Mind Games

Chapter 34

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

……………………………………………

Charlie awoke at around seven that evening, to a soft knock on the door. Dr. Martha Bodman stuck her head in the opening and looked at him as he tried to focus, groggily. "I have some dinner for you, Charlie," she said. "We need to get you up for a bit and do some breathing exercises; then you can eat and rest again."

She didn't wait for a response, but in a gentle yet firm manner that suggested arguments would be futile, proceeded to open the door, revealing an imposing figure behind her. Tom Bodman's powerful, rangy form towered over her, and they moved toward his bed. Charlie realized that he was clutching his cell phone with white knuckles, and fought down a momentary surge of panic that seemed to come from out of nowhere.

Martha eyed him sympathetically. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I brought Tom to help; we need to get you up and walking for just a bit, and I'm sure you need to use the bathroom." She slid a supporting hand under his back, which was already slightly elevated; the bed was adjustable, like a hospital gurney. Charlie pushed down with his hands as he struggled upright, wincing at the pain in his chest.

Tom Bodman nodded, smiling broadly. "How do ye do, doctor?" he asked in a deep resonant voice. He sounded like an amiable rancher, an easy-going cowboy, not a former Navy Seal who could break someone's neck with a quick twist of his hands.

"Call me 'Charlie,'" said Charlie faintly; and he slowly slid his feet over the edge of the bed as the Bodmans supported him on either side. Martha deftly slid some slippers on his feet, and he stood; momentarily dizzy.

"The dizziness is normal," said Martha. "You've been on your back for quite a while, and you had lost a lot of blood, according to the reports. It will improve as you get your strength back. Now let's try walking, shall we?"

Together they shuffled out of the room into a large, high-ceilinged living area. The entire cabin was made of timber, inside and out, and the wood walls and cheery plaid of the sofas spoke of warmth, and comfort. Comfort was the last thing Charlie was feeling at the moment; however, his chest was aching, his knees were shaking, and Martha Bodman was right – he did need to use the bathroom, which was thankfully located right next to his room. They got him situated in front of the toilet with one hand on a metal support bar anchored to the wall, and mercifully left him in privacy, although Martha shot him an anxious look on the way out.

He managed to get his sweatpants down and sat to relieve himself, wondering dully, vaguely, when his knees had gotten to look so bony; not really caring that they were. He'd barely gotten to his feet and his pants up again before the door opened, as if Martha knew without being told that he was ready. He shuffled over to the sink and washed his hands, leaning over it for a moment to catch his breath, which seemed to be hard to get. Tom and Martha walked him out, and he could hear Martha say quietly, "Let's take him back to his room. I don't think he's up for the kitchen yet."

By the time he got back to his bed, his body failed him. He sagged onto his knees, and had to suffer the indignity of being lifted bodily by Tom and set gently into bed, where he lay, panting with exhaustion. He barely noticed when Tom left the room, and slumped motionless against the inclined back of the bed while Martha stuck a thermometer in his ear. As he caught his breath and regained some semblance of awareness, he took in her appearance. She was around fifty, he guessed, with a pleasant, slightly lined face, which shone with kindness. Her light brown hair was streaked with strands of gray and tucked back in a smooth, low bun – she looked the personification of the archetypical mom. "Hmm," she said, with a small worried pucker in her forehead, "you're running a slight fever." Out came a stethoscope, and she worked it under his sweatshirt, taking care to place it around the bandages. "Take a deep breath." He complied, and she made a face. "That's not a deep breath, honey. I know it hurts, but you have to take deeper breaths than that – you'll wind up with pneumonia."

He renewed his efforts, breathing in and out on command as deeply as he could, the pain bringing beads of cold sweat to his forehead. Finally, she seemed satisfied. "I don't hear any signs of congestion," she said, as Tom wheeled a cart into the room, "but I'm going to start you on a slightly stronger antibiotic as a precaution. I'm worried you're not getting enough fluids, either; I'm going to start an IV again." She worked quickly, and Charlie endured the needle stick expressionlessly, listlessly. Martha hung a bag on a hook near the bed, added the antibiotic, adjusted the flow, and then pulled the cart forward. A heavenly smell came from it. "Now," she said brightly, "you can eat. I made chicken and dumplings – it should be easy on your stomach."

Charlie had been lying there, exhausted and steeped in misery, barely aware of her ministrations, but her last comment struck a chord. Suddenly he was a boy again, home sick on a glorious fall Saturday. His mother sat by his bedside, and he could smell homemade chicken soup. Donnie came bounding in from outside, his cheeks flushed from the fresh air, and perched on the edge of his bed, watching as his mother spooned chicken soup into Charlie's mouth. He patted Charlie's blanket-covered leg in an awkward gesture of affection, and Charlie gazed back at him, with a seven-year-old's unadulterated adoration.

"Here you go," murmured Martha soothingly as she spooned a bite into Charlie's mouth, and as the achingly familiar taste hit his tongue, he closed his eyes, and tears ran down his cheeks.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don began his deprogramming the next day. Jonathan Wilkes had returned to the Metropolitan Detention Center, this time with monitoring equipment, which he set up in a small office that had been vacated for the purpose. He looked up as the door opened, and Don stepped in, his movements halting, tentative.

"Come in and sit down," encouraged Wilkes, with a nod to the guard, who backed out quietly to take up a post outside the door. He looked keenly at Don as he sat. He had shaved and showered; his dark eyes had a flicker of purpose that hadn't been there when he'd walked into the room the day before. "How are you feeling?"

Don shrugged, with a bitter twist of his face, and looked away. How did he feel? Like hell. Like a murderer.

Wilkes examined him for a moment, then said, "I wanted to ask you one thing. You were wearing a denim jacket on the day of the accident, and we modified it and gave it back to you when you left. It held a booster to amplify the signals we sent you for the controls in your head, and a small camera in one of the front buttons. You were wearing it the night of the attack. This might be difficult because we programmed you to blank out the jacket, but do you remember what happened to it?"

Don stared at him, as bits and pieces of the night flashed through his mind. He couldn't remember it all coherently, and to be honest, he didn't want to – he'd pushed the attack out of his mind as best he could. "I – I'm not sure. There was a man – a security officer, I think. I think he took it when I got off the elevator."

Wilkes nodded, thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, Agent Ziegler, our command, had an operative out here helping to facilitate getting Charlie up to the conference room. It was probably him. I'll call Ziegler and get his name. We won't need the jacket anymore, but it would be good to get it sent back to the institute. This isn't technology that we want lying around."

Don frowned at him. "Getting Charlie to the conference room? You wanted him there?"

"Yes," said Wilkes. "Our orders were to make this look like a family argument gone bad, and for it to happen in front of witnesses. We guessed that when Charlie felt threatened, he'd head for your team to help him. We guessed right. The glass conference room was the ideal location."

A picture of the room rose in Don's mind, and he closed his eyes, his gut churning. "God."

Wilkes surveyed him in silence for a moment, giving him a chance to collect himself. "Let's begin. The faster we can get you back to normal, the better." He turned on the equipment in front of him, adjusting dials. "This equipment can monitor your emotions through the signals transmitted by the wires in your brain. It will give us a good read on your reactions as we go through this. I'm going to put some pictures up on the screen – your father, your girlfriend, Robin Brooks, some of your team members."

Don nodded. He was trying to remain composed, but his voice was hoarse. "I remember you doing that during the programming."

"That's right," agreed Wilkes. "We used the pictures to help set a baseline of your normal emotional state, and of what settings we needed to provoke negative emotions. Right now, we aren't trying to provoke or manipulate anything; I'm not applying any current – we just want to see your emotional reactions under normal conditions." He turned on a projector, and an image of Alan Eppes flashed on the screen. He grunted approvingly. "Yes, you're projecting a setting that we call familial love – deep love and affection for a family member or close friend."

"I don't feel anything," said Don dubiously, looking at the picture.

Wilkes turned the equipment so that Don could see the monitor, with its colored bars. "You don't have to – and you wouldn't, necessarily, with those readings. It should be a pretty comfortable state for you. You can see, however, those bars on the right are indicating positive reactions. The ones on the left indicate negative reactions."

He pointed to the graph, and starting with the bar on the far left, named each of them in turn. "In order, going from left to right, the bars represent hate, disgust or loathing, fear, envy, shame, mistrust, impatience, disinterest, interest, patience, trust, pride, selflessness, physical attraction, respect, love. As you can see, the stronger reactions are on either end; milder reactions in the middle. There is another graph underneath," he pointed to a smaller one with three bars, "that indicates the base emotions – anger, sadness, and happiness."

Don gazed at it; the smaller graph showed a small bar for anger, and a large one for sadness, that stretched nearly to the upper limit. The bar for happiness was notably absent. Wilkes eyed him sympathetically. "Obviously, there isn't much for you to be happy about right now, and you show sadness and have some residual anger over what has happened. That graph indicates your underlying emotional state. Of course, these bars are just indicators. No emotion is this easy to categorize – they all interact. It takes some skill on the part of the programmer to interpret them correctly."

He flipped up a picture of Robin, and the settings changed slightly. Wilkes pointed to the bar on the right labeled physical attraction. "This is more indicative of what we call romantic love, which has a sexual component, shown by the bar I'm pointing to, called physical attraction. There's a nice strong bar on the far right, indicating love. Incidentally, that readout has a nice balance. She's a good match for you, according to this. These readings are very normal, so far."

Don reddened slightly, but relaxed a bit. In spite of Wilkes' assertion yesterday that he wasn't insane; he couldn't help but think that his brain was off kilter. It was reassuring to hear that it seemed to be functioning normally. He gazed at the picture for a second – God, he missed her. He hated to imagine what she must think of him – even if she eventually found out the truth, could their relationship survive this?

"You miss her."

It was a statement, not a question, and Wilkes pointed to the bar for sadness, which was easing even further upward. Don nodded.

Wilkes hit a button, and a picture of Colby Granger came up. Don stared at him for a second; then his eyes went to the monitor.

Wilkes pointed. "The bars are relatively centered now, which is neutral territory, common readings for acquaintances. Good readings for trust and respect. You do have a slightly higher than normal bar on the far right than is usual for a co-worker. About halfway up on the 'love' bar indicates a strong like for someone. Notice that the bar for physical attraction, however, has gone down to zero – these are classic readings for a good friend. You have feelings of like, trust, and respect for Agent Granger. I'd guess from this that you are pretty close to your team members."

Don nodded, thinking with a pang of his team. God, what had they thought when they witnessed the attack? Even if they knew now that it hadn't been his fault, it still had to be horrible to witness.

"What's going through your mind right now?"

Don blinked and looked at Wilkes, then at the monitor. The bars were flickering, strengthening to the center left. "I – I was just wondering what they thought when they saw the attack," he said, feeling suddenly awkward.

Wilkes grunted affirmatively. "You can see that when you thought that, some more negative reactions came into play, indicating feelings of guilt, remorse. That's also a healthy, normal reaction. You can see how the electrical impulses generated by your mind can change the readings. Now I want to show you how we were able to manipulate your responses. By applying current to the wires, we could change your emotional state, and influence your reactions. I'm going to change some settings, and you tell me what you feel."

Wilkes fiddled with the knobs, and Don waited, the corner of his mouth quirking in a grin. The smile spread as he was filled with a warm, contented feeling; it was growing now, into unadulterated joy, ecstasy, and he threw back his head and laughed aloud from sheer delight. In the back of his mind, he knew it was wrong to laugh, to be happy, when Charlie was dead, but he couldn't control it. "Stop!" he cried, as another fit of blissful laughter shook him, and then he felt it recede as he gasped, wiping at tears of joy.

He managed to collect himself as Wilkes pointed to the small graph. "I simply changed your base emotional state," he said. "I dialed down the sadness, and turned the control for happiness up to full. That was the result of changing just two controls on the smaller graph. Imagine what we could do to you when we manipulated several of them."

Don had sobered now, and Wilkes looked him intently in the eye. "It's important that you understand the extent of the power we had over you – that none of this was your fault; it was out of your control. If you don't forgive yourself and accept those facts, you'll find it much harder to reverse the programming."

Don, somewhat shaken, swallowed and nodded. "I knew it was wrong inside, to feel happy, but I couldn't stop it. It made me feel out of control – like -,"

He broke off, and Wilkes prompted, "Like?"

"Like I was going nuts," Don said faintly, realization echoing in his voice.

"Like you felt when you attacked your brother," agreed Wilkes, his expression softening. Don nodded; pain apparent in his face. Wilkes continued; his tone low, level. "I'm going to show you something now. This equipment gives us the ability to store settings, and I'm going to put up one that we took before we started to program you." He pressed a button, and the display changed.

Don could feel the sadness receding, and a feeling of apprehension growing. The bar for fear was rising. Envy had risen slightly, as had impatience. A tiny segment of bar had even appeared under hate. On the positive side, however, several bars had risen, trust, respect, and especially, love. He frowned. "What is that?"

"That's Charlie," said Wilkes simply. "These were your perceptions of your brother before we started to program you. The fear component is actually misleading in this case. I doubt you feared him – we took this reading right after your accident, and we surmised that since you'd both just been attacked, you feared for his safety. The rest of the settings, however, were probably accurate as to how you really felt about him. Envious, certainly, probably a by-product of life with a genius. He made you feel impatient at times. We even had a tiny component of hate to start with – not that you hated him, by any means; the reading is not that strong. But there were times when you disliked him – if not in the present, then possibly in the past, when you were younger. On the other hand, it was apparent that you loved him very much, you trusted him, and you respected him. Conflicting feelings, some of them strong. Those strong feelings for him actually made you easier to program – it's easier to manipulate strong feelings than weak ones." He paused, waiting for a reaction, but Don was silent, gazing at the readings with such deep sadness in his eyes, that Wilkes wondered whether he should continue. He had to, however; they had only a few days before the surgery. He hit a button, removing the settings and shutting off the current, and said, "I want you to look at the next image."

Don raised his eyes to see an image of Charlie on the wall, smiling. He recognized it; it had been one of the pictures they'd used over and over again, during the programming. He could feel emotions, powerful, conflicting; rising and swirling inside of him.

He heard Wilkes say quietly, "It looks like we have some work to do."

Don's head jerked toward the monitor. The settings had changed – sadness was still strong, as was love, but the negative reactions and emotions had intensified. Anger was rising, along with all the negative reactions – envy, fear, loathing, and above all, hatred. He looked at Wilkes wildly. "Why is it doing that?"

Wilkes shook his head, sadly. "That, I'm afraid, is the result of the brainwashing. Some of those reactions are hard-wired into your brain now. If he were in the room with you right now, you probably wouldn't attack him – the love you feel for him would keep you from that. You would undoubtedly feel angry toward him, however, resentful, disdainful. It would be an easy thing to ramp down the love, bring up the anger, and get you to a state where you would attack him again. Our job in the next few days will be to retrain the natural circuitry in your head, and try to get you back to how you originally felt about him."

Don's shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes. "Why does it matter?" he asked bitterly, opening them again and looking at Wilkes. "He's gone."

Wilkes hesitated. He had been briefed on the details, and knew that wasn't true – Charlie wasn't dead. It was imperative that they restore Don Eppes to his original state, or he would forever be a threat to his brother. He couldn't tell him that, however, especially after seeing those settings – Don Eppes could not yet be trusted, and with the wiring in his head, could still be manipulated.

"Two reasons," Wilkes said, finally. "First of all, the rewiring of your brain could affect how you think and react to others in the future, especially anyone who reminds you of your brother – I would think you would want your old personality back. Secondly – don't you want to remember him the way you really would have, without all those negative emotions?"

Don stared at him, stricken, and Wilkes could see tears come into his eyes before he raised a shaking hand to his forehead to cover his expression.

"I thought so," said Wilkes, as he watched the bar for sadness creep higher. "Now let's get to work."

End Chapter 34

A/N: You didn't think I would make this easy on the boys, now did you?

This portion of the story is similar to the relatively calm eye of the hurricane; we're preparing for the second round of action ahead. In fact, this part of the story was plot-hole hell; it is important to control who knows what, and when, for future events, and I can tell you, it got to be pretty mind-boggling.

Questions - Will our boys be reunited, and if so, will Don be safe for Charlie to be around? Will they get a chance to testify against Marsh? Will Marsh find out that Charlie, who is an even bigger threat to him than Don, is alive? Will Marsh get to Don before he has his surgery? That and many more questions answered in the coming chapters