Sunday does not come with any welcome. I awake to crusty eyes, swollen from both a lack of sleep and tears, and pull the covers over my whole body to hide from the world. I'm emotionally distraught. Depressed. I don't want to look at the world today. The time is a quarter past noon. Had I not needed to use the bathroom to pee, I would have remained hiding under my security blanket. Moving about is helping to push blood into every sleeping capillary and bringing me to feel a little better, yet I'd rather tuck my miserable ass below and remain unseen under my comforter. It's ridiculous. I can't go on like this. Such dolor. It hurts. I feel a tremendous urge to flee. To run. To escape my torment.
'The moment I find my killer, there will be blood to spill.'

I proceed outside to enter the greenhouse and spend a good hour with my friends. I groom, adjust, water, and eat the gifts upon vines and branches. I take care of my family and in return, they take care of me with nourishment and unconditional love. I walk back to my kitchen with a zucchini in hand. Sautéed zukes in olive oil and leftover white rice sounded pretty good. I place the zucchini on the cutting board and grab the four inch long knife out of the drawer. I was cutting even slices, when half way thru I accidentally cut my thumb. I got it good by a half inch. It bled immediately.
"Damn it!", I howl and flinch from the throbbing burn.
I move the faucet handle to cold, lower my bleeding left thumb into the sink, and watch as my blood mixes with the clear water. Like cleaning the red paint out of a paint brush under running water, it would turn transparent red from time to time. The cold water eventually constricts my vessels, slowing the bleed. I grab a couple sheets of paper towels, fold it three times over, and dab the laceration. I can feel my heart in my thumb, cursing me for my clumsiness. I lay the paper towel over the cut and place the palm of my right hand over it to apply pressure. With my forearms, I lean on the kitchen counter to rest. After a minute has passed, I slowly remove the paper towel and examine my left thumb.
"Wait a minute. What?!"
The cut is no more! It's just not there or anywhere! Quickly, I move to the sliding door for extra light and closely examine my thumb to find a lack of injury. Not a scratch, a lift of dead skin, or markings! I look back at the counter in shock, then at my pain free thumb. With hands open and palms up, I stare down my flesh in fear. First I discover an ability to disappear, then read emotions, and now heal?! Impossible! At this point, I truly believe my mind lost it. I brew hot water for a green tea fix, for it's moments such as this which requires caffeine to ease the nerves. As I wait for the kettle to whistle, I look at the kitchen knife and ponder dirty little ideas. The knife easily takes its place into my right hand, and as I rest my left forearm onto the countertop, the sharp steel presses against my skin. I wince loudly as I push down just enough to break the skin. The cut is not nearly as deep as the thumb wound, but enough to make it cry. I take the right hand and place it palm down over the cut. Just as the kettle screams, I slowly lift my right hand and analyze the skin. Red is smeared graciously upon the forearm, but I see no wound. Taking my right index finger and rubbing where the cut should be, I find a smooth dermal layer.
'This can't be! Maybe I should cut myself deeper to triple check.'
I pour the hot water over the tea bag, which sits in one of two coffee mugs I own. Why I have a second mug makes no sense for I never have company. Perhaps it was a subconscious purchase. Today would be a perfect day for company. Today would be a good day for Woekey's visit ...damn the murderer!
"DAMN HIM TO HELL!"
I fling the hot mug at my front door and watch it disintegrate to unmanageable pieces.
"Fuck! ...I'm going to kill that motherfucker!"
So much for a spare, second coffee mug.

Monday morning rolls around with the alarm pestering me to rise with the rest of the city. I'm still depressed. I call into work and leave a voice message for Hal Pal not to pick me up and to let Rose know I'm staying home. I remain under my comfy covers until 1pm. Again, I only get out of bed because I needed to piss. I slide right back to bed and cuddle under the covers. There I lay, wide awake, until 4pm. The cell phone rings around 4:30pm, but I ignore it. It was Rose. I let it go to voice mail. "Hey, Jules! Just checking to see how you're feeling. Hope to see you tomorrow. Okay. Bye.", says Rose in her usual monotonous but cheery self.
I make a light dinner of cold turkey, lettuce, and provolone cheese on a slice of bagel. I'm emotionally drained. So much so, I don't even have the motivation to feed myself. The night is lonely, silent, and darker than usual. I'm still reeling in hurt from witnessing Woekey get slaughtered and dissapearing from my life. When I close my eyes, I see nothing. No images. No dreams. It's pitch black. I finally fall asleep at 3am.
My alarm awakes me at 4:45am. I drag myself out of bed at 5:15am. Both mind and body curses me for such a brief moment of sleep, as I dress behind the shoji screen. Hal Pal is prompt, as always, and fall back to sleep in the back seat.

Rose and John are happy to see me into work yet concerned of my condition. I appear drained and distant, with bags under my eyes.
"Jules? You look terrible. Go home.", says John. "I actually feel much better. I'll be alright." Liar.
Work is making for a wonderful distraction and keeps me feeling sane. I very much welcome it. I'm so busy catching up with yesterday's work, I have zero time to think about my troubles. Lunch came quickly and I welcomed it. I needed to sit down and relax a bit.
"Shit, I'm in a meeting in an hour? Since when?", I complain. "Conference Room Blue. Huh. John? Do you know what this is about?"
"Not a clue. HR is on that floor. I know there's been some changes in policies."
This meeting appeared on my laptop calendar within the last twenty minutes and the lack of warning really upsets me. It's cutting into my scheduled session with rhesuses #1 & #3. I expected Rose to share the same complaint, but not a peep leaves her.
The Conference Room is two floors up, and unlike my floor I find the hallway finished with drywall and paint. There's no concrete walls, no exposed color-coded piping or wiring. The hallway is also dead quiet, which sets for a sour mood. I read the tags outside the doors and find "Blue". I think someone shot me in the head, because I stood staring at Bruce's back like I just died. Should I strangle Bruce first and then vanish to flee? Vanish, slice his throat, and then run? Or just fucking run. Away. Like, right now. The clicking sound of the door closing behind me shatters my options.
"Take a seat, Ms. Harper.", says Bingo.
I do so, but with great distance from Bruce.
"No, no. A seat away from Dr. Banner. Please."
He won't look at me, but he did get a quick glance. I look exhausted, the skin tone of my face is pale, and my eyes appear lost. I can feel his emotions of dread and it's oozing out of his skin. Full of uncertainty, guilt, and fear, I fold my hands over my lap and share my attention with Bingo.
"You feeling alright? I understand you were ill yesterday.", asks Bingo.
"I'm feeling well, thank you." Liar, liar.
"I want to apologize, Ms. Harper, for a recent misunderstanding in our policy of employee relations. You see. Dr. Banner is contracted with us on a high level project and part of the agreement is no contact with B.O.D. employees, unless the employee has a designated part of the project. This includes outside of work. Where we, B.O.D., failed was the fine print. It does not denote 'contractors'. Only employees. When we found out about your relationship, we asked Dr. Banner to cease contact. We were wrong in doing so. Please accept our apologies."
I curl my fingers upon my navy blue dress, absolutely angry this is why I am wasting my precious telekinesis session.
"Jules? I'm really sorry.", Bruce says softly, looking at my hands.
"All this time. All this time I blamed myself for our failed relationship. If you expect us to return to where we left off, you can continue fantasizing. I've moved on. As for BlackOps? I find this meeting very troubling. You really find this a priority? I'm putting off a valuable telekinesis session with my subjects to hear this?" I stand up and lower my brows to Bingo. "Are we done here?"
"Yeah. We're done."
I leave without another word. In the elevator I stare at my reflection on the metal door, imagine my fist putting in a sizable dent to destroy my image.
"How did it go?", John asks.
"A glorified waste of fifteen minutes of my life. I'm going to stay late to make up for lost time. I really want to put in a session."
"No problem. I'll log it. Rose won't mind.", he says with a wink.

"I know her well enough that she'll never open back up to me. It'll take a miracle.", says Bruce to Bingo.
"Get creative. We need an insider. If you can't win her back, we have someone else that can get inside her niche."
"And who's that?"
"Migs."
"Give me two weeks."
"You get five days."

I didn't want to look at anyone in Vendoland. I sit with my back against the room, plug my earphones in, and tune into This Will Destroy You. I work in my Sudoku book, after eating my cold lunch. Into the first song, I begin to feel someone's emotions over the music. I looked up at the wall, remove the ear piece out of my right ear, and listen. I assumed someone in the room was talking loudly, yet I don't hear any conversations. No sooner I replace the ear bud back in, I feel random emotions tug below my ribcage. I pull both plugs out and left them out this time. As I work on the puzzle, I feel a vast surge of emotions race thru my chest. A woman's heart pours forth with words such as "gateway... opening it... troubling". I sense she's working on a project which had become more challenging than expected and is terribly frustrated. I turn my torso around clockwise, just enough to see who's in the room. I see a woman sitting in the far left corner. I recognize her, for she typically sits at that very table with one to three other people. I turn back around and return to my Sudoku. Upon solving a couple more boxes, I hear a fleeting, whispering emotion of a male voice, saying "don't trust... aim... knows". Despise and mistrust flows from him, making it clear he doesn't trust people easily. I look up at the wall ahead, keeping the pencil pointed onto the page of my puzzle, and I feel another message. "She knows." It muzzles my chest, screaming self defense. I don't turn around this time. I'm afraid that if I do, I might see the guy who's sitting near by, may fit the description of Woekey's killer. I keep my eyes to the puzzle and draw random circles on blank areas of the page, while I consume the random emotions from the room. Not every emotion followed with a message. Just the mere fact I can feel or read such personal information so secretly just made my life even more fascinating. As I walk toward the door to leave, I looked at the man sitting closest to me. His hair is in a bun, braided, and black.

Migizi. His father was half Cherokee Indian and Irish, where his mother was full Maori. Both perished in an automobile accident with Migizi surviving with only bumps and bruises, still strapped in the infant car seat thirty yards from the scene of scrap metal. His father was an only child with no surviving extended family and the State didn't bother to notify kin in New Zealand. By the time his distant relatives knew of his situation, he was seven and been broken thru the foster system. A relative flew to the states to meet him, was shocked by his behavior, and left Migs behind. The first two families fostered him for the money and expressed little love or compassion. The third family had too many foster children to care for, believing it was God's will, and therefore received little attention. The fourth family were of loving nature, but at the age of six, Migs found it difficult to relate to nurturing parents and refused to speak a single word the entire year. At seven, he picked fights on the school grounds and won every time. His final foster family discovered handmade weapons hidden under the matress of his bed. That's when the State sent him to live the rest of his youth in a boy's home, nestled in the Shawnee National Forest of Southern Illinois, called Meadowbrook. It was here he befriended Jaques, the camp English and History teacher. Jaques was also a former Navy Seal, having served twelve years as a top sniper and well versed in a variety of martial arts. Jaques basically made Migs what he is today: a perfected assassin. His thought processes flows beautifully, with grace, and moves without a hiccup, much like a highly skilled Russian Bloshoi dancer.
Migs loved heights and often climbed trees for a peace of mind and a clear view. At seventeen and three weeks shy from his legal age to start a new life in the Navy, he fell fourtyseven feet from an elm tree, breaking his back. The metal rod in his back disqualified his entry. Not all was lost with his future, for Jaques recommended college to study law enforcement. He agreed to it, went to Southern Illinois University, and Jaques paid his tuition. Jaques was much like a father to Migs and understood him better than anyone at Meadowlands, for his mind worked much like his own. Jaques saw potential in Migs as a tactical fighter and a mentalist. The metal rod may have kept the military from witnessing Migs true potential, but life works in mysterious ways and Jaques is a true believer that everything happens for a good reason. Upon Migs graduation, Jaques set him up with Blackwater as a Diplomatic bodyguard.
Migizi. Twenty two years old and blown to bits by a landmine.
Migs sat in the passenger seat of a souped up and heavily armed black Escalade, escorting the Secretary of State and his translator. A minesweeper lead the pack, followed by the newly elected President of Afghanistan. A shoulder launched rocket stuck the second vehicle, front passenger side, killing Migs friend in an instant. When the minesweeper began firing in the direction of the shot, another rocket flies forth. Initially aimed at Migs vehicle, it was redirected at the minesweeper, injuring the three soldiers inside. It was all up to Migs to defend the lives he was trained for. As the Secretary of State called for backup, Migs took out twenty nine Taliban fighters alone and could have added a handful to the tally had the Marines not showed up. Bloodied with a bullet in his top left shoulder and and exit wound on his right torso, he walked with pride toward to convoy, raising his rifle high in a cheer. It was his ego which changed his life forever. It was his pride of kills, defending his country's top diplomat and a President of a war torn state, which made him who he is today. His right foot felt a click, his eyes widen at the notion of what was to come, and with every inch of muscle and energy he had left to give to save himself, he leaps forward with forearms covering his face.
When he arrived at a Naval medical camp with a mere heartbeat left in him, an unknown man dressed in BOD attire injected Migs with a serum filled with flesh repairing nannites and a specialized dose of epinephrine. He lost both his legs above the knees, his right hand nearly sheered clean from the wrist, barely hanging on, and his chest was riddled with bits of metal and melted sand. The nannites sealed his open wounds to stop the bleeding, restoring his blood pressure, and was flown to BlackOps-R medical research facility in New Mexico. He slept under tight supervision of watchful eyes. Top surgeons, medical scientists, and a personal troop of skilled nurses kept him company. Nine long months, he slept.
BlackOps saw his potential early on and viewed him as a future asset and super soldier. As he slept in a medically induced coma, he was retrofitted with state of the art bionic tungsten carbide legs, right hand, and strengthened his back with a new titanium rod. The nannites remain, making him the only self-healing super soldier in the World. Over a six month period, the nannites regenerated flesh over his bionics to make him appear whole again, having bonded to his DNA and taking over protein directives. His aging process ceased, making him quite the spectacle to a woman's eye. Youthful, well built, and an exotic flare of light golden flesh tones with green eyes and long black hair always gets the woman he wants to bed him. And if she's difficult to swoon, his menalist tricks always win.
He also has a titanium testicle. The lead Surgeon couldn't stand the thought of Migs with one less testicle lost, especially after what he did to save Diplomacy from somersaults had either the Secretary of State or the President of Afghanistan died in the ambush. A hollow titanium testicle was made and engraved with his kill count, the date, and location of the event. Balls of Steel. Migizi O'Hara.
Considering BlackOps reinvented Migs, they owned him and he had no qualms over the notion. Jaques disagreed wholeheartedly and after the third elongated fight at home, it would be Migs last sight of Jaques. For the next ten years, he worked missions alongside a variety of Government agencies around the globe to haul in 'unknowns' or kill if ordered. He lived much like Jules; secretive, discreet, simple, and alone. He bought land in New Zealand and built a small home to spend time away and diffuse from his rigorous work. When he read Jules Harper's file, he was intrigued a female lived much like himself yet. The only difference between him and Jules is she's classified as an unknown. His specialty.

I phoned in for a Thai dinner pickup from Pal Hal's car. Hal is the best. He will even let me grab take-out after work. Tonight I shall have veggie curry. I sit at the table with food in hand and fumble the fortune cookie with my left hand. I still have a lot of curry to eat and normally wait to open the cookie to read my fortune after the meal, but not tonight. I crack the cookie in half by closing my left hand around it snd pull out the tiny white rectangular paper: SOMEONE WANTS TO BE YOUR FRIEND, DREAMS OF BEING YOUR PARTNER.
"In bed!", I declare with glee. I laugh loudly for none of the fortunes ever make any sense, which makes them so worth reading.
After dinner, I waltz thru my greenhouse. A small clay pot holding a sad looking tarragon plant catches my eye. I pick up the pot, and examined the nearly dried leaves. The soil is damp, so it wasn't thirsty.
"How odd."
As I place the pot back onto the table, I wondered if I could heal it. Just like how I healed my cuts, maybe I can do the same and restore life. At least I can try, right? If anything, it would either prove or disprove that I can heal at all. I wrap my fingers around the damn clay pot, close my eyes, and imagine the tarragon plant restored to health. Healthy green leaves. Strong little twiggy arms. A happy plant. I leave my eyes closed, heavily exert my thoughts upon the plant for a good minute, and begin to hear ruffling sounds from all around. I slowly open my eyes to a great shock. I'm flabbergasted! The tarragon plant is bushy and alive! But it was what I saw next that blew me away. My mouth fell open.
"Hoooollly shit!"
With wide eyes, I see that ALL of my plants are healthier, greener, and full of flowers, fruit, and vegetables! I gasped at the incredible sight, slap my face hard and wince from the pain.
"No way. No. No fucking way I just healed everyone. No."
I quickly looked back at the tarragon plant and then to my hands, baffled sick with my Ego dancing in the streets. I raise my open hands closer to my face. A deep cry of pleasure rises to the surface and I begin to laugh with joy! How awesome is this, I thought!
'I have the power to heal!'
I settle down a bit and take a seat in the lawn chair. I lean back, prop my feet onto a box, and place both hands behind my head with a smile only the Devil could understand. In the accompaniment of my friends, I share a loud cheer, on and off.
"Incredible! Just fucking unbelievable!"
Heimdall also smiles along and passes the word to the King. 'Her memory is returning.'
Loki gets word from Thor of Jules rebound, along with the rest of the clan. Odin is not certain Jules would become a danger without the pendant, but he's not taking chances. Thor is instructed to keep him informed of her progress by Rachel, Heimdall to keep his eyes and ears open for possible dangers, and as for Loki? His mischievous nature and potential to rouse Jules' memory to the surface was set aside. Loki's next plan is now set into motion, feeling certain this is a sign for him to set forth his move to steal the pendant.

I went to bed, still feeling very giddy. I curled up into my favorite fetal position. Normally, I sleep on the right side of my bed, facing the night stand and ready to leap out of bed at a moments notice. Tonight I lay on my left side, which put me in the center of the bed. I pull the blanket up to my face with my right hand and hold it in place over my nose ... and I dreamt away. It was a lovely dream. I was flying over a beautiful island, full of tall green, reed-like grass and purple lupines everywhere. I didn't know what island this was, but it was irrelevant. In my dreamland, Loki appears as a raven, flying high above among the other half dozen ravens. In my bedroom, he stands to the right side of my bed, kneels alongside my back, and presses his gaze upon my face. With his left thumb, middle, and index finger, he gently strokes the brunettes back. With his right hand he touches my right hand, still clenching the cover tight, and lightly rubs the skin with his thumb. Quietly and softly, he speaks to me.
"Fly, Jules. Walk among your kind in secrecy. Heal yourself and those worthy of your touch. Soon enough, my brother will fall to his knees begging for mercy! For I will reign Midgard with you by my side. We shall make a formidable team!"
He disappears and I continue to dream of myself on a treeless island, surrounded by jagged volcanic mountains and the Pacific deep blue cold waters. I take flight and soar high above NORPAC Hill to join the ravens in their circle and dance along in the brisk Aleutian winds. It was this very moment I remember the island, its significance, and shout to the birds in glory.
"Home! I'm home!"

I awoke, feeling very refreshed! I haven't felt this damn good in a very long time. Both Thursday and Friday my spirits are high, and as I hum away to my fingers clicking upon the black keyboard, Rose studies my behavior. My happy self is unusual. It's very unusual, and especially at work. Rose isn't much for conversation, having a dry personality and a lack of interest in others. But my cheery self made her chuckle, leaving the comforts of her leather chair, and stands aside me.
"I haven't seen you so happy. What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Really. No good reason kind of nothing. I did get a lot of sleep the past two nights. You know. Feeling refreshed.", smiling away at my monitor.
"You were having trouble sleeping before?"
"For the past week or so."
"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better."
Rose really is a rather bland and dry character. She gets to the point and ends it. She's like a flower that's refuses to open for the birds and the bees. Don't get me wrong. She's been a great boss. No complaints, here.
I finish my work day with a quick verbal 'goodnight'. My loyal juvenile macaques in their golden and cream tones, run and chase each other at play as Jose begins to shift them from the their outdoor exhibit to the holding cell filled with fresh straw bedding and a pile of sliced watermelon.
"Good to see you in high spirits, Jules.", he says with an honest smile.
"Yeah. It's been a while."
Rhesus #5 is by far the sweetest one of the bunch and loved my company. While Jose leaves the staging area, #5 reaches out its left arm thru the dark silver bars to grab my attention. I locate a piece of monkey chow and place it into his hand.
"DON'T TELL anyone, okay? Our secret.", I say with a strong smile.
The macaque drops the chow and reaches out for me again. With lips curled back and teeth clenched, he makes a 'tsh tsh tsh' sound by exhaling through his sharp teeth. I was just about to open the door, when he began the desperate call. I turn around to see #5 reaching out as far as he could toward me, fingers outstretched to me as if his life calls me forth. I walk back to see the treat on the floor, hand it to him, but he smacks it away.
"What's wrong, buddy?"
I look out the window of the door, see an empty office, and quickly return to bring my right index finger to touch his reaching left hand. The macaque grabs my finger with its small warm fingers and holds on. His eyebrows rise, eyes widen, and he sucks his cheeks in to make his lips pucker.
"What's wrong? You've never acted like this before."
A few more seconds pass, and #5 lets go of my finger to return to the far left side of the cell, not before grabbing a slice of watermelon.
"That was weird."
I pick up the uneaten snack and return it to the container.

The last few days of work were uneventful. A small party was thrown on Monday to celebrate another sell and buy to the big wigs. Our hard work, in a short amount of time, is well received in Discovery. Cake, baked goods, and a catered Italian menu buffet of roast beef, pasta, and chicken ptarmigan fills the air. Still in good spirits, I chat with strangers stopping by from neighboring departments. The common topic of discussion: What are your plans? I never put much thought into it. I haven't been looking to replace my job with another in BlackOps-D. With my invisibility, healing, and not empathic powers, I've been busy thinking what to do with it. And my supposed memories of my past keep haunting me. Work? Frankly, I'd rather not.
'I should take some time off. Rediscover myself. Maybe travel. The farther, the better.'
Despite our research now complete, Rose wants me to continue with sessions until next Friday, fully recorded for prosperity and training of the macaques' future handlers. The six will be shipped to BlackOps-Research in New Mexico. As for rhesus monkey #5, he never again reached for my attention. Early Wednesday afternoon, Rose is on the phone with someone in Genetics. She was making all kinds of "Ooohs" and "Reallys", followed with an "Impossible". I'm sitting at my desk, wrapping up with observations into an Excel spreadsheet. She stands up, walks to her door, and shuts it. My curiosity peaks. Genetics draw blood from our rhesus macaques every Monday morning. They're trained to place their left arm into a PVC tube and hold onto the bar at the end. An opening in the tube allows the phlebotomist to draw blood.
'What did they find?', I wonder.
The door is shut tight. Her walls are also sound proof, for I can't hear a word.
"You did run a second series ...oh ...oh, I see ... That's medically impossible! You're absolutely positive your scan is of #5?"
Remember when rhesus #5 reached out to me Friday? The monkey sensed I could heal. Don't ask me how it knew. It's not like I'm advertising my services. It's no surprise #5 would know of my ability, for he had early stages of brain cancer. The tumor had not yet impacted any language, cognition, or motor skills, yet it was clearly evident in the scans and thru blood work. By holding my finger, I inadvertently healed it. Rhesus #5 did't have any blood work since Monday. However, all of the monkeys did get their monthly MRI body scan on Tuesday morning. The tumor was no longer visible. Gone. Poof!
The rest of the work week went smoothly. Nothing really to report. Well, I take that back. Rose was much more quiet than usual. I'm not the type to pry. I minded my business and worked as usual. Rhesus #5 never asked for my attention this week. All of the monkeys behaved like they do. That is, nothing out of the ordinary. Like I said, it was a smooth and uneventful work week. Further testing was done on #5. The brain cancer was confirmed gone and the research group wants answers of the impossible. Rose met with the supervisor of Genetics/Research Thursday to discuss the secondary round of testing results from Monday and Wednesday on rhesus monkey #5. My name came up. My known abilities were well documented, thanks to Stark. The question arose to whether it was possible I may have intentionally healed the animal or unknowingly healed it. In her opinion, Rose said the possibility was very high.. However, she questioned whether I did so willingly and sided on believing that I was not aware of my ability ...hich she was partly right. The monkey sought me out for help. It sensed my ability. I answered its calling. I helped. It was decided to leave the alert at Condition Bravo, until further notice, and Migs was ordered to keep a closer distance to me on a daily basis.