Hi! Remember me? That weird guy from your bushe- I mean, that writer who hasn't done anything in a while. I'm bored with Tommy, lacking inspiration for Archer, and I love Heavy Rain. All of these things combine to form- this. This chapter is scattered about, but purposefully so. I wanted to express a feeling of addiction and desperation- dunno if it worked, but tell me, please! Without further ado...
BEGIN!
Special Agent Norman Jayden leaned back in his office chair and sighed. He was back in D.C.; the Origami Killer fiasco (or, as he had begun to call it, the Origami Incident) had skyrocketed his career, made him famous. He had been on Let's Talk Tonight, an evening-based talk show, in which he had been hailed as a hero. The nation knew him as "The Agent Who Saved Our Children". The Bureau knew him as "That Odd Norman Guy Who Solves More Cases Than There Are Days in the Month". Or, for short, the weirdo who doesn't leave his office much. He was a bit of a loner, a competent, confident agent who simply didn't have friends.
The Origami Incident had been a double-edged sword, although the losses seemed to outweigh the gains. He had gained fame, certainly, but he had lost his health. Physically, he was fine- actually, he was better than he had been before, fitter, and more alert to danger. Mad men twice your size, duels on conveyor belts, serial killers rushing at you with ornate swords, and so much else would do that to you. Mentally, he was sharp- solving cases was incredibly difficult, granted, but it was nowhere near out of his comfort zone. In fact, he enjoyed it.
And then, there was ARI. ARI. His drug- that had been Triptocaine, but no longer. He had flushed that habit, flushed it straight down the toilet, never looked back, never taken it again. His situation was complicated- to say the least. He had the shakes, he got nosebleeds, he couldn't concentrate. When the trips were really bad, his vision blurred and he couldn't control his movements. He would begin to spasm, and sometimes blacked out for periods of time. Triprocaine had, originally, alleviated these symptoms; however, when he didn't have the infernal substance, they would come back in force, doubling or tripling in strength.
He knew, in his heart of hearts, that ARI was the cause. Norman had signed up for the ARI Project when the technology was incredibly experimental- had signed up before it was, technically, approved. It had not only caused those ill-effects, it had also taken something he held dear.
ARI had cost him his sanity. Norman Jayden was slowly going mad, slowly losing his mind, going bonkers, whacko, whatever-you-please. ARI had taken a firm grip on his mind; he loved it. It helped him escape reality, allowed him to be alone with his thoughts and his cases. Not to mention his butler- then again, the butler was, technically, himself. ARI had caused him pain, embarrassment. It had nearly cost him his life and his job several times over. However,
(don't say it don't)
he felt like a god. ARI made him a hero, let him catch the villains and throw them in jail. ARI gave him a power, a power to answer all the questions and save all the lives.
ARI was his life, ARI had wrecked his life, and ARI was killing him. And he was addicted. Norman groaned, slowly rising to his feet and pushing the chair back behind him. He could see them, still- the tanks, those virtual machines, roaming around his office. He wasn't wearing ARI, yet he saw them. Which was physically impossible; they existed only in ARI's world, and he was out of ARI's world. For now. Already, he could feel it, the itching and the twitching. He needed a hit- needed his drug. The glasses were in his coat pocket, and the glove was in his desk drawer. He had a job, however. He needed to see the director
(just the director that man and then the drug happiness)
of the FBI. The man was in his own office, and Norman just needed to head there and speak with him before he could rest.
Norman shook his head, first gently, then with increasing vehemence. His thoughts were everywhere, his mind in pieces. He strode to the door of his office, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. One of the tanks was approaching him. He had come to think of them as cute things- his own little pets that no one else knew of. However, they had never directly interacted with him; the fact that this one was about to worried him. The tank's main cannon adjusted to point at his knees- likely the highest it could reach- and then did something Norman had prayed never to see happen.
The hatch opened, and a virtual human being emerged. Norman hit the ground hard.