AN: Remember waaaay in the beginning when I said later chapters might get slightly disturbing? You're about to see what I was talking about.


Arashk sees himself.

This is a strangely unusual occurrence. Normally the only psychic warnings he receives of his own future are vague tingles of foreboding or reassurance whenever he's considering a decision, and usually not a major one. He could spend all day hypothesizing as to why, but now's not the time for that.

He's strapped down, and he's bleeding.

It's in an oddly controlled manner, however. A tube is attached to his arm as he lies on his back, strapped to a table, and it leads to some sort of large container situated in the corner of the dimly lit room. Arashk can't discern any details, but the size of the container is alarming.

He looks pretty much exactly like he's looked for… well, however long. Which is a little concerning, considering his plan to shave this beard and do something with his once-glorious hair as soon as he gets the opportunity. The tattoo on his forehead is on full display, standing out even more shockingly with the sickly paleness of his skin. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep, his muscles slack. He is obviously either asleep or unconscious.

Whatever is happening, it feels very close at hand.

The unspecificity of it all—the lack of anything actually happening, of indication of where this room is, of any action on his future self's part—all of it seems to Arashk, on a coldly logical level, though he knows better than to actually believe it, like your everyday run-of-the-mill nightmare.

He's always been pretty good at pulling himself out of nightmares.

Consciousness rushes to Arashk all too quickly. He's immediately wide awake but maybe not so aware, and he presses himself against the flat surface behind him, drawing in deep gasps. It takes him about three seconds to register that he's on a bed in a motel room—pretty cheap, he thinks. The mattress beneath him is stiff, and the wallpaper pattern looks like something his dad would wear.

Memories rush back to him just as suddenly as consciousness did—of flagging down two guys who had the exact same shade of green eyes driving a dusty silver Chevy after who knows how much running—he ran until his feet felt like they were about to fall off—and then several hours of wavering between walking along the highway and sticking his thumb out—of them offering a ride, of him agreeing…

He's not sure where the motel room came in, though.

Suddenly he realizes there's another mystery in this situation: he's wearing a grey jacket that he doesn't recall putting on. He stares down at the too-long sleeves, thinking it looks somehow familiar, and slowly registering the fact that his skin is tingling in every place it's being touched by the jacket. He doesn't get that feeling from his own clothing—or even from the clothing he was wearing during his time in that hellhole. Finally it comes to him: it belongs to Sebastian.

Why the hell is he wearing Sebastian's jacket?

There's a distinct possibility that this detail is even more important than the question of how he got here, but the latter is of more immediate concern. He casts his eyes around until they land on a note, lying besides the alarm clock next to his bed, which reads 11:17 AM. It's written in blue pen, in fairly sloppy handwriting. He snatches it up—and underneath it finds a disorganized but very real stack of cash, with a $10 on top and at least two or three more bills underneath. He stares at it, and turns to the note.

Arash (spelling?)—

You're in Reno. We arrived a little after 2AM last night. Room's paid for till noon, so hopefully you wake up before then. If you need a place to stay, there's enough here for one more night. If you don't, we hope you can find some use for the money anyway. Sorry we couldn't stay; we were on a deadline and we didn't want to wake you.

-John and Lambert

He grabs at the money, and counts it. Sixty dollars—two tens, a twenty, three fives, and five ones. Turns out there are actually good and generous people in the world.

He reviews the note again. Arash? He must have swallowed the k when he introduced himself. He'd think whoops except he considers it a small victory to have slightly botched this dumb name he's been saddled with.

Reno. He's in Reno. That's… actually relatively close to his hometown, he's pretty sure. He may have had no idea what he was doing at the time, but somehow, he was able to produce results.

That would about sum up my autobiography, I think.

Glimpsing a pen behind the alarm clock on top of a thin pad of paper, he snatches them up and stuffs the note and money into his pockets. His search for a key card for the room is neither long nor difficult, and with that in hand, he exits the room.

As he emerges into the hall, he vaguely remembers walking here. It was one hell of a night, that's for sure, but… apparently he was able to walk (stumble maybe) from the parking lot to that bed without being fully conscious? He can't help but be impressed with himself.

The front desk is not difficult to find. There's a thin brunette woman behind it, and when his eyes meet hers, they register some kind of recognition. Either she was working last night, or he's one of their more unusual guests and has been the talk of the motel.

Either one would be fine with him. "Hi, um… do you offer complimentary razors?"

She blinks, surprise and confusion clear on her face, for a moment just surveying his wild facial hair and working through the implications of this request. "Uh… No, sir, I'm sorry, we don't."

Figures. This is a pretty cheap place. "All right… Well," and he checks the clock on the wall behind her. "I know I have to check out pretty soon, but first do you have a computer I could use?"


As he sits down at the only guest computer the motel has available, it comes to him very suddenly that he's out. However brief it may be, whatever consequences he may suffer, in this moment, he is free.

It doesn't feel real.

The off-white counter on which his forearms rest is carefully cleaned. The faint din of traffic reaches him through the walls. The rapid sound of typing is quite audible from one room over, where the receptionist is working. The building is relatively quiet, as every room is vacant except four, and only one of those actually has any people in it at this moment—a young couple and their seven-year-old son, about to leave for their family reunion.

Back home, life goes on, too.

Concentrate, Arashk. He pulls up the Internet browser—Internet Explorer. Typical. Fortunately it doesn't take too long to load the page, and after a brief moment of thought, he enters "psychic detective" into the search bar. His fingers move haltingly; it's been such a long time since he typed anything.

The first results are all about that show Psychic Detectives that started in 2004. Dangit. He's heard of it of course, but forgot for quite some time that it existed. He scrolls through the first two pages and is already starting to deflate as he clicks to the third. Nothing sounds familiar, and he's not quite sure he trusts himself to recognize relevant names even if he sees them.

Time to narrow the search, then. So he can't remember the city or even the state where he lives, but he can still picture in his head where it is on a map of the US. He clicks on the search engine's image tab, pulls up such a map, and locates the name of the southernmost state on the west coast.

California. That's it. He recognizes the shape.

Arashk yanks the pen and notepad from his pocket and scrawls the state's name across the top page before correcting his initial search to say "psychic detective California."

The first page of results is entirely filled with articles about a Shawn Spencer from Santa Barbara.

It almost sounds familiar, and even as he tries to keep himself from hoping, he holds his breath and clicks on the first result.

He scans the article, and it mentions a couple other names—Lavender Gooms and Carlton Lassiter. The second one might be something he's heard before, but he's not sure what that first one's all about.

Already impatient, he opens another image search, types "Shawn Spencer," and, moving too fast for his fingers to tremble, hits enter.

The page floods with pictures of himself. A neatly groomed, untattooed, nearly clean-shaven version of himself.

Arashk covers his mouth to keep from crying out, but he can do nothing to suppress the sudden desperate pounding in his chest. And it is overwhelmingly cool with him; he needed it as a reminder that he's alive.

Under "California," he writes the name, or at least attempts to; his hand moves so fast, so desperately, that he swears his handwriting is, for a moment, just as bad as it was in the fourth grade. His teachers frequently believed his name to be spelled "Shaun" because he wrote his w's—and still sometimes does—like a drunk six-year-old.

Oh God. He forgot that. How did he forget that?

He feels the sudden urge to put his head in his hands and just move as little as possible in an attempt to allow the storm raging inside it to settle.

His name is Shawn.

His name is Shawn Spencer.

He has to whisper it to himself: "Shawn Spencer," and oh sweet ecstasy, its taste on his tongue has no comparison. "Shawn Spencer," he says again, drawing out the vowels. The pleasing whoosh of that palatal fricative has never given him such satisfaction.

He has a name, he has a destination, and he has sixty dollars in cash. Way more than he had yesterday. So what's his next move?

He could call 911. He should call 911. It wouldn't even cost money. But he honestly isn't sure how that would play out, particularly since he now finds himself in Reno, Nevada. A local operator would pick up and the Reno Police Department would get involved and… and it's irrational and reckless but he refuses to risk getting stuck here. Even if he were to look up the number for the Santa Barbara Police Department and call them, they'd probably tell him to stay put and they'd come get him, or they'd contact the Reno PD to take care of him, or something.

He refuses to stay put. Shawn Spencer doesn't stay put. He's going home today.

If he can manage it.

His conviction that he can't stay idle for even a moment doesn't fade as he starts searching for local bus schedules, but something else is nagging at him. He can take care of himself, but the Mas… that… that man is still out there, and as long as he is, everyone he cares about is in danger.

His heart stalls at the thought of him.

His captor—ex-captor, he reminds himself in muted joy—is still out there.

But the actual source of all the harm, the one who could actually follow through on the threats, is, at least for the moment, out of commission.

He does not need to think about this. But now he's doing exactly that, and his stomach performs a somersault at the thought of what he did. He can't remember at all what happened directly after that—he wishes he could—but that's not what his brain is stuck on at the moment.

He can still feel his arms working as hard as they ever have, swinging up and down and up and down, long after his target had stopped moving. He can still smell the blood. He can still feel Goodwin's skull cracking beneath his hands. And oh, God, the screams…

In a more dramatic fashion than he intended, he rises abruptly to his feet, shoving the notepad into his oversized pocket, closing the windows he opened, and striding towards the front desk to check out and get the hell out of Dodge.


This time, neither of the men he sees before him is familiar. Not that he can clearly discern either of their faces—the dense foliage above them obscures any moonlight that could illuminate the proceedings. Besides, he's found that all five senses are equally represented in visions, making it difficult to focus on any one in particular—and in cases where the olfactory stimulation is this overpowering, recognizing faces can be almost impossible.

One man lies on the forest floor, blood soaking into the fresh soil around him. His hands grasp weakly at the large branch lodged firmly into his side. He seems to be attempting to pull it out of him, and with every little bit of progress a cry of pain issues from his lips. As far as Arashk can tell, at the rate the blood is fleeing from his body, there's no way he can survive, especially if he succeeds in removing the branch.

The other man is notably still as he just stands above his comrade, staring down at him. The mood Arashk is getting from him is, above all else, thoughtful. A far cry from calm, but he doesn't seem to have any intention of leaping into action. The dying man seems to be struggling to speak, but the only sound in the air is the soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze and the man's feet kicking weakly against the grass, sometimes accompanied by tiny groans of agony. Arashk might be glad he couldn't clearly discern the fading light in his eyes if the tradeoff were something other than the stench of his blood.

After several seconds of this, the second man bends over, grasps the branch, and… and doesn't let go. He simply stands there, hunched over his comrade, staring into his eyes as the life drains out of him. The man on the ground is unable to continue making headway in his attempt to free himself of the object that's killing him.

The pause stretches long enough that Arashk begins to question whether it's worth enduring this smell to see how this ends.

Finally, the man's hands go limp. Arashk would look away if he could.

The man still living breathes out very purposefully, apparently bracing himself. Arashk senses a drastic change in his mood—grim, a little uncertain, but triumphant. And in one swift motion he yanks the branch from the dead man's side.

The stench becomes that much more prominent as it flows freely and rapidly, showing that, though the man has lost consciousness, he's still alive. Arashk pours every iota of effort he can muster into focusing on something else, anything else. That something ends up being the perpetrator's face, which suddenly seems eerily familiar.

The man wastes precious few seconds watching the unrelenting flow of blood before he opens his mouth wide and leans forward.

He jolts to full wakefulness in record time, eyes darting around so frantically they're not taking anything in except streaks of light, and oh God the floor is moving beneath him, wait, it's a bus seat, he's on a bus, buses move, it's what they do, calm the hell down Arashk.

He melts into a puddle of goo against the royal blue fabric of the back of the seat, breathing hard, ignoring the eleven-year-old boy a few seats in front of him who's staring openly, and all the other passengers who are making an obvious effort not to. He wonders if somebody asked him if he was okay, and if he even answered without realizing it, or if everyone on this bus is just a dick. Either way. He guesses he gets it. He wouldn't really want to associate with a full-bearded guy with weird tattoos drowning in his own jacket falling asleep on public transport. Particularly if he knew the amount of blood that jacket was hiding. Oh man… he hopes to God nobody sees that and calls the cops on him. That would make all this even more complicated than it already is.

He's distracting himself, of course. And he's not even doing it well. He was trying not to think about the blood. Heaven forbid its stench ever leave his nostrils. Everywhere he turns more blood has been spilt and it's beginning to feel like he'll never get away from it for as long as he lives.

The dream is still tickling at the back of his head, as if telling him, I'll be waiting for you. And he knows it will. When he goes back to sleep, it'll be ready.

He doesn't think he wants to go back to sleep.

There's something else in the back of his mind, though… something directly related to that godforsaken nightmare. A chill passes through him, and he wraps his arms around himself, doing his best to fit as much of his body as is physically possible into Sebastian's jacket.

It's no ordinary chill. Of course it isn't. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he listens.

The message is short. It's a name. He's almost surprised by how immediately he can tell, but there's really no reason to be; he's had a ton of practice with this stuff over the last… however long.

For some reason, though, the name takes a very long time to come into focus. The ghosts sound… not tired, per se, but… drained. There's a lot of overlap between the terms when applied to living people, but he doesn't think he could accurately describe a spirit as tired. Still, he's pretty sure he's sensing what's more or less the ghostly equivalent, and he's really not sure what they could have been doing to tucker them out so much, but he imagines he's not going to get any clarification on the matter any time soon.

The three voices are fading in and out of focus and overlapping each other like they don't realize the other two are speaking, and even though Arashk knows it won't change things a smidge, he covers his ears.

"…as…"

"…ton…"

"…or…"

"…ab…"

It's just a bunch of snatches of sound that come in in the wrong order and ergo don't mean a thing to him.

Finally, they seem to give up, and as they fade gradually into silence, he breathes, hardly making a sound, "That's right. Go get a little R and R, and try again later."

He would have sworn that he was too quiet to hear, but immediately that friggin' kid is giving him another look. He sticks his tongue out at him and sinks down into his seat, not particularly keen on finding out whether there were any witnesses to that.


Since sleeping is out of the cards, he spends a lot of time bored out of his skull. At first he's not sure he really minds; it's a feeling that, between all the anxiety and fear and planning and visions, he hasn't had a chance to experience in quite some time.

He's quickly reminded how much it sucks, though.

He slips his hand past the maps he got from the visitors' center in Reno and fingers the money he has left in his pocket—a buck fifty. The generosity of two brothers on the road was just enough to get him a bus ticket to Fresno. It was the best he could do on his budget, and it's more than he could have hoped for, but he's trying not to think about how he's going to manage once he makes it there. Fresno's still four hours from home. He figures he has three options: call it good enough, throw in the towel, and call the police; hitchhike the rest of the way; or beg till he's got the funds for another bus ride.

That last option is unappealing for many reasons, but most of all how long it would probably take. Speed is paramount. He's not going to go for the first one unless he's desperate… which he supposes will be around the time night has fallen and he hasn't gotten a ride yet.

Hitchhiking it is, then.


He's just finished his fourth round of the alphabet sign game with himself when he hears the voice of the woman he's identified as that kid's mother whisper sharply, "Ryan, stop staring."

He turns just in time to see the kid swivel his head back around, and for a moment he's caught between embarrassment and amusement. He decides to go with the latter, and smirks to himself. So now he has a name to go with the face that's been turned towards him for about seventy percent of the trip.

The thought of the kid's name quickly turns his mind to his own, which, thank heaven, he's recovered. He sits there smiling contentedly to himself for a few minutes before realizing.

There's still a blank space in his mind.

It's not just a moment of forgetfulness after learning new information either—it's gone. Vanished. He doesn't have it anymore.

He scrambles to pull the notepad from his pocket, knowing that he has several names written down and fearing he won't be able to pick out the right one. But thank all things good in the world, when his eyes fall on "Shawn Spencer," he relaxes.

Okay. So he can only remember his name for as long as his mind is focused on it. If he's idle for too long, if he goes even an hour without reminding himself, it's lost.

But is there a damn reason?

This is one thing of many he still hasn't been able to figure out. He's sure it's intentional. Hell, you know what, he's already submitted to plenty of other crazy crap—he'll go ahead and admit to himself that he's pretty sure the M… that man did this to him on purpose. Somehow.

Which means he's also admitting to himself that the man has resources Arashk—why the hell is that one still in his head—can't account for. Even without Goodwin.

He stares down at the phone number written on the notepad as well, labeled "SBPD." He couldn't call before—he had a bus to catch, and there wasn't time. But now…

Ryan is staring again.

Arashk—Shawn, your name is Shawn—stares back.

Then Ryan's mother is grasping his arm firmly and whispering to him with hellfire in her eyes, and Shawn is looking away, again attempting to conceal his snickers, when he realizes the opportunity he really shouldn't miss.

He slides over to the empty aisle seat next to him, and leans over, swallowing a few times to make sure his throat isn't too dry before saying timidly, "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Ryan's mom turns sharply, loose brown curls whipping against her face, and though she remains more or less composed when she speaks, her eyes register total panic, and her cheeks burn red. "Oh! Sir, I am so sorry about my son, I keep telling him it's—"

"Oh no," he says, waving it off with a sad smile, "don't worry about it." The unspoken words I get it a lot hang in the air, and Arashk continues, voice low and raspy and with just a touch of fake but not really fake desperation, "Actually, I… I was just wondering if I could… if I could use your phone?"

He puts on the best pathetic mistreated-by-the-world face he's got. And he sees her entire thought process. He doesn't even need to be touching her; unwillingness to hand over any of her possessions to this dirty hobo is extremely clear on her face, but then she glances back down at her son, who, to his credit, is now staring out the window instead of at said hobo.

"I'll be quick, and it's important," he adds earnestly, and even though everything he's said is perfectly true, he swears he feels the exact same way as whenever he introduces his friend by an outrageous name he made up on the spot.

She hands it over. Of course she does; who could resist this face? He accepts it into his hands, and it's been such a long time since he held a phone. He just tests its weight in his palm for a few seconds, and, knowing full well the woman is pretending not to be watching him closely, pulls up the dial pad and enters in the number from the notepad.

He's not sure what he's going to say. He's really not. "What up. Not dead. On my way. In the meantime, don't die. Who should be worrying about this, you ask? Um… I don't recall their names." Whatever happens it's not likely to go well, but they'll hear him. They have to.

He doesn't even hear a ring before a robotic female voice on the other end informs him, "You are roaming."

"Oh, come on," he groans, taking it down from his ear. He's not really sure what he expected; they're in the middle of Nowheresville right now. Nevertheless, he tries once more, twice more, and by the third time he's pretty much got the number down—he never had it memorized before—but it isn't working and Ryan's mom is looking pretty antsy.

But as they say, or maybe they don't, fourth time's the charm.

"Santa Barbara Police Department."

A lump forms in his throat and his muscles seize up, and he looks down at his notepad and says as soon as he's able, "This is Shawn Spencer. I—you—they're all in danger. That's why—why the shooting, and the car engine, and—post guards, be on the lookout, he'll be there soon—"

"Shawn Spencer?" The shock in the person's voice is obvious, but to her credit, she continues on almost immediately, voice remaining level and professional, "Okay, slow down; where are you?"

He's trying to place the voice but he can't quite manage it. An acquaintance, he supposes. There really wasn't anybody around the precinct who didn't know him, but he admittedly didn't know a lot of them very well. "Did you hear what I said?"

The phone beeps at him.

He takes it down and looks at the screen. The call has been dropped.

That didn't last long. But, God willing, it was long enough.

When he returns the device to Ryan's mother she looks torn between asking questions and never having anything to do with him again, and he wonders how much she heard. He was trying to be quiet. Before she comes to a decision, he smiles and says, "Thank you so much, ma'am."

She clamps her mouth shut, puts on a polite smile of her own, says, "You're welcome," and looks away.

It's not quite what he'd call an actual con, but for a moment, Shawn feels like himself again.


Ryan and his mom get off at a stop in Modesto. The kid makes brief eye contact with Arashk as he stands waiting for his mother to put everything in her purse, and Arashk waves goodbye. Ryan looks like he's trying to decide whether to wave back when his mom hustles him down the aisle and out the door.

Arashk spends the next hour and a half trying not to fall asleep. Every time he nods off he swears he comes back with screams echoing in his ears. Though he's not sure whether that's by psychic vision, or simple memory.

His legs are stiff and his knees almost buckle when he finally stands to exit into the Fresno bus stop, but he makes it without mishap. After half an hour of walking and map consultations and direction-asking, he finds a pretty good spot without too much local traffic and with plenty of space for passing vehicles to see his extended thumb and be able to stop.

Five minutes in he's pretty sure he's entered the seventh circle of hell, and he's not going to be picked up by anybody whose destination is—he checks his notepad—Santa Barbara until it freezes over.

After some time he starts assessing himself for physical characteristics of a trustworthy hitchhiker. Ideally, his arms and legs wouldn't be covered—people appear less threatening that way—but in his case, removing this jacket is not an option. His location is pretty ideal; there's not really much he can to do improve it.

It's probably been about an hour—one offer that didn't work out and one would-be offer before which his psychic senses told him to put his thumb down—when he caves and sits down in the grass. He's not sure if hitchhiking still… works if you're sitting down, but he needs this. Not as much as a lot of other things he really really needs, but this one is pretty attainable, comparatively. He's going to sit here for a few minutes with his thumb aloft and nothing else, and he's not going to think, he's not going to have any visions, in fact—he's going to close his eyes.

After a couple minutes of sweet stagnancy, during which he finally realizes he's getting pretty hungry, the collective rustle of leaves all around him and the wind tossing his already unkempt hair catches his attention. The air feels… different. Heavy.

He doesn't bother stifling his groan as he opens his eyes and looks up.

The sky is heavy with ominous clouds, and thunder rumbles in the distance. He sucks in a breath and pulls himself back to his feet, because if there's anything he can do to get inside a vehicle before being rained on, he'll do it.

Five minutes after the first far-off lightning fork and accompanying clap of thunder is when he gets his next offer, and as the car pulls to a stop next to him, he realizes that the rain is a blessing. People aren't generally generous until they see some poor sap standing in the rain; then the guilt is pretty much unavoidable.

Unfortunately, these guys are headed for Visalia, which is so close that to go with them wouldn't be worth it. As they speak, it occurs to Arashk—Shawn—that a sign might not be a bad idea. But no way would anything he writes down in this notepad be big enough to be visible to passing drivers, so he asks them if they have any large pieces of paper he could borrow and not give back. The best they can offer is an old map that's useless to them, and a Sharpie for him to hurriedly write "SANTA BARBARA" as big as he can across it, as making the letters visible enough with his pen would take for frigging ever.

They apologize for not being able to do more and get back on the road just as it starts sprinkling. The rain intensifies in the following few minutes, and Arashk starts to worry that his sign will be ruined beyond legibility before anybody passes by who can help him, but stands there dutifully holding it aloft for a grand total of eleven minutes before a large blue van rolls to a stop next to him. Arashk lowers his sign, noting the scratches along the side, and the loud bass beat that's booming from within, and the shotgun side's window rolls down. A young woman, probably no older than twenty-three, is sitting inside. She raises her voice to be heard above the rain and the music: "You need a lift to Santa Barbara?"

For the briefest moment Arashk feels a stab of doubt. He glances down as surreptitiously as he can to the sign, and at the confirmation snaps his eyes back up to her and nods emphatically. "Yes, please."

Her next words very much catch him off-guard: "You got any problem with dogs?"

He blinks. "N… No?"

The girl turns back to whomever is sitting behind her and says a few words, and the back door slides open.

It's a bunch of college-age kids, four guys and three girls. At least one of them looks stoned, one of them strongly resembles that Flo chick from the Progressive commercials, and… holy crap, they have a dog.

Arashk stands there for a long moment, staring at the ball of energy in the back seat. He's not really sure at first why he's so thrown by the sight; it's not that large a dog, maybe Labrador-sized or a little smaller, and all it's doing is watching him fixedly and panting, tongue hanging out and tail going at ninety miles an hour. He notes its pelt is a strange pattern, fully black in some places and white with black speckles in others.

"His name's Kip," supplies Flo in the lull. "He's used to long car rides, don't worry."

As Arashk steps into the vehicle, it strikes him that it's been a very long time since he was this close to an animal. Sure, there were some snakes and a couple of birds and one wild cat as part of the show, but he was tucked in his own little corner, and he hasn't actually seen any of them in quite some time. And it looks like he's going to get pretty up-close and personal with this one; it's a huge van, but all vehicles are still considered pretty confined quarters in his book.

"What's your name?" asks one of the guys in the back, a gangly fellow with the pastiest skin Arashk has ever seen.

"Ara…" he starts to answer, before swallowing his tongue and doing his best not to let the near-physical pain show on his face. The reply was almost instinctive. He can't correct himself; he does not need these kids finding out he's half-mad and barely knows his own name, at least not before they get on the road. Now that he's paused, he can't even finish the locution, or that would look even more suspicious.

Which results in one of the guys, a surfer-looking dude with shoulder-length hair and an intense tan, repeating, "Ara? Sweet name. What is that, like, Indian?"

Fumbling around with the seat belt, Arashk—no, it's… it's Shawn—answers as patiently and graciously as he can, "Don't know. Never asked."

There's a pause while they process that answer, and he finally hears that satisfying click. Then they start the round of introductions, but because the brakes are released around the same time, Shawn is admittedly distracted and doesn't catch any of them.


He's so tired.

Why can't he sleep again?

Oh… right.

The tingle is still there. The dream just waiting to be set loose. At least it's lost some of its strength.

But if he goes to sleep, every single one of his senses will be assaulted with blood.

After a while his appetite somehow finds its way back to him, and when the pasty-skinned guy pulls out a bag of grapes, he immediately notices Arashk's longing stare. Within moments an entire cooler and backpack full of food has been offered to him, and Arashk doesn't hold back. He feasts on the grapes, a simple turkey sandwich, and more Funyuns than he's eaten in a long time.

After that he spends as much time as he can petting the dog, because he thinks some of its energy actually transmits to him through the touch and helps keep him from falling asleep—not to mention its concerning interest in the smells of his shirt looks more natural if he's actually interacting with it. It's interesting inside the thing's head, and while he's mind melding with it, everything around him goes a little dull. At one point he spends a full ten minutes without taking his hand off the creature, and when he finally does, for a couple of minutes afterwards it seems everything that moves is a new distraction.

There's something about psychically connecting with the animal that makes it more acceptable than doing so with a person. Or at least a stranger. He's not going to touch anybody he doesn't know for a very long time, if he has anything to say about it. Which, finally, after who knows how much time with unwanted physical contact as the main part of his job, he does.

Suddenly, surprisingly almost for the first time, he pictures having this for the rest of his life. Never again being able to pick something up or shake a new acquaintance's hand or clap his own on his best friend's shoulder or kiss the love of his life without being plunged into somebody else's mind against his will. Spending the rest of his days wide open and emotionally vulnerable and mentally uncontained and not in control of his own thoughts.

Where are the barriers of his mind, anymore? The influence of everyone who is or ever has been physically close to wherever he is at any given time is always threatening to bleed into his psyche and affect how he thinks. No one deserves to have to worry about that.

He may never have a chance to rid himself of this.

He may have decades of this yet ahead of him.

He almost considers rolling the window down to stick his head out and be sick, but he manages to ride it out. He'll have to take this the same way he's taken everything else unbearable about his life—one day at a time. One hour at a time, or even minute, if necessary.

"Dude, you look fried," comes a voice maybe an hour into the ride, and he looks up. The girl riding shotgun is looking at him with her graceful brows drawn in concern. "You want a pillow?" she offers. "We've got some in the trunk."

"No thanks," he responds hastily. "I… I can't go to sleep until I get home."

"You… you sure?" Shotgun responds, the knot between her brows intensifying.

He nods, though doubt pangs in the back of his mind.

The suppressed curiosity filling the vehicle is almost palpable. "So this is a trip home for you, then," Surfer Dude finally ventures.

He nods again, regretting having gone any further than "no thanks."

It's a testament to their decency that they spend several seconds after this just glancing at each other rather than asking intrusive questions. Finally Pasty ventures to ask simply, "You looking forward to it?"

He blinks, having not anticipated the question. And in thinking of how to answer, the reality of it comes crashing down on him all at once. He's never going to have to get up at the crack of dawn to decorate the interior of a tent that he wants no part of again. He's never going to have to put on that godforsaken accent for such a long time that he forgets how he naturally speaks. Never going to wake up tasting salt, having spent the entire night watching his friends and family worry themselves to death over his absence and wallowing in his utter inability to comfort them.

He is free.

And he is going home.

"Unbelievably," he whispers, and his voice cracks.


Over the next hour, he doesn't stop thinking ahead to home. And as he does, his anxiousness to just get there, to make sure they're safe and protected, steadily climbs into what's very close to full-blown panic. He first realizes that it's actually a problem when the third girl, whom he at this point has just dubbed "Three" in his mind, asks in concern, "You okay, Ara? You're breathing pretty funny."

"Fine," he wheezes, and shuts his eyes tight, blocking out the unconvinced questions that he's sure will follow.

He tries petting Kip for a while, in the hopes that it will take his mind off things and provide some simple, numbing happiness for a while, but unfortunately, after a few minutes he can only conclude that all it's doing is somewhat muting his panic to the point where he's still exhibiting the physical symptoms, but can't focus on the root of it. Not terribly helpful.

So after that, he just hugs his knees and tries his best not to let the dog's active tail thud into him too many times.

Until he remembers the skill he developed when he was… well, when he was being a coward. When he was unwilling to face any part of his situation, even the passage of time.

Worrying's not getting him anywhere now. He's on his way. There's nothing more he can do, and this can't be good for his heart, in a very physical sense.

Leaping at the idea of an escape, even though something in the back of his hopelessly confused mind screams in protest at the idea of being shut off again, even for just a few hours, he starts the process of speeding time up.

He blinks, and suddenly they've passed out of the rain, the sun is shining, shafts of it falling through the clouds and illuminating patches of the field to their west, and Sebastian's family is back.

"Is the heater busted?" Shotgun asks, rubbing her arms vigorously.

"It's friggin' May," grunts the driver. "We shouldn't need the heater."

"Well the AC unit isn't on," observes Pasty.

"Fine, I'll try the stupid heater."

Arashk keeps quiet, feeling a bit exposed even though there's absolutely no reason to suspect these kids will link the cold to him. He focuses on the activity of the spirits pressing in around him, and abruptly realizes that something's different about their mood now. Less urgent, somehow, but they still have something to say to him—something important, if their focused attempts to make absolutely sure he's paying attention are anything to go by.

I'm listening, he tells them silently, shaking the last cobwebs of unawareness from his tired mind.

And immediately, they all cluster in around him and speak in one voice, and as they do he's dimly aware of some sort of din happening around him. He shuts it out in favor of being able to hear the spirits.

Barnabas Thornton, they say. Find Barnabas Thornton.

Immediately he's pulling out his pen and the first writeable surface he finds in his pockets, which happens to be the napkin he's been carrying around for way longer than anybody should have to carry a napkin around. He scrawls the name across the top, right above the picture they drew using his body, and shoves the napkin back into Sebastian's jacket.

Save James, they say then. Save our boy.

The air is heavy with expectation. They want a response. And as he has seen, on multiple occasions, they were the only thing that kept him from getting caught red-handed trying to escape and ultimately bringing about the death of somebody he loves.

He owes them. Without their intervention he… he doesn't want to think about where he'd be.

He draws in a shaky breath, and tells them, "I will. I… I promise."

And just like that, they're gone. The air is empty.

He sits still, blinking. Something feels different about this emptiness. Or maybe it's just something about the words that immediately preceded it. They were… irregular. They've never made him respond back to them before.

In the span of a few seconds his senses return to him, and Pasty is just saying "Ara!" repeatedly, his voice sharp and… and frightened? Arashk makes eye contact with him, still blinking, and he snaps, "Who the hell were you talking to?"

All Arashk can really do is blink. "What?" he says dimly.

"You will, you promise?" Pasty reiterates in disbelief. "Ring any bells? The freaking radio just blew out. Was going nuts, switching back and forth between stations. Joe just about lost control of the car. Kip barking like crazy. You didn't seem to be bothered by it at all."

"Leave him alone; he didn't have anything to do with it," murmurs Shotgun, but there's not much conviction behind her voice.

"I was… daydreaming," Arashk tries, voice a trifle weak. "I talk to myself sometimes. Sorry. I won't do it again."

His accuser immediately and visibly deflates, guilt overcoming his face, and in the silence Arashk—presumably at about the same time as everyone else in the vehicle, although they wouldn't know why—suddenly registers that it's significantly warmer now that the spirits are no longer present to bring the temperature down.

So Arashk, trying his hardest to act natural, forgets for a moment that he's thrown out the option of removing his jacket, and reaches up to pull the zipper all the way down.

"Holy—" screams Three, pressing herself against the car door as far from him as she can get, and then covers her mouth, eyes wide as she apparently fails to decide on an appropriate way to end the exclamation. Arashk automatically pulls the jacket back together, effectively covering the evidence, but it's too late.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" stutters Surfer Dude, eyes wide.

"What?" ask Flo and the driver frantically, almost in unison.

Kip's back to sniffing vigorously at Arashk's chest now, and he tries to push his snout away, but the creature is not to be deterred in his quest for answers.

"His shirt is covered in… in blood!" Pasty gags.

"What the hell, Ara?" demands Shotgun, eyes wide with shock and concern. "Are you hurt?"

"He's not hurt!" accuses Three. "He couldn't have lost that much blood and be walking around. And it's… oh gosh, just from that brief moment I can smell it."

"It's fresh," Flo moans.

Their shock and befuddlement and fear are hitting Arashk on all sides like heat waves, passing through him and interlocking and pulsating endlessly, and even without all this distraction he doubts he'd be able to come up with a story to inspire sufficient confidence after this.

The driver is applying the brakes. Stoner Guy, who's spent most of the ride conked out, is looking around with an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. Everyone else is remarkably quiet, something keeping them from speaking even though it's more than obvious they all desperately want to.

After several seconds, Shotgun finally seems to muster up the courage to plead, "Ara, tell me you have a good explanation for this."

"I don't want an explanation," says the driver, as the vehicle comes to a complete stop on the side of the highway, and he pushes a button. Immediately the passenger's side door next to Arashk begins to slide open automatically. "I want you out. Now."

Arashk fixes his eyes on the young man, a wild desperation quickly overtaking him. "No, please—"

The driver quickly breaks eye contact, steeling himself. "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not comfortable driving you any farther. We're really close to Santa Barbara, you can make it the rest of the way. Get a ride with someone else or just walk along the highway, it can't take you more than a few hours."

"If I were going to hurt you I would have done it already," Arashk pleads. "You know this doesn't make any sense."

The driver quickly grabs something from Shotgun's lap, and she exclaims in surprise as he holds it out to Arashk, who finds himself staring down a bottle of pepper spray.

"Get the hell out of my car," the driver demands, and Arashk doesn't know if it's as obvious to everyone else but the fear behind the words hits him like a ton of bricks. He thinks he catches tears forming in the corner of the guy's eye.

He's terrified.

And as Arashk glances around, he realizes so is everyone else. Nobody's speaking a word—and it's not because they don't have anything to say. Flo has her hand on Kip's head, hunching over him protectively. Every single pair of wide eyes is trained on Arashk, even that of Stoner.

They are afraid. Of him.

And somehow, even after what feels like an eternity of being in that exact emotional state almost constantly, suddenly finding himself on the other end of the exchange feels a thousand times worse.

The effect of nausea is so instantaneous he immediately unfastens his seat belt, hands shaking, and practically falls out of the car on his hands and knees in the grass, vomiting up the meal those kids provided him mere hours ago. Mashed grapes and bread splatter into the grass. Some vomitus streams from his nose and the back of his throat burns. By the time his stomach is empty, he's shivering badly and the van is long gone.


He stops time for himself as he just moves his feet, putting one in front of the other, down the endless road.

This way he doesn't have to think about how exhausted he is. How he was so close, and if in that moment he'd been using his head enough to just keep his jacket on and bear to be sweaty for a few minutes, he would already be home by now. How if he'd just let himself sleep and face some unpleasant but potentially useful dreams this walk might not be like hell on earth. Every part of his body screams at him that he shouldn't be moving, that he needs rest, and there is literally no end in sight, but he can't stop.

Night falls as he walks along the highway. He pulls himself back into awareness as he realizes how dark it's gotten; nobody's likely to be on the side of the highway in the middle of freaking nowhere, but he should probably still be a little more alert.

Also upon reentering the passage of time, he suddenly becomes aware that, once again, he's totally lost his name. He's not sure he'll even be able to read the notepad with so little light, but with a sigh he begins digging around his pocket to refresh his memory.

This is how he discovers that he no longer has that notepad within his possession.

After a few moments of increasingly frantic searching, an image suddenly flashes through his mind, an image of himself sitting in that van, yanking the napkin out of his pocket to make a note of the name the spirits were giving him. As he did, out fell the notepad onto the floor of the vehicle, leaving him irrevocably nameless and none the wiser.

Upon this realization, his legs stop working. He stands still, staring at the grass before his feet, trying to breathe normally as he just thinks of how damn lucky he is that all he really needs to do is follow this road for a few hours and he'll find his answers again.

And suddenly, with the loss of the name his parents gave him, the name of the city he's trying to find, and the number of the police department, it becomes blindingly obvious that the very simple plan of just calling 911 on the first phone he can get a hold of is the best course of action.

Given the option to do it over, starting from his awakening in Reno this morning… he'd probably make the same call. The only thing he'd change is the reflexive unzipping of Sebastian's jacket.

He walks under the open sky as stars begin appearing, keeping a solid three yards between himself and the highway. In some sense at least, he doesn't know where he's going, and he has no idea how close he is to getting there. He doesn't even have a watch to tell him how much time has elapsed since he started walking.

Once again he pushes himself out of the passage of time, though the closer he gets, the harder that becomes.

His feet feel like deadweights by the time buildings begin to appear around him. It is full dark and his eyes are hurting from straining to see what's directly in front of him. The headlights nearly blinding him from the opposite side of the road certainly aren't a help. His stomach growls weakly every few minutes and there's a knot of pain in his lower back. And he wouldn't be overly surprised to find his feet bleeding when he's finally able to stop and remove these ridiculous slipper-shoes.

But he is just about home free and he… Well, he would say he feels like he could leap over the moon, but that would be a total lie. Old him might have said that. Now him is just willing to roll with the various aches and pains plaguing his body.

It's not long after he sees the first sign reading "Santa Barbara" that he realizes that the buildings around him are actually familiar. And that is the moment when he finally manages to truly forget how much pain he's in, how much he needs to sleep, how much he regrets his various stupid mistakes, how much he misses his family and his friends and the ability to touch someone's hand without flinching.

For some months his own face hasn't looked familiar and he had no idea how far away he was from understanding how much of a gift it is to look at something and really feel he knows it.

With renewed energy he draws up his incomplete but definitely accurate mental map of the city he grew up in, and though he doesn't quite recognize the names on the street signs around him, after several more minutes of walking he is able to determine his precise location.

As well as the location of the nearest payphone.

He very nearly breaks into a run, and by the time his eyes fall on the small structure off the sidewalk bearing that simple black phone and dial pad, he's actually managed to convince himself he's not about to pass out.

He doesn't hesitate for a second upon reaching it, just quickly punches 9-1-1 into the phone, breathing hard, though he immediately thinks it might have been a good idea to rest a bit and catch his breath before initiating this very important conversation.

Too late now.

"911, what is your emergency?"

It's a woman speaking. He doesn't recognize the voice. He launches in without so much as a fraction of a second's pause: "This is Arashk Ronaldo. May I speak to…" He stops.

Right. He can't remember who he wanted to speak to.

After a few seconds, the operator says, "Sir, please state the nature of your emergency."

His relieved high is failing him now and reality is crashing back down on him. He draws in a breath. "I've been missing for… for a long time. I'm back and I need to speak with… Detectives…" He shakes his head. He really didn't plan this at all. Why did he think he'd be able to come up with a way to describe them?

"Where are you calling from?"

He knows what street he's on, but doubting himself, he turns, casting his eyes about, and locates a street sign. Just to be sure. "El Camino Real. I'm calling from a payphone."

"What was your name again, sir?"

"Arashk… Ronaldo," he repeats carefully, but then pauses. What are you, braindead? "Wait, I'm sorry, that's not it. I'm…" Scared. He's scared. Everything about this is so wrong. He knows that is absolutely not his name, he's never doubted this for a second, and yet it's how he labeled himself without even thinking. He stands there, clutching the phone tightly with his mouth hanging open, grasping for words.

"Sir, can you please tell me your name?"

"I don't…" Don't what, Ronaldo? Don't remember? Yeah, that's definitely the thing to say right now.

The operator waits.

"Do you have any record of… I mean… I'm the psychic! I'm Head Psychic of the…" Dear Lord, he just saw it on a sign not half an hour ago, and now it's gone. What was the city's name?

"Wait—psychic?" The word clearly has stirred something. He hears a muffled voice, like the operator has taken the phone from her ear and is speaking to someone else. Then, promptly, "You say you were missing? What happened?"

Okay, this, this he can do. "I was abducted. Like… months ago."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, I…" He rubs his head with his free hand. "I just need someone to pick me up."

"Are you saying you are in no immediate danger?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I guess. But he's probably still after me and I'd rather get off the streets as soon as I—"

"Shawn?"

This voice is new. But not new. He recognizes this voice.

The name of the person it belongs to is on the tip of his tongue…

"Yes? Who's this?" he tries.

"Oh my God, Shawn." It's her. It's the one he's been dreaming about all this time. He doesn't even need a name—her voice conjures up her face, her smiling, beautiful face, and he's suddenly weak-kneed with happiness.

"Shawn," she says again, and he hears tears in her voice. "Are you okay?"

"Just… just really tired," he says, a smile creasing his face for the first time in he can't remember how long.

A pause, a nearly successfully stifled whimper, and then, "Where are you?"

"I'm… I'm on El Camino Real."

"You're in Santa Barbara?"

Oh jeez… Is that it? It sounds familiar. Yes, it must be. "Yeah."

"You're here. You're within driving distance." She sounds like she can't believe it. He can't either. "A payphone on El Camino Real. I'm on my way. Shawn, just hold on, I will be there in just a few minutes."

He doesn't stay on the line to listen for the click of a call ending, or the operator returning to tell him to stay with her. He lets the phone slip out of his hand as he sinks to the cool concrete beneath him, finally able to be fully aware and accepting of the exhaustion in his bones.

He's done all he can. He's going to be saved.


AN: I dedicate Kip to Steefwaterbutter and his/her many enthusiastic reviews.

I know nothing of the layout of Santa Barbara so if anyone knows the actual location of a payphone there, do let me know.

Sorry for how all over the place that whole car ride was—it just kind of happened. As did the entire chapter. A solid 10k words—I mean, wow. It's just ridiculous.

The next chapter may be kind of a long time coming, so hopefully this one makes up for that. I like to think it's a nice mix of angst and levity, if that is any atonement for the ludicrous length.