A/N: This chapter has graphic depictions of torture and it comes on fast. Seriously. WillieGarvin put a disclaimer before chapter 96 of "A New Day" where he had a waterboarding scene and I think I may have freaked him out with this one. So be forewarned. If you read "American Psycho" and came away without nightmares, you'll be fine.
I appreciate all the reviews. I know not everyone was necessarily on board with the OOBE in the last chapter, but I promise it has continuity with the story. At least, I hope it does. It's not like I have any idea what the hell I'm doing here...
CIA Black Site – Alexandria, VA – September 25, 2017 – 11:00 PM EST
Tim Ratcliffe wanted more than anything to go back to watching his career flame out. He wanted to go back to answering the phones. He'd gladly become a phone telemarketer if it meant he could erase the last few hours of his life. He thought something might rupture inside of him as his throat convulsed in another involuntary dry heave.
It had been an eternity since his stomach had anything to offer up other than viscous strands of hot bile, but he savored the rank flavor. It was infinitely better than what had been there moments before, though he could still taste that too. Taste what his mouth had been filled with right before his dinner had come rushing back into the world to splatter across his naked legs and onto the floor.
The taste of blood. So much goddamn blood. He was drenched in it, and it felt like a bucket of it had been poured directly into his mouth, which in a way it had. But not from a bucket. It had been directly from the source, still simmering with its owner's life energy. That source and owner being Langston Graham, Director of the CIA. Though he supposed former Director was now more accurate.
Tim had called Director Graham not long after talking to Mark Christiansen. He'd needed a few minutes to plan out his approach to the Director, a man he'd met several times over the years and who he thought he had a decent rapport with. Once he had a plan firmed up in his mind, he was certain it was the right move. It wasn't without risk, but he had few options. If anyone could offer him his career a lifeline, it would be the Director.
Given the previous night's events, he wasn't surprised to learn that the Director was actually at ODNI and he'd invited Tim to meet with him in his temporary office space. Once there, he'd laid out what Mark had told him about the data dump and while Graham had been very angry at first, that quickly transitioned to the Director telling him how much he appreciated that Tim came to him first with the information.
Afterwards, the Director had taken him out to dinner, and they'd chatted amicably. Graham even asked about his wife and young daughter, which Tim had been deeply impressed by. He was not naïve enough to believe Graham was simply being kind out of the goodness of his heart. The man had a fierce reputation and was feared by some of the most powerful men in Washington. Tim completely understood that he was being seduced, but he was more than happy to let the seduction play out. Graham obviously wanted something from him and during the course of their discussion, he had finally admitted that he had a special project that he needed help with.
He informed Tim that the explosion at the ODNI had targeted a specific covert program and had destroyed a lot of sensitive data. Data that was almost assuredly what had been compromised in the data dump Mark had discovered. This data was related to a special team he wanted Tim to help him oversee while they worked to rebuild the data set. Tim had been working in the IC long enough to know that it was a covert, black-ops team, but that was exactly the kind of thing that would give him the protection he needed. He could transition from the ODNI to the CIA as a Special Assistant to the Director himself.
After dinner he'd had to contain his enthusiasm, going from career death to a promotion over the course of a few hours. Graham even wanted to introduce him to the team that night, get things rolling quickly and Tim was more than happy to comply.
Graham rarely used his Secret Service provided security detail while working in DC, instead choosing at random one of the many upgraded SUVs available from the CIA motor pool to drive himself. It was in this vehicle that Graham had driven them to a warehouse west of Alexandria. Tim remembered feeling honored to be driven around by the Director of the CIA, who would often point out places of interest - an Asian restaurant with excellent dumplings, a men's clothing store with a skilled tailor - they passed during the short journey.
Upon arriving at their destination, Tim's excitement at the new opportunity ended abruptly and brutally. After they'd come into the front office portion of a nondescript warehouse, the lights had suddenly gone out and they'd both been viciously attacked and subdued by an unknown number of assailants. They'd been rudely stripped naked and a brief attempt by Tim to resist had been met with a taser to his lower back, sending him to the floor writhing in agony, as every muscle in his body spasmed uncontrollably. To add insult to injury, his bladder and colon spontaneously released, which left him convulsing in a filthy stew of his own shit and piss. All while the Director had been screaming incoherent sentences and yelling that they couldn't do this to him.
After the effects of the taser receded, Tim himself had been too stunned at events to yell much of anything, except a few pitiful questions relating to why and what, which were studiously ignored. Once they were strapped to a pair of heavy metal chairs, a single high-intensity LED light had been turned on directly above the two of them. The chairs had been arranged slightly diagonal to each other, so close that their knees were almost touching. The bright LED created a dome of light extending out maybe thirty feet, but Tim couldn't see the ceiling or any walls nearby and realized they'd been brought into an empty portion of the warehouse.
Once the light came on, he noticed that the few abductors he could see on the fringes of the shadows were wearing headphones over their balaclavas. The headphones struck him as strange, but he was distracted from this oddity when one of their captors approached the Director with some kind of leather strap. He watched terrified and fascinated as the man fastened a huge ball-gag onto the Director, forcing his mouth open wide against his enraged protests.
In the back of his mind, Tim had been holding on to the desperate notion that this was some sort of bizarre test devised by the Director, maybe to see how quickly he'd fold to questioning. Their being stripped naked had dampened that hope, and the ball-gag crushed it completely, knowing that the Director would never volunteer to be humiliated in such a fashion.
After the gag was in place the man stepped back into the shadows and a different one stepped into the light. He removed his headphones and balaclava as he approached, and Tim could hear the hiss of static coming out of them. Tim knew it was probably an important piece of information, but such was his terror, he couldn't make himself care. The man was slightly over six feet tall and obviously in excellent physical condition with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular chest. His face was clean shaven and angular, all hard planes and straight lines. Tim put him in his mid-forties. He looked at Tim with an expression that seemed to be a mix of boredom and disdain.
After a few minutes, the questions had begun, obviously directed at Tim, since the Director had been reduced to grunts and angry glares. The first question had made absolutely no sense.
"Tell us how many phrases there are and what their command function is." The man's voice was calm and even.
"What?" Tim asked, completely flummoxed by the demand.
"Tell us how many phrases there are and what their command function is," he repeated in the same conversational tone.
"I don't understand!" Tim pleaded.
The man regarded Tim calmly but with a hint of irritation. "Do you think this is a joke Mr. Ratcliffe? Do we seem to be playing at being pranksters here?"
"No! I don't! I just have no idea what you mean! I don't know anything about phrases or command functions!" He desperately wanted to answer anything they asked but hadn't anticipated them asking questions that made no sense.
"Ok, Mr. Ratcliffe. Take a few deep breaths for me. Try to relax. Maybe Director Graham can help us." The man switched his focus to the Director. "You can still answer yes-no questions, right Langston?" The speaker seemed to be enjoying himself as he taunted the Director of the CIA.
Graham had stopped moving and had been looking around the room, now trying unsuccessfully to seem unconcerned with his vulnerable position. He didn't acknowledge the question directed at him.
"You see, Langston, we know about the destruction of your precious Intersect last night. We also know about your method of controlling us. As you can see, we've been planning this little reception for some time." The man held up the held up the headphones as if to demonstrate their planning. He flicked a switch and the faint static noise ceased. "Now that the Intersect has been destroyed and you no longer have the ability to add to our illustrious ranks, we had to ask ourselves, what further use do you serve? The simple answer is none."
Graham had been getting more agitated as the speaker explained things. Even with the ball-gag forcing his jaw open, the emphatic, "Huck ooo!" from Graham was quite clear and elicited a round of laughter from their captors still enshrouded in the darkness outside the bubble of light. It terrified Tim further to realize that there must be at least a dozen people surrounding them, including several women based on the timbre of their laughter. How could they be having so much fun?
Through his laughter, the speaker chided the Director. "Come now, Langston. You can do better than that! 'Huck ooo' is so pedestrian. It's beneath you, sir. Frankly, I'm disappointed. Nyx, are you disappointed?"
"I am, Resheph," a woman in the group answered.
"Dolos?"
"Desperately disappointed, Resheph."
The speaker's voice took on an imperious tone as he looked around and addressed the other, unseen members of their group. In other circumstances, Tim might have found it comical, but given his situation, he found it nothing short of completely terrifying. "I present the question unto you, all those present to bear witness, if you concur, express it so. If not, remain silent."
The air seemed to shimmer with sound as an uncountable number of voices boomed in response to the question.
"AYE!"
Tim flinched and tried to sink into his chair against the restraints as he started crying. There were far more than a dozen people in the warehouse. It seemed the warehouse couldn't possibly hold the number of people who'd affirmed their disappointment.
"Nyx, how do we express our disappointment?" the speaker called Resheph asked after the echo of affirmation receded.
Tim watched as a shadow coalesced into the pool of light. Not even the black combat fatigues could hide the fact that it was a woman, though perhaps her particular fatigues had been chosen to highlight her figure rather than hide it. They seemed tighter, more form fitting than might normally be expected. She seemed to almost slither as she approached. She stopped in front of the the director and studied him for a moment. For his part, the Director had gone completely still and silent, staring at the woman in front of him with undisguised hatred and rage.
"We express our disappointment by bringing pain and despair upon those who have disappointed us, Resheph," she said finally, with what Tim could only interpret as eager anticipation.
"You'll want to pay particular attention to this part Mr. Ratcliffe," the man called Resheph said solemnly. "Proceed at your leisure, Nyx. Make sure Mr. Ratcliffe's view is unobstructed." He took a few steps back and receded into the shadows.
The woman called Nyx pulled off her balaclava as she looked at Tim and gave him what he thought was meant to be a sexy smile as she fluffed her hair and let her eyes wander over his nakedness. Her smile looked to him like a death rictus and her gaze seemed to leave an oily residue behind. He shivered involuntarily and heard a whimper escape his mouth as the tears continued streaming down his cheeks.
She reached into a pocket of her fatigues with dramatic slowness then quickly yanked out what Tim at first thought was an oddly shaped knife, but instead turned out to be nothing more than a normal metal spoon. He'd been startled by her sudden movement and couldn't stifle the sharp yelp that escaped his throat, to the amusement of many in the room.
She held the same smile as she tapped the spoon lightly on the tip of his nose and said, "Boop!" drawing more laughter from the group. There were much fewer people laughing than had responded to the question Resheph had presented to them and he wondered if they were amused as well. It seemed a fair number of them were silent, simply watching the macabre scene unfold.
She leaned into him and took a deep breath. "You smell like shit, Timmy," she said, her gaze boring into his. Her tone didn't imply the revulsion he expected. "But I don't really mind. There's so much more depth to everything in our Intersected world. Even the odor of your shit and piss has layers upon layers." She closed her eyes and leaned in even closer to him as she inhaled deeply through her nose.
With her eyes still closed she exhaled slowly, and her voice dropped to a low whisper. "I can tell things about you, Timmy. I can tell you're healthy. You take care of yourself, eat right, exercise. I can tell you've had sex recently." She shivered slightly and opened her eyes. "Who'd you fuck, Timmy? Was it the wife, or a side piece? I know you didn't just jerk off to porn because I can smell the female on you." She took another deep breath as if to emphasize her point as she stared at him. Tim didn't recognize anything remotely human in her gaze and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of team Graham had been building here.
She shrugged when he didn't answer and took a half a step back. She spoke to him quietly but intently, her voice thick with anticipation. "Watch this, Timmy. Don't look away, ok? It's important. This is a teaching moment. You look away and I might have to show you again, only up close and personal." She moved like a viper, her movements almost too fast for him to follow as she suddenly had one arm wrapped around the Director's head, holding him firmly in place. In one smooth motion, she slipped the scoop of the spoon deftly under his left eyelid and pushed it up over his eyeball and back into the socket. Graham was screaming through the ball-gag and his body was shaking violently in the chair. The woman called Nyx held his head steady in a vise-like grip and seemed to be expending very little effort to do so.
Tim heard more screaming and realized it was him. Nyx was still smiling that deaths' head smile but hadn't moved the spoon, which was now sticking almost straight out of the Director's eye socket. Tim could see how the globe of Graham's eyeball was deformed from the intrusion. She let go of the spoon and put her finger to her lips in a shushing motion, but Tim couldn't take his eyes off the Director's bulging eye.
He felt gloved hands on his shoulders and a soft masculine voice in his ear, speaking quietly, intimately. "Shhhh. Just wait. You have to be quiet. You'll miss the best part." The hand gave him a few gentle pats and Tim stopped screaming. The director's gag-muffled protestations were hindered by the fact that he couldn't seem to catch his breath and was nearly in seizure territory. After a few more seconds, his screams also ceased as he passed out from the pain and terror.
"There's a technique to this," Nyx explained as she lightly jiggled the spoon. "You have to feel it." She rolled her eyes a little as she sighed. "I really should have taken my gloves off. It's more tactile that way. So much more satisfying. Just listen."
She jerked the spoon side-to-side firmly a couple of times, then started slowly pushing the spoon up and back, using it as a lever. Tim heard a slurping-sucking sound that seemed to go on forever until finally there was a wet popping noise as the director's eyeball burst out of his head and dangled against his cheek.
Tim started screaming again as a round of cheers and applause went up from the group surrounding them. The woman called Nyx turned and made several curtsies as they whistled and clapped. The Director himself had gone still, his head leaning forward, causing his dangling eye to pendulum. Part of Tim wondered if maybe the director had a heart attack from the stress and pain.
Nyx didn't pause long for her accolades as she whipped around, pulling a blade from a hidden sheath and quickly sliced the optic nerve, grabbing Graham's eyeball with her other hand as it started to fall. Tim was again stunned at how quickly, how precisely she moved.
She admired her prize for a moment then smiled the same rictus at Tim and slowly turned her hand to point the eye at him. Tim found that he no longer thought of it as Graham's eyeball, but rather just 'an' eyeball and knew that his mind was starting to crack around the edges. He didn't think he could take much more of this.
The baring of teeth grew in intensity as Nyx said, "I spy with my little eye…" she pointed the eye at his crotch and her voice took on a high-pitched, pouty tone, "… something sad and shriveled!"
Tim couldn't help the rush of humiliation he felt as laughter echoed around the room and it served to push back some of his fear for a brief moment. "Suck it, you psycho bitch!" he screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth as he felt the cracks in his mind deepen.
Nyx didn't hesitate as she crouched down close to him and replied in a throaty whisper, her grin never faltering. "Oh, Timmy. Baby. Be really, really careful what you ask for." The laughter increased and there were a few more catcalls and whistles.
Nyx looked at Tim hungrily and he thought something even more horrifying than what had happened to the Director was about to happen to him when Graham started moaning softly. The moans escalated to full on screams as the director woke up to his new reality.
Nyx looked at Graham with what seemed to be the only smile she had and said, "What's the matter Langston, do you have a blinding pain in your head? Have you lost something?" She held up his eye in front of him. "Is this what you're looking for?" The room seemed to find Nyx's antics highly amusing as they laughed uproariously and clapped.
Graham seemed oblivious to the sport they were having at his expense as the only pauses in his shrieks were to draw breath and start anew. It wouldn't be long until he broke something in his throat at the rate he was going. After a few interminable moments listening to Graham's shrieking through the gag, Nyx had lost her death's head grin and was looking at Graham with an expression Tim couldn't identify. One he wasn't sure he wanted to identify.
She spoke loudly, in a tone similar to Resheph's earlier question to the group, but less formal. "I'm bored with this, Resheph. Can we eat him now?"
Tim heard a guttural sound that he couldn't translate but it was quickly lost in the chaos that followed. Graham was almost instantly surrounded by bodies, some of whom rushed in from the darkness on two feet, but a few of whom ran in with astonishing agility on all fours, hands and feet, their bodies low to the ground, moving like insects, mouths open wide and hissing with unspeakable desire, attacking Graham's legs that were strapped to the chair. Nyx herself dove into Graham's abdomen and began ravaging him with her mouth, biting, tearing, spitting and biting again.
Tim never heard his own screams start as nearly a dozen black-clad people mimicked Nyx, biting and gnawing at the director's body while he continued screaming and thrashing. They were so close that Tim felt the heat of their bodies in the cool air and was jostled in his chair as the biting heads struggled against each other to find purchase on Graham's naked body. They weren't eating him so much as masticating him to death.
Except for his head and face, there was hardly an exposed area that didn't have a head biting down, ripping and tearing flesh. Tim saw a wet coil unravel and briefly wondered where the snake had come from, until he realized it was Graham's intestines spilling out.
Without warning, one of the frenzied biters clamped his jaws around the side of the Director's throat and Tim heard the flesh tear as a chunk was ripped away. The biting bodies moved back as the torn carotid artery and jugular vein spewed Langston Graham's life essence directly into Tim's face, filling his screaming mouth with the Director's scalding, viscid blood.
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Somehow, it had all been planned out. Tim didn't understand how it was possible, or why they'd done it, other than to terrify him and perhaps amuse themselves, but he knew it was true. What they'd done to Graham and by extension, to him. They were following some kind of malevolent script. Perhaps a play they'd written simply for their evening entertainment. Everything they'd done had been on purpose, with calculated forethought. If the chairs had been arranged side-by-side instead of slightly angled, the spurting of Graham's torn throat would have mostly missed him.
The knowledge tightened the already painful contraction in his chest. Agony replaced sight as his vision swam red and Tim felt himself on the verge of passing out. The dry-heave spasm finally released and he gulped lungfuls of humid, coppery air as his vision slowly returned, black spots swimming across his field of view.
"Really, Mr. Ratcliffe," Resheph said, his voice dripping with disdain, as if Tim were being unbearably rude with his vomiting and dry-heaving. "Are you quite finished?"
Tim spit the remnants of bile and blood out of his mouth and leaned back in the chair, still gasping for breath. He kept his head turned sharply to the right, studiously ignoring the source of the blood he was soaking in that was still tied to the chair next to him. Though at this point, the restraints were superfluous, serving only to hold the body upright in the chair. Restraints were meant to keep a person from escaping. Corpses can't escape.
"Who in God's name are you people?" he asked as his vision cleared and he looked around at the group. Everyone who'd been involved in the attack were still hanging out in the bubble of light. They seemed completely at ease, unconcerned with their actions, their faces and clothes still glistening with blood and small chunks of gore. Tim's throat was raw, but he was surprised at how even his own voice was, given what'd he'd just witnessed.
It was Resheph who answered his question. His mouth and chin were caked with blood and the front of his black shirt glistened. The man seemed oblivious to his gruesome countenance. He thought maybe Resheph had been the one to bite out Graham's throat.
He smiled as he answered Tim's question. "We were supposed to be Graham's secret army. But he had no idea what he was actually creating. We are something more than he could have ever imagined. But he did have some small power over us, which meant his time was over. Graham died months ago. It just took until today for him to catch up to that reality."
"What the hell do you want from me?" Tim asked softly.
"Ah, Mr. Ratcliffe. Tim. Do you mind if I call you Tim?" Resheph paused as if the question wasn't actually rhetorical. "No? Ok, Tim. Before I answer your question, I have one for you."
Tim looked at the man expectantly and finally asked, "What do you want to know?"
Resheph looked thoughtful as he wandered over to Graham's body. He casually picked up a long strand of intestines and started looping them around the neck of the corpse. "Why do you think you are here, Tim?" Resheph asked. He didn't look at Tim as he idly toyed with the former director's body.
Tim looked away before the dry-heaving started again. "They were going to hang me out to dry after the attack," Tim admitted. "I didn't want to be their fall guy so I went to Graham with information I was given about the systems being compromised before the attack. A massive amount of data was stolen. I thought I could use that information to save my career."
Resheph's head jerked up at the mention of stolen data. "So it's possible that the Intersect data is still out there? That it could be recreated?"
Tim nodded. "Yes."
Resheph smiled and it was a mirror of the smile Nyx had given him - predatory. Hungry. "That's very good news, Tim. But aside from that, why do you think Graham chose to bring you in on this little pet project of his? Think carefully about your answer, and please, be honest."
Tim understood the last line was more threat than request. He didn't need to think about it too hard or too long. In retrospect, the truth of it was easy to see. Graham had intended to use him the same way. To put a buffer between himself and this unsanctioned group. Tim had stepped out of the frying pan and directly into the fire. In an effort to save his career, he'd likely forfeited his life.
"I was to be Graham's patsy," Tim answered quietly. "If anything went wrong with this group, he could hang it all around my neck. Combined with the events at the ODNI, I'd make the perfect scapegoat."
Resheph nodded. "I appreciate your candor, Tim. As to us and what we want from you? We want nothing. It's apparent that since you haven't taken the opportunity to say any of the phrases, that you don't actually know anything about them."
Tim figured the end would come soon now. If he didn't have anything they wanted, then he was dead too. There was no way they'd let him live after seeing what they'd done. He felt Graham's blood congealing on his body and started to weep. He wept for the pointlessness of his life. Everything he'd accomplished seemed so insignificant in the face of everything he hadn't accomplished. The family he'd ignored while he spent nearly every waking moment in an effort to further his career. The fact that few would actually mourn his exit from the world filled him with regret. His existence had meant nothing, and his death would mean even less.
"Uhg. Pathetic," he heard a woman say from somewhere behind him and his regret flared with impotent rage.
"Go fuck yourself, cunt!" he shouted through his tears as the helplessness of his situation gave him a brief moment of fortitude. He'd almost said 'fuck you' but he already knew they wouldn't be impressed with that one. He'd also already called Nyx a bitch and didn't want to be repetitive. A few light chuckles were all the response he heard. Tim remained silent, hoping the woman he'd called a cunt didn't scoop out his eyeball. He hoped his end would come quickly. He hoped for a bullet.
As if reading his mind, Resheph looked at him thoughtfully. "So, there are three viable options, Tim. The first is, we simply let you go. We hose you off, give you back your clothes, and you simply return to your pathetic existence. We aren't terribly concerned with whatever story you spin to explain being the last person to see Graham on the day he disappeared. His body will never be found but eventually they'll have no choice but to declare him dead. The second option is we kill you, which I'll admit, has its appeal." Tim flinched in spite of himself. "The third option is that we attempt to initiate you into our ranks. It would be the first time we've tried, but we believe we can. If you live through it, then it will be a two-fold win for us; both a proof of concept and another minor deity to add to our Pantheon."
Tim didn't have time to contemplate the meaning behind Resheph's bizarre statement. He jerked back in shock as the man called Resheph was suddenly right in his face. He wondered if he was hallucinating at how fast these people moved.
"Tell me, Tim," Resheph growled at him. "Do you want to be a God?"
Tim's involuntary screams were renewed as he was suddenly surrounded. He could smell the blood on their breath and felt the bile rise in his throat again. He waited for the biting to begin, but instead Resheph, Nyx and several others started pressing their heads against his, harder and harder, as if they meant to work together to crush his skull with theirs.
His screams fell away as his mind was blasted with images and his head erupted with more pain than he thought possible. The pain spread down his body like lava poured over him and he imagined he could feel his flesh melting. His last coherent thought was that he wished they'd scooped out both of his eyes and eaten him. He went insane from the agony, every nerve in his body seemingly caught in an endless burning inferno. It was eons before his world went black but somehow even there, the conflagration of pain followed.
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Westside Hospital – Los Angeles, CA – September 26 – 7:15 PM
Ellie studied her brother's various EEG readings that were laid out in front of her, along with the fMRI scans she had open on one of the multiple monitors on her desk. The only thing she could admit to was that the readings matched each other, but that was only admitting that they were both completely unprecedented.
If she'd tried to visualize an MRI scan of someone with his EEG readings, she'd have come up with something close to what she saw on the screen, though she wouldn't have thought it possible. It was true of all the various tests they'd run. Their first thoughts were system malfunction. The readings just didn't make any sense. The only commonality was that they all indicated the same thing - his brain activity was literally off the charts.
She had the thought that if was any other patient, she would be on the phone with the Chief of Neurology at Johns Hopkins. If it were any other patient, she'd be equal parts terrified and excited. But it wasn't any other patient. It was her brother.
The inexplicable calm that had overcome her mere moments after finding him was still present. If she had to express her most prevalent emotion, it would be an almost overwhelming curiosity. She knew in her bones that he'd be OK, even though his condition had not changed since his admission to the hospital 12 hours earlier. He had a low-grade fever hovering around 101 degrees, his heartrate had been holding steady at about 90 and his respiration was also high but normal relative to his heartrate. His blood pressure was in the high-normal range with fluctuations to normal. His blood work came back with normal liver enzymes, normal kidney function, good cholesterol levels, good triglyceride levels, normal white-blood cell counts. Everything normal with excellent ranges across the board. She was a little surprised that given his terrible diet and lack of consistent exercise, her little brother was in excellent health.
He did not seem to be experiencing REM cycles, so he wasn't asleep, which was about the only thing his various readings supported. But, according to those, he should be wide awake, reciting Shakespeare at the top of his lungs while playing Flight of the Bumblebee at double speed on the piano and solving differential equations with binary eye-blinks. Every EEG derivation was the same, across both a Bipolar Montage and a Common Average Reference. At first glance, all of them looked like five thick black lines across the page. The EEG technician was convinced it was an equipment malfunction, even though he'd tested it on several staff members and gotten normal readings.
As insane as his EEG readings were, his fMRI was even more so. The only conclusion she could draw was that something was happening to her brother that she was certain no one had ever seen. His brain was showing activity she'd never even heard of in her admittedly still young career as a neurologist. And yet her calm persisted.
It's going to be OK, Ellie. I promise. She could remember hearing his voice so clearly. Ultimately that was why she was still calm. It was trust. Trust in what, she wasn't exactly sure. Trust in her instincts? Trust in her brother? Both?
Her phone intercom beeped. "Dr. Bartowski?" It was Anna Paulson, the supervising nurse in the ICU.
"Yes Anna?" Ellie replied, her voice even and composed. She distantly hoped her colleagues didn't judge her to be overly disconnected from her brother's condition. Several staff members seemed to expect her to be flustered and unnerved by the bizarre results of his various tests and were themselves disconcerted by her calm demeanor. Some probably suspected she was in shock or denial.
"You wanted to be notified of any changes. His readings are starting to fall into more normal ranges. His temperature has fallen, his heartrate and respiration have been steadily dropping for the last few minutes. I just checked and his miosis is gone as well. He now has normal pupillary response. I'm betting we'll start to see REM activity before too long. Whatever was going on, he seems to be falling into a more normal sleep pattern."
"Thank you, Anna. I'm on my way down," Ellie said as she stood up and pulled her lab coat on.
Nurse Paulson was waiting for her as she stepped off the elevator. She looked markedly less tense than she had a few hours earlier, when all the medical staff were engaged in trying to come up with some kind of diagnosis for Chuck's bizarre symptoms. She immediately handed Ellie her brother's chart. Ellie flipped through it as they walked quickly to Chuck's room. Everything did in fact seem to be normalizing. His most recent EEG sample was still way out of normal ranges but definitely closer than it had been.
As she walked into his room, she could immediately see a difference in him even if she couldn't say exactly what the difference was. His color was maybe a little better. She thought there might be less tension in his facial muscles. He almost seemed more relaxed than he had previously, even though his muscular tension had not been any different than other unconscious patients she'd encountered.
"Is it weird that he looks better but doesn't really look any different?" Ellie was a little startled at how closely Anna's statement mirrored her own thoughts.
She chuckled softly. "You read my mind. I was thinking the same thing. He didn't look like he was sleeping before, but he sort of does now." Ellie kept her voice quiet as she responded. If he had transitioned into sleep from whatever state he was in before, she wanted him to wake up naturally.
They watched him for several minutes then Ellie smiled as she saw his eyelids start to move, indicating he had fallen into REM sleep.
"You were right, Anna," Ellie whispered. The two of them moved quietly out of the room and the nurse slid the door closed.
"Ellie, what the hell was that?" Anna asked as they walked together to the nurse's station. "I've never seen such disparate symptoms before."
Ellie sighed deeply as she sat down in one of the chairs behind the counter. "Anna, I have absolutely no idea," she replied.
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Chuck smiled at the tall, dark-haired host as he took a seat at the table he'd been led to.
"Thanks, Chuck," he said politely.
"You're welcome, Chuck," the host replied as he handed him a menu. "The special today is an Expanded Claustrum, braised in a mixture of various Quarks to form inversely charged Hadrons."
"Do you recommend a red or a white wine with that?" Chuck asked as a joke, having no idea what the man just said. Was that French cuisine? He didn't think this was a French restaurant. How do you cook with quarks and hadrons?
"Red, definitely. I recommend the house O-Negative."
He thought the host seemed very familiar to him as he watched the man walk away but couldn't place him. He sighed as he perused the menu.
Rather than the typical names of the available meals and their descriptions, the menu had tiny pictures covering every available inch of space. He could see each individual picture quite clearly when he focused his attention on one. A particular picture of a bright yellow tulip standing alone in a verdant green field described a fried calamari dish with aioli sauce that sounded delicious. He found it interesting that the picture also included all the specific ingredients, their combinations the best types of oil to use as well as the temperatures and the recommended cooking times. Pretty detailed menu. He might give that one a try. But he couldn't order yet. He was waiting for someone. Who was he waiting for?
He heard the host laugh and looked over his shoulder. He was leading the man he was meeting to the table and seemed engrossed in what he was saying as he laughed again. Chuck couldn't help but smile. It seemed Charles was able to make friends everywhere he went.
"Here's your table, Mr. Carmichael," the host said as they approached the table Chuck was sitting at. "Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks, Chuck," Charles replied. He pulled the chair out and looked at Chuck as he sat down.
"It's good to see you again so soon," he said with genuine affection. "I hope you're feeling better."
Chuck smiled. "Thanks Charles. It's good to see you again too. And yes, I feel great actually. I think I just needed some rest."
Charles nodded and took a sip of water. "I'm sure Ellie is taking good care of you. Of us."
"Yeah, she was pretty upset when she found me on the bed, but I think I helped calm her down. That was pretty weird by the way. I'm still not really sure what to make of that experience. I know it was real, but it was just so unreal at the same time."
Charles shrugged and gave him an apologetic look. "I wish I could shed more light on what's going on, Chuck. This is happening to us at the same time. You know I'm only here to help you process all of this. It's like I said in the car – you're just taking talking to yourself to an extreme."
Chuck grimaced and changed the subject. He didn't want to look too deeply at what Charles was implying. "Anyway, I know you're probably wondering why I wanted to meet with you," he said, feeling self-conscious.
"Not at all, Chuck. I know exactly why you wanted to meet. I have to say, I'm not sure it's the best idea, Chuck. You can't avoid this. Not for long anyway." Charles replied.
"I know. It's just, this is all a lot to take in, you know?" Chuck said quietly.
Charles nodded his agreement but still seemed reluctant. "Yeah, it is a lot. I agree completely. I still think it would be better for you to be fully integrated. It might be harder at the outset, but I think it will make things easier in the long term."
Chuck shook his head adamantly. "It's too much, Charles. The disparity between where I've been the last few years and you..." Chuck made a motion with his hand to indicate Charles. "It's too much. And that's not even counting everything else that's in here." Chuck tapped his temple.
Charles seemed to consider Chuck's argument for a few moments, then nodded briefly. "Ok, Chuck. I'll help. I suppose it makes sense that you would need a buffer until you can more directly deal with…" Charles made a twirling motion around the dining room. "…everything that's going on in here."
"A buffer! That's it exactly," Chuck exclaimed happily. "I need a little temporal and mental space, so to speak." Chuck was grateful that Charles was being so understanding. He really was a great friend.
Charles reached out and put a comforting hand on Chuck's shoulder. "Chuck, I get it. But think about what I said. This needs to be a temporary thing. I fear the longer you wait, the more difficult integration will be. For both of us."
Chuck sighed with relief and nodded. "I know and I will. Thanks, Charles. I really appreciate this."
"Sure thing, Chuck. But you do realize that neither of us really has a choice, right? This thing, whatever it is, you're eventually going to have to acknowledge it. Ultimately, there is no we. This is all you, buddy." Charles's words had a curious finality do them, but that was exactly what Chuck wanted to avoid thinking about.
"I know," he said with a nod. "But that's later. Right now, let's get something to eat. I'm seriously starving. What's good here?"
Charles nodded and motioned for their waiter, a tall, lanky man with curly hair. "I hear the Expanded Claustrum is good."
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