-Chapter Three-

Milla knew an apology was in order. Sasha got on her nerves, it was true. She probably got on his too, but unlike Sasha, Milla liked to express herself and then move on. She hated leaving open-ended grudges. She needed a nice little wrap-up to their fight. But she was unsure how he'd take it. Sasha preferred to lock things up, hold grudges, and become agitated about minor flaws. The way he expressed agitation came out in what Milla considered very strange ways.

"Are you working again?" asked Milla as she stepped down the stairs to Sasha's lab.

"A little," came Sasha's muffled voice from beneath a rather sinister-looking instrument. All Milla could see were his legs. He had thrown on overalls over his black, creased pants and shined shoes, presumably to keep them from dirtying. The thought of Sasha in overalls over all his black leather nearly made Milla choke.

"I brought you some soup. And don't say you don't like it, 'cos you need it, darling."

"I do not," came Sasha's muffled voice again. He rolled out from under the table partially. A hand appeared; he held it up. A wrench from the other side of the room flew into it. He retreated back under his machine.

"You do," insisted Milla. She shifted the tray she was carrying into one hand and used the other to make a pulling motion in the air. Sasha began to be dragged out from under his hideaway. He grabbed onto something on the inside, refusing to be pulled out.

"Milla, I'm at a very delicate stage! Please!"

Milla set the tray on a nearby table, after pushing several books off it. As she'd hoped, the sound of disorganization brought Sasha running. He gathered up the strewn papers, stacking them onto the floor neaty next to several other stacks.

"Try some."

Sasha glowered at her. But the effect was lost completely; his hands were black with oil, his face was smudged with dirt, and his glasses were slightly crooked. Milla snorted with contained laughter. Sasha hurriedly fixed his glasses and began kicking off his overalls.

"I wish you would have informed me instead of just barging in…"

Milla was laughing too hard to reply. "I—I'm sorry, darling," she stuttered between giggles. "But—you're just—so funny!"

Sasha glowered even more. He sat in a chair, a Saarinen design, remarkable only for its ability to appear simultaneously comfortable and extremely not. Possibly, considered Milla, it was the way Sasha sat in it.

She remembered herself and sat soberly across from Sasha, balancing the tray of soup on her lap.

"So. What are we working on?"

Sasha cast a fond glance over his shoulder. "Just a little experiment. It's a Brain Tumbler. Something which, I hope, will make it easier to enter the mind. To go into not just one unconscious mind, but several. Even your own. Call it a… collective unconscious." He frowned. "Of course, it was cheap… very cheap… and seems to occasionally break and scramble up the minds inside it…" He paused to cough.

Milla must have looked horrified, because Sasha quickly leaned forward to reassure her. "Oh, no, it's safe. It only acts as a middle ground between minds. And they're all closed off while I work on it."

"And you're letting students use it?"

"I let one student into my mind. One. I was there with him. It was a safe environment!"

"You let a student into your brain?" repeated Milla. "Through that… that thing?"

"Well, yes," said Sasha, coughing again into his sleeve. "But I was sure it was perfectly safe. And it's only my brain that's currently accessible. I won't begin opening multiple minds until I'm sure it's entirely fool-proof."

While Sasha was overcome with a fit of coughing, Milla contemplated what he'd just told her. She and Sasha, as agents of the psychic world, had never entered more than one mind at a time. Mixing minds was never a safe thing to do. But in some cases, multiple minds really did need access to each other. In classes, for example. Dragging a horde of young psychics into her brain to teach them was an experience that left Milla feeling wrung-out some days. If Sasha could really just hook all the brains together… why, the communication possibilities alone would be phenomenal. Because, after all their years of being together, Milla and Sasha had never entered each other's brains. And here they were, sitting only a few feet away and completely unable to talk about anything but Sasha's little experiments. Milla watched him sniveling with a sense of heartfelt longing.

She offered him the tray. He waved it away.

"I don't have much of an appetite," he mumbled, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

"You can't live off those. Just try a little. I made it for you," pleaded Milla.

Sasha heaved a sigh of defeat before taking the tray from her. "I don't like chicken soup," he mumbled half-heartedly. "Not at all."

"Just eat it," urged Milla. "Sometimes, you act like a little boy, Sasha, disobeying his mother." She laughed, but Sasha's face twisted. She stopped quickly. "Sasha? Are you okay?"

"Fine," said Sasha quietly. "I—I just don't feel well. You're probably correct… about… over-work…" He trailed off and began absent-mindedly eating. Milla studied him.

"Are you sure?"

Sasha nodded, swirling his soup. He wasn't even looking at it; his gaze was centered somewhere high up on the wall. He was obviously somewhere far away. Milla decided perhaps she shouldn't push. She got up, patted Sasha's leg, and began walking back up the stairs. Near the top, she glanced back down. Sasha was still sitting and staring off thoughtfully, a full spoonful of soup held limply in his hand.