Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to its creator. I own nothing.

"Shadows were too black, and when a breeze stirred
the trees, the shadows changed in a disquieting way."
-Stephen King, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon

CHAPTER EIGHT

A week passes and I have fully adopted my new role. The temporary name is I'm Okay, and so it shall be until I come up with something a little less on the nose. Every day, so many eager eyes gaze at me, hoping for improvement, for me to act like the old Dive, and I would love to give them what they want. I can feel him there on occasion. Moments, fleeting, where he is right there, ghosting past, and then gone a second later. Jerk.

Thrash and Mookie used to talk about when they took Driver's Ed and what a pain in the ass it was. Three-point turns and proving you knew what each sign meant and, whoa, careful, there's a speed bump up ahead! Better break and slow down before climbing over. I thought they had been a bit overdramatic (as they tend to be), but if it was anything like the proverbial hoops - and I'm surprised there were not literal ones - I had to jump through, they have my eternal sympathy.

It took hours to convince Wildwing, Duke, and Mallory that I was fit to drive. Your hand, they said, is not even close to better. "And hey!" I replied, holding up my left. "Looks like I have a spare! Handy, that." After the rolling of three sets of eyes, and a chuckle on my end, they agreed, but not until after they had me perform every possible maneuver that the Migrator could pull. Brain injured or not, I am still a hell of a driver.

I drove straight to the mall, beyond eager to see my two friends. According to Grin, they had showed up not long after my disappearance looking for me. After the team had explained what had happened, they really kicked it into high gear, as much as they are capable of. Evidentially, missing posters covered Anaheim not twenty-four hours later, looking for any and all information about my whereabouts. Grin showed me one after I had started my recovery. It had read, along with a dazzling photo of yours truly:

MISSING: NOSEDIVE FLASHBLADE
SEEN HIM? CALL THRASH AND MOOKIE
REWARD: A YEAR'S WORTH OF COMICS

I keep a copy of it in my bedroom. Incredibly helpful? Maybe not. Proof of undying friendship? Absolutely. I had only talked to them once since I started healing, and it was very one-sided: them talking my ear off about missing me and some craziness that had happened at some concert, and me sitting there, phone pressed to my head, trying to stay awake through a high dosage of medication. I needed to see them for a bit more than just that.

I double-parked the Migrator in the mall's parking lot, already in eyesight of the mechanical superhero that adorned the comic book shop's roof. After a quick check in the mirror to make sure there was nothing askew on my face (the bruises and cuts had long since disappeared, but occasionally I could still feel them, ghosting over), I made my way toward the shop.

The door to Captain Comics opened with a ring, and I was immediately surrounded by Thrash and Mookie, red and purple blurs respectively. "Dive, bro! You're really back! You look like crap, man." Thrash grinned, rubbing his stubbled chin.

I grinned, running a hand through my hair. I bet I did; I certainly looked different. Tanya had had to cut my hair for the stitches to my skull, and it was short, but at least it was now all the same length, for the most part.

"Did you, like, see the posters we put up?" Mookie asked, giving a toothy smile, so proud.

"I did. Dudes, that was awesome of you. Really, thanks."

Thrash waved the thanks away. "You would've done the same for us, man. Well, you probably just would've found the dudes and kicked some serious ass, but that's not really our thing." He ran a hand through his hair and gave a half-shrug, both sheepish and knowing.

"Yeah, wouldn't want you to get yourself into big scrapes like that. This planet needs you."

He laughed. "Damn right."

We talked for hours. They had kept aside dozens of comics for me. Anything that they thought I would like got set aside. Mookie's lip quivered a bit as she explained. "We just, you know, had to...just in case. Because we knew you would, like...be back." I hugged her, trying to ignore the sudden surge of emotion that had filled the store. Too much to handle.

I wanted to tell them everything, but as soon as I opened my mouth to let it all out, I could not seem to find the words. And I strived toward them, pushed through all of the millions of questions and what-ifs, and all I was left with in the end was a "You don't want to worry anyone else, do you?"

So I glossed over the anxiety, never feeling quite brave enough to say the word itself or exactly what I had been through. I sandwiched it all between vague phrasing and self-deprecating humor. They are good friends, even if they are stranger and more out-of-place here on Earth than even we are. Even though I could not quite get what I want to say out in the open, I found myself appreciating for maybe the first time how grateful I was to have them there.

I believe the got the gist of what I was saying, though it can be damn hard to tell with those two. "So you're a little freaked, I think that's fair, Dive," Mookie said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Like, look at all you've, like, had to deal with. If anyone tries to, like, make you feel bad about feeling bad and stuff, I'd punch them in the throat." She accented her words with a quick, right-handed jab.

I smiled at that. "Not a bad plan. But, yeah, no one's made me feel bad, so hopefully it won't come to that."

"Good. I didn't figure they would. I mean, shit, your brother was so freaked when we saw him when you were missing, I don't think he'd ever say anything negative again, man. Same goes for the other dudes, too," Thrash said.

I cringed inwardly, masking it beneath a head-nod. "Well, thanks again, guys. For everything, seriously." I glanced at my communicator. I had been gone for a while, and there was no telling what kind of hell I would raise if I stayed out too long. "I better get back before they send out the troops."

The drive back was slow, edging on too cautious. When I pulled into the Pond, I barely remembered having driven back at all, too distracted by my overflowing mind to do anything but focus on just that.

I'm Okay.

At promptly 4:00 PM, practice began. I gave a half-hearted argument with Wildwing about at least trying to practice with the team. Duke had held out a hockey stick and told me to grip it, and I would not even dare - the outside air had already caused the joints to ache and throb. I smiled, holding up my arms in defeat. Wildwing glanced at me as I sat down on the bench, looking for confirmation. I nodded and gave a weak smile. Duke had not hurt my feelings, after all. I respect the tough love approach, and I was not quite up to getting on the ice today as it was. Too many thoughts pitter-pattering through my head. Can't concentrate.

"Dive! Boobalah! How you feeling?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sudden voice, snapping my head to the left as Phil sat down beside me on the bench. "Hey, Phil. Good, a lot better, actually. Where've you been?"

"Drowning in sorrow, booby. No games, no appearances, no interviews! It's like you're trying to bankrupt me." He smiled all through the dramatic response, and I accepted his teasing remark, knowing that it was at least fifty percent truth. "But, really, everything going…good? Tanya sends me updates pretty regularly, but I, uhh, thought it'd stop by and see for myself."

I stared at him for a good while, eyes wide. Phil Palmfeather, offering sympathy? Concern? My original hypothesis must have been correct after all: I was dead. It was the only explanation at this point. "Uh, yeah. Hand is pretty jacked up," I held it up as proof, "but I'm getting around great. Practicing with Wildwing. I think I'm...I'm good. Thanks."

"Good, good." He shifted awkwardly, and surely he was about to begin bleeding from the ear or get sucked straight into hell, but instead he clapped me on the shoulder and stood. "I'm glad to hear it, kid. It was, umm, pretty shaky there and I hadn't been to see you, but I, you know...didn't want to seem like..." He trailed off, and this was easily the worst moment of my recovery process.

I nodded, and gave a grin. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

It seemed to placate him, and he exhaled. "Great! I'll, uhh, see you soon. Looks like everyone's back into their practicing, so we should be up and running again.

"Oh, kid, one more thing," he said, looking back at me. That manager smile had appeared on his face, desperate, pleading, and manipulative. Oh boy. "I hate to ask this, but...the media's been tearing me apart over this hiatus. 'Where've they been?' 'What's taking up their time?' 'Have they gone back to their home planet?' 'Why hasn't Nosedive been out with the team at all? Does this have to do with him?' All that jazz. Daily. Any chance you could, uhh, do an interview? Or convince your brother? I'm being eaten alive out there."

There it was, Phil's native language. I cringed at the thought of talking in front of half-a-dozen or more microphones and, instead, promised that I would talk to my brother. He seemed pleased, knowing Wildwing would do anything if I asked hard enough, especially these days. He gave me another goodbye, walking away with a newfound spring in his step.

I sat and watched them practice for a bit longer. It was nice to be there, even if I was not directly involved. I knew I would have to get my courage up a bit, work harder on rehabilitation. We were already pushing the boundaries in terms of team-size; I could not let them be short-handed for an entire season, after all.

I showed my support in the only way I could manage: I cheered a couple times, wanting to keep up positive appearances, but even as my voice hit my own ears, I could hear the strain and wear. I opted, then, to sit in silence. Wildwing, apparently sensing my wavering mood, skated over to me. "How's it going, little bro?"

"Eh." I waved my hand. "Feel bad that I can't be out there, I guess."

He nodded. "I saw you talking to Phil. Don't tell me even he couldn't raise your spirits."

I chucked. "Somehow, no. Weird, right? He did practically beg me to do an interview, though." At Wildwing's sudden frown, I quickly added, "Or for me to ask you to do one. So, there, I did. My job is done." I wiped my hands together, ridding myself of the task.

He rolled his eyes. "People don't like the hiatus and I'm sure they've been bugging him about it. But that's his job to handle." I nodded. "Hey, do me a favor? Can you go up to the booth and see what's up with the lights?" He gestured toward the ceiling, and I noticed that half of the lights in the arena were lit, the other half still dark. "I think I may have only hit half of them, or they're busted." He cringed and crossed his fingers. "Pray it's the first one."

I hopped up, pleased to have some role in today's practice other than pathetic cheerleader. I climbed the stairs to the booth, and, thankfully, the lights had simply not been turned on. I hit the switch, brightening the arena. I sat down in the chair by the monitors, peering down at the rink. Duke was zipping around the rink, Mallory in tow. I smiled, setting my fingers on the goal horn trigger.

Duke passed the puck swiftly to Mallory, who slapped the puck past Wildwing's left skate and into the goal. As the puck hit the back of the goal, I pressed the trigger, allowing the horn to blare throughout the arena. There was a scattering of laughter and light cheers from my teammates as the buzzing faded away.

My brain went fuzzy. I leapt up, knocking the chair over and backpedaling so quickly that my back thumped against the wall. The buzzer, long since faded away in the arena, was ringing in my ears. The air in my lungs thumped against my throat, trying to get itself through. I couldn't do it, and, shit, my chest...

I pressed shaking hands against my chest, and this was it. I was having a heart attack, could teenagers even have heart attacks, sure they could, we have hearts don't we? And that realization made it even worse somehow, and, god, I needed to get the hell out of there and I managed to stagger myself down and down the stairs and past the bench and out the door, heading down deep into the Pond. Hands clutched desperately in my hair as I pushed into the living room, pacing circles around the couch, trying to get a fucking grip.

Why had I done that? I tried so hard not to let it happen, not to freak out again. It was more of a mistake than anything, an accident, come on. It was surreal. Forget abduction and torture, living here, both at the Pond and in my head, had become something of a nightmare for me. I messed up, in biblical proportions. I didn't even know quite what had happened: one second I was playing Goal Horn Operator for the Mighty Ducks, the next I was on the floor of the living room, sweat pouring from my hairline, scrambling to the nearest corner of the room like a kicked animal.

Something had been there. Right behind me. Hot breath on the back of my neck as soon as that buzzer had sounded and I had panicked. I couldn't handle it, there was always something there, even when there's nothing. I knew it. And I knew that I knew it. Shit.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the wall. Great, way to go, Dive. Everything is getting worse and it is all because you did not tell anyone about it. But Tanya would have known, right? She spent over a month taking more photos of my brain than one of the seven wonders of Earth. Between the x-rays, MRIs, and CAT scans, surely...surely, she would have spotted something conspicuous. She was not our resident genius for nothing. If there was even so much as a spec on my brain, she would have caught it, much less whatever contraption is in there now. I refuse to accept that this is normal for me now.

For an alien, one would think I would never have ended up so obsessed with being normal, but then, who else is living in my head right now BUT me?

I attempted some breathing exercises. Grin taught me a few meditation techniques when I was in rehabilitation. I am sure it was a surprise to everyone, but not being able to move my hand, all of the pain, and the constant mood swings had me in a bit of a perturbed mental state. I was angry, mainly, and embarrassed. Grin sat me down one day after a particularly colorful tantrum and taught me deep breathing. Inhale, hold for five, exhale, hold for five. I scoffed at him a lot in the beginning, but the weird yoga stuff really does work. Forces your muscles and heart to calm themselves down, something along those lines. Whatever the science, I was pleased by the results, as temporary as they tended to be.

I felt calm wash over me, and opened my eyes, giving a silent prayer that no one was standing there watching me. If there was anything I want to avoid here lately, it was embarrassment and causing worry. They both leave a sucking feeling in my chest and only make it a few hundred percent worse.

All right, I tell myself, you are in the clear. Panic, gone. No one saw. Just stand up and head to your room. Sleep is good. And it was; I was still sleeping as hard as I had been. It was a pleasant, quick nothingness that joined night to day. Tanya has even stopped asking if I was suffering from nightmares. I am surprised myself that there has not been a one. Even my subconscious does not remember anything. Thank goodness for it; at least when I rest I get rested.

I finally get myself to stand. I stumble toward my bedroom, fearful of moving too quickly in case it awakens the now-dormant fear. I push my door open, step over the pile of crisp comic books, and throw myself into bed. I look up at the ceiling, then glance at the clock on my nightstand. The red digits read 5:53 PM. I suppose my team is still in practice, and I feel a sudden push to pull Tanya aside and explain that, in loo of nightmares, I am imagining horrors while awake. If I'm even imagining them. Can't hardly trust anything, can I?

What would be the outcome? More tests, more scaring the hell out of my brother? More wasting the team's time when there are much more vital missions to work on than just some kid's fears? I cringe at the thought of THAT, and close my eyes instead. The deep breathing does work, I remind myself, and maybe it will just take time. Time I can handle. I can, without a doubt, hold it out.

A knock at the door. "Dive?" The voice is my brother's, commanding, kind, and patient all at once.

"Yeah?" My eyes are open again, knowing full well that sleep is out of the question until later. Wildwing does not like me sleeping all of the time, even if he has not said as much. The quick frowns and constant questions were evidence enough of that.

"Practice is over. Want to work on some plays, you and me?"

I think it over. It does tend to be a great distractor, but after the panic I had just a few minutes before, I am not sure if skating would be wise. A topple on the ice would be much worse than just in the living room. "Um."

"Not hockey, then. Target practice? Combat? Some exercise would be good for you, you know."

Fair enough.

I aimed and shot, hitting the target between the eyes. My brother was beaming. "First shot of the day and you give me that? Nicely done!" He punches me on the shoulder, pressing a button that caused the lizard-shaped target, now ten percent smaller, to snap down and zip away, quickly being replaced by another, near identical, minus the coloring.

I shrugged, attempting to relax my clenched jaw. "Lucky shot."

His smile wavered, just for a moment, and he turned back to the practice range. "Too easy, little bro? I can crank it up for you, you know, if you think I'm going soft."

I smiled, genuine, fingers playing over the metal of the launcher. "Nah, you don't have to do that. I wouldn't want my big brother being outshot by his younger, handsomer brother. What would people say? I couldn't do that to you. Consider it a public service."

Wildwing rolled his eyes. "As kind as that is, I think I'll somehow manage." He gestured to the target. "Go ahead, then. If you've got time to shit-talk, you've got time to shoot that thing."

I gaped at him for a moment – Wildwing was generally too concerned with being perceived as a good leader to cuss – then nodded. I lifted the launcher and shot. Pow. Clipped the left shoulder of the faux lizard. A frown covered my face. Too cocky, too focused on "shit-talking" (seriously, what?) and I messed up. It brought me back to Earth and I motioned at Wildwing. "I need some movement."

I'm Okay.

A flick of some switches and he pressed the button again. Moving targets. Something to focus my eyes on. I lifted the gun and aimed at the first target. Pull trigger, exhale; inhale, pull trigger, exhale. I knew how to do it. I had been doing it for ages. One by one the targets cracked and splintered. Some from the head, others from the chest, and only a fleeting few from other various appendages. I'm Okay. Sweat beaded up along the base of my neck. I'm Okay, I'm Fine. My teeth gritted together so tightly that my jaw began to throb.

I'm.

Okay.

Eventually all of the usable targets had been hit. A buzzer sounded, and I lowered the gun. At the silence, I looked up. Wildwing was looking at me, concern coloring his face. I breathed, allowing my muscles to relax. My jaw pulsated, and I tore my eyes from my brother's face.

"Um, not bad, right? I give myself an A. Maybe an A-minus for that one," I add, referencing the shoulder-clip. I forced a smile but my mouth hurt too badly to hold it for long. Before Wildwing could speak, I set the launcher down and muttered some nonsense about "hey, good practice, gotta go shower, getting late you know, thanks, Wing, I needed that!" and then I was gone from the room, practically sprinting back toward my bedroom.

What the hell had happened back there? I had been focusing, and I had been focusing well. But, God, my face hurts and my hand hurts and all I could think about was kill them kill them all before they get you and I do not know how healthy that is. Damnit.

I slipped into my bedroom and pulled the door shut behind me. I slipped on a copy of Deadpool #21, and very near kicked the entire pile before I caught myself. It's fine, Dive. It's all good. Calm. Zen, as Grin would say. You can totally be Zen. And I did try. I checked the comic for tears and set it back on top of the pile, pushing the stack to the side of my room, out of the way. I plopped onto the bed, pulling my shoes off and burying myself beneath a mound of covers. Sleep. I need sleep.

So I slept. A dozing type of sleep, where I would jerk awake every few minutes then fall back under. Not a great sleep for feeling restful, but I was not after rest. I was after that nothingness only sleep could give me. I really am Okay when I'm asleep.

At 9:46 PM I stirred at a knock at my door and muttered a response of "good night" to the voice that offered me the same.

At 1:09 AM, my body jerked itself awake, sweat soaking my hair, eyes glossy, and heart pumping so violently I could barely catch my breath. "Wha—" I rubbed my eyes, then turned over, searching for a spot on the mattress that was not damp with sweat. Nothing, it had been nothing. Just one of those "falling" dreams that scares the hell out of you and makes you feel like you are on the verge of death. Nothing real. I closed my eyes and pulled sleep back toward me.

At 1:31 AM, I jerked awake again, and my body had managed to produce even more sweat, not that I thought it possible. I could not remember what had woken me this time, but I found myself less willing to simply turn over and close my eyes. I lay awake, eyes gazing at the pitch-black ceiling for an hour before they slipped closed on their own regard.

I woke again at 2:55 AM.

My heart would not be able to take much more of that.

I skated briskly around the rink, hearing nothing but the slicing of the ice under my feet and my own heaving breaths. I went around and around, losing count of my laps almost instantly, the emergency lights in the arena serving as my only light source, bouncing off my blades and illuminating the light below. It reminded me of the disco ball and strobe lights used in kiddie skate parks. Thrash and Mookie took me to one for their niece's birthday last year. I still cannot figure out the purpose of all that, like skating is not enough, right? The party itself had been a blast; the crazy blinding lights, not so much. There, at the rink, however, it was calming in a way. Something to focus my eyes on as I blindly trailed the oval.

I checked my comm. 5:15 AM. At least half of the team would be waking up in about fifteen minutes. I pondered a moment; go back to bed and lie in the dark for an hour before emerging, or stay on the ice and be forced to answer a dozen questions about why I was awake, why was I here, what do you mean you can't sleep, how long has it been happening, what does it mean, are you okay, do you think it'd be all right if we went and had that checked out?

No, thank you.

I slid back to the bench and pulled off my skates. Getting them on had been an ordeal, but it seemed like my hand was hurting a percentage less. At least I had that going for me. Creeping past each bedroom door, I managed to get into my room undetected. I wondered if they would notice the fresh marks etching the ice in the morning, and forced my mind to settle on no, they would not. Don't be silly.

I snapped the light on, deciding that lying in the light was a much better deal than being enveloped by darkness. I blindly grabbed at a comic book on the floor and laid on my stomach on the bed. My vision glazed over and I stared at each page for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time apiece, flicking and moving on to the next.

There was something there, itching at the back of my mind, wanting me to remember. I pushed it away, but the tickle was still there. It demanded focus, and I, frankly, did not have the time for it. I could chalk that up to pride and determination, but there was also maybe one percent fear. Give or take.

I reached the end of the comic, then turned back to page one. I would focus this time. I fought back the glaze and the itch of "hey, there's still that thing to think about, remember? That millisecond from your dream that made it back to daylight" and stared daggers at the page.

I grunted, then, and tossed the comic to the floor. I was exhausted. I gave up. Sleep just sounded too good to ignore.

As I drifted off, I saw it. Quickly there, but still there. An orange blur, and a voice: "I'll let you have the first punch." Pain shot through my shoulder, settling deep within the joint. Eyes snapped open, and I clutched at my left arm. "Shit." It was a gasp, not risking louder volume and waking everyone up. What the hell...had that been?

The phrase ricocheted through my head the entire hour, like a never-ending echo. I tried to cover it up, thought of every song I had ever heard but it always somehow got louder, always just a bit nearer. I sat upright and muttered, "Great." My shoulder was throbbing, but at least it was a nice distractor from my hand, which had been aching thanks to the cold temperature in the arena. Positive thinking. Again, Zen. I'm sure Grin had some saying like, "While the brain controls the body, it is truly you who are in control of your mind."

Not bad. I could totally be a mentor like Tai Quack Do.

I glanced at the clock. Not quick six o'clock. Screw it. I climbed out of bed, head suddenly heavy with sleep, and walked outside toward the kitchen. The smell of coffee hit me first, and as I exchanged "good mornings" with everyone, I grabbed a mug.

"Coffee, kid? I thought you hated the taste." Duke cracked an eyebrow at me from the kitchen table.

"Thought I'd give it a shot again. Still a little drowsy, couldn't hurt."

"Trouble sleeping?"

I froze. Had he heard me slip past his room as I went to the rink? I had been so quiet; I could not imagine that was possible.

"Nah, nothing like that. Woke up, decided to get up, and now I'm wishing I had slept a little longer." I forced a laugh, pouring the black liquid into my mug. I held it to my face, blowing in a futile attempt to cool it down enough to drink. I sipped, internally cringing at the thick, bitter taste. Duke definitely made this batch; Wildwing always joked that Duke's coffee was basically syrup. He had not been wrong. I forced another sip down my throat, willing its effects to kick in already.

I sat down at the table, trying my best to keep my gaze away from the eyes that continued to glance at me. I sipped at the black tar, refusing to lock eyes with anyone.

Breakfast was silent, and awkward. I got up and placed the mug in the sink, ready to turn and get away from this atmosphere, when a large hand placed itself on my shoulder. I jumped a bit – couldn't help it, dammit – and looked up at Grin.

"Little friend, I would like you to come with me to Inner Space today, if you would."

I grimaced. "C'mon, Grin, that hippy-dippy yoga place, really?" Grin had been attending Inner Space not long after we had arrived on Earth. He said his spirit needed constant meditation in order to remain at peace. I had dropped him off once on the way to the mall; the place had been filled with around ten people, all just like Grin, if not more in tune with inner tranquility, as he puts it. Not quite a place for old Nosedive here.

He folded his arms over his chest. "I can sense that you are still quite out of sorts, young friend. And I feel that you are trying harder than any of us to ignore it, but I cannot let that happen." I glanced at the others, all of whom were looking beyond uncomfortable, and, in Wildwing's case, bordering on livid. He had been that way a lot, lately. Angry. He had always been so levelheaded, reasonable. I looked back at Grin, guilt blossoming at the pit of my stomach. It was true; I was not myself, not yet, and it was making my brother crazy. "You had asked me about relaxation and calming techniques," he added. "It would be just like that. I promise."

I sighed, then smiled. "All right. You win, big guy. We'll go."

He smiled in return. "Good. Thank you. We must be there by nine."

"Check."

We arrived at Inner Peace, parking in the lot across the street. It was just as bright as I had remembered, a fresh salmon color with a splash of blue on the wavy awning above the door, and orange window frames. Impossible to miss, which I guess is a plus for a business, but even so. The metallic letters reading INNER SPACE were positioned above the awning.

We walked to the door, which was so covered with fliers for local bands and upcoming events that I could barely see the doorknob. I pushed the door open and we entered the building. The room was almost completely empty, save for the people. The floor was a smooth, shiny wood, white walls and a white ceiling. Mats were arranged in rows on the floor, in a variety of colors.

"Grin! Hello, good to see you again." A woman walked up to us, a blonde wisp of a woman, barely coming up to my shoulder.

"Hello Talon," Grin replied and they hugged, his body completely enveloping her small frame. I hoped she would not want to hug me, too. Spare me the awkwardness, please.

She turned to me, smiling. "Friend of yours?" Both being ducks, surely she realized we knew each other. I was beginning to think – continuing to think, if I was being honest – that I had made a horrible mistake.

"It is. Talon, this is Nosedive. Nosedive, this is Talon."

"Wonderful to meet you, Nosedive." We shook hands (no hug, for which I was thankful) and she asked, "And what brings you here today?"

"I, uhh…" I paused. It was far too long of a story for me to even begin to explain. I looked at Grin, then decided upon, "I feel like I need…some inner tranquility. I'm having trouble…being in my head." I felt my face burning in embarrassment, and I could not even bear to look back at Grin.

Talon nodded. "I see. I hope we'll be able to provide that for you." She gave me another warm smile and left, heading to where, I assumed, the front of the class would be.

"Come, little friend," Grin said, leading me to a pair of mats in the back of the room. I supposed he knew I would want to be as far from any potential "action" as possible. He sat cross-legged on a blue mat, and I mimed his action on my own green one. They were more comfortable than they looked; I had been expecting something akin to sitting on concrete.

"So," I said, casting my gaze to the right to look at my friend, whose eyes were already closed, "what exactly will we be doing?"

"It is called transcendental meditation. We will sit with our eyes closed for around twenty minutes—"

"And you pay to do that? Hate to tell you, but you could do that at the Pond, dude."

"—and the purpose is to achieve restful alertness, moving beyond thought. It will be good for you, Nosedive. It will help you feel rested, so that you may be able to sleep tonight." He cracked an eye open and looked at me for a moment. I turned away, flustered.

Talon moved to the front of the mats, signaling to all of us – nine bodies, Grin and myself included – that we were about to begin. I adjusted myself on the mat until I was satisfied with my comfort, and closed my eyes just as Talon said, "And let's begin."

The silence was almost deafening. At least in my room there was the ticking of a clock or the humming of the air conditioner. Here, there was nothing to latch onto, but I forced myself to calm and attempted to push past the thoughts. That was what Grin had said, right? Move beyond thoughts. I could do it. I inhaled deeply, focusing on nothing but the back of my eyelids.

My eyes snapped open.

I had heard it.

That damn buzzer. Stealing sleep from me.

I closed my eyes again. I could get through this. It was just meditation, for god's sake. I was in a room with a bunch of Grins. Safe. Relaxed.

My body jerked. I could still hear it, off in the distance. I couldn't do it, I couldn't relax, there was too much around me, too much going on. I stood up and left, head down, out the door and across the street to the Migrator. I leaned against the side, cursing under my breath. Too quiet, it had been too quiet in there. Reminded me too much of a cell – that cell, my brain felt need to add – and…

"—dive." The voice came from right beside me and I pulled back with a gasp, instantly angry at my reaction. So tired of that feeling. Grin gently placed a hand on my shoulder, voice dropping, "What happen—"

"I'm sorry, Grin, man, I couldn't get through it. It's making me, I don't know, remember stuff and when I remember that stuff it makes me freak out. I can't go back in, it all reminds me too much of…of…" I gestured wildly, then sighed. "I really was thinking that'd fix me," I added.

Grin said nothing, just nodded. I guessed he had been hoping the same. Maybe not even a fix, just some relief. I couldn't even get that right. "It's all right. But you tried, and don't forget that."

I snorted. "Yeah, great try. Getting more pathetic by the day."

"It's all right," he said again. "Come, let's go."

As we buckled up, I looked at Grin, head bowed. "Can you…not tell Wildwing about this? He's worried enough and I'm tired…well, all of it, really."

"This will be between the two of us," he replied with a small smile.

I attempted a smile in return, but apparently my muscles were not quite fit for that, so I focused instead on the road ahead of us, embarrassed and ashamed and completely fed up.

I went alone to the training room, wailing on a punching bag until even my hand refused to hurt anymore. It had been much more effective. Less mind-exercises, more body-exercises.

I apologized again and again to Grin, saying that I would like to give Inner Space another shot, maybe in a week or so. He seemed happy by that, but deep down we both knew that was unlikely.

Wildwing asked how the meditation had gone, and I shrugged, attempting to joke that, "There were like eight other Grins there; it was a little overwhelming," and that had been enough for him.

"Where's your splint?"

I looked down at my bare hand. I had discarded the thing in the training room, since it got in the way and had left it there. "Took it off. It feels a lot better; barely hurts anymore."

He made me promise to have Tanya check it out to be safe, and I promised. Instead, I went to bed, and Grin had been right about one thing, I was now able to sleep the whole night through, even if all I could dream about was a metal cell and that stupid, damn buzzer.

To be continued…