a home wherever we are."

She seemed almost happy to be going to London, but then what well breed women wouldn't want to spend her days in the opera houses and shopping. She wasn't born to this country, she wasn't of Scottish blood.

"Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" he had asked the angel in his dream last night. "You are to go to London, work with the men there."

So now he was going. He took one more look around the room before closing the door and pulling his coat collar up against the rain outside. Couldn't take too long, his carriage was waiting. At least it didn't rain as much in London.

* * * *

The men stood round the sleeping figure and watched him. None moved or shifted their position; they simply watched. He was one of the most powerful men in the world, definitely in his country.

"Are they sure of this?" one of the men finally asked.

"The time is now. We have got the leaders in the Crimea to start to fight amongst themselves. Now is the time to plant the seed of invasion."

"I understand that.... I am not an idiot, but.... Does it have to be Russia?"

The men looked at the sleeping man and nodded.

"It does... the power has to shift and it has to be Russia."

There was no more argument. The glass vial was opened and placed under the man's nose one of the men sat on the floor and breathed in deeply from a second vial then they were switched over and finally the man's eyes rolled back in his head and closed.

"How long will this take?"

"Not long..."

Both men simply watched the sleeping man and smiled.

* * * *

"I never thought it would come to this," the general sighed. "Did you see the fields... they say there are a million men out there... a million all looking to me."

The general looked round the quiet park the two were strolling in before his eyes turned to the man beside him. Why was it so easy to talk to someone who didn't exist?

"Lord Wellington, you will succeed. You have right on your side..."

"But what if I lose?"

Napoleon sighed and looked round the silent world the two of them stood in. The man beside him smiled and shook his head.

"You are the emperor, you are the man that will finally push back your enemies and all will kneel before you. How can you lose when you have fate in your hands?"

If felt good to voice his fears and to keep them in check. The dreams had become a sanctuary to him, but he had seen the armies of either side and he had seen the machines of war.

"You are right sir.... If I was to be opposed by god then he would have given me a sign by now."

"Tomorrow you fight at Waterloo and the gods are on your side... Fight with everything you have and push that devil back to the hell he came from," the men said to their companions. "And when you have won you will know you were right in the eyes of god."

The dreams faded and blackness took over once again. It had been a hard thing to execute but they needed to make both men fight as hard as possible to make them think their god was on their side. Only a mad man would go against a million troops and only a fool would try to fight a man as skilled in the art of war as the emperor.

"What will happen tomorrow?" one of the men asked softly. Later on as they watched the fire in the camps burn and the sun start to pale the sky

"Wellington will win. Napoleon will flee to Paris."

"It is already seen?"

"No... but we need it to happen."

The fighting would begin soon. The first men would die in the name of their king and country and once again the men that watched the world smiled.

* * * *

From the third floor of the opulent building that was simply named "The Institute" the men that watched the world looked down into the clean and pale street. The pavements had been scrubbed and swept clean in preparation for the royal visit. Even the roads didn't have a speck of dirt on them, or they didn't till now. The car parked, the metal in the engine clicking from the heat generated in the internal combustion engine. The car was painted black, the seats were black, everything was black against the clean pavements in the bright sun, everything but the blood that dropped onto the pale grey street. They had watched the two of them being taken out of the car, first the live archduke – but with a bullet wound to the jugular he wouldn't be alive for much longer - and then the corpse of his dead wife.

"They were meant to kill the governor not the wife," one of the men scolded.

"That is unimportant. It has started, the archduke will die and events will move from here. We will be able to build and work to our plans while all eyes will be on the world and the fear that will come from the certainty of war and while they watch that, we can build our foot hold."

The men watched the world they had twisted to their liking. From the whispers that were fed to the king to fuel his pride to the death of this man and the events that would follow.

The world wasn't ready for the death and suffering that would be revealed to them in the years to come but the institute was. The institute was ready to build an empire, to move from the shadows and, watching the world they had created, to work to shape its future to their will.

"Interviews start tomorrow for agents to work the machines... and we will target the poor and desperate at first. The ones that are in need of money and shelter – they will be the first to come to us and even if most don't survive, the information we will get from them will be the foundation on which we will build... No one will know it, but the lowest in their society will be the ones to save them," the first man sighed.

"To save them from what I wonder?" the second simply replied.

The men that watched the world turned their dark eyes away from the window and to the room they stood in, their eyes hungrily taking in the cold soulless machines that filled the room, the light glinting off glass, steel and the hard metal surfaces. This was just one of many buildings quietly purchased all over the world

They took this all in and smiled.

***

#  Bleeding Heart

##  Nat Wassell

"...Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven."

Thirty-seven new patients. Twenty-five more than they had the space for. Jimmy Beaton sighed and rubbed his temples. What exactly was the point of filling in the paperwork and jumping through the hoops if the army was going to completely ignore them and send as many as they wanted anyway? Beside him, Sister Maggie Martin was surveying the influx and her small sigh told him that she was thinking exactly the same thing as he was.

"Come, Doctor," she said eventually, her soft Canadian accent somewhat stronger than usual in this stressful circumstance, "They are here now and we must find the space."

It was a long, hard afternoon and Beaton still was not entirely happy when they were finished. As it was, his feelings did not come into the equation and, after a brief dinner, he began his second shift of the day, short staffed as the hospital was. He did his rounds, coming last to the room that they had been forced to adapt quickly into an extra ward for twelve of the new men. This room was quieter than any of the others; six of the twelve were in comas, three of the others suffering from blindness, two from deafness and the last from blindness _and_ deafness. In this room, in this deathly quiet, Beaton believed he could see the true cost of the war, even in comparison to the raving and screaming and sobbing that were common among the men in the other wards, the men who had lost limbs and suffered brain damage and relived the waking nightmares of watching their friends die.

Here, in this silence, men were lost.

A single nurse flitted around the room, offering comfort where she could, and Beaton decided to take his time here and bugger the protocols. He talked to the three blind soldiers, who had been grouped together at one end of the room so they could converse between themselves. One of them, a captain, seemed to have adopted the younger two when he was with them in the French hospital and had refused to be placed in the separate officer's ward away from them. He was a decent enough chap though and the other two, no older than boys really, worshipped him. After a while Beaton moved on to the deaf pair, with whom he was able to speak easily enough through brief notes scribbled on the backs of their paperwork. The nurse was sat with the wretched deaf and blind man, holding his hand and murmuring assurances he couldn't hear, so Beaton went to the coma patients. Only one of them had come in unidentified and he found himself drawn to this poor nameless man.

The soldier wasn't remarkably young, not one of those tragic cases that left the nurses sobbing over a young life wasted. Beaton estimated his age to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, maybe closer to forty, although the short brown beard he sported could have been making him look older than he was. The notes he had come with, written hastily in some shaking hand in France, had said they believed him to be a sergeant, but even this they did not know for sure. Whatever rank he was, he'd clearly had a terrible time of it. He had fading red skin around his eyes, a product of a mustard gas attack only just healing, and when Beaton lifted his eyelid he saw the soldier's eyes were a soft brown colour. There were similar burns on his hands and arms, perhaps even angrier than those on his face. They would scar but were nothing compared to the head wound which was clearly the main cause of his present condition. It looked as though they had pulled a dinner plate out of his skull and stitched him up rather messily afterwards. Beaton knew he would need to get to know the injury well, watching it keenly for the onset of some infection that would surely be the death sentence of the poor bugger. So far he was holding strong and Beaton was pleased. There was an honesty about the soldier's face that seemed reassuring, as though he were a good enough sort that one could read it on him. He had the body of a miner, lean and fit, but with the distinctive rounded shoulders of one who had spent much of his life underground. Perhaps he was Welsh, from some tiny village in the valleys that was suddenly without most of its menfolk in this time of war.

Beaton decided privately to call him David, after Wales' patron saint. He had a feeling he was right about the Welsh connection.

* * * *

It took him four days to think of it. _Four days._ Beaton couldn't believe it had taken him so long. Then again, it didn't really surprise him. He had spent the last three years of his life perpetually exhausted, being one of the few doctors left in the hospital that didn't have grey hair and thirty years on all their patients. He'd been horrified when the army turned him down, the very idea that he was too old to go out to France a ridiculous one to say the least. Men he knew from university and medical school, only a few years younger than him, were being called up and drafted all of the time. They were being _killed_ all of the time now, and he could hardly remember why he had ever envied those poor bastards. He was so tired. He was so tired he could hardly think any more and when the idea, a way to help David, came to him he wasn't so sure that The Institute hadn't once been part of a dream. It certainly felt like that.

It had happened in London, at least to start off with. He'd been at a dinner party thrown by an old friend, a deadly dull affair save for the stranger there, a man he did not know or even recognise. They had drunk too much wine with dinner, too much whiskey afterwards and the man had told him of a project he was part of. The Institute. It sounded like science fiction, like something H G Wells would have written on one of his more off-kilter days, and Beaton had laughed at him. It was only when he was sober and on a train to Scotland two days later with his new friend that he began to think he had perhaps been mistaken.

It was rumoured to have been mothballed almost as soon as it had started, with the beginning of the war, and so it was hard to find any evidence that it even still existed. Beaton had forgotten all about it, but now he might have a use for the Damnable place.

* * * *

Lewis Tennant, they called the man who kept the desk at this branch of The Institute, and a nastier piece of work Beaton had never had the misfortune to be acquainted with. Tennant had been a doctor himself once but had been forcibly removed from the hospital in which he worked, for reasons that nobody was ever quite sure of. The rumours though – the rumours were disgusting. Beaton pulled himself up to his full height as he approached the desk, all six feet and two inches of it. Since he had grown, suddenly and sharply at the age of fifteen, few people had ever dared to argue with him and he hoped that it would be enough now to get him what he wanted. Tennant, his face deliberately impassive, stared at him as he planted himself in front of the desk.

"Well, James Beaton," Tennant said, "Wasn't expecting to make your acquaintance again quite so soon."

"Lewis," Beaton said tersely, "If we must be on first name terms then please call me Jimmy. Only my mother calls me James."

"Surely not," Tennant grinned nastily, "A posh boy like you with a name like a gutter rat? Where did you pick that up?"

"That's none of your business, Lewis," Beaton said firmly but a red flush was creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks even as he tried to stare the older man down, "I need to get to some papers, things that Doctor Connors wanted me to read. I have some time and I thought I would prepare myself for when things are back on track."

"Why, you got some inside scoop that the bloody war is going to end any time soon?"

Tennant was a foul man, one who, it seemed, had somehow forgotten how to look after himself once his time as a medical man was up. His hands were perpetually filthy, his hair greasy with oil and his teeth getting browner every time Beaton came across him. He was not, however, stupid, and he narrowed his eyes as he considered the request carefully.

"And why would I just let you in here? I haven't heard from Connors in a year and a half, or the rest of them. Even the big men down in London only check in every month or so and then you come here like you have every right to start making demands of me. This facility is locked until I hear otherwise."

Beaton closed his eyes and breathed carefully through his nose. He knew he needed to be most careful but it was time to try a little recklessness.

"All I want is some papers, Lewis. You can come with me to get them if you do not believe me and if you do not let me in to fetch them then the people in London will hear about it and I am not convinced they will appreciate the fact that a desk man got in the way of the next progressive step of this initiative."

It worked, thank goodness. Lewis Tennant was idle and if there was one thing that he disliked more than helping another living person, it was helping them in any way that involved him doing something physical. He growled under his breath and tossed his set of keys at Beaton, turning back to his crossword puzzle.

"Ten minutes."

He had not been to the facility very often, dead as it was, and Beaton felt the same cold dread now that he had felt that first time walking down the empty corridor. Something about empty hospitals got to him every time, almost as though he was being shown a future where he had failed at his life's work and been unable to save a single soul God had handed to him. It was probably quite a common fear amongst doctors or, at least, doctors who actually cared about their jobs. And Beaton did care – the sheer fact he had lied his way into this place and was about to do what he had planned was testament enough to that. His colleagues had always said that he cared too much. Perhaps he did, but here and now he had a chance of helping someone in desperate need. Somewhere out there, David's family were waiting for him. Beaton could find them and at least give them peace of mind in knowing where David was, even if he never regained consciousness. The world was in a sad state of affairs, he thought, when a body was the best that people could hope for.

He found his way to the treatment storage easily enough and put several doses of the stuff and the small canister with the masks in the large satchel that he had slung over his shoulder. There were already some files in there, just dull administration papers from the hospital, that he could show to Lewis if the man was to ask. He didn't inquire though, just growled dismissively and waved Beaton away as he tried to thank him for his time.

Riding high on the success of his operation, Beaton decided he would try David out on the treatment that very night. He waited for the skeleton night shift to have done the midnight rounds and then announced he was going to spend the night with the coma patients, observing them for a paper he was thinking of writing, and that he would deal with any problems that came up in that ward. Sister Martin gazed at him for a moment, her quick mind perhaps sensing something strange and unusually abrupt in his manner, but she was understaffed and it would be foolish to turn down such an offer. Beaton bade her goodnight and shut himself in the ward, grateful that it was the furthest away from the nurses' station.

He'd brought a small dose of the treatment from its hiding place in the storage room, just enough to make an initial tentative exploration and see how perceptible David was. Beaton had never actually done the operation by himself but he'd watched enough times and was fairly confident as he bustled around checking he had everything he needed. As he moved, he began to talk quietly.

"We'll soon find out who you belong to," he said under his breath, addressing the man on the bed, "And you would have been part of something very important too. More important than the bloody war, anyway."

He fitted the clumsy mask gently over David's face, brushing his slightly too long hair out of his closed eyes, "Remind me to ask one of the nurses to trim your hair for you. It's getting long. Your beard too, if you like."

He had to stop talking then, in order to fit his own mask over his face. The tubing connecting the two masks had a valve in the middle that he pushed into the small gas canister containing the treatment. Taking a seat close to the bed, he pushed the release button on the canister and took three deep breaths, as he had been taught. The last thing he saw before he slipped under was David's hand twitch.

It was dark when he opened his eyes and for a moment his heart dropped; perhaps this was all David would be able to give him in his state of unconsciousness. Slowly a small flame flickered in the corner of his eye and then, more quickly, there was a tunnel and two men stood beside him, stripped to the waist. One of them was David, perhaps a few years younger. The other had flaming red hair and an open, honest face.

"That's enough, Rhys-lad," the stranger said, patting David on the shoulder, "You get home now. I'll wait with the poor bugger."

Rhys.

Rhys didn't answer, kneeling down and staring at something Beaton had not realised was there. It was a pit pony, lying on its side, still attached to the overturned cart it was pulling. Rhys reached out and stroked the pony's nose gently. It took one last laboured, rattling breath and then was still. Rhys turned to glance at his companion, a look of sorrow on his face.

"I told you he was being worked too hard," he said, voice thick with the Welsh accent Beaton had been expecting, "I told you he'd had enough. You can't work an old animal to death, Sammy, it isn't right."

"I know, lad," the man said, "And I told 'em what you said. Maybe now that bloody idiot will have to listen. He shouldn't be allowed to work with the ponies."

"Aye," Rhys said, eventually turning away from the pitiful animal, "Aye. Poor thing. If I ever get my hands on-"

He was interrupted by a low rumble that seemed to rush up the tunnel to his left, and both he and Beaton turned to peer into the darkness. The pony, his cart and the red headed fellow were gone and Rhys was holding a gun, a pack slung over his back. The rumble got louder and louder and then there was fire and Rhys shouted and –

Beaton fell back into himself, heart pounding with terror – _Rhys's terror_ – and he glanced at his patient to see that the only change about the man was a curl of his fingers. That was something that the nurses had noted he often did, and it seemed to Beaton now that it would be connected to what he had seen. Quickly, he pulled his stethoscope up to his ears and pressed it to Rhys' chest. Sure enough, his heart was pounding a rhythm that Beaton could feel matched his own. Before he even realised what he was doing, he had removed his mask and begun to speak.

"It's alright, Rhys," he murmured, keenly aware of the other men sleeping so close by, "You're not there any more. You're safe, old man."

He kept up his mantra, unsure if he was assuring himself or the other man, but Rhys' heartbeat slowed reassuringly quickly. Perhaps he could hear what was happening around him after all.

It looked good though. It looked very good. There had been no resistance, no struggle to keep the connection. Beaton had only come back to himself because the test dosage was so small. And he'd been right about where Rhys was from, at least. He felt a rush of affection and patted his patient's arm.

"I'll find them for you, old man. I'll take you home."

* * * *

The next day, Beaton decided to try again. He had meant to wait, to give Rhys a chance to recover from the first test, but the results were so promising that he did not think it would take much more to find what he was looking for. In the afternoon, the mobile patients were taken outside for an hour in the sunshine, and Beaton settled himself down next to Rhys' bed. It was too risky to try the treatment during the day, but he was drawn to the man and he couldn't help himself. Rhys' hands curled into tell-tale fists several times and Beaton talked, because it seemed to soothe him, then he just carried on, because it soothed _him_ too. He told Rhys all about his life, dull as it was. He told him about the rowing at school, about how they had wanted him to play rugby but he just couldn't bring himself to take part in the needlessly violent game. He told him about his family, about his sister and her sons. He told him about Danny and Matthew, the nephews fighting out in France, and about Jack, the third nephew who had been missing for a year.

"He's only a youngster, you know," he said wistfully, "Twenty last May. Perhaps someone is looking after him like I'm looking after you. Maybe he'll come back to us at the end of all this."

The words sounded hollow, as hollow as they had sounded when he was saying them to his sister back at home, but he said them anyway, because what else was there to say? He knew then why he was so intent on getting Rhys home – it wasn't this godforsaken experiment, not entirely anyway. It was partly about fairness, about bringing peace of mind to a family in grief, and it was about hope, about wishing that someone somewhere had Jack in their care too. That's what it was about.

And so, that night, he tried the treatment again.

It was bright this time, and so real that Beaton felt he could taste the air. Rhys was in the garden of a small terraced cottage, dressed in a loose shirt and old patched trousers. He looked even younger than he had before, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he was digging at a vegetable patch. There was that same low rumble in the background, so quiet Beaton was straining to hear it, but Rhys didn't seem to mind it. There was a rustle in one of the bushes and Rhys smiled, evidently pretending to ignore it. The bush rustled again and said, "Da? Do you really not know where I am?"

"I looked everywhere I thought," Rhys said, "And I did not know bushes could talk."

A small giggle and a small boy emerged at the same time and tapped Rhys on the back.

"I'm here, Da. I was the bush!"

"Were you really?" Rhys said, dropping his spade and catching the child up in his arms, "I would never have found you there, Dicky-boy. You outsmarted me."

The rumble in the background increased in volume and the scene, as if on cue, faded. Rhys was stood at that same garden's gate, dressed in his army uniform and looking much more familiar. There was a woman this time, holding a toddler, and three more children at her feet. The boy was around nine years old; two girls, who were perhaps two years younger, had to be twins. Rhys knelt down and pulled the girls into his arms; they clung to him, sobbing.

The rumble got louder.

Rhys seemed to notice it this time and stood quickly, his face carefully schooled to hide what Beaton felt as fear.

"You're the man now, Dicky-lad," Rhys said hurriedly, pulling his son towards him, "Look after them for me until I get back."

The boy could only nod, and he alone seemed to notice the rumble, turning his head to look sharply at the sky.

Rhys had moved on to his wife, burying his face in her neck as she embraced him. He was trembling, Beaton could feel it himself, and she whispered to him.

"I love you, Rhys. I love you. I love you."

Rhys made a choked noise and pulled himself away, looking fearfully to the sky as the rumble sounded again, directly overhead, and the sky turned black. His hands shaking, Beaton glanced at the family and cried out, because where they had been standing only a moment ago, now they were flat on their backs with bloody rosettes covering their clothes, even the little babe. Rhys looked back at them and fell to his knees, his breath coming in strangled sobs as the rumbling grew louder and louder until it was unbearable and Beaton clamped his hands over his ears and –

With a supreme effort, Beaton pulled himself out of Rhys' mind and found himself on the floor, the back of his head painful where he must have landed. One of the first things he had been told was that it was remarkably dangerous for the researcher and the subject to end the process by force, but he didn't know what else to do. The sweat was pouring down his face, the now familiar pounding of his blood in his ears and his hands bleeding from little crescent shapes on his palms. Rhys' own hands were clamped into fists but Beaton couldn't try and help him, not this time. He could only stare from his place on the floor and wonder exactly what was happening in the poor man's head.

* * * *

It was a day or two before Beaton could bring himself to try the treatment again, and he decided to take a few days off that were owed to him, shaken as he was by what he had seen. He spent much of the time out walking in the fields that surrounded the hospital. The things he had seen in Rhys' mind troubled him greatly, and he wondered if the man was suffering from shell-shock. That would explain the confused and dreamlike state that his mind was in; men with shell-shock had been known to try and strangle the nurses treating them, so sure were they in their addled minds that they were still in the war zone. It had happened too many times now, abroad and at home, for anyone to deny that there was a real problem but still the higher powers in the armed forces failed to recognise it as an actual ailment. Men were executed every day for the fear that was poisoning their minds. It was shameful.

Beaton began to think more specifically of returning Rhys to his family. He had a few contacts in the army, men who would have access to the lists of those missing in action. He telephoned one of them and asked to be sent the list of all the Welshmen named Rhys over the age of thirty, missing, presumed dead. The list arrived by telegram, a list that was depressingly long even when he eliminated all of those men from the cities and large towns. Besides sending a telegram to all those families, describing the children he had seen, he could think of no other solution than to administer the treatment again and see what could be gained. He wouldn't lose anything, anyway.

Rhys had been calmer than usual in those quiet days, and Beaton felt no guilt in once more fitting the masks over their faces and breathing in that seemingly so innocuous gas.

They were in a trench this time, something concrete that Beaton finally recognised from the newsreels and the papers. Rhys was sat on the wet floor, staring at a spot on the wall opposite him, seemingly deep in thought. That ominous rumble that Beaton now recognised was a deafening, never ceasing crescendo of noise and to distract himself he looked carefully about the trench. Corpses were floating in the water, their faces unrecognisable as human, but the men walking up and down the trench seemed not to notice them at all. They spoke to each other in low whispers, every single voice sharing that same lilting accent that Rhys seemed to have. Beaton couldn't hear what they were saying but it hardly seemed to matter. A pit pony, struggling for breath, came past hauling a cart full of coal. It stopped in front of Rhys, collapsing to the ground with a shuddering breath. Only then did Rhys move, putting out a hand slowly to stroke the pitiful creature's mane. A tear ran down his cheek from fever bright eyes, and Beaton began to feel once more that growing dread in his chest. If it was possible, the rumble grew even louder and then a shout came down the line.

"Ladders!"

Ladders appeared from nowhere, propped against the side of the trench, and then a whistle blew and the corpses that scattered the floor stood up and joined their comrades in climbing out of the trench. Beaton didn't climb, but he found himself at the top anyway once Rhys had made his way up. The ground before them was ablaze, red with so much blood that they were wading in it and the rumble was almost drowned out by a cacophony of dying screams.

Beaton's chest ached, so tight that he felt dizzy, and only by the means of being connected to his charge did he think that he kept moving. He tried to pull himself away, to sever the connection once more, but he was too weak. Rhys stumbled onwards until they fell into a shell hole, to find his children were huddled there and Beaton screamed, because a blinding pain struck him behind his eyes. Rhys was crying out, his arms around his children, as a thick gas began to pour into the hole and the children began to choke, their twisted faces monstrous, and Beaton felt his chest tighten by just one more impossible degree and then darkness.

* * * *

TO MRS RHYS GREEN STOP

I AM DELIGHTED TO BE ABLE TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND, MISSING IN ACTION, HAS BEEN FOUND AT A HOSPITAL IN NORTHUMBERLAND STOP SERGEANT GREEN IS SUFFERING FROM HEAD INJURIES AND BLINDNESS BUT SEEMS TO REMEMBER CLEARLY STOP HE MAY SUFFER THE EFFECTS OF TRAUMA FOR SOME TIME BUT IS FIT TO TRAVEL TO CARDIFF STOP MORE DETAILS TO FOLLOW STOP

YOURS

MAJOR T.S WATSON

Lewis looked the telegram over before it was sent and nodded his approval. It was part of an elaborate deception he was being forced to invent, thanks to that damn idiot Jimmy Beaton. What he was thinking even taking the treatment, let alone trying it out on an unknown subject, was beyond Tennant. Thank Christ that the major who oversaw the hospital had heard of the experiment and called in the discovery of Beaton's body before things could get out of hand. They'd found him slumped next to Sergeant Green's bedside, looking as though his heart had just stopped in his sleep. Only the treatment masks told the truth of the matter. The nurses had needed to be bribed to keep quiet, of course, but that didn't take a lot of effort – they had no idea what had really happened. The Sister, Maggie Martin, had asked more questions than were strictly necessary but the major sorted that one out. Lewis didn't know what he had said to her, but she kept quiet and that was what really mattered.

When Green woke up two days later, it was as though nothing had happened. He didn't remember a thing beyond the last time he was in a trench in France. The major arranged for his transfer to Cardiff, once Lewis had donned his white coat once more and pretended to be a doctor so that he could assess him for damage from the treatment. When Green had been shipped off, Lewis left the shocked hospital and went back to his facility, exhausted and angry beyond words. He telephoned the main facility in London to warn them of what had happened, and mere hours later a new ban on experimenting on soldiers in comas was announced and Lewis was told to burn any papers that had been left behind. There weren't any of them – the bloody fool hadn't even been trying to do anything about the experiment legitimately.

A few days later, Lewis heard that Jimmy Beaton's body was sent home to Lincoln to be buried. There was a photograph of him, taken the year before the war started. He looked happy, happier than Lewis had ever seen him look. The obituary that accompanied the photograph was the usual cock and bull story. Did anyone ever truly believe the things that people said about someone after they died? Jimmy died of a heart attack, they said, brought on by the stress of his job and from being away from home for so long. A great doctor, they said, a man who had always known he wanted to help people and took everything about saving lives seriously. A gentle giant, fiercely intelligent, a rock to his family and blah, blah, blah...

_Good bloody riddance_ , Lewis thought darkly, flipping to the crossword, away from the obituaries. _Wasn't that damn clever in the end, was he? Ego the size of Ben Nevis and not a shred of common sense to keep it in check. Good bloody riddance. No room for bleeding hearts here._

***

#  Interlude 1

There are two types of rich men; one comes from nothing and dies broken but with a life of luxury for their children. And then there's old money; the generations after the first tireless worker.

* * * *

John was not just old money, he was ancient money, wealth accumulated from generation to generation for hundreds of years. But what had it got him?

The war had taken its toll on the country and like most the gentry of England his estate had been heavily taxed. He was a middle aged gentleman when the call had come, too old to enlist but rich enough to be offered a commission as an officer. He had chosen the offer of General, not high enough to be too responsible but high enough to keep out of the trouble, keep out of the trenches and in the dining halls. The war had been a stinking meat grinder that killed an entire generation of able bodied men leaving entire towns and villages without sons and husbands. It was how he met his second wife; both of them were the ones left behind by death.

Like a man of his status, John had first married a good match, a woman of good standing and with wealth, and they had been pleasantly happy together, but when she and their child were killed in childbirth he was sad and showed the appropriate mourning period. When he came back and met the enchanting Rose he knew he had to marry her. They were both ready to move on and they wanted to do that together.

John looked down at his now withered hands and sighed. That was twenty years ago. It was amazing that had happened in what seemed like a blink of an eye.

* * * *

From that June with the death of the archduke the world became a blur of activity, countries signing treaties and declaring their enemies while the people of the world jostled around eagerly read newspapers; all waited with baited breath and troubled hearts until September when BOOM! The battle of the Marne and the trenches were dug.

By November, England had blockaded the North Sea from Germany and, in February 1915, England was declared a war zone around the great island and it wasn't safe for ships to leave port.

War raged on and John watched from his hotel room in France. Watching officers from the trenches coming in to report, they would slowly look more wide eyed and desperate, their health would be failing as they came in smelling of death and decay.

By April the first reports of poison gas was heard from the trenches and John saw his men decimated... no, decimated is the wrong word. It was more than one in ten, much, much more. Innocents brought to the slaughter. It was then that he stopped watching, turning his back the best he could. He just couldn't be the witness any more, he couldn't care for them all; it would have killed him.

* * * *

The battle of the Somme and the great mechanical tanks.

The Red Barren being shot down.

Every battle and pleading death washed over him till the news finally came. Germany signed the armistice in France and the war was finishing.

He returned home to his empty estate. The servants that had survived were returning young men, old before their time, some blinded or worse.

Nearly his entire liquid fortune had been taxed away from him. He invested what he could but it was his second wife who saved him. She was a wealthy widow who, after their marriage, brought her remaining staff and fortune to save his estate where she could not her own.

When WWI was finally over and with the start of a new decade begun, it brought prosperity. They invested in the new invention; the auto-mobile. Their wealth grew once again. Electricity came to their world and brought with it the telephone and motion pictures. For an anniversary gift he took his wife to see one called Don Juan. She was so excited she was shaking and that night she told him she was pregnant.

The 1920's brought the surrealism movement and Art Deco – nothing that he cared for mind you, but his wife enjoyed it.

But ten years after the war, disaster struck. The market crashed and many lost everything. John lost everything, including his wife this time from a wasting illness. She was so proud and refused to have them pour money into medical treatment for something she knew was an inevitable end and so he was down to three things:

His last million, the estate, and his beautiful daughter. So he knew what he had to do.

He saved the house from being sold but he couldn't keep it going forever. On his death the house and lands would be sold to pay his debts that he racked up without spending a penny, keeping everything on credit. The money wasn't for him; he kept it secret. It was for his daughter.

* * * *

In the five years since the crash of the stock market unemployment had risen to 18%. He would keep his daughter from struggling and suffering. An old man, in debt and widowed for the second time, all that mattered was his daughter, the beautiful woman she had become who now, even as a married woman, spent time with her ageing father.

"Dad?" she asked softly.

He looked up into the dark, beautiful face and smiled.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to go to the theatre?"

For a long moment John watched his daughter's eyes and nodded. Yes, he knew what to do.

"Yes. I'm ready," he said with a smile.

***

#  Golden Memories

##  E. A. Stokes

The first thing I saw was her broach. A light shone through my ceiling fan but momentarily the blades would block it before it would burst with blood red colour; it was hypnotising. But then, as I looked her up and down there wasn't one thing about her I couldn't take an hour over. Her jet black hair twisted up into a complicated style and was pinned under a hat traditionally worn by a man, but it looked right on her with the rim pulled over her left eye, like it should have been put on her from the start. Her clothes were hidden under a black three quarter length cashmere coat; the only part of her dress showing was two inches of bright red silk and the hint of the lace from her petticoat. This was the only colour. Just that skirt hem and that hypnotic broach.

"Do you stare at all your clients for this long?" she asked.

Her voice was soft and deep. It made me think of warm water pouring down my spine. Was it water or was it blood?

"Most my clients don't have legs like those, and are usually looking for me to make sure Dames like you aren't running around with some John."

She smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. She was cold, calculating and I got the feeling if she didn't have a use for me I would be considered prey or an acceptable loss.

"Well this situation is more.... complicated. I was told by a Mr Tennent that you could find anything that was considered lost."

She had broken into my office early on a Monday morning. I had been coming up the street when I had seen my lights on. I figured my receptionist had come in early but it would seem this woman had found a way to simply walk into my office. I didn't know how but I was standing in front of her like she had made an appointment and we were talking over tea and biscuits instead of me calling the cops. No, I know why I didn't do that, I was technically the cops and she was just a woman. Or so I thought.

The name she gave me rang a bell – a black, ominous bell. The man was a slimy man who I only associated with through work and it seemed he was touting for business again.

"So are you going to tell me how you got in here?" I demanded. Again that cold smile was back as she tapped the file on my desk before walking up to me. She had cold blue eyes that stared into my mind and a walk that was calculating, a sway that made me very aware of her. She reminded me of a cat not only because even a common little house cat has teeth and claws.

"No," she said softly.

She dipped her head and when she looked back up she had a cigarette between those cherry red lips. Automatically I took a match box from my pocket and struck one. I raised it to the tip, a single flame dancing in her eye and she took in a lung full of smoke.

"You can find me at Rizzo's. Read the file," she said.

The smoke was acrid against her perfume as she let out a plume and gave a satisfying sigh. I nodded, not trusting myself to not start babbling with her so close.

"You promise to at least look it over?" she asked softly.

"I'll give you that much," I admitted.

She simply walked past and she was gone out of my life. I couldn't help but stare at the desk as I listened to her heels clicking along the hardwood floor. Once the world fell silent again I was able to move. I walked to the window to see her walk out the door and out into the crowd.

This world was quiet. The war had left a scar on the world and on a lot of men and women. I was a lucky one; found my way into radio communications working a relay station between the front line and the rest of the army, patching through the generals with the people actually in danger. The worst I heard was their voices demanding help and even on a really quiet night I could hear them calling over the sounds of falling bombs and shouts of pain. But the world was quiet now, recovering in this, the year of our lord nineteen hundred and thirty five. And here, back safe in London with the thick, stinking fog surrounding us all, these were just fading memories.

"You're early," my receptionist called from the door, her gentle, happy voice breaking my train of thought.

"Thought I would get a head start on a new case," I called back turning to the single file on my desk.

It turned out my girl was connected. A rich daddy who found her a rich, but not too friendly husband. Not that it said that in the file but I'd had dealings with men like him and his kind before; made his money bullying and digging up dirt to hurt his rivals. His money was tied up in stocks and trades and the only fluid cash was her daddy's money. He had made sure to keep his money secure; he bought up a ton of gold and kept it safe. Last week daddy had a stroke, struck out while watching a play. He was in a coma lying in some fancy hospital bed and if he didn't wake up a million in gold would be lost to the world and she would be stuck living with her husband, unable to get free. They needed our help and they were willing to pay.

Finally I closed the paperwork in the file and cursed this woman. She would be expecting me and reluctantly I knew I would have to go. The percentage alone of this one was enough for the institute to force me.

Damn her.

I hadn't always been in this life–someone had noticed my talents. I had the ability to read people, not just gestures and expressions, everything about the way they moved, talked or just stood. Three years back I caught some suit in a compromising position. He was trying to bundle a woman into a car. I was just a uniformed policeman making my rounds when I came to the hotel. There was a car left running, lights on with two doors left open. The indicator was flipping out and the machine's large tires turned and the marks on the road showed the car had definitely stopped in a hurry. I followed the alley round the back to see the two of them.

He was a big one, maybe six foot three or four, in his twenties, his slicked back hair messed up with effort as he tried to pull the girl to her car.

"Yeah, you have one second to explain what you are doing," I called.

He froze and for a second I saw him sneer.

"She's my wife, she's drunk," he called.

"No," I simply said.

"What do you mean 'No'?" he demanded.

"I mean you're lying. You met this woman tonight, she ran from you, you knocked her out and now you're dragging her back to your car," I said firmly.

The man watched me for a moment.

"I am Doctor Granger. This woman is a patient."

"Go on," I prompted, my hand resting on my truncheon.

"I was trying to move her quietly to our facility but she became panicked. I tried to calm her but she climbed out the car and ran."

I relaxed my grip and nodded.

"That, I believe," I called, relaxing my hand.

I moved carefully over and gently helped them to the car.

"How did she get knocked out?" I asked as we lay her down.

"I managed to get an injection into her before she got out the car."

I turned her arm and winced at the tear in her flesh.

"Well, we should get her to this facility," I said with a sigh.

The good doctor stopped and watched me from across the front seats.

"We?" he asked surprised.

"I believe you but that doesn't mean I'm just going to just wave you off into the night."

For a moment he thought.

"Are you married to your job?" he asked.

"If you're considering bribing then I might just be," I warned.

He smiled before settling into the car and I got in.

"Nothing so... pedestrian. No sir, a job," he said with a smile.

They were impressed I guess. I suspected they thought I read his mind or hers but it was easy to see his soft hands, the claw marks to his neck. The clothes that didn't fit her, the flat clipped nails without polish, and more importantly, the patient wristband from the local asylum.

By the time I left the institute that night I had a new job. I was working to help people tell the truth when they couldn't. It wasn't all good. The business was dark and secretive but just because a man works for some cultish organisation doesn't make him bad. Does it?

"Gin," she called as she stopped behind me.

"What does a boy got to do to get a girl to buy him a drink?"

I didn't bother turning round, she knew I was going to be there and I had come to see her.

"Stick around and maybe," she said softly.

The barman handed her a gin and she drank a sip, the ice ringing on the glass side right next to me. I could almost smell the gin.

"How long you keeping me waiting?" I muttered, swirling the whiskey in the tumbler.

"Four songs."

She walked away and I kept hunched over the bar. Rizzo's was the type of place a guy could drink without being hassled. It was all dim lights and smoke, the mirrors bouncing light back into the room from the tiny windows; it was unwanted. No one who drank in this place wanted to see those bloodshot empty eyes staring back and judging as they rose the glass to their lips again, no. No one wanted to see that.

The piano started up on the stage behind me and I tore myself away from those judgemental eyes to watch.

If I thought she was hypnotic in my office I was nearly struck blind and dumb here and now.

She wore a white dress, something rare away from special occasions, her black hair styled up with diamonds glistening in it. Her dress flowed to the floor but hugged every inch of her body, her ice cold eyes framed perfectly in eye-shadow. They fell onto me and I felt lightning scream through my body, re-awakening long dead whiskey soaked nerves.

"I'm feeling might lonesome.... Haven't slept a wink..." She started to sing and I leant back on the bar.

It was a casual move but it was all I could do not to fall flat on my ass. In the light she seemed supernatural, an angel that made you beg to be turned to stone just so you didn't have to look away from its fearsome beauty. I wanted to weep but I wanted more to destroy all in the name of her as she stood above me. But on the outside I simply leant on the bar and lit a cigarette.

"You're good. But I guess it's a moot point since your husband owns the place," I called.

She was changing from behind a wooden partition as I leafed through the items in her dressing room.

"Yes, he owns it. But he doesn't own me," she said stepping out.

She chose a less... attention grabbing dress. It was simpler, more lady-like and more importantly didn't make me want to claw my eyes out or promise my very soul to her as she came to sit with me.

"And my guess is soon he won't even be your husband?"

She raised an eyebrow and tried to keep my stare but finally looked away.

"I won't say he's bad to me because he isn't. But he ain't good for me either."

She was a hard read. I guessed years in this life had built iron clad walls round her.

"Say we get you the money? Then what?"

She looked in the mirror and idly moved a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

"America maybe. I was told they are building vast cities. Someone could get lost in that country and never find themselves again. A million in gold I could start a whole new life. A better one." She seemed to be telling the truth.

"Well, after we take our cut it might be slightly less..." I pointed out but she simply shrugged and the conversation went dead for a moment. I cleared my throat and leant back on the sofa "Any other family?"

"None. My mother died from complications, Dad never remarried again, just me and him for a long time."

"And you understand this could kill him?" I said softly.

She stopped for a long time before she turned those eyes back on me.

"My father had been gone for a week, the doctors said he wouldn't make it past the night..."

She was cut short as her door opened and in walked her husband. I had seen hundreds like him. Big, grey faced, hard-eyed bullies who pushed people about. He swaggered in and his eyes stopped on me and he looked me up and down for a few seconds.

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable with my rumpled suit and dirty collar but I steeled myself and kept my shoulders square and held his gaze.

"What is this?"

His tone was friendly but the words, that was a different story.

"This is an insurance guy. Here about my father staying in another facility." She smiled and walked over landing a kiss on his cheek. It was a good lie – betray the oaf right under his nose.

"And how is having him moved gonna help? The old guy's a vegetable. I keep telling her, be kinder to put a pillow over his face and throw him in the ground."

"But with our facility there is a chance he may recover," I tried.

"Why are you talking to me?" he demanded.

"Because you're talking about killing the man," I said firmly.

The man pushed his wife gently away and walked to stand in my personal space.

"And you're accusing me of murder, huh?"

It was a way of getting me on the back-foot. Push me into panicking.

"Only if the man doesn't survive," I simply said.

This caught him and he grit his teeth.

"Do what you want. But don't expect anything from us. And if you accuse me then you ain't gonna get passed the first word."

"I'll have to keep that in mind next time I see you," I sniffed.

I stood, keeping eye contact as I pushed past him and stood in front of her.

"Well Mrs....?" I asked.

She smiled. It was a warm friendly expression I hadn't seen her use yet.

"Just call me Silvia," she said softly.

"All of this is in order. We will have him moved tomorrow and treatment will begin."

She nodded and the two of us turned to the door. She opened it, resting her hand on the door. I walked through and stopped to get just one last look of her dark beauty.

"You still owe me that drink," I said softly.

She didn't reply, just blinked slowly and closed the door before hushed angry voices began in the room.

From the outside the building, as a factory, even smelt like wet saw dust but on the inside it was white and sterile. It was cleaner than most hospitals. Nurses, orderlies, doctors and scientists walked silently along the featureless walls. A van drove down along the side of the building and in through thick, heavy doors. I greeted them inside the garage and opened the back door of the van; the old man was quiet, silenced, all but labouring breathing. He had grey, almost white hair, his skin was sallow, thin but soft, there was no stubble and his hair and nails were short meaning he was looked after.

"Latest pay check?" the drivers called.

I simply nodded and delicately took the old man's hand. There was a moment I thought he would turn to dust in my hand but he felt solid enough.

"Hopefully," I sighed. "Only if I succeed. Stroke could have scrambled his brain badly."

The voice's owner was stood beside me now. It was the orderly I worked with. He would move the old man from bed to the machine.

"How can you be sure it isn't?" he asked.

"There's only one way William. Only one way," I said with a smile.

He smiled back and he and the driver started to move the old man on his stretcher.

The machine worked on Gas, great canisters strapped to the wall with tubes that snaked down to masks. The old man was put in with one tube inserted down his throat for feeding and the mask placed over his face. I always watched this as I stripped to my shirt and removed my tie. It was always a worry going into a new mind, focusing control, but with someone potentially with a mind this messed up it was nerve-wracking.

"All ready for you," the nurse said softly, taking my things.

Silently I lay on the bed. Everything in the institute was silent. People spoke softly, they walked softly, doors were closed softly the only noise coming from the crazies that called and shouted from their cells. When anyone else made noise or you saw someone running you knew something wasn't right. The sweet faced nurse peered down at me and smiled.

"So when you going to fall in love with me?" I asked with a grin.

"When you stop being a drunk and a cad." She laughed.

"Then it was never meant to be," I sighed.

She laughed at least. As the mask was lowered I gently slid the tubes up my nose and to the back of my throat. It was uncomfortable and scratched but I was used to it. I clipped them onto the septum and the gas started to move down the tubes. I simply closed my eyes and took in deep breaths through my nose, making sure to keep calm as I fought the familiar feeling of panic and the world slowly went blank.

Long meadow grass swayed round my legs. A sun baked lawn, long and well cared for led to a large, stone and red brick mansion. Insects buzzed and made their way about as two young people chatted quietly. I stood over them and leant on a nearby tree. I couldn't help but take in the memory. The sun shone warm and inviting and felt good after so long in the cold London winter.

"Why not," I thought. "I got time."

He was dark and brooding a thick head of black hair and a waxed, neatly trimmed moustache as he sat smiling at the woman across the blanket.

She was pale and innocent as he was dark, her almost silver blonde hair tucked under a sun hat, her pale blue eyes shining happily.

"I think you should go pick us some apples," he said.

"You're not my husband yet John," she laughed. "How about you give me a please?"

He gave a dramatic smile and took her hand, softly lifting it to his lips and kissing her knuckles before letting it gently drop. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked her up and down again.

"Please, can you pick us some apples?"

She stood and headed to the trees, her thin fabric dress shifting in the wind. Her hair was picked up in the wind, sending pale gold tendrils through the air. She was more natural than most women of the time, seeming to have no reason to tie up her hair or drape herself with jewellery. There was only one reason a woman would be allowed to be alone with a man in that day. She was a war widow.

"I have replayed this moment in my mind a thousand times and I don't remember you," John said.

He looked up at me and suddenly I was being pushed out of the old man's mind. I fought back but damn he was strong. His mind was still quiet intact, it was fading slowly but it was still strong. If they had been aware of him he probably would have been turned into an agent. Like me. He was damn stronger, much stronger than I was but I was able to fight him, dig my heels in. What could he have done when he was awake and well?

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

"You had a stroke. We need to settle your affairs."

Rage hit me and the world went black.

I sat up, the mask fighting against me but I ripped at the tubes and threw them to the side. I thought he would be sat up ready to fight, but no. He was just where he was put.

"What's it like in there?" William asked.

He looked into my eyes and casually handed me a bed pan as my stomach forced last night's whiskey and this morning's coffee out through my nose and mouth. After years of doing this, I made sure I didn't eat too much before work. It was a waste of time and food.

"The stroke took out his motor-functional skills. Oh, his mind is fully intact."

They went about disconnecting him and tucking him.

"How long was I under?" I asked, wiping my mouth.

"Most of the morning.... Mrs Bennett is waiting for information." William chatted as he moved the man to the bed and off to one of the wards.

Rooms of people, some lying still and silent. Always silent. Some incensed or just too damn crazy to talk. I didn't work with them. They screamed and winced against the process, twisting against the restraint till they were raw, plus you could go just as mad as them working those cases. I know someone who was trying to cure shell shock; a poor man was just sitting there not moving or talking. He spent three sessions in that man's mind and ended up sitting right next to him.... The worst I heard was a man who had killed a bunch of people and they couldn't find his mother's body and in arresting him he had jumped out of a third floor and ended up in hospital. The man that went into his mind ended up going on a killing spree and did the same damn thing – got cornered and jumped out of a fifth floor... he didn't survive. These are all stories of course, rumours people tell new recruits, but it's not worth the risk.

She was standing in the room smoking. She was wearing a bright red dress, her black seamed tights punctuated with black heels. I took my time running my eyes up her legs and to her eyes.

She was watching me, electricity shot through me but at the same time I could see the young couple in her. I walked confidently into the room even if I didn't feel confident

"Please. No smoking in the institute," I said.

She silently handed me the cigarette. I couldn't help but take a lungful before stepping on the rest of it, mainly to mask the smell of vomit that was making me very self-conscious.

"Have you had time to see?" she asked.

"Yes, I've just come from the treatment. He's not totally gone but it seems his mind is strong. This should be easy."

She nodded and looked me over. I was starting to feel naked in just my shirt and trousers, even my shoes were untied from just being slipped on.

"Then you can buy me that whiskey," I managed.

But I was already starting to blush as I felt her eyes take me in again.

"If you succeed you might be in luck," she said softly as she moved to be level with me. She was inches away and I moved to watch her.

"I might buy you a bottle," she said, her fingers running down my shirt sleeve.

I laughed and she walked away leaving nothing but a trail of vanilla and something else mixed with the smell of smoke, all I wanted to do was follow.

* * * *

"I just want to talk to you," I said quickly.

The man was sitting on a rug in front of a fire, playing with a little girl; she had a carved marble set of animals that she was moving round in her own little world. I had come into the room and instantly I felt him push me out again.

"What do you want?" he asked, his tone calm but threatening.

"You had a stroke. We are trying to get your affairs in order," I tried to repeat again.

He looked up at me. The moustache was there but there was greying on his temples and the starts of wrinkles.

"She wants the gold, huh?"

"If that's your affairs then yes," I said with a shrug.

"Don't give me that young man. I love my daughter but if she was a man she would run half the city." He sighed. The world around us shifted and we were by a lake watching the sun sinking towards the trees.

"I'm not waking from this am I?" he asked plainly.

"It doesn't look good," I admitted.

"Then the gold can be lost," he spat.

I liked him. He was simple and straight forwards and I liked to see just how powerful his mind could be.

"Is it her husband?" Usually I would be the one controlling the world but right now I was just a guest.

"No," he sighed. "It's... complicated."

He turned to look me over, his features annoyed.

"Why should I talk to you about this? Why should I not just push you out, close my mind and live out the rest of my days... here?"

"I'm Jack. I'm a private investigator, used to be a policeman, you can trust me, I just need to ask you about where the gold is. I don't care about this, I'm just doing my job. There is no reason to trust me except that right now I'm asking you to."

He watched me for a few moments and it felt like he was looking into my very soul; is that what I looked like when I was doing this? Was he trying to read me? I was damn glad I had told him the truth. Open honesty was the only thing that was going to get me through this.

"I'll make you a deal. You let me in your mind; let me see who you really are and I will give you the gold. Do with it as you will, give it to her if you want. I don't care."

I had never had someone in my mind. Never let someone look into my life. Did I want to do it...? Even for a million gold? I walked over to the water. I went to pick up a stone and skim it but my fingers went thought. It was beautiful but it was fake, an illusion.

"If money isn't your weakness, then how about curiosity?"

I felt the world around me shift. There was a pressure behind my eyes and forehead. Time sped up, the sun sank. Fog blew over the grass and water, cobblestones appeared under my feet and buildings loomed out of the fog around us.

"How about being able to see just what I can do?" he asked, his voice soft next to me. "Where are we?"

"London," I sighed feeling a little more at home.

I was a city boy through and through. I always chose stone and concrete over grass and trees, the stone jungle was always easier to survive for me.

The thick pea soup fog was hard on my lungs, it was hard to breath but that could have been the real world infringing on the experience. I never remembered the fog smelling so... chemical. Two people were huddled in a doorway talking softly as a set of high heels echoed through the silent street.

"Not this," I said firmly.

"What is it?" he asked.

I shook my head and forced the image away but I couldn't. The woman slowly came closer, her silhouette slowly becoming solid, the two men straightening slightly.

"No!" I raged.

I sat up ripping the mask off and the tubes came out so violently blood followed trickling down my chin.

"Hey! Calm down," William soothed.

"This is totally different. I never met someone like it. I've never known a mind like it," I breathed as I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"You gonna carry on?"

I wiped my chin and thought but it wasn't easy. I brought up my coffee and late night beer into the bowl beside the bed. The sick and blood mixed making me panic momentarily, the vomit thick with blood. I leant forwards and waited for the blood to stop.

"I don't know. Give me till tomorrow," I sighed.

It was early and the world was silent but I couldn't sleep. Something about laying down for most of the day makes a guy restless. The fog was close to the windows, wind slowly shifting past. I paced up to the window. A million gold would be damn tempting; I looked at my shirt slung on my chair, the corners fraying and seams coming apart. It was like the moment I saw the one flaw everything got worse; my tiny flat, cheap, broken furniture; it seemed to annoy me.

Click click click.

The sound of high heels could be heard on the cobblestones turning my attention to the street. Every sound hit my mind and made my entire skin jump. I felt every nerve strike as the sound hit and soon my heart was thumping, slamming into my chest. I stopped breathing as I laid my hand on the cold windowpane. The clicking of high heels married to the figure walking along the empty street. She had her hands in her pockets as she made her way. It was such a casual movement but it filled me with fear as I shook my head softly uttering.

"No, no, please god no."

The woman stopped and tilted her head to look into my window. Relief flowed over me and I could have fallen to my knees as I pushed away from the window and headed for the door, grabbing my coat as I left.

"You shouldn't be walking the streets alone," I said softly in the form of a greeting.

"I had to see you Jack," Silvia said softly.

The way she spoke my name made me want to shiver; her voice was soft and soothing.

"You shouldn't be here," I tried again. "You're a married woman."

"You spoke to my father. I need to know what he said."

Her hand touched my arm and slid to my hand, her thumb running along my thumb knuckle.

"Can I come in? Maybe have a drink?"

I sighed heavily and tried to keep my head calm and nodded. I slipped my hand into hers and walked her into the building, her hand gripped on mine. What was I doing?

I would have given her tea but it would seem I was out of milk, sugar, and it appeared tea as well as coffee.

"What would you like to drink?"

She gently sat down on my sofa and watched me, her pale blue eyes almost glowing in the dim gloom.

"What ya got?"

She smiled softly and looked at the permanently stocked drinks cabinet.

"Gin?" I offered.

She slipped off her shoes and brought her legs up under herself and rested her head on the back, her hair gently tumbling down the cushions, the light glistening from the soft curls.

"Is that what you're having?" she said with a sigh.

"Gin's a bit of a girl's drink," I teased. "I'll have a scotch."

"Then so will I," she soothed.

We sat on the sofa together and I watched her sipping the golden liquid between her beautiful, full lips. She ran the very tip of her tongue along her top lip and then sucked the bottom.

"You'll get me in trouble if your husband finds out you're here. I don't think he'll be that understanding."

"He's out, gone to Manchester. Working," she said, her tone flat.

"So someone's life will be ruined," I sighed.

"I think if I answer that I would be incriminating myself."

I couldn't help but smile at her quip. I shifted round on the cushion and stretched a hand over the back, my fingers finding a few strands of her hair to play with. She turned and lay her head on my hand and sighed.

"Tell me about my father," she said softly.

I couldn't concentrate with her soft cheek on my hand. I turned it round to cup her cheek in my hand and for a moment we just watched each other.

I'm not a morning person. I love the night; it's quiet, unassuming and keeps to itself; but the sun, that happy bastard will hound you till you are awake and can't get away. The curtains were slightly open and the sun was streaming through the rectangle. I reached for the person in my bed to find it empty. I had woken up alone. Memories of her feel, scent and taste made me groan as I smelt her perfume. I wanted to stay there, maybe I hoped she would come back, maybe I was hoping it was all a dream and I would wake next to her but I couldn't stay. I needed to get to work.

Cold sweat mixed with fear as I scanned the world, people talking round me, over me, pushing me further. I stumbled hard hitting the doors and out into the street. Salt in the air, gentle drone of a fog horn, docks; no, they weren't here. Where did they come from?

Sound of clicking heels on cobblestones, fear shot through me as I stepped back.

"Just grit your teeth," a voice hissed.

I shook my head and tried to push myself back out of this memory, fight the fear, but I couldn't.

"I said not this," I shouted.

I turned on my heels and tried to run into a dark alley. Darkness enveloped me and I started to fall. Nothing fell past me and I tried to grab for anything.

I hit the ground and woke in bed, the springs creaking softly. A hand sought out mine as I sat up wiping my brow. I looked down at the dark angel between my sheets.

"Is this what is happening out of here?"

John was leaning on the doorway watching us.

"It's what I wish would happen," I said softly and honestly.

"She would eat you alive," he sighed.

I had given up trying to keep control. I had given him everything to play with... everything but that memory.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked softly.

"I wanted to know who you are."

"Why?"

"Because you don't even know," John said, his tone firm.

Even in my mind I went for the drinks cabinet but I couldn't open it.

"I know who I am!" I snapped "I'm Jack. I did my national service when I was eighteen, I got a job in the police at twenty one, I was married at twenty five, six years ago I started working at the institute and three years ago two men....." I couldn't finish, I just choked on my own words.

"Three years ago, you lost your wife when?" he urged.

The room slipped away and I was back on the street but now I was in control, I let him in, let the memory flow it was easier than speaking the words. We watched as I turned to see a past me standing by the doorway. I looked younger, my mousey hair styled carefully instead of left its usual messy, "styled" by fingers and gel, my eyes bright and hopeful instead of pickled in their sockets.

Four men approached, one asking for a light. I obeyed and lit a match. I couldn't do anything about it. One second I was helping him the next he was on me, all four of them hitting and kicking. They took my money and my father's pocket watch and then they stopped, the sounds of heels slowly building. I tried to stop watching as we watched silently.

"They were thugs, looking for quick cash," I managed to say.

I spun round but we were standing by a glass fronted shop. I could see everything through the glass but it helped; it made it a little more surreal.

"Don't make me," I pleaded softly.

"What happened?" he tried again.

"They guessed she was coming to meet me. Two held me down as two approached her." I watched in the window as I helplessly watched the three become frantic. The gun shot rang out and she slumped onto the floor, the blood spilling onto the filthy cobbles.

"She wouldn't give them a silver, cut glass engagement ring. It cost me a day's wages at the institute. I would have brought her a thousand damn diamonds if she had just given them that... bit of tat. I was going to replace the glass for a diamond and buy her a real gold wedding ring. She just had to give it up."

I watched my past-self crawl helplessly to my already dead wife. I broke down and fell to my knees.

"I would have replaced it," I repeated sobbing, the salt tears stinging my eyes.

Carpet under my knees. I was back in my flat, alone. I groped round for leverage and helped myself to my feet as I tried to get myself together. I looked at the cabinet but didn't reach for it. I couldn't remember how I got here. Did I dream this? Was I sleep walking? Had I come from work? I stood and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a mess as I tried to settle by running my hands through it, trying to pat it down; I stopped and rested my hands on my head.

"My name is Jack," I said firmly to myself. "Three years ago my wife was shot and killed in a robbery. She was three months pregnant with my child. She died because she wouldn't give them a ten shilling ring and since then I have not been able to function. She _was_ my life," I said out loud.

The world went black and I was back at the lake and John was next to me.

"This is where my wife told me I was going to be a father. In this place. At that moment. It was the happiest I had ever been and I can't even consider losing that for a moment like yours."

Tears trailed down my cheek.

"You know me enough yet?" I sniffed.

John gave a soft warm laugh and nodded.

"You know what Jack. I think I do."

I woke slowly and reluctantly. I couldn't tell if I was in my bed or the machine. I clumsily groped my face and found the mask, my cheeks soaking. I had been crying while under – now that is embarrassing.

"Keep calm," a voice said. "You used a full dose."

I felt something. The noxious taste of rubber and the choking feel of a pipe down my throat. I clenched my fists and waited, breathing through the tubes up my nose. With the gas finished the quickest way to get someone to wake was to pump air through the tubes and flush out the gas quicker, but it also helped when you had a feeding tube down a man's throat. The mask lifted and William was getting me free. The tubes scraped my throat and I wanted to gag but I held it in longer till I was free and I let my body do as it wanted.

"You've been out for days," William chatted, putting a wet cloth on the back of my neck.

"Hence the healthy liquid diet and the hangover."

"How do you usually deal with hangovers?"

"Don't let yourself sober up enough to get them, that's the trick."

I drank the water and sat up. The world swivelled as blood drained down and back round my body. I simply sat there for a moment and took in the world. I had to check this was really the world. I took William's arm. The heat and feel of hair was reassuringly real.

"I would give it a minute," he said, helping me to sit on the side of the bed.

"I know where it is. I can close this case," I said, watching the old man sleep.

"What we doing with him?"

Usually he would be 'processed'. Tell Silvia he hadn't survived the treatment so there was no chance of him remembering then he would become subjects of other projects. But he was still in there.

"Tell them I might still need him," I sighed.

A nurse came in with a wheelchair and smiled.

"Can I at least walk to the bed?" I asked.

"You can try."

I stubbornly tried to stand, my knees gave way almost instantly and I slumped into the chair, the world spinning uncontrollably. She helped me as I feebly tried to sit round as she smiled down at me. I sighed and she ran her fingers through my hair.

"Alright. You win," I admitted.

The bus station was silent. It was another hour or so before the drivers would be starting again but a solitary figure stood by the roadside, her trilby pulled over one eye, her coat covering everything but an inch of blue dress and those legs. She watched as a car pulled up. Silently she got in and watched the man beside her.

They both smiled and she leant in to kiss him. Their lips lingered as she ran her nails down his coat collar.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"It's been a long week," he sighed. "Where's your husband?"

"Just.... gone," she sighed.

"He told me. I know where it is."

She smiled and kissed him again for a moment. He gave a soft groan and pulled her closer making her laugh softly as she pulled back and she kissed his cheek as the car drove off.

The car left the city moving through the quiet streets and out into the countryside. No one to see them, nobody even knew they were on their way. It was just two lives, two heartbeats as the lights moved through the night dipping and climbing out to one of the lonely mansions sitting silent and firm on the hillside.

Finally they pulled into a long, winding driveway before pulling up just before the main estate. The man got out and looked up at the building and gave a soft smile before opening the back trunk and producing a hurricane lamp. Lighting it, he helped her out of the passenger's seat and they moved through the cut grass. The house wasn't their goal. They moved to a circle of trees and to a small ancient icehouse. It was luckily open–more like the wood had rotted away from the lock–and as expected, freezing. Even in the warm summer night they could see their breath.

"In here?" she asked softly.

"In here," he repeated.

She reluctantly took the lamp and followed him down the mossy steps. He looked round the empty room and found a crowbar lying in the shadows in a little alcove. Most likely a place to put the lantern. He picked a tile and started breaking the mortar, slowly chipping away until one was loose. They both kneeled bringing the light closer till the golden sheen could be seen in the light.

They laughed and hugged as the work began.

He would break the mortar with the bar and she would remove the tiles and broken mortar. For hours they worked silently until the floor was uncovered and the gold could be seen.

They took a moment. Both were filthy, her nails were ruined and so were her tights as they embraced and kissed.

"So what you going to do?" he asked.

She sighed and looked up.

"Whatever I want."

"Probably get your father back in that fancy hospital?"

She frowned a little and nodded.

"Well, yes," she said.

"Because the doctors at the institute said he had air injected in his vain. It was lucky he just had a stroke."

She watched me for a moment and nodded.

"I wouldn't call it luck," she said.

"He also told me that he never told you about the gold and a quick chat to the bank manager confirmed you tried to access his account the day after his stroke and that's when he told you about the gold."

"What are you saying Jack?"

"I can't prove it, but you tried to kill you father."

She smiled and played with my collar.

"I see how you look at me. Let's forget this and take this gold... I could be yours baby, I couldn't be totally yours. You said it yourself, you can't prove it... I didn't do it Jack. Let's go somewhere quiet and I'll buy you that whiskey?" she soothed.

He thought for a moment before giving a nod and a smile.

"There's some rope in the car. Get it for me so we can get these up the stairs?" he asked.

She nodded and moved up the stairs.

John watched his guest and sighed heavily as he took a pull of his pipe; he seemed pensive.

" _She can lie. It's like she doesn't even realize, she just.... does it."_

" _I have never believed a lie sir," I said with the ignorance of youth. Youth compared to the man I knew to be lying in that bed._

" _Neither had I... till I had her lie to me. She will lie to you. Twist you till you are the one laying in some hospital bed. I got her married to that ape to keep her under control, and for a while it worked, but she must have lost patience to try and kill me."_

The room shifted and moved from the lake to the playhouse. We were in the back of the private box and she was with him holding his arm. From this angle we could see her produce the empty syringe. She didn't even think about it, she simply stuck it into his leg. He cursed and pushed her away. She simply went, taking the syringe and slipping into the shadows. Just as quickly we were back by the lake as if I hadn't seen a thing. He laughed softly as I starred slack jawed.

" _She did this, I can assure you. And she wouldn't have been subtle, just hope she could twist you into getting her out the country."_

" _I'm a private investigator but I still have my badge, the institute made sure of that. I need to arrest her," I said gravely._

" _Then do it, keep the money. And just remember if her husband isn't about, then she's most likely taken him out and if you're not careful she will take you out too."_

Silvia walked out into the dawn, mist covered grass and stopped. Three policeman were watching her silently.

"Also. One call to Manchester I found out your husband was discovered dead yesterday. The brake lines were damaged. And I'm sure these men give one good call to the playhouse the night your father was found we'll find that you were with him. You're good, but you forget to cover your tracks."

"What are you saying?" she said with a frown.

"Silvia Bennett. I'm arresting you for murder."

The policemen grabbed her as she tried to struggle against them.

"You can't do this! The gold is mine!"

They started to take her to the prisoner transport van and the last policeman approached him.

"What did you find in there?"

Jack looked back at the door for a second and smiled.

"Nothing. I'll clear and secure. You take her to the station."

The two men stood and walked to the door. It was symbolic of the exit as it was nothing but a door in the middle of the field. The field was in perfect sunlight, the world was getting dark around the little bit of world. The darkness was closing in around them. Usually Jack would just come in and out of a man's mind thinking of it nothing more than a job but this time... This man he felt he needed to declare he was leaving for the last time, say goodbye before he slipped into oblivion.

"I'll get you a nice room. Looked after till the last," Jack smiled.

John turned to see the beautiful woman lying in the orchard.

"How did you lose her?" Jack asked.

"I honestly don't know any more... I never thought someone that young could be that cold. But ..." John sighed "But right now... till the end. We'll be together."

***

#  Interlude 2

The newspaper weighed heavy in the young man's hands; heavy with purpose, possibility, portent, or perhaps a bit of all three. He'd found it sandwiched down the side of his seat on the bus, neatly folded and wedged between the faded and scuffed mahogany leather. Much like any commuter he browsed aimlessly through the crumpled and smudged pages, not really taking anything in, just passing the time. Until an advertisement caught his eye. Its title at once elegant and refined, yet strident and brash.

"Better Yourself" it said.

It was a pair of words that really burrowed into your mind and got under your skin. No matter how much he tried to ignore it and move on, he kept turning back to that page and his eyes kept alighting on that advertisement.

" _Better Yourself_ " it whispered in honeyed words.

" **Better Yourself** " it cooed with a sultry reassurance.

And so it drew him in, pulling his eyes down the page and dancing across the neat newsprint.

" _Recent scientific advancements have allowed us to unlock the hidden potential of the human brain._ "

It sounded plausible, thought the young man. Science has been coming on leaps and bounds in the last decade.

" _With our simple programme you can train your mind and make yourself more than you were! Our training can help you achieve:_

  * Clarity of thought,

  * Block out those distractions,

  * Grit,

  * Determination,

  * Confidence!

" _Use your new found skills to get your life back on track!"_

The young man mused that he had been feeling a little dissatisfied with his place in the world recently, that things weren't going quite the way he had hoped they would. Everyone should strive for self-improvement shouldn't they? Isn't that part of what being human is about?

"Better Yourself" it sang to his heart.

At the bottom of the advertisement was an address.

"Visit our offices at Davidson inc. 5 Woolshearth Road, London. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back."

It was on his way to work. He may as well pop in and see what it was all about. What was the worst that could happen?

***

#  Smoke and Mirrors

##  Sam Kurd

Stephen Nelson's mind was the worst I had ever had the misfortune to enter. It was also the last. What had started as something of a disappointment had rapidly become an unbearable nightmare.

I recall the first time I saw him, slipping into my office and shooting nervous glances at everything from my desk to the standing lamps in the corners. He didn't look dangerous, no more so than any man does at first glance. There was nothing otherworldly about him, no cause for alarm. How was I to know?

I greeted him cordially and offered him a scotch, which he declined with a polite murmur. He settled into his chair, perching like a fragile bird. I filled my pipe and listened to him describe his circumstances.

He had come to me with the intention of securing my help in his attempts to stop smoking cigarettes. As a medical professional and a fellow slave of the tobacco leaf myself, I was of course aware of the studies in the last decade, studies linking smoking to damage to one's lungs. I didn't care overly much for it; a man should be allowed one or two vices, and I was careful to ensure I was fully fit in as many other ways as possible.

Of course, I had a professional interest in helping others. Though not a fully-fledged medical doctor, I had dedicated my life to the study and treatment of maladies of the mind. I was less interested in treating the common cold, or seeing to limbs and organs (aside from the primary one, naturally). I have always been far more interested in the mind. How it works. How it can be used. How it can snap.

It was my interest in psychology and psychiatry that had led me to The Institute's doors so long ago. It was my interest in extracurricular activities that had led to my dismissal.

Nelson was approaching the end of his account. I grunted the occasional sympathetic noise as I tamped the tobacco in the bowl, struck a match in the ensuing silence and favoured him with a thoughtful gaze as I puffed away.

"Mr. Nelson," I began. "I believe that I may be able to help you. Firstly, if I may say so, I am immensely relieved that you have come to me. It shows a marvellous trust in the techniques of modern medicine. So many of us would hear the news of smoking's reported ill effects and wave them off. 'It couldn't happen to me,' they'd say. Or perhaps 'Stiff upper lip, old chap, worse things happen at sea.' We do so love our pithy avoidance techniques."

Nelson nodded slowly. "I have to say, Doctor Armitage, I'm surprised to see you smoking, and you a medical man. Can you not work your head-magic on yourself, or does it not work quite like that?"

"Well, it certainly can in many cases, though not all. No, I choose to continue, though I fear it does rather lend me an air of 'Do as I say, not as I do.' Man is ever a creature of habit, and habits though easily formed are not so easily broken. It takes considerable strength of will to admit that one has a problem and to then take that first step towards redressing it. I applaud you, Mr. Nelson."

He favoured me with a smile, but in his eyes I saw a very brief flash of... something. A sliver of ice, perhaps, just for a moment. I had idly entertained the notion of using him for my purposes before that; the flash simply piqued my interest further.

"Doubtless you came to me for my much-lauded skills in hypnotherapy," I said. "It's true I am established in this under-appreciated field. It's not my sole interest, but it's as noble a profession as any. Hypnosis has a long and rich heritage dating back to civilisations that fell untold eons ago. It has cultural, social, medicinal implications that reach far beyond training men to change their inconvenient habits."

At this, the small man shifted uncomfortably and leant forward.

"Dr. Armitage," he said. "Please understand, I'm not entirely comfortable about this. I mean, I've read reports of the studies that show evidence of smoking-related death. The thing is, though..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "The thing is, doctor, I'm worried. About my privacy, see. You, er, you won't make me... do stuff?"

"'Stuff', Mr. Nelson?"

He coughed and shrugged again.

"Yes. You know. Stuff. Silly stuff, embarrassing and the like."

I nodded sagely and puffed some more, fixing him with a look that I hoped fell somewhere between mild reassurance and steely indignation.

"I understand completely, Mr. Nelson. There are many who are nervous of hypnotherapy. Charlatans and frauds are among us in all walks of life, I fear. I can only assure you that as a practising professional with, I flatter myself, a sterling reputation, I have no interest in making you cluck like a hen, or bark like a dog!"

At this Mr. Nelson chuckled and relaxed – but only slightly.

"No doubt you harbour some wild and fanciful notions about brainwashing, mind control or some other such nonsense. That popular picture, what was it called, the one that starred Frank Sinatra? The Mancunian Candidate?"

"Er, Manchurian, I think."

"Ah, yes. Manchurian. Quite. Mmm. All nonsense, of course. Fanciful Hollywood fluff. Hypnotherapy is quite safe, I assure you."

He nodded slowly, considering my words. He still looked sceptical, though.

"Your reputation is flawless among your peers," he replied. "Though I still... I value my privacy very highly, sir. Hypnotic suggestion can be used to draw out truths without the client's knowledge, isn't that correct?"

I waved a dismissive hand.

"It can, Mr. Nelson, in the hands of the unscrupulous. You have nothing to fear from me, sir, as I have nothing to gain from you. I am a doctor with an established career and a modest income, so I have no motive to trick you for monetary gain. Hypnotherapy is an unintrusive procedure, though somewhat akin to surgery, a surgery of the mind. My own mind is my scalpel, and I assure you I keep it sharp. A steady hand is required, if you'll allow me to extend the metaphor, to ensure a happy result."

"Hmm," he said, wringing his hands thoughtfully. "All the same, doctor..."

"Oh come, come, Mr. Nelson," I said firmly. "Have you ever seen a diseased lung? I have photographs in my drawer. They're not a pretty sight. You can try and stop smoking by hiding your cigarettes, by throwing them away, you can even try feeding them to your dog if you're feeling particularly cruel. It would be a long, difficult slog with absolutely no guarantee of success. Or... I can guarantee, on my reputation, that I shall not use hypnosis to pry into your personal affairs."

He hesitated. I had him.

It was the price that convinced him more than anything else. His worn shoes and threadbare suit had marked him out to be a man of frugality, and I used this as leverage. Some minor haggling and mild persuasion later and his mind was mine.

With my soothing tone of voice, I talked him softly and gently into a hypnotic trance. His breathing slowed and deepened, and his eyes closed. Down... down... down... under.

I needed him to be pliable for my purposes.

I led him into the small back room where I kept The Apparatus. A bank of computers and similar electronic equipment took up one wall, humming quietly to itself and emitting the occasional low-pitched beep. The middle of the room was taken up by two chairs: reclining affairs of the sort you might find in a dentist's office. Sundry other items, hoses and gas tanks and so forth, lay strewn around them in untidy piles. I bid Nelson take his seat and he did so obediently.

The procedure would only take a few moments to initiate. I kept the majority of the Apparatus running before appointments in case I would have the chance to use it; it makes the process swifter if you do not have to start it up each time. The process had been developed many years ago, and was still in development deep underground in some parts of the country. It had been born in blood, perfected by sweat and toil. It always gave me a nervous thrill as I used it; I fancied myself part of something bigger than myself and my jaunts.

Nelson lay back in his seat, an empty smile fixed on his peaceful face. It was innocuous at the time, but if I'd known then what I know now I have no doubt it would have chilled me down to my bones – and further, perhaps, to my very soul. What a fool I was not to take the precaution of restraining him.

As it is, I dismissed it. He was but a means to an end. I needed more research, more minds, to further my studies. Here one was, willingly in attendance, unwittingly readying itself to give up its secrets to me.

I affixed a small gas mask over my patient's mouth and followed the attached hose to a gas canister by his feet. I began to turn the valve slowly, making sure to allow the gas out at a slow and steady rate.

"Breathe deeply, Mr. Nelson."

He did so. I waited the customary seven minutes. I have no idea why seven exactly; my own experimentation had proven that by this time the subject's mind would be nicely receptive. Perhaps it was simply one of the quirks of the process when using this particular apparatus.

I moved quickly, flicking a few switches, pressing a few keys, taking my place in my own chair. As I slipped on my face mask I felt the same curious mixture of elation and dread that always comes over me at this stage of the procedure. There is a sense of great adventure; every patient is radically different, each experience a wild departure from the last. I was, as ever, taking a plunge into the unknown.

I did not do so without precautions, however. Unlike Mr. Nelson, I was prepared to have a certain measure of control during this jaunt. I would maintain lucidity through the application of a series of taps on my palm spelling out my name in Morse code. Doing this as I succumbed to the gas would keep the pattern in my subconscious and allow me to associate myself on some base level with my name, and thus my identity, my self. Should I need to beat a hasty retreat, I would simply focus on the pattern and allow reality to solidify around me.

I tapped the pattern out as I mentally counted down, taking deep breaths of the amber-coloured gas that coiled and swirled lazily into my lungs. I could feel my limbs becoming heavy, coupled with a sensation of rising. As my mind slipped deeper into darkness, a paradoxical feeling of ascent grew stronger; I felt myself rising and becoming buoyant despite my leaden limbs. This lasted but a few seconds. Within moments I was gone.

And I awoke inside the mind of Stephen Nelson.

It will be very difficult to describe exactly my surroundings. The mind-scape is no physical world, bound by natural laws and quantifiable angles. I did not occupy any physical space there, no depth, width, breadth. That would have been ridiculous.

Rather, it was a splinter of my consciousness that had been transplanted into Nelson's own. My body remained in the chair where it lay. The gas acted as a conduit, a bridge between our two minds. I could go into further detail but not without involving some rather advanced theoretical physics and intimidating equations. Suffice to say that, in layman's terms, I had stepped into his mind and could proceed to stroll around there.

In order for my consciousness to perceive anything of Nelson's mind, it had to be translated into a form that I could readily process. His mind painted a setting, my mind observed and codified it. As I intimated earlier, each mind-scape varies wildly due to the individual natures of the observer and the observed. One man's inner pastoral field is another's blasted heath.

Stephen Nelson's mind-scape was neither. If anything, it was disappointingly mundane. Casting a glance about myself, I found that I was standing in what appeared to be a small village square. The handsome cobbled streets were narrow and lined with quaint stone and wooden houses. No other persons could be seen, but this was not unusual and caused no alarm. It was rather still, tranquil even. If I strained for a moment, I could hear birds singing and, faintly, a dog barking in the distance. These were probably manifestations of something or other. I paid them no mind, choosing instead to drag my feet along the cobbles.

The initial few minutes of every delve into a mind is always spent adjusting to one's surroundings, allowing your mind to interpret the strange sensory ghosts you come into contact with. Tactile sensations help in this grounding period. I stooped and plucked a dead leaf from the gutter, crumbled it between my fingers. A sudden breeze stole the fragments from my hands, carrying them away down the road. I took a breath and could smell a delicious home cooked meal being prepared in one of the nearby homes. Such a wonderful experience, secondary sensory sensation. I wasn't smelling a real meal, I was 'smelling' the _memory_ of a meal. Fascinating, really. I had written a few papers on the subject during my time at the Institute, but they were stolen and burned before they could be sent off for publication. Shame.

As delicious as it smelled, the meal would not be worth investigating. It would provide no substance, no sustenance. It could also provide a sinister trap; a mind is always on the lookout for anchors, evidence that it can use to convince itself that its surroundings are real. An explorer of minds can find himself trapped if he is not careful. I have always been careful.

I left the smell behind and walked up to a short squat building I guessed to be a village hall of sorts. A noticeboard by the front door announced it as such and listed certain advertisements for local businesses and services. A post office. A dry cleaner's. Ah, perfect – a tobacconist.

I took note of the address on the advertisement and glanced about myself for the street name. It was not readily apparent, but I imagined it would not be too far away; Nelson's mind was unlikely to be a sprawling metropolis. He hadn't struck me as a highly imaginative man, capable of weaving rich tapestries and landscapes with his inner eye. Though I was pleased to be proven right, I was somehow slightly disappointed. The cobbled streets, quaint shops and pastoral setting was mundane and predictable. No doubt it was a scene from his own childhood, replicated in perfect boring detail.

I strolled along the streets, peering around street corners to find the shop. As expected, it didn't take long. I examined the shop window and was slightly concerned to find inky black pools of tar seeping out from under the pipes and cigarette packets on display. Bilious clouds of ill-looking smoke swirled noxiously behind the glass panes. Nelson's anxiety about smoking had manifested itself quite plainly.

Looking at the fearsome sight, I was rather nervous about going in. Still, I had my job to do. Despite my ulterior motives I was no charlatan; all who came to me seeking aid from some sort of malady got what they were after. That some weren't quite aware of the full scope of my treatment was hardly my problem. If they had been willing to allow themselves to be hypnotised then this was not very much different.

I reached out with a curiously hesitant hand and laid my fingers on the doorknob. I could feel an odd vibrating sensation coming from within. I shrugged, turned the handle, entered.

I was instantly struck by the foulness of the smell within. The smoke was noisome and rank, not in the same way as normal tobacco smoke can be strong but with a sense of something rotten and spoiled. My stomach clenched violently as my eyes watered. It took an almost superhuman resolve not to flee the room instantly. I wondered fleetingly whether or not I would be able to vomit in a mind-scape. I was certainly able to choke.

I held a handkerchief to my mouth and nose, pressing further into the room. Through the roiling fumes I could make out a counter – and behind it, the figure of a man. I had found the source of the fumes and, it seemed, the proprietor of the shop.

He was a short, squat fellow with a face and figure that suggested a sluggish manner and unfriendly thoughts. He was smoking, belching out huge ashen clouds with every breath. He eyed me warily as I coughed politely (and somewhat inevitably).

"Are you the owner of this shop?" I spluttered. He blew smoke directly into my face and my eyes stung bitterly. I cast about myself with angry waves, trying to clear the air.

"Now look here, my man," I began, soon dissolving into a choking fit. Over the sounds of my attempts to draw breath I could just barely hear chuckling. The impertinent lout was laughing at me!

Angrily, I leaned forward.

"I say," I said, but got no further. The clouds closed ranks before me, masking the slimy grinning man entirely. I batted them away, and miraculously they began to clear a little. I was relieved to find an electric fan on the counter. I switched it on and fought my way to the front door, flinging it wide.

Within moments the smoke had all spilled out in huge great snakes, coiling lazily into the beautiful cloudless sky. I took deep lungfuls of healthy clean air, purging my throat of the awful burning and stinging. The air tasted sweeter than any I had ever breathed. It was a moment of simple and utter bliss.

I turned to enter the shop once more and saw it was suddenly empty. No smoke, no cigarette packets, no oily puddles. No proprietor, either. While I could not say I was displeased that he was nowhere to be seen, I was certainly unnerved. I could not yet say with certainty whether or not he was at the crux of Nelson's smoking habit, but he was certainly a foul manifestation of something deep-rooted.

I poked around the now-empty shop cautiously. Though the owner had disappeared, it was not without a trace. He had left behind him a trail of footprints of the same black substance that had formerly been on display. I knelt and poked one gingerly. The liquid clung to my finger like treacle. It seemed, on close inspection, to writhe and wave slowly of its own accord. I wiped it hurriedly off and followed the trail carefully.

The prints led to a singularly dismaying sight: a long, long corridor lined with a seemingly endless parade of doors.

"For goodness' sake," I wondered aloud. "Can there be anything more dull than a mind so orderly it must present itself in this way?"

It was such a nondescript passageway. The carpet was no more than a thin maroon strip, and the doors were all identical. It was practically featureless save for the occasional light fitting that jutted from either wall. After the rich detail of the village square (and even the loathsome shop-keep), this was quite a let-down.

I pressed on with a sigh, keeping a close eye on the prints as they proceeded wetly down the corridor ahead of me. No sound could be heard but my own footsteps, the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet and the gentle pounding of my own heart. I walked.

After what felt fully five minutes I stopped, disconcerted. Surely no corridor should continue for so long? After all, the building itself certainly hadn't seemed this deep when viewed from outside! I turned to look behind me and was rather concerned to see only the corridor stretching out ahead of me. I turned back and was greeted by the same identical view. I felt a queer nausea and a sense of vertigo. I steadied myself against a wall and forced myself to be calm. I couldn't allow myself to forget where I was, what was happening. The corridor was otherworldly because this was quite literally an otherworldly place. Nothing could hurt me here any more than smoke and shadows could. There was nothing to fear here.

By way of reassurance, I tapped out my name on my palm with the tips of my fingers. Once... twice... three times... four... I soon began to feel the lighter-than-air sensation that would precede my return to the physical world. Excellent. I stopped before the sensation could deepen and whisk me away.

Once I had steeled myself, I set off again. I stopped in front of a door chosen at random, deciding that no headway would be made until I had investigated at least some of the adjacent rooms.

I stopped before one and took a deep breath. As my fingertips brushed the round brass handle I felt a strange tingle run along my arm, as had happened with the outer door. I recoiled for a moment then grasped it with renewed vigour.

To my surprise, as I opened the door I entered a bright and breezy garden. It was astonishing. Flower beds were tended by industrious bees, a soft and gentle breeze setting their slender stems swaying. There was grass underfoot, growing from actual soil. I looked up and saw no ceiling, just the bright blue sky in all its infinite majesty. The door was still there behind me, its dismal view of the corridor a reminder that this bizarre outside vista was housed inside a building.

In the far corner of the garden I could see a woman, her back towards me, on her knees in a small patch of herbs, working the earth. I couldn't see if she was weeding or planting but I could see a thin plume of cigarette smoke. I cleared my throat softly.

"Hallo?" I called. There was no reply. "I say, madam?" Still nothing.

I walked towards her, taking care not to trample the flowers. As I got closer that awful cloying stench appeared again. The smoke, it had to be. If I was to get to the bottom of his cigarette addiction, I was going to have to get used to it.

I was almost upon her now and she hadn't yet paid me any mind. Her movements were odd, stiff and jerky. She was plunging her hands into the earth and out again with clumsy gestures, more like a marionette than a human. I touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Madam?"

She turned her head slowly, revealing the full horror of her face. Her eyes were missing and her throat was slit, cigarette smoke pouring from each jagged hole. With a vacant smoky smile, she held her hands out to me, even as I backed away. In her hands was the object she had been burying – her own heart.

With a shriek of terror I fled from the garden back into the corridor, slamming the door behind me. I doubled over and discovered the answer to my earlier question. After a few moments I shakily wiped the vomit from my lips and stared at the door in shock. What on earth had I just witnessed?

I decided that that would be the end of my adventure. I had expected strangeness and mystery, but this? No, I was unprepared for this. Let the damnable man choke on his cigarettes. I was done.

I tapped out my name. I tapped it out four times, five. Nothing. No light-headedness, no feeling of elevation. I kept tapping frantically, with no effect other than my increasing desperation.

I was trapped.

I took a deep breath. This should absolutely not have been possible, but it wasn't an unmitigated disaster. The gas would run out and the procedure would run its course. I wouldn't be trapped in here indefinitely. But being unable to leave at my leisure was certainly not an experience I would relish.

I dragged myself to my feet and dusted myself down. If I couldn't leave, I would have to explore further. As I certainly wouldn't be going through that door again, my next course of action was unclear. I had lost the entrance to the shop and was stranded in a corridor which appeared to stretch out to an improbable infinity. The only thing for it was to try more doors.

The next door I tried opened onto a brick wall with some ornate markings scribbled on it. Pretty enough, but ultimately useless. The next door wouldn't budge, though the high-pitched giggles that crept through the keyhole after I tried the handle made me glad it didn't.

The next door opened onto a reassuringly normal study. Bookshelves lined the walls and bizarre _objets d'art_ were displayed in glass cases on plinths dotted about the room. As I progressed deeper into the study, the items on show became more unsettling. There were grimacing death masks, and mummified limbs. Here, a sticky bundle of blood-stained pound notes, there a scrap of cloth clutched tightly in a severed hand. A cut-throat razor, nicked and worn. A chisel with a clump of hair and flesh stuck to the end. An unidentifiable lump of quivering meat.

I stood in this chamber of horrors and wondered about the man whose mind contained such things. We are all of us creatures of darkness and light, but I had never come across anything so disturbing in my previous jaunts. What was this madness?

As if in answer, I heard a booming voice ring out.

"Ah, I see you have found my trophy room, Dr. Armitage."

I turned to see Stephen Nelson leaning casually against a set of shelves, eyeing me with bemusement. His whole demeanour was somehow changed. Gone were the nervous mannerisms and the darting eyes. This was a Stephen Nelson full of easy confidence and dread purpose.

His appearance in his own mind-scape was unusual but not unprecedented. I had not previously experienced it myself, but my colleagues at the Institute had spoken of patients manifesting themselves in an act of resistance to the entry. Nelson did not seem to be aggrieved at my presence in his mind, though I wondered if the macabre visions had been symbolic of his rejecting me.

He smiled and stepped forward, stretching an arm wide.

"What do you think? It's a little drab, I feel, but it serves its purpose."

"And what purpose is that, Mr. Nelson?" I asked. He laughed.

"I already told you. It's where I keep my trophies."

He picked up the hand, pried loose the scrap of cloth. He tutted.

"I did so love this shirt," he murmured. "Daniel bought it for me. I thought wearing it while I killed him would be a nice gesture. He liked to see me using the presents he bought me. He'd bought me the hammer, too."

I stood dumbstruck, paralysed with fear as he moved to the razor.

"And dear, sweet Lucy. I believe you met her in my garden? She was so very pretty, and yet I think I prefer her as I made her. A perverse creator's pride, do you know?"

He fingered the razor and glanced at me slyly.

"The poor fool loved me. She was my last. I was very careless, leaving a cigarette butt at the scene. Stupid, and not for the first time. It won't happen again. I'd hoped you would be able to help, but instead you came prying. I did ask you not to, Doctor."

I tried to turn and run, but it wasn't fear that held me still. I was rooted to the floor, unable to move a muscle even to defend myself. Nelson advanced on me, weapon in hand.

"It was a risk, coming to you. I'd hoped you would be a man of scruples, a trustworthy man, but I can see I was mistaken."

He ran the razor down the side of my face, teasing the corner of my mouth with it as my eyes widened in terror.

"M-Mr. Nelson," I stammered.

"Ssssh," he said, drawing the razor up to my left eye. "I know. You kept your word to an extent. You didn't use the hypnosis to pry. You used your marvellous apparatus. Oh yes, I know all about that. Modern medicine, indeed! Your method is a far older process than you think, older than your friends at The Institute even know.

"Surprised? Oh, but I know all about you, Dr. Armitage. Oxford graduate, of good hardy stock, a lineage that can be traced all the way back to Charlemagne if you bothered to check. Doting mother, controlling father, brother long dead of a heroin overdose. I know things, oh so many things you wouldn't expect me to know, and a fair few things you don't even know yourself. I know about your time at the Institute, your dismissal, the disgrace. I know about your time on the streets, scavenging from bins, the temptation to follow your brother to the grave. I know about the deal you struck and the money that came of it. Oh, Dr. Armitage, I know you inside...OUT!"

With this he slashed with the razor, slicing my cheek under my eye. I howled in pain but could do nothing to stop him. With another savage movement he sliced into my mouth.

"A linking of minds, a fascinating bridge between psyches," he whispered. "You can cross a bridge both ways, Doctor. Perhaps you should have thought of that? Too late now, of course. Ever the man of science, but never actually particularly good at it, were you? Criticised by peers, held back by professors, bullied by playmates. You're a pitiful man, Armitage."

He held the razor to my throat, its sharp edge biting deep.

"Haven't you considered the implications of a device such as this, a procedure that allows the merging of minds? If you'd had any sense of decency you would have stayed with the Institute, working for the betterment of mankind. You could have put up with the screaming and the petty moral quandaries a while longer. Goodness knows you weren't bothered much when you first joined."

Had I been capable of coherent thought, I suppose I would have found it laughable that such a scolding could come from this monster. As it was, I felt nothing but blinding pain and sheer animalistic terror that my life was at an end.

"You had a responsibility to plumb these depths to their limits, a responsibility that you have squandered and wasted. Shame on you. Shame."

Suddenly, he grinned.

"I wonder... if you die here in my mind..."

And he drew the razor across my throat.

* * * *

I did not die that day, though there have been times when I wished that I had.

My neighbours, alerted by a series of high-pitched keening screams, had contacted the authorities. By the time they had broken down my door and burst into my sanctum, Stephen Nelson had bolted, taking with him several canisters of my gas.

It transpired that Nelson, if indeed that was his real name, was wanted by the police for a series of gruesome murders. He was a monster, known for mutilating his victims with tools and knives. Before fleeing my offices and while I was deeply unconscious he had carved patterns into my face and arms with a knife, marking me forever. I was lucky they found and hospitalised me when they did.

I'm told that my mind was unhinged, jarred from its moorings so violently that I was unresponsive for days. The mind is delicate and fragile. Once my faculties began to return to me, it was more than a week until I was able to speak again.

The Institute came for me the next day. I was wheeled out of the building and bundled into a black van, whisked away out of the public eye before I could make any foolish statements to the press.

I am held in the solitary wing of their London premises, and I doubt I shall see the sun again. The Institute guards its secrets jealously and they are harshly unforgiving. If I live, I will never again have access to another's mind.

If I live.

***

#  TROPHY KILLER NABBED – JUSTICE AT LAST

Local police report the long-anticipated capture and arrest of the madman known as the Trophy Killer, now identified to be one Mr. Stephen Nelson. It would seem that the Killer's 10-month reign of terror has come to an end and he will at last be brought to justice.

Nelson was captured fleeing from the scene of his latest crime, an assault upon local hypnotist and known eccentric Dr Jeffrey Armitage, who has been hospitalised suffering from 'severe mental anguish' according to hospital doctors who stated his condition remains 'stable' but declined to comment further.

Dr Armitage is the latest in a long line of victims attributed to Nelson, including solicitor Daniel Henderson, 30, and schoolgirl Lucy Holmes, 17. It is unknown how many others' deaths can be attributed to Nelson, but in a signed confession he has claimed responsibility for at least six murders committed this year. His victims were violently mutilated and were missing several body parts, presumably removed and kept by Nelson as trophies.

A spokesperson for the police has stated that Nelson was raving & screaming in strange tongues when apprehended and that he had fought with 'the strength of ten men'. He attacked the constables with heavy canisters he had reportedly taken from the doctor's office, causing many injuries but luckily no fatalities. When asked about the contents of the canisters, Nelson's bizarre demeanour and any possible narcotics-related explanation, our source could not go into details, but he stated he feels 'confident' that Nelson will hang within the year.

##  WHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS DOOR KNOCKER?

Families living on Elm Street have complained of mysterious goings on over the past few nights. At two minutes past midnight, four resounding knocks can be heard at the door of each residence on the street. When the puzzled family answers the door, there is no one there.

'It is a nuisance,' said Maureen Hendly, 73. 'Mind you, it is quite a comical sight, everyone in the street at their doors staring at each other like any of them did it.'

Supernatural forces have been discounted as it is likely the work of children.

***

#  Like a Circle in a Spiral

##  Rachel Tonks Hill

The headaches were getting worse.

Natima rested her elbows on the desk and gently massaged her temples to try to ease the pressure inside her skull. It didn't work. She knew it wouldn't work before she did it because nothing worked any more. Still, she checked her phone and dug some pills out of her bag. She was taking everything she could get over the counter but the drugs weren't even touching the pain. The only reason she was still taking them was because she was afraid the pain might get worse if she stopped.

By this point she'd tried everything she could think of. She'd taken every kind of over the counter medicine in every possible combination. She'd rubbed lavender oil on her temples and paid through the nose for a completely ineffective massage. She'd even tried some weird menthol stick that had only made the pain worse, if that was even possible at this point.

Her colleagues had noticed by now. How could they not? She was irritable and lethargic. She wasn't participating in meetings or submitting reports and she had stopped speaking to most of them weeks ago. Several well-meaning and motherly characters had suggested she go see a doctor, but Natima knew she couldn't. Conventional medicine didn't know that the problem she had even existed, let alone know what the solution was.

How long had it been at this point? Weeks? Months? Natima didn't know. The passage of time became a little fuzzy when you were in constant pain. The only thing she knew for sure was that she'd not slept properly in so long that she was starting to hallucinate.

She hadn't always been like this.

****

Natima Kanakaredes had once been a promising young researcher with a bright future ahead of her. She'd barely finished her PhD in neuroscience when the Institute had recruited her. They were well connected, well-funded and were at the cutting edge of scientific investigation in a field related to her degree. She knew next to nothing about their reputation, but she hadn't been able to turn them down. Not when they were offering her the opportunity for some exciting research, a lucrative salary and her own office.

Her parents had been so proud of her, their budding academic. They'd always had high hopes for her. They had always wanted her to overcome the racist bullying she'd suffered early in her schooling and excel. When she'd gotten such a well-paying job straight after her PhD they had been delighted; they both knew how hard it was to get ahead in academia. Now they were just patiently hoping that Natima would settle down and present them with a grandchild or two.

It was lucky that her parents didn't ask too many questions about the nature of the job, because it would have been difficult to explain. Her first few months at the Institute went by in a blur. A flurry of meetings, presentations, training and lots of background reading; there was so much to learn that it was mind boggling. Natima had gotten her PhD in neuroscience and she thought she knew a thing or two about how the human brain works. If the things she was reading were to be believed, her studies to date had barely scratched the surface. The Institute had access to information she hadn't known existed, couldn't have dreamt of. The things they could do with the human brain were straight out of a science-fiction movie. It was a real challenge getting her head around all this new information. And then she had to learn how to operate the technology they used to study the brain. Natima could scarcely have imagined all the things the Institute could do. The technology they had was nothing short of amazing.

The first time she actually stepped inside someone else's mind was an experience she would remember as long as she lived. It was a five minute training session, supervised by three people and entering the mind of one of her well trained colleagues. But nonetheless it was incredible. To know another person's thoughts, to access each of their senses and know the world as they did. That was incredible enough. What was more incredible was how mundane this was to the institute; these techniques were well established to the point of being routine.

The group Natima worked for were investigating potential applications of the technology. Which meant that a lot of the things they were working on had never been done before. Or, if they had, they'd never been done successfully. Most of the time this involved a lot of frustration and their experiments had a high failure rate. But the failure and despair was punctuated with incredible highs when they were met with success.

Natima had been at the Institute around six months when they were brought an interesting case. Eileen Li had been involved in a hit and run four years earlier and had suffered massive brain damage. She had been in a coma, on a ventilator ever since, her parents unwilling to say goodbye to their only child and pull the plug. They had exhausted every option conventional medicine had to offer, and several experimental treatments as well. So they had approached the Institute to see if there was anything they could do. They were well connected, friends with some acquaintance of one of the higher ups, and they'd asked for this as a favour. Mr and Mrs Li wanted to know if it was possible to contact their daughter using the Institute's technology. They wanted to know if their daughter was still in there, if there was any chance of her ever waking up or if they should say goodbye and let her go.

There had been previous attempts to make contact with comatose patients, but nothing you could call successful. What records there were of these attempts were sparse on the detail. Something had happened around the time of the First World War, but all the documents about this event were sealed. Everything was classified and only available to people _extremely_ high up in the organisation. Classified documents did little to curb the rumour mill, and the word was that someone had gotten killed trying to enter the mind of a coma patient. That was why everything was locked up so tightly. The name "Lewis" kept cropping up, but little more than that.

But the Lis were wealthy and their contact within the Institute sufficiently high up to authorise another look at this particular problem. Scuttlebutt was that they had promised a significant donation to the Institute, no matter the outcome. So the higher-ups had made the decision to okay the project.

Despite the failure of all previous attempts to contact the unconscious, all the groups working at the Institute were eager to get their hands on this case. Everyone was excited about revisiting something that had failed in the past with the hope of improving on past results. Ultimately it was Natima's supervisor who won the bidding war and Eileen Li came to live in their lab.

Natima and her group spent weeks preparing for the first incursion. She was heavily involved in researching Eileen's background, and nothing was left out; the details of the accident, the extent of her injuries and exactly what medical techniques had been used before. All this information affected the fine details of the procedure they had planned, and what precautions they would take. Ensuring the safety of the researcher was of paramount importance.

Because of her integral role in preparing for Eileen's procedure, Natima was offered the chance to be the one who went in. She knew that she was too inexperienced for an incursion like this. She was barely out of her training and could count on her fingers the number of times she'd actually entered someone's mind. But she was pleased and flattered to have been asked, and she didn't want to let her colleagues down. So, against every instinct telling her otherwise, she accepted.

Still, every conceivable precaution was made. The incursion was planned right down to the tiniest detail, down to the millisecond even. Scan after scan was taken of Eileen Li's brain and compared to earlier scans to track any changes. Scans were taken of Natima too, as well as a full medical examination and extensive blood work. She was put on a special diet and exercise regimen to ensure she was in peak physical condition. Safeties and redundancies were meticulously installed. Worst case scenarios were considered and planned for. Natima and her team of assistants ran simulation after simulation, test after test and practice run after practice run. They all knew exactly what was expected of them at any given moment, and what to do in case of an emergency. Months of preparation went into the first incursion into Eileen Li's mind, and this was just the initial exploratory session.

It should have been safe.

Despite all the preparation, Natima couldn't quite shake the feeling of apprehension when the day of the procedure finally arrived. She put it down to inexperience and the knowledge that such attempts had been made before. She tried to reassure herself; the technology had made massive amounts of progress since the last time this had been tried, and she trusted her assistants.

Natima spent all morning in preparation for the incursion. Another barrage of scans and other medical tests were carried out, checking that nothing unexpected had popped up since the last tests. She wolfed down a high carb meal an hour before the procedure, and personally went through all the safety checks. With half an hour to go she retreated to her office to prepare her mind with a spot of meditation. She found it hard to calm herself down. After all, she was a young scientist, standing on the brink of a major breakthrough in her field. This sort of thing could make or break her career. It was difficult not to be nervous.

One of her assistants came to get her an hour before the procedure. Eileen Li was already in the lab hooked up to every conceivable form of medical monitor. Natima double checked that everything looked good and then sat in the reclining chair next to Eileen's hospital bed. She lay back, put her feet in the stirrups and tried to fight down her fear as she was strapped in. Next she was hooked up to several machines; to track her respiration, heart rate and blood pressure. There were also machines to check her blood chemistry since maintaining particular levels of certain neurotransmitters was of critical importance. A neural monitor was attached to her skull, and various electrodes applied to strategic places on the rest of her body. A cannula was inserted and several different drugs were injected. They pumped in drugs to calm her down, drugs to alter her brain patterns to make them more receptive for the transfer. Finally they gave her an anaesthetic, designed to shut down the conscious mind but not the unconscious one. As her eyes fluttered closed, Natima forgot to be nervous. She heard the machine roar to life just as she lost consciousness.

And then there was nothing.

At first Natima felt like she was floating in a void, like a single consciousness in an empty universe. She wondered if this was how God had felt before Creation, and then she sternly told herself to focus on the job. She relaxed and just floated, allowing Eileen's mind to make contact in its own time. After a while, she felt the other woman's consciousness bleed into her own, and the darkness resolved into colour. The landscape Eileen Li's mind had chosen was, appropriately enough, a hospital. Looking around, Natima realised it was the ICU ward where Eileen had stayed before she was moved to the Institute. That was a good sign. It indicated that she'd been conscious of her surroundings on some level.

Experimentally, Natima flexed her arms and found that she had a full range of movement. That was promising as it meant that the integration was complete. Her consciousness now existed entirely within the mind of Eileen Li. The ICU was completely empty. There were no patients in the beds and no medical staff attending them. That was odd. Normally a person's mind was populated by various people. They would all be aspects of their own personality, or representations of people they'd known. If Eileen's mind was empty of these representations, it meant that there wasn't much of her consciousness left intact.

Natima set off to explore the hospital, wanting to find out if there was a representation of Eileen's core consciousness somewhere within this mind-scape. If there wasn't, it meant that there was no hope for the patient. The lights were on but nobody was home. Natima was desperately hoping that wouldn't be the case, not just for the sake of her own career. She wanted very badly to give Eileen's parents the hope they needed.

The hospital was built on private land, and featured an expansive lawn that ran down a gentle slope towards a lake. The garden was eerily silent; no people, no animals. There weren't even any insects scuttling around underfoot. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, but there was no wind. Natima had seen pictures of the hospital while she was doing her research. Everything here was an accurate representation but it was all just slightly off. There was no life. She knew that didn't bode well.

Natima found Eileen Li sat on a bench next to the lake, just staring out at the water. Natima sat herself down quietly, observing her subject. Time passed, and Eileen turned to face Natima. She seemed startled to find someone else in her world.

"Hello Eileen," said Natima softly. "My name is Natima, I'm here to try to help you. Can you understand me?"

Eileen nodded.

"Can you speak?"

It took several attempts, but at last Eileen Li croaked out a single word: "Yes." Natima made a mental note: _language abilities intact_.

"Do you know what happened to you, Eileen? Do you remember?"

"I... was in an... accident," said Eileen, her speech improving quickly. "The car... I didn't see it in time and it hit me. It hurt." She paused, appearing to be deep in thought. "Am I dead?" she asked. "Is this Heaven, or... something."

_Memory and understanding of religious concepts_ , thought Natima.

"No, you're not dead. You've been unconscious since the accident, in a coma."

"Yes... the hospital. That's where we are now, isn't it?" Natima nodded the affirmative. "But... if I'm in a coma, then how are you talking to me?"

Natima had been expecting this. Human minds are extremely inquisitive, and have an instinctive dislike of intrusion. The assumption was that if there were any higher cognitive functions left intact, the patient would start to ask questions. The subject would realise that their mind was essentially being invaded and they might even get aggressive. They might even try to forcibly eject the invader, which could cause all sorts of damage to the researcher. This was something the Institute had wanted to avoid, and preparations had been made accordingly.

Eileen Li's physical body had been anaesthetised, and a counter-agent to adrenaline injected. The hypothesis was that this would keep the patient's instincts in check long enough for Natima to reason with the higher consciousness. So far it seemed to be working; Eileen looked wary and a little afraid, but didn't seem to be preparing to fight or run.

"I'm inside your mind," said Natima, keeping her voice quiet and calm. "Try not to panic, Eileen. We have technology that allows us to step inside another person's consciousness. We're not really at the hospital, this is just a representation that your mind is creating. It's allowing us to interact, to talk as if we were in the real world. Your parents asked us to try to contact you."

"My parents?" asked Eileen. "Are they OK?"

The mention seemed to distract her from the fact that her mind was being invaded by another consciousness. This was exactly what it had been intended to do.

"They're fine," said Natima. "They're worried about you. That's why I'm here; you've been non-responsive for a long time, and they want to know if you're OK in here. They just want to know you're still in here."

"How long have I been in a coma?" Eileen asked.

"Four years."

Eileen looked startled at this news, and then her face crumpled as she started to cry.

"Poor mum and dad," she said, between tears. "They must have been so worried about me. Can... can you take them a message from me?"

Natima smiled.

"I would be glad to."

"Tell them I love them, tell them I'll see them again some day." She paused, and her brow furrowed. "I will, won't I? Now you know I'm still in here, you'll be able to wake me up, won't you?"

"We're not sure," said Natima ruefully. "This was mostly a scouting mission, to see if it was possible to contact you. Now that we know your consciousness is still inside your mind we might be able to find a way to revive you. Right now we have no idea how we might achieve that. You'll be seeing a lot more of me as we work out the kinks."

Eileen nodded, choking back the last of her tears.

"Okay. I guess I've been here four years already, what's a bit more time?"

"Hold on just a little longer Eileen, we're doing all we can."

The two women lapsed into a companionable silence for a while, simply watching the eerily still water on the lake. It was a strange world, but there was something peaceful about the absolute stillness of the place. Natima could almost start to understand how it was possible to linger here for as long as Eileen had.

"How do you get out of here anyway?" asked Eileen, interrupting Natima's thoughts.

"My people on the outside will inject a counter-agent to the anaesthetic after an hour. Unfortunately I've no way of knowing how long it'll be from here. Time works oddly inside another person's head."

Even as she finished her sentence, Natima felt a slight tug on her being, and she knew that she was being revived.

"Looks like it's time for me to wake up. I'll see you soon," said Natima.

She felt the tug become more insistent as the drugs fought to wake her mind and body up. Natima focused on relaxing herself, trying to make the transition as easy as possible. The world inside Eileen Li's mind began to fade to blackness. Before it disappeared altogether, there was a sudden shaking, almost like an earthquake.

"What was that," shouted Eileen, the sound of her voice distorted.

"I don't know," Natima shouted back, trying to fight down her instinct to panic.

The intensity of the earthquake increased. The peaceful hospital garden was gone, replaced by a nightmarish landscape. Eileen fought to keep a hold of the bench as the world collapsed around her; trees came crashing to the ground, which cracked open. The sky had turned a dull red and the sun was no longer there. Natima knew something had gone terribly wrong. The fabric of Eileen's mind was starting to crumble and she was still partially inside it.

Now she did panic. From where she was, she had no idea which one of their worst case scenarios had actually come to pass. She could do nothing to help those who were presumably trying to stuff her mind back inside her body before it was too late. Whatever had gone wrong out there she knew one thing for certain; if Eileen Li's mind fell apart before they could get her out, she was dead.

Natima did the only thing she could; she screamed.

Eileen grabbed hold of her, her hands phasing through her body, and started wailing herself.

Suddenly, Natima was back in the real world, yelling herself awake as she fought against her restraints. One of her colleagues rushed to administer a sedative. It calmed Natima enough to stop her from screaming. Then she remembered Eileen and glanced over at the other bed.

Members of Natima's team surrounded Eileen's bed. They were all shouting orders to each other and wheeling equipment into the room. Eileen was convulsing violently, fighting against her restraints so hard that her wrists were bleeding. The researchers fought to get some drug into her and suddenly the convulsions stopped. Some piece of machinery started screaming a warning, and Natima knew that Eileen's heart had stopped. Someone wheeled her out of the room, still strapped to her chair. As she left, someone else started frantically shouting for a defibrillator. She heard the initial shout of "clear" and then a horrible noise as Eileen was shocked.

Natima started screaming the other woman's name. Someone came over and injected something else into Natima's arm, and everything went black.

****

The first time Natima woke up, she found herself in a hospital room a lot like the one she'd encountered in Eileen Li's mind. For several terrifying moments she thought she was back inside that poor woman's head, and she started to panic. She screamed and flailed her limbs. Her movement was restricted by restraints, which only made her panic worse. Someone came over to her bed and added something to her drip and soon after, everything faded away again.

The second time she woke up, there was someone sat at her bedside and that was enough to keep her from yelling. Natima was drowsy from whatever drugs they'd given her, but she was functional enough to recognise her visitor. It was her boss, Rhonda. Her mouth was dry and felt like carpet, but she tried to speak anyway.

"How long... how long was I out?" asked Natima, her voice a barely audible croak.

"A few weeks," replied Ronda. "They kept you under while we ran some tests to see what kind of damage the sudden extraction had done to you. You'll be pleased to hear that they've not been able to detect any damage to your brain. Of course there's more tests to do and you'll have to answer a bunch of irritating questions from the psychologists. But as far as we can tell, you're fine."

"What happened?"

"We're not sure exactly. Eileen had some sort of adverse reaction to one of the drugs we gave her. She started convulsing and all her vitals crashed so we had to pull you out of there fast."

"Is she...?"

Rhonda shook her head. "Her heart stopped as soon as you were out. We managed to stabilise her but our scans indicate there's nothing left. Whatever part of her mind was left after the accident is gone now."

Natima punched the mattress in frustration.

"We failed."

"Hey," said Rhonda, reaching a hand out to offer reassurance. "It was a long shot and we tried. I'm sure you did everything you could, and that will come out in the debriefing."

"What happens now?"

"The Li's want to bury their daughter. She's on life support for now but they're going to pull the plug as soon as we wrap up our investigation. Which will happen much more quickly now you're awake."

"My parents? If I've been out of contact with them for a few weeks they'll be worried."

"Relax, they don't know anything. We had to run a bit of interference, but we got them thinking you've been on a research trip abroad."

Natima nodded, relieved that her parents hadn't been worrying all this time. She flopped her head back down on the pillow, suddenly exhausted.

"Get some rest," said Rhonda gently. "You'll want to save your strength for all the testing they're going to do on you."

Rhonda wasn't kidding about the tests; they looked at everything they could think of, and then some. Basic cognitive functions, reading, writing, coordination, colour blindness. They tested her for just about everything. All the tests came back normal. There was no physical damage to her brain that they could detect. Cognitively and psychologically she was no different to before the accident. They had no choice but to discharge her. Natima had hoped that would be end of it, but the worst part was just beginning.

She went through days of intense interviewing as the Institute tried to find out what went wrong. She gave detailed accounts of what had happened from her perspective. The same questions were asked and answered again and again. It wore her down and Natima simply stopped caring about what she was doing and began giving short, sarcastic answers.

"What was your reaction when you first realised something had gone wrong?"

"Screaming."

"Did you attempt anything to try and help those who were trying to extract you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Too busy screaming."

"Did you attempt to help the subject at all?"

"Not really much I could do."

"Are you certain there was nothing you could do?"

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"Are there any lasting effects of the incident that you have noticed?"

"Not so far, no."

And so it went. They finally seemed to get the hint that she'd told them all she could. The only good thing about these interviews was that she was able to pass on the message Eileen had given her. Her interviewers were a little sceptical, but promised to pass on the message to Mr and Mrs Li. Whether or not they would was another thing. Whatever happened, Natima had done her best, kept her promise to Eileen and it was now out of her hands.

Several weeks later, the investigation concluded. It had taken far longer than it should have, at least in Natima's opinion. She was cleared of any wrongdoing or negligence. The conclusion was simple. The patient had had an unexpected reaction to one of the drugs. Everyone had done everything they could to save her and no one was responsible. Natima was also declared completely fit and sane and cleared to return to work.

She declined.

Her boss organised some compassionate leave for her and she went to stay with her parents for a while. They were full of questions about her "trip abroad," which she answered in the vaguest way possible. The first time she went back to the Institute after the incident was the day they turned off Eileen's life support machine. She'd wanted to be there. She held Eileen's hand as she took her final sputtering breaths; passed on her condolences to the family.

She stayed off work until after Eileen's funeral. She attended, despite being expressly forbidden from doing so by the higher-ups at the Institute. It was odd, attending her funeral, with all those people who had known her saying nice things about Eileen and her life. These people who had known her and yet didn't know her as well as Natima did from spending an hour actually inside her head. It provided some sort of closure for Natima though, and she returned to work feeling much better.

Rhonda helped to ease her back into it, giving Natima low impact work that kept her away from the incursions into people's minds. Natima was fine with that; she wasn't sure she ever wanted to step into another person's head ever again. She kept her head down, worked hard and pretended nothing was wrong while everything went to shit.

Natima had noticed it just after Eileen's life support had been turned off. It was subtle at first, just the odd stray thought that she wasn't convinced she'd actually had. She'd feel hungry when she'd just eaten, and get cravings for foods she was certain she'd never eaten. Her dreams were extremely vivid, and definitely odd. She would revisit that hospital garden almost every night in her sleep. She would spend hours sat talking with Eileen on that bench. Or sometimes they'd take a walk around the garden as they talked. On the nights when they'd walked, Natima would wake up drenched in sweat, as though she'd been walking in her sleep.

It wasn't until she remembered a family visit to China that had never happened that she understood what had happened.

Eileen Li was inside her head.

Natima assumed it had something to do with the fact that Eileen had been holding onto her when she'd been extracted. Eileen's consciousness must have been dragged along for the ride. There were now two different people living inside Natima's head. The thought was frightening.

All the planning they'd done, all that brainstorming of potential worst case scenarios. They'd prepared so thoroughly and no one had even imagined that this was something that could happen. There was no record at the Institute of it ever having happened before. But then, a lack of records didn't necessarily mean that it hadn't happened. The Institute were the kind of shady organisation who would hide this kind of outcome, even when it was pertinent to a current project. Even the Lewis files hadn't been declassified for them to look at before making an attempt.

But then, even if they'd known, would they have been able to stop it from happening? Natima didn't know. The only thing for sure was that it had happened, and she was the one who had to live with the consequences.

The headaches started not long after that.

The human brain was barely capable of holding the consciousness of the person it belonged to. It was definitely not set up to cope with two separate entities occupying the same physical space. Natima's brain was dealing with it the best way it knew how; and the odd flashes of memory and the weird dreams were the result. The headaches were simply a side effect of having a head that was too full.

She decided to hide it from her family. They knew barely anything about what she did for a living, there was no way they'd understand what had happened. She also tried to hide it from her boss, her colleagues and most of all from the higher ups at the Institute. She had absolutely no desire to be poked and prodded by them as they tried to discover what had happened and how.

Besides, they had already declared her completely fit for duty.

So Natima did her best to hide it. At first it wasn't too difficult. The headaches mostly felt like a weird pressure behind her eyes, and she could pretty much ignore it. But they slowly got worse. Her intake of pharmaceuticals started to ramp up. She started with ibuprofen, then paracetamol and specialist migraine tablets. Then she moved on to co-codamol and eventually, when that stopped working, a cocktail of all of them. She knew enough about pharmacology to know that she was doing a huge amount of damage to her liver with all the drugs she was taking. She also knew it probably wouldn't matter.

When she'd first realised what had happened she'd started doing some research, looking into the Institute archives. She was trying to find if there were any recorded instances of anything similar happening. If there were records of a transference ever happening before, Natima couldn't find them. They were locked away well above her clearance level. The archives she had access to were spotty and not very helpful, but there was enough anecdotal evidence to come to a conclusion.

She was going to die.

She had to read between the lines a little but that was what had happened to everyone else in even remotely similar situations. The brain just couldn't cope with the job of housing two separate consciousnesses and simply shut down. That was what was causing her headaches; her brain was literally collapsing in on itself. If she took a scan of her own brain, she knew that there would already be dead areas in her neural tissue. There were parts of herself that she would never get back.

Natima knew that memories are built into the physical structure of a person's brain. Their life's story is literally written into the synapses and neurons. As Eileen's memories surfaced in Natima's consciousness they were also rewiring her brain. They were eating away at the memories she herself had made. At some point the brain simply couldn't take any more; it burned out like a VHS tape that had been recorded over too many times. With every memory of Eileen's that surfaced Natima lost a little more of herself, and a little more of her brain went dead. Eventually the loss of neural tissue would start affecting things like mobility and breathing. Unless she could find somewhere else for Eileen's consciousness to go, her brain would simply die, and she with it.

The problem was that there was nowhere for Eileen to go. Her body was dead, cremated and scattered. There was no artificial means of storing consciousness either; all previous attempts had been abysmal failures. The only place for Eileen to go would be into another person, and Natima wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy. Anyway, even if there was somewhere else to put Eileen, they had no way of actually transferring her consciousness. It had only happened this time by sheer accident. On top of that, the barrage of medical tests Natima had endured afterwards hadn't even picked up a problem. She didn't hold much hope that they'd be able to find a way to solve it.

It didn't matter. Whatever new knowledge or advance in technology was needed to rehouse the mind of Eileen Li, Natima would be long dead by the time it was usable.

So she trudged on with what was left of her life, determined not to let anyone know the truth.

The headaches worsened. The over the counter medicines stopped working.

Natima started experimenting with anything she could think of to simply ease the pain. Marijuana helped for a while, relaxing her enough to sleep through the night. Amphetamines and cocaine gave her enough energy to get through the work day. She timed it so that the crash would help her sleep through the night. Due to the stressful nature of their working environment, almost everyone at the Institute was on something. The Institute neither encouraged nor dissuaded them. A persistent drug culture was the least of their worries should the government ever come knocking.

Eventually the endless cycle of uppers and downers took its toll on Natima. In the end they simply didn't work any more.

Or they made things worse.

That was when she stopped sleeping.

By this point she was so tired and in so much pain that she'd actually started hallucinating that Eileen was with her. She started talking to her. Natima would tell her it wouldn't be long now. She would talk about the memories that were still coming to the fore. At night she would lie awake, muttering to her invisible companion, desperately wanting to sleep. But she couldn't.

She couldn't do much of anything any more. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think. She couldn't see a way out. There was no way out, except one.

Natima cried when she wrote the letter.

It was for her parents, whom she'd barely seen since just after Eileen's funeral. She knew they were worried about her; when they had seen her they commented on how thin she was, how pale and drawn. They'd tried to goad her into seeing a doctor but Natima had refused. There was nothing they'd be able to do. She'd accepted her own fate and now sought only to reassure her parents. She tried to explain what had happened in words they'd understand, but it was getting harder and harder to do everything. Natima struggled with the finer movements required to use a pen, and her handwriting looked like that of a child.

****

Dear Mum and Dad,

This is kinda hard to explain, and I'm really not thinking clearly, so if it's at all confusing please bear with me. I want to try to explain to you what I'm about to do, what I've already done. You see, by the time you get this letter I'm gonna be dead.

Bloody hell that sounds dramatic, but it's also true.

I don't really want you to be sad, but you're my mum and dad, of course you're going to be sad. I mean, how could you be anything but devastated when your only child has taken their own life? I really am truly sorry about what you're going to go through, what you're already going through, but this is something I have to do.

See, I had an accident at work. A few months ago when I dropped off the map, my boss told you I was working on a project abroad. That wasn't true at all. I was in a medically induced coma as a result of this accident. And because of the nature of my job they didn't want you to know about it. I haven't really been myself since it happened but to even begin to explain what's wrong with me I need to explain what my job actually is. And some of it is a bit fantastical.

Or maybe I don't need to explain it. My head hurts too much to think. My job isn't quite what you were told. Some shady stuff goes down within the Institute and it led directly to my accident. There's someone else inside my head with me and it's killing me. It might not make much sense to you but it's the truth.

I'm in pain all the time. I can't sleep any more. and I just need it to stop. I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you, but it's best this way. The daughter you know and love won't last much longer anyway.

I love you,

Natima

****

There, she'd written it down as best she could. She knew they wouldn't understand. She desperately wanted them to, but they wouldn't. Natima left the sealed envelope in her apartment.

The next morning she went into work as usual. She spent the morning clearing out her desk and finished off bits of paperwork. She shredded anything personal. Natima didn't want to leave too much for other people to do after she was gone. No one was suspicious that she'd spent all morning holed up in her office doing very little. That had been her mode of operation for so long now that it seemed normal.

By the time lunch rolled around she was pretty much done, so she tidied everything up and left the office for the last time. A few colleagues spotted her and she swapped pleasantries with them for a while. She tried to slip out quietly but her boss Rhonda caught her for a quick word.

"You're looking better today Natima."

"Thanks, I'm feeling better." It was the truth, delivered with a genuine smile. Now that she knew where her path led she felt at peace. Her head was hardly bothering her.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Rhonda. "We- I've been worried about you for a while. You haven't really been yourself since the incident with Eileen Li. I was going to ask you to take some time off work, but if you're doing better I guess you don't need to."

"I don't think I need time off. Things got to me for a while, but I've got everything in hand now."

Rhonda smiled broadly.

"That's great Natima. I'm really pleased for you. Well, I'll let you get your lunch."

"Thanks Rhonda. And in case I haven't said it before, I just wanted you to know that your support has meant the world to me over the last few months. You've been a great boss."

The two women parted with a hug and a smile. Natima headed to the stairwell, just as she normally did on her lunch break. Only today she climbed up, instead of down.

The building Natima worked in was one of the newer ones the Institute owned. It was also one of their flagship facilities. As such it was an impressive architectural achievement, well over ten storeys high. Access to the roof was easy; people would sneak up here for a quickie after the Christmas party.

As Natima stepped out onto the rooftop she lifted her face to the sky. The sun was out, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen. It reminded her of the hospital garden inside Eileen's mind. The one she'd seen every night in her dreams, until she stopped sleeping.

Natima smiled.

"It's over, Eileen," she said quietly to herself. "Four years of limbo are nearly over. Just a few moments more."

Around the perimeter of the roof there were railings to stop people careening over the edge. Natima climbed over the railing and stood right on the precipice. She leaned forward and looked down; it was a big drop. But it was her salvation, the thing that would end her pain. She just had to be brave a few moments more.

Natima Kanakaredes lifted her face to the sun, savouring its life giving warmth for the last time. And then she let go.

***

#  Interlude 3

Begin transcript.

Begin recording. Dictation by [redacted]. Session 26 in case number 552, the investigation into the organisation known only as "The Institute". Notes on a possibly related incident, the death of [redacted].

I was alerted to the incident by an article in the local newspaper. [redacted] was a talented young scientist with a promising career in experimental neuroscience. Her death was initially reported as an accident. She fell from the roof of a fifteen story building and died instantly on impact. Death was later confirmed as suicide when the parent's came forward with the note. The incident initially piqued my attention due to the suspicious lack of details about the victim's place of employment despite the incident occurring at her workplace. I did some digging and managed to turn up the address but very little about the company who owns it. There is no information on who officially owns the building, nor on its actual purpose. As far as the publicly available information is concerned it has sat empty since its construction less than a decade ago.

Having obtained the address I went to investigate the site for myself. There is no sign of the accident or anything else really. The building is indeed as empty as the paperwork suggests. But more than that it is abandoned. There are hundreds of labs and offices in the building but no sign of people or furniture, and nothing to indicate what the building might have been used for. The amount of dust on the floor suggests that it was abandoned recently, but establishing an exact time frame is impossible. The only thing I am certain of is that it occurred sometime after [redacted]'s death. Whatever the circumstances surrounding her suicide, it spooked the institute enough to pack up and move to another site.

Case 552, session 27.

I have now spoken to the victim's parents, [redacted] and [redacted], and what I've learned is extremely concerning. Their daughter worked at the Institute for well over a year and they knew almost nothing about what she did. [Redacted] even disappeared for a few months at one point and her employers said she was on a work trip abroad. I've now seen the suicide note, and that contradicts the official line. It seems the victim was in a coma after some kind of accident and this may have led directly to her death. There is also a reference to someone else being inside her head. This is the first major clue I've unearthed about what the Institute actually does. It's exciting but also extremely disturbing. I need to investigate this further.

Session 34.

I managed to hack into some of their systems. Or more accurately managed to use [redacted]'s log-in details. She seems to have been a fairly low level employee but what I had access to is mind boggling. These people have been doing experiments on people's brains for over a century now. Somehow they've developed the ability to put someone inside another person's mind. This must be related to the accident that ultimately cost [redacted] her life. "There's someone else inside my head" she said. I didn't know what that meant but now I do. Was it truly an accident, or was this done to her on purpose. I don't know, not yet.

The conspiracy theorists are going to have a field day with what I've uncovered about the Institute. We knew they were some sort of rogue organization but we had no idea really. These guys are operating outside of the law, international conventions and all ethical guidelines I've ever come across, and I've barely scratched the surface. Who knows how powerful they really are. Someone has to stop them.

Session 39.

They're on to me. I thought I'd been so careful when I accessed their systems but they must have had security protocols I didn't know about. I'm not safe any more. but the public need to know what I know. If you're listening to this, please take it to the police, the media, anybody. Just make sure this gets out. They need to be stopped.

[Sound of a door being kicked down]

Shit. They're here.

[Here follows several seconds of heavy breathing and the sounds of rapid movement followed by a single gunshot]

[Unknown male voice] Turn that bloody thing off will you?

[Sound of footsteps, then a strange high pitched noise]

[Hereafter only static]

End transcription.

Note to employees: we need to be more vigilant about keeping people like this away from our work. We can't afford another security breach like this one. While we're revisiting the Kanakeredes case, has anyone worked out what that rumbling noise was she described? I seem to recall it being mentioned the last time we had a coma patient. Can we get someone onto that?

***

#  Anomaly: Claire

##  Emily Cooper

Gemma was worried, and it wasn't her usual new patient worry, or even her what-will-I-find-when-I-get-home worry. This wasn't a new patient. She already knew what was inside this man's head. She knew she wouldn't be shocked, but what she was about to do still scared her.

"Shall we give it a go?" he asked, looking up at her from his chair. Mark was a young man, not long out of university. He had the distinctly crumpled look of a man who owns an iron – but doesn't use it. And he was eager to begin.

"Yes," she replied. "There's a treatment room ready for you. Please follow me."

Mark stood, and he followed her to the door. She felt him looking at the back of her head as they walked, as he rolled up his sleeves. She led him through the chilly hospital corridors, their shoes squeaking on the polished floor. They stopped at a red door and Gemma let Mark inside.

He stood in the doorway, his eagerness gone. "Are they old dentist's chairs?"

"They do look at bit like that. But no, they're built specially. Yours is the middle one." She waited. The chair's fabric was made of a stiff plastic. It was half dentist's recliner and half chaise longue. But that wasn't what Mark was looking at, Gemma knew it. "We only use these chairs for longer sessions. What if you fell out? You don't sleep walk – do you?"

Mark nodded and pressed his lips together in a thin line as he moved forwards. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"What if you walked off?" Gemma thought, 'What if you left the institute and carried our minds away within your own?'

"Good point," Mark said. His confidence returned as he buckled his legs into the straps, but there was a deliberate slowness that gave him away. Gemma set down her clipboard and helped him with the arms.

Someone tapped on the door and – without waiting – entered. "Hi." It was a young man with a white lab coat hanging from his thin shoulders and suit trousers that were too big for him. A leather jacket and jeans would have fitted him better.

"Ian, get in here," Gemma said. "Mark, this is Ian, my assistant."

As the men nodded at each other, Gemma noticed that there couldn't be more than a few years between them.

"Alright, I'm going to dim the lights," Ian said as he flipped the switch. He didn't wait for Gemma to get into her own chair, but grabbed an ornament from a nearby shelf and threw himself down into his own seat. It was a metronome, a tool dreaded by many children with musical instruments.

Ian pushed the needle to one side, "Ready?" and let go. The needle swung to the other side with a 'tick'. Gemma hastily sat down and buckled herself in. Her chair only had one buckle around her waist, but she still had to rush to sit down as Ian dragged a side table into the centre of the room and placed the metronome on it. He counted the slow ticking noises, "Ten, nine, eight..." and all three of them watched the weight on the end of the needle. "...seven, six, five..."

Gemma wished she hadn't done up the belt from her chair so tightly around her waist. She felt bloated, heavy, but was already too drowsy to move. She didn't hear the final numbers of the countdown, and nor did Mark. They were already asleep.

* * * *

I was lost in a storm of memories. Characters from cinema trips and late night TV stood talking to old school friends, none of them realising that they didn't know each other – until I thought about it, and the scene changed into a racing series of colours and images I wasn't fast enough to catch. My mind raced, with me running after it with a butterfly net woven too loose to catch anything. Instead of running with the images, I stood still and tried to imagine a tide, washing at a shore. It was a technique I'd used last time I was at the institute, but it still wasn't easy. I turned the torrent into a lake, the lake into a pond, and the pond into the drip, drip, drip of a leaking tap. And finally, I was in control.

I saw Ian first, dressed exactly has he had been in the treatment room, except that his cheeks held a green tinge. "You haven't been in this job long, have you?" I couldn't stop myself saying the words. They escaped as soon as I thought them.

"Shut it," he replied, and turned away.

I put a hand to my stomach. As I moved I felt a gentle pressure around my wrists, as though I were wearing a watch on each arm. The pressure was also at my waist, my knees and ankles, but I didn't feel sick. Not like Ian, who would have to wait several hours before he could wipe any vomit from his chin, and was trying not to think about it.

"Where's Gemma?" I asked. As soon as I thought about her the question escaped from my lips and she appeared in front of us, one hand clutching a green rug – which turned out to be a carpet of meadow beneath her. The last time I had seen a meadow like this, Claire had been there, raging and spitting. It hadn't been attractive. "Are you trying to provoke me?"

"I read your file. It mentioned that this was a particular trigger of yours."

Ian's face went from green to white. "And you opened with this? Without so much as a hello, how are you?"

His words captured my outrage and gave them a voice.

Gemma shrugged, "I thought this might be the quickest way to get results."

My thoughts began to slide again, spilling an avalanche of images onto the grass beneath our feet. Mundane thoughts, secrets, bits of rumour – it was all there. I caught glimpses of painful things I thought were long forgotten, but had known they were still within me somewhere.

"That's enough, Mark," Gemma warned, and stood up. But I wasn't done. My eyes stung and prickled. Photographs flew in on an imaginary wind like autumn leaves. Hundreds of them, too many to count. It didn't stop there. Soon the flood of memories I'd had under control was back. Gemma began to disappear under them, and above all the commotion, I heard a small sob.

It was Ian. He looked paler than ever. Insubstantial. An earthquake began, somewhere in the back of my mind, shaking our surrounds. I took control and shook the debris out of view, and out of my mind.

"That was stupid," Ian said. I couldn't help but agree... and caught myself on that thought. Good cop, bad cop. I didn't want them seeing that thought, so I focused on the grass. If I thought it aloud, they'd change tactic.

"If you wanted to know about her, why didn't you just ask?" I asked, trying to sound casual and unconcerned. It didn't work, but Gemma dropped her gaze and seemed embarrassed. "Don't you want to help me? Isn't that what it's all about?"

"I think that's enough for today," Gemma said, and clapped her hands. The sound was like thunderbolts. Like the switching on of a furious light bulb.

* * * *

Gemma's hands felt raw, as though she had just slapped a brick wall with both palms. She looked down. Her arms where exactly where they had been for the last half hour, resting on her lap, loosely crossed.

"What was all that about?"

Gemma looked up. Mark was glowering from his chair. Even though he was the one restrained and she was his psychiatrist. "I thought our best chance would be to call her out." She could see he was thinking about the logic of this decision. "Stirring up the emotions you link with Claire could be the key to getting her back. I thought I'd push a few buttons, break down a few barriers, and take a short cut."

"Your short cut could have cost me my sanity."

Probably, Gemma thought, he knows what he's talking about. He's probably even read the same textbooks I have. Aloud she said "No, I don't think so. Not under our supervision."

"What makes you think that Claire will come back if you make me angry? I've tried all sorts to get her to come back. But she's too stubborn." Mark's shoulders fell slightly, and were no longer pressed against his restraints.

"Tell me then. What's she like?" Gemma unbuckled herself and lent forwards. She noticed that Ian had vanished. The buckles of his chair were undone, and a vague unpleasant smell tinted the air.

"She was the bit of me that doesn't work. She was just... playful, like a cat." A tiny smile lit Mark's face as he spoke.

"Past tense?"

Mark's smile disappeared. "It's been a long time since I've seen her." He chewed his lip. "It's not like losing your Mum or Dad, or even a friend. You've still got a photograph or some of their belongings. I've just got memories, and after a while, you start to forget what it was like... other than the judging for having an _imaginary friend_. But she was more than that." He looked up at Gemma. They'd spoken together mind-to-mind, but this was somehow more personal. "She's the better part of me. That's who Claire is."

"I'll get the lights." Gemma moved out of her seat and away from Mark's stare. She felt like his personality would rub off on her if she spent too long talking to him. Best to wrap it up quickly. "How do you feel about today's progress?"

"I didn't like it, but I can see what you were _trying_ to do." Mark began untying the straps that held him in place. "Dr Hallam didn't try anything like that."

"I know, I've read the file," Gemma winced, she wasn't supposed to say anything like that, but today seemed to be a day for breaking the rules. "I just thought it would be good to try something new. Did you like Dr Hallam?"

Mark nodded, "Yeah, he was great... even if he did separate us, he thought it was for the best."

"Everyone did," Gemma walked over and helped Mark with the straps he couldn't reach. "He retired a little while ago. Still pops in from time to time to have a chat with the nurses, and he taught Ian, which is why he's on your case."

"Is Ian... new?"

Gemma shook her head, and changed the subject. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. But no more short cuts. Okay?"

"Okay." She smiled, and as the door closed, Gemma pulled her papers towards her and wrote up the progress they had made that day. The foundations of trust had been built – albeit in an unusual way – but Mark was bound to have expected a friendly, falsely smiling approach. This way was better.

* * * *

While Ian drank himself into a dreamless sleep, Mark sat up in bed, unable to sleep. Insomnia was a common side effect of the treatment, with too many people walking around inside your head. It would make the next day more dangerous, for all of them. He held a packet of sleeping pills in one hand, weighing up his options. In the end, he put them down on his dresser, unopened. If Gemma and Ian were going to play games with him, well, maybe he would too.

* * * *

Gemma decided to try something different. She waited in the treatment room with a cup of tea, until Ian appeared. "How are you feeling today?"

"Fine." He said. That small word betrayed the alcohol on his breath.

"We're going to start with a little talking today, try doing things the old fashioned way," Gemma said, frowning. This translated to 'we're going to spend as little time in Mark's head as possible, because he doesn't like it, and neither do I.'

There was a knock at the door, and Mark smiled as he entered. He walked straight to his chair and sat down.

"Would you like some tea, Mark?" Gemma asked, noting the bags under his eyes and how his hair had not been brushed properly at the back.

"Coffee, thanks."

She nodded at Ian, who went to fetch the drinks. He walked slowly, as though he had to think about each movement. Gemma watched him go, and then turned to Mark. "I thought we'd start with some talking this morning," she began. "To make sure we're all on the same page."

Mark nodded.

"Why did you come to us in the first place? Why remove Claire, when you so clearly want her back?"

Mark opened his mouth to reply as Ian kicked the door open. "Here you go." He handed out the drinks. Gemma scowled, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Carry on, Mark."

"We started to have... problems."

Ian coughed as he sat down.

"We argued. A lot. I'd realised other people couldn't see her, or hear her. They found the notes she'd left for me, in my handwriting. They didn't understand."

"Who do you mean by _'they'_?"

"My parents, other people at university. She turned up during secondary school, but it was easier then. I didn't live with so many people."

Ian coughed again and shuffled in his seat, as though getting comfortable for a long story. Gemma and Mark scowled at him.

"Ian. We're talking about an important relationship here." Gemma's words stung both men; Ian set his tea down and looked like a chastised schoolboy, and Mark blushed.

"Um, I don't know. We were just, inseparable. Until I came here." Mark's cheeks burnt with embarrassment and began to fuel the anger he'd unleashed the previous day.

"Tell me," Gemma said quickly. "When did you decide to come to the Morpheus Institute?"

"I didn't really. My Mum found out about it, and pestered me. The arguments with Claire got worse, and eventually I caved in. I came here for a visit, and Claire was yelling. I sat in a chair and told Doctor Matthews to do it."

"But it didn't work? You came back to us several times."

"It happened slowly. She was quieter after the first day, and after the first few appointments it felt like she gave up on me. But I don't think I ever wanted her to go. Not really. But everyone kept telling me I'd done something great. Mum seemed happier, I made new friends." Mark frowned, and didn't continue. He seemed to be thinking, staring at a spot on the floor.

After a while, Gemma whispered, "Mark, are you alright?"

He nodded.

"And you're sure that you want her back... after all your hard work?"

"Yes." Mark began buckling himself tightly into the chair. "It's so strange being the only one inside your head. Everything echoes. She has to be in here somewhere." He sat up straight. "I want you to find her."

"Alright, I'll get the metronome." Gemma had barely lifted herself from her chair, when Ian set the instrument on the table in front of them all, and was holding the pendulum between thumb and forefinger. "When we begin, I want you to bring us somewhere that Claire liked... likes. You take over."

Mark looked up from buckling himself onto his chair. "Are you sure?"

"You're used to the Morpheus instruments now. Use them. If your mind wanders, I'll take over. Okay?"

"Okay."

Ian flipped the lights off, and settled in his chair. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

* * * *

I was very aware of my hands as I pulled Gemma and Ian into my mind and moulded the world around us. It was like holding something fragile, like an eggshell, both hollow and strong. I knew at once where to go.

The theatre was empty, apart from the rows of red velvet seats, and the three of us sitting in the front stalls. There was an orchestra pit, but there were no musicians there. Just a single violin. The bow was laid beside it on its chair, and did not move – but there was music, an amateurish music.

"Gemma? Is that you?" I could imagine her, small and angelic with a polished instrument in her hands, grinning at adoring parents.

"Sorry. That's mine," Ian said. "Just drop it." He looked like the inside of his mind had slept in a waste paper basket. "How can such an untidy mind be trusted to enter others?" I wondered, but luckily this was my mind and I had control, and my thought did not escape.

Ian focused on his hands, concentrating. I did as he asked, and let go. Before it hit the floor, the violin shattered.

Music began again somewhere. I recognised a piano playing the hopeful strains of Au Clair de la lune. The curtains began to creep upwards. "Look!" I whispered, but we were all watching.

"Aren't you doing it?" Gemma asked.

I didn't bother answering. The first thing we saw were her shoes. Black heeled, perfectly respectable shoes on the end of long pale legs which disappeared under a sweep of fabric. Ian watched the tantalising way Claire appeared to us.

"There's a lady who knows how to make an entrance," he said. I turned to scowl at him, and missed the final uncurling of fabric and curtain. But there she was, smiling at me. There was a gentle hunger in her smile, and a look of pity.

"Claire?"

The music stopped.

"Who else, silly? Get yourself up here. I want a hug." Her voice was full of playful notes. I rushed to her.

I heard Ian titter.

Half way to Claire, I turned and shouted "What is your problem?"

He just shrugged. I turned back to Claire, ready to say something and hold her and never never leave her, and never be lonely again. But she wasn't looking at me.

"It's alright Mark. Without Ian here, I wouldn't have been able to find you again. I've been hunting for you for quite a while now."

As she said the word 'hunting', the devilish look crept into her eyes again. I tried to remember if it had been there last time. I don't think it had. "You've changed," I said. "I've missed you." I tugged her arm, and delighted in the solid feeling beneath my fingers, and drew her close and smelled her hair. "I've missed you."

If 'completeness' was a feeling, I felt it.

Her figure within my arms, the soft fabric of her dress stroking my arms.

"Yes, I'm home," she said, but she wasn't looking at me. She was winking at someone else behind me. Ian.

* * * *

The boys didn't look at each other as Gemma congratulated them both on the day's work.

"Shall we keep tomorrow's appointment, just for a final check-up?" Gemma's enthusiasm sounded hollow, even to herself. Mark gave a voice to the nagging doubts in her mind.

"That's it? Is it that easy?"

"We'll find out tomorrow. I must admit, I've never tried to put two personalities _back_ together before. But if separating you stuck, I expect this will too."

* * * *

Later, when Gemma had filled out the necessary paper work, she went to the archives. It was a labyrinth of filing cabinets, and more complex than many of her patients. She stuffed Mark's file into her 'current patients' drawer, and headed deeper into the room. "H, H, H, oh come on. H, here we go. Hallam, Charles."

She flipped the file open. She had to check. "Morpheus institute, listed known syndromes and blah, blah, blah..." Gemma's eyes fell on a name, listed under the 'Symptoms' heading. It was an odd place for it. There was only one word under the heading. Just one word, 'Claire.'

Holding the file with one hand, she dialled his number and held it up, muttering a prayer, "Please pick up, please pick up."

"Hello?"

"Oh thank goodness. Charlie?"

"Gemma?"

"I need your help. It's Claire."

* * * *

They talked for hours. Charles had asked a hundred questions that Gemma couldn't even begin to understand the significance of, but she answered. She recognised a master at work.

"Will you come to the session tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm packing a bag now. I'll see you at the Institute. But... Gemma you have to listen to me, I made a terrible mistake in separating Mark and Claire. A terrible mistake. She is everything that's bad about him. But he's not human without her. He needs her. They need each other. But I think she's found other people."

"What do you mean? Found other people."

"I'll explain tomorrow. You'll see what I mean. In the meantime, get some sleep. You're going to need it." He hung up.

As Gemma packed up, she smiled. Trust Charlie to feign the mysterious. He must have been reading too many spy novels in his retirement. But she had no doubt that he would explain tomorrow, and that everything he had said was true. It didn't take long for her to pack up her things and drive home. As she opened her bag for her keys, she took care not to let them make a sound.

"Gemma, get in here," Joel yelled. Gemma had shut the door gently, but he still heard her. "Come give us a kiss then."

In the living room, Joel had made progress on moulding himself into the sofa. If he left the chair – which only happened if he needed the loo or she wasn't there to make him food – she was sure she would see a deep butt-print in the leather. He hadn't shaved, again. She leant down to peck his wiry cheek, but that wasn't enough. He grabbed at her and dragged her down for a snog.

When he let go, Gemma was dizzy from holding her breath too long.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, pressing the buttons on the remote. "There's that new film on tonight. Fancy watching it?"

"Sure," she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. She leant against the counter. In her head, a nasty voice made itself known.

"Why don't you leave him?"

Gemma blinked.

"Or you could put something in his drink."

Gemma pushed herself away from the counter and turned around.

"You alright, love?" Joel asked, looking up from the TV.

"Yeah, yeah. Just tired."

Sometimes she wished that things hadn't changed at the Morpheus institute. She hadn't minded the week-long mind sessions. Coming home every day – that was what she struggled with.

* * * *

Ian stared into his glass. It was empty. I can't keep drinking like this, he thought. I can't afford it.

A woman with brown hair took a stool next to him at the bar.

"Hello," she said, and Ian watched her lips form into a little smile.

There was something about her, something familiar. "Do I know you? What do you do, actress? Model?"

Her smile turned into a grin. "Nothing so glamorous. But you're right, we've met before." She lent her elbows on the bar, and absent-mindedly ran her fingers through her long brown hair and down over her tight black dress to rest on a knee of her dark tights. "You know Charlie."

Ian blinked. "Charlie? Oh, Dr Hallam," Ian nodded at the barman. "A drink for my friend. What will you have?"

The barman looked up from mopping a spilt drink. His mouth was slightly open, he looked a little stupid and a little surprised.

"Doctor Hallam is too serious. Don't worry about the drink – you can't afford this one anyway. I'll have whatever you're having," and she took a sip from his drink. "That's nasty. Try something sweeter, next time?" The woman hopped off of her stool. She threw her coat around her thin shoulders.

"Next time? I'll be seeing you around then?"

She grinned, "Oh yes. I'm looking for someone. A friend of yours. Tall, brown hair. Do you know him?"

"Well, if that's all – I might do." He winked, and smiling hoped that she wouldn't notice that his teeth were a little crooked. "It's a bit early to go. Tell me more about your friend."

She laughed and shook her head. "I think you know him. That name's Mark."

"I know a lot of guys called Mark."

"Yes. Well," she gave the smallest of sighs.

Lucky bastard, Ian thought.

"This one's a little bit special."

"At least give me your number – or your name."

"Claire," she said as she leant to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were warm. A loose hair tickled his cheek, and Ian realised that she hadn't touched him before, not even a brush of fingers.

Then she'd gone, he stared at his empty glass for a long time before waving to the barman, "A large whisky, no ice."

"Been stood up?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

* * * *

As soon as I woke, I felt for Claire in the rooms of my mind. She didn't answer. I grumbled into my pillows, a stream of half-words, curses, and called out for Claire, "Where are you?" She sent me no signs, no phones rang, no writing appeared. "Damn." I lay in my bed, arms thrown wide.

My phone rang.

I forced myself up and snatched it from the table. "Mark."

"Good morning. I hope you're still coming in today," Gemma's voice was loud, too loud for... I checked my clock, seven am. I could also hear Gemma's breathing, as though she'd just run a race. "Erm... am I late?" I asked, wondering if I'd promised to a ridiculous meeting time.

"Oh no, I just wanted to be sure," and with a click, she hung up.

It was still early, too early to get up, but now I was awake. I threw myself onto the sofa, turned on the TV, turned off the TV. I crossed the room, only to turn and walk back. "Eugh," I grumbled to myself, kicking at a chair leg – only to be rewarded with a sting of pain. "What is wrong with me today?"

Someone in the empty room answered, "Nothing, you're looking healthy."

It was Claire.

"You didn't answer before!" I yelled, scrabbling towards her and kneeling before her. Tentative, I put out my hand and stretched towards her bare feet. She was all glory, dressed in my old university track suit she used to use as pyjamas, her hair a mess.

"I'm not a dog."

"No. You're me. And you should be here when I need you."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" There was a coldness in her voice. It was new.

"You're different," I whispered.

"I've been travelling."

"I've been waiting," and I didn't – couldn't – look into her face. Her hand flew to my chin, and gently, gently she raised my head.

"Stubborn today, aren't you? Well, what shall we do?"

"Do?"

"It's my first day back, I was thinking the theatre. I've such a craving, and then maybe drinks afterwards with whatshisname, Ian?"

"I don't go drinking with him. And anyway we've got to go back to the hospital."

"Why?" she asked, stroking the strands of my hair. Her voice was comforting, the smell of her and her warmth, just an arm's length away. "You don't need them any more., you're cured. I'm back."

"Are you? Do you promise?"

Claire looked at him, really looked at him. "You didn't used to be so... clingy."

* * * *

Ian's shoes squeaked on the polished floor as he ran into work. "Sign me in," he called to the intern on the front desk. "I know I'm late." Patients stared at him as he hurried past, tugging his white coat over his shoulders.

He kicked open the treatment room door. "Sorry."

The room had changed. Furniture had been moved around. His chair had been moved to the side of the room. Another chair took pride of place. It had more buckles and straps than Mark's chair, and there was an ugly stain on the seat. "Gemma? What's this?"

"You're infected."

Ian blinked, once, twice, a few times.

Then he nodded.

Then he ran.

Every inch of sterilised floor felt like a marathon. He was uncomfortably aware of the buttons around his throat. Behind him, Gemma screamed something intelligible.

The mousy-haired intern who usually sat at the main desk was there again today, but he wasn't doing a crossword, or reading a medical textbook. He was watching Ian.

The reception flooded with people as he moved through it. Two extra security guards put down their newspapers as he entered, male nurses appeared from behind doors. The patients shrank into their seats.

Ian heard a faint giggling and looked around him. No one was laughing. He felt he recognised that noise, and then he realised that the sound was coming from his own mouth but it sounded feminine and did not belong.

'Claire,' he thought, just as something solid collided with the back of his knees.

"Get him back to the room." He could hear Gemma's voice behind him.

Ian's hands were forced together behind his back, fingers digging into his arms, sure to leave a bruise. He squirmed in their grip, and they tied his hands with a plastic cable. "Damn," he spat. "Damn you."

They buckled him to the waiting chair, and stood around him.

The room quickly became hot, but no one moved. No one opened a window. No one answered his questions, and eventually he stopped talking and listened to the thoughts and fears moving around his head.

"Where is he?" Gemma sighed, checking her watch for the third time.

The clock hands moved lazily through the hours, and they waited. At eight o'clock, the door opened.

A small man with owlish glasses, flanked by two nurses, peered around the edge of the door. "Gemma. Is it time?" Dr Hallam looked tired, like a man struggling to keep himself together. His clothes had been washed so many times the fabric was thin and blotchy, buttons had fallen off and were replaced with safety pins. His hair was a wispy nest around his ears, his skin pale and transparent. Even his shadow was faint.

"Good to see you, Charles," said a female voice, but it wasn't Gemma.

Ian and Charles turned their heads to follow the sound. Claire was there, sitting on a chair that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"You can see her too," he said. "Anyone else?"

"I can," Gemma said. She took the arm of one of the nurses. "Can you?" The nurse shook her head, but didn't look surprised.

"You look... great." Ian's eyes hadn't moved away from Claire.

She grinned at him. "Flatterer."

Gemma offered Charles a seat. "It's beginning to get a little crowded in here. Doctor, would you mind taking a chair? Let's get this done."

For a while the room was a circus of activity. Furniture was moved in and out, and security guards kept sticking their heads around the door.

"Sorry, Grandpa. Got to do it," said one as he tied Charles to a chair.

He just shrugged. "Not too tight – these old bones can't take it."

"It will be as tight as it needs to be. Sorry sir."

When Mark arrived, out of breath and with his shirt flapping around his middle, he flew into the room. "Sorry I'm late everyone, I-", and he saw Claire hovering around Ian's chair. "So. This is where you've been."

She just smiled and smoothed down the fabric of her dress. "I don't have to stick to you any more. It's a nice change."

"Please sit down, Mark," Gemma nodded him towards the final chair. "Today, the patient will be Ian."

"No it bloody wont," Ian spat.

"Mark's mind is becoming whole again. Yours is not." She cleared her throat. "Today's task is to take the thought fragments from Ian and Charles and put them where they belong."

Gently, like he were handling a wounded bird, a security guard helped strap Mark into his seat and tied cable-ties around his wrists and ankles. As he did so he leant slightly forwards. "Good luck, mate. Sometimes I think the doctors are the mad ones around here." The security guard stood up straight, and announced to the room, "I'll be outside."

Then he placed the metronome on the table and set it swinging. As he left, he glanced once more at Mark, and turned off the lights.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five..." Gemma began the countdown, but before Mark could drift away to the sound of her voice, Gemma fell into dreams. He waited to fall into unconsciousness, and as he waited, he glared at Claire. Feeling the pull of dreams, he whispered, "I hate you."

* * * *

There was shouting from a vast crowd, "You never practise. You're wasting my money. That's it. No more. No more," and the theatre crumbled, the floorboards rattling, and blowing away as though caught in a wind. There was a race of pictures, memories that did not belong to Mark. They could have been anyone's, they might not have belonged to any of us.

When the chaos faded, we were sitting in a booth in a filthy bar. Charles, Mark, Gemma, Ian and Claire were squashed into a ring of seats. The table was full of empty glasses, stained with a dark brown liquid.

Ian grinned, "So, are you going to interfere, Gemma? Are you going to make a meadow with daisies and little birds?"

Something dropped from the ceiling, onto the table. The glasses shattered. It was a dead bird, fat with maggots.

Gemma brushed it off the table. "My turn."

The shadows lengthened, the bar became dark and their ears were filled with the sounds of a child crying softly. The crying grew worse. Ian raised his eyebrows.

"Did I teach you both to show off?" asked Charles and waved a hand at their surroundings. His gesture reminded them all of street magicians, or perhaps an orchestral conductor. The lights of the bar became dim and simple again. "Well, what next?"

She squirmed in her seat. "I was concentrating so hard on getting everyone here..."

Mark rolled his eyes, "I'm not convinced you did fix me and Claire."

"She's back isn't she?"

"Not exactly, and she's changed."

Claire scowled. "I grew up, you on the other hand-" Claire stuck out her tongue over a lurid cocktail she plucked from thin air, and sipped. "- did not."

Charles pushed his glasses up his nose, and sat up straight. He seemed to grow in size, he changed, and became a perfect copy of Claire, right down to the creases in her dress. "I was always interested in your case, Claire."

The real Claire's mouth dropped. Ian looked between the women, unable to tell them apart.

"Mark was never the one with the problem. He always knew who he was. But you didn't."

"I know who I am, it doesn't matter whose skin I'm in." She tried to smile her usual smile, but there was fear in the corner of her eyes.

"And you force yourself on your prey. So much so that Mark doesn't feel complete any more. without you. So completely that Ian wants to know you better. It's just the men though. Gemma doesn't seem to be attracted to the idea of you."

Claire shrugged, "I don't like her either. Or her life."

"And I don't like you any more.," Mark said, looking down into his glass. "I don't want to share my head again."

Three pairs of eyebrows rose over their glasses.

"What?" Claire asked, flecks of spit escaping from between her teeth.

Mark didn't meet her gaze. "I'm lonely without you. And unhappy. But I'm not miserable." He drew a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"But you've been looking for me. And I've been trying to find you." Claire's voice became high, painful notes. "Charlie took me in, and Ian. And hundreds of their other patients. I left hints of myself in all of them, and all the time looking for you." Her hand moved across the table towards Mark. He did not reach to touch her questing fingers, and he flinched when she got too close. "I've been haunting all of them for years, trying to find you."

Charles nodded. His impersonation of Claire was wearing off. The wrinkles on his face and the slight curve of his back became more pronounced, and seemed worse than they had before. "We are all ghosts here."

Mark lent against his chair, breathing deeply. He felt different – and it was wonderful.

But Ian was struggling, "I'll take her." His voice was louder than he intended, but he repeated himself again, as though talking himself into something, "I'll take her. All of the fragments. I'll find them."

Charles bent his head as though about to say a prayer. "I both dreaded and hoped you'd say that."

Claire squirmed, "Don't I get a say in this?" She stood up from the table, and made as if to walk away.

"Will he be enough of a cage?" Gemma asked.

Charles pursed his lips. "I don't know. I'd offer myself, but I'm old, and I've been compromised. She fooled me for a while." He smiled kindly at Claire as she retreated from their table. "It's been fun, Claire."

She vanished.

* * * *

As soon as he was unbuckled from his chair, Ian fled. Mark followed him and left the institute, the bodyguards and his demons behind him.

Gemma moved to her office chair and spun herself around to face her desk. She pulled a folder towards her and wrote on the upper most page.

Anomaly: Claire.

Contained.

***

#  Interlude 4

Up on the moors is a grim behemoth of soaring concrete; a brutalist masterpiece to hide the spoils of institutional brutalism. For miles around there is nothing but the cold, grey isolation of the heath. For all their cunning, the Institute could find no better way than distance to isolate the screams. The doctors and nurses refer to this place by the delightfully parochial moniker of "The House on the Hill."

A man sat in a reception hall, on a chair which had been bolted to the floor. It was a grey place devoid of the crispness and delineation that blackness or whiteness affords.

A waifish nurse entered from the strange and unseen places beyond the grey ironclad doors. She was also dressed in grey.

"Dr Matthews?" she asked.

"Yes?" the man replied.

"I am Nurse de Gris." She handed him a grey clipboard and a grey plastic biro. "Please fill in this form with your details and sign the attached waiver."

Matthews took the forms and began to study them.

"I am required to inform you that the following items are not allowed on the wards: Knives, scissors, screwdrivers, razor blades, knitting needles, hammer, pliers, pencils, pens, glass of any kind, matches, lighters, combustible liquids or aerosols, batteries, rocks, stones, and no spoons."

"No spoons?" asked Matthews.

"No spoons," de Gris replied. "There is also a blanket ban on coffee, pastries, colours above forty percent total saturation and whistling or humming of any sort."

"A stimulants thing I take it?" Matthews asked.

"No, the sight of them has noted to cause severe psychotic reactions in some of the patients," said de Gris.

Matthews handed the clipboard back to de Gris and stood up. She led him to the ironclad doors and into the wards of The House on the Hill.

The air was thick and heavy with a deafening thrum; a sound like tortured steel, grinding bearings and thrashing machinery. It took Matthews a moment to realise that there was no machinery in the ward. This was the sound of an entire house screaming in unison. It was a melody of despair and anguish.

***

#  Side Effects

##  Amy Maidment

He looked at his coffee, but didn't make any move to drink it. It would start going cold if he didn't drink it soon, but he just sat there on the cold metal chair outside the cafe, staring. The chair opposite him was empty. If a passer-by were to walk past and pay any attention to him, they might have thought that he was waiting for somebody to join him. A friend, maybe, or a lover. But he was all but invisible to the shoppers and commuters, and he didn't stop looking at his coffee. It would be hard for somebody who knew him well to read the expression on his face, let alone a stranger. One of the baristas took the dirty cups from the tables next to him on the patio, and didn't pay him any attention.

For all intents and purposes, Scott was transparent. And that was the way that he liked it.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood up and walked away, his pace fast, his face blank. He hadn't even sipped at his coffee. It took him a further fifteen minutes to walk back to the apartment block, a towering mass that blended in with the ever growing skyline of San Francisco. He swiped his key-card against a small black dot on the wall and the doors opened, quietly and smoothly. One glance at the stairs and he triggered the same debate he had with himself every time he came home: to walk up four flights of stairs or to take the elevator? As always, the elevator won, beating the concept of walking up the stairs into a bloody pulp. A twinge of guilt nested in his stomach throughout the ride to the fourth floor, but he tried to ignore it, the way he ignored many things.

Pete was, for once, home before him, sitting on the couch when he walked through the door. He was watching reruns of a forty year old sit com, and it looked like an early episode, where a girl in a wedding dress had just run, flustered, into a coffee shop. Scott had read somewhere that one of the actresses had died recently.

Pete turned around to see him enter, and smiled. He had the sort of face that lit up when he smiled, like a Christmas tree. "Good day, honey?"

"Not a bad day," he said. "Not a good day, but not a bad one."

His smile turned sympathetic. "And are you okay?"

He paused before replying, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

"There was a message on the phone for you, by the way."

"Anything interesting?"

"Theresa, she said she knew you from college? Something about a reunion."

Something in Pete's stomach fell when he saw Scott flinch whilst opening the fridge. This happened occasionally, when somebody mentioned USF, or when it cropped up on the news, or when he saw an old friend on the street.

"A reunion?" he said, speaking quickly. "Why'd there be a reunion now? We only graduated two years ago."

"I don't know, hon, it sounded pretty informal... Would you go? Or at least think about going?"

He closed the door of the fridge, which blipped at him, and walked away, carrying the carton of juice towards the couch. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe."

"Scott, it might help with the-"

"I said maybe, okay?" he said, his tone close to defensive as he sat down on the couch, cuddling into him.

"Okay," Pete said. He wanted to say that he thought Scott should go anyway, that he thought it might help him get better, that he thought there might be somebody there who knew how to make him better. But he knew better than to start an argument with him over something so sensitive, so he just put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him a little closer, and they watched the sitcom for a while. Scott had seen the episode before, but he still laughed at the jokes, unable to tell whether he still found them funny or if it was just habit. As the credits rolled, he looked down at the carton of juice that was cold in his hands, and tried to remember how it got there.

He couldn't.

* * * *

Participant #729001

Project DOME

USF Branch

Date – 6/15/2029

Sessions completed – 12

Objective – COFFEE MACHINE

**Comments – Results support the hypothesis. Participant appears stable. Nothing anomalous discovered. Nothing exceptional discovered. Participant is very average. Participant responded very positively to stimuli. If experiment is 100% successful, then the participant will suffer no long term effects. Follow up will occur through observation in two years' time**.

* * * *

Lena read the case notes for the fifteenth time, not understanding them any more. She'd only _really_ been introduced to Project DOME in her Orientation a week ago, and she was aware that she was going to begin as some sort of field agent rather than a scientist, developing this strange technology, but she hadn't expected such obvious stalking. Well, she had, but not like this. She'd thought, judging on the Orientation, as a field agent, she'd be able to read minds, X Men style. But no, there was yet another test. Like there hadn't already been enough tests, enough mental and physical challenges, enough doctors poking and probing at her, enough secrecy and liability documents signed. No, oh no, Project DOME could never just leave it at that. On top of everything else, she now had to prove her abilities as a stalker.

It would have been easier if the whole thing wasn't so cryptic. Even now, after countless tests and interviews and three days of Orientation, she wasn't entirely sure what this whole project was about, or what her role in it was. Maybe nobody knew what was going on.

Sighing, she put the document back down on the table. A recently graduated Psychology major from Claremont McKenna College, Lena had been head-hunted by this initiative, and had blindly agreed to join them on the premise of advancing science. The fact that an advance of a rather sizeable pay check had been given to her along with this premise had also helped sway her decision. CMC had given her not only a pretty good degree and two trips to Europe with the basketball team, but a loan large enough to blot out the sun. She knew that she should be thankful to even have a job, let alone one that paid this well, even if it meant not really knowing what she was thankful for.

It sort of made sense, though, she thought to herself as she turned the kettle on. From what she understood, if she'd managed to grab the right end of the stick after all, she was going to be some sort of field agent. And field agents were, for all intents and purposes, spies. Maybe checking up on Participant #729001 was yet another test. Why would this Institute need field agents? She'd seen a movie a few years ago, a cult classic, where it was possible to enter somebody else's mind whilst they were dreaming. It seemed to Lena that this was essentially what the Institute did. Maybe they'd been inspired by the movie somewhat. But then, if she was recalling the movie properly, everybody was a bad guy. Incepting information from dreams was, she remembered arguing, immoral, and even in the movie it seemed to be illegal. It crossed her mind that maybe she was now working for some sort of criminal movement, but she scoffed the idea off. Criminality could never be this organised.

The ghost of a sunset hovered on the edge of the city, but Lena wasted none of her attention on it. Instead, she poured the boiling water over the instant coffee, put the kettle down, picked the mug up, and walked back over to the couch, wondering where to start. As well as the case notes, which were simultaneously too cryptic and too vague to be of much use, she'd been given a name, an address, a date of birth, and a mugshot in an envelope. Tomorrow, she would start. Early. Maybe this Scott Corsetti (she was trying to think of him as Participant #729001, because that felt right, somehow. Scott Corsetti was a person, and Participant #729001 was a _thing_ ) would leave his apartment early for work, and if she missed him then, she would be fated to spend the rest of the day sitting, waiting, watching.

She cast her eyes over the case notes again. She had been given a week to report any abnormal behaviour that she saw. Rolling her eyes at the case notes, she thought, ' _There is so much wrong with this_.'

* * * *

"Sorry," Scott apologised again, not looking at Pete as he took the bacon and eggs out of the fridge.

"Stop apologising!" he replied, blearily. "I've told you it's okay, haven't I?"

"Yeah. It's just... I hate that I can't help it."

"Well, you _can't_ help it. So you really have nothing to apologise for."

He turned to him, looking slightly hopeless. "I just... I wish I wasn't... like this. I wasn't always, y'know, like... _this_ , and now I am, and it's a lot to deal with, and you shouldn't bother, and..."

"Hey," Pete said. "Hey. It's okay. It's alright. You'll get better."

"And what if I don't?"

"You will," he said with the sort of confidence that Scott wished he had. "You can go to a doctor, they have effective treatments these days-"

"And say what?" Scott interrupted, and this silenced him.

He cracked the eggs into the frying pan. In the back of his mind, he was reliving last night. Part of him could still feel Pete's warmth next to him in bed, but mostly he was fixated on the noises. He didn't hear them every night, only most. Every time he heard them, the scraping of metal on stone floor, large iron doors opening and closing, he knew that they weren't real. That didn't stop his hair standing on end every time he heard them. Most nights were bad, but last night was worse than most. He had heard keys turning in imaginary locks and he had heard footsteps on hard floors, despite knowing that the bedroom was carpeted. Somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere that sounded far away, an alarm had sounded, and Scott had panicked. He hadn't meant to hit Pete at two in the morning. He hadn't meant to hit him at all. But his mind was not always his own, and he was very much aware of this.

"And say what?" he repeated, as Pete stared at the dead television. "That my mind was probed by some scientists a few years back and I can't tell them who or what or why and since then I've been slightly unhinged?"

"Why not?"

"Huh?"

"Why can't you tell them the whole who-and-what-and-why thing?"

"Confidentiality contract," he replied, poking at the eggs with a spatula. "They seemed pretty serious about it. Kinda threatening, actually. Besides, they didn't really tell me enough to be able to... know who they were."

"I still can't believe you let a menacing and mysterious bunch of people mess with your brain."

He threw him a look, his eyes daggers. "Well, I hardly knew what they were going to do, did I?"

"Ethics, Scott," he said. "They should have told you. Or you should have reported them. Or... Did they really not mention any of, well, _this_ to you?"

"What, the batshit crazy? No. No, they did not. I'm pretty sure I would've thought twice if I'd known."

Pete sighed. He could sense this turning into a fight, and days when they fought like this were days that they wasted. "Still. You could go to a doctor. There might be something they can do to help-" _And heaven knows he needs it_ , he thought, but his better judgement advised to keep this comment to himself.

He was right, of course. He knew that he was right. But he'd tried going to a doctor before, when he first started hearing the noises, forgetting things and becoming disoriented in familiar places. They'd called it stress, and they gave him some drugs to relax him, but they just made things worse. So he had stopped taking the drugs and never went back. Maybe it was time to try again. Maybe this insanity was a thing he could leave behind. He pondered, as he put the fried eggs onto plates, if insanity could be a thing, something quantifiable, that could be taken or left or destroyed. It could be. Or it could be a presence, something that lingered, like a devil on your back that could never be shaken. Knowing insanity, it could be both of those things. He put the plates of eggs on the table, and started to eat quietly.

"Think about it for me, okay?" he asked.

"Okay," he said, not looking up from the eggs. He could hear somebody else walking around the kitchen, pacing up and down in heavy boots, and he didn't want to know if he could see them or not. "Okay."

* * * *

There was a coffee shop opposite from the building where Participant #729001 lived, one of those quaint ones that made Lena feel guilty about every Branded coffee she'd ever bought, with an awning and outdoor chairs. It was a cold morning, chilly, and there had been a thin fog in the air when Lena had left her apartment just after six. Two and a half hours and three lattes later, she was still the only person sitting outside the coffee shop, determined not to miss him. Which, with only an old mugshot to go on, was highly possible.

There had been four guys about his age who had already left the building, but she was certain none of them had been Participant #729001. The first had been Asian, which definitely didn't match the mugshot. The next two had left together, talking very loudly about how lost they were and their plans to visit tourist spots, which made her think that they wouldn't have been at USF two years ago. The fourth was carrying a white stick and wearing dark glasses, and apart from the fact that he happened to look nothing like the man in the picture, Lena was pretty sure that she hadn't noticed anything in the brief case notes that would indicate blindness.

Lena's eyes were starting to glaze over when the door of the building opened again. It was him. It was Participant #729001. She was almost sure of it – his hair curled like the man's in the picture did, his face was the same shape, his eyes were the same dark shade. There was a man with Participant #729001, not much taller than him, carrying a briefcase. She quickly checked her watch and scribbled on her notepad.

' _8:37 – P.729001 leaves building, accompanied with man. Dressed casual smart.'_

Then she stood up, rushed across the street without looking, much to the annoyance of the drivers, and fell in step behind them, just close enough to hear their conversation.

"One of the guys in my office sees a shrink, apparently he's pretty good, I could ask for his number for you?" the man suggested.

"What, and have your whole office think I'm crazy?" Participant #729001 retorted.

"Well, you are crazy."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Look after yourself today, okay?"

"When don't I?"

It was a struggle for Lena to note all their words down whilst walking, even though she was attempting to use some sort of shorthand. She was intrigued by their conversation, though. What were the odds that during his first 'encounter' with Participant #729001, she'd hear him talk about something that might actually be of use to the Institute?

He hugged the man, who kissed his forehead, and Lena tried not to be too conspicuous as she watched. They muttered goodbyes and the man turned right down another street whilst Participant #729001 walked straight ahead. He seemed tired, on edge, as if he hadn't quite managed to get enough sleep to feel comfortable with himself. Lena noted this down in her pad, and kept on following him. He walked faster now he was on his own, and when she caught sight of his face in the reflection of a shop window, it looked like he was lost in thought. Again, she noted this down. After walking for about five minutes, Participant #729001 entered a bakery, and greeted the girl behind the counter with a wave, before going behind the counter himself.

Lena wasn't entirely sure what to do next. She hadn't bothered reading any books about stalking before now, and she'd thought that looking up 'stalking' on the internet might alert the authorities, especially after the increase of observation on internet searches the government demanded four years ago. It was highly likely that Participant #729001 would work nine to five, and what was she going to do during that time? Sit outside and wait? No, she couldn't do that. People would give her funny looks. Besides, he might notice her then, and that was not what she wanted. Maybe she'd leave, come back in an hour or so, buy something from the bakery, interact with him for a little while, see if she could pick up on anything interesting. It was odd, she thought, that he'd been talking with the man, his partner maybe, about being crazy. From what little information Lena had gathered about the Institute, they dabbled in crazy every now and then. And they had, at some stage, dabbled in his mind. But the case notes had indicated that there wouldn't be any side effects. Something wasn't adding up.

It was then that Lena was struck yet again with the notion that her life was no longer one that could really be classed as normal.

* * * *

The bakery was a quiet little place to work, and Scott liked that. He couldn't do with working somewhere noisy and fast paced and cut throat. It was slow work, and it gave him enough money to pay his half of the rent, and he didn't mind at all that it was easy. What he did mind, just a little bit, was his father telling him that it was 'not the sort of job a graduate should have' every single time he called, despite his explaining to him that his degree was in catering in the first place, and eventually he'd make his way into the kitchen. There were never that many customers for the bakery, either. That was what had surprised him when he first started working there. It was a nice place, friendly, the mom'n'pops sort of store that had all but vanished from the high street, and the cakes they made were beautiful. But people rarely stopped for beautiful things any more.

That morning, whilst everybody else was working on the cakes in the back, Scott tried to blot out the sounds of the prison in his mind. It didn't interfere with his work (much), but it interfered with everything else. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been completely relaxed, or carefree, or content with the world; he was always existing around his own personal hell. There was some tragedy in it, he supposed, if he'd caused his own downfall and all that. He should have asked what they were doing with his mind, because it could have been anything. They could have been rewiring his brain and this nightmare he lived in might be proof of a successful experiment for all he knew. What he hated most was how the insanity seemed to have become him. It had taken over all the little things he'd found pleasure in, all his quirks and traits, and just wallowed in their place. Whatever had happened during those experiments, it had ultimately resulted in him losing himself.

At some point in the middle of the morning, the little bell above the door jangled, pulling Scott out of his train of thought. A woman walked in, looking tired, and made her way up to the counter.

"Hi, can I help you?" he asked, putting on a smile, but she didn't reply. She just stared at him intently, in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Can I... Are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she said, composing herself. "I'll have... One of those éclair things from the window, please. And a Cola."

"Regular, Diet, Zero, Plus, Detox, Energise, or some sort of flavoured Cola?" Scott asked as he fetched an éclair from the window display, wishing for simpler days when there weren't so many different types of one drink.

"Erm... Diet, please," she said, and he noticed that she was still staring at him.

He put the éclair and the drink upon the counter, and said, "That'll be $3.50, please."

As she fumbled about with her purse, he noticed that she was holding a scrappy notepad, with things like ' _8:49 – arrives at work'_ written on it. A part of him wanted to read more, to ask about what she was doing, but he stopped himself. That would be rude and intrusive, and he desired to be neither of those things. So he just held out his hand for the money, and smiled at her when she gave it to him, and wondered why she was still looking at him so intently.

"Thanks," he said, sorting it out into the cash register as she took the éclair and drink.

"No problem," she said, slightly awkwardly, and added, "Erm, you too. You too. Thanks."

And with that, she left the shop, and Scott was distracted from his anguish for a while, trying to figure out what her problem was, and why she could have had reason to act so strangely. Maybe, he theorised, she knew. She knew that he was crazy. Maybe she knew because she was suffering too, and she'd hacked the computer systems at USF to find other people who'd taken part in the same experiment. Unlikely. Maybe she was just her own special sort of crazy, and that was just the way in which she interacted with the world. Whichever, it had been a disconcerting experience for him, and he frequently experienced disconcerting experiences.

An alarm sounded in his mind again and, flinching, he leaned against the counter and squeezed his eyes shut. When it ceased – he couldn't tell how long it had sounded for – he opened the phone book that had lain on the counter untouched for so long, and took Pete's advice from earlier.

"Hi? Yeah, erm, I think... I'd like to book an appointment, please."

* * * *

Lena's week continued in very much the same manner. She'd wake up early, go to the coffee shop, follow Participant #729001 to work, linger, follow him home again, and then go home herself. On Wednesday evening, she had followed him as he'd gone shopping with a friend, and the only strange thing that she'd noticed was that he'd seemed to have a headache. And really, the only _truly_ strange thing about that was why he hadn't bothered taking some painkillers. It wasn't like they had any side effects. Scientists had managed to wipe out side effects from over the counter pain medication fifteen years ago.

It had crossed her mind a couple of times that even when she saw things that she thought were slightly odd about Participant #729001, they might not even be that strange after all. Normality, as she had been told many times, was very much a relative thing, and she knew that she would be experiencing some sort of observer bias. There was also something painfully unethical about the entire thing, and she hated that. She had been raised to stay within the rules, to colour between the lines, and it was against her nature to do something she was so uncomfortable with. But she had known since the Orientation that working for the Institute may have led her to do such things, and she was definitely in need of the money.

And the money was very, very good.

Besides, she only had one day left to follow Participant #729001 around before writing her review and sending it in. Despite her long list of detailed notes, she still wasn't entirely sure what she was going to say. Something told her that simply writing, 'I'm sorry, but following Participant #729001 around for a week did not provide me with suitable information to evaluate his current mental state, please don't fire me' wouldn't go down a treat. Unless this was all a mind game, and that was exactly what they wanted to hear.

Her brain hurt.

It was nearly five o'clock, and Lena was standing across from the bakery, her hat pulled over her eyes, waiting. Participant #729001 left the bakery a few minutes earlier than he normally did, and Lena hurried across the road, noting this down as she fell into following him, a few paces behind. Never closer. Closer was dangerous. When he reached the top of the street, he turned left instead of going straight ahead, which Lena noted down, and she kept on following him. His pace was faster than it usually was during the evening, and Lena found herself having to dodge around people to keep up with him. He walked faster and faster, and Lena almost thought that she had lost him, until she saw him walking up a set of steps into a building. He turned and looked behind himself cautiously and then entered the building. Damn. More waiting now, then – and there didn't appear to be any sort of place where waiting could be done in peace on this street. She kept walking, trying to decide what to do, when she glanced over at the building he had entered, and her eyes caught sight of a metal sign. It was well polished, new looking, gleaming proudly in the evening sun. Lena read it, and stopped in her tracks, a frown forming on her face.

'Dr. R. M. Martyn B.A.Hons Psy.D A.B.P.P.'

Participant #729001 was in therapy. He could have been in therapy for the past two years. He could have been in therapy for longer than that – no, the Institute wouldn't have experimented on anybody who already had issues, she reasoned. Unethical they may be, but they wouldn't do that. Would they?

She crossed the street, leant against a building, made a note of where the Psychiatrist's office was, and waited.

* * * *

"So, Scott. How can I help you?"

Scott had found himself sitting on a worn leather couch in the dimly lit room. If he had been told years ago that he'd end up in therapy for something, then he would have laughed at you, saying that he'd always be fine. Looking away from the shrink, a man in his late thirties with thick rimmed glasses and slowly balding hair, Scott tried to compose his words.

"It's... I think... It's like... I hear noises inside my mind that aren't, that _can't_ be there. Sometimes I see things, like shadows or shapes, they're there and then they aren't again. And I forget how I got somewhere sometimes, and I forget why I'm somewhere, and it's... disorientating."

The shrink didn't look away from Scott as he spoke. He wondered why the shrink wasn't noting anything down. In movies, the psychiatrists usually didn't look away from their notepads. Then again, in movies, the psychiatrists were usually more messed up than their patients, so Scott decided it was probably a good thing that Dr Martyn didn't conform to such tropes. Then he noticed the small earpiece that the shrink was wearing, and realised that some technology was dictating the conversation for him.

"Okay, Scott, and when did this start?"

"Two years ago. Roughly. Just before I graduated from college."

"I see. And tell me, did anything happen to trigger these events, Scott?"

Since he'd booked the appointment, Scott had been dreading this question. He had dreaded it more than he had dreaded the bill for seeing a private psychiatrist, and that was saying something. Conflicted didn't even begin to cover it. He had so many reasons to not want to share his experience. He'd lost his copy, but from what he could remember, the confidentiality contract was rather menacing. Then again, if he didn't say anything, if he stayed silent, then he might never get better. He might get worse. He might start hearing voices in the prison in his mind, and they probably wouldn't be nice voices, and they might growl horror at him and he might believe that their horror was real. They might start telling him to do things that he didn't particularly want to do, and he might wake up one morning with Pete's blood on his hands and a laughing in his mind.

It was the idea of that, the concept of himself scuppering into somebody else, that motivated him to start talking.

"It was... I signed up to take part in some experiments in my last year of college," he started, his voice uncertain. "I needed the money, and it was one of those psychological ones that paid well. I thought it'd just be a series of tests or questionnaires or something, but... I got there for the first session and they strapped me into this chair, and they told me that they were going to guide me around my mind. It was like some sort of elaborated hypnotism, and I have no clue what they did to me. But it was like... Each session, they knocked me out, and I woke up on this island. They told me when I asked, about three weeks in, that the island was what my brain looked like inside. There was somebody, a member of their staff, guiding me around this island that they called my mind, and it was dark, sometimes. It was like somebody had taken my doubts and fears and flaws and laid them out in front of me, as creatures I had to kill or run from. And the first six sessions or so were spent exploring this island, and after that, it got, well, weirder. I showed up the next week and there was somebody else in the room. And he looked... And they told us that we were going to 'combine our mind-scapes', so we could know more about each other or something. And the next six weeks they did just that. My island was merged with his... It was a jungle. I liked to think that the trees represented his thoughts, all dense and tall, with meandering branches all over the place. And it got easier to merge them, and by the end of the last session we could almost read each other's thoughts without being connected to the machines. And then I never saw him again, and a month or so later the noises started, and they haven't stopped since."

The shrink stared at him for a minute, as if he was trying to mask some deeper emotion.

"Well, Scott, I hope that I'll be able to help you."

* * * *

It was a month after she'd filed the report on Participant #729001 when Lena was summoned to Washington. Her instructions were brief - she would pack all she needed for a week, and the rest of her possessions would be shipped over at a later date. The ticket was already paid for, and the plane would leave with her on it on a Thursday afternoon. She had no choice in the matter.

She was beginning to think that the Institute was even odder than it had first seemed.

They had paid for her hotel room in Washington, and it was the fanciest hotel that she had ever been in in her life. The suite was voice controlled, like some of the rooms had been at CMC, but most people couldn't afford to have such things installed in their homes. It took her a while to get used to telling the tap to switch on, or requesting specific shows from the TV.

On Friday morning, a black car pulled up outside the hotel, and she was summoned by reception. An hour full of tinted windows and security guards later, she found herself sitting on an aged leather chair, waiting for somebody. From what she had been told (and what she had inferred), she was at the headquarters of the Initiative, and the man she was waiting to see was the boss. She knew that he had been mentioned at her initiation, but she couldn't remember his name, and there was no sign by the door to aid her memory. After sitting there for fifteen minutes or so whilst the receptionist listened to some catchy pop tune on the small radio, the door opened, and she was summoned. The office was bare and modern, unlike the faux antique look of the waiting area, and again, it seemed that everything was voice operated. There was no name tag on the sheer white desk, and the man sitting behind it was wearing dark glasses, hiding his eyes.

"Your report has been processed," he began. "And it's been decided that Participant #729001 has recovered completely and is suffering no long term side effects."

Lena frowned. "But what about-"

"It is no worry of yours any more," he said. "As part of your debriefing, we want to explain the procedure that Participant #729001 went through, and why you were chosen to observe them. The procedure, given the code name the Coffee Machine, attempted, and in all cases succeeded, to link two minds almost telepathically, so their behaviour and thought patterns would become increasingly similar. Seeing as the long term side effects have been minimal-"

"But he was seeing a therapist!" Lena interrupted, and was ignored.

"We are going to use this procedure on our field operatives. We will match you with a partner we feel you would be most successful with, and over the course of several weeks you will be given the treatment. Once that is complete, you will work as a team to bring down rogue operatives who have gone AWOL. Some of these people have altered their minds in a way that will cause them to be dangerous, others know too much for us to allow them to leave the confines of the Institute. It will not be an easy job, but we feel that you are very well suited for it. You will receive no additional training unless you specifically need it. You will meet your partner in two days' time at a location that will be forwarded to your hotel. I hope this is all agreeable to you."

It took a moment for Lena to rearrange her thoughts into a coherent string of words. It wasn't agreeable to her. She knew that she had signed a contract, and that this was probably included somewhere in the small print, but she still wasn't happy with it.

"But what about-" she started, but was cut off once again.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Coyle."

***

#  Interlude 5

"That wasn't my fault!"

Sam was sure he was not meant to be hearing this conversation, but then, he was equally certain that they weren't meant to be having it. They, in this case (in every case, Sam pondered), were two rather careless employees of The Institute, a man and a woman, having a heated though hushed debate in a corridor which echoed loud enough to make a gnat's wings deafening.

"You leaked it!" the woman said. "At least, you put it in a position to be leaked."

"The Truro files were not my responsibility. I handed them over to the regional coordinator, as I was supposed to. If they weren't properly secure, that's the field agent's problem, not mine."

Sam shuffled his mop further down the corridor to better listen in. The bickering pair didn't even realise he was there; he could have been a robot, a tool to them rather than a person with a mind open and ready to absorb their secrets. All that time poking around with brains, Sam thought, and they still don't understand that we all have one.

"The Truro Scandal has brought down this shit storm on all of us," she went on. "That's information no one is supposed to have. Do you get that? No one! Not just the proles out there. We shouldn't be able to know that stuff. These are secrets so deep they're never spoken, never even written down. My god! The questions that raises! How do we explain that? What do we tell the press?"

"That's not my problem either," the man said.

"You don't think so, huh? Well, the bosses might disagree. We need a win on the Blank Slate, soon. It's not just your head on the block, you know..."

The pair went silent for a moment. Sam had pushed his luck, lingered too long to no purpose in their vicinity. Even a pair as ignorant as these can't help but feel the force of another human being's concentrated attention after a while. Sam nodded and smiled a broad and friendly grin that had served him well for a great many years. It said 'hello', it said 'harmless', it said 'trust'. The troubled couple smiled back and went to move away, but not waiting until they were out of earshot to strike up their cacophony once more.

"We won't find anyone fool enough to sign up to it anyway. We're going to have to try to con it again. And we all know how that turns out..."

Sam shuffled away, chuckling to himself, sorting out some papers that had been left on a table in the corridor. The dull plodding of student feet resounded from somewhere further on, approaching with a lazy inevitability.

After a moment, seven foot of gangly nothing came tottering around the corner and straight into the janitor, sending Sam, his papers and the student's papers to the ground. The kid helped Sam back to his feet before proceeding to gather all the papers together and hand them back to the janitor.

"Oh, they're not mine, son," Sam said and pushed the whole pile onto the student, who didn't complain as he gambolled away leaving a trail of apologies behind him.

****

The student stopped to look at the papers he had accidentally acquired. It was some sort of contract for an experiment. He scan read the front page until his eyes fell upon the topic of reimbursement. It was a generous topic, very much indeed, and that sort of generosity was something he desperately needed. Fate was smiling on him today, he was sure.

The student walked on with a greater stride and a prouder gate, ready to face the world, the janitor's casual whistling echoing around the corridor and his ears.

***

#  Nemo

##  Michael Staniforth

0.

First, a fall. This spreads and, in its place, a rise. The rise follows the fall and is, in its turn, replaced by a fall. The pattern goes on and on, interminably. The ripple spreads gently across the pond. And then it fades. Endless, unceasing as it might have seemed, that miniscule perturbance in the vast, universal plane is swallowed up by all the other little changes, all the other ripples, until it is unrecognisable, until it dies. Two men watch the short lived display from inception to demise and say nothing. They sit in the mist-cool air of evening, watching the world without being in it, as if the breeze from the lake blows straight through them. They are silent, staring straight ahead with no communication between them at all, yet they are clearly of one mind, one purpose. Together, they sigh once, carried off by the desolate beauty of the situation, and then, still in unison, take hold of one arm each, and escort the tottering body between them, lifeless yet alive, away and gone - forever.

5.

Nemo stared hard at the pitiful reflection of a broken human being in the mirror before him. The morning had not been kind, spiteful of the night before. He ran his fingers roughly through his unruly mop of head hair, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and dragged his hands down the forest of stubble decorating his jaw before once again glancing to his reflection.

"Still handsome, though," he said to himself, with as wry a smile as he could manage.

There was a lot of Nemo, and there was little of him. He possessed full seven feet of self, each foot in height carrying with it little more than one stone of weight. His bedraggled exterior spilled out into the room around him, spreading its untidy tendrils, infecting all it touched with the same unkemptness that hung off him like the tattered rags he wore. He was a force; not of anything particularly useful, one way or the other, but undoubtedly unstoppable nevertheless. If you could say only one thing of Nemo it was that he was definitely There.

Nemo moved over to the drawers of his kitchen area. The tiny student flat was a studio; a kitchen and bedroom all in one with a claustrophobic shower through a door in the corner. If he put his feet against the back wall and laid down flat, stretching out his arms, he could almost reach the door; and he had tried.

Nemo opened a drawer and pulled out a small bag of porridge oats - the last one. He swore and spun around to face a whiteboard on the opposite wall. Nemo dragged his finger tip across the screen, the magic red line following his point scoring off the word 'Gigolo' from the list before him; that had been an eventful failure which, if nothing else, had at least served to reaffirm his own sexuality. Above this were similarly struck through words -'Barman', 'Waiter', 'Shop Assistant', all much too much like hard work; 'Entrepreneur', 'Poker Shark', 'Lottery', perhaps a tad unrealistic; 'Adult Chat' and 'Gigolo', fun, but simply not enough call for the gender he was from the gender he desired. Nemo was reaching the end of the line; indeed, there was only one item left on the list; 'DOME'. Nemo sat and ate his oats, staring at the word, pondering.

****

"You know it's bullshit, right?" Woody had asked the question rhetorically, yet Nemo seemed incredulous.

"I can't believe it," Nemo exclaimed, confirming Woody's opinion. Woody had always known that Nemo lived somewhat permanently in Nemoland, a world with little in common with most people's reality, but this was a bit out there, even for him.

"Seriously," Woody said, taking his turn at incredulity. "You think it's real?"

"No, I mean, I can't believe you still think I care about your opinion whatsoever!"

"Neeeeem!" The complaint, which came from a petit blonde girl with a face that bore the tell-tale signs of a permanent frown cast at the behaviour of others, was unnecessarily stretched out to a piercing pin-point.

"Eeeeve!" came Nemo's mocking reply. To Nemo, this was enough, an end to any debate that said all that might ever need to be said. If a person could not comprehend why they were being mocked by Nemo, that was nothing to him but proof of their ineptitude.

"What's bullshit, anyway?" Eva asked of the group.

"You've never heard of Cole?" Woody said. "That's even worse than him thinking it's true!"

"Just shut up and tell the story, will you?" Eva insisted.

"Rumour has it," Nemo cut in. "That The Institute will give a modest compensation of a mere fifty grand to any student who is willing to participate in certain 'psychological experiments'."

"Why would they pay so much?" Eva asked.

"Well," Woody tilted his head in an attempt to appear 'knowing'. "Kosher isn't exactly in The Institute's vocabulary."

"Oh, please," Nemo protested. "Some idiot couldn't cope with some fake, so-called high stress scenario. I think the only thing that's hokum about this story is how much money I'm going to get." Eva's eyes widened at Nemo's last comment. She had wanted to speak, but her thoughts were lost somewhere in a fog of disbelief that prevented her from properly processing what she'd heard.

"We're not talking about some improv session at the student theatre," Woody explained. "They drove him completely insane!" He turned to Eva, but she wasn't listening. "The story says there was this guy, Cole or Boyle or something, in, like, Canada or where ever. They gave him these tests and then he started hearing things and seeing things, like strange noises from a dungeon, and voices telling him what to do and when to sleep. Finally he killed some other crazy. Hunted him down like he was tracking him or something, claimed he couldn't remember a thing, spent the rest of his life in the funny farm."

"Sure, if you're gullible enough to believe that version of events," Nemo rebutted. "Anyway, it wasn't a guy, it was a girl, and it was her boyfriend that she killed, in San Francisco, I heard. Whatever the case, it's obviously exaggerated, but myths are always based on some truth."

"You're going to get?" Eva whispered, almost to herself, barely conscious of what was being said around her. What did he mean, the money he was going to get?

Woody continued the conversation, not noticing Eva. "You could always choose to believe the version where they cut into her brain."

"Her brain?" Eva muttered.

"Yeah, her brain!" Woody replied.

"You're going to get?" Eva said.

"Yeah," Nemo replied.

"Are you some kind of fucking idiot child!?" Eva yelled.

"Jesus, Eve, relax", Woody firmly suggested. "Like I said, it's all bullshit."

"Yeah, probably," Nemo finally relented. The other two made their excuses and went off to their classes. Nemo was left alone, just himself, more than enough. He took the contract out from his coat pocket. The emblem of The Institute was tastelessly obvious on the front page. He took out a pen and signed across his knee. There was nothing they could throw at him he couldn't take.

****

Nemo sat in the waiting room of The Institute. It was empty. Not in the respect that there were no other occupants besides Nemo, although this was decidedly the case, but in the far more literal sense that, besides Nemo, his chair, and a ceiling light, there was nothing in the room (one far too large for its purposes) at all. The walls were a colour somewhere between beige and gray that disallowed the description of decoration and casually drew any idea of shape out of the room. It was like sitting in nothing and, as he sat there, it became more and more to Nemo like being nothing. He glanced up towards the ceiling light. It wasn't there. Now he thought about it, he wasn't sure it had ever been; he had only assumed it had as the light in the room, his only companion beside the chair, had to be coming from somewhere. Where was it coming from? Nemo looked down at his hands to convince himself they were still there. He flexed the fingers a few times before turning his wrist and checking his watch. He had barely been waiting five minutes and already he felt his patience grow thin. Patience would have been something else to exist in the waiting room; it seemed not to be allowed.

Finally, a door slid open that was certainly not there a moment ago. A flood of something - something other, something new - came into the room in the form of a man in a white coat.

"Ready," came the terse word from the researcher. More words would have been unacceptable to the room. Nemo sensed this and replied simply with a nod of his head. It was not until they were through the door that he ventured to speak.

"I was hoping for a little more money." Nemo spoke with a tone of jest, but he was serious enough in his need.

"You can always sign the invasive surgery waver," the white-coat replied, holding a clip board and pen out to Nemo in grotesque hope.

"No," Nemo's good humour dropped. "Thank you."

"You should know we are aware you have broken your non-disclosure agreement." The researcher was stern and Nemo tensed. "I trust you were ridiculed by your friends." Nemo nodded.

"Mmm," was the white-coat's response. "Nevertheless, don't let it happen again." Nemo nodded, shaken by the man's clairvoyance. He was led through a corridor that had more shape than the waiting room only in that it was long; a fact made evident by the end, which was clearly visible as the only place he had seen so far in the entire institute which could be said to contain. And what it contained was harrowing. The fact that what he saw ahead was all he had opportunity to focus on only intensified Nemo's reaction.

It was another chair; not a waiting chair, but a doing a chair. It was a chair that interfered with people, via myriad instruments and indicators around its periphery, in a way that those being interfered with might not wholly appreciate. The crowning piece of the collection lay at the top of the chair. It fitted over the head and this was done for Nemo by a nurse or assistant who stood by the chair as he was sat down. The apparatus enclosed the dome of his skull and down to his eyes. A mask was fitted after the helmet and Nemo heard a tell-tale hiss of gas. Instinctively, blind to what went on around him, he began to listen with greater concentration.

"OK," the white-coat said. "Ready to begin the first elimination." Nemo panicked at the word. He tried to struggle away from the chair but found his limbs sluggish and, a moment later, restrained. His mind fogged, the voices around him trailed off into silence and he was left alone with himself and his dreams.

4.

Nemo jumped at the image in the mirror before him. The sight was no more or less grotesque than it had been the preceding morning, yet somehow, the look of himself, pale and dark eyed, chilled his nerves to ice. A second later he had shaken it off, ascribing it to his being disorientated from the procedure at The Institute, whatever that might have been. The procedure! Nemo's addled brain slowly reconstructed a memory of the previous day; the waiting room, the operating chair, the helmet, the mask. His hands went to his head and ran through his hair and down his face. There were no signs of any surgery, at least, none that he could find. Perhaps they had kept their word. Nemo decided to afford them the benefit of the doubt. He stared once more at his haggard reflection.

"What happened to you?" he asked of himself. Breakfast was called for before Nemo could feel fully himself again. He moved to his kitchen drawer in a swift, well-practiced motion and, before his feet were together, the drawer was laid bare, as it was. Conducting his habitual about face, instinct took his hand and its pointed finger to the whiteboard. He saw the word, 'DOME', and paused. Thoughts formed in his mind, they flowed and shaped and moved, placing his hand back beside him and his phone into it. He saw the cute, little, green '£' symbol flashing in the corner and smiled. He had credit - he had money. They had indeed kept their word. Nemo's thoughts moved beyond his depressing student cell and to a cosy cafe where he might get a well-cooked breakfast, a hot cup of tea, a real meal; that would, without doubt, bring him back to himself.

Agitated by his new found wealth, Nemo rushed to dress (how he had become undressed he could not recall) and scrambled to find his disc-key (how the door had become locked, for he never did so himself, was a mystery) eager to forage his way to hot food. He was delayed only by a memory of the warning the white-coat had given him before the procedure. Mindful of putting his income at risk, not wishing to live off porridge oats for the rest of his life, he took his palm and swept it down the length of the whiteboard. Nemo's list became an illegible red outline on a field of white, another wipe and it was gone, deleted, irrecoverable.

If an English man's home is his castle, then the local cafe must be the finest restaurant the world has to offer. This was as true for Nemo as it was for anyone. He knew every item on the menu, was aware of any change, could walk through the place blind; it was as much a part of him as the possessions we hoard, and yet...

"What can I get you?" The waitress had a pleasant smile and spoke well, clearly. The words, their form and their function, shaped perfectly in Nemo's understanding, and yet...

"Sorry," he offered to the poor girl standing over him, signs of nerves beginning to show. "I'm tired."

The waitress gave him an understanding smile and leaned over him. He felt the soft touch of her arm against his as she steadied herself on the table and wanted desperately to touch her.

"The all-day breakfast is good," the waitress suggested. Nemo could picture the food in his mind, he could almost smell it, almost taste it, feel the warmth and the fullness, and yet...

"The all-day breakfast?" he muttered, mostly to himself.

"Okay." The waitress made a scribble on her pad and wondered off towards the kitchen, his meal was on its way and yet... Nemo shook off the occurrence as some side effect of the procedure and chose to congratulate himself on finding an income enough to feed him well, rather than dwell on such a pointless thing as an expectedly foggy mind. _He_ chose this, he _did_ choose, he was certain. And that settled it.

****

That evening, Nemo found himself elsewhere. Eva slid Nemo's pint across to him and stared towards him with a look of faux concern.

"You okay, Neem?" she asked with a smirk. "You look out of it."

"Yeah." Nemo offered up the monosyllable entirely unconvincingly.

"Still got money troubles, huh?"

"Yeah." His answer came slowly. His mind took the suggestion, handed it around his scattered memories and came up once more with the warning he had received and the fear of losing his supply line. They all overlapped neatly.

"Woody was right, huh? All bullshit."

"Yeah." Nemo was now committed to the lie.

"Shit, Neem. You must be ill," Eva exclaimed at him. "I thought you hated to be proved wrong." He had to think about this, again shuffling through his memories, looking for an adequate response. "What is it you always say?" Eve asked, the gentle mockery still present in her tone.

"No one's perfect." The question had spurred his mind towards the response and his first polysyllable of the evening.

"Mmm, might want to change that one," she jested. Nemo stared down at his pint. "Oh, come on Neem, cheer up and drink your pint." Nemo beamed a large, toothy smile at Eva, took his drink in hand and tilted it straight down his throat. He smacked the empty glass down hard and brought his face back up towards Eva's. His smile hadn't broken once throughout the machismatic motion.

"Another please!"

****

Nothing swept in around Nemo. The chair had been painted the same colour as the walls in an attempt, Nemo was certain, to disorient him. And it did. Nemo felt as though he were floating in space, just him, alone, in an endless fog of oblivion. Just him and the hands floating before him. No, wait. Just him. Those were his hands; yes; were they? He moved his fingers, the fingers moved. It was his hand. Left fingers; yes, his fingers. Right fingers; those too, both his hands. There they were so there he was, still here, still real, not nothing, something, someone. Nemo's head swam. He felt dizziness overcome him. This, and a sharp pain that suddenly shot up from the base of his spine to his neck, caused him to hold on tight to the chair. He felt as though he might fall away from himself. He could see his body tumbling away from him into the void and he shut his eyes tight in defiance of the terrifying vision. Nemo remained this way until his attention was taken by the sound of the door being pulled. Nemo lifted his eyelids to see the open doorway, stretched out in the horizontal instead of the vertical, and the researcher entering the room walking along half way up the wall and at right angles to it, casually disregarding all sensible physical laws.

"Get up!" was barked at Nemo. He couldn't tell if it was the same white-coat he had encountered during his first procedure. He could barely tell if he had the same skin colour, he was so disorientated by the waiting room. It took several moments for Nemo to even realise that the man before him was not some kind of magician and that, in reality, Nemo's chair had toppled over while he was sat on it, and he was now lying on his back looking up at where a ceiling would be in any ordinary place.

"Come on," the white-coat repeated. "Get up!" Nemo struggled to his feet and was led roughly down the corridor. As they went, he was assaulted by a barrage of what to Nemo appeared to be entirely irrelevant questions.

"Favourite colour?" he was asked.

"Err, I, Blue?" he stumbled in response.

"Flavour?"

"Chocolate? Why? What's this all..?"

"Where do you stand on the Truro scandal?" the white-coat cut in.

"Jesus!" Nemo exclaimed. "I don't know! Where do you stand on it?"

"Ok," the man scribbled something on his note-pad tablet. "Sit down please."

As Nemo drifted off into a dreamless sleep, he fancied he caught the edge of a conversation beyond the blackness of the mask before him.

"Progress is a little slower than we hoped. We're only seeing physical disorientation; some small signs of loss of opinion. This time we'll go for one hund..."

3.

Nemo struggled hard against the depressing truth displayed before him by the humble piece of silvered glass hanging from his wall. Finally, and with little conviction, he let out a weak little squawk.

"Still handsome..?"

"Not really mate. You look like shit!"

Who had said that? Nemo spun round in shock, finding no one in his apartment. No one. Just himself. Nemo. Of course, no one had said that. No one but Nemo. He had said it himself, in reply to what had come before it. So who had said that then? Nemo again? Of course it was, it must have been himself. It could have been no one else. You're talking to yourself, Nemo thought. Or, did he hear it? Did he just say that out loud, or did someone else say it to him? He turned his gaze about the room again, more thorough this time, trying to seek out by sight alone any place a trickster might hide. No one, still. Nemo shook his head hard and turned back to his reflection. There was no doubting it looked like him, it moved when he moved, it spoke when he spoke. Yet still, Nemo felt very little sense of ownership of the thing. Intellectually, he could see that it was himself, but it did not feel like himself. It felt much more to Nemo like he was being mocked; like there was someone wearing his face, stood behind a window inside an identical copy of his flat, mirroring his every move, mimicking his every word, like some childhood prank. The more he watched, the more infuriated he got at this immature mockery. He tried to tear his eyes away, but found he had some primal need to know if this imposter was still keeping up his charade even when his back was turned. Finally, something inside Nemo snapped. He grabbed the nearest object, a half full tea cup, and hurled it towards the mirror, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Stop it!"

He barely cracked the glass, the tea cup taking the brunt of the force, shattering and spreading tea and porcelain to every corner of his room. Nemo looked around him at the destruction he had rained down on an innocent piece of crockery and tittered gently to himself.

"You're bloody losing it, Neem!" he said to himself.

"No shit!" he replied.

****

Nemo sat at the campus cafe table, picking at the fried chicken he didn't really order staring across at the friends opposite him. Woody and Eva were locked deep into each other's horns in a debate over the Truro scandal. Nemo could tell from the extravagant motions of Woody's hands and the deep furrows across Eva's brow that they were arguing, but these were his only clues, as the words they used washed over him and into the room beyond, bouncing off the ceiling, walls and floor before uselessly dissipating into the wind. Nemo didn't really hear any one of them.

"Neeeem?" Nemo focussed on Eva's face to find she was addressing him directly, he had no idea for how long. "Earth calling Nemo?" She waved her hand in front of his face.

"Yeah, right," Nemo said, not really knowing why.

"It's not really a yes or no question, Neem," Woody explained to him slowly.

"Isn't it?" Nemo asked. He had genuinely not been sure. Woody and Eva both rolled their eyes at Nemo, although he hadn't a clue as to why.

"Nemo is disqualified on account of being a smart arse," Eva declared.

"At least I've got one smart part," Nemo sneered in response.

"Woah, that was a bit harsh!" Nemo jumped at the reprimand, which had appeared to him to come from nowhere. No, from him. Nemo had scolded... himself? He felt shame at his own words, so cruel that they had appalled his own sentiment. "You're right. Sorry Eva." Eva and Woody stared at Nemo, confused.

"Are you OK?" Woody asked. Nemo gave nothing but a blank stare in response. He shrugged and looked from one to the other. He had no idea what was expected of him. His mind raced to try and comprehend the situation, but he could find no parallels. Finally, he fell back on what he was taught, so many years ago; the basic lessons of life, drilled into us from before we can speak.

"I said I was sorry," came his childish whine.

"Oh, he's fine," Eva explained. "He just doesn't want to admit we've got him beat on this one! Come on, let's get to class." Eva and Woody stood to leave and Nemo instinctively followed suit. Eva glanced around as she left and her vision fell on three men in suits sat in the corner. They appeared to be staring at her but not, looking into her, through her, but not seeing her. Her skin crawled. "What's with the suits?" she asked Woody.

"I don't know," Woody replied. "Conference maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe."

It wasn't until the gang arrived outside the lecture theatre that Woody spoke up again.

"What are you doing, Neem?" he asked.

"Let's get to class." He said the words, but there was something about them that threw Woody off, unnerved him. They sounded hollow, as though they were just white noise, random sounds, and not actually a constructed sentence. It was like talking to some mimicking bird.

"You don't go to this class, Neem," Woody said.

"I don't go to this class," Nemo repeated and smiled.

"Off you go then," Woody suggested.

"Right!" Nemo marched off towards he knew not where.

Nemo wandered for almost half an hour before he finally came to a standstill in the middle of a campus courtyard. He had no idea where he was going, or why he had come here. Growing desperate, he tried to force some form of a plan of action into his mind, some memory as to why he was where he was, some decision as to where it was he wanted to be. Nothing appeared. His consciousness sucked hard on an empty void, trying to bring forth a notion of Nemo, and no one came. Nemo fell down onto his knees in the middle of the courtyard and began to weep.

****

The chair was gone. This time it really was just Nemo and nothing, nothing and Nemo. For a while, Nemo stood still, looking around at the nothing over here, the nothing over there. He moved his hands around in the nothing and felt no attachment, not to them or anything else, as they glided effortlessly through space. Soon, he began pacing, walking in long, slow circles around the wall, his arms out stretched, feeling for the edge of the nothing, and finding nothing. He lost his footing; he had no idea where his feet were, particularly in relation to a floor he could not make out as distinct from the roof above him or the walls around him. Now he crawled around on all fours, animal like, trotting, rubbing his nose against the floor, scratching with his nails, looking for anything else to be with, looking for any reason to be.

"Get up!" Nemo hadn't noticed the man enter the room and now, frightened, he scampered to the other end of nowhere. Somewhere, from the back of his mind, he found a fragment of an idea.

"I.." he stammered. "I think I have enough money now. Can we stop?"

The white-coat sighed and walked over to Nemo. "You want to get up." It was a statement, not a question. Nemo nodded to himself and rose. "You'll come through to the theatre."

Nemo did it, without fear or hesitation.

"Would you like to put on the mask?" he was asked of by an assistant. Nemo looked confused, as though he couldn't decide.

"We've moved on now. Nothing in the form of a question please." The assistant nodded at the remonstrance.

"Put the mask on," came the second attempt.

"No!" the researcher said, losing his patience. "Tell him he will, like this." The white-coat leaned into Nemo. "You'll put the mask on now." Nemo nodded - of course he would, what else would he do? - and he put the mask on. The gas flooded in.

"Shouldn't be too many more," the white-coat said and then vanished, along with everything else in Nemo's world.

2.

Nemo sat in his tiny flat watching an internet clip of a medical lecture. On the screen of his table-top he saw a woman take a scalpel and slice into the wrist of a living patient to reveal the muscles, tendons and ligaments beneath, each one being pointed out in turn and described in great detail. As she talked, Nemo took notes, occasionally looking down at the wrist of the hand that was writing and picturing the stringy sinews that lay in waiting just beneath the flesh, the cells all working in unison to move about the machinery that caused the pen in front of Nemo to scribble down exactly what it was that they were doing. The perfect self-reference.

Nemo had no reason to watch the clip, it just happened to be available and so he was watching it. He equally had no reason to take notes on what he saw, that was just what he did when someone was trying to teach him, which this woman was clearly trying to do, so that was what he did. He didn't really understand a word of what he wrote, and yet on his hand went, on the muscles spasmed and on the letters were drawn. And Nemo himself was entirely removed from the process. It was more like he was painting abstract markings, or scrawling meaningless doodles across the page than truly writing. The meanings of the letter strings that he spun did not pass through or into his mind once; he merely wrote what he was told to write, hypnotised, tranced.

"Here, we see the Hypothenar muscles," the woman on the video talked on and on those words went to the page - 'Hypothenar muscles' - in no particular place and for no particular reason. "Now, we'll continue the incision along the palm and up the centre of the wrist to expose the Ulnar artery."

Nemo took up a knife that happened to be lying on the table next to him and calmly placed its point against the centre of his palm. Just as had been suggested by the video, Nemo applied only a small amount of pressure on the knife to make the flesh give way before running the point of the blade inexpertly up his wrist, slicing the artery he sought, as well as several other blood vessels and every nerve that lay along the knife's path. Nemo screamed and dropped the tool. He clutched the wrist to his chest, cradling the wounded limb limply. He wept as his blood began to pool on the floor and, as the realisation of what he had done dawned on his barely conscious mind, he let out a wail, an animal-like and primal scream, a call for attention, for help, for life.

Nemo's blank mind panicked, no plans or ideas taking form, and he ran to he knew not where. He kept a tight hold of the wound on his wrist now pouring with blood as his heart pumped harder and faster with every raced footfall. His brain defaulted to the single idea that had master hold over his world, and had done since that first procedure - DOME.

Nemo ran hard to The Institute, trailing a crimson bread-crumb line behind him. The front entrance, locked and reinforced - a paragon of paranoia - barely quivered as Nemo forced himself headlong into it at full pelt, before ricocheting off and into the pavement before it. Security appeared from around every side of the building, from doors that weren't there before the guards had exuded from them, and were not there again once they closed behind them. Words were spoken into walkie-talkies and orders were given out between the troops.

Presently, a man appeared from the main entrance, a man in a white coat who, not so long ago, Nemo might have recognised.

"Oh dear," the white-coat said. "We are in a state aren't we? Never mind. You're going to get up now and go inside where we can fix you right up again."

Sluggishly, and only after the suggestion had been repeated a number of times, Nemo raised himself up and staggered into the great chrome, glass and concrete dome of The Institute.

****

Nemo's broken body lay on the floor of the waiting room, or maybe the wall, or maybe the ceiling, it was all the same to him. The bandaged arm lay stretched out from the core of the body, a failing attempt at reducing the pain it caused. Nemo was not kept long this time around. The room had done its work, what was left of the man just staring into the void ahead of him, not seeing, barely being, absorbed into the emptiness forever. The white-coat said nothing when he entered the room, no order, no suggestion; he simply lifted Nemo up under his arms and dragged him out and into the operating theatre. The researcher threw the body onto the chair and strapped the helmet and mask down.

"This should be the last one," he stated as he began to crank up the workings of the device.

"Is it really necessary," a research assistant protested. "I mean, look at him, there's nothing left in there!"

"We have to be sure he's completely clean. One more procedure and continued observation in the field, just as we agreed." The response was cold and direct. There was no arguing the point, and yet, the assistant felt the need to try.

"Oh come on. Can't we at least forego the field? He injured himself last time, next time it might be someone else."

"Listen," the white-coat's tone had changed to something approaching soft, but never quite reaching it. "We have to be sure. The consequences of attempting a full transfer on an even partially conscious mind scarcely bare thinking about. We have to know he's completely clean!"

The assistant nodded glumly and checked the straps arresting Nemo's limbs. Throughout the conversation, Nemo had sat without a sound, without a move. There wasn't a word that had fallen into his understanding. As the gas poured slowly into the mask and into Nemo's lungs, they affected little change on the man himself. Motions that would not have been achieved, words that would not be heard now could not be, sights that would not be seen were shielded from view as his eye lids closed under the narcoleptic effect of the chemical. Nemo went into nothing as nothing clouded into Nemo. The waiting room filled his every inch of his being, until all that was left was an empty, shapeless void.

1.

"How long has it been?" Eva asked. She was nervously biting at her nails and taking tiny, airy sips from her tea with a shaky hand. Woody, by contrast, appeared somewhat less than perturbed, or even interested.

"Since what?" he replied. He knew full well what Eva had meant, yet he had a notion of being obtuse about it. To Woody, this was nothing.

"Since either of us saw him, Woody!" And there it was. Woody had given up on convincing Eva to stop worrying about Nemo. The man was a loose cannon, and Woody wanted both himself and his friend as far from him as possible when he finally went off.

"Jesus, I don't know, Eva. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

Eva slammed down her tea mug in frustration, never one to hide her feelings for the sake of others, particularly when those others were the cause of her annoyance.

"I can't believe you're being such a fucking arse about this!" Swearing was not normally in her character, but her own concern was acute, even more so in the face of Woody's flippancy.

"Look," Woody responded. "He'll be fine. He's the arse here, not me! Neem's always doing things like this. He's gone on a bender and he's sleeping it off. He'll be up and about and pissing us off before you know it."

"Maybe," Eva admitted. "But maybe not! He's our friend, Woody. We should..." she did not manage to finish before Woody cut her off.

"Is he? Seems to me the only person that matters to Nemo is Nemo!" Eva did not answer. She shot him her strongest, piercing gaze and stormed off.

****

Rat-a-tat-tat. The knock was left unanswered and so was, naturally, repeated, and repeated again before Eva finally decided to let herself in. Nemo's door was unlocked, as she had known it would be; this was as expected. Equally little surprise was afforded Eva when she discovered Nemo spread eagle on the floor. His having been absent for the last couple of days, Eva's suspicions had been that he was likely quite the worse for wears. She might have congratulated herself on her excellence of forethought; however, all was not quite how she might have imagined it to be.

Nemo's face, his hands, his clothes, were all covered in blood. Not his own, nor any human's blood. In his hands were what desiccated remains they could hold of a raw rump steak, the rest being greedily masticated between his snarling jaws. At the noise of the door opening and Eva gasping sharply at the sight before her, the feeding stopped and cowering began. The meat was drawn close to his chest, his legs came into his body as they scurried him away from the sudden disturbance of his feast with quick, little movements of his feet. Eva felt chills run through every muscle in her body. She had a feeling, immediate, intuitive, that Nemo was not in there, that he wasn't him any more, that he couldn't even be called human. It was a concept that seemed too unreal for her to accept, that something (what?!) might have taken away her friend and left behind something (what?!) empty and hollow, in his place.

Eva approached the fearful creature that was once her friend and held her hand out stretched to it in comfort. There was a scent that drifted from Eva to Nemo, a sense of a presence that was nearing him, and, with this, there was the rise of a need which that scent had triggered. Nemo's arm shot out and grabbed tightly onto Eva's. She flinched at first, but she trusted her friend and prayed silently that there was still something of him inside there; that, whatever he had done to himself, Nemo had not been destroyed entirely. The grasping arm pulled Eva's closer to Nemo's face, his nose picked up that same scent, causing his lungs to inhale deeply, his pupils to dilate and his heart to pound.

"That's right," Eva said, in ignorance of what she should do. "It's me, Eva, your friend. Christ, Neem, what have you done to yourself?"

The nose sniffed harder and the eyes grew wider. Without warning, the legs coiled underneath the body beneath Eva, sprang away and soon Eva was pinned under a heaving mass of limbs that tore at her clothes and groped at her skin. She struggled against Nemo's grip, but the sheer brutish violence of it over powered her. She was in shock. Surely there was nothing of her old friend in the monster that writhed on top of her now. She felt he had become erect as his body pushed against her and she knew what was coming next. The hands groped around beneath her, searching for a way in. Eva did her best to knock them away or squeeze tightly shut any opening that she might have given Nemo to advance his gruesome desires. There was a struggle between forethought and single minded determinism, agency and instinct, which balanced against each other, Nemo's body desperate for satisfaction, and Eva's soul riling against it. Eva found the advantage, however, being able to possess both the bloody mindedness of the brute and the ingenuity of the human. Summoning every bit a strength she had, she managed to struggle one arm free and, sacrificing the immediate advantage for the final victory, allowed Nemo's hands to tear away her underwear from beneath her skirt so that she might reach out a vital last inch and take hold of the stainless steel kettle on the table above her.

Eva brought the appliance down again and again onto Nemo's slavering head, until he was insensible enough that she might make her escape. She thought for a moment of retrieving her panties from the clutches of whatever it was that was pulsating from agony on the floor beside her - certainly not the man she knew - but doubted the wisdom of remaining and opted instead to make good her escape. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to get the door open. Only now that the immediate threat had subsided did Eva allow herself to realise the situation enough to let out a scream and sob, but she didn't cry out of fear. She cried out of despair, for her friend, reduced to such a terrible state, for herself, suffered to endure such a harrowing encounter, for Woody, for how he would feel when he found out about Nemo. Finally, Eva managed to turn the door knob and pull the door towards her, but the remains of her friend were stirring once more and Nemo's arms were again grasping for Eva. Now she screamed out of fear, but found solace in what she saw as she stretched her head out into the corridor of the accommodation block.

"Woody!" she shouted. When he saw her, and the panic in her eyes, Woody began to jog down the hallway, and then sprint. As he got to the door, he had wanted to explain to her that she was right, that they were friends and that they should look out for one another. He would have wanted a great many things indeed rather than what he found. Woody saw the scratches on Eva's arms, the blood on Nemo's hands, the wild look in Nemo's eyes, the torn pair of knickers between Nemo's fingers and was enraged.

"Damn you!" he yelled towards his friend. He had been right all along; the man wasn't worth the oxygen he breathed.

A new entity approached Nemo, and the reaction to this stimulus was of a nature entirely separate to the scent that had set off the first assault. Threat, danger, and the body's intense need not to perish were all that were in play with this new development. As Woody reached out to grab Nemo, Nemo's arms flailed widely, striking at Woody's right arm, face, and left arm as each in turn was offered for attack. Woody had been expecting the lusty advances of an intoxicated man to have to chase out of the door, instead he faced the unbridled rage of a wild animal, and he had not come prepared. He was quickly overcome by the ferocity of the attack and within seconds, before Eva could comprehend what was happening, still caught in the fantasy of rescue that quickly fell apart around her, the kettle that she had left lying beside Nemo was raised and lowered, quickly, savagely, until her saviour lay beaten to a dying, bloody pulp.

"Woody!" Eva cut loose her self-control, the anchor that had held her down and refused to allow her the freedom to power ahead into the only kind of darkness that might help her to survive this terrible ordeal. She was smart, so she was fast. In less than a heartbeat she had a large, sharp kitchen knife in her hand and, in what seemed no time at all, the knife was out of it again and lodged deeply in Nemo's right leg. Nemo's throat wailed something that almost approached a word, a long drawn out STOP! Or maybe Eva had just processed it that way, desperate to believe that something of her friend remained with her. Perhaps it was that very same futile hope that had caused her to aim for a leg, rather than for his heart or neck.

Nemo's fists grasped at the knife, but shock and blood loss made the fingers loose and useless. Eva got there first and this time she sliced at his face, cutting him from the cheek, up and across the bridge of his nose. This was enough for Nemo. The one strong leg sprang and catapulted Nemo's broken mess of flesh out and into the corridor. Eva listened as the sounds of the pound-thump, pound-thump of good leg dragging bad at great speed fled away and down the staircase of the building's fire escape route. She collapsed to the floor and slid across to the corpse of her friend, taking his head into her hands and cradling it in her lap. She had stopped crying now, stopped for good. She ran her fingers through Woody's bloody scalp and waited for campus security. And when they arrived, and asked her what had happened, she would tell them she had survived.

0.

Nemo's apartment block could be accessed via two, orthogonal pathways. Each was as long as the other, each as direct and unobstructed. Despite this, as fast as the security officer pelted down the one, he could not keep up with the impossibly leisurely stroll of the three men in smart black suits and hats down the other. Without a look, nor a word passed between them, one of these men peeled off from the group and placed himself directly in the path of the guard. The officer knew too well what this meant. His services were neither desired nor required, and he might go about whatever business he had elsewhere. He also knew it more than likely meant unwell for some poor kid up in his block, and kicked the dust at his feet in frustration, before buckling in two at the waist, his hands on his knees, panting much needed oxygen back into his brain. The suit just stood there and watched.

The remaining two of the trio reached Nemo's apartment and, swinging the door open with the surety of authority, discovered Eva as she had remained, cradling the corpse of her friend which released a pungent cocktail of blood-iron and human sewage. Eva found herself prepared for questions that never came. The suits merely glanced at each other.

"Gone," the one said, not taller or shorter, nor fatter or thinner than the other. Eva assumed that they meant Nemo and nodded slightly. The suits did not see it. The second took his leave of the situation and made his way down the corridor, on the scent of their missing quarry.

The final official moved over to Eva. There was something about him, some deep sense of foreboding that seeped out of his every pore, a lifelessness behind the eyes and yet, at the same time, a clear look of great intelligence, that plucked on every string of self-preservation in Eva's soul. She tried to crawl away, but felt mesmerized, perhaps in part by the surreality of all that had befallen her in the past hour, but more honestly by the chilling stare of the pale face that looked, unblinkingly, down on her. The suit put out his hands and took hold of Eva, one hand on the back of her neck, the other cupped over her mouth and nose. She struggled against him, punched, kicked and flailed. The man didn't move, didn't flinch, he simply waited patiently for life to leave Eva's body. Gradually, her struggles weakened, subdued, and stopped. She took a moment, as oxygen deprived euphoria waved in unfocussed patches before her, to wonder if there were any human beings left in the world, and died.

When the security guard finally gathered enough air into his lungs to lift his head, he found the suit that had blocked his path had vanished into the ether from which he had appeared. A few more deep breaths gave the man the strength to raise himself back to full height and begin a gentle jog towards the entrance of the block. His progress was arrested, however, by a number of gasps and murmurs that floated through the air to land gently on the periphery of his consciousness. The officer might have ignored them normally, but any encounter with one of those suits always left him hyper aware of his surroundings, or perhaps simply instilled 'the fear' in him, paranoia ruling over his threatened mind. Whatever the case, he chose to stop and turn towards this new disturbance, and found a number of people gesturing towards the roof top, open mouthed. The officer did not want to look up, but he had no choice; he must know what they had seen. His worst fears were confirmed when he saw two figures leaning over the precipice that was the building's edge. He had barely time to take in the sight before the bodies fell towards him. He lowered his head and pushed his body against the wall tightly, closing his eyes shut as the thudding sounds of flesh on concrete resonated around the quad behind him, causing him to empty his stomach. Had he seen someone? Was there a suit holding them before they'd jumped? Before they'd been pushed? The man's mind raced. He tried to recall. He'd been so sure that he hadn't seen – no, that he had seen – had he? No, he was certain he'd seen no one else. They had jumped, senselessly to their deaths. The guard glanced over to the bodies, looking for confirmation for his confused thoughts. Their injuries, were they consistent with a fall? They were consistent with a fall, but he thought he had seen. No, he knew he had seen nothing. They were consistent with a fall. They had fallen, jumped. A suicide, he was certain. The gaze of the suit, watching from the roof, fell off the security guard as he slinked away into shadows that weren't there.

The suit pursuing Nemo stood stationary at the very centre of the university campus. He allowed the students to move around him, listening intently but not with his ears. This man listened to a deeper sound that resonated through the waves of words that ordinary people heard. He heard what people thought they knew, and heard it well. This girl knew that the girl she had seen jogging awkwardly away from the campus lake was soon going to vomit. This boy had known that the remains of the squirrel he had seen had been decimated by a fox. This woman had known that the sounds she had heard around the wooded land by the lake had not been made by anyone's dog, no matter what her friend had said and this man knew that he was going to have to have words with the grounds keeper about keeping vermin off the premises. The suit made no hesitation in heading for the lake.

A trail of presumed knowledge led the suit to the densest patch of woodland the lakeside supported, a patch of evergreens that, at their thickest, permitted no light to pass to the near barren soil below and were surrounded by thick rhododendron bushes in full bloom. A great deal of the flowers had been disturbed, their petals covering the ground, a number of which had settled and stuck to the remains of a squirrel that had been prey to some hideousness within, its blood soaking into the pink of the petals to create some new and terrible breed. The suit stood before the bushes. He knew this was where he would find his quarry but, however deeply he reached out with his thoughts, he found nothing within. The man began beating with his gloved hands at the fauna before him until a rustling sound from within made him desist. He waited. It came again. He waited still. A flash of blood soaked flesh sprang towards the suit, easily knocking him to the ground, stunning the man physically, but his mind remained sharp. He listened with his thoughts which still echoed back a silence from within the wreck of a human being that had assaulted him. Indeed, not just with silence was the suit's hail met, but absence, a hole in the universe, nothing where there should rightly be something, no one where someone should reside. The suit soon realised his folly and resorted to a more conventional means of tracking, listening with his ears for the sounds of rabid snarling. Finally, the suit's dead stare came to life, his eyes flicking around until they fixed Nemo's form galloping away in a semi-mad fashion. The suit righted himself, and followed.

Nemo's legs pushed hard and wild against the floor, with nothing but fear and instinct controlling them. It looked as though a toddler had been given a full grown body to run in and was making as poor a job of it as might be expected. More than once, the fore limbs were used as legs might be, righting and supporting the wobbling mass. A second suit, re-joining his companion, caught sight of the maddening thing, this once-human, and fixed it with his stare. A thought began to ease its way into Nemo's mind. An idea to slow, an idea to stop running and rest. The legs railed against the idea and began to force Nemo's body in another direction. Immediately, Nemo was faced with another suit, approaching from the opposite direction, a third looked on from across the lake. The idea in Nemo's mind, pushed into it in a three-pronged attack, grew stronger, louder and gradually it managed to work down into his limbs. Nemo stopped running and began walking towards a bench by the edge of the lake. Two of the suits moved in with him. A new idea came into Nemo's mind, to sit and be still. He did this. The two suits sat either side of him. Bit by bit, and piece by piece, they relinquished their hold on Nemo's now blank mind, whatever instinct that had been left within him having been destroyed by this final encounter with the force of will. A single raindrop fell into the lake. The suits sighed as the droplet was absorbed into the unfeeling body of the lake, then they lifted Nemo's empty shell and carried him away.

5.

"Seriously?" The girl glared incredulously at her friend who gave a slight chuckle in response which in no way served to bolster his credibility.

"Seriously," the boy continued his tall tale. "You let them cut into your brain and they give you a whole bunch of cash." A third member of the party arrived at the table and handed out a round of drinks.

"He's not still on this is he?" the new guy asked.

"It's true. One guy got cut up so bad he turned into some sort of animal. They say they took out like, sixty percent of his brain!"

"Yeah, OK," the girl mocked. "Did he have a name, this mythical beast-man?"

"Nero! And you can look that up in the Uni records if you don't believe me!"

"It's bullshit," said the man with the drinks.

"Look, all I'm saying," the story teller continued. "Is that you'd have to be a pretty desperate bastard to risk it!"

The girl shuffled her hands in her pockets and drew out the few remaining coins she had left to her name, before returning them and smiling to her friends.

"Yeah, I bet!" she said. She took up her pint and quaffed it gladly, smiling once more to her friends, revelling in what life she had, poor though it was. As the friends left the bar, she tossed a document into the rubbish bin at the door, the word 'DOME' emblazoned tastelessly on the front. Not today, she thought. Not today.

***

#  World War III by Timmy Benton

The first event of the world war was clearly the detonation of the dirty bombs along the Panama canal by the United Territories of Asia in retaliation for the ban on trade. The Canal then became so radiated irradiated there was no choice but to abandon the largest trade route known to the world **;** including Costa Rica and Panama itself **. (full stop)**

The world had no choice but to turn to the northern equivalent, **.** The the Northwest Passage, but it was smaller and shallower meaning that for it to be an effective trade route it would have to be dug out as the Panama Canal was to begin with. (new sentence) but But with the economy of the Northern American states being as so bad that they didn't have the millions required for such an undertaking. Taxes were raised which started the Mad March Riots when it was discovered that the taxes were raised but the top one percent of the country weren't even paying tax while the lower classes were being taxed into starvation.

When this happened the UTA took the opportunity of the problems escalating in the USA and declared all out war. With there **their** troops spread thin they reached out to the only super power left that could oppose the United Territories of Asia and that was Russia. With its influence running through Siberia and Scandinavia soon the entire northern territories were united against the UTA. Tension rose and finally on the 23 of October 2120 when America pre-empted a strike on the country formerly known as Hong Kong **. (full stop)** The battle was totally fought with drones but it left a deep scar in the land mass. Most was man made **man-made** and by the third day of fighting it was totally levelled.

Unfortunately the UN doubted the USA's intentions were honourable and their actions were called into question. It turned out that a rather large munition storage had been kept secret in the former Hong King and it was brought to the USA's attention and on **On** further inspection **,** as well as **a** few anonymous tips as to the natural **nature** of previous dealings between the UTA and USA **,** it was found that the US had in fact supplied the United Territory of Asia with the radioactive material they used in the dirty bomb **. (new sentence) It** it seemed that the Us in fact encouraged the attack on the canal in an attempt to justify raising taxes. It came to light that after the US took over the northern country of Canada in an attempt to secure both northern and southern trade routes they spread themselves too thin to adequately police the vast continent.

There was a shift in people's opinions and soon America and Russia were fighting against the Arab Emirates as well as the UTA **. (full stop)**

In an age when technology made the world accessible at the touch of a button it nearly tore it apart when the internet was taken down and people relied on other forms of communication. But in a world where instant communication had been a staple for nearly over a century people found it hard to adapt. A lot of business that was purely online failed and the world was thrown into **the worst** recession since the Great Depression and 2017.

Out of it came some good **; (semi-colon)** fossil fuels were long used up but there was **were** plenty of useful items that went to waste **.** Plastics were now widely recycled. Devices became more integrated in to **into** the owners' subliminally subcutaneously making the new **need** for hard plastics obsolete. The new wireless connections were faster and capable of major shifts of information. The result was an impressive when use coupled with military intelligence more **. More** research was put into the development of remote controlled weaponry and soon the USA was able to attend battles with out **without** the use of drones.

Later the technology was attached to freight ships making the Panama Canal still usable to some extent but there was a lot of uproar as it was seen more as a mass grave site than a usable trade route.

With trade routes up and working and unmanned military vehicles widely used in their borders **,** soon the USA was able to start to recover. With recycling the main source of acquisition it wasn't long before the USA war reaching out to former dumping sites to find plastics and metals to fill the demand. But the twist of fate was in the past for **. For** generations the USA had been shipping out their useless technology and plastic and metal items to such places that now made up the UTA. For the first time in twenty years peace talks were initiated. (No! First success!) The UTA was offered the ability t use the recycling technology that was available and in return they were able to open up the trading that was closed off to them. And the The UTA demanded access to weapons and technology to make unmanned battle drones. (full stop)

The peace talks took a dramatic twist when the USA made a show of their technical prowess. Using technology from the long closed down institute Institute and adapting it thy were able to make commanders control battle equipment from a bunker by the power of their minds. they were able to remove and a large chunk of their enemies enemy's military standing in one of there boarder their border provinces. The UTA surrounded surrendered when it was reported that the four hour battle left them with 5000 dead and zero casualties on the side of the USA. Peace was officially called four days later. (full stop)

In the years after WW3 it was uncovered that the United Empire of America sold the United Territories of Asia for several billion. (What? Elephants?) This was uncovered when the UTA returned to the outlying province that war under America's protection. The ensuing battle wiped out most of the population of said province and razed the land. It is thought that a hundred percent of the casualties where were civilian farmers.

## C- See me!

***

#  Obolus Protogonos

##  John Steele

1.

Labyrinthine. That was the word for it. A tunnel that never seemed to end, darkness draping its heavy body around you and all manner of potential horrors lurking in the blackness, just out of sight. A hunched and broken man shuffled slowly through the gloom, wincing with every step. One arm hung limp by his side, stained red by thin rivers of lifeblood trickling down its length. The other swept a wan and sickly light of a torch back and forth across rusted metal rails. This was a lonely place, dark in its isolation, a strange and nebulous place suffused with an intangible bleakness. You would think that a place like this would be cold, your every step assailed by a chill made exclusively from a particularly malevolent type of knife. But it wasn't cold. The tunnels were hot and the air weighed as heavy as the darkness, thick and cloying, coiling ephemeral fingers round your throat and slowly squeezing the life out of you. Down here in the tunnels even the stained hospital gown worn by the broken man was too much clothing. It wasn't just the body which was weighed down by the realm of the tunnels, it weighed just as heavy on the mind. Untold megatons of stone and earth lay in every direction save forward and back; it waited, massive and ever present. People were never supposed to be this far underground. The very earth itself made that clear, all that weight held up by a small, thin skin of a wall. The tangible weight told you should not be here.

He stopped. Moving his torch bearing hand from its relentless sweeping he gazed at his wrist. Within the swaddling darkness he watched the luminous hands of a watch make their slow and stately progress around the dial. Then once again he began his slow and painful shuffle through the gloom. Scuffing footfalls and the steady ticking of the watch echoed down the tunnel. These were joined by the intermittent splash of dripping water. Together they rose and swirled until, far down the tunnel and a long distance from the broken man they began to sound like thunder and the sea in storm.

His feet were bare, bloody and raw, shards of grit set in the skin like diamonds, splinters from wooden sleepers jabbing into flesh like white hot needles. But still the broken man kept walking. He kept walking because he carried a fire in his heart. What other reason could there be?

V.

The point of a red plastic triangle struck the patient just above the knee cap. His lower leg jerked forward. Dropping the reflex hammer into a tray of shining stainless steel, the doctor made a few illegible notes on his chart, his face an impassive mask, like it was carved out of marble. The marble faced doctor looked at a nearby monitor full of placid, gently wiggling lines. He checked and re-affixed the electrodes that festooned the patient's head. Still the lines on the display remained flat. He made a dissatisfied sounding hiss through his teeth. A faint squeak filled the room as someone pushed the door open and entered.

"How is the test subject Doctor Wöller?" said a voice.

"Physically everything's in order, Coordinator. Reflexes, reaction to stimulus, he ticks all the boxes. It's the neurological functions that have me worried. Look at these EEG readings." Wöller gestured at the monitor. "Flat as a damn pancake. The lights are on but no one's home."

The owner of the voice drew level with the doctor. He was an elderly gentleman, grey of hair and possessing a height and frame that could only be described as spindly. If the doctor had a face like marble his visitor had a face like rotten ice: cold, treacherous, splotchy and strangely _impure_ in its lines and curves.

"It is to be expected Doctor. The procedure is tied to the body's natural circadian rhythms. Assuming each cycle holds to a twelve hour pattern, I do not expect any activity for another..." he checked his watch. "Five hours. May I examine the test subject?"

"By all means sir."

The elderly Coordinator took a slender tool that was more of a pin-prick of light than it was a torch and flashed it across the pupils of the motionless patient. Those eyes were like a moor in the deepest throes of winter; cold, lifeless, and above all, utterly, utterly empty. The dark and desolate pupils contracted, but it was nothing more than the sighing of the wind over the bleak heath. Leaning forward, the Coordinator fixed the patient with a withering stare. An identification badge swung idly from his breast pocket, directly before the eyes of the lifeless man. There was a name printed upon this badge, a name in tight, perfect, serif font. Beside it lay a perfect, red ring. Red like a rose; like blood; like a thousand other things both good and ill.

Something stirred. The patient's brow creased in a frown. A thin, ear splitting whine came from the EEG as those placid lines spiked and stormed. Life surged through his veins, borne upon the back of fury and wrath. His hands snapped upwards and with a perverse and casual ease broke the Coordinator's forearm. Shards of bone speared proud of flesh. There was a scream. The Coordinator fell to the ground, writhing in agony. The patient did not care. For all the life he now possessed it was the life of something base and primitive. Something bestial and vengeful. He heaved the monitor from its table, electrodes pealing from his scalp. Without a second of thought he slammed it down upon the prone legs of his victim. Two tibiae shattered and cracked. It was a just sound.

Wöller stood stunned, like a rabbit caught in the twin beams of an onrushing car. But the immobility of terror is a spell easily broken. As the leaden eyes of the patient turned towards him Wöller turned and fled for the door. From the tray the patient snatched a scalpel and surged after the doctor, his pale hospital gown billowing as he ran. The terrified doctor tried to hit the alarm only to find his hand snared, his patient's fingers having grabbed hold of the chunky, bevelled, silver face of his watch. Watches are not designed to suffer such angry tension. Its butterfly clasp snapped open and Weller's hand slammed onto the alarm. Klaxons sounded and red lights strobed. This is nothing if not the purpose of alarms. For his vigilance and bravery in the face of a violent madman Wöller was rewarded by being stabbed through the offending hand with a scalpel. His screams were undignified, but pleasing.

Though the rampaging patient's mind was empty, running on an exceptionally violent auto-pilot, he knew that he could not stay here. The bestial, primal thing at the back of his dead mind was shouting. It was telling him to run. Leaving both the Coordinator and the doctor to bleed, he pushed through the doors and out into the corridor. Wherever he was, it was an empty place. White corridors were stained red by warning lights and echoed with sirens. Rounding a corner he saw two figures in white coats. Scientists? Doctors? He didn't care. Shoulder lowered he rammed past, sending them sprawling to the ground. Angry shouts followed, but not from those in the white coats, they had smelt of fear. The shouts were coming from somewhere else. A sharp crack filled the air and something whistled past the patient's ear. More shouts, more cracks. He dodged and ducked on instinct. A burning sensation blossomed in the side of his arm, followed by pain. Then came the blood. Something drove him through another set of doors. Stairs. They went down. Down was good.

At the base of the stairs there was a fire door and a rack of torches. From above there came the sound of heavy footfalls and unintelligible shouts. The sounds of pursuit. Instinct told him that he couldn't stay here long. Grabbing a torch, he forced open the door and exited into the gloom of the tunnels beyond. He ran without direction, without thought, he ran with a singular purpose: escape.

2.

Sleep had finally dragged him down. After five hours of shuffling through the tunnels, he had started to stumble. Then he'd started to sag, then to stagger. His mind had started to fog and his vision had become grey and fuzzy; indistinct, like looking at everything from the bottom of a pool of murky water. Sleep had sunk its claws into his brain like a cat on a curtain and pulled with all its might until he finally collapsed, consciousness toppling away into the black oblivion of slumber. He'd managed to stagger into what might once have been an old electrical room, he'd even managed to retain enough strength to switch off the torch before he lost himself. He sank to the floor like a stone, curling up in a pile of yellowed news-sheets. The mass of clotted blood and stained cloth on the side of his arm strained and ripped free. And so he quietly bled as he slept.

It was not a restful sleep. It was the sort where you wake up feeling more exhausted than you were when you closed your eyes; as if it was only your mind that had slept, while your body still meandered about, functional but pilotless. Upon waking two things were apparent, even to the dull and empty mind of this escapee. Firstly, the wound on his arm had been cleaned and dressed with strips torn from his hospital gown. Secondly, and perhaps most disconcertingly of all, he was not in the same place that he had fallen asleep. The place he now found himself in was a tiny nook behind a brace of cold, dead pipework. He checked the watch. He'd been out for twelve hours. Flicking the switch in the torch he filled his little nest with its wan and sickly light. No longer shrouded in darkness he could see that something was written on the wall next to him. The letters were made in crude strokes of dark and flaking russet. As if someone had smeared the words onto the wall using blood.

"RUN

DON'T STOP

NEED TO GET AWAY

GET SAFE

UVE GOT 12 HRS

THEN U SLEEP

TRUST UR INSTINCTS"

It was succinct and to the point, but it raised awkward questions. Who had written this? Where had they come from? Where had they gone? Why were they helping him? It was a whetstone to the edge of paranoia and fear that was his being. Part of him wanted to ignore the message, to spurn whatever "help" this stranger was offering. They'd have an agenda, they'd want something, it wouldn't end well. But the primal thing that lurked in the back of his mind, the thing which had woken him and spurred him into the violence that had led to escape, that bestial fragment of sentience growled at this idea. It did not like it. Survival was the priority, if help was being offered it should be taken. A starving man would not refuse food. The primal thing forced him to his feet and set his legs in motion. It cracked its whip from the dark, hind regions of his dead brain. He did not go gladly, or willingly. He made every step reluctantly and resisted every prodding, but go he did. Back into the dark reaches of the tunnels. Back to the long, hard slog to freedom. In the dark.

IV.

"Heart rates and O2 sat. are holding steady. Requesting permission to proceed to phase two." A blue gowned doctor fussed about the two deathly still forms on the operating tables. There were only a handful of them in the theatre, one doctor per patient, the administration technician and the instrument specialist. Behind a shimmer of plated glass The Coordinator sat. He watched over it all like a god, but for all his poise and power he was a worried man. This was it. After all the Institute's work, all its dealings, law breaking and scheming, it all came down to this. He leaned forward and pressed the button on the intercom.

"Proceed." He'd wanted to say more, something a bit grander, but the words had caught in his throat. The doctor just nodded and set about the grim task ahead of him.

"Commence insertion of cerebral probes," the doctor said with a gulp. Drills whizzed and cored their way through the skull bone of the patients, thin rivulets of blood dripping from the holes. Crowns beset with metal spikes and festooned with wires were slowly manoeuvred over the fresh holes and lowered into position. Once the heads were cradled in the belly of these strange devices the spikes slid from their moorings and into the bloody cavities the drill had left behind.

"Insertion complete, passenger EEG within limits," intoned one of the doctors, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his scrubs. "Sir, we're ready to begin the transfer procedure."

The Coordinator sat quietly, behind the glass, all alone. In his hands he held a large silver coin. Held between his thumb and forefinger he slowly rotated it about its axis, the dim light of the operating theatre catching the surface as it span.

"So this is it?" he said to himself. "Will we have enough to meet the ferryman's toll? Or will we find ourselves one obol short of a drachma?" His hands went still, the coin no longer spinning. He raised it to his eyes and gazed at its surface. A coat of arms, an annulet at the centre, bearing the motto " _Quidquid Pretium._ " Vulgar, but true.

"Sir?" asked the doctor.

The Coordinator flipped the coin. It landed in his hand. Heads or tails? It didn't matter, he didn't even look at the result

"Proceed," he said, tapping the intercom once again.

"You heard him. Begin dosing of passenger, 1cc a minute."

The technician nodded in reply. A few twists of dials and a single flip of a switch and a pale yellow fluid began to snake its way along a catheter and into the passenger's wrist. Nervous seconds passed, stretching out long and empty. The doctor's eyes were fixed on the monitors, watching them intently, waiting. A smile hidden by his mask touched the corners of his eyes.

"Aaaaaand we have mind state separation. Beginning transfer." The metal crowns pulsed and glowed an eerie electric blue. Building charges arced and discharged. The passenger's EEG went dead. The doctor turned to the observation window "Transfer complete. Now we just need to wait and see if it worked." But the Coordinator had already left.

3.

The message had implied pursuit. It hadn't said it directly, but he knew that it had meant it. The quiet voices in the hinterlands of his brain whispered to him, a faint sub-audible hum swallowed by the crushing sound of the darkness. They were recommending a cautious urgency. Fast enough to get away, but slow enough so as not to exacerbate injury. His mouth was dry, too dry. It had been too long since he'd had a drink. The absence of water made his mouth taste grey. It was not a good taste. His destination remained as nebulous and intangible as ever. He wasn't lost. Being lost implied that at one point you had known where you were. Only faint tingling spurs of instinct guided him, an inclination to always head up, to avoid the branches of tunnels where he could see the rank stench of damp hanging in the air, heading towards where it smelt the least foul. Water was important, but there wasn't any down here. None at least that would be drinkable. Down here in the bowels of the earth there was only the putrescent run-off from the sick and bloated cityscape far above; the dribbles of puss from an open wound in the landscape. They'd kill him just as sure as thirst would. His desperation had not yet reached such a height.

The cone of light that guided his path suddenly exploded out into a wide disk as it hit a wall; this was the end of the tunnel. A dead end. A dead end with a ladder. Standing at the base of the ladder he looked up into the gloom. Its top was lost in the darkness of its small, vertical confines. A tunnel up. Up was always good. The smell of grit beneath his bare feet stung, but it was a good sting, it reminded him he was alive. It wouldn't be an easy climb, it would hurt, he'd have to do it in the dark. But it was either that or head back the way he came and that held its own, special risks and its own, special kinds of hells.

Turning off the torch he began his slow climb, the echoes of his slow ascent pressing tight on his skin.

III.

The man who had once been Doctor Gessner lay on an operating table, now he was just a test subject. His limbs were bound by thick straps of leather, restrained despite his state of drug induced unconsciousness. It was a precaution, The Institute was big on precautions. Gessner wasn't going anywhere soon. One of the Institute's medical staff methodically shaved the hair from his head while another studied his vitals on a series of monitors, making occasional notes on a clipboard.

The man who had doomed Gessner to this fate sat behind the observation window. His dead, grey eyes watched the ministrations of the medics; there was a look of profound detachment upon his face, as if the man strapped to the table was nothing more than a tool, or a sack of meat. Perhaps he was both. Regardless, The Coordinator couldn't help but notice the stillness. Even despite the restraints Gessner was _still_ , his breathing barely even seemed to be there. The rise and fall of the chest was sliver thin and glacially slow, so much so that you barely even noticed it happening. He didn't look peaceful, or look like he was sleeping, he didn't even look dead. He looked _beyond_ sleep, occupying a stillness that wasn't entirely real, as if he were the shape of a man hewn out of marble or ice, or crafted with great care from clay. But even though he may not _look_ dead quite yet, soon he may as well be. They were sending him into one of those grey areas. The places where things got "fuzzy."

It took a while before The Coordinator realised that the door had opened and that someone else was in the observation room with him. With them they had brought a subtle tang of sandalwood, The Coordinator knew only one man who smelt like that.

"How long have you been there Doctor Wöller?" he asked.

"Not long sir." the doctor replied.

The two men fell into an uneasy silence, both knowing that there were things to be said but both of them lost in the awkwardness of actually articulating them.

"Is this really necessary?" asked Wöller eventually. The Coordinator sat bathed in his own little world of silence before replying.

"Unfortunately yes. We didn't have time to procure a second test subject that matched our requirements. It was a necessary action."

"But did it have to be Gessner?" Wöller pleaded. "What did you think he was going to do? Start shooting people? The guy's a consummate pacifist."

"Using him will increase the chances of success. He has more experience in this than anyone else," replied The Coordinator. "And I was never worried about him showing his opposition to the plan in a physical manner. But he would have done something much, much worse than try to kill us." The Coordinator paused. "He would have _talked_ and in doing so would have wreaked so much more damage. And that, Doctor Wöller, is something I could not allow."

"When do we begin?"

"Not long now Wöller," the Coordinator sighed. "Not long at all."

4.

These tunnels were different. Gone were the wide bores of grey, faceless concrete; gone were the rails and sleepers and the myriad of sharp edged stones; gone were the faint smells of dead dust and unearthly musts. Those tunnels had been a grim perdition, to walk in them was a misery of pain and a gnawing of hope. Those tunnels felt endless; featureless; merciless; angry. These new tunnels were different. The bore was smaller and narrower; every inch of the walls was filled with neat, white tiles. Before, the light had stopped dead and been absorbed by the hungry, grey murk of the walls, whereas now torchlight danced across their surface and pirouetted down the length of the tunnel. Most noticeably of all, these tunnels were _clean_. Despite however long it had likely been since man had last set foot here there was scant little dust or grime. It was a preserved and ageless place, something neglect couldn't quite touch. But, for there was always a 'but', they were cold. The non-heat of it built and weighed you down. The old tunnels had been uncomfortable, perhaps even oppressive, in their warmth, but the cold was not a respite, it was violent and offensive. A claustrophobia built not just of stone, but of the air itself.

The tiling was reminiscent of old hospitals. Clinical, unfeeling. Their appearance indicated that he had found his way into one of the long abandoned station complexes that studded the underground. How he knew this he wasn't sure. He just did. It was one of those things that just made sense. A great many things were beginning to make more sense than they previously had. Not long before leaving the rail tunnels he had seen a rat. It was fat, grey and easily the size of a cat. He had watched it hop onto one of the rails and seen it cooked alive. Needless to say he had avoided that rail, but he had known that it was a good sign. The deep and dark extremities had been cut off from the grid long ago, but there were some parts still inexorably wired into the main network. Places near the surface, near the bigger stations. He hadn't known how he'd known it, but he had. It was a fact. It was right.

That he had made it this far he counted as no small miracle. There are limits on man and his control over the universe at large. A man is capable of only what tasks he can achieve with the resources at hand. You've got to be realistic and play with the hand you're dealt. A man can only be pushed so far and can only achieve so much, no matter how great or mighty he is. But sometimes, when the chips are down and there's nothing left to lose, you can, with a bit of blind luck, pull off something amazing. Even if your hand of cards is truly abysmal, if you can bluff hard enough and long enough you can fool the whole of creation. It is only in times of hardship that the inner qualities of people really float to the top. Only by facing hardship can you truly know what you're capable of and just how much you're willing to risk on reality not being able to see through your poker face.

His hand had been truly abysmal. By rights he knew he should probably be dead. Even a grazing bullet wound could be fatal; blood loss, sepsis, shock, gangrene; it was a long list. And yet, without any _real_ medical attention, he was still going. Though the absence of drinking water meant he was on borrowed time. He mused that this knowledge was likely a result of acute bleed-through of distinct neurological states. Something indicative of improper dosage and induction wave combinations. They had been sloppy. This made him smile. Though seconds later he no longer knew where these thoughts had come from.

The watch on his wrist told him it had been fourteen hours since he had woken up. Hadn't the message said he would only have twelve? It was a cause for concern. Possibly. The torch flickered and died, plunging him into a darkness that danced with the rainbow swirls of after-images and dying reflections.

He swore.

His mouth was thick with thirst, but it felt good to curse and mutter. Swearing was cathartic if nothing else.

Speaking, he thought. That was something he hadn't done in a while. It was a good sign. Possibly.

Lost in the darkness and without a light he was painfully aware that he was just one piece in a puzzle. A puzzle of infinite pieces; none of the pieces of this puzzle matched up properly; you've got black pieces next to white pieces, all jumbled and mixed together to form a grey soup of featureless nothingness which you have no hope of being able to interpret or understand. The big picture, the one that encompasses _everything,_ is not for mortal minds to fathom. You can think big all you damn well please but at the end of the day, big thoughts aren't going to get you out of a hole. You've just got to accept your part of something bigger and grander and more alien than yourself; something which doesn't care about you and isn't going to give you any special favours. You need to get over it and just move on with whatever the hell it is you're trying to do. He wasn't still alive because of miracles or luck. He was alive out of sheer bloody-mindedness and no trifling inconvenience like not having a torch was going to get in his way now. He was going to find his way out and the universe could just go hang.

With that in mind, he marched purposefully on, through the black. Still having no idea where he was going, but freed from the tyranny of actually having to look at it all.

II.

It was rare for the lead scientists of The Institute to be in the same room. A life on the run had made them less trusting then they used to be, paranoid by necessity. Any gathering symbolised a risk, an exposure. So many of them in one single location, even within their own stronghold, would make it all the more easy to snuff out the last flickering embers of its leadership and consign it to the forgotten corners of history. Everywhere they looked they saw potential traitors, turncoats and sell outs. And to be summoned by The Coordinator himself? This did not bode well.

The Coordinator stood at the head of the table, his back facing away from the assembled scientists.

"The Institute has survived many things. We have survived three world wars; innumerable set-backs, investigations, both criminal and political; Witch-hunts; ridicule; being ostracised by the entire scientific community. Over the centuries there has been one, sole, immutable fact: The Institute _endures._ " He turned to face the rest of the room. "We have advanced humanity in ways that the public can scarce even imagine! Behind every great endeavour has been our auspex." The Coordinator sighed. "But despite our best efforts we are on the verge of destruction. We are at a crossroads gentlemen. One road leads to our extinction, it is the easy path and requires us to do nothing at all. The other road? Now that road is more difficult. It will require bold action, but will ensure our survival. And it is on that subject that I have gathered you all here, despite all that is arrayed against us. For as ever, I have a plan."

The tension in the room heightened, the air was thick and heavy with the smell of sweat and fear. The Coordinator's plans usually involved more than the occasional 'sacrificial lamb'.

"Dr Gessner?" said The Coordinator.

"Yes, sir?" Gessner gulped, tugging nervously at the collar of his shirt.

"Is your work on the compound complete?"

"It's slow," replied Gessner "You're asking me to re-engineer something from the 19th century without any of the original research notes that created it. There's so much guess work; speculation; it's an uphill struggle."

"Is that a no?" Anger touched at the edges of The Coordinator's eyes.

"I didn't say _that,"_ Gessner stuttered quickly. "I have a prototype, but there's still so much testing to do, I'm not sure it's even stable. There could be... unforeseen consequences."

The Coordinator glared at Gessner, his face filled with contempt. It was not a pleasant emotion to see on such an unpleasant and cruel face. All the others in the room remained steadfastly silent, desperately trying to force themselves into the back of their chairs and the psychological invisibility they felt it promised.

"You are out of time. We begin tonight," said The Coordinator

"Begin what?" asked Gessner.

"Project Obolus, Doctor Gessner. What else?"

"You can't be seriously considering this?" Gessner was beginning to tremble.

"You came up with the idea doctor. A novel method to reduce overpopulation. The wholesale re-purposing of one of our oldest technologies for this dark and dismal future of ours. A radical advancement upon mind entry technology, I never thought you had it in you. Two minds infused into one body? The global population could be halved overnight. And to think I almost shut your project down!" The Coordinator was smiling now. If anything it was a sight less pleasant than his sneer of contempt.

"It was just an idea, idle speculation, I don't think it's even possible. It was just supposed to be an intellectual exercise! I never expected anyone would ever try it?!" Terror was writ large on Gessner's face.

"But try it we will."

"But it's unethical, it's inhumane!" Gessner shouted, rising to his feet he slammed his palms onto the table.

"I am past caring," replied The Coordinator offhandedly.

"This isn't what I signed up for!"

The Coordinator leaned towards Gessner, almost looming over him and all the others. Shifting shadows gave his face a gaunt, almost skeletal appearance.

"I don't think any of us signed up to be hunted down by our own government! Besides there's nothing you can do to stop me now." The Coordinator returned to his previous, rigid, upright stance. Turning his back to the room he clicked his fingers. "I hope you enjoy your new role Doctor Gessner."

The door to the room opened and two Institute guards entered, heavily armoured in their standard issue body-armour and faceless helmets, all in black. They grabbed Gessner by his shoulders and began to drag him away. He struggled weakly, unable to even force the guards to increase their efforts. Trapped within their vice-like grips he had no hope of escape. Unable to free himself he began to shout. His words were snarled and rendered incomprehensible by his anger and stream of cursing. It was as if his mouth had become a very small and very localised gateway to a very select portion of hell.

As Gessner was man-handled out the door and spirited away to some dark corner of the facility to await his fate the other scientists relaxed. They were relieved it hadn't been them.

5.

Darkness. Mankind has always had an aversion to it. It cloaks a myriad of mysteries and fears, it is the unknown made manifest. And there is nothing that is feared more than the unknown. It is a blank tapestry on which fevered minds paint lurid and perverse masterpieces born out of all manner of secret horrors and forgotten terrors. A man is never more alone, nor more vulnerable, nor confused than when he is consumed by the night; cut off from all other things, waiting for whatever monsters circle him unseen, to pounce and strip the flesh from his bones. But there is a certain ancient and unlooked for purity in the embrace of the dark. For things left in the dark are forgotten and ignored. And though they can fester, or rot, they can also mature and age, and in very rare circumstances, grow. The dark is not just a place for fear and terror, it is a place for reflection and pondering; when you are divorced and cut off from all other distractions, and all the things which serve only to get in the way, you can truly take stock of what it means to be you and finally work out exactly what it is you need to know. It is the pinnacle of isolation, and all manner of strange things can happen in isolation: madness, discovery, withering or triumph. It is a crucible. And one into which this particular escapee had been plunged without warning. But it had tempered him. Forged him anew. For he now knew who he was. A maelstrom of thoughts and memories had crystallised around his isolation, a quickening that flashed across neurons into a great lattice work of understanding. He was Gessner, scientist, visionary, victim; but he was also a soldier, his name lost to him in blooms of fire and singing shrapnel; but the skills he had learnt, the things he had witnessed; the will, drive and desire to survive were hard-wired things not so easily expunged. He knew he was both of these men. For better or worse, what was once two, was now one. It brought with it a freedom from the shackles of uncertainty and mute stumbling. He had become more than he was, something more whole and greater than just a mere man. He was a first. The act of his knowing had birthed an unknown. And an unknown is a dangerous thing.

The sea of blackness began to ebb into charcoals and greys, edges and shapes swam out of the murk. The man who once was Gessner found himself no longer in a tunnel or companionway, but in an open arcade of vaulted ceilings, the faint suggestive gleam of metal here and there. The merest hint of light flowed like treacle from a razor thin crack at the far side of the ticket hall, filling the space with the fuzzy almost non-light that pushed back the gloom. Was-Gessner was pulled towards it like a fish on a line slowly being reeled in. Was this the way out he had so long sought? Up close the light was the pure white of sunlight and the outside world, the crack was far too thin to see more than the merest hint of what lay beyond. He ran his hands over the surface before him. Flaking chip-board, painted plastic hoardings; crudely fixed planks; flimsy; transient; ill-suited to its purpose. Foot raised, Was-Gessner gave the barrier a single, solid kick. Then another. Then another. Thud, thud, thud, a steady reverberating drum beat, it had an almost ceremonial air about it, as if it were the portent of the climax of some long forgotten ritual. The barrier first began to shudder, then loosen, then parts began to splinter, then shatter. With the final kick it burst from the doorway it had been covering and fell to the pavement of the street beyond. Light flooded in, bathing Was-Gessner. It filled him with warmth. Stepping forth he left the warrens of the underground behind him and was born anew into the world. One journey had ended, but another had begun. Hundreds of people passed him by as he stood on the side of the street, clad only in a stained and bloodied gown, he was ignored by the masses. He was just another cog in the machine of the city, but he was a cog that had just started to turn and click. Meshed and hidden beneath innumerable others his purpose was shrouded and incomprehensible. But he knew where he sat and where he stood, he knew where he was and what he had to do. And although he was nothing more than a cog, it is important to remember that cogs have teeth.

I.

Rain was coming down in sheets. Thick, black drops. The sort which, when you're all nice and snug in your car, look a lot like big blobs of unrefined tar. The wipers couldn't keep up, their strokes barely cleared the screen for long enough to see. The headlamps weren't helping much either. In rain like this even the beefiest of lights just got fuzzed out into nothingness. So the drivers took it slow and steady, navigating more by the nebulous white ghost of road lines and the faint, grainy map on the nav screen. They sure as hell weren't going to take any risks. Not on a night like this. Not with who and what they had on board. Ensconced in the back seat of the driver's cab sat not just their boss, but _the_ boss. He had his arms crossed and his head titled back. Light caught the smooth pate of his head and lit up his face. It looked like he was sleeping but his face did not look peaceful. It was not a kind face, it was not a nice face. It was a face like a wraith looming out of the black, midnight fog, just before it swallowed you whole. He was the guy who ran the whole show, the whole damn Institute. The Coordinator. Or as the drivers called him "The Suit."

The nav screen flickered out and went dead, only the ghostly echo of its light remained.

"Next left," said The Suit. "Pull up outside the garage and wait."

"Yes boss," replied the driver in a small and slightly fearful voice. It did not do to displease the Coordinator. He took the corner slow and steady, not so much driving as gliding across the skin of the road. They pulled up in front of a rusted and weather pitted roller shutter. The engine idled and the drivers waited. It didn't take long for the shutter to slowly start to roll up driven by unseen motors and commanded by unseen hands. Even above the howling wind you could hear the banshee scream of unlubricated metal. The driver didn't need telling what to do next, it was one of those obvious, unspoken instructions. An invitation. No sooner had the driver slid the van into the dingy space beyond them, the shutters began to close.

"Unload the cargo," said The Suit, his face now alive with purpose and activity, no longer graced with the placid facade of sleep. The trio of men exited from the van, the room lit only by the diffused glare of headlights.

"What is this place boss?" asked one of the drivers.

"It's one of our more _secure_ facilities," replied The Suit. "I'm sure you're well aware our time is growing short. We are beset on all sides by blinkered fools, vultures and small-minded idiots. Even the shadiest corners of the establishment no longer want anything to do with us." He sighed. "The hounds have already been released and we are hunted. Our institute is _personae non gratae._ It's been so long since we had a break through and thus our erstwhile benefactors are no longer so willing to turn a blind eye to our, shall we say, 'unconventional' ethics. We are no longer _necessary_. Needless to say, unless we can succeed in this project and prove otherwise..." He let the silence hang in the air.

The drivers nodded. They knew this all too well, and they were in too deep to hope to escape the wrath of those dogging their steps. Wordlessly they proceeded to the back of the van and opened the rear doors. Within was a man in a wheelchair. He was fettered and shackled, restrained and immobile, his head lolled forward, his entire form limp. They'd acquired him from an army hospital the day before. A broken man, mute, unresponsive, his mind seared blank and dead by the horrors of war and high speed shrapnel. An empty vessel. The two drivers unfastened the wheelchair's moorings and carefully lowered it down to the ground.

"Ah, our last, best hope," said The Suit. "Wretched thing isn't he?" He beckoned the drivers to follow him and walked to a set of double doors hidden in the gloom at the back of the garage. He took a card from his breast pocket and swiped it against a panel, tapping in a 5 digit code on the pad beneath. There was a clunk and the doors slid sideways to reveal the tiny metal box of a lift. They filed in and The Suit pressed one of the many, many unmarked buttons.

"How far does this go down boss?" asked one of the drivers.

"All the way down." The Suit replied, a look of horror growing on the driver's face. "All the way to the old underground tunnels."

"But the tunnels sir... they're not safe, the stories. Oh fuck... the stories."

"Yes, we've all heard the stories. Which is precisely why no one in their right mind will come down here looking for us. But even with all this secrecy, it'll all still come down to chance. Fifty-fifty at best. Just the toss of a coin."

The Suit slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the comforting metallic chill of his good luck charm. The lift hummed and they descended into the deepest, most forgotten bowels of Old London.

***

#  Interlude 6

"Good morning, Mr. President."

Consciousness slowly returned to the President of the World Union, and this surprised him greatly. He had been fairly certain he had died. He remembered the pain of dying, the bullet penetrating into his skull, and he remembered the relief, the peace of death. He was sure he should not be able to remember that. And now he was lying in a hospital bed, facing an enemy of the people. He tried to speak but was too weak from, what? Surgery?

"A lot of people want you to remain in charge, Mr. President," the Coordinator said, lifting a glass of water to the President's lips. "And believe it or not, we at the institute are among them." The Coordinator could see the incredulous expression of the President at that statement. He smiled in response before continuing straight faced. "Not a very smart thing to do, try to off yourself like that. If you'd come to us, that is, if you weren't hunting my people down like dogs, we'd have told you we found a cure for your condition many years ago. Don't believe me?" The stare clearly indicated not, the head shake confirmed it. "Get yourself re-diagnosed. They'll find no degeneration of the neural tissue. They won't even find evidence of the gunshot wound. It turns out, when you've been studying the mind for as long as we have, you learn a thing or two."

The President, enraged, struggled to rise and get his hands around The Coordinator's throat. The Coordinator pushed him back onto the bed with just a couple of fingers.

"Obviously there's some low-level conditioning in play here. You'll find you're not able to discuss our little arrangement, which I'll come to in a moment, with anyone unapproved. All we want, in return for your life, is for the Institute to be reinstated to its former glory with full governmental support. Now, I don't want to have to implement any of our more extreme fail-safes - I want you to know who's beaten you - but, one way or another, you will comply."

The Coordinator sat patiently, watching the President for his response. Eventually, the President visibly deflated, slumped back onto his pillow and slowly, sadly nodded his head.

"Fantastic," said The Coordinator. "I look forward to working with you." He stood, turned and left, but not before wiping away, with almost loving care, the single tear that ran from the President's eye.

***

#  The Andromeda System

##  Jonty Levine

Chandra Patel was in trouble. She had been inside someone's head on her last assignment with The Institute, and had not left it exactly as she had found it. It had been a mistake, not the objective of the mission, though she couldn't say for sure what the objective was. That information was confidential, and The Institute had taken it from her.

She glanced out the window of the L-Train that glided over the city and brought her home. Her tousled hair was lit up by intermittent flashes of gold, as the morning sunlight flickered through the tenement stacks that drifted past the window. They looked like the teeth of a great gear wheel, big as a planet, oiled by an endless flow of humans.

It was easy to lose sight of the individual in all this, but Chandra knew there was someone out there whose mind was damaged, and it was probably her fault. Chandra had forgotten to deactivate a memory lock before leaving the person's head and now they would no longer be able to lay down long-term memories.

She really shouldn't be thinking about this on the train. It was confidential. Mind-immersion Apparatuses that could fit inside rucksacks were increasingly sold on the black market. Much as it wanted to, The Institute could no longer claim exclusivity over this technology. So it was possible, though not probable, for someone to be in her head right now.

For this reason, The Institute didn't usually allow its employees to carry such secrets beyond company premises. Chandra had gotten around the regulations this time by saying that she'd write up a performance review, and so she would require at least a partial memory of the event. That had been deemed an acceptable risk.

Now that she thought about it, she probably wouldn't get in any trouble for the memory lock. Breaking a head was seen as a problem, like smashing a mug, or denting a car, but not a tragedy. The people who lost their memories were usually ruled off as natural cases of anterograde amnesia. Failing to deactivate a memory lock wasn't nearly as bad as neglecting to use one in the first place. Betraying confidential information was a fireable offence. Memory locks were designed to solve this problem by preventing the subject from recalling anything that happened while they were inside it.

Whether she was reprimanded for it or not, Chandra still felt guilty that she had ruined someone's life. The person whose head it was would probably spend the rest of their days in long-term care, perhaps with occasional visits from family members under the false hope that they would one day get better. It always pained her the most to think of the loved ones.

She got off the train early, and walked the last ten minutes to the Habitation Unit. Upon arriving home, she resisted the urge to call up her co-worker, Edwin, right away. She had never been very good at living with her mistakes, but sometimes it was best just to wait for a chance to fix them, even though it was difficult.

Chandra tried her best to put it out of mind, but after lying in bed for an endless half hour, not even trying to sleep, she retreated to the warm darkness of the living room, curtains still closed, idly rewinding through several days of television while a crack of sunlight drifted slowly down the wall.

Edwin was her former supervisor. He might understand her dilemma. Besides, he owed her a favour for something. She couldn't remember what, because it happened at work. He'd be awake in a few hours, which gave Chandra plenty of time to reflect on all the harm she may have done to the minds of innocent people. She resolved to sleep until then, but remembered that she still had to write that performance report.

"Dammit," she muttered in a small voice.

* * * *

In the late afternoon, Chandra was disturbed by a phone call from her mother, asking no end of questions about "The Institute of Evil". Chandra responded to them all with "I don't know," which was mostly true. Outside of work hours, Chandra knew frightfully little about what she did for The Institute. Her mother knew that. Chandra knew that she knew. At this point, they were only going through the motions, but it made Chandra feel all the more guilty about the memory lock.

It was irrational, of course. Chandra knew she'd done some truly awful things when The Institute had called for it. She justified this to herself by only harming people when it was absolutely necessary. It didn't make her a good person, but if she didn't do it then someone else would. And unlike those people, she at least had some ethics.

Once she was sure Edwin would be awake, she picked up her phone, and pointed it at the photo of her dark, square-jawed co-worker. It took a while to connect. Psy-Wi interference was strong today.

Eventually a smooth male voice answered: "Chandra, hello."

"Are you at work, Ed?" She knew he would be. He did all his work during the day to avoid interacting with people.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I need the address code and ID number for my last head."

They only ever referred to the subjects of their experiments as a 'head'. It was best not to think of them as people. They were just a head to be opened, a head of the population.

"Okay... Why?"

"I screwed up," she said quickly. "I forgot to turn off the memory-lock."

"And?"

"And the memory lock is still active. They can't lay down memories."

"Doesn't matter, memory locks are expendable."

Chandra thought of retorting 'Well people aren't.' but she could already anticipate his response. They were heads, and of course they were expendable.

"Listen Ed, this is my fault, and I can't let it slide. So could you please just get me that address code?"

"Address codes are confidential, and all calls from The Institute are monitored. But you knew that."

"I knew."

"So I'm afraid I can't help you. Bit of a shame really because you could have told me you needed that information for your case report, and I'd have been none the wiser. I know your ethical concerns are important to you, but-"

"I'm not going to lie to you."

"Well of course you won't. You're Chivalrous Chandra. But it's like I said when we hired you. You need to be more opaque when you're working for The Big I. Sometimes you're too transparent for your own good, especially with shifty guys like me. Remember?"

Of course she remembered that. Edwin had been on the panel that hired her, when they administered the lie detector test. They had found out some of her deepest secrets that way. She even confessed that she'd initially wanted to join The Institute to satisfy her curiosity. Then The Institute scanned her entire mind just to make sure. It was the standard procedure.

"Well here's a good lie. If you do this favour for me, I'll make up for it by taking you out to dinner."

They chuckled innocently, so as not to give away the fact that it was not funny, and that Chandra's innocuous little joke was actually code for 'Use the secret method we discussed earlier.'

Edwin ended the call, and scooted his chair a few metres over to Chandra's control pad. Obtaining the ID and address code would be easy, but smuggling the information out of The Institute would not be. Every form of external communication was monitored. And it would certainly be wiped from his memory when he left the premises. The guards checked rigorously for anything like sticky notes hidden in clothing, yet he'd never seen them checking under anyone's shoes before.

Though they were underground, the room around him was as bright as daylight. There was no privacy here. The open-plan layout of the office allowed anyone to see what anyone else was doing. But since most people here worked night shift, it was not too likely that someone was looking over his shoulder. The H-HD cameras could pick out every one of the greasy hairs on his head, but Edwin had learned from a few years of experience that no one really monitored the cameras. The managers had a much better way to watch over their subordinates.

Every 60 seconds, the security systems enacted a 'loyalty check' on all staff members, scanning their heads with the psychic wireless to make sure they weren't doing anything suspicious.

If a child had been allowed down there, they may have complained about there being a high-pitched ringing noise every minute. That was the interference wave generated by the signal of the loyalty checks. Not many people keep their ultrasonic hearing range well past childhood. Edwin was one of those people. He had been absent-mindedly tapping his pen on the desk, listening out for the loyalty check. Once he heard it, he would have about 55 seconds to get the information for Chandra.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEH

There it was. He pulled up his chair to the control panel, tapped on the screen to wake it, and clicked on a list of recently accessed heads. The folder was locked. So he pushed his phone up to the microphone and played a voice recording of Chandra saying the password, which he made just in case he needed it for times like this. Paranoia did have its advantages. To complete the illusion, he moved his lips as if he was saying it as well. It was enough to fool the speech recognition, and he was in.

Then he saw something that he didn't expect. The head at the top of the list appeared over 20 times. They weren't identical copies though. They had the same ID number, but different address codes. This wasn't even supposed to be possible, unless for some reason they were different minds sharing the same head, but that was absurd.

Less than 30 seconds to go now. He had to choose one, quickly. Edwin picked one at random, and wrote the ID number on the sole of his left shoe. _0010420_...Someone was coming.. _.3515682_.

He began to copy the address code onto his right sole. _M937F_...The footsteps were getting closer... _WJ28V_...He pretended to tie up his shoelace while the man walked past, which seemed to take forever. Edwin was really running out of time now... _V8K3Y_...He accidentally wrote the wrong letter, and had to cross it out... _7CV9J_...He was running out of space on the shoe... _MG73C_. With seconds to spare, Edwin capped the pen, and went back to tapping it on the desk as if nothing had happened.

He would check his shoes afterwards. Chandra would remind him.

* * * *

Chandra awoke in the early evening, having slept for a mere three hours, and called Edwin as soon as she could be sure he'd left the premises.

"Ed, are you home?"

"Yeah," said Edwin, his voice sounding a little more gravelly.

"Have you thought of polishing your shoes?"

"What?"

"Have you thought-"

"You don't have to be so vague. This line is encrypted."

"Just check your shoes."

Edwin examined the undersides of his Venetian style shoes, and found what looked like an address code and a head's ID number written in his own handwriting.

"You probably told me this already," said Edwin. "But what do you need this for?"

Chandra thought of what Edwin said earlier about transparency, and came up with an excuse to appeal to his cynical nature.

"I forgot to use a memory lock in that head. I could get fired if they re-investigate."

"I'm so sorry."

"Just give me the address code. I'm sure I'll be able to fix it before they do," she said blithely.

"Let me help you. It could be days before you get free time on The Apparatus. What if you're caught before then?"

"Err..." She tried to think of a convincing way to decline his offer.

"At least let me give you the chance to use mine."

"No really, I... Your what?"

"I got my own Apparatus, not technically a legal one."

It was a very difficult one to turn down. To have free reign on a machine for exploring people's minds was something she'd wanted for a while. But it was illegal. Unlicensed Apparatuses were frequently used to provide cover for criminals, or worse. But it didn't have to be unethical. She thought of the potential good that could be done with it, things that The Institute would never let her do. And Chandra's curiosity got the better of her.

"Okay..."

Edwin climbed the stairs two at a time to retrieve his Apparatus from the spare bedroom, where he kept it behind a secret panel at the back of the wardrobe. That panel was difficult to see in the dark, but if he moved some of the hanging shirts he could see it better in the fading light from the window.

He laid them out on the floor carefully to avoid creasing them, finishing with a pinstripe shirt that hadn't been worn in over a year, not since the day he'd been demoted. As he brushed it longingly, he saw some black backwards writing that certainly hadn't been there before. Edwin was intrigued. Could it be slow-reveal invisible ink? He turned the shirt inside out, and saw a rather lengthy message in his own handwriting.

MESSAGE FROM YOURSELF

Before your imminent memory wipe, you were a consultant for the Split Personality Care Commission - a depraved offshoot project of The Institute - focused on eradicating multiples, which really do exist - the common belief that multiplicity is a myth is itself a myth perpetuated by The Institute - TI believes them to be their own accidental creations - so they tried to cover their tracks - SPCC is more active, and is aggressively forcing them to 'integrate'.

But I found evidence against TI's hypothesis - reports of 'more than one person in the same body' dating back to the 22nd century or earlier - bastards destroyed them - I was so close - if I publicly disclosed the existence of multiplicity, TI would be forced to come clean about the Wöller case - most importantly it would mean the end of that old wretch Webley's career.

Finish what I started

Love from,

MR BUBBLE

There was no doubt that Edwin himself had written it. It had his secret alias and everything. And the fact that it was important enough to warrant ruining one of his best shirts just raised further questions. As a lifelong sceptic, it was difficult for Edwin to believe in something as silly as multiplicity, but it was hard to deny it when he saw it written in his own words. Edwin began to wonder what else The Institute was hiding from him, but he stopped the train of thought there, as he had to be careful about the way he remembered this.

He was using a crafty trick to get around the security system by imagining himself in Greenland, where he'd been on holiday last year. If he made the mental image as vivid as possible, it would appear to the machines as a holiday memory, and not be deleted along with his work ones. He could almost feel the cool arctic wind on his face as he zoomed downhill on blade skis, on a slope that ran alongside an intense blue river, when he saw a crumpled garment by the edge of the ski run. Yes, that would work. Stirring up the fresh powder snow, he stopped to pick up the shirt, not far from where the slope dropped off to the raging waters, reading the message on it again and again, considering its implications.

It defied common sense. Everyone knew it was impossible for a head to contain more than one mind. Every so often, there would be cases of people claiming to have 'head-mates', but they were mentally ill. What they thought of as head-mates were really just the shattered pieces of a human mind, compartmentalised and deluded into thinking they were separate people. He would believe in multiplicity when he saw it.

Edwin emerged from his daydream, and returned to the Apparatus. He took the sleek, black cylinder from its hiding place and put it on a table in the centre of the room. When he turned it on, an array of ports lit up on the rear of the device. Edwin swivelled it around and plugged in a backup power supply, an array of amplifiers, and his phone. Excitedly, he dialled in the ID number and the 25-digit address code on the phone's touchscreen. He selected Chandra from his contacts list, before pressing the big black 'ENTER' button. Then he lay back down on the chaise longue and closed his eyes. The psychic wireless would do the rest.

* * * *

Chandra was staring from her balcony. What was taking Edwin so long? It had been over five minutes. Then she felt it, a voice in the back of her head. Though she couldn't hear it, she knew exactly what it was saying.

User 'Edwin Harris' is requesting level 4 immersion via app 'Apparatus'. Do you consent?

Yes, she consented. But entering head-space required something more secure than a password. Chandra had to think about three photographs of personal significance. There was a square photo of Holly and Lyman at a company picnic, a school portrait of her deceased sister, and a picture of a smiling man who she never had the courage to talk to. Those three people formed a unique pattern of thoughts that could not be replicated by anyone, even if they were thinking about the same photos.

At last, Chandra's entire consciousness was pulled away from her body. She was drifting, yet hurtling through an array of human minds, engraved with the infinite intricate patterns of consciousness, connected by fragile strands that were constantly breaking and reforming. She couldn't see a thing, yet she sensed it intrinsically. One of them was growing closer and closer and closer.

She had been through this process many times, but it had never felt any less strange. This time, she remembered to brace for impact, as somewhere in the darkness, two minds collided with a third, and they were successfully transported into its head-space.

Two figures stood on the imaginary ground of a vast, rocky desert. The sky was black, but the ground emanated a warm yellow glow of its own. Just below the horizon were the twisted silhouettes of some dark stone spires.

The newcomers looked somewhat different from their real world appearances. Edwin was taller, clean-shaven, stronger. Chandra had blue hair. All the basic tools for navigating head-space were built into their imaginary bodies. And each of them wore a golden band around their waists which, if broken, would immediately send them back to the real world.

Edwin looked around. "Well, whoever this is, their head looks pretty empty."

"How so?"

"Well, most people create something like forests or houses or airships in their head-space. This one just looks like a desert."

"Either that or it's just very large and we haven't seen all of it," said Chandra, never one to judge people by first impressions, even when she was inside their head.

"So you remember any of this from before?"

"No, just a guess."

"Looks like we'll be doing some exploring then."

"Sure. Just let me just check that we're on a planet."

In a perfect demonstration of her head-space training, Chandra bent her knees and soared into the air. She rose up, imagining herself as weightless, until she saw the curvature of the horizon, which bent the opposite way to a normal horizon.

When she touched down beside Edwin, she told him: "We're on a concave planet."

"Don't you mean we're _in_ a concave planet?" he replied flippantly.

They went to one of the rock formations first, because Edwin suggested there might be a memory bank hidden inside. If there was however, then the memory lock was somewhere else, as Chandra had scanned the area with a device embedded in her hand. All the while, she took care not to let Edwin see her do this, because she had lied to him about the memory lock. Oh, why had she done that?

The spire was made of a black obsidian-like material, formed into delicate spiral shapes. They examined all the cracks and crevices with lights in their fingertips, but couldn't find any memories.

Before they could move on to somewhere else, they were approached by a strange woman with black eyes, whiskers and huge pointed ears. Her golden hair matched the colour of the ground.

"Hello there, you must be new head-mates," she said, waving shyly.

"Oh, don't mind us," said Edwin. "We're just visitors."

She stared at Edwin, and then at Chandra.

"I haven't met you before by any chance?" she said.

For a moment, Chandra thought she had already given herself away by her facial expression.

"Nope," said Edwin.

"It's just that... I can't remember. Our memory hasn't been working properly since yesterday."

"What, so you can't remember anything since then?" asked Edwin.

"Not really."

Chandra managed to hide the guilty look on her face. "That's awful," she said.

"Wait, what was that thing you said we were?" asked Edwin.

"Head-mates. It means you're one of us."

"I see," said Chandra. "Like subconscious projections?"

"Is that what you think we are? Oh, we are so much more than that. A head mate is a member of a multiple system, where many separate people share mental space and have the same body. Now, not to be rude or anything, but how in Andromeda did you not know that?"

"We... must have forgotten," said Chandra. "Our memory is damaged too."

"I see. Well then I'd love to tell you more about us, but then you'll probably forget it again. Oh dear!"

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

"My name's Zerda, but the system's name is Andromeda. What's yours?"

"It's Chandra," said Chandra.

"And you?"

"Call me Ishmael," said Edwin, who knew better than to use his real name.

"Pleased to meet you, Chandra and Ishmael," said Zerda. "I can't wait to introduce you to the rest of us."

"Are they all furries?" quipped Edwin.

"No," she said touchily. "Why would you say that?"

"Sorry about my friend," said Chandra. "The truth is that we can't remember very much at all. So perhaps it might be better if you took us to the memory bank, so that we might figure out what's going on."

"An excellent idea," said Zerda. "Let's go there now. I'll tell them all to meet us there."

Zerda started digging for something in the loose earth, until she found a small round switch, made of the same black stone as the arches above. She twisted it.

"Stand back," she said.

Nothing happened for a few seconds. A low humming sound reverberated through the ground, like wind blown over a bottle, and then the ground shifted. A round hole opened, and a beam of light pierced the sky from the point where the switch had been. The hole grew to several paces across. All they could see inside was a white light that made the glowing ground look dim.

"Now get ready to jump. Don't let go."

Zerda led them to the edge of the hole, holding their hands like they were children. They looked down into the whiteness, and let gravity do its work.

"Three, two, one, now!"

The whiteness engulfed them. Faster and faster they went, until the hole they came from was now less than a shrinking black disc. The light ahead of them was so bright that closing their eyes made no difference.

Without warning, the whiteness gave way to black. Chandra and Edwin looked back to see they had been going through the atmosphere of a star, which was now receding behind them, turning from an incandescent wall, to a ball, to a point.

When their sight adjusted to the darkness, they could see the other stars, and the huge spiral galaxy that they were headed towards.

Chandra and Edwin had flown in head-spaces before, but Zerda was clearly more experienced than they were. She was also taking them faster than they'd ever gone before. There was no rushing wind, or any of the obvious signs of motion, but something about this flight just felt fast.

"You see that?" said Zerda, pointing ahead. "That's our home."

As Chandra looked more closely at the beautiful galaxy that now filled half the sky, she could see tinges of purple and yellow among its gas clouds. There were now more stars than ever.

But Edwin was not looking at the stars. The cogs in his mind were turning to figure out what was really going on. Hadn't Chandra told him that she didn't use a memory lock? Then why was this head showing the textbook symptoms of memory locking. Was she lying to him or just stupid? Chandra was not the sort to tell lies on a whim, but then again, she'd had no problems with lying to Zerda.

And that 'head-mate' was another matter entirely. She was so much more realistic than any other subconscious projection he remembered. And incredibly, the 'multiple system' she described was sounding very similar to what he had already been told about multiplicity which, until less than half an hour ago, he believed was nothing more than a discredited myth. Could this really be one of those elusive multiples? If so, then conclusive proof of their existence would really shake things up at The Institute. And the prospect of getting Webley fired was too inviting to miss.

By now they were almost inside the galaxy. Could all of these stars have planets embedded in them? He wasn't even sure if that was how multiplicity worked. One planet per head-mate perhaps? He needed to take a look, preferably without these two bothering him. He didn't trust Chandra to take him where he wanted to go. And if he went with Zerda, she would take them straight to the other head-mates. That wasn't necessarily a good thing, as it was possible this multiple could be hostile, and outnumber him. Staying with them wasn't worth the risk.

Edwin eased off his grip on Zerda's arm and slipped away, not letting her or Chandra notice as he changed direction and tumbled off into space.

Now they were headed towards a light, which grew brighter and brighter as it detached itself from the background of the galaxy. Beneath that star was a spectacular ringed planet, of which only the top was lit up, making it look more like a dome. That dome was swirling with colours, from red-orange, to gold, to turquoise.

As they approached the broad ring, Chandra saw how the edge was indented like a gear wheel. They were either slowing down now, or the planet was moving along with them. The prismatic landscape of the planet's ring stretched out below them, as Zerda gently brought her down. Chandra's feet hit the ground, and she staggered forward a few paces, intrigued that it was possible to walk here. She looked around and saw that they were alone, apart from the star directly above them and the dome of the planet ahead. Only then did she realise that someone was missing.

"Where's Ed- uh, Ishmael?" asked Chandra.

"Who?"

"Um, never mind."

She felt some concern for Edwin, but she assumed he'd just let go by accident. If he got completely lost however, he could still break the golden band to get out. Besides, she half-expected she would have to do this part on her own.

They walked across the ring in silence, while the digital readout that overlaid Chandra's vision told her that a memory lock was nearby. When they reached the inner edge of the ring, there was a huge and ornate gate leading to nowhere, and a grand flight of steps leading up to it. Chandra could also spot about fifteen or so starlit figures, milling about and sitting on the steps.

As they got closer, she began to discern their appearances. They were a diverse group of people. Among them were an angel, a lizard-man with green skin, a person in a space suit, a river spirit, a fascinating creature that looked like a cross between a tortoise and a red squirrel, two women who appeared to be lovers, and three small children, one of whom was hovering playfully above the others.

Chandra felt somewhat uncomfortable around these people, but they were all unmistakably people, even the ones that weren't human. It was something in the way they moved and talked. Chandra could see that they weren't subconscious projections. They were too different from each other to be aspects of a single person's mind. Just now, she could hear fragments of their conversation.

"I picked these flowers, but I don't know who they're for."

"You mean yesterday?"

"Well I know the day before, but everything since then is a blur."

"What kind of clown would do this?"

When they approached the steps, Zerda's face lit up, and she raced ahead to join the crowd.

"Hey everyone, what are you doing here?" she called out.

"You told us to meet you,"

"I did?"

"Yes," said the lizard-man. "Maybe you forgot about it because you were travelling the slow way."

"I _like_ taking the slow way."

"I know. But you can't afford to do that for now, or else you might forget things during the journey."

"Anyway, you said you had a surprise for us?" said one of the children.

"Hmm, I suppose I did," she said, looking round absent-mindedly until she spotted Chandra. "Oh yes, we have a new head-mate. Say hello to Chandra, everyone!"

Chandra felt very awkward at suddenly being the centre of attention. Every head-mate was now crowding around to give her cheers and kisses on the cheek, and introducing themselves one by one. She tried at least to remember some of their names. The lizard-man was called Thuban. There was a blonde-haired teenager who introduced himself as Max. Every other name and face blurred in her memory, until...

"That's her!"

That shrill voice came from a little girl with red pigtails, green Wellington boots and a red fringe poking out from her matching hat. She had been standing at the back of the group when she saw her. Chandra and the little girl locked eyes. Silence fell upon the group, as they listened intently.

"She's that woman from The Institute, the one that ruined our memory!"

"But I..." Chandra began.

"You've got some nerve coming back here," Max cut in.

"But I thought nobody could remember!" Chandra squealed.

"I'm the only one who remembers," said the little girl. "Everyone else's memory is fucked."

Chandra was shocked to hear such a small child swearing, but she could hardly blame her.

"That's enough, Rana," said the lizard-man.

"You didn't tell me she could remember," Chandra said to Zerda.

"I told you what I needed to tell you," she bluffed.

"Zerda, you sly old fox!"

"What did you say to her?"

"Does it matter, she's a mind-rapist?"

"Yeah, why don't you leave us alone?!"

"Everyone, be quiet!" spoke the lizard-man. "Now. Let her speak for herself. Chandra, is this true?"

Everyone fell silent again, and their eyes turned to Chandra, who began to apologise profusely.

"I'm sorry. It's me, all right! I'm so sorry for what I did that locked up your memory. It's just, I wouldn't have come back, except I felt really guilty about it. And I'm trying now to make it better. You have to believe me!"

"Why should we believe you?"

"Yeah, she's from The Institute!"

"Never trust The Big I!"

"She's telling the truth!" said Thuban, his deep voice bringing the uproar to a silence. "I can always smell a lie."

* * * *

Edwin was lost in space.

As he drifted between the stars, he wondered if all multiples had galaxies in their heads. Head-spaces varied so widely from person to person, and he had been inside the heads of enough normal people to know that there was no such thing as normal. So there was no reason to assume that all multiples were like this one. Edwin realised how little he actually knew about them, but he craved to know more. Any scientific literature he'd read about multiplicity had long since been erased from his memory. He would have to discover it for himself.

After drifting from star to star for a while, he found he could get inside them by flying above the star and falling inside. So far he had been into three different stars, each of which contained its own hollow planet. They were fascinating places. The first of them was a bizarre world whose surface was covered entirely by waterfalls. The second was a completely pitch black planet that had to be navigated by touch. And the third one resembled a Mediterranean resort.

These worlds were so different from each other that they must have been imagined by separate people. If he could only prove this to be the case, then it would confirm one of the most compelling parts of the multiplicity myth: that the people in a multiple system were complex individuals, not stereotyped aspects of a single self. And yet it defied conventional wisdom to even consider this. Everyone knew that multiples were delusional. Edwin knew it too, or at least he thought he knew. According to the message from himself, that was only what The Institute wanted them to think.

Still it was difficult to believe the myth, because the idea of sharing a head seemed so counter-intuitive. But now that he found himself inside a shared head, he really had no choice but to believe.

Of course, not everything was the same as the folk-tales said it was. Edwin had once been told that a multiple system contained thousands or even millions of distinct souls. However the data on his digital readouts showed far fewer than that. There could be no more than about 20 of them here, and none of them were nearby. That was probably because they all went to the memory bank with Zerda. They must have left quickly though, which meant there had to be a faster way of getting around.

He soon found that, because of the way space was folded up and distorted, the very concept of distance was meaningless. This was a head-space after all, unconstrained by the laws of reality. Edwin found that he could jump towards any star or nebula, and space would shift to bring him there. If he took a big step, he could stand in two places at once, and if he put himself in the right position, he could even lie down with his head on one edge of the galaxy, and his toes at the other.

Edwin turned his attention to the glowing bulge at the centre of the galaxy, and jumped in to take a closer look. This was where a real galaxy would have a black hole, so there had to be something interesting here. When he approached the heart of the galaxy, he found a cone-shaped planet. The part that he could see was white all over, becoming steeper towards the top, and tapering into a sharp spire with a flat platform at its apex. It was only just large enough for the house that stood on top of it. This was a 22nd century townhouse, the kind that he saw everywhere in the old town. It was conspicuous only in the way that it stood alone on the big spire top, and the front door that was made of metal.

Edwin stood a few paces from the front door. It looked like the stainless steel double door of an elevator. He searched for something to open it, and found a doorbell engraved with an arrow pointing down. Without hesitation, he pressed it. The doors opened into a small elevator, only big enough for one or two people to stand alongside. And there was a mirror at the back, but not an ordinary mirror. It was a fun house mirror that distorted Edwin's reflection. It made his forehead look huge, and his eyes very far apart, regardless of where he stood.

This was obviously a bad idea, but Edwin didn't care. He knew he could just break the golden band at any sign of danger, wait a few minutes for them to forget him, then come back again with the entry code on his shoe.

He entered the elevator, and saw a line of buttons, starting with G for 'Ground' at the top, and the numbers 1, 2, 3 below it, all the way down to 20. A small sign next to them said:

Max load: 2 persons or 1 trans-fat

Edwin instinctively reached for the 20th floor button, which was slightly larger than the rest. When he pressed it, the metal doors closed and the elevator slid downwards, slowly and silently. There was no music, which just didn't feel right. Elevators were supposed to have music, dammit.

Finally, a light came on behind the button, and the doors creaked open.

The room beyond was bright white and completely empty, except for directly in front of him, there was a clown taking a shower. He was completely naked, but his entire body was covered in make-up, which gave colour to the water that flowed off his back. His red eyes were fixed on Edwin.

The Clown continued to scrub himself with a sponge on a stick, and said:

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Heheh, wrong floor," Edwin bluffed.

The Clown said nothing, but continued staring and scrubbing.

Edwin crept his fingers towards the G button, and pressed it firmly, but the doors didn't close. He pressed it again, and again. When that didn't work, he dug his fingers under the band around his waist.

"Just a moment," he said to The Clown.

Edwin, ready to send himself home, pulled outwards, and the golden band stretched, then snapped. The threads unravelled, but Edwin remained exactly where he was.

That was not supposed to happen.

"Interesting..." drawled Edwin. He smiled sheepishly, and laughed a little.

The Clown responded with a high-pitched laugh of his own.

"Heh heh heh heh heh heh!"

He sounded like some comedian from the 21st century. And he was advancing slowly towards the elevator.

Edwin, now on the verge of panicking, jabbed at every button in succession, but they didn't do anything. The Clown's creepy laugh was getting closer, and continuing to close the gap.

Once Edwin ran out of floor buttons, he saw a round yellow button with a bell on it. It was worth a try. He stabbed the emergency button, and the ground fell open.

The floor tiles parted to reveal the empty shaft below. Edwin fell and fell, until the metal lining ended, and he was falling through darkness. As he plummeted, he could feel thousands of tiny legs brushing against him. The fall continued for minutes, though it felt like hours, until finally, he tumbled head-first through an upside down volcano, and saw stars. He was back in space, floating away from the planet's dark underside.

Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, a giant clown boot extended out on a metal pole and kicked Edwin in the backside, sending him flying.

* * * *

"Okay," said Zerda. "We'll let you into the memory bank if you promise to fix what went wrong."

Chandra nodded.

"But if you don't," said the teenaged boy, who was trying to sound threatening. "Or if there's any funny business, then..."

"Stop it, Max," Zerda cut in.

"Remind us again why you're doing this," Thuban said to Chandra.

Chandra re-iterated her promise to remove the memory lock.

"And all that I ask is your cooperation in me doing so," she finished.

"Very well," said Thuban. "I will show you the memory bank."

He climbed to the top of the stairs, which seemingly led to nowhere, and pointed towards the colourful planet. Chandra looked to where he was pointing, and saw a bridge. It hadn't been there before. And yet it had always been there, this was just the first time she noticed it. It led from the top of the steps to a great arched door in the side of the planet.

"But it is a very private place," he continued. "Only those who we trust are allowed to see it."

"Thank you," said Chandra

It was agreed then that three head-mates. would escort Chandra to the memory bank. The little girl Rana led the way, pointing at things every now and then. She was holding hands with Max, who walked alongside her defensively, and showing some unease at exposing his back to Chandra. Thuban brought up the rear of the party, looking back every now and then, as if watching for an unseen enemy.

Below them was nothing but space. Even though she could fly, or return to her own head as a last resort, Chandra still felt irrationally nervous about falling off this bridge.

When they reached the other side, the bright golden door opened before them. The grand hall beyond it was covered by an enormous domed ceiling, the inside of the planet. Light streamed in through an immense star-shaped window in the apex of the dome, and the edges of the room were decorated with fountains of various colours. The bookshelves were arranged into a stepped pyramid, with each level supported by Roman columns. Chandra held out her hand to scan the area, but realised this was unnecessary, for the memory lock was right in front of her. A giant gold padlock with a fish symbol on it was wrapped around the nearest column.

"What's that?"

"What are we doing here?"

"It's a memory lock," said Chandra. "I came here to get rid of it."

Chandra walked up to the memory lock, and touched both her hands onto it. The lock glowed red for a moment, then opened, and shrank down to a fraction of its previous size. Chandra picked up the lock and put it in her pocket. And then it was done. It almost seemed too easy.

"Your memory should start working from now onwards," said Chandra.

"Yay!" said Rana.

"Well I'd love to stay," Chandra went on. "But I think it would be best for my job security if you simply forgot me."

"Why?"

"I'm from The Institute."

There was a muffled gasp from someone.

"In that circumstance," said Thuban. "You had a lot of courage showing up here again to set things right."

"I just hope that if you remember something about me, then you remember me in a positive light."

"And I wish we could say goodbye on good terms," he said. "And for you to return home safely. I really do."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm so sorry," Max said coldly. "It's just that you can't leave. No one can."

"What do you mean I can't leave?"

"I mean what I say I mean."

"But why?!"

"We did not choose this," said Thuban.

"Let me explain," said Rana. "It's not to keep you in. It's to stop The Clown from getting out."

"Who the heck is The Clown?"

Before Chandra's question could be answered, something crashed into the ceiling, shattering the dome into tens of thousands of shards of glass. It was a man. Before he'd even hit the ground, the pieces rose back into place, and the planet's ceiling reformed behind him. Chandra recognised the falling man as Edwin. She could see that his golden band was missing. Presumably he'd already tried to bail out and it hadn't worked. She felt guilty for having dragged Edwin into this. He landed on his feet in front of them with a heavy thump, and a crazed expression on his face."

"It's a trap!" Edwin screamed, accidentally quoting an old Hollywood movie.

The accusations came fast, with Edwin jumping to the conclusion that Chandra had conspired with the head-mates. to trap him inside the head of a crazy person.

"Calm down Ed. It's nothing to do with us. It's to keep the clown from escaping."

And then he really did calm down.

"Oh," he said. "That thing."

"You've seen him?!" said Rana, with fear in her voice.

"All of him," he replied.

"I'm sorry but who is this?!" asked Max.

"This is Edwin," said Chandra. "My colleague."

Edwin looked somewhat annoyed to hear Chandra giving away his real name.

"Then he's from The Institute too?"

"Don't worry," Chandra said. "We're off-duty."

"Speaking of The Institute," said Edwin. "There can only be one group of people who trapped us here? Only one organisation in the world can create such a powerful nullifier field."

"I'm guessing it's them," said Max.

"Chandra," said Edwin, looking her in the eyes. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

"No," replied Chandra.

"She's not-" Thuban began.

"I know she's not lying." snapped Edwin.

At that point, Chandra grabbed Edwin by the arm and took him behind a bookshelf to hiss in his ear:

"Why are we trapped? I've been in here once before and got out alright!"

"Well," he grinned sheepishly. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"Tell me!" she said, twisting his arm.

"Alright, alright. Well to put it simply, my Apparatus is, well... not powerful enough... compared to what The Institute uses."

"You knew this would happen?" They were not bothering to whisper now.

"No," he said defensively. "My Apparatus is a fast and capable machine. However, I do not have all the Big I's resources at my disposal. And for some reason, they've gone and built a nullifier field so strong that only they can get past it. My Apparatus can't even scratch it. It'd be like filling up a swimming pool with a water gun, albeit a really powerful water gun that can shoot pretty far, but even then..."

"Jesus! Everything is about sex with you."

"Hey, would you let me finish?"

"No. Shut up. I'm trying to think."

She paced up and down the aisle for a moment.

"Okay, why would The Institute do this? It's obviously expensive for them. What is it about this individual... sorry, individual _s_ , that warrants this much protection?"

"I think they're afraid of The Clown."

There was a pause. Chandra turned to the head-mates., who were edging themselves closer to listen.

"Alright then," she said assertively. "You really need to tell me what this clown thing is, and why The Institute sealed him in here."

"I'll tell you," grunted Thuban. "But it's a long story, and some of it may be... triggering. So consider yourselves warned."

The lizard-man led them to a bookshelf at the heart of the pyramid. He sat the others down on four squashy chairs, and picked out an old and battered book called _How Andie Lost her Mind ~ 139th Edition_. In the warm light that percolated through the shelves above, he began to read.

"The Andromeda System owes its existence to one woman. She was known to the outside world as Andrea Curtis, but in the safety of her own mind she took the name of her favourite astronomical entity, Andromeda."

Rana interrupted: "I've heard this story so many times," but Thuban continued.

"Like many children her age, Andie had imaginary friends. It was her best friend Sirrah who taught her to fly. The two girls would have amazing adventures in space together, playing endlessly with starships and aliens. That was how she met most of us, and discovered the galaxy that bears her name.

"As she grew older, most girls would have forgotten about their imaginary friends, yet we became more real to her than ever before. We longed to spend more time together, so Andie showed us into the real world, allowing us to see through her eyes and control her motions. It was a novel experience, which brought us closer. And in times of hardship one of us could then take over her body to get her out of trouble.

"I think it frightened her at first, to find out that the people in her head were real, and claimed as much ownership to her body as she did. We assured her that we would never ever abuse this privilege. She replied that it was not this that worried her, but how the outside world would react if they knew that she was, along with all of us, a multiple.

"She told us that in the real world, multiples were the subject of derision. Though multiple systems like us have been born to every generation of history, their stories are lost to forgotten corners of the internet. And they are grossly outnumbered by the pretenders, individuals making false claims of being multiple for whatever reason. So try as we might, that world could never take us seriously.

"To make matters worse, there are the doctors out there who treat multiplicity as a disease. It is the usual tradition in the real world for people with mental disorders to be robbed of their human rights. So naturally they would not hesitate to take the life of a head-mate, especially if they believed it necessary to cure some supposed illness. It goes without saying that they do not consider us people. They see us only as an illusion created by the disease."

"So, you're not then?" Edwin interrupted.

"Do I look like an illusion to you?!" Max said indignantly.

"Anyway, we had no choice but to pretend to be one person, taking it in turns to wear the mask of Andrea Curtis. We kept it secret for years, only ever telling one person in the real world about our true selves, our uncle Finn.

"But it couldn't stay secret forever. Four years ago, Finn had to go before the lie detector in a job interview. When they asked him if anyone in his family had a mental illness, there was nothing else he could have said. And the company was legally obliged to share the information with the SPCC.

"As a result of this, we would lose our permit to work if we did not attend a free therapy session, courtesy of The Institute. We were deathly afraid they would prescribe a psychoactive medicine that stops us from communicating with each other, or even force us to integrate. But the therapist himself did very little. He wasted so much time asking irrelevant questions about trauma, and trying to talk us into making a false confession of insanity. But at the end of the hour, he allowed us to leave without a diagnosis.

"The next day, we met a new head-mate, Canto The Clown. In hindsight, we never should have trusted him, but he was friendly and had a great sense of humour. And most importantly, he offered us hope at a time when the world seemed determined to hate us. He said our multiplicity was not a disease, but something to be proud of, and people would understand that if we just _expressed ourselves_. We were so naive, and that Clown made us think we could change the world.

"We started to blog about our multiplicity. At first nobody listened to us, but then The Clown started controlling our body, and he was very, very good at it. He shouted at people who referred to us by the wrong pronouns, something we had never minded before. He compelled us to scorn strangers for their 'privilege', and rant to our friends about social justice. He distorted our opinions out of proportion, telling us that this was the right way to think. And without realising it, we had become little more than a parody of our former self.

"It was all too late when we found out The Clown was an artificially implanted head-mate, created by the SPCC to make us doubt our own existence. That was the true purpose of the therapy session. Their best weapon was not denial, not shame, but ridicule. So they sent a clown. I must stress that by then it was too late to stop him. No one could take our multiplicity seriously any more, not even Andie. That was when she stopped believing in us. The Clown had been waiting a long time for this to happen. He tricked her into thinking that only one head-mate was the one true consciousness of Andrea Curtis, and it was not her but The Clown. So, believing herself to be an illusion created by a mental illness, she gave away everything. She gave him everything he needed to take over our body completely.

"The Clown has been in charge ever since. He sealed himself away inside a hyperbolic fortress at the centre of the galaxy, which is guarded by our greatest fears."

"It didn't seem that scary," muttered Edwin.

"It is from there that he controls the body. And he has developed quite a knack for it. He even imprisoned Andie alongside him. That way he will always be able to get information out of her, to find out exactly what she would say or do in an uncertain situation, all the better for pretending to be her.

"As far as those in the real world can tell, Andrea Curtis has recovered well from her multiple personality disorder. Her head-mates. no longer control her. Nobody out there could possibly know that this is a mere mockery of the truth, and that the Andie they knew has been absent for three years, replaced with a Clown."

Thuban shut the book. When he put it back on the shelf, the title on the cover had changed to _140th Edition_.

"That's awful!" said Chandra.

"Well duh," said Rana.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" she continued.

"I'm afraid not," said Thuban. "And since you can't leave either-"

"You'll probably stay here till we die," Rana cut in.

"Or until The Clown gets tired of us," said Max.

There was silence, until Edwin spoke.

"Wait. I have an idea."

"Will it actually work?" asked Chandra.

"I think so. It depends if we can distract The Clown for long enough to get Andrea into The Institute's head office."

Now he had their attention. Edwin described the rest of his plan to them.

"It won't work," Max said when he had finished.

"Anything is worth a try," said Chandra.

"No, not just anything," said Thuban. "But this one is worth a try."

"It is?!" said Max.

Thuban continued. "Edwin and Chandra, if your plan is a success, I don't know how we would ever repay you. What could we possibly give you in return for defeating The Clown?"

"Oh, I can think of something," said Edwin.

"And what would that be?"

"A head-mate. One of yours I suppose."

They scowled at Edwin's request.

"What, why would you want that?!"

"Let me explain," said Edwin. "If I was to fight for the rights of multiples like you, I would have to become one of you."

"But how would you do that for us?"

"By letting the world know that you exist. No one believes in multiples right now because SPCC and The Institute are trying to silence them. Right now they are knowingly destroying evidence of multiplicity because it makes them look bad. It's not right. As a senior staff member of The Institute, I might stand a chance at changing their minds. But as a multiple system myself, I could do so much more. I'd be living proof of their existence, so they'd have no choice but to listen to me. With that power, I would end their institutionalised cruelty towards multiples, so no one like Andrea has to suffer again. Just give me a chance to do this, and maybe then, other people will start to accept us for what we are."

"But," said Thuban. "Giving you a head-mate? This is a serious psychological condition, not some kind of trading card game!"

"Actually," said Chandra. "If the SPCC was able to implant The Clown into this system, it should also be possible to transfer head-mates. from one head to another."

"But... one cannot simply become a multiple system. Your brain is fundamentally different from ours."

"But what if he can?" said Max. "We might not be so different after all."

They decided to go back to discuss it with the others. They would have to learn to trust Edwin, but since the mood in Andromeda had changed from hostility to hope, such things now seemed to be possible. While they walked, first edition copies of the new memories began to materialise on the bookshelves. These told of a renewed sense of purpose, now that they had a plan to save Andie, along with the hope, however small, that they could change the wider world. Even Max walked with a spring in his step.

When they crossed the threshold of the memory bank, there was a great comet in the sky that Andromeda had not seen in almost four years. The head-mates. knew what it meant. It was a harbinger of change. Somehow Chandra knew this as well. They knew too that there was work to be done, but for now, all they could do was gaze into the depths of the imaginary sky, and wonder.

And Edwin smiled to himself. He had been lucky to get this far, and being trapped in someone else's head was only a minor inconvenience. The Institute would deal with the consequences. They could erase as many memories as they liked, but they would not be able to forget the Wöller incident. Edwin would make sure of it. So what if he had to become multiple in order to do so?

If he played his cards just right, then deliberately inflicting himself with a mental illness might end up being the best career move he ever made.

***

#  Interlude 7

Many centuries ago, a great man had a vision - a vision of a world set free, a world without limits, an empire of glory without end. And from the vision of this glorious man, this great English king, an Institution was born. But for the Empire of Man to live eternal, it was necessary to bring it together as one. Machines were set in motion that were, within a few hundred years, to unify the world. However, mankind was not ready for the gift this king and his descendants had to give, and their careful preparations, which were meant to bring about world peace, instead gave us world war.

During world wars one and two, it was necessary for The Institute to go underground. The Coordinator, so great was his foresight, was well aware that the people of the Earth would persecute The Institute for the role they inadvertently played in the crucial events leading to the first great wars. They would not see, in their savagery and ignorance, the true nature of the monster, Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand, nor the wondrous vision of The Institute.

However, thanks to the valiant efforts of The Coordinator, working in secret for all mankind, the allies won the day, and in 1955 The Institute came out of hiding and began over one hundred years of advancement and success which propelled the world to new frontiers, never before imagined. So much good work was done; so many lives were saved by medical advances brought about by Institute research; so much new technology was created that brought us all together in ways previously thought unimaginable. And yet, even The Coordinator could not foresee the terrors of the third world war.

No one could have imagined the atrocities to which mankind would sink, the evils that would be committed, the destruction that would be wrought. No one ever believed that we would come so close to annihilation. The world needed a scape goat and chose The Institute. Mass arrests, executions, and the theft of property and research materials tore The Institute to shreds. But The Coordinator, far from succumbing to rage, far from being destroyed, accepted this burden as his duty and allowed the loss of the present for the sake of the future.

Finally, out of the ashes of WWIII, the World Union was born and, in 2150, President Cartwright was elected to office. This man, of true vision, was made aware of the illustrious past and the terrible treatment that The Institute suffered. He made it his personal mission to rebuild The Institute anew, with all the resources and expertise of an International Laboratory.

Since then, The Institute has gone from strength to strength, despite insidious rumours and wild-eyed conspiracy theories. Secret facilities - whole villages of people kept in ignorance for the purposes of human research; mental illness amongst the employees – prisons filled with screaming patients – all were proven unfounded, baseless lies. The instigators of this slander were brought to justice a decade ago and we continue unabated in our mission to raise the human race to divine heights through the advancement and betterment of all mankind, now.

As you move through this museum, you shall see how early forms of The Institute influenced great moments in history: the American War of Independence and Civil War, Napoleon's campaigns and the downfall of the Nazi regime. Progress further towards the present day to see how the foresight of The Coordinator put a man and later a base on the moon. And finally, meet The Coordinator himself and President Cartwright in our Hall of Heroes. Don't forget to the visit the gift shop before you leave, where you can sign up to volunteer at your nearest Institute facility, as well as purchase the fine souvenirs on sale there.

Now, step through the doors and proceed in a clockwise fashion through... The History of The Institute - the greatest story ever told! Have a great day and enjoy your visit. See you again soon!

***

#  Kansy

##  Nel Taylor

Kansy stepped out of her front door, stretching her thin arms above her head with a yawn as her eyes met the rising sun. The feel in the air around her spoke of yet another warm sunny day ahead. Pulling the rickety wooden door quietly closed behind her, the young girl made her way around to the back of their house. It hadn't been more than a shack when Kansy's mother and father had first moved in, but over the years her father had worked steadily to improve the structure of the wooden walls, thicken up the thatch straw roof and install shutters over the window holes to keep out the chill wind. He had even allowed Kansy to decorate them with brightly coloured chalks and powders they had made together, giving the house a cheery look. Kansy's friends had nicknamed it the rainbow house and the name had stuck.

Her father usually worked down at the mill, grinding up corn to make flour and such for the bakery at the end of the street. He was good at his job, and everyone said that one day he might even inherit the mill from the owner, a Mr Townsend, who was getting on in years now and had a thick crown of white hair on the top of his head, and a thick white beard. The mill workers toiled away for many long, hard hours each day. The pay wasn't bad though, according to her father, and the people often came home with a smile on their face at the end of the day. Kansy's father always said that a well-paid and enjoyable job was more than many could hope for, so they should be thankful to Mr Townsend. Kansy always made sure to include him in her thanks at prayers.

Today was a Sunday, so her father was sleeping in past dawn along with her mother. That left the job of water collection to Kansy. She didn't mind on days like today, when the dirt track was dry and the morning sun was warming the air. She hated it on rainy days though, as it seemed to take forever and the buckets weighed twice as much. Picking the two up from the back of the house, Kansy set off for the well. She grinned at a few of her neighbours as she passed. Many were also rising early to get the daily chores out of the way before spending the rest of the day with family and at the town church. A few joined her on the walk to the well, and she passed the time chatting idly to the town's inhabitants.

Kansy was a popular child, both with the adults and other children of the town. She had thick, shiny brown hair that flowed in waves off of her shoulders and somehow always seemed to be a mess. Her dark eyes and dark skin complemented it well and a smile was always brightening up her complexion. It was this smile that made her so approachable, and with a sunny disposition alongside it she was firm friends with just about everyone.

Later on, clad in her best Sunday dress and only pair of boots, Kansy spotted the newcomers for the first time. A slight frown of confusion crossed her face, and she tugged on her mother's arm.

"What is it dear?" Her mother was the spitting image of Kansy, only with more striking features that had once made her the talk of the town. Age now lined her face, though it was lines of laughter rather than weariness that surrounded her eyes.

"Who are those men? And why are they wearing such funny clothes?" Kansy pointed at the men in the white suits and strange white coats. All of them had a slight frown on their faces as they stood on the dirt track and it was clear none of them had been expecting so much dust in the air. Already the bottoms of their perfect trousers were stained brown from the dust. Kansy tried to cover up a giggle at their apparent annoyance.

Her mother looked over at them and frowned. "They look like men from the city; though what they are doing here I couldn't say. Keep out of their way dear."

Kansy's father was up ahead with her big brother Thom. He had started up at the mill as an apprentice a few weeks back, and since then he had more often taken his place at his father's side, no longer a child but considered a man of his own right. Kansy was very proud of him, and had told him so when he had returned home after his first day at the mill in his new waistcoat and trousers that were the uniform there. He had smiled down at her and given her his apprentices' hat to wear for the rest of the evening, making her feel special.

Thom and her father also seemed to have noticed the men as they kept glancing in their direction, deep in discussion. Many of the other people on the street were also looking at them, several with a worried frown that matched the one on Kansy's mother's face. She wondered what was going on. Who were these men that they could cause such a stir in the town? Maybe they were looking for new workers for the city and people were worrying about leaving? People had left for the city before and no one ever really seemed to come back.

Kansy forgot about them as she listened to the church service. Most of it was boring and went over her head, but the priest did tell one of her favourite stories and they sang some good songs which she sang at the top of her voice. At the end, it was announced that there was to be a town meeting later that day and all were invited to attend, as there was a 'special opportunity' for some of the residents. The priest was looking directly at Kansy as he said this, and she wondered what a 'special opportunity' was. Her father would be going along to the town meeting later on, so maybe she would find out from him. Maybe she would even be allowed to go too!

Kansy's mother seemed to notice her keenness to go to this meeting, but instead of encouraging her she kept Kansy busy all day helping in the kitchen and doing some mending that had been forgotten about in the back of the cupboard. Kansy grumbled that Sundays were supposed to be days of rest, not days of work, and earned herself a stern word from her mother. Keeping quiet, she watched as her father and brother left for the meeting, along with some of the other men and women from the surrounding houses. She wished so hard that she was going too. Instead she helped her mother prepare the dinner, and got to lick out the bowl from the cake mix as a treat. Having enough to make cake in the first place was a really big treat, but it was in celebration of her brother's enrolment at the mill, a week late as they hadn't had the money for ingredients until that Friday.

When they returned a few hours later, Thom looked sulky and her father looked worried. With barely a glance at his children, their father told both of them to go up to their room and not to come down until they were told. Both Kansy and Thom did as he said immediately; when he used that tone of voice you didn't dare argue. Kansy gave Thom a confused look, and he whispered to her, "Not here, upstairs."

When they arrived in their small shared room, Thom shut the door behind them before flopping onto their shared bed. Kansy was squirming with the want to know what had gone on at the meeting, and barely waited until the door was shut before bursting out with her questions in a fierce but hushed whisper.

"What did the people at the meeting say? Did they talk to dad? What did they want? What happened?"

"Whoa whoa whoa! One thing at a time squirt" Thom laughed at her eagerness. He only ever called her squirt to annoy her, and she stuck out her tongue in reply.

"Alright" he said, sitting up once more and gesturing for her to sit opposite him, "You 'member those men in town earlier? The ones dressed all funny like in those white clothes?"

Kansy nodded seriously. Maybe now she would get to find out what they had been doing.

"Well, they were at the meeting. They said they had this 'special opportunity' for some of the kids here in town. They said they would get to go on a sort of trip thing into the city and see this big factory place they've got out there. The lucky ones get to eat all posh food and sleep in all posh digs and whatnot, and their families get paid for it. All they got to do is take part in some experiments for a coupla days an' then they get returned home again right as rain."

Kansy was nearly bouncing with excitement now. A trip into the city! Deep down she had always wanted to see the place, provided she got to come home again to the rainbow cottage afterwards. And now she might get the chance! She looked up at her brother, excitement gleaming in her eyes, and was shocked to see annoyance in his face.

"S'all right for you" he grumbled, good mood evaporating as quickly as it had come. "You're the right age. They said I were too old to go". He flopped back down onto the bed, the sulky expression he had worn when he had returned home back on his face. "Pa and Ma are probably talkin' now about whether you should be allowed to go or not. They said all the kids of the right age are in with a chance. The draw is tomorrow, down at town hall after work."

Kansy couldn't keep still for the rest of that afternoon. The whole thing sounded so exciting! And the extra money would be so helpful; her father really needed new clothes for work and the bed cover that Kansy and Thom used at night was so full of holes they were using a spare table cloth as well to keep the drafts out. Her parents refused to discuss the issue with her, exchanging unreadable glances any time she brought it up before firmly changing the subject. That night, Kansy took forever getting to sleep, and when she did she had magnificent dreams of the shining city and the wonders that awaited her there.

The next day her mother made her get out all of her best clothes from the day before and clean all of the dust out of them and shine her boots. She was to look her best, her mother said, if she was to be presented that evening at the town hall. Kansy couldn't help a shriek of excitement escaping her mouth, and for that earned herself the duty of shining the rest of the Sunday best boots. The day dragged by, her ears straining for the sounds of the church bells tolling four o'clock and the end of the working day. When it did, her mother seemed to take forever putting on her boots and collecting her bag. Finally however, they set off to meet her father. At the crossroads she swapped to her father's company, whilst her mother and Thom headed back home. Before separating, Kansy gave her mother a fierce hug. Slightly shocked, her mother eventually placed her arms around her daughters shoulders, held her tight, then pushed her gently in the direction of her waiting father.

At the town hall, most of the children her age who she saw at school were there standing with their own parents. Kansy and a few of the others soon stood in a little huddle, next to a similar huddle of parents, chattering and giggling with excitement. One or two of their friends weren't there, their parents clearly not wishing for them to be involved. Others turned up late and soon the old wooden hall was abuzz with chatter.

Finally the town mayor stepped up onto the small platform at the front and tapped on the little stand until everyone was quiet.

"Welcome to you all," the mayor began. Kansy soon tuned him out as he went on at length about how pleased he was this was all going on, and wasn't the institute a wonderful place. Kansy wondered how they were supposed to know how good it all was when they had never been there before. Finally a box was brought forwards, and the Mayor began pulling names out. Kansy's was the third to be called. She jumped up with excitement and ran to the front to join the other two kids, all grinning with excitement at having been chosen. Two more names were chosen, and the groans of disappointment were clearly audible in the room from those who hadn't been chosen. The five lucky ones were given a special circle to wear around their necks to show who they were, and told to be at the town hall an hour after dawn the next day. From there, they would be taken by horse drawn carriage to the city, where they would spend five days living a luxurious life. After that they would be given a ride back home.

Kansy barely noticed her families odd silence that night at the dinner table, so excited was she that she simply chattered through it about all the exciting things that she was going to get to do. Unusually, her mother came up and tucked her in to bed that night and sang to her for the first time in years. Normally Kansy would have objected that she was too old for this kind of stuff, but it had suddenly hit her that she would be away from the rainbow cottage, her family and everything she knew for five whole days. The trip suddenly seemed very daunting and Kansy very small, so she was glad of her mother's comfort helping her drift off to sleep.

The next day both of Kansy's parents and Thom came to see her off. Her hair had been brushed nicely and she was in her best clothes for the journey. Thom carried her small bag for her all the way up the road, making Kansy feel all important. Everything happened in a flurry when they arrived at the town hall. The carriage had already arrived, and after a too hurried goodbye to her family, Kansy was whisked away and on board with the other kids and they set off for the city. All five of them leaned over the back of the carriage to wave and shout goodbye. One of them started crying, and Kansy felt tears in her own eyes. She blinked them away fiercely; she would not be seen to cry.

Soon the town was out of sight and the carriage began the steady climb up and out of the valley. The five kids in the back chattered away excitedly, playing small games and watching the scenery roll past. The driver ignored them for the most part, and they soon all became bored with the jolting motion of the cart.

Towards the afternoon Kansy must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing she knew a shout was jolting her awake. Blinking groggily in the afternoon sun, she looked up and saw...the city. Her mouth mirrored the other kids as it fell open in awe. None of them had ever seen anything so big or so busy. The city lay sprawled below them, seeming to go on and on forever in the eyes of a child. The buildings were all squashed together, and some of the ones in the middle were made of a brilliant white stone, something unheard of back in their small town. The shout had come from the gatekeeper hailing their arrival. As they passed through the big stone archway, Kansy stared at the huge wooden gates that would block the way come nightfall. Everything about this place was just...big. Then the sounds and the smells hit her, and she forgot about the little town in the mountains, forgot about the cottage with its brightly coloured shutters. All around her was this strange alien world of the city, and it washed over her like a tidal wave, engulfing everything.

The five children sat in silent awe as the carriage rattled through the city's main roads, finally shaking themselves out of it as they turned into quieter side streets. Soon they were chattering away and pointing out all the strange things around them, laughing in delight. The carriage pulled up to a set of big black gates, which swung open to admit them. They had arrived.

The institutes building was one of those big white stone ones they had seen when they had first arrived, with a big wooden door at the entrance and even glass in some of the windows! They were quickly ushered inside, complaints of tired and stiff limbs falling on deaf ears. Sharp commands were given to wipe their feet well before coming inside, and they were led off down a dark corridor by a woman with dark hair pulled tightly back from her face and wearing those same white clothes Kansy had seen back in her home town. Home. It seemed so far away now, and the five children huddled together as they were shown into a small room with a table and five chairs. Told to sit, they did so, looking around them at the unfamiliar surroundings.

From the far side of the room came the sounds of a door opening, and a smiling man came in. He seemed to be the complete opposite of Kansy's father. This man was short and slightly plump, where her father was tall and wiry with muscles gained from working in the mill. This man also had pale skin that never seemed to have seen the sunlight, whereas her father was much darker, like Kansy. This man's eyes were also a cold grey that Kansy took an instant dislike to. Her father's were a rich dark brown that always conveyed how much he loved Kansy and Thom and her mother. They could also harden to a much harsher colour when he was angry, but Kansy tried to avoid that as often as possible; she much preferred her father smiling than angry any day.

"Welcome to you all!" the man said, making a sweeping gesture that included all five of them sitting in front of him, "And I must say, I feel very privileged to have you all here today. You five are very special people, and over the next few days I will show you just how special you really are." His friendly expressions and open mannerism had made the other four kids instantly warm to this man. Kansy however still watched his eyes, and something there made her dislike him instinctively. "You will have access to all sorts of lovely things whilst you are staying with us, and what we want more than anything is for you all to have fun. There will be plenty of games this week, and nothing like hard work for any of you!" This brought a cheer from the small group at the table. Thankfully he didn't seem to notice Kansy's lack of joining in. "Now, the only thing I must ask of you is that you do not wonder the halls unattended, and that you do not touch anything you are not invited to. We do very special things here in this building, many of which are sensitive and have taken much work to put into place. They can also be dangerous to a child who does not know what they are doing, so please, follow these rules and we can all have a happy but safe time. Oh!" he slapped his face with his palm, earning a giggle from the group at the table, "What am I doing?! I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Stone. How about you all tell me your names?" He pointed around the table for each of them to say their names, telling them all how lovely and special their names were. Kansy didn't meet his eyes as she said her own name, instead fixing on his strange clothes.

"Now, come on you lot, I bet you are all starving. We have food ready for you right now if you want to follow me." At this, all five of them jumped up with excitement and hurried to follow him out. Even Kansy couldn't contain her eagerness for something to eat.

They all enjoyed the most magnificent meal any of them had ever tasted in their lives. There was meat with a slightly salty taste, rich and delicious, potatoes which were soft and fluffy, and dark green vegetables sitting alongside of bright orange carrots. This was the kind of luxurious food they only ever saw on special occasions like Christmas and Easter. There was even gravy to go with it all. Afterwards there were apples, cooked with sugar so they were sharp and yet sweet at the same time and drizzled with cream. It was the best food any of them had ever tasted. Once they had finished they were taken into a room with a warm glowing fire, where they played card games and told stories until well after the sun went down. Then, yawning, they were led through the maze of dark corridors to a set of rooms. The three girls were led into one and the two boys away to another further down. There they found they each had their own beds and own little wash stand and own box in which to put all of their things.

Instead of staying up late and whispering from all the excitement like they had expected to, the girls quickly dropped off to sleep, exhausted from all the things that had happened since that morning. They barely even had chance to think of home.

That night, Kansy woke suddenly. She wasn't sure what it was that had pulled her up out of the dreamless depths of sleep, but she was now definitely awake. Sitting up carefully, she looked around. The room was completely black. She couldn't even see the hand in front of her face. A slight rustling from her left was one of the other girls turning over in her sleep. Otherwise, the room was completely silent. Slipping her legs out from under the covers, Kansy stood up. The stone floor was icy cold beneath her bare feet, and she winced, careful not to gasp aloud and wake up one of the others. She could see the small chink of moonlight coming from the far side of the room where she knew the shutters to be. Treading carefully, she stepped around the end of the beds and over to the window. Lifting the latch gently, she pulled the shutters open.

Moonlight streamed into the room, making a strange pattern on the stone floor. Outside she could see the courtyard where they had first come in on the carriage. The trees made strange shadowy shapes at the edges, and the other windows and front door were just black holes in the face of the white stone building. Kansy blinked. There, standing in the middle of the courtyard, was a person. A girl, or so she thought, not much shorter than Thom, standing with her back to Kansy. Her dress was the colour of moonlight, her hair as dark as the sky, and Kansy got a strange feeling from her. A feeling like she wasn't really there.

The girl turned, eyes looking straight into Kansy. She stepped back with a gasp, forgetting her sleeping room mates. The girl stared straight at her eyes fixing her in place. Kansy wanted to cry out, but her throat constricted, preventing her from making any noise. That gaze was so intense...it was like a whole town full of people staring at you, a whole city.

With a start Kansy awoke. It was morning, and a strange woman was pulling open the shutters, letting the sunlight fill the room. Next to her, the other two girls were also waking up. She shivered at the memory of the girl in the moonlight. Had that really just been a dream? The memory of the icy cold stone floor on her feet felt so real.

Kansy wasn't given much time to think it over. No sooner were the shutters pulled back, the girls were urged to hurry and get dressed as they had a big day ahead of them. They were taken back to the dining room, where a breakfast of delicious porridge with some sort of sweet and sticky liquid was served. They were then each taken to a separate room and asked a long list of questions about their everyday lives. They were then weighed and measured, had something stuck in their mouths and then made to drink a strange looking blue liquid with a really cold taste.

Kansy was confused by all this, but all the adults were being really nice and even gave her a sweet for being good. At lunch time, over bowls of a thick soup and delicious bread (it didn't even have any gritty bits in) the five of them discussed these strange events. They were all confused as to what was going on, but none of the others were worried by it. They had been told about experiments, so they guessed this was what they meant.

That afternoon Kansy was taken to a different room where she had a funny hat placed on her head and was shown a bunch of pictures. The hat was like a net of strange metal bits with sharp pointy bits that dug into her skin. She then played a few card games with a lovely nurse lady, still wearing the hat. Kansy was pleased as she won most of them. Her favourite was the game where she got to shout 'snap' really loudly and bang the table. The nurse then left her sitting there alone whilst she studied some weird box in the corner. It was all rather odd, but nothing bad happened. That second evening they had another delicious dinner and played more games before bed. This time, Kansy took longer to fall asleep as she was thinking about the girl in the moonlight from the night before. What if she came back again tonight? None of the other kids had mentioned seeing her, none of them had even woken up the night before, and Kansy had started to wonder whether she had dreamed it all herself. A sudden pang of longing overcame her, and she realised just how far away from home she really was. Tears silently rolled down her cheeks in the dark as her thoughts turned to her mother and father, to Thom alone in their little room in the rainbow cottage. With thoughts of her family in mind, Kansy cried herself to sleep.

As the night before, something pulled Kansy out from the depths of sleep in the middle of the night. The room itself felt cold this time, as if it were the middle of winter back in the rainbow cottage and they had forgotten to put the wool blankets over the window holes to extra shield from the cold. Opening her eyes, Kansy was surprised to find she could see perfectly well, even though her body was telling her it should still be the middle of the night. She looked slowly around the room, at the two sleeping girls in the beds nearby and the bare walls. In the far corner, the girl from the moonlit courtyard was standing there, watching Kansy. Tonight she was dressed in clothes the colour of stonework, and Kansy could see her hair was the colour of wood, not the midnight black she had thought it to be the night before. Her face was kindly, though Kansy didn't dare meet her eyes as she had done so accidentally before.

The woman smiled and took a step forwards, halting at the foot of Kansy's bed. The girl swallowed nervously.

"You are...different child. Different to those others who were here before. You need not be afraid, I will not harm you. I merely wished to see the one who watched me in the moonlight."

"W-who are you?" Kansy's voice caught in her throat, dry from sleep, making her stutter slightly. The woman smiled at her question.

"They call me Little Mother. Tell me child, do you like it here?"

Kansy thought about the answer. "They give us nice things, and we get to play when normally we have to work."

"But...?" Little Mother encouraged with a smile and a gesture.

Kansy frowned thoughtfully. "I dunno. Something don't feel right about it all, though the others don't seem to have noticed. And there's something in Dr. Stone's eyes, he's creepy. He likes to pretend he's all nice and huggy, but to me he's just creepy. All the others love him. And then there are those weird experimenty things they're doing. I dunno. It's not the magical place they said it was." As she gave voice to her feelings, Kansy realised she had been feeling uneasy since she had woken up in the carriage and found herself in the city. Something about the whole thing just felt wrong somehow.

"Tell me child," Little Mother spoke up, "Do you know what it is they do here?" Kansy shook her head. Little Mother sighed then, her smile taking on a pained expression. "You soon will. Sleep now Kansy-child, sleep a dreamless sleep. You will need your strength for tomorrow." With that, the questions that had been bubbling to the surface of Kansy's mind melted into the background. She felt her eyelids growing heavy, and gentle hands pulling the cover back over her.

The next day had to be one of the most amazing days of Kansy's young life. After breakfast, she was taken back to the room from the previous day. This time she had little button things with what looked like string connected to them stuck all over the outside of her head. It made her head itch like crazy, but Dr. Stone firmly told her not to touch them. Finally, they lowered a helmet onto her head that came down completely over her eyes. It smelled strange and made her uncomfortable, but again Dr. Stone told her to sit still with a tone that made her obey instantly.

Suddenly a tingling sensation ran all over the top of her head, making her squeak in surprise. Colours burst into being in front of her eyes, making her draw back in shock and feel the wooden back of the chair press against her. Slowly, the colours resolved themselves, until Kansy found herself looking at the interior of a plain wooden room with no visible doors or windows.

"Kansy?" Dr. Stone's voice came to her clearly, though from what direction she couldn't tell. "Kansy, you should be able to see a room around you, correct?" She nodded. "You have to say it out loud dear child, I can't see if you move your head from here." With a swallow, Kansy said, "Yes".

"Good." Dr. Stone sounded back to his cheery self, not the harsh snappy man that had been in the room with her during the set up. "Now dear child, I want you to think about a door. A door that would fit into this room, one that would let other people in and out. Can you see it?"

Kansy instantly remembered the brightly painted door of the rainbow cottage, and in a blink it was in the wall in front of her. She gasped in surprise, hearing Dr. Stone's laugh nearby at her response.

"Well done Kansy, you're really good at this. Now, I'm on the other side of this door, may I please come in and join you?"

Kansy grew nervous at this. This room felt almost private to her, and she wasn't sure she wanted Dr. Stone coming inside. She must have hesitated for too long, for Dr. Stone spoke again.

"Come now Kansy, you promised us you would help in our experiments. Let me in, I'm not going to bite."

At his words she suddenly thought of her family back home, and quickly stepped forwards. Reaching out, she turned the handle and opened the door. Dr. Stone stood outside, looking exactly as he had before he had put the strange helmet on her head. The helmet, Kansy suddenly realised, that she could no longer feel.

"My my, I have to say Kansy you have taken to this like a fish to water! This is amazing my dear child, absolutely amazing!" He rubbed his hands together almost greedily, and stepped inside. "Now my dear, what do you think so far? Isn't this technology simply amazing?" Kansy wasn't entirely sure what the word 'technology' meant, but Dr. Stone's grin suggested that he expected her to agree, so she nodded and forced a smile onto her face. She wasn't one hundred percent sure what was going on here, but it almost felt like the two of them were standing somewhere not in the institute, but somewhere instead created from her own mind. This didn't feel made up either; this wasn't some let's pretend game that they had often played back at home. This felt very, very real.

"Now Kansy my dear, I'm going to ask you to think about certain different objects, and I want you to try and create them in this room with us. Is that OK with you?"

Kansy nodded, it sounded easy enough and not very dangerous. Dr. Stone started reeling off a list of simple objects, and responded with claps and encouragement for her each time she easily made the object appear. He started with things like a box or a ball, and moved on to more complicated things like chairs and rugs. Finally he seemed satisfied with her abilities and turned to her once more with a smile.

"I have to say Kansy dear; your abilities in here are truly remarkable. We have not seen this level of success in any other of our subjects before. You are a gifted child."

Despite herself, Kansy felt a glow of pride rise up inside as he said these words. He sounded like he really meant it. In recent weeks, all of her parent's pride and attention had been, rightly, focused on her brother. To have a complete stranger praise her so for doing something she didn't really understand made her very happy. Maybe she had misjudged him after all.

"Now Kansy, I think you are ready for the next step up, do you?"

She nodded eagerly. This was beginning to get fun, and the creepiness from earlier faded from her mind. He smiled at her response, his eagerness barely contained. He explained what he wanted her to do, going over each part carefully and making sure she understood before going on to the next point. Finally he stepped back, allowing her to begin.

Kansy focused, and focused hard. She walked forward, starting at the strange, floaty feeling she got when she walked. Reaching out, she closed her hand around the door handle and twisted. Outside lay the landscape on the edge of her little town; the green and yellow rolling fields that doubled up as both farmland and playground for the local kids. Kansy gasped in surprise at the whole realness of the situation. It was truly as if she was at home. She turned in delight to look down towards the town for the rainbow cottage. Behind her lay a small wooden shack that should never have been there. Standing in the doorway was Dr. Stone who looked amazed at the scenery around him.

"Incredible..." he breathed as he stepped out of the wooden shack and ran his hands over the door frame. "I have never been in a scenario as realistic as this one. Kansy, you are an incredible child."

Kansy wasn't entirely sure what to do with this, so she started skipping in the rhythm of one of the games she played with her friends in these fields. She danced the steps with ease, waiting to be told what to do next. She knew Dr. Stone wanted her to find something in here, and he said she would know it when she saw it. Kansy wasn't sure what to think of this. How was she supposed to know where to find something when she didn't know what that something was? And what would happen when she did?

As the dance ended she looked up at Dr. Stone. He looked different here, younger somehow, and yet still old. Kansy shook her head in an attempt to clear this double image from her vision.

"Shall we go then Kansy? Just walk where you will, you will find the entrance naturally." Dr. Stone gave her an encouraging smile, gesturing for her to walk. Nerves raced through her then, and she simply walked blindly in the direction he pointed in, having no other idea where to go.

The two of them walked up the gentle hill, moving away from the town. Kansy didn't like looking back towards the houses. For some reason, the town itself looked all fuzzy and out of focus. It gave her a headache trying to look at it, so she ended up going in the opposite direction. Behind her, Kansy could hear Dr. Stone starting to breathe hard as the slope steepened.

A sudden urge gripped Kansy, and she sped up, almost running up the hill by the end as whatever it was called her forwards into the trees at the base of the mountains at this end of the town. At the edge of her hearing she heard Dr. Stone calling to her, but a loud ringing in her ears was drowning out almost all other sounds.

When she reached the first clearing of the woods, Kansy stopped. Her breath coming in quick gasps, she looked around slightly bewildered. She hadn't come up to this clearing since last summer, when four of them had made a den with the big leafy branches of a fallen tree. They had played in there day after day, playing invaders and battling with branches and pine cone arrows. They had kept on going until the harvest time came and half of the playmates had to help in the fields.

The fallen tree was right where it had been that last summer. Kansy was fairly certain that some of the men had been up since they had stopped playing, and chopped it up for firewood to see them through the winter months. Yet here it still was, the long leafy branches hiding the entrance to the den. As her eyes fell on it, Kansy knew that it was this that Dr. Stone was looking for. This was an entrance to...to what? She could feel a sort of buzzing coming from behind that entrance. It felt all warm and fuzzy, like the feeling you get when you come into a warm home from a cold outside, or the feeling you get when you collapse, breathless, on the floor surrounded by your friends after a brilliant game of chase, or when you curl up with your family and know you are loved.

"Is this it Kansy? Is the entrance in here?" Dr. Stone sounded breathless as he entered the clearing, though the gleam of excitement was still in his eyes. Kansy said nothing, not sure what to do. Could she trust this strange, plump, grey eyed man with this warm buzzy energy? Kansy met his eyes for the first time since that first day, and a chill ran up her spine. Those cold, grey eyes seemed full of malicious glee at having found this entrance. She dreaded to think what he would do with it if he got his hands on it.

"Come on now Kansy dear, open it up. We still have much to do." Dr. Stone gestured impatiently at the fallen tree. Kansy shook her head, slowly backing away from him. He frowned at her sudden reluctance, stepping forwards and reaching out to her. "Kansy, my dear child, there is nothing to fear. Come now, you could be at the centre of the most amazing discovery of this age! You could help us revolutionise how the entire world works."

She shook her head harder, backing up further still. She felt a solid wall come up to meet her back, and she grasped for the handle she knew would be there.

"Kansy!"

She pushed open the door, and fell through into the dark. The strong unpleasant smell of the strange hat overwhelmed her senses, making her start coughing and scrabbling at her head. Pulling it off, Kansy found herself back in the room, with the strange buttons with string all over her head and one of the nurses hurrying forwards. To her dismay, Kansy found that she was sobbing, tears pouring down her face. The nurse was murmuring something to her, hands gentle as she removed the buttons from her head. She felt numb and scared as the nurse gently led her out of the room. She was given a warm bath, her long hair being gently washed for her to get rid of the strange sticky substance used to stick the buttons in place.

Kansy slowly recovered, giggling as the nurse splashed a duck up and down in the tin bath tub, giving it a silly squeaky voice. She was dried off with soft towels and taken across to the dining room where she joined the other kids. They were soon all laughing and joking as they had done the previous evenings, though Kansy noticed that no one mentioned anything that had occurred that afternoon. She didn't press it; those cold grey eyes and that maddened hungry look that had been on Dr. Stone's face as she had fallen through the door still haunted her.

Kansy was more exhausted than she realised, for no sooner had her head hit the pillow she was in a deep sleep. Her eyelids were heavy when she awoke, though she forced them open, this time knowing what to expect. Little Mother was sitting on the edge of the bed. Tonight she was dressed in the deep blues and greys of storm clouds, with her hair the dark colour of water at night. Kansy could hear a storm raging against the shutters outside, reasoning this as why she was comparing Little Mother to the rain.

"You did well child. You chose well." Her voice was light and airy, with a deeper grounded tone somewhere beneath it all. Kansy looked up at her, meeting her eyes unflinching this time.

"What was in there that he wanted to see? What was it I stopped him getting to?"

Little mother smiled at her, an expression so filled with sadness it made Kansy jump up and hug her tightly as she would her mother whenever she looked sad. Little Mother rested her arms gently around the girl, resting her cheek on the top of her head.

"You stopped him from finding me child. You prevented a great sadness from falling on this world long before its time. You have been so brave this far my child, I dare not ask you to do more. But ask I must. If you will come with me? I can show you more."

Kansy looked up into her deep eyes, and stood up on the cold stone floor. She nodded as seriously as she could, earning herself an amused smile from Little Mother. Taking Kansy's hand, she walked to the door of the bedroom and out into the hall. Kansy didn't even think to look back to her sleeping friends.

Outside, the hallway...wasn't the hallway any more. Instead they stood upon a hard black surface with strange white and yellow lines on it in places. Large, monstrous boxy machines on wheels were strewn all over the place, most bent and crumpled, some with the wheels facing the sky. It was daytime, or so she guessed, but the sky was a deep rolling grey. Big buildings stood all around her, though they were unlike any buildings Kansy had ever seen. They were made of a reddish brown stuff, and there was more glass around than she ever thought possible. Most of it was shattered on the ground all around them, though some stood in jagged patches in the window holes, leading into the dark interiors of the buildings. The wind tore at strange objects, making them whirl around with the dust and off down the street. Little Mother led Kansy onwards, letting her take in this strange alien world.

"This is what this city would have become, had you allowed Dr. Stone to gain access to the energy. We are many years into the future now child, but these events were not supposed to happen until further still. You are helping me prevent that."

As they walked, Kansy realised there was no sight or sound of any living creature, save for herself and Little Mother walking at her side. She pressed in close, not wanting to be separated or lost in this strange and desolate landscape. As they came to the end of one of the larger buildings, a place which must have once been some form of park came into view. Now however, it was a wasteland of dead plant life. Rough stumps lay now where trees should once have stood, and where grass had been underfoot there now lay a soggy brown mess of rotting plant mass. No birds sang, no dogs barked. Kansy realised that this land was truly dead.

"The institute means well," Little Mother's voice cut into Kansy's horrified thoughts, dragging her back to the present. "They never thought this would happen. They thought they could use the life force of the planet to sustain themselves forever. They never realised that they would always end up taking more than they could give. In the end they took too much. They hurt the planet too much, and ended the cycle. Now there is nothing but death."

Kansy could feel the tears falling from her eyes, making her vision all watery. This couldn't be her world, it just couldn't. It was too horrible to even think about.

"We have to stop them from trying again child. You must destroy their equipment. Without it they have no hope of replicating what they did today. Without it, we can push this future back until it won't matter any more."

She looked down at Kansy, her own eyes swimming with tears that fell like silver from her eyes. Kansy felt as if her heart would break, and it was then she knew she had to help, no matter what. There was just one problem.

"I-I don't know how," she managed to choke out through her tears. Little Mother crouched down and took Kansy in her arms.

"Hush little one, hush. I am with you. Close your eyes."

Kansy did so, and when she opened them again she was alone, out in the corridor outside of the room with the strange hats. Wasting no time, before she lost her nerve, she headed inside. The door creaked alarmingly loudly, something she hadn't noticed in the daylight. Without bothering to shut it behind her, Kansy ran across the room to where she had seen the nurse and Dr. Stone take the hats from. There was a cupboard there which mercifully wasn't locked. Inside was a load of that strange stringy stuff that had been attached to the buttons on her head. She looked at it all in confusion, what was she to do now?

Voices echoed down the corridor outside, making Kansy nearly shriek out loud. Hands clasped firmly over her own mouth, she bolted for the nearby desk where she dived underneath and huddled there, trying to breathe quietly, heart racing.

"I'm sure I heard nothing down here Dr. Stone. The children were all worn out after today's tests; I highly doubt any of them are wondering around this late. Besides, where would they go?"

"I'm telling you Sandra I heard a noise down here. And look, they might..." There was a long pause. "I know I locked that door before finishing for the night. Someone is definitely down here."

Kansy heard the door creak loudly as it was pushed further open and the flickering light of a candle illuminated the room. She curled up tighter, hands tightly over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She was so scared of what they would do when they found her, she would be in so much trouble!

Footsteps creaked over the wooden boards, and a gentle thud above her head told her that Dr. Stone had placed the candle down on the desk.

"Looks like they've been messing with the wiring. Good lord, this could set us back months! And I was so close with that kid today. If I can just push her that bit further, we will have the access we need."

A crash of thunder echoed through the building, followed by a loud racket coming from a ways down the corridor. Dr. Stone cursed, words Kansy had never even heard, before racing out of the room, followed closely by Sandra. Kansy crawled her way out from under the desk. It was as if a voice was whispering to her what to do. She reached inside the bottom draw of the desk and pulled out two bottles of clear liquid, which she quickly emptied all over the 'wires' inside the cupboards, and all over the floor. She then threw all of the papers she could find into the mess she had made. Finally she took the candle up, took a deep breath, and threw it at the cupboard.

The effect was instantaneous. The liquid caught on fire with a flash of blue flame. Sparks flew out of the cupboard, making Kansy back away with a squeak. The flames licked up the wood, and down onto the floor where they greedily ate away at the scattered papers and cloth rugs that lay there. Thick black smoke began filling the room, and Kansy fled. The same voice seemed to whisper directions to her. At one point, before she even knew what she was doing she dived into a nearby cupboard and closed the door, breathing hard as she hid in the dark. Footsteps pounded past her hiding place and she could hear shouts in the distance. She had to get back to the bedroom and fast, before she was missed.

Luck was on her side, and Kansy made it back into her bed mere moments before the door was burst open and a nurse came in shouting for them to get up. A strange fuzziness seemed to have settled over Kansy, and she allowed herself to be bundled along with the other four, barely aware of what was going on. Shouts were coming from the distance, and someone was ringing a bell nearby. Thick black smoke poured out of one of the windows, and the nurses were quick to lead the five of them away. The rain was still pouring down from the sky, soaking them all in seconds. As water dripped from Kansy's hair, she could have sworn she saw a figure, dressed in moonlight and with rain clouds for hair waving to her from the shadows. Then the figure was gone, and Kansy was bundled off into the night to a place of shelter and safety.

The next day found them fitted out with new clothes and each with a new toy. Much of the institute had been damaged in the fire from the previous night, caused by the storm blowing a candle over it was said, and so the children were to be sent home early. This was not met with groans of disappointment as expected, but rather a quiet acceptance from all of them. The fire, along with some of their experiences in the institute, would stay with them all for some time to come. Kansy more than the rest. The cart journey back home seemed to take no time, and before she knew it her mother's arms were around her once more, and the comforting sounds and smells of home were around her. She slept deeply that first night back in her own bed, rising late for the first time in years. Her mother had given her a day off chores and such to recover from the events of the city, and Kansy took the time to head up to the clearing in the woods.

As she had thought, the fallen tree was long gone, and there was nothing left to mark where it had been. Still, she dug a small hole about where she thought the entrance to their den had been, and within it she planted a small acorn she had found earlier that day. She whispered her thanks to Little Mother as she covered it back up with the earth, before heading back down the fields to the rainbow cottage, and the rest of her life.

***

#  The End

1.

I am the last of my kind. The human race is all but wiped out, and the few remaining survivors are mad. What killed us? Arrogance and our own sheer bloody mindedness. We looked out at the universe and saw a thing to control, to tame. We looked inwards and did the same thing. We failed to realise that there truly are some things that man was not meant to know. We sought them out anyway, and the knowledge has destroyed us. An entire species wiped out by its own mistakes. But more than that, we have taken our planet and solar system with us.

It is difficult to explain.

I am one of the few people who still remember what happened, what we did. In my last few lucid days I need to write it down, commit it to the cosmos to serve as a warning to other species; do not follow our path, do not do what we have done for that way lies only death and destruction. This knowledge must not die with the human race.

2.

The Ancient Ones are coming. There is nothing we can do to stop Them, praise Their great names! In times before the first single celled organism developed on that green-blue marble we call home They were here. Wandering the cosmos in great numbers. Oh how wondrous They are, and how terrible. We strove to become Them, not merely content to worship from afar. In our great folly we thought we could become gods.

Ha! The true gods now laugh at us from the farthest reaches of the universe. We have been punished for our blasphemy, all of us. Soon I will join Them to be judged. I welcome it. I am the last of the heathens, the last betrayer. The Ancient Ones will have Their revenge. All I have to do is wait. So close now, I can hear the laughter...

3.

Humanity has always strived to increase its knowledge base. We were a curious species; that has been our greatest asset, and also our downfall. In our blind arrogance we thought there was nothing we could not do, nothing we could not understand if we put our minds to it. And we were right, but we never thought through the consequences. And there were some of us who never stopped to think about the methods we used to get there.

I was one of them. The means justified the end, or so I thought. There is so much blood on my hands that I do not know if I could ever be clean, even if it weren't the end for me and the rest of my species.

For centuries we strove to unlock the mysteries of our own minds. We knew, somehow, that there was something great locked inside us, inside the grey flesh that animated our too fragile bodies. If the human race could somehow just unlock the secrets of our own brains, our own minds, then we would be invincible. So we worked for hundreds of years, increasing our knowledge. Sometimes we hurt each other to do so.

The name is lost now to time, but there was one particular organisation who were obsessed with unlocking the human mind. No one really knows why they were so focused on this one goal above all, and I'm not convinced anyone ever really knew. But they wanted those secrets, and nothing was going to stand in their way.

Even if you do not have the key for a particular lock, you can still pick it and it will open eventually, either through skill or sheer luck. I do not know which this was, but they succeeded. They—we—found what they were looking for. And then all hell broke loose.

4.

The Ancient Ones were displeased that we sought to raise ourselves up that we might walk among Them, oh yes. Only the Chosen may ascend to be with the Ancient Ones, and we elected to choose ourselves.

Our arrogance was our great folly. Could we not see that the Great Ones would mete out punishment for our audacity? Did we not see that They would smite us down that we would know our place? The Ancient Ones will brook no rivals and we dared to challenge Their mighty rule. By Their will was humanity brought to its knees, the price we paid for our knowledge. The era of humanity was glorious but brief, and it ended with fire and death. In the afterlife we will be judged by our Betters, those whom we should have realised were our Masters. I for one welcome it.

5.

It all happened so quickly. At first we simply unlocked a single human mind, tapping into the totality of potential contained within. We'd expected the early attempts to go wrong somehow, but we were met with success the first time. The test subject became more than human, became something that understood the greatest mysteries of the universe. With just one human mind unlocked we gained the knowledge required to unlock the entire species simultaneously. One mind gave us what we needed to rewrite the cosmos, they were the master key – unlock one mind and you can unlock them all! Then what could an entire race of near omnipotent beings achieve? What couldn't we achieve?

There were some in the organization who felt that only the best and brightest should be allowed to tap into their full potential. That this gift should be given out carefully to an elite cadre of certain minds who, naturally, agreed with them on certain things.

My colleagues and I disagreed. If humanity were to become gods, it was a gift that needed to be given to us all. We felt that discrimination and bigotry of any kind had no place in an enlightened mind. We thought we were doing everyone a favour, but we were wrong. We were so very wrong.

6.

Praise Them! Praise Them you miserable worms! In your folly you thought to join Them without earning the right. How typical of mankind to take what they want without checking first. Well it has doomed us all. Doomed! Much of my race is already dead, having been thrown down by Their glorious vengeance.

Sssh! Can you not hear Them? They approach, so close now I can taste the anticipation. My Masters, the Great and Ancient Ones, the First to unlock the true potential of Their minds. They will come for me too. I have escaped Their wrath so far, instead being given a separate task. Now that mine is finished They are coming to complete Theirs.

I prostrate myself before Their glory. They are everything we hope to become but never could. They are all. My counterpart seeks to warn others against the folly of opposing my Masters and I let him. We must speak the words that others may know Their glories and come to worship Them as I have, as is only right. He will fall soon. Like all the others.

I will consume him too.

7.

We rigged up a system that let us tap into the brain waves of every person on the planet. The organization had engineered the chips that were put in everyone's brain to help them access their memories and information databanks, and of course we - in turn - could access them. Now we could use it to send the signal to any person on the planet and any offset humans less than 1 AU from Earth. It took a lot of work, a lot of power and a lot of resources, but we did it. Something like 90% of the human race would receive the "upgrade" at the same time. At the time we had no idea what the consequences would be, and if I could go back in time I would shoot each and every one of us before we could flip that switch. Sadly that's not an option, even in this post-human future.

Two thirds of the population went mad almost immediately, their minds unable to process all the knowledge they suddenly contained. We realised just how little we truly knew about the universe, and for many people the sudden knowledge of what lay beyond the tiny bubble of universe we'd seen with our own eyes was too much. The new knowledge ate through them, destroying their minds and reverting those affected to some sort of brutal animalistic state. These people very quickly tore each other apart. Forming into factions, they wiped out their enemies before turning on each other. Within days Earth was a blood bath, and the human race on the brink of extinction.

Most of the remaining population developed almost superhuman powers to go with their superhuman knowledge; they became literal gods. But humanity was far from ready to ascend to the next stage of existence. We were still too petty, too jealous and too violent. Soon enough our newly born gods turned on each other too, and this time the devastation wasn't confined just to Earth. One faction destroyed the outer planets, the gas giants, and in retaliation another group detonated the sun, wiping out the inner solar system and any humans still left within the blast radius.

Fortunately my organisation had anticipated some manner of disaster on this scale, and had evacuated a number of the remaining humans. With our new understanding we had built a great sustainable ark, able to carry us and our technology; we were bound for the closest planet that could sustain us. This was the group I was part of. We thought we were safe, that we had escaped the madness that had consumed the rest of our people. There weren't many of us left, but we were confidant we could rebuild the human race from just us few. A new, better humanity, born from the ashes of the old. We thought we wouldn't make the mistakes of our forebears.

We were wrong.

8.

The post humans should have dedicated their lives to the worship of the Ancient Ones. Perhaps then we would have endured. But we were still arrogant and petty, and despite all that had happened we thought ourselves too good to merely be worshippers.

Fools!

Had we learned nothing from all the destruction? Had we not realized the grasp of the Ancient Ones was vast and iron clad? No. Humanity has always been slow to learn, and this time it cost us dear. The punishment given to the survivors of the Cataclysm was slow, but the end would come for them too.

9.

We survivors found a new home, somewhere far away from Earth where we could start a new colony of post-humans. Starting a new colony is always hard, but this time round some things were easier. We were all superhuman geniuses; we knew how to quickly remake the planet to suit ourselves, and the best way to ease the transition from uninhabited world to thriving colony. But it came at the cost of cannibalizing the Ark for the technology and raw materials.

We were doing pretty well for a while. We made it through the first year with almost no deaths. The second year came and went and we started to feel hopeful again for the first time since Earth had been lost. Very carefully we began to breed again, needing to increase our numbers as quickly as we dared. The only way to do this was artificially; every colonist had their DNA combined with that of every other colonist to produce a new child, and the foetuses were grown in artificial gestation chambers. We couldn't afford to lose the women to nine months of pregnancy, and the natural way would have grown our numbers far too slowly.

For a while everything seemed okay. We thought we had escaped the madness that had claimed the rest of our species. Our numbers were growing again, and it looked like the human race might manage to escape extinction.

The children were the first to fall to the madness, though we don't know why. Many of us blamed ourselves, for our faulty DNA or for gestating them artificially, for growing them too quickly. Whatever the reason, one night the children turned on us, turning our new colony into the same kind of bloodbath that Earth had been. Half of the adults were killed before the children fled. We grieved, we buried our dead and we created a new batch of offspring. Then the adults started going mad too.

10.

It was much slower for us. The Ancient Ones decreed that the final punishment for the human race would be a long drawn out death. Praise Them and Their infinite wisdom! At first the signs were subtle; bad dreams, memory problems. Then some of the adults started hallucinating and oh! the things an unlocked mind can dream up. They are so very clever, my Ancient Ones, they knew exactly what we deserved for our arrogance. Enhanced as we were, the humans who were yet unaffected tried to come up with treatments for their colleagues, and when that didn't work, restraints. But there is no fighting the will of the Ancient Ones; one might as well try to stop an avalanche with one's bare hands.

The madness spread, and that was when I started to understand. I alone was the favoured servant of the Ancient Ones; I alone could hear Their glory, I alone had been chosen to know Their will. And it was Their will that I should be given a glorious task. In Their name I was to hunt down the remaining unbelievers, force them to acknowledge the glory of Their name and send them on to meet their Makers.

This task I did gladly. Anything to do Their will and bring Them the greatness that They deserve.

11.

I killed them. I killed them all. The adults, the children, the unborn foetuses. All of them. There is so much blood on my hands. Is it still genocide when your species is dying anyway? I don't know. All this knowledge and I still don't know that.

I'm losing myself slowly. My lucid periods are becoming shorter and shorter and I'm spending more and more time as the other one. I want to believe that it was him that did all those awful things, but it was me. I convinced my colleagues to go against the will of the higher ups and give this gift to humanity all at once. I was the one who was tasked with bringing the survivors to this planet to try to start over. I was the one who suggested using artificial means to grow our population faster. I was the one who killed them all and I was the one who had to wash the blood off my hands. I'm the one who had to endure the nightmares and bury the bodies.

I am the last of my kind, and it is all my fault.

I won't let him win in the end though. When I die the human race dies with me, but I want to die as myself. I won't let him take that away from me. I won't let–

12.

–Fool! Did he really think that he could fight me? I am the Chosen of the Ancient Ones! I have given myself over to Them completely, and They have rewarded me! If They are satisfied I will ascend to become one of Them; if They are not They will kill me. Either way, the human race is over. All I can do now is wait. They will be here soon. I can hear Them approach. I must be patient, and I will be rewarded.

Soon.

***
