June 7, 2045 - 3:55 PM

Margo marched down the steps of Psychwatch's headquarters, back in her regular clothes, eyes glued to the pillbox resting in her hand. Time felt stagnant and brisk all at once as she departed from the place she once looked upon like a monolith to benevolent deities. With each step, she'd felt a part of her existence break away, another fragment of her mind. She'd sensed Carl watching her leave the building, knowing his mind rattled with a fear of the unknown as greatly as hers.

No, she thought. He said he wasn't afraid of the unknown. He's more afraid of the knowledge he already has.

"He's probably got more to say," a voice said. That voice's name was Ellie. Margo told herself that's all her sister was now. A voice. An illusion. Something to ignore. Something nonexistent that wished it were real. Wanted her to wish it existed.

Just keep walking to the car, Margo thought.

"Hey! Didn't you hear me? Carl's still hiding things from you. We all are. It's fun to watch you break down in tears every time you learn something new."

She's not there. Don't give her the time of day. Don't give it the time of day.

"Fuck you! Stupid bitch. Fuck you for thinking you can get rid of me! I've always been here."

Margo heard footsteps behind her, delicate taps against the steps. Women's shoes. That's not Carl, she realized, and she shuffled faster.

"Margo!" the voice yelled. "Listen to me when I'm fucking talking to you!"

No one's there, no one's there, no one's—

Margo, take your meds as soon as you can!

Carl's voice. Loud and clear, as if he were standing right behind her. But she last saw him by the entrance. Who was that?

Margo froze, poised before the parking lot with a slouch in her shoulders. No more voices. Ellie. Carl. But why Carl? Was it real? Or maybe he got to her through a nearby SanityScan the way they sometimes sent soothing messages to their patients. It felt like he was right there! Right behind her! But...

What was wrong with his voice? It sounded...like someone imitating his voice with a modifier. Like he was speaking into an aluminum can. Is that really what messages from the SanityScan sound like?

The thought of the Scans' messages brought her back to the memory of her first therapy session with Iris Cruz. She had social anxiety. Her oversized blue hoodie swallowed her like a whale gulping down on fish. Her eyes were different colors, one pink, the other orange. She'd rocked back and forth with a knife in her hands, proud she'd slaughtered Margo's father and hung his remains in a butcher shop. She...

WHAM!

Margo glared at the dark footprint she'd left on the side of her car door, hoping to free herself from the stream of chaotic thought she'd fallen into. Mismatched eyes. A young girl killing her father. It all made her want to pummel the windows of her car into grains of sand, hoping that would somehow eradicate the dopamine clouding her brain, distorting her thoughts. That, or the pain of her shattered fingers or feet would've overpowered any other nonsensical thought that came to her head.

She glanced down at the pillbox in her hands, astonished at its indestructibility. She'd previously assumed she had crumpled it into a tinfoil ball just by squeezing it with all her might. But it remained solid and fully formed, greeting her with the electronic glow of Psychwatch's logo.

"Welcome back," greeted the automated voice of her car's AI, and the door to the backseat popped open.

"Mom's apartment," Margo said as she climbed inside, and she shut the door. Six feet away, perched on the steps like a vulture, Ellie watched her, arms crossed and head shaking. There was anger in her eyes, yet zero soul. Hatred. Not even those passive-aggressive quips she'd disguised as love. She was never real, but now the truth couldn't have been clearer. So clear, Margo pondered how she had ever fallen for the illusion.

"You seem to be emotionally distressed," the AI said, "and undergoing a psychotic episode characteristic of your recent diagnosis, according to the Psychwatch Societal Stability System. Is there anything I can do to make your ride more comfortable?"

"It's alright. I just need my medication."

"Strap in your seatbelt for the ride to begin."

Margo fumbled around in her attempts to make the belt click as the illusory entity she once called her sister refused to let her look elsewhere. But that wasn't true. Margo had complete freedom. Something told her looking away would bring harm to her. Maybe another voice. Her gut. Instincts. She didn't know. The sun could go down, and she'd see no distinction between the night sky and the lid of a coffin. Neither provided her with the comfort of stars, somewhere to look when darkness prevailed.

She lurched back into her seat as the car jerked out of its braked position, trudging out of the parking spot. She didn't look away from Ellie, only waited until her windows faced away from her and Psychwatch's headquarters. And once the illusion vanished from her line of sight, she glanced forward, studying the car's front seats as they rotated in place to face her. She squeezed the pillbox even tighter, hoping her mind wouldn't fill those empty seats with freakish new characters. Or even old ones with bizarre modifications she probably wouldn't even notice.

I've heard too much from too many people, Margo thought. How much of it was all a lie?

She wanted to think harder on the subject. All the people she'd talked to from that day to the months before. She'd talked to Ellie for far longer than she should have. How crazy did that make her look? It used to take six months before they could make a schizophrenia diagnosis, but Psychwatch's technology brought it down to three. Required two symptoms minimum. Ellie was the symptom, the most blatant one, obvious as the sun to everyone who couldn't see or hear through the body of Margo Sandoval. But the other symptoms? Probably there, she thought, hiding, anticipating exposure by someone else.

At the end of the day, it takes another person to make you ponder the real you, Margo thought. All the privileges. All the flaws. What brings people closer, what sends them away.

She held the pillbox in both hands, grasped only with her thumbs and forefingers. On the lid of the box, beneath her company's logo, the words PLEASE REGISTER THUMBPRINT ID blinked in and out of existence. Two curved corners of the box illuminated a soft white light, and Margo curled her pointer fingers around them as if holding a camera. The lights turned green, and the screen on the lid gleamed sky blue, her P3S data flashing line by line.

Name: Margo Olivia Sandoval

Age: 23

Sex: Female

Status: Diagnosed (Paranoid schizophrenia)

Threat Level 3 (Psychotic episode in progress. Auditory and visual hallucinations imminent. Nonviolent, but undergoing strong emotional distress despite indifferent expressions or body language)

As she concluded the declaration of her Threat Level, the information vanished, replaced by a message stating PLEASE REAPPLY FINGERPRINT ID TO ACCESS MEDICATION. Affixing her pointer fingers to the same spots as before, the lights turned green, and the lid popped open, presenting her with a dozen silver-colored pills. Ghostly silver, Psychwatch's motif. She grasped one by the tip of her fingers and placed it on her tongue, foolishly expecting the immediate nullification of her delusions as it trailed down her esophagus.

Margo tensed up in her seat as the wails of police sirens swept beside her vehicle, blue and white lights blinding her. Psychwatch's vehicles trailed right behind them, their distinct, marauding growl somehow more thunderous now that she was outside of them. She knew they were heading for the Rabbit Hole, or what remained of it. Probably running diagnoses. Setting up crime scenes and forensics. Putting down any Threat Level 5's who'd miraculously survived the siege she took part in.

As she gazed up at the holographic advertisements lining the skyscrapers of Downtown Philadelphia, she felt she'd become a part of history. Everything she laid eyes on pertained to her. Obituaries mourning the hundreds of people who died in the rally. News celebrating the Rabbit Hole's dismantlement. Journalists chastising Psychwatch for dismantling the Rabbit Hole. Even those masks emblazoned with dark red Xs across the eyes overlooked her like spirits from the past howling, "You did this! You sent us to the afterlife and called it saving us!"

Margo grew especially tense as one masked entity yanked itself through the screen hundreds of feet in the air and crawled down the walls of the building like a spider. "Is that how you're gonna treat your father?" it growled as the car refused to halt, and Margo looked forward at the road ahead.

I shouldn't be indifferent to this, she thought. Fifteen minutes to work. That's what they said about the antipsychotics. Fifteen minutes, and I can spend an entire day pretending there's nothing wrong with me.

"But there is."

There was a new voice. Male. Gravely. Far too gravelly. The voice sounded like it had been out through hell, raspy in its sound, hinting at a subdued rage even as it resonated no louder than a whisper or a precise voice with only one set of ears in mind.

Ground yourself in reality, Margo thought. Don't make them real.

"We are real, Margo. The only thing that's real is the pain, after all. And I know what I've done to you. What I've done to your colleagues, your city, and what I will keep doing until the world has decided it's had enough of me."

The Multi Man sat in the seat across from her, bloodied handprints staining his mask like a child's painting. His gloves, his suit, the soles of his shoes, blood caked all of it.

"I know you're real," Margo said. "Maybe not you, the one I'm looking at, but I know that the rest of what's happened is all very real."

The Multi Man clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "What makes you think the rally, the Rabbit Hole, the murder of those boys from Skinner High, and the death of Dottie Forrester were all real?"

The wail of sirens drowned out the city noise once more, and Margo glanced out the window to see roads blocked off by barricades and police cars. Center City. Where Independence National Park lay. The sight of the rally. Where over 400 people lost their lives. Human bodies, reduced to shrapnel, weapons. They say bone fragments and brain matter embedded so deep in the ground and the surrounding structures, it would require demolition to clear out all the remains.

Above the buildings around Center City, holographic vigils and banners mourned the losses of that day. A horror to remember, they said. A Red Riot. To some, a reason for Psychwatch to stay. To others, a sign they were no better than any other agency.

"Well?" the illusory Multi Man said.

"I know it's real," Margo replied. "It's only real when it hurts."

The Multi Man nodded his head.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this. You're not here in this car with me. You're not the real masked man. I'm talking to myself right now. I could be talking to the AI of my damn car! But why? Why do I keep doing this?"

"We're not crazy until we have no one else to talk to. The human mind doesn't do very well on its own. So it seems like you were far more alone in this world than you thought."

"I'm not schizophrenic because I'm alone! Anything could have caused it. Genetics, stress, or maybe I came across some drug down in the Rabbit Hole!"

"Tell yourself whatever lie you want. You're believing so many, the next one that comes into the light will probably break what's left of you."

Just stop talking to him—it! Stop talking to it! He's not there. He's not your father.

"Do you know that for sure?" the Man asked, leaning forward in his seat. "That'd be incredibly cliche if it were true. Don't you think?"

Margo returned her sights to the ads outside, fuming.

"Here's an interesting fact that fits your situation well, Margo. Do you know of the controversy surrounding those hologram ads up on those buildings? Some people say the bright lights and patterns can trigger psychosis and even epilepsy."

Margo nodded, resting her eyes as she leaned her head against the glass.

"Some even say they're a ploy Psychwatch uses to bring in more patients. Or that the ads themselves emit signals that purposefully evoke psychological distress. But, of course, correlation does not equal causation."

Shut up. You're not real.

"You can do something about this, Margo. I believe in you. I know you don't believe in me, but I believe in you. That's why I want you to have this."

Don't open your eyes. There's nothing in his hands.

"Margo, look at me. I have the solution to all of your problems. You take a hold of this detonator, and everything will disappear. Those holograms, the SanityScans, Psychwatch, even me. Just remember to hold your breath because everything will evaporate into dust when it happens."

Shut the hell up!

"Don't you want to be healthy again, you pathetic schizo?"

SHUT UP!

For a moment, there was silence. Just the sounds of rocks crackling under the tires as it pivoted right. Margo's eyes were still closed, but she felt the swerve of her vehicle. She'd keep them closed for the rest of the day if she could. Maybe stun herself with her Fatemaker to get her through what she'd predicted to be a restless night.

But the illusion of the Multi Man remained unmoved. "I knew you couldn't do it," he said. "Guess I'll have to do it my..."

Silence. Rocks crackling. The car curtailed to a careful pace, preparing to stop.

"You have arrived at your destination," the car said. "Please remain in your seat. Your vehicle is currently seeking a parking spot."

Sunlight seeped through the gap in Margo's parting eyelids as she opened her eyes, and she found herself in the parking lot of her mother's apartment complex. She was the only one in the car. No bloodstains. No smell of death. No voices. She looked down at the screen on her pillbox and discovered a countdown. 23 hours, 44 minutes, 11 seconds. That's how long she had to make sense of things until the next pill and the next wave of symptoms.

"Just say the right things," she whispered. "Don't make this worse than it has to be."

* * *

Margo wrapped her knuckles on the door to her mother's apartment three times. She jerked away, as if her mother would barge out of the door wielding an axe. It had been too long, she thought, or maybe it hadn't been. Maybe more time away from her was necessary. Maybe the revelation would break her down even worse than it did her own daughter, the one affected by the disorder itself. She'd disappear, like she always did when Margo was younger. She couldn't quite recall a specific memory in which her mother's departure stung most, but she knew it happened, like an atrocity lost to history, obscure to the general population but well-remembered by those who'd devoted themselves to it.

When the door opened up, Margo froze in place, holding her breath. Her mother peeked through the slit between the door and its frame, terrified. Or sorrowful. She'd never seen her react to anyone in such a way. Not since before therapy became a vital part of their lives.

"Mom," Margo said, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she whispered, eyelids hanging low, every breath exhausting her.

"You don't look fine. What's going on?"

"I'm feeling something I haven't felt in a long time."

Oh shit, she's having an anxiety attack, Margo thought, and she said, "Let me in. I can help you."

The mom stayed at the door, eyes visible only through the gap. Neither one of them moved.

"Mom."

"Oh, right," Karen coughed. "I'm really sorry. Come in."

The door moved forward, and Margo stepped in. Shadows shrouded the apartment, every nook and cranny nothing more than a silhouette. Blinds hid the windows, only meager sheets of light from the setting sun cracking through the darkness. Margo presumed her mother had been hiding from something. Or someone.

But it was neither a thing nor a person. Just a hand from her past, reaching for her and nearly taking hold. "Remember," Margo told her. "Deep breaths. Relax your muscles. List things you see in the room."

"Just give a moment," Karen whispered as she and Margo walked over to the kitchen countertop. With another exhale, she said, "My stove, my fridge, the lights on the ceiling, uh...my TV in the living room, the couch. My daughter, of course. Uh..."

"Good." Margo paused, hoping her tone would somehow change back to sympathetic rather than the soldier-like sternness she'd evoked seconds ago. "What happened? You haven't had an attack like that in years. Thought the therapy was working."

Karen glared at Margo, perplexed, almost frustrated. "I thought you knew it's more complicated than that."

"Are you relapsing?"

"No, Margo. I've still been having anxiety attacks for a while. Nowhere near as often as before therapy, but they still come and go. I think I'm still finding new triggers."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'm fine."

The two of them trudged over to the living room couch, planting themselves down without even looking at each other.

"So," Margo said, studying her pillbox, "what have you been up to today?"

What the hell am I saying? Why am I acting like this? Is this some side effect? Why am I being such a jerk?

"I could ask you the same thing, honey," Karen said. "The hospital was packed today. Got several patients reporting that they'd come from some place called the Rabbit Hole. Then I saw what happened on the news and finally figured out what that meant. Unfortunately, of all the things that could've triggered something, that's what did it. And I can't even say what specifically did it. But I ended up leaving early." She paused, shutting her eyes. "I'm just glad I didn't end up seeing you in the hospital. You have enough scars already, and the injuries those people had..."

"You don't think this looks bad?" Margo asked, and she forced a grin, revealing the bloody gap where her tooth used to be.

"Jesus, I didn't even realize you were injured in the first place! Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just the Rabbit Hole. But I won't talk about it if it's one of your triggers."

"I...I'm sorry. I don't know why it—"

"It's okay. I'll just say that it was a terrible place, and I helped put it out of business. Of course, not without taking a couple of hits myself."

Karen winced. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Her daughter shrugged.

"Hey, is that a pillbox?"

Here it goes, Margo thought, her head and shoulder slumping like loose sediments.

"Apaths for the pain?" Karen asked.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Then what are they?"

Margo tapped the corner of the pillbox with her finger, lighting up the screen on the lid.

"Margo?"

"They're antipsychotics, Mom," she said. "I've been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia."

As she'd feared, her mother scooted away, though not as far as she'd presumed. She realized the sudden distance occurred more out of astonishment than fear, just an impulse.

"Did you know about it?" Margo said.

"I..." Karen choked. "No, not really."

"You hesitated."

"I really didn't know, Margo. And any behavioral change I've noticed, I'd just assumed it resulted from stress."

"Well, what did you notice?"

"Just...the attitude. And the frustration. But you have a hard job, so I figured this was how every officer felt at some point."

"What about Ellie? Did I ever tell you about Ellie?"

Karen raised her brow. "No, who's that?"

"My sister." Taking notice of her mother's increasingly perplexed expression, she glanced at her, nostrils flaring, and said, "That's right, Mom. I actually thought I had a fucking sister."

"My God," Karen muttered. "And you never realized she wasn't real?"

"No! Never! I learned all the ways of spotting hallucinations, but the moment I actually start having them, I forget everything. I actually fell for it!"

Margo felt her mother rest her hand on her shoulder. "How long has this been going on?" Karen asked.

"I don't even know! One day I just started receiving what I thought were phone calls from her, and somehow she'd convinced me we were long-lost sisters. I even asked her all kinds of questions, and every answer she gave me felt correct. And I barely saw her in person for the first time only a few hours ago!"

She went quiet, her hands glowing red from the strength of her grip on the cushion.

"What happened when you finally saw her?" her mother asked carefully.

"When I saw her," Margo said, "nobody else did. Nobody."

"Oh..."

"And shortly after that, Mason declared my diagnosis in front of every officer in the building!" Margo looked down at her pillbox, trying once again to crush it with her bare hands. "Carl helped me get prescribed for these, and...well, here I am now. I'm scared, Mom! I don't know how much of what I've said and done is real, or what other people have said and done really happened, and...I don't know what to do."

Margo rested her head on her mother's shoulder, her heart descending to that familiar void. A sting like electricity rippled through the bruises in her face, and the copper taste of blood filled her mouth once more. Everything hurt, inside and out.

"I'm sorry," Karen said. "I wish I could've done something about this."

"Me, too," Margo whimpered, and she wrapped her arm around her mother's.

The two of them waited in the dark, the few beams of trespassing light through the blinds gradually fading out of view. It was quiet, the heavy silence broken only by the gentle sounds of their heartbeats and their pained, weighty breathing. No tears parted from their eyes, for a part of them believed something worse would transcend the last misfortune. And Margo rested her eyes on a picture of her and her mother when they were younger, smiling wide, less broken.

"Mom," she whispered.

"Yes?" Karen whispered back.

What happened to Dad?

But it was too soon to ask. Patience. Not until they were ready to handle the truth once more.

"Were you saying something, honey?"

"Yeah, just..." Margo sighed, hoisting herself up from her mother's shoulder. "I'm gonna go rinse out my mouth."

Rising from the couch, Margo kissed her mother on her forehead and trudged toward a pitch-black hallway. The copper taste in her mouth felt like poison. If she were anywhere else, she would've twisted her head around and spat it out on the floor beside her.

But this was her mom's home. She deserved more respect. She deserved the truth. Both of them did.

"Mom," Margo said, "does our family have a history of mental illness?"

"Not entirely," Karen replied, sitting up. "Situations and environments influenced most of what your grandparents and I have gone through, like depression or PTSD in my case."

"What about Dad?"

Margo stood in the dark for some time, waiting for a response. Her mother sat on the couch, leaned forward like a faulty crane.

"Mom?"

Karen cleared her throat. "There's a huge possibility of that," she said, her voice shaky. "He definitely had...problems. I wish I could say more about him, but..."

"Oh!" Margo gasped, realizing they'd found a trigger. "I'm really sorry about that. But thanks anyway."

"Of course," Karen said, breathing slowly, discomforted once more.

"Right, well...I'm still really sorry about that, Mom."

"It's okay."

And Margo stumbled into the bathroom, clicking the light on and shutting the door louder than necessary. With a humiliated groan, she switched on the cold water and spat blood into the sink, watching the water tint red as it swirled down the drain. She cupped her hands underneath the faucet and let the water fill to her thumbs before sloshing it in her mouth, watching the red fluid drain away over and over as she spat it all back out.

Smoothing her wet, shivering hands across her face, she gazed into the mirror, horrified by the stranger looking back at her. Her face. So much had happened to it! Yellowish-purple contusions spread across her cheek, the hue of her wounds overtaking the skin around her eye. The eyes themselves were bright red, veins cleaving across the sclera like cracked glass. Her lips flared bright red from the blood she'd spat out, and a small trail of it trickled down her chin. She wasn't pretty, she thought, but she was glad she was the one saying it and not the deceptive apparition she'd once called her sister.

You made it through the day, she thought. At least physically.

The mirror was cold as she propped her forehead against it. She closed her eyes, rested her hands on opposite corners of the sink. I've learned enough about the past. I need to do something about my future. Mom, Carl, the diagnosis. I need to take control of things. Whatever I learn next shouldn't break me. It won't break me.

She stepped away from the mirror, gazing into her bloodshot eyes.

I hope it won't.