Progress Report

"I've called you in here to discuss your time in the intern program," Hollis says, folding her hands on her desk and getting straight to the point.

Clem doesn't give an immediate reply. He doesn't glance around her office as she expects. He is sitting across from Hollis in her office, his expression unreadable. If he's shocked or saddened, his flat smile and unblinking gaze don't reveal his emotions.

He'd be an excellent fit for espionage if his psychic skill set improved. It might have been Clem's first summer in the intern program, but he faltered behind his classmates. He had a decent grasp of basic skills - fine telekinesis, short-range pyrokinesis, and he could remain invisible for up to an hour, the best among his peers.

But he has trouble retaining his levitation. His thought bubble will pop after a short distance in mid-air, sending him spiraling to the ground. Clem often trips while running on his levitation ball, scrambling across the obstacle course. Hollis had assigned him mandatory lessons with Milla, but it seemed the Mental Minx's parties and coaching could not improve his finesse.

Making matters worse, Clem had difficulty retaining new psychic skills. When members of the Psychic Seven stepped in for special classes, Compton and Helmut conveyed that Clem couldn't tap into zoolepathy or time bubble. Ford, having known Clem since Whispering Rock, lamented how Clem hardly made much of a mark in summer camp.

But she wants to start light. "For starters, you've never skipped class or missed an assignment. You're a great student when it comes to punctuality, Clem. I appreciate that."

He blinks, and life sparks in his eyes. He tilts his head, straightening his posture, and Clem says, "Aw, thanks! The least I can do is be on time, y'know?"

She shares a conspiratorial grin with him. "Well, you're right on that. I've dealt with too many ditching teens, so I booted them without a second thought."

When he chuckles, she senses the conversation that will come. She's dealt with interns who have hidden their genuine emotions, but he's on an entirely different level. She has noticed his pattern, one that the other teachers haven't seemed to acknowledge. He'll cajole and jest, pushing the attention off himself with a well-timed wisecrack aimed at his own expense. It creates an uncomfortable atmosphere where no one wants to stay, allowing him to distance himself for another day.

She takes charge before he can retort. "But I'm sorry to say timeliness doesn't pass exams."

His expression doesn't instantly fall. He holds it steady. The only hint of hesitation is how the corners of his eyes crinkle when they narrow ever so slightly.

But he brightens just as quickly. "Oh, yeah, that's true. I can't expect to ace a test just by being the first to waltz in the classroom. That sure won't earn me extra credit or boost my GPA. If it did, I'd be your all-star student!"

He lays on the humor. Hollis replies by tapping her manicured fingernail on her desk. Clem glances at her hand, his smile appearing to tighten when she ignores the bait. She lets the silence spread between them, and Clem's impartiality returns as they wait for someone to speak.

Hollis shifts to her computer. Her keyboard clicks echo. She occasionally peeks at Clem, who looks between her and the monitor, a blur of white pages and tiny print. When she finds the correct document, she turns the screen to Clem and lets him read.

She has selected Cassie's report. Her neat cursive letters penned her shock when Clem's cheerleading archetype collapsed face-first in the middle of a censor fight and stopped moving. Even the censors had expressed worry, gently nudging him with their stamps until he faded out from existence like an erased doodle in the margins of a cheap piece of paper.

"From my observations and the notes from your superiors, you've had continuous trouble learning new powers and utilizing your older ones," she says. "For today, I want to focus on mental projection." She points at an underlined comment. "Agent O'Pia says your archetype will initially cheer for you in battle. While he won't fight, he supplies you with mental health-' She clicks her tongue. "-and, well, I can't think of another way to phrase it, but he decides to die in the middle of combat at a moment's notice. It's like he gave up on existing."

Despite the graphic comment, Clem's expression is the same. She laces her fingers together. Hollis lets him wait, crossing her legs underneath her desk.

"Do you have any idea why?" she asks, gesturing at the monitor.

Clem shrugs. "Well, Agent Forsythe, it is what it is."

She shoots him a pointed look. "Excuse me?"

"I mean-" Clem lets out another low chuckle. "-sorry, I know I could've said that better, too. To be frank, I'm not as advanced as my peers. I was always bottom of the barrel at summer camp, so it makes sense that I am here, too." He scoffs. "It's on me, though. Cassie is a fantastic teacher, and I like working with her, but that's how my brain works." He rapped his knuckles to his temple. "A bit too underdeveloped and busted to even make an archetype work! Ha ha!"

Hollis holds her wrist. Her brows knit together, creating deep creases. She focuses on Clem as he lets his hands fall back to his lap, his eyes drifting to the ground, followed by the slight dip in his grin.

He's doing it again. He's creating a discomfiting ambiance that will make someone want to shy away from him.

"But an archetype is something you pull out of yourself," Hollis counters, Clem appearing to bite back a grimace from her sudden rebuttal. "With how Cassie describes mental projection, it's like a version of yourself that you need most at that time. In the middle of a fight, a cheerleader is good for support, maybe even evasive maneuvers, but if it decides to keel over, we have a problem with the user."

Clem's shoulders tense. Under his baggy jacket, he can try to hide all he likes, but a trained Psychonaut will see through him. She supposes she'll have to chat with his other teachers to ensure they notice what's underneath the surface.

Hollis turns the monitor away from him. "So, in my opinion, an archetype reflects how you view yourself."

Clem swallows. His Adam's apple bobs. He leans forward, looking at her with an expression she can't exactly place. Consternation is most likely the word she'd used for him, but a flicker of something else passes in his gaze.

She stands from her desk, levitating her chair with her. Clem doesn't move when she sets it next to him. Sitting down, she rests her hand on his shoulder, her long fingers feeling his bones underneath.

"Are you doing okay, Clem?" Hollis asks, her words hanging heavy.

With a practiced smile, he says, "Never better, Agent Forsythe."

"You're lying to me."

Clem's eyes widen at her cutting rejection. She feels his entire body shiver under her palm. He gulps again, unable to conceal his shock, as she knows he would have if presented with the opportunity to hide. She even spots sweat breaking out underneath his hairline, his shaggy brown bangs doing little to obscure the droplets.

He sweeps his hand through his hair. Another chuckle ghosts past his lips. "Oh, well, I don't think I've ever been called a liar straight to my face. That's a - I didn't think a teacher would act so blatantly with her student."

She doesn't respond. She keeps her eyes locked on Clem, even when he squirms. Slowly, she pulls her hand away, but she isn't easing. Relenting now would steer the conversation from the problem, and Clem would seize the chance to run.

"I've taken the liberty of assigning a second mentor to you, but he's not in the vein of a conventional mentor," she says. Clem twists his head to the door as if predicting him to arrive when mentioned. "They're in a session with another agent, but you'll meet with him in the next thirty minutes." She grins confidently. "He's already penciled you in, so head over a few doors down the hall on the left to find Agent Nathan Silavo's office."

He rubs his neck. "But I'm already-"

"Yes, you have a typical mentor like the rest of the interns of your class. I've told Jared that you'll divide your time here at the Motherlobe between him, my lessons, and your second mentor." Hollis stands, her shoulder pads casting a broad shadow over Clem. "It'll do you well to talk to him. Since he specializes in cognitive behavioral therapy, Nathan is one of the Psychonauts' finest therapists, and he's told me he's more than happy to support you."

But although satisfaction sweeps through Hollis from her eloquent explanation, Clem shifts in his seat. He grinds his heel into the ground, his apprehension palpable. His gaze seeks the floor, then to the bookshelf, as if to hide in plain sight from her regard.

"This is - it's not supposed to go like this," he manages to say, his tone jagged.

Hollis lowers her voice, somberly asking, "And how is it supposed to go?"

He stares at her like a fish out of water. She's hooked him, reeling Clem in slowly but surely. There is an underlying problem; she senses he's silently acknowledged it for some time. But as she gently pulls him toward her, wanting to understand why, Clem bites his tongue and diverts his answer.

"I just - that's - you set this up just for me?"

She nods. "You're my student, Clem. I believe this is the best possibility for you."

Another chuckle, this one bitter, bleeds. Clem leans in his seat, slowly shaking his head. He shifts through his bangs again, the rings under his eyes darker than usual. He must not have gotten even a wink of sleep last night.

"No one is judging you here. Everything between you, Nathan, and I is confidential," Hollis promises, standing up. She bends forward and cups his shoulders, Clem's posture slouched. "The Psychonauts are here to help people with their problems, and that's what I'm offering you, Clem." She squeezes, applying gentle pressure. "I want to help you face whatever hurts you on the inside."

She thinks she sees his eyes water. But when he blinks, the sheen is gone. Clem breathes in suddenly as if he had forgotten how to. His sharp intake cuts through them, and slowly, he rises to his feet, meeting Hollis' eyes, their height evenly matched.

Clem loops stray, slightly greasy hairs behind his ears. "So you say. It's a little harder than it sounds."

"And that's why you have to give it a chance," she offers, "because to overcome those hurdles upsetting your mind, you need to be the one to take my hand."

She holds out her palm. She curls her fingers inward, gesturing, hoping.

But Clem is rigid. He stands, arms stiff. He focuses on the creases in her palm as if searching for a signal, a reason to deny her. Clem wipes his hands against his jacket, then tucks them against his skin as he folds his arms, Hollis trying hard to ignore the suspense pumping in her chest.

Unwaveringly, Clem hums to himself. He rolls his shoulders back and reaches out. He takes Hollis' hand and gives it a solitary shake, his grip loose, his commitment half-hearted.

"Well, you went this far for me. I should oblige in return, right? And I've never met Agent Silavo, so that'll be neat." That same smile appears, practiced and self-assured, as he pulls his hand free. "Thank you, Agent Forsythe. I'll see what I can do."

He slinks out like a snake leaving after a pleasant meal. Hollis allows him to depart, wrapping her arms behind her back. An uneasiness settles in her stomach, faintly swirling. She's dealt with unruly and unfortunate interns, each enduring a problem solvable with professional help, but Clem is an enigma. He disguises his troubles, but minuscule cracks cut through the marble of his image. Every joke and every self-deprecating comment meant to instill wariness is a potential underlying craving for someone to detect his deception.

At the very least, Hollis assumes that is the case. She wants to believe it is.

Hollis clears her throat. "One last thing, Clem."

He stops in the doorway and peers over his shoulder.

"I'm proud of you for taking the first step," she remarks, lifting her head and staring into him.

Although his emotions stay in check, Clem pauses. His stance slips into something relaxed. A hint of a grin perseveres. Clem nods, quick and composed, before dipping out of her office toward Agent Silavo's office.

Hollis returns to her desk. She drums her fingers on the keyboard, not typing. She reads the rest of Cassie's account, her trepidations detailing Clem's prominent blase nature toward his archetype's demise. How he had even laughed unnerves both Cassie and Hollis; the release of death, he said, is the natural end to a comical life.

Sighing, Hollis dismisses the files and turns off the monitor. She has to concentrate now on a budget concern Truman had brought to her before Clem's appointment. Sorting through her paperwork, she grabs a ballpoint pen out of its holder, flicks off the cap, and resumes crunching the numbers.

Making a mental note to meet with Nathan after Clem's session to devise subsequent therapeutic goals for him, Hollis hopes against reason that Clem will lower his walls sooner rather than later.