UPDATE: Due to technical difficulties, I will not have regular access to a computer for an estimate of two weeks. You can probably expect chapter 18 by August 16th at the very earliest. Depending on how things go as I attempt to find time and opportunities to write, this might not be as dramatic a break as it sounds now, but I wanted to warn you, and offer my apologies.


This was originally going to be one chapter. That was the plan. Then I was plotting it out and realized, man, there's a lot happening in this chapter, maybe I should split it up. That's actually happened multiple times in the last handful of chapters and I wish I had more control over it, but once again I have elected to break apart the chapters rather than cram too much information into one.

So, on this story's first birthday, I bring you a chapter featuring some characters you may have been missing. If you wish to give the story a gift on its birthday, its wish list consists primarily of reviews. Particularly reviews that contain your best speculation, because I am in need of that right now for reasons. If you have never reviewed this story before, or haven't in a while, I am asking you the favor of doing so now. As ever, many thanks to those who have.


The next three days are way more of an emotional rollercoaster than Arashk would prefer, especially since he doesn't even get a break when he's sleeping.

The first replay the first night, it starts out a little early. He knows he'll just be watching his dad fish for a while, he knows his phone is dead, he knows the detective is coming, he knows one of the lures is going to inexplicably fall from the tackle box. He's holding his breath waiting for every little detail to come to fruition, and yet when that bullet finally cuts through the soothing bustle of the crowd and enters his dad's shoulder… it's like the rubber band he's been steadily stretching out for ages finally snaps, and he finds himself jolting awake at only a few minutes after midnight.

He forces himself back to sleep in a matter of minutes, and the sequence of events has started over. This time, when the shot rings out, he keeps himself firmly planted in the dream. He's not prepared enough to be able to start to narrow down the bullet's origin, but he does manage to shift his viewpoint down to the water before his dad even falls.

By the time he wakes up around 9:30 that morning, he's seen his dad get shot about half a dozen times. He's seen his friend dive into the ocean after him. He's felt at least some shadow of every stab of pain either one of them suffered—the bruise the detective gained on his foot when he smashed it into an underwater post of the pier, the crack in his finger as he snagged it violently on Arashk's dad's sleeve, and, of course, the pain of a bullet ripping through his dad's shoulder. It's almost exactly the same place as where he got shot ages and ages ago, but somehow, this time it hurts so much more.

He's seen all these details as many times as he's going to need to, and way more than he wanted to, but he still hasn't managed to figure out if they survive.

Their struggle underwater lasts longer than the vision seems interested in showing Arashk. And he hasn't even been able to figure out why. They weren't stuck on anything, he couldn't see anything holding them down, and they were both putting everything they had into their efforts to reach the surface, but they just weren't making any headway.

In the last replay before he wakes up, he sees the moment his father stops struggling.


He spends almost the entire day attached to that little red book.

It's a day of setup, so Loriss must be performing a lot of manual labor. For this reason Arashk expects to feel a lot of body pains and frustration when he taps into this open link to the guy's thoughts and feelings, but instead he just seems to experience a lot of… satisfaction. Like the kind you get after a job well done. Soreness develops in his arms and feet throughout the day but that's natural even for a young, able-bodied person. Around eleven Arashk vaguely tastes tuna sandwich, cantaloupe, and water that tastes a hell of a lot better than the stuff he's subjected to on a regular basis. Around 4:30 Loriss eats the second half of the sandwich and drinks some apple juice. No wonder Arashk sees him at mealtime so rarely; he eats pretty early.

By the time he finishes eating his own quick dinner in his apartment around 6 PM he's feeling little stabs of panic in his chest, trying to remember why he thought this would be a fruitful endeavor. Yeah, the guy probably knows something, but how is Arashk supposed to get any of that information via access to his everyday thoughts and feelings?

He tells himself to be patient, but his patience is running thin. The sooner he gets out of here, the better. His family and friends are back home getting hurt and possibly killed every time he messes up.

Possibly killed.

His dad and detective friend might be dead by the end of the week.

He'll probably find out for sure if he just waits, but waiting has never been his strong suit. That's why they got hurt in the first place. He put them on the line because he was reckless. He owes it to them to lie low for now and await further information, whether by way of psychic vision or an unwanted visit from the Master.

He hasn't actually seen the guy face-to-face in a long time. Across the fairground and dining area, sure, but the last time they exchanged words was… a matter of weeks into his captivity. Around the time these powers were developing, in fact.

Weird.

He shakes his head, trying to quell the fear inside him, only the fear really isn't that active at the moment, and that's the worst part of all this. The fear is, at this point, such a constant that it's settled down in his gut like a shadow haunting his every moment. He's become comfortable with it.

He was always able to put this kind of thing aside before. By the time he left his teen years behind he had pretty much mastered the ability to tell himself "Life could be worse" and make himself believe it, and hell if it wasn't a useful skill. But it seems to be breaking under the constant use lately; fissures are forming and the fear is oozing through and accumulating somewhere between his stomach and where his appendix used to be. Sometimes he gets pangs of discomfort without any immediate reason, and that reminds him how afraid he is, rather than feeling uncomfortable because he's afraid.

"I suck," he mutters unhappily.

It's the first time he's ever said anything like this in his life, and he doesn't give himself time to contemplate whether he's starting to believe it.


By the end of that second night, he finally has an inkling as to where the bullet came from.

The shooter was obviously situated somewhere along the shore, because of the direction his dad was facing, and Arashk is able to narrow it down to one of three buildings up the hill and down the way.

However, one of those buildings contains the Psych office, so that makes the guesswork a little easier.

He'll allow himself the sick-to-his-stomach feeling this realization introduces, but he really shouldn't be surprised. They obviously have a way to get in the office without leaving any evidence behind—he knew that from the pictures of his best friend left on his nightstand all that time ago—and because of the camera they planted, they know when it's empty. So it makes sense that they would set up there. Clearly Arashk is looking at at least one individual with some skill with a gun; a shot like that could not have been made by an amateur.

Removing this threat is without a doubt going to be the hardest part of his escape. At this point, he has no idea how he's going to manage it. He doesn't even know which state he's in half the time, let alone how to extend his range of influence to his hometown, wherever the hell it might be in relation to him. And who knows how long it will take just to gather enough information to paint a clear mental picture of the person or people with their fingers on the trigger, waiting for the Master's orders.

His stomach clenches at the thought of how long he still has before he can go home, but he shakes his head violently in an attempt to force that train of thought to a halt. It's not going to help him.


Arashk is inside Loriss' head practically every spare moment he has the following day, but it's a show day, and an especially busy one to boot, so there aren't too many spare moments to be had. He pulls the book out in the ten seconds he has between readings but very quickly concludes that it's not worth the extreme disorientation of switching back and forth between his client's feelings and Loriss' so frequently. It seems all the guy is doing is walking around picking up trash and answering questions, anyway.

Really, it's probably good he has the distraction of working the tent. There's not that much helpful information ripe for the gathering at the moment.

Five ghosts, one channeling, and countless visions later, he extinguishes his candles, dumps the water from his scrying pool into the grass outside, and heads off to the dining area.

As he sits there alone with his mini corndogs and meager serving of fries, he reviews his current objectives. They just keep piling on, and the worst part is, he's not sure which of them he should be pursuing the most urgently. So he's left with no choice but to devote more or less equal focus to all of them. He and Livia seem to be on the same page, but he still has to figure out what they have in common that would lead somebody to strip them of their old names and force new ones on them. There's Loriss, of course, who seems to have some kind of history with the Master, and who therefore might be able to lead Arashk to some useful backstory that might shed a little light on the present. And then, on the back burner, there's—

"You look so dour, Ronaldo."

Arashk's head snaps up, and he finds himself staring into friendly brown eyes. At the moment, they don't seem to be hiding anything, but they've betrayed the presence of secrets before.

Trying to summon the energy necessary to rectify his apparently "dour" expression, he puts on a grin and says, "Hey, Seb."

The sword swallower takes a seat across from him. Arashk sees his hand start to go up after he places his plate on the table, but the attempted handshake is quickly aborted and transformed into a scratch behind his ear. Arashk would appreciate this courtesy if he weren't looking for information.

But he appreciates it all the same.

"Something wrong?" Sebastian asks then, as he begins to tear open his ketchup packets and squirt them out next to his fries.

Arashk stiffens slightly. Something is definitely wrong, a lot of somethings in fact, and with every microsecond that passes he can see with increasing clarity that Sebastian would be willing to listen, but… he probably shouldn't answer honestly, right? Operating under the safe assumption that the Master will be hearing about it if Arashk even drops a mention of unhappiness… it likely wouldn't be safe to do so. But really, would the Master care? He could make something up based on just a few shreds of truth, he could say he misses his family and sometimes worries about them because their work can be dangerous, he could say he's not sure he made the right choice joining the show, he could even say he saw one of them get hurt in a vision and is lamenting that he can't go home due to some emotional insecurity, and none of it would have to raise any suspicion at all. It wouldn't be rational to punish Arashk for something so harmless.

But while the Master has proven himself to be many things, rational is not one of them.

He can deal with this by himself, like he has been all along.

He opens his mouth to tell Sebastian no, he's quite all right, thank you, and what a jolly fine day it is too, but before he can say a word, Sebastian comments, "You have that look everybody gets when they're worried about someone. Or at least missing someone."

Arashk just stares at him for a moment, blinking, shocked at how on the nose the observation is. He wishes he could laugh, offer an impressed comment on the accuracy of it, but he's just decided he's not going to talk about this and his brain is admittedly still trying to work through his options.

Sebastian offers a sympathetic smile, obviously seeing the surprise on Arashk's face. He gives himself a solid mental kick as the sword swallower says, "I've been here for quite some time, and I've gotten good at recognizing that expression in particular."

Maybe the Master really wouldn't mind. The last two times he's screwed up it was pretty obvious he was up to no good—talking crap about the Master and getting caught in a train car he had no business being in—so maybe…

"That's pretty impressive," he finds himself saying.

Harmless. Definitely harmless.

But somehow, it already feels like he's pushing his luck.

A short pause hangs between them as Sebastian puts a few fries in his mouth, and before he has a chance to speak, Arashk seizes the opportunity to control the direction of the conversation, and asks casually, "So how long have you been here?"

"Sixteen years," Sebastian answers, a hint of pride in his voice.

Arashk tilts his head, going over what he already knows of this man. Something about this seems… weird. Not totally implausible, but probably unusual. "So you've been with the show for your entire sword swallowing career? Since your awkward teen years?"

"Yep," Sebastian replies readily, but there it is again—that look behind his eyes. Carefully guarded—not just trying to keep some information hidden, but to hide the fact that the information exists at all.

Unfortunately for him, the guy he's trying to hide from is a psychic.

Arashk gauges how best to proceed, and after the shortest of pauses, lets out an appreciative whistle. "You got any family?" he asks then, injecting some uncertainty in his voice, because if he sounds tentative, it's clearer that he's playing off the answer to his previous question and looks like he's not sure whether it's appropriate to continue—rather than just asking out of fake curiosity.

Sebastian stops chewing.

It's such a small change, and it lasts for less than a second before he goes back to contentedly and casually munching on his fries, but if Arashk's dad taught him anything it was that every detail is important, and he's not about to stop honoring that now.

Sebastian swallows, does that tiny quick smile people put on that's really just a pull at the skin on either side of their mouths, and says, "Nah."

Way before he was Arashk Ronaldo, before he was really psychic, he was good at picking up on the details that mattered. Back then, he had to rely on nothing but observation, intuition, and the skills his dad passed down to him. And he still has all that now, but with the definitely helpful addition of an actual sixth sense.

That sense is pushing him to push Sebastian, and he's absolutely ready to comply.

Of course, he has to put some thought into how to go about doing this without being an ass about it. In the interim while he tries to form words, he works on his expression. The slight drawing together of his eyebrows demonstrates concern, while a slight quirk of one of them indicates curiosity. He tilts his head just a smidge, and is considering what might possibly be beneficial to say when Sebastian looks up, notes his expression, and admits, "I used to."

Aw yiss. Widening his eyes just a touch and making sure not to let his excitement seep into his voice, he tries, "Everyone at least starts out with family."

Sebastian releases a slightly shuddering breath. "Listen, Arashk, it's not something I really like to talk about."

Arashk watches him, mind racing, and he tries to rein it in, but that's more difficult nowadays than it used to be, and it used to be impossible.

Dead. All of Sebastian's family. Dead.

"I don't understand," he once said. "The Master has never been anything but kind to me."

He can't be in Arashk's same situation. It wouldn't make any sense for him to come to the Master's defense if he were.

But they are dead. Arashk is sure of it.

He tries to slow down. He's tumbling head over heels from assumption to conclusion and back again and when he loses track of his own thought processes like this, things can get dangerous. He has to stay as clear as possible. Now, does he have any reason to believe that they were killed like his family and friends might be? Where the hell did that idea even come from?

He eyes Sebastian's hand resting on the table across from him. If he were to reach out and touch it now, it would be very clear what he was trying to do, and he would lose all of Sebastian's trust just like that. But how much value does Sebastian's trust have right now? Is there anything he can do with it? Can it be used to keep Arashk's family safe?

Other, perhaps better question: what can he expect to get out of a sneak peek into what Sebastian is thinking right now?

Nothing. Almost definitely nothing. If the Master did in fact kill this man's family, it's painfully obvious he doesn't know anything about it. And if he didn't, their deaths, however tragic, are irrelevant to Arashk's investigation.

He's not quite satisfied, but he's pleased with his reasoning. And when he realizes that only about two seconds have passed, it almost makes him feel good enough to forget for a moment that his dad and friend might be dead.


The third night, the scene has changed.

Arashk is in a hospital, and his vision-self immediately lets out a series of ragged gasps of relief, because hospitals are not where the dead are taken. As the scene solidifies around him, he registers that he is not in his father's room. The gruff detective is standing near the bed, and Arashk's beautiful girlfriend is behind him, helping him into his suit jacket. Arashk senses the bandages wrapped thickly around his elbow, and the athletic tape binding his pinkie to his ring finger is readily apparent. Not to mention the bandages encasing the entirety of his left foot, or maybe that's a cast; for some reason Arashk can't tell that, but he does know nothing in the man's foot is broken, it's just very badly bruised. He doesn't recall the elbow injury—it must have been sustained when they got out of the water. However they eventually managed that.

"It doesn't make any sense." It's the detective speaking. Well, they're both detectives, of course, but Arashk can't think of a better label for him at this point. "I'm a very strong swimmer. I was always top of my class when I took lessons. Even better than that stuck-up Peter Helfrich, the son of the swim coach." He grits his teeth, obviously doing the mental equivalent of throwing darts at a photo of the named twelve-year-old.

"No one is doubting your swimming abilities, Carlton." She speaks softly, with a slight but distinct tone of amusement.

Arashk frowns. Carlton? It sounds familiar, but… not. That's not his first name, is it? No, wait… it is his first name, and that's the problem. Arashk always called him by something else.

"No, O'Hara, it felt like… like something was holding us under."

O'Hara? It's the same sort of issue, he's pretty sure, only inverse.

She's frowning, a knot forming between her graceful eyebrows. "Were you caught on something?"

The detective chews on his lower lip for a moment, eyes far away. "We… must have been," he says dubiously.

Arashk glares at them in frustration. They're not talking about the right things.

She blinks, clearly grasping for words. "Well, that's… pretty bizarre," she tries.

"I'm aware of that." He lets out a short, forceful exhale, and for a brief moment neither of them speaks. "All right," the detective says then, and it's a transition, and Arashk tenses up, formulating a reasonable guess as to what's coming.

Without another word the two of them exit the room, Arashk's girlfriend in the lead and her partner walking with the faintest of limps just behind her, entering a long white hallway. They head for the elevator in the center of it, ascend two levels, and after a few minutes come to a stop in front of a closed door.

She looks at him with masked concern as she reaches for the doorknob, he refuses to make eye contact, and she pulls the door open.

Arashk would close his eyes if that were an option. As it happens, there is nothing to stop him from beholding, unfiltered, his father, lying in a pale green hospital gown on the bed, a tube stuck down his throat, his eyes shut like they might never open again. His skin has a pallor to it that rivals the hospital sheets whiteness-wise. Arashk's not used to seeing him so… colorless.

The two detectives stand there regarding him silently for a very long moment, her gaze full of suppressed sorrow, his tense and tired. Their jaws are set in exactly the same way. Finally, "No arteries or vital organs were damaged," she says quietly, in a way that leads Arashk to suspect she's already said it at least once.

"He was under for too long," the taller detective growls, and her shoulders sag, disappointedly releasing the apprehension she was carrying.

Arashk's fists clench. God, Carlton, if it's anyone's fault, it's mine. Blame me. Blame the Master, hell, blame the guy who pulled the trigger—but don't blame yourself.

"It's not—" she starts to say.

"I don't want to hear it, O'Hara." He lets out a long, controlled breath through pursed lips. "I was standing right there."

She doesn't try to respond.

He rubs a hand down his face. "The Spencers have an awful habit of pissing off dangerous people. Getting themselves shot, specifically."

Her gaze has hardened just a touch. After a calculated pause, she says evenly, "They might be related, these incidents. We're looking into it, as much as we can be. But that's not a lot. If things continue on this vein, this will be just another incident with no evidence attached to it at all."

Her partner goes as far as to open his mouth, but he snaps it shut quickly before making a sound. She doesn't notice. Arashk can't quite discern what he was going to say, but he can take a reasonable guess that it was about him.

For another long moment, the only sound in the room is the steady hum and regular beeping of the machines currently keeping his father alive. They both look profoundly unhappy, their brows deeply furrowed, jaws set identically once again. Arashk wonders if there may be some cop to the idea that if two people spend enough time together, they start to look like each other.

He knows he's trying to distract himself.

"I'll bring the car around," she finally says. "Meet me at the front entrance in five."

He nods, not taking his eyes off the unmoving form of Arashk's father. She lays a hand on his shoulder, leaves it there for a few seconds, and finally exits the room. Arashk sees her stop and watch her partner for a moment through the little window in the door, and finally, she disappears from sight.

The vision doesn't follow her. Arashk is still in the hospital room, watching the detective watch his father. The man's breathing is deep and steady; it's the horrible pallid quality of his skin that dissolves any illusion of health.

For a couple minutes, the detective doesn't move. He just stands there, staring at the still face before him, and Arashk is left trying desperately to find something else to focus on. Observing the detective's wretched expression is hardly a better option, and just leaves him wondering which is actually worse—being there with his dad but with no idea why this happened or how to catch the guy who did it, or being here, knowing full well that he's the one responsible, but with at least some iota of hope that he can keep it from happening again.

The noble choice would be the latter, and of course as long as he has strength left he'd go for it every time, but damn if it doesn't hurt.

The detective's face hasn't even twitched, but Arashk notices his gaze beginning to harden. He chews the inside of his cheek, closes his eyes for a long moment, opens them. Slowly and with faltering steps, he approaches the bedside of Arashk's father and grips the metal frame of his bed, never taking his eyes off the man's face. Arashk checks it with the same intensity for a short moment, just to make sure his dad hasn't moved. He hasn't.

The detective draws in a deep breath over several long seconds with an impressive level of control clearly born of years of practice. It occurs to Arashk that even in visions, he doesn't see this man alone very often. He's never seen him produce tears, and he's still not sure he has, but it really seems that there's a sheen over his eyes that isn't usually present.

With a slight hitch of his shoulders he tightens his grip on the bedframe till his knuckles turn white. "Dammit, Henry, you bastard," he whispers with a ferocity Arashk has never seen in him, "you can't die on us. Not now. You have to be here when your son comes back."

The details of the room immediately start to blur, running over each other like Arashk is looking through a windshield in a torrential downpour, and he finds himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his cheeks damp with tears.