No Such Thing as Psychics

by RoseUK

What if Jane really did have a 'gift? Each chapter will be based on an episode title and an incident of clairvoyance (call it what you will), using some of the symbolism we see throughout the seasons. Not stories, just fragments. (Because I'm a butterfly that can't focus on any one thing for long.) Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

1. Chapter 1 - Red Dawn

No Such Thing as Psychics

Chapter 1: Red Dawn

2000. Las Vegas.

Fire. He's on fire. Drumming feet and clapping hands pound the air in the stuffy show room, pouring through his ears and filling him with the thunder of desperation turned to hope. Jesus, it's hot. The heat and sweat and breath of human need have thickened the room and he tugs quickly at his collar, trying to release the stranglehold of their euphoria.

A sterile white spotlight flares suddenly onto the rapturous crowd, bleaching them of colour and leaving only a strange silhouette of featureless heads bobbing and swaying in disjointed rhythm. He has the sudden unsettling impression that before him is a sea of obedient minions, in thrall to their master: mindless, eyeless, sightless. Sweat pools rapidly at the shining curls on his neck, and he passes a swift finger to dislodge it. His job is to be their eyes: he is the clairvoyant, the seer, the sighted, or so they think. That is why they love him.

The pressure, the sound, the weight of their fervour presses down, down, down on his mind; for a moment, one endless moment, he is blinded with sheer panic. Faint, broken fragments of Amazing Grace pierce his mind, enmeshed in a discordant version of Bach's Prelude in C Major. The melodies intertwine like metal on metal, brash and dissonant, a cacophony of distorted beauty sending pain surging through his head and a wail up through his throat and into his mouth. No, no, he can't scream, not here. He forces it back down, and the salty tang of iron fills his mouth; the strong, unmistakeable flavour of a blood that isn't his and that he can't explain.

It must be the heat, burning bright bright bright. A panic attack of sorts: he is feeling more torment, more anguish, more soul-crushing despair than he's ever felt in his life before; indeed ever imagined he could feel. And strangely, the feeling is painted a bright, ruby red. He closes his eyes briefly in sublime suffering, and when he turns his agonised gaze back onto the still-cheering crowd – it must only have been seconds – a crude, unfinished loop of vicious grinning crimson slashes through their faces. He blinks.

Trick of the light.