Fifteen years ago, a man named Professor Hodgeson, also known as the "child killer scientist" created a huge machine to harness the latent Psi energy found in children. Hodgeson had a vision; he saw a future in which all people had these capabilities, not only as children, but forever. He also decided that the division of psionic power would be used to decide who would rule. Because the Psi could be more dangerous, more deadly, more destructive, than any weapon made by man. After he stumbled upon this ideal, this vision of the future, he would ignore all doubts. It simply was what must be.
Professor Hodgeson went to all lengths to see that his vision became reality. Once he was able to convince his employers that this research could be used to further their ends, he found little limit to his funding. The only obstacle left to him was how to obtain children for long term harnessing of their Psi, and possibly risky experimentation. After some thought, he realized, this would not be a problem. There were hundreds of orphaned children in Japan. The moment the thought entered his mind, he rejected it... but soon enough he was making justifications. They have nothing. I could provide them with all that they need. Everything that they could want. And, once it is done, their capabilities will bring them power and fame! Of course! Now, how to go about it...
And so, the Professor had each of his workers adopt a child. He worked through the most under-funded orphanages, thus being subjected to the least scrutiny. Soon enough, he had a great enough collection of children that he could begin. He built a huge machine, a giant Psi processor, consisting of wiring composed of the nerve tissue found in the brain. This had been carefully collected from the brains of a dead man, and much more had been grown. Now this giant concoction of metal hung 8 feet above the ground, from its bottom extended long wires, ending in large, grayish dishes, called Outer Receptors. Below each outer receptor was one of 60 standing restraints, each sized for a small child
In the morning of each day, these children were brought to the laboratory, had the outer receptors placed over their heads, and were asked to concentrate on a single, moving beam of light. They were rewarded with sweets when they concentrated hard enough to generate a larger-than-average amount of Psi. When they concentrated, the wires channeled the Psi into the great machine, where it was stored. The machine could not use the psionic energy, but it could keep almost all of it, with only trace bits leaking out. But the machine was not all that important, as far as Hodgeson was concerned, despite the fact that he had spent the greater part of his professional life designing it. What Professor Hodgeson cared about was the children.
The children were provided with everything that Hodgeson thought they needed. He had very little understanding of people, and almost none of children. And so the children were pampered and educated, always with the underlying principle that they would be pioneers into a new era of thought. The children quickly began feeling more than a little useless; all the talk of change, that they were so important, why were they just going to have their heads placed under dishes for a few minutes each day? That couldn't be the big, important thing that they were to do, could it? There had to be something more...
And of course, the children were right. There was one huge leap yet to be taken. The experiment did not only consist of harnessing their Psi, but channeling it, through the machine, into their waiting brains. They would be made into Psions, with the ability to move objects with their sheer will, affect the elements, and communicate with only their minds. This last part of it was long off, and the riskiest procedure of them all. No one knew what would happen to the children when the Psi was channeled into them. They were treading on unknown territory, with no idea what would lie in their way. Had a rational man sat down to reason it all out, he would have found the risks to the children not worth the possible rewards, if their minds would even hold the Psi. Professor Hodgeson, with his great vision of the future, was not a rational man at the time.
Then one day, one of Hodgeson's scientists came into his office. He held a piece of paper in his hands, his head low. An aura of exhaustion and hopelessness emanated from him. Hodgeson was immediately concerned. "What is it, Siv?"
The scientist, quivering, held out the piece of paper. "Here... you might want... to see this for yourself. I'm not absolutely sure what it means but... well... just read it."
Hodgeson, frightened now, gently took the paper and read it. As his eyes scanned it, they stopped and went across it again. His face sank. "This... can't be right. Did you make sure it was authentic?"
"I checked three times. It's for real."
Hodgeson looked back and forth from Siv to the paper. "They can't cut our funding! We've worked so hard, it cannot end now! They... can't do this."
"Last time I checked, it was their money."
Hodgeson scrutinized the paper again. "It appears we have a deadline. Three months? I can't believe this!"
"Apparently our employers think we are holding back, not working as hard as we can."
"The fools! Do they have any idea how fragile this project is? How much Psionic energy must be collected to power what is required? Do they have the slightest inkling of the precautions that must be taken?"
"I doubt it. If they did, they wouldn't likely be putting these further restrictions upon us. We just have to work with it, find some way to get more Psi. And we might have to forego most of the precautionary trials. It's going to be do or die."
Hodgeson flinched at his use of words.
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The scientists worked around the clock. They processed experiment data, tried new ways of conserving the Psi energy, and ran experiments upon the children. Before the end of the week, Hodgeson was seeing psionic formulae in his sleep. But no matter how hard they worked, or how little sleep they got, the Kensington Project never seemed to pick up enough speed to matter. The deadline was weeks away, and they still would need a half a year at the rate things were advancing. But someone had a thought. Perhaps the children will respond differently to different emotions. And then it had begun. The near ruthless experimentation.
At first, they would only experiment with the less harmful emotions. And some of the children reacted. This was offset greatly by the fact that many of the other children stopped generating Psi completely when pleasure was introduced.
Next they tried love. This created a stronger reaction from some, a small increase for most, while, once again, some of the children's Psi shut down completely.
The scientists tried fear. This caused most of the children's Psi to raise slightly, some to lower slightly, some to increase a good deal, and in some it stopped altogether
And, 2 weeks before the deadline, they attempted pain. This evoked a strong reaction from almost a third of the children, while in the rest it served to smother their Psi completely. The children who reacted to the pain were carefully noted.
And, finally, they tried anger. Most children's Psi was only slightly obscured by the emotion. But one boy, only one, met the anger with a flood of Psi. The doctors were amazed, and then, as a pencil lying on a desk 30 feet away from the machine snapped in half and flew across the room, they felt fear. This one was strong, even able to affect the physical world in overt ways with his Psi. Such things had only previously been recorded as coming from adult Psions of great skill. To think that a child's latent ability could be tapped in such a manner as to give him the energy needed for powerful psychokenesis was insane, but it was true. They marked this boy's name down.
Kogama Ovriburki.
And then the day came, and not a moment early. The machine was filled with sufficient psionic energy. The children were, for the most part, ready and willing for what would come. There was only time for the most basic of safety precautions. This needed to be done, and now. Their funding would be pulled the next day if they could not show profitable results of their project. Finally, all was ready. The children were brought to the chairs. They were told that this would be the final conclusion to their anxiety and fear. After this, it would be over. They were also warned that no one knew exactly what would happen. The children were fearful, but accepted it.
The wires were strapped to their heads. The scientists stepped back and watched, ready to pull the switch at the slightest hint of trouble. Professor Hodgeson stepped up to the lever that controlled the flow of psionic energy. Sweating bullets, he reached up and slowly pulled the lever.
And then the Kensington Project went straight to hell
As the Psi flowing from the mammoth machine hanging above all their heads, rather than being gradually channeled into the children, it was let loose like a river breaking through a dam. A virtual flood of energy flowed into the children's unprotected minds. They convulsed, their bodies wracked with the full power of the energy being forced into them. The scientists jumped on the kill switch, desperate to stop this madness, but the damage was already done, The Psi already released. There was no Psi left in the machine. It had all flowed into the children's minds, and the area around them. And they were unable to handle it.
Some of them died quickly, their brains hemorrhaging. Others were not so lucky, left to convulse against their restraints until they died of asphyxiation, or until their necks broke against the tight restraint placed there. Some of them were shocked with psionic energy, almost resembling electronic, frying their brains and leaving them dead, but still twitching. Finally, the scientists overcame their horror and dove forward in an attempt to help, but were far too late. They checked each child for signs of life, noting no breath, dropping temperature, and no pulse in each. They continued in their futile search until all of the children had been checked, and all had been confirmed as dead.
One of the scientists realized how incriminating this would be, and that they would have to do something with the bodies. The scientists all headed for an office, to plan. Hodgeson stared teary-eyed at the kids; sitting slumped in their restraint chairs. I was a fool. He turned and ran after the other scientists, thinking, perhaps, that if he ran away now, the nightmares might not catch him by that night. Of course, this move only made them worse, compounding the professors guilt.
The children were left there. None breathed. None of their hearts beat. They lied completely motionless, besides the slow trickles of blood, still leaking from the split skulls of those who had taken it the worst. It did not matter, they had all died.
But one eye flashed open.
Kogama tried to reach for his closed left eye, but his hands were still restrained. He looked down to the restraints, and concentrated. They began to shake. Thinking quickly, he dove headfirst into the anger he had been put through. With the anger came something else, some unknowable force. The metal restraint blew apart, almost flying off of its hinges. He turned to the other, and destroyed it as well. He tried to stand, but his legs were restrained as well. He looked down, and the restraints slowly bent apart. These had been stronger, and he had already gained more control over this ability. Kogama's eyes sought an exit, first going to the giant metal door the scientists had fled through.
He quickly found it was locked. Concentrating on it, he caused the door to shake in its hinges, but it did not brake. This was no good. He would have to find another way out. Kogama turned, and immediately saw the window. The Lab had two windows, both 10 feet up, far above his reach. With a thought, the windows shattered. But how would he get to them?
Kogama looked down at his feet, thoroughly grounded on the floor. He smiled. This did not have to be. He steadily rose, 2, 5, 8, 10 feet. He reached out for the sides of one of the windows and latched on, pulling himself forward, into and through the window. Rolling on the ground outside, he stood and saw the wilderness outside of the lab for the first time. It was a tree-covered forest, now blanketed with an inch of snow.
This was not good, as Kogama was dressed only in a thin, gray lab clothing, composed of a shirt and a pair of long, gray pants, both of which were quite thin. The warmth brought by his exertion was soon replaced with shivering cold. Kogama ran out into the forest, looking desperately for shelter. For the longest time, he found none. But, after nearly an hour, he came across three trees, which had fallen down, forming a sort of lean-to. He crawled under, where less snow had fallen. He was still left without heat, and sat there shivering, trying to think of something warm.
After a good period of shivering, he thought that if he had a fire, he could be warm. He broke off a few sticks from the trees hanging above him and threw them in a haphazard pile, but he realized that he had no way to ignite them. He tried rubbing two of them together, like they did on TV, but that did nothing but hurt his hands. After a while, he became frustrated, and slammed his fist into the wood.
The stack lit on fire.
Kogama pulled his burned hand out, screaming, and plunged it into the snow nearby. His hand was only reddened by the flame, as he had pulled it out immediately, but it would hurt him for a long time. At least now he had warmth.
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Tsiri Convedori ran for his life. Not that it helped him. The thin man was doomed, and he knew it, had known it ever since he found that he was being hunted. Still he ran, unwilling to accept his death, hoping against hope that perhaps he would be able to escape his unseen pursuer. He had no chance, for though he knew who was after him, knew all too well, he simply had no chance against this one.
Looming before him, a chain-link fence. He leapt, vaulting most of it, ending with his hands on the top wrung, pulling himself over the fence. Tsiri was much more physically fit than most of those in his profession, most of those who navigated the wired to the extent that he did never seemed to care for the condition of their physical bodies. Hell, some never left the wired except to eat, enjoying the increased freedom. But that didn't matter right now. What mattered was getting away from this danger he had gotten himself into, which would prove truly difficult.
Tsiri was not being hunted for what he found in his daily business, though it might have seemed enough. He was running for his life because he had discovered some suspicious information about the rash of suicides recently, especially among children. After checking endless sources, he had skillfully pulled the story apart like an onion. He had found out almost more than even he wanted to know, and had recently finished his report on it, an article that would be world-shaking, once it got out. The only problem was that he was not likely to be able to send it out. He had finished writing it hours ago. That was before he found the single hair he kept between the door's lock and the doorway lying on the ground. The door was still locked, of course. They could not have been that clumsy. He had gone to his room, taking the gun under his pillow, and almost taking his personal Navi, before realizing that he would be easily traceable by the signal it sent out.
Tsiri ducked down an ally to his right, moving as quickly as he could. His legs were starting to burn from the exertion. He knew the city around his house well, but once he got out of it, he would not have much of a chance. He approached a T in the alleyway, and took the one leading closer to his former home. He would never be able to go back there, he knew. All he could do was run, perhaps get out before they sent him. Tsiri darted down the left alley, his foot scraping off the brick wall, trying to find purchase, to control his flight. He saw the end of the alleyway ahead of him, and ran even faster. He was moving so fast that he barely stopped himself when a wall of flame rose in front of him, blocking his path.
The heat from it singed his hair, and he stated sweating. He moved away, sure now that he would die soon. The gun came out now, a futile gesture of defiance. He might as well have been facing the force of the elements themselves. Just like his former colleagues, he had no chance.
Wreathed in darkness, a figure leapt gracefully from the rooftops above him, seeming to fall slower than should be possible, and spinning in midair, so that he faced Tsiri as he landed. The blackness fell away, like rainwater washing from a raincoat, leaving a man behind. He was much younger than Tsiri had expected, growing a small, black goatee, complimenting his dark hair, which looked unkempt. The man's eyes bored through Tsiri's, piercing his soul. Tsiri, seeing his chance, jumped to the left, firing his gun twice. The man was unsurprised, bringing his hands up before the flying bullets, slowing them, then catching them in midair. He threw them back at Tsiri in contempt, his growing rage seeming to become a tangible thing. He stared at Tsiri, the anger in his eyes piercing his soul, paralyzing him. He regained his senses just in time for the brick wall to his right to crumble at the base, collapse, and bury him.
Kogama lowered the firewall, clearing away the scorched ground, and then rose into the air. This job was done. The work would go on, without interference from lowly bastards like this, people looking to make a spare yen by telling lies about the project. They deserved everything that they got. And they got him.
Kogama rose a good twenty feet, clearing the rooftops, and set down carefully on the roof of one of the third-rate buildings, which, to someone who lived in that area, might seem to fill all the world. He ran across the roofs, leaping from roof to roof, distances of as much as fifteen feet. Once again, he was wreathed in shadow, so even on the few streets busy with traffic, he was not seen. Kogama felt some small amount of guilt--not for Tsiri, of course, but that he had failed in his initial attempt, too eager to assure himself that the man was home before breaking through his defenses. He had been sure that he had left no evidence, but somehow, Tsiri had known that he was on to him, and he had almost escaped Kogama, almost gotten far enough into the city that not even he would have been able to track him. And it was suspected that the man had found out something about him, in particular. How much, they didn't know. It mattered no longer. Tsiri was dead.
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Briona had not believed the wild story his friend had weaved the previous day, in the bar. It had been one of the few occasions on which Tsiri had actually gotten drunk. The last time had been the day he had been informed of his grandfather's death.
This time, Tsiri had just kept the beer coming; tossing back shot after shot, long after Briona himself had had enough. Then, after far too much drink, Tsiri had started talking, like he always did when he got drunk. It was as if his head held so much information that he had to keep constant watch, to be sure that what he was really worried, or shy, or embarrassed about never made it to his mouth, and once he drank too much, the words poured from him, until they became endless background noise. At that point, he didn't really care if you weren't listening, he just kept droning on, his speech heavily slurred.
Briona only remembered some of what Tsiri had said, most of it about some group, it sounded like a big business type, was doing something on the wired, something that was a pretty big danger to all of the wired's users (totaling most of the world.) then he had gone into the hard to stomach things, Psionicism, hit men, and generally really weird, really secret shit. Of course, they had both been drunk, so Briona hardly remembered what little of Tsiri's long speech had been coherent. Briona figured that the first part was true, that someone was screwing with the wired, doing something that would screw with people, (It sure hadn't been unheard of, with the way the wired interacted with a user's mind.) but the rest seemed like gibberish, likely something Tsiri had read in a tabloid weeks ago, and in his drunken state, remembered and intertwined with his story.
Briona was thinking about it as he went to the bathroom, the headache from the last night had nearly knocking him off of his feet. He took out his hand held computer, scanning through the local paper for his favorite commentator, when something caught his eye. He scrolled up, finding himself in the obituaries. A glowing, bluish link sat before him, bearing the name Tsiri Convedori. Briona, struck dumb, clicked it.
Tsiri Convedori
Age: 31 gender: Male occupation: Journalist
Tsiri Convedori was found last night, buried under a pile of bricks in an alleyway. The bricks seemed to have fallen from the side of one of the many dilapidated buildings in the area in which he lived. He lived a full life, with friends, though he had not yet had a family. It is sure that he will be missed by many friends.
Briona kept reading the pitiful entry, over and over again. He couldn't get himself to believe it. His mind would not accept it. Sure, the part of town Tsiri lived in was in poor repair, but brick walls didn't collapse that easily. And Tsiri was not he kind of guy to walk down small alleys. He would be the last one to admit it, but Tsiri was slightly claustrophobic, and always preferred the longer way around if it meant staying out in the open. No. The day after his friend had gotten drunk (a rare occasion) and spouted on about the investigation he was working on, he had wound up dead, of suspect circumstances, in an alleyway. Something was up, and it scared the shit out of Briona.
No, he still didn't believe the wild accusations Tsiri had made. He spent the next 5 minutes as he got ready for work convincing himself of just that. But something Tsiri had said, done, or looked at had gotten him killed, and by someone who would and could keep it as quiet as possible. He wondered if he should get out of town for a while, maybe take some of the vacation time he had built up. Also, he figured, he should have a look at Tsiri's latest research. Maybe he had written something while he was sober that would give some hint to his fate.
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Kogama stared at the blank, plaster wall hanging above his head. He had delved far into the depths of his mind, exploring the twisted pathways that allowed his thought, following ideas to their conclusion, and losing interest in them, only to find a more appealing one. The fight today-- it had really been more like a slaughter, had both drained him and made him think. He knew that he was doing what needed to be done. These people had taken him in. They had fed and clothed him, providing him with everything he needed. He owed them his life, and he knew it was a debt they would never ask him to repay, though he knew he would, should the time come.
The path that this thought led him on brought him to a much more troubling one. What if I was to fail them? He dwelled on this for a long time, not even blinking. One who walked into the room might have mistaken him for a corpse, if it wasn't for the occasional twitch of his pupil.
Kogama could come to no conclusion that he liked, and simply resolved to do what he could to make sure it never happened. He closed his eyes, and slept.
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This cant be right... No chance. Tsiri had to be making it up. But I've never known him to make things up... especially with the people he sells news to; telling lies could really piss some people off. But still, this is the kinda psycho conspiracy shit people get locked up in a padded room over. It can't be real, can it?
Tsiri got killed over it. That's how real it is. That's exactly how damned real it is. Briona went deeper into the files, accessing a few images of the game that all the kids had been playing. Phantoma was a simple dungeon game, in which the players ran around a huge, 3 dimensional maze; of various terrain types, and shot, hacked, and basically killed various monster type creatures, and occasionally each other. This was not, in any way, the problem. The problem was with the new connection that they had begun to use. Though the legitimate news networks had no sources of information regarding this that were trustworthy enough to base a story on, Tsiri apparently had a source. The connection that kids were using to play the game, and some other games, (though he had few sources on those) was one that allowed them to play anywhere, and all they needed was a simple palm-top computer. The damn things were everywhere nowadays, and everyone had one. It sent signals directly into the brain. Virtual reality, but without all the gear necessary for those who surfed the wired with navi's at home. It was hard to tell just how it did it, but it was rumored to have something to do with the resonance of the human brain, and sending signals at that frequency. A great deal of the software was said to be for determining that resonance, (as it's different for each person) and duplicating it.
This technology, like the game, was not the problem. The problem was with who had distributed it, and what they had done to it. The new technology had had something grafted to it, a piece of software that not only sent signals from the brain, but also stimulated some, and actually harnessed others. What parts it stimulated and harnessed where entirely unknown and Tsiri's viewers did not appreciate speculation.
This, like so many things, was not necessarily the problem, though some might argue otherwise. This alone would have been damned controversial, but it was what he had read next that had totally screwed with Briona's mind.
The signals that it sent to stimulate some parts of the brain had within them a sort of dissonance, a system of pulses that would warp parts of the mind, and interacted with much more than the visual, aural, and textural sensation areas of the brain. These signals were stimulating the human mind to get something, and whoever made it did not give a damn what it did to the person who's brain it was harnessing from. It seemed to skew brainwave patterns, warping images, sounds, and feelings, and driving thoughts past a person's ability to hold them back. This somehow coupled with the link being somewhat faulty, as it seemed to pick up signals from other systems, widely, horribly disturbed. These caused people to interact in ways that were often murderous, as the rules of each game were warped together, and none seemed to apply.
The distributors of this flawed piece of tech were unknown, and distributed their software through illegal channels, requiring users to log into illegitimate servers to obtain them. With any other tech, this would have made it obscure, but with a piece of software this hot, people were willing to jump through all kinds of hoops to get it. It was illegal because its makers had stolen it, and because they had taken it before it was even nearing completion. The actual technology was years down the pipeline.
The person or organization that was distributing this software was hard to track, but rumors and myth pointed to the knights of the eastern calculus.
Briona had no idea what to do with this information. What could he do? No one would believe him. And he didn't think he had the guts to spout something this crazy anyway. That wouldn't matter, as even if some people did, there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it, especially with the program already being illegal. Briona looked again at the part of the report that described the signals, and shuddered as he read the part about harnessing something from the human mind. This was the stuff of nightmares.
But then it came to him, what to do. The only thing that he could do. He accessed Tsiri's connection, and read his schedule. His viewers would be expecting him to update his host in a half an hour. Briona spent that entire time figuring out Tsiri's method of coding, and putting the information on his site. Then he removed the password encoding, and wrote in his own entry.
As many of you may know, Tsiri Convedori died very early this morning, a few miles away from his home. He was crushed by a crumbling wall. He will be greatly missed, I am sure. Coincidentally, his death has kept him from publishing what is likely the most controversial piece of work he has ever done. Many of you, I am sure, will want to know this very badly. The password protection on this host has been removed, so you may return here more than once a week. Also, you may show this to those you know. This knowledge has to get out there.
I know that, in publishing this, I have placed myself in considerable danger. Likely I am safe, as I am using Tsiri's Navi, and not publishing my name. However, the kind of people who do this have many resources at their disposal. It doesn't matter. I hope that this, his last update, will be a suitable enough memorial for him. And Tsiri, if you happen to be watching this, Thanks for knowing me. You made my life a hell of a lot more interesting.
Briona put a bit of space between that and the update, and pressed the button to send it to Tsiri's system of backdoors and mirror sites. This was what he could do. He could make sure that whoever had killed Tsiri had failed to hold this information back. He could make sure that the damned thing was exposed.
Then, after checking Tsiri's computer for anything that was necessary, he wiped the hard drive of the Navi, went over the keyboard and screen with a rag to remove any fingerprints, and left Tsiri's home. Several hours later, The apartment was gutted by a fire, which also destroyed 3 others nearby, resulting in 1 death and a good few burns.
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Kogama was reeling. He had picked up a printout, dropped by a professorish looking man, who had apparently finished reading it. The man had been crying.
There was no way it could be true, no possible way that this was happening. He realized that he was partially responsible for this, and that his efforts had almost stopped this from being sent out, from being heard. From being stopped.
The printout had been several pages long, but he had read through it. He had a habit of picking up random things and reading them. He had very little money, and so he could almost never afford books. He had picked this out of a bin, because it looked interesting. It certainly had been.
This was against everything he had been told. It was the opposite of what he had been taught. How could they be connecting the world if they were destroying the people that made it up? At first confusion filled his mind, but then it was slowly consumed by the burning white rage he felt. It devoured his thoughts, but then it passed through them, over them, leaving them tempered, stronger, like steel. He knew what he had to do, the only option truly open to him now that his life was revealed as a lie.
He stepped into the doorway of the plain brick building and knocked on the door. He had thrown the printout away. If they saw him with that, they would know.
A kind-faced Doctor greeted him at the door, and asked him to step inside.
"You're early, Kogama. That's unusual of you."
"I was in the area, and wanted to get it out of my way."
"Okay then, just come on."
He followed the man into a small whitewashed room. He sat in the stiff, metal chair, and waited as they lowered the outer receptor helmet over his head. They had been using his Psi to power whatever it was they were doing, almost to the same amount that they were using the populace at large.
Once again, the Doctor warned him about releasing too much Psi, and he nodded and smiled. The doctor keyed up the sequence to open the transmitter to the neural energy collector miles away, and said "Okay, begin releasing your Psi."
Kogama summoned forth the white fire again, let it consume his mind, his body, and his soul, and then he released his Psi.
All of it.
The doctor began yelling at him, but the shout was cut off as Kogama's eardrums ruptured. It didn't matter. Kogama smiled, even as the feedback from the helmet's overload washed him, and he was consumed body and soul by the perfect white flame of his anger. The room filled with it, and it traveled down the cord a long ways, forcing even more power through it. He knew that the surge would enter the neural receptor, and rupture every cell it passed through. It was enough energy to nearly power the experiment they had in mind on its own, if it could be contained in any form besides his body.
As Kogama burned alive in the searing flames he had created, his last thought came to him. He had an image, locked into his mind, as if he would have it forever. He would certainly have it for the rest of his life. The image was of a girl, standing, utterly alone. She had reddish brown hair, partially done up in a ponytail on the side of her head. She seemed to be staring into his soul, penetrating to the core of his being. And as the fire burned through his brain, disrupting all natural electrical signals sent from neuron to neuron, she seemed to find him adequate, and to accept him. He felt that was all he needed. All he would ever need.