It had started to rain again.

Truman swore softly to himself, telekinetically tugging the hood of his rain jacket over his head and angling his face away from the open window as best as he could while still keeping his eyes on the road. They'd stopped at a Burger King about an hour back for breakfast, and the window had simply given up after rolling up about halfway. Truman really should've expected it- the white 1993 Buick that the agency had lent them was only five years old, but had been involved in multiple minor collisions during its short existence, and as a result wasn't in the best of shape. But despite being dented and evidently lacking a functioning power window system, the car ran fine, and its shabbiness could almost be considered a small benefit, as nobody would assume that the two men in the vehicle were actually psychic government agents.

At this moment, Truman did not feel like a highly-trained agent, or even a competent adult for that matter. Droplets of cold rain hit the left side of his body and seat, which was irritating, but thankfully at this time it was merely drizzling and didn't seem likely to get any worse than that. Wonder how much time it would take to get this fixed, he thought idly, keeping an eye out for their upcoming exit.

Mentalis would eviscerate you if you took the car to a shop. The sudden voice in his head gave him a start. You know he doesn't like civilians touching agency property. His partner turned away from the window, the corner of his mouth turned upward in a wry smile. "Sorry," he said flippantly. "I know I shouldn't do that." He gestured vaguely at his bruised cheek. "Force of habit."

"Don't worry about it," Truman replied absently, his attention on the right windshield wiper. Was it not moving across the windshield all the way? He could've sworn it was stopping about an inch above where it was supposed to…

"Want me to drive?"

"Nah." The exit for Sutton had just become visible. "We're almost there."

His partner had come out of nowhere.

Last year Ford Crueller had gone to an international conference on weapons smuggling in New York City and had returned to headquarters with a skinny German telepath who had trouble minding his own business. He claimed that his name was Sasha Nein- a name so obviously fake that one had to believe that he was using it ironically. Within hours of his arrival, rumors about the origin of the strange new recruit arose. He was a former weapons trafficker who had snitched on his comrades in exchange for protection and immunity, some said. He was a convict who was being given a chance for a reduced sentence, said others. He was a parasite from Europa who had taken over the original Sasha's brain and was spying humanity on behalf of a race of super- intelligent cephalopods (this rumor was rumored to have been started by Sasha himself).

Sasha Nein never confirmed or denied any of these rumors and absolutely refused to speak of his origins. He was more interested in other people. More specifically, in other people's thoughts. Even more specifically, in reading the thoughts of other people without their permission, something that was widely considered to be a great way to get one's ass kicked around headquarters.

At first, it was assumed that it was being done accidentally. Then, when it became clear that he was doing it on purpose, it was explained to him that what he was doing was considered rude, and that some of his more sensitive peers wouldn't appreciate him reading their private thoughts. He had nodded his understanding of the explanation and continued to do what he was doing. The head instructor had thrown her hands up at that point, and told him not to come crying to her if he got his shit kicked in as a result of his behavior. Sasha had nodded and told her not to worry about him and then proceeded to get into a fight with another psy-cadet not ten minutes later.

Something about Sasha must've been really special, because in spite of his bad manners he managed to complete his training within a year. Truman didn't yet know what that special thing could be as their partnership had only begun a week ago and he actually hadn't interacted with the man before that.

Truman had been running late the day he and Sasha had been formally introduced, which wasn't unusual because Truman had never been on time for anything in his life. Cruller had waved away Truman's apologies and told him that he was finally being assigned a partner. Truman had sat down across from the Grand Head and glanced at the chair next to him. It was empty. Cruller smiled patiently and held up a finger. A minute passed and then the door opened and in came Agent Nein, clad in a stylish green jacket and dark glasses, and the left side of his face swelling and reddened.

Sasha Nein did not apologize for his tardiness. He didn't offer any excuses or explanations. He sat down in the chair next to Truman, turned toward him and bluntly stated "You're Truman Zanotto. I've heard of you."

"I've heard of you too, Agent Nein," Truman had replied, inexplicably feeling as though this moment would be one in which years into future he would look back on and think that's where this whole thing started.

He had wondered if Sasha had felt the same, as the corner of his mouth had risen briefly in a sort of half-smile before quickly turning into a wince.

The first order of business was figuring out what to do about the Buick's broken window.

They couldn't just leave it parked out in front of the Sheriff's office with the window half-open. But they couldn't get it repaired either, partially because that would take time that they didn't have, but mostly because the Chief Information Officer would blow a gasket if the car was touched by someone that was not affiliated with the Psychonauts. Sasha had been the one to come up with the brilliant solution of just taping it up. They stopped at a gas station a mile outside Sutton, bought some tape, and got to work setting the window right while an old man with scraggly facial hair eyed them suspiciously.

"What's that guy's problem?" Truman asked as Sasha carefully tugged the window back up with telekinesis.

Sasha looked back through the passenger window at the glaring stranger. "He's jealous of your beard," he said as the window closed completely.

"Oh." Truman wasn't sure if Sasha was being serious or not, but he taped up the window as quickly as he could in case the old man felt the need to start a fight over it.

They pulled into the parking lot of the Sheriff's office about twenty minutes later. Truman was disappointed, but not surprised to see that they had arrived ten minutes late for their meeting with the Sheriff. As they exited the vehicle, an officer approached, a deputy judging from the badge.

The three stared at one another for a moment, the deputy's wary gaze sliding from Truman to Sasha and then back to Truman before he spoke. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're here to speak with Sheriff Walls," Truman replied, almost sounding professional. He reached for the badge in his pocket. "We're with the…" He had reached into the wrong pocket, fuck. "Uh, we're with the Psychonauts."The deputy examined the badge, not looking particularly enlightened. "I'm Agent Zanotto and…" Should he introduce Sasha? Or would he prefer to introduce himself? He hadn't said anything yet, but maybe it wasn't Truman's place to speak for him…

An awkward silence stretched as Truman thought too hard about something that didn't really matter all that much. Agent Nein stood stoically, giving no indication that he had any intention of speaking anytime soon. "This is my partner, Agent Nein," Truman finished weakly, well-aware of how much of a goddamn fool he must look like.

Thankfully, it seemed that the despite the odd introduction, the deputy was willing to go along with it. "You guys here 'bout those kids that ain't acting right?" He gestured at the entrance to the office with his thumb. "Sheriff's waitin' for you."

The deputy led them as far as the door before leaning back against the wall he'd been standing at before Truman and Sasha had arrived. They stopped, waiting for him to continue into the building, but he waved them away with a "go on now,' something that struck Sasha as funny enough for him to have to stifle a laugh.

The mission was off to a great start.

Truman could've sworn he'd seen Sheriff Walls before.

That place was probably on TV, because the Sheriff both looked and sounded like a character straight out of one of those old-time TV shows. Middle aged? Check. Folksy Accent? Check. Gruff, no-nonsense attitude? Check. Innate distrust of strange psychics coming to meddle in local affairs? Triple Check.

The Sheriff would tolerate no hocus pocus, no abracadabra, nor any other unnatural tomfoolery in his town. "Now, I'm willing to do what needs to be done to straighten these kids out," he explained, hands clasped on his desk. "But these are God-fearing people." He leveled a steady gaze right at Truman. "They're not going to appreciate no high-cotton government agents going around reading minds and blowing things up. Is that clear, gentleman?"

He seemed to be addressing Truman specifically for some reason. "With all due respect, Sheriff," he began, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, unsure if the Sheriff was going to like what he had to say. "My partner and I are highly trained psychic agents who specialize in paranormal activity. If we're here, it means that our abilities are necessary in order to solve this case." He paused, giving the Sheriff a moment to consider his words.

Walls nodded grimly. "I understand that sir, but folks 'round here are already on edge." He sighed, running his hand through his thinning grey hair. "Just try not to be obvious about it, okay? For your own safety." He glanced over at the buck's head mounted on the wall.

Truman followed his gaze. The buck's head was massive, the antlers poking into the ceiling. "You think there might be trouble?"

"I'm just saying that there's a lot of hunter's 'round these parts, if you catch my meaning."

"We'll keep that in mind."

"Hmm." Walls opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a stack of files. "I assume you've been briefed on our situation…"

The situation was that twenty-seven teenagers living in Braxton County were behaving strangely and nobody could figure out why. Medical doctors could find no phsychical symptoms, psychiatrists had no luck analyzing the kids, and the EPA ruled out any environmental anomalies within the county that could've caused the issue.

The strange behavior began about two months ago in mid August, shortly before the start of the school year. Bradley Vipperman, a junior at Braxton County High School, had driven off in his 1995 Ford pick-up truck and had come home a day later, sans truck and shuffling along the streets of Sutton in a fugue state. His mother, thinking that Bradley had melted his brain with drugs somehow, had immediately taken him to a hospital, but tests revealed nothing more than traces of alcohol in his system. Bradley's odd, zombie-like state persisted for weeks, but nobody other than his mother and doctor thought much of it. Bradley was what one would call a 'troubled youth,'- getting into fights, skipping school, staying out late partying- and most of the town reckoned that he'd gotten into a bad batch of meth that night and that was all there was to it.

Until the school year began and Cheyanne Walker, a straight A student and captain of the girl's volleyball team, found herself in a similar state.

The circumstances behind her affliction were nearly identical to that of Bradley's. She'd gone over to a friend's house after school and hadn't returned home that night. Her parents hadn't been worried at first- they figured that she'd stayed over at her friend's house and simply forgot to call them. She turned up the next morning not speaking and somewhat glassy-eyed. Her father had thought that perhaps she'd had a fight or something with her friend and was too upset to talk. He and her mother, both professors at a technical college in a nearby city, had left a little later, trusting their daughter to get herself ready for school like she always did.

When they arrived home that evening, they'd found their daughter seated placidly on the couch in the living room, staring off into space. About twelve empty Otterpop wrappers lay scattered on the floor.

Over the next few weeks, twenty-five more students in the class of 2000 would share Bradley and Cheyenne's fate. They weren't in comas, or catatonic, as they still had basic living skills, and maintained a basic schedules of school-home, and those that had jobs managed to make it to work on time. But that was it- they functioned, but they showed no emotion, couldn't complete any activity that required real thought, and would not speak a single word.

Perhaps strangest of all was the fact every single afflicted teen suddenly had a bizarre craving for Otterpops. They typically wouldn't bother with the frozen ones, preferring to drink the warm, sweet liquid right out of the plastic tube. At first authorities had believed that the popsicles were tainted, but no other town was reporting anything like this and tests revealed nothing out of the ordinary about the popsicles themselves. Still, the Sheriff temporarily banned all local stores from selling the pops, just to be on the safe side. The teens, once deprived of the only thing that seemed to matter to them, exhibited no anger or distress. They merely sat, vacantly staring off into space.

The Sheriff, having exhausted all other avenues of investigation, and under increasing pressure from terrified parents and concerned citizens, had placed a call to the F.B.I., who told him to call the C.D.C. Since they had already investigated, he was his wit's end…until two days ago when he received a call from a man claiming to represent the Psychonauts.

Two days later and he was sitting across the two agents that they had promised would investigate the phenomena to the best of their abilities.

He's skeptical of us, thought Sasha.

You mean he's skeptical of me, Truman replied.

Well, yes, that is what I meant. He thinks you're a rookie and I'm training you. Kind of ironic.

Ironic? Yes. Surprising? No. If there was a template for government agents, Agent Nein fit it perfectly. Sleek, dark clothes, black glasses, and an unwaveringly stern expression that made him look much older than he actually was; Sasha Nein could easily be mistaken for a veteran agent rather than a rookie on his first mission. Even the fading bruise on his face could reasonably be explained away as an injury received in the field, rather than in a fight with a fellow cadet.

Meanwhile, Truman Zanotto was chubby, awkward, had a beard down to his chest and possessed a baby-face that likely did not inspire a whole lot of confidence.

Sheriff Walls certainly appeared to be holding all of that against him. "So- Sir, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Go for it." Truman already knew exactly what he was going to be asked.

"Just how old are you?"

"Nineteen," he answered.

The Sheriff furrowed his brows. "That seems awfully young. Is this your first assignment?"

It was Truman's first assignment with a partner, yes, but his fourth one overall. He'd had this exact conversation on each of his previous missions, and was semi-prepared to explain himself once again. Before he could open his mouth, however, Sasha cut in, speaking out loud for the first time since he had arrived at the office.

"The Psychonauts are not like the C.I.A or F.B.I. Our cadets begin training at very young ages, most starting in their early teens. Agent Zanotto may be young, but he's already worked on a few high profile cases." Sasha leaned forward towards the Sheriff. "Do you remember that serial killer in England who was liquefying people's brains?"

"The Mad Melter of Manchester?" The Sheriff's eyes widened in astonishment.

Uh, Sasha? Truman thought, glancing anxiously at the German. I wasn't on that case…

"Agent Zanotto was the one who located the killer's hideout," Sasha said, as though he had not heard Truman. "Without him, the Melter surely would have continued his spree, perhaps even making it to the States."

The lie was uttered so effortlessly that Truman almost believed that Sasha really thought he'd been involved with that case. The Sheriff certainly bought it. "Well, I'll be," he said, looking at Truman with a new found respect. "I've got to admit, when you two first walked in, I wasn't so sure…" He trailed off, a huge weight lifting off of his shoulders. "Well, I sure am glad that the Psychonauts were serious about sending their best."

Truman smiled weakly, the very picture of confidence. "Er, yeah…"