Hi, guys! I'll openly admit that this chapter is a bit slow to start, and perhaps a bit scattered, but then, it always has been. I want you, the viewers (and reviewers, hyuk hyuk), to decide Norman's next move. Should he... well, you'll see once you get to the end. Also, thank you for sticking with this! I do have an ending in store, but if you're not open to a bit of... a bit of, shall we say, a mindfuck, you should probably stop reading now. Thanks again,
~Jingwei

When Norman awoke, his first thought was one of panic. It always was, though; he couldn't wake up anymore without panicking. He forced himself to calm down, taking deep, slow breaths. He couldn't afford to have a breakdown- hell, he'd lasted this long without screaming into a pillow, he could last a few more days. That was what he kept telling himself, about everything- just a few more days, Norman. A few more days, then you'll be able to rest. A few more days, and you can settle down. A few more days, is all. Well, no longer. Yesterday, he had taken action, hadn't he?
The panic gripped him again as he remembered his hallucination yesterday. He had sworn, after that, to use ARI, but not abuse it. Now, he had a chance to put that plan into action. He had a chance to- to what? Wean himself off of the drug? It's not a goddamned drug, Norman. It's a program. How many other people can use ARI without going mad? A thought struck him, then, one that he had never been stricken with before.

Exactly how many people CAN use ARI without abusing it? How much weaker are you than they? How is it possible that ARI hasn't been recalled yet, if others are going through the same issues you are? He paused in his rumination. It was bad for his health, that line of thinking,
(bad for your health that's funny, Norman)
and he would discontinue it. Alas, it was certainly an interesting one, wasn't it? Just how many others were addicted? How many others had signed up for the program, became a super-agent, and then crumbled away into nothing?

He didn't like to imagine numbers. Norman shook his head and swung his feet over the edge of his bed. That was the best part about being him- you could show up as late to work as you wanted, and if the director, for whatever reason, hassled him, he could say he was using ARI. The last few times he'd said this, it had even been true- not that the director knew why he was using ARI.

Norman stood, stretched, and headed over to his closet. He checked his smartphone on the way there- apparently, it was supposed to be thirty-five degrees and rainy today. Ah, what a day to quit cold turkey. This thought gave him pause as he was reaching into his closet- he wasn't doing that. He wouldn't be quitting, he'd be managing. That was the truly hard thing, he decided, but it was necessary. He couldn't work without ARI. He'd been able to, before, and he may be able to again, but there was no way he could function at full capacity.

He wrung his hands and took a deep breath, letting it out in a hiss and grabbing an outfit. Today was a dark day- dark day meaning, a crisp white dress shirt, a pitch black suit-jacket and tie, and an equally dark woolen overcoat. It then occurred to him that he should probably have brushed his teeth and shaved before getting dressed up, but he was an adult. He could keep his clothes from getting messy. He slipped his feet into a pair of black dress shoes and began to head out. Norman looked at himself in his wall-mounted mirror- one habit of his was to look at himself before his day begun- and grimaced.

He hadn't nicked himself while shaving and his clothes were still clean. But he had dark circles under his eyes. His hair (far too short to be mussed, and just barely too long to leave well enough alone) was tangled, and it looked far worse than he'd thought. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was beginning to notice a throbbing headache that was starting at the base of his skull. Well, damn it all, he couldn't do anything to his hair, because he really was running late- wait, he was on sick leave, wasn't he? Norman wasn't even expected to be at work. Well, he'd taken some time off (less than a day, actually), so the director should be appeased, especially if he showed up a little late.

Norman went back into his bathroom and styled his hair, going for a slightly swept-back look. He stepped out again, checked the mirror again, and went to his bedside table to grab ARI before he left. His fingers felt, rather than the cool of the glasses and the rough warmth of the glove, something chalky and room temperature. It was a piece of paper- one of those odd, thick notecards. Norman's heart sped up. His breathing quickened, and he felt cold. He picked up the notecard and read the words written across it, in flowery script.

Norman- I know about the effects of ARI on the human mind. I apologize for allowing you to keep your set for so long. We needed you, needed the solved cases, but it's not worth losing you as a useful agent. I knocked on your door, expecting to find you awake- working, no doubt, even though you promised you wouldn't- and was taken aback when it opened. You left your door ajar, Jayden, and that scares me. You were conked out on your bed. I took ARI and left this note- the one you're reading right now- for you. Feel free to come to work- IFF you're up to it.

~Director

The agent almost chuckled- the sarcastic undertone and IFF (if and only if) statement just screamed "DIRECTOR!" Norman didn't laugh, however; didn't even grin, because he knew that he had just lost his ARI. His addiction. His drug. And, if he didn't get it back, he would go insane.

Norman jogged out to his car- the rain hadn't started, but those clouds sure were ominous- and drove like the devil to the FBI's main office. He purposefully strode in through the main doors, checking that his badge and pistol were in place- he had grabbed those and placed them inside of his jacket when he put it on. He walked straight to the director's office, ignoring his secretary, and opened the door. Just fucking opened it. Norman must have been crazy- no one did that.

"Ah! Norman, I'm glad you could make it!" The director stood up, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that said, "I know you know I was in your house last night, and I know you won't do anything about it" quite clearly. Well, fuck that. Norman stopped in front of the man's desk, jabbing his finger in the director's direction.

"You son of a bitch, you give me what's mine right now!" He was shaking, but he hid it fairly well; Norman had one of the best poker faces around. He was going to confront this man- his boss- and get ARI back. Get his ARI back.

"Listen, son, there are two things you do not want to do to your boss. The first is raising your voice at him. The second is pointing. I hate that. Now, take a step back, calm down, and let's speak rationally." The director's voice was stern, yet there was a warmth in it that suggested friendship. Norman did just that- he took exactly one step back and let his arms fall to his sides.

"Apologies, director, I… I don't know what came over me. Just, please, listen. I was planning on starting a- a what-would-you-call-it, a regimen today. I was planning on cutting down- drastically- on my ARI use. I meant to…" Norman cut himself off, realizing two things. The first was that he was pleading; the second was that those damned tanks were back again. They had been the first sign, hadn't they? The first warning sign? They had never left his office before, but now they were driving all over the director's desk. "I… I meant to fix what I'd done wrong, sir. I meant to end my addiction."

The director followed Norman's gaze to his desk, and then dismissed it as confusion. Kid must be confused, he reasoned. He's just lost his drug. "Norman, I'm glad to hear that. Really, I am. Only thing is, I can't exactly trust you, can I? You've already started to lose it. I don't want your mind- or, for that matter, your blood- on my hands."

"Director, you…" Norman heard that voice
(it's you that other you)
in his head again. Don't you dare, Norman. Don't you do it. Norman had been planning on reaching across the desk and throttling his boss, but that was likely a bad idea. So, he paused, gathered his thoughts, and simply asked politely for ARI back, assuring the director that he could be trusted.

The director said no. Norman nearly collapsed, but, using the desk for support, he regained his composure. He stepped out of the office, stumbling over his feet a few times on his way out of the building. It had been going so well- he had been about to start winning, for God's sake- and then the director had taken everything from him. The director had taken his life, basically.

Norman shoved the door open and headed out at a brisk walk. He wasn't going anywhere in particular- he soon found himself in unfamiliar territory, in the dark (the clouds covered all natural light, and the streetlights seemed to be out), and in the rain that was beginning. He had had bad experiences with rain, in the past. The agent glanced around and realized that he had wandered into what he called the poor district- there were more bums hiding out under awnings then there were houses on the street. One of them shambled towards him, and Norman realized something.

He was angry. Really angry. Angry enough to just take a swing- NO! Do NOT do that, Norman! Do NOT hit that man, you sonofabitch! Do you want to lose your job? Wind up in jail for assault? Norman knew that he was an FBI agent; in a court of law, no matter how many bums testified against him, there was not a single witness with more credibility than him. Do it. This was a different voice, now; a more commanding one. It seemed to have overwhelmed the other voice, overwhelmed the man who wanted to help him. Whack the fuck. What business does he have with you? He'll probably start begging. You don't have any reason not to just reach out and whack him. So do it.

Norman clenched his fist, and forced himself to breathe deeply. He turned and ran, away from the poor district, back to his car. He sat inside of his vehicle for a moment, wetting the interior and not caring. He buried his head in his hands- but did not cry. Norman was beyond that now. He shook his head, exited his car, and re-entered the building, unsure of what to do next.