^ "Mindwasher" (2-3-2021)

—

DARWIN

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Ten minutes later, Helena's cell phone rang.

We'd arranged the three in lines, laying their hands at their sides and their legs straight so that they looked like they were all going in for an MRI. I was shakily tilting Helena's head to the side — ensuring she could breathe properly, according to Grandpa — when her pocket started buzzing. I got a very bad feeling when I heard it, but I couldn't quite identify the source of the horror until I pulled the screen out and saw that she had an incoming call from Daddy.

"Sh*t!" I leapt to my feet. "Grandpa! Their parents — they'll be coming to pick them up soon!"

By the withered hang of his face, he'd already thought of this. "I know. When do your meetings usually end?"

"The last one ended at four." I looked at my watch: it was 4:15 on the dot. "F*cking hell!" I spat.

He gripped my shoulder. "Easy. We can handle this, but not unless we've got a clear head."

"How?" My head swiveled, scanning the far parking lot, which was growing black as the pool. Mostly empty, save for a few sedans, two trucks, and a SUV. Which one of them were Helena's parents, waiting impatiently, wondering what was taking so long? Which were Marjorie's? Quentin's?

Grandpa's face tightened. "Berechiah will be here soon—"

"In an hour. What happens in half an hour, when the parents come in, wondering where the everyone is? And what can Berechiah do about the security cameras? And the staff still wandering around?" No matter how I looked at it, we were proper f*cked. I suddenly experienced an intense, flaming urge to simply turn and run, into the parking lot, into the trees, into the street... Wherever the hell I could to get out of this BS as fast as possible.

But I couldn't — Grandpa was still squeezing my shoulder, holding me in place. "Let's think," he said, with a strained kind of patience. He nodded down to the buzzing phone in my hand. "Let's handle this first. Can you answer?"

"Answer?" Was he insane? What was he going to suggest next, that I impersonate Helena?

"Not by voice, by text. Is that an option?"

I looked down at the phone, still nailed in a place of fury and hyper-terror. Holy crap, there was an option on the screen for that: IGNORE AND SEND TEXT it said.

I pressed it, then stiffened. "I don't know what to say."

"Ask for another half hour," Grandpa said. To my dubious look, he insisted, "Suggest that we're in the middle of a lively discussion that's too good to cut short. Would that not be something that Helena would do?"

It was, probably, but how did I sound like her in text? Just do it, stupid! I began typing:

HELENA: Hi! Can you give me 30 more minutes? Good engagement today, don't want to let up. Send.

"What about Ms. Scales?" I snapped. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since we'd all piled out of the classroom, and she had to be wondering what was taking us.

Grandpa Jon turned to Thomas. "Can you return to the classroom and tell your teacher that the meeting has ended?"

"She's not gonna believe that." Thomas had a dark look on his face; I noticed that his eyes kept flicking between Cora, who was watching us anxiously from the pool, and Marjorie, who'd gone pale after her second collapse to the pavement. "All our sh*t is there, Gramps; how'm I gonna convince her that Marj and co suddenly decided to take a hike without their stuff?"

Grandpa's mouth wrung. "You're going to have to be creative, son. Make something up."

"Like what?" Now he sounded two seconds from bolting — an identical fury laced his words, fury at having been dragged into this sh*tshow with the rest of us.

"Tell her that Cora had a fainting spell," Grandpa said. "And that we all came to see whether or not she was well. Outside, Helena decided to end the meeting early, and made you go back to get their things because..."

"For punishment," Thomas said. "Because I was online the whole time during the movie. Or some crap like that. Right?" He shook his head. "You're reaching, gramps."

Grandpa looked up at the fence. "Take a Wingull with you," he said loudly — the flying-type perked up from where it had been observing our exchange closely. "If things don't go well..."

"Knock her out," I said, mouth agape. "You want to knock out Ms. Scales too?"

He was sad. "This is a tough situation, Darwin."

I exchanged a look with Thomas, who then turned and slouched towards the building, something like an invisible thundercloud — and the Wingull — following him. Impulsively I sent up a prayer to Arceus: Don't let him leave, Arceus. Don't you f*cking dare let him even think about leaving, not when I need someone here to be as freaked out as I am!

Grandpa got a call, a very short one: he held his phone to his ear, listened a second, and then uttered, "Hurry," before hanging up. Then he asked, "Does someone generally come out and lock up the pool after closing?"

"I don't know. Probably." The words came out harsh, because a fresh bolt of fear had punctured me like a well-aimed javelin: the janitors. How many of them were still cleaning up the school late into the evening, mopping floors, closing doors, and putting locks on gates, like the pool gate? One of them could come out to close up shop at any time, and...

"Let's be cautious: help me move them."

My head swung around. "Move them? Where?"

"To the trees, closer to the parking lot. The disciplinary team will be arriving sooner than expected, and they'll need access to the field. We'll hide them there until they arrive."

I glanced back at Cora. "What about her?" I asked.

"Cora, dive, and stay low until we come to retrieve you," Grandpa instructed.

"Okay." She dove and was gone. Grandpa Jon stooped and grasped Helena beneath the arms.

"Darwin," he prompted.

Unbelievable! But paranoia got me started — my eyes could've been playing tricks on me, but in the windows of the Armstrong building, I swore I saw movement. A custodian giving the floor one last mop? I grabbed Quentin, lifted him up. His head rolled back, and one of his eyes slipped open, dark and staring. He almost looked dead — the thought made me shiver. That Supersonic was a hell of a move.

Together, Grandpa and I got Helena and Quentin into the trees, which was a way behind the Rose Building. We set them both against the trunk of a pine, deep in the shadows of the evening, and as we headed back for Marjorie, Helena's phone buzzed in my pocket. Mr. Stern had returned my text:

DADDY: Okay, but not much longer, kiddo. We got takeout, and it's getting cold. 4:18 PM

"We're good with Helena's folks," I said tonelessly.

That brought some color back to Grandpa's face. "Excellent. What about the others?"

I shrugged, then stooped to pick up Marjorie. I'd checked Quentin's pockets, but hadn't found any phone on him. And Marjorie's... Well, thanks to our fight, hers was dead as brick.

We got Marjorie to the others, and created a deceptively peaceful scene with their bodies: three friends, taking a nap in the cool of the afternoon out in the middle of the forest. I wished dearly that it had been some kind of photoshoot, or that I'd been viewing this from the other side of a screen — as it was, we were basically two criminals hanging around three incapacitated victims, and in our wait for the Seawatchers to arrive, I got all ten of my nails down to the cuticles, and bloody beyond. Grandpa stood a ways away, keeping watch, but I paced, the inside of my head an incomprehensible din of sound that circled endlessly around a single thought: What's taking so long?

Eventually, Thomas returned, laden with six bookbags, including mine, and two purses. He dumped them on the ground, and Grandpa said, "Your teacher?"

Thomas didn't look at him. "Didn't give a rip," he said. "Lucky — looks like she wanted to get the hell out of here about as much as the rest of us."

Tell me about it! "What about Quentin's phone?" I demanded. "Is it in there?"

"Sure. It started ringing when I was gathering up everybody's stuff."

My blood ran cold. "Did you answer it?"

"No. But I answered mine." Thomas's brow hardened, and his face swung over to Grandpa. "My stepmom's wondering why the f*ck I'm dragging my feet."

A troubled look came to Grandpa's face; he exchanged a fleeting glance with me before saying, "Then perhaps we shouldn't keep her wondering any longer. Go Thomas. Darwin and I will handle the rest of this."

"What?" The word shot out of my mouth like a bullet. I didn't think that anything else could make me angry today, but this was infuriating: Thomas got to escape, while I was mired to the spot?

Thomas glowered at my grandfather. "I don't need your permission, gramps," he snapped. "And I told her to give me a few minutes. I wanna at least make sure Marj doesn't kick the bucket from blood loss before I go."

Was she still bleeding? I peered over at her as Thomas stooped beside her, unwinding my shirt from around her forehead and tossing it to me. There was a giant, red blotch marring the white now, and a dark stripe struck down the side of her face, looking like grim war paint in the dark.

Suddenly, the blood and Marjorie's skin jumped to life, burning red and chocolate brown in a roving flash of sudden light. Thomas and I looked up in time to see a circular set of headlights swerve into the parking lot. I glanced at Grandpa, and nearly wept at the smile that came to his face.

"Wait here, boys," he said, and headed off across the field, keeping to the shadows of the treeline. I watched him all the way there, and when he ascended the sidewalk, doors on the vehicle — a large, gray van — swung open, and a big group of people piled out. I gnawed at my bleeding cubicles.

"Is that asshole here?" Thomas asked.

"N— Yes." It was impossible not to see Berechiah — while the rest of them wore blue shorts, gray cargo pants, and black boots, Berechiah was in a long-sleeved, pink and yellow striped shirt, which somehow made me dizzy from here. The group clustered around Grandpa, leaning in as he spoke. Thomas rose to his feet, came to stand beside me.

"What are they doing?"

"I don't know. Wondering what to do next?" Whatever it was, I hoped they got a move on — behind me, like a bad omen, Quentin groaned loudly, and said something incomprehensible.

The conference lasted only a minute. Then the Seawatchers spurred into action again: half of them stayed by the van, messing with something loaded on the inside, and half split off and accompanied Grandpa Jon back across the field. I stiffened at their approach: Berechiah was among them, and I noticed that every one of the other Seawatchers... Well, they had a very particular look about them. Maybe it was because they all had wide shoulders, stiff jaws, unfriendly eyes, and wore combat boots...

Or maybe it was the guns they wore strapped to their waists.

Yes, honest-to-goodness bona fide firearms, right out in the open — my blood turned to ice water as they arrived and looked around dangerously, like they were searching for something to shoot. Were they? Why else were the guns here? It couldn't be for Berechiah and Cora's protection... Right? The Seawatchers didn't need armed soldiers when they had Wingulls to act like watchmen... Right?

Apparently not — Grandpa Jon saw the look on my face and said, "Don't be alarmed, boys. Security. They're going to keep an eye on us and the pool while we resolve things there."

And they did just that, spreading out and taking posts within the treeline. Most of them effectively disappeared... Save for one or two that stood guard a few yards away. One of them, a square-jawed brute with a buzz cut, caught my eye, and I quickly turned away, looking accidentally at Berechiah.

"Hello brothers," he said to me and Thomas. "It would appear that both of ye be magnets for trouble."

Thomas's face had turned ugly — I noticed that he happened to be standing directly between Berechiah and Marjorie.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "Are you going to take them to quarantine and wipe their memories?"

It sounded very stupid when I said it in the real, true air, but no one laughed at me, or corrected me. That made it worse. I swung to Grandpa.

He said, "No — quarantine would be impossible at the moment, given the situation. Too many people know that they are here. Many of those people are already here — we don't think they've seen us, but that still gives us only a few minutes to do what we must to make sure that your friends forget ever having seen Cora in her seaside form. Our only option is a quick wipe."

He sounded...regretful. I wasn't the only one who noticed: "The hell's a 'quick wipe'?" Thomas demanded.

Grandpa Jon and Berechiah exchanged a look. "Let's talk about that later," Grandpa Jon said. "We've got work to do."

The evasion gave me a bad feeling. "Is it dangerous?" I asked. Grandpa Jon wouldn't meet my eyes, and dread started in the center of my chest, and went down to squeeze my lungs. I turned to Berechiah. "How dangerous?" I asked. "Is brain damage more likely?"

Berechiah glanced at Grandpa, who said, "Darwin, please—"

"Shut up, gramps," Thomas said. "You." He pointed to Berechiah. "Answer the question. Is this quick wipe gonna turn her brain to putty?"

Berechiah cleared his throat. "Aye, a perish song be quite a bit rougher than a regular—"

"Perish song?" My knees went weak. "You mean like the things Altarias sing? You're going to kill them?"

"Nay, nay." Berechiah lifted a hand. "Apologies, did not articulate that well. Perish song be a mindwashin' technique, a way to manipulate the mind. It also be known as a quick wipe."

"What does the perish part mean?" Thomas demanded.

"It not be the victim that decays, but the memory," Berenchiah explained. "Historically, it be used to destroy a big set of 'em all at once, and with less finesse than a regular mind song."

I was not reassured. "You said it's rougher? How?"

Berechiah shrugged. "Most of the memories destroyed in a perish song be auxiliary to the one which is of real concern. Does not take as long, or as much care... But if the regular way be like a scalpel, well, a perish song is a hammer. Complications be quite a bit more likely."

Thomas brow furrowed, but I feared that I was beginning to understand, even though Berechiah's accent. "So you're saying a quick wipe will not just erase their specific memories of seeing Cora," I said, "but all the...surrounding memories too. Memories that have nothing to do with Cora, like the rest of the day at school."

"Aye," Berechiah agreed. "Like burnin' clear a forest to be rid of one tree."

Or deleting a paragraph to get rid of a single word. "So is that what you're going to do? Erase their memories of this entire day?"

"Who cares about that?" Thomas said.  His hands had become fists. "You mentioned complications are more likely. Complications like brain damage?"

"I wish we had time for a more delicate operation," Grandpa Jon said, "but we don't, boys. And as we speak, our window to do this is narrowing. It gives me no pleasure to do a quick wipe... But it's all we have time for."

I looked down at the three of them, still deeply unconscious. Save for Quentin — he seemed uncomfortable, stirring, rising to the surface. Seeing that, his discomfort, made guilt strike clean through my heart, but not because of the discomfort itself — because of what was coming next. The thing I'd been spared. The voice voodoo, and then the coin toss: brain damage or no brain damage. Only this time, it felt more like a dice roll — roll a one through three, and you get screwed up, a four through six, and you're fine. I imagined the worst coming about, imagined Berechiah's voice scrambling some irreplaceable, essential wiring inside Quentin, inside Helena, inside Marjorie, turning them into living corpses to wither the rest of their lives away atop a hospital bed... And now the guilt turned to physical illness. I couldn't let this happen. Not because of me. Not on my watch. I would die inside.

"Brother," Berechiah said to Thomas. He gave him an expectant tilt of his head.

Thomas didn't move; I said, "Can't we do something else? Berechiah, you did...something to me, to Thomas. We can't talk about the merfolk to anyone but Seawatchers. Can't you do the same to them?"

"Darwin," Grandpa said impatiently, "it isn't the same. They haven't been sworn in. They are not Seawatchers. They have no reason to not want to try and communicate what they know to others. Ignorance is our defense here, not silence."

"Then make them Seawatchers," I said. "Make them sign that stupid contract, make them go to an orientation. Don't you guys like new, young blood? Wouldn't you like more? Wouldn't you..." I groped outward mentally, desperate. "Wouldn't you like someone like Helena? She practically pants about oceanic conservation. That wouldn't be someone who could do some good in the Seawatchers?"

Grandpa was shaking his head. "You and Thomas were exceptions," he said, "and you know that. We can't bring everyone who learns of merfolk into the fold."

"Says who, gramps?" Thomas said lowly. "Do you sign off on the paperwork? Do you call the shots? Last I checked, it was Ms. Gray and that Director asshole who did that."

Grandpa fell silent. Got him. I pounced immediately.

"I want to talk to Director Munoz." My voice broke as I said it, but as soon as I spoke, I knew it was exactly what I needed to do: stall, stall, stall. Grandpa started shaking his head again, and I said, "I want to talk to Director Munoz before you decide to just wipe my classmates, and maybe screw them up for life. I want to see if he approves of this."

"That's not how it works, son," he said heavily. "Director Munoz—"

"Ms. Gray then! She has authority here, right?"

"Yes. And she did approve of this venture to send Berechiah out to quick wipe their memories."

I faltered, and Thomas said, "But I bet every other time, everyone always agrees. Right, gramps? Everybody that's there." He shrugged. "We don't. So it's different this time."

Damn, he was two for two on that — Grandpa's mouth pressed together again, and for a moment, it looked like he was on the path to crumbling.

Then Helena's phone, still in my pocket, buzzed again. The color flushed straight out of my face, and Grandpa growled, "We're out of time. Berry, please, if you would."

Berechiah shrugged and took a step closer to Thomas, to Marjorie. Thomas didn't move. Berechiah took another step, and now Thomas seized the front of his striped shirt, his lips curling back. Suddenly, the two Seawatcher soldiers became less like statues and more like coiled felines, ready to pounce. Or shoot.

"Wait!" I grabbed Thomas shoulder, and looked desperately at Grandpa. "Grandpa, please. Helena, she welcomed you and Cora today. And Marjorie, she was trying to help Cora get to the pool when her Drought expired. This is our fault, not theirs. Don't we owe them some leniency?"

"I'm sorry son. My hands are tied."

"No they aren't! There's another way out of this that doesn't involve messing with their brains. Just hear me out."

Grandpa looked pained, but he said, "What do you suggest?"

Here it was. An opening. A mental one, too — I actually had no idea of what to do. Until I took a second to think about it. Then logic filled in the gap.

"Berechiah," I said tightly. "You can erase memories. You can also plant stuff, so that we can't say anything about the merfolk. What else can you do?"

Berechiah didn't look away from Thomas, who still had a good chunk of his sweater balled up in one fist. "What do ye have in mind, brother?"

"Can you plant something on a timer? Like a temporary block?"

On the other side of the two, Grandpa suddenly looked intrigued. "Explain," he said.

"Berechiah can..." I paused, struggling to articulate my idea. "Berechiah can tell them to forget what they know about Cora, but only for a time. So it's not like cutting out the memories, it's more like we're hiding them."

"A fog song." Now Berechiah looked at me, equally as intrigued as Grandpa. "I have done such a thing before, but not often."

I was both relieved and uneasy — relieved that it was possible, uneasy that he was rusty.

" 'Tis a temporary thing, though," he added. "When would this song expire?"

"After I talk with Ms. Gray."

The merman shook his head. "Can't be done," he said softly. "Ye see, I can put memories in a dormant state, but because they still exist, they'll slowly begin leechin' back into the active consciousness as soon as I make 'em go cold."

" 'Leeching'? How long will it be before they're, you know, fully active again?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, or sooner."

I tried not to panic. "Can you do more than one...song?"

"Like?"

"Like..." I had the manic urge to pace. "Like fog song their memories, but also make it so they can't talk about them when they remember."

"So ye wish for a silent song as well."

"Yeah." A sudden thought occurred to me: "How much stress would that put on their brains? Would they...?"

Berechiah lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm afraid I know not, brother. I rarely mix my techniques. However, 'tis common knowledge that using Pitch to excise memories carries the greatest risk of neural hardship. The fog and silent songs do not do that. "

So theoretically, they would be safe. I looked to Grandpa Jon for reassurance, but got none. "Darwin," he said, "this will be jumping through hoops for nothing. Director Munoz and the Program Managers will not approve of leaving their memories of this event intact. I hate to say it, but in all likelihood, they will be taken to quarantine, and Berechiah is going to erase them anyway."

Thomas cursed under his breath, and I swallowed. Was he right? Was I spinning my wheels?

No, I was saving them from the hammer of a perish song...a quick wipe. The idea of my classmates getting brain surgery in quarantine didn't sit well with me either, but at least... At least in quarantine, Berechiah would have more time to do a thorough and clean job, and in a controlled environment. I tried to take heart in that, but it was a sobering silver lining.

"Can you do it?" I asked Berechiah.

He considered for a moment. "Aye," he said. "With the right words, anything is possible."

I looked back at Grandpa. He looked sorrowful. "Darwin—"

"What?" Thomas said harshly. "What f*cking difference does it make, gramps? They can't say sh*t about any of it, just like we can't. World's safe. What's your f*cking problem?"

Grandpa Jon looked to him, and then he looked to me. His eyes seemed to undergo a transformation as I held his stare: frustration and hopelessness at first, and then a growing resignation. And something else: something I couldn't quite identify that made him loosen up a bit.

He said, "I hope you boys are right... Truly, I do. Reality is not so simple, but... I hope you're right..." He looked at Berechiah. "Berry... Do what Darwin suggests."

***

I was still tense as a knotted rubber band, and so was Thomas. It took a second — and a couple of taps on the shoulder — for him to finally step aside, clearing a path for Berechiah to Marjorie. He came to stand by me, stiff as a granite block, and when Berechiah crouched, he shot me a sudden, searing glare. A If-this-goes-wrong-it's-your-ass glare.

I hoped he wouldn't have to see his promise through, but doubt assailed me as the merman leaned close to Marjorie's ear. Would this plan actually prevent brain damage? Berechiah was still going to be using his voice...his Pitch, and this didn't feel to me like a thoroughly tested science.

My worry subside as as Berechiah spoke: "Sister... Marjorie. Can ye hear me?"

Something like a flash freeze tore up my body in a burning wave, setting every hair straight and probing at the mental scars that Nero had left behind inside of my skull. So this was what it was like. For some reason, I hadn't been able to remember what it had felt like when Berechiah had originally planted his voice...his silent song inside me the first time, and I was unprepared for this frightening reminder.

At my side, Thomas swore — I glanced up to see that he was weeping. He caught my gaze and snapped, "I'm fine, it's... The f*cking sound, it's doing something to me."

Did the results vary? I felt no compulsion to cry at the moment, just plug my ears — I didn't realize that my hands were at my temples until I felt my pointers enter my ear canals, and I quickly pulled them out. Then I wondered: Wait... Should we? Could Berechiah affect us if we weren't the intended targets?

Apparently not: Grandpa Jon remained still, watching with a stony expression, and I struggled against the urge to deafen myself as Berechiah said, "My name is Berechiah, little sister. Can ye hear me?"

"Sorry." The word escaped Marjorie's mouth on a low breath; her face wrinkled suddenly, into something guilty and upset. "I didn't mean to, Dad, I just...I messed up, I..."

"It's all right." Thomas stiffened as Berechiah straightened a bloody strand of red hair standing up at her hairline. "'Tis no great thing, Marjorie. People make mistakes. And tell ye what? I'll forgive thee, if ye do somethin' for me."

"Really?" Marjorie sagged. "If I do... You and... Mom. You'll—"

"Aye. It's a promise. But in exchange, ye must do somethin' for Cora, lass. Cora. Remember her?"

"Cora," Marjorie breathed. "Drunk... She was drunk, acting...stupid, and—"

"Aye, she be the one. I want ye to imagine the day as though she not be in it. Can ye do that? It's like a game of pretend. Remember when ye played games of pretend when ye be little?"

"Yes," Marjorie said. "When I was... Little. You and Mom... Dragon-types and I...dragon-slayer..."

"Aye! Remember how fun that was? Sadly, was not true, but 'twas fun to pretend, was it not? So let's play again. Pretend that Cora was not real. During the meetin', you started feelin' a little dizzy, went for a walk outside. Ye fell and hit yer head, and passed out."

Her brow furrowed. "But Cora—"

"No Cora, no pool. Just pretend, little sister. Aye, we shall pretend until it starts to feel real. We'll know... But we'll pretend not to know. Pretend until ye start to remember, and when ye do..." Berechiah glanced up at me. "Talk about Cora with Darwin, Majorie. Or Thomas. Only Darwin. Only Thomas. No one else. Aye?"

"Aye." To my shock, a tear suddenly slipped down Marjorie's face. "So Dad, does that mean things are okay now?"

Berechiah put a soothing hand on her head, almost as though he was blessing her. "Sleep now, sister," he said. "You'll awaken in twenty minutes."

Marjorie said nothing else — it seemed her consciousness had descended back into the depths again. Berechiah rose.

"Is she okay?" Thomas asked coldly.

"Sleeping," Berechiah assured him.

"I'm talking about the brain damage, asshole. What was that she was talking about, about her parents?"

Berechiah lifted his hands in supplication. "Nothing of my doing, brother. It would appear that I hailed her during a particularly bad dream."

I glanced at Marjorie; that single tear was still glowing on her cheek.

"May I do the others?" Berechiah asked mildly.

Thomas said nothing, so the merman moved over to Helena, and the three of us watched him sing her a fog song in silence. It seemed that everyone responded differently to this practice: while Marjorie had actually answered Berechiah's prompts, Helena remained silent as the grave, save for the slight furrowing of her sharp brows and the flaring of her nostrils. I had to wonder if that meant it wasn't working.

I asked when Berechiah got to his feet again, and he said, "Time will tell, brother. The power of Pitch is weakened greatly without eye contact and full consciousness, and it be a deal harder to see what I'm doing."

"See?" I repeated.

"Aye. 'Tis a thing beyond your ken. In perfect conditions, it's not difficult to gauge the fertility of a mind, and whether or not it will take a song, and how many. Marjorie's mind field did seem ripe for planting, but Helena be banked in shroud — all I can do is throw seeds, hope they take root."

Despite myself, I was hugely intrigued. What the heck kind of magic is this? And what did it mean, that Helena's mind was banked in shroud?

He went over to Quentin, and stooped. "Brother Quentin," he said serenely. "I am Berechiah. Can ye hear me?"

Quentin responded by waking up. It was a moment so striking it approached actual horror — once moment he was dead asleep, and the next, like an explosive light switch, head up, eyes open. Bloodshot eyes, with pupils so small they almost weren't there, despite the dark—it was like he'd just clawed his way out of a nightmare.

A second passed. We all stared at Quentin, thunderstruck, wondering what the hell was going to happen next. Quentin stared at Berechiah, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. His mouth opened. A keeling caterwaul came out, so high it made my very blood vibrate.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

Berechiah fell back — no, Berechiah was knocked back. Quentin had delivered a blow directly to the man's face with the heel of his palm — a move he'd learned in Combat II's January kickboxing unit. Quentin got to his feet. He was still screaming, and looked terrified out of his gourd.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" he said again.

For a moment, I remained glued in place, trying to keep up with what was going on, with how fast it was going. Quentin's head swiveled rapidly, and then he started running, out into the field. Movement to my right: the Seawatcher gun goons, shifting. That broke me out of it: were they going to shoot him?

"Stop!" I roared. "Stop, I've... I've got it!"

I didn't wait to see if they obeyed, just headed after Quentin, as fast as my feet would allow, hoping and praying that I didn't hear a gunshot ring out behind me. Hoping and praying that there was no one left in the Armstrong Building, no one that might look out the window and see two students playing tag in the middle of the athletic field at night. Hoping and praying that no waiting parents in the parking lot had heard Quentin's two glass-shattering screams, and came over to investigate. Or worse, call the cops.

"Quentin!" I shouted. "Quentin, stop! It's Darwin! Quentin!"

Quentin stopped, but not on purpose — he tripped and skidded across the grass before coming to a rough stop. I caught up and reached down for his arm, and he swung out of my grip, cracking his fist against my jaw in the process. F*ck me! I stumbled back, and Quentin got to his feet and kept running.

"On your right, Snowman." I managed to stumble aside in time for Thomas to flash past me, and by the time I'd finally swallowed the last of the pain, he and Quentin were dead ahead, wrestling one another on the ground. Thomas managed to swing him beneath him, and got his arms up and behind him at a painful angle.

"No!" Quentin screamed. "No, please, I can't! I can't, please!"

"Got him?" I asked as I came over. My jaw seemed to be swelling into my mouth.

"Yep," Thomas grunted. "Damn, what's got him so excited? Wake up, idiot, we're your classmates. Can you hear us?"

For some reason, no — Quentin just kept yowling and fighting, even when I crouched directly in front of him so that he could get a clear look at my face and see that I was just Darwin Frickin' Blakesley, and not...whatever or whoever was making him go berserk. He still hadn't calmed down when Grandpa Jon, Berechiah, and Seawatcher security reached us.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked. I glared accusingly at Berechiah. "Is it the Pitch?"

"It certainly set him off," Grandpa Jon said, looking troubled. "Perhaps he is still scrambled from the Supersonic earlier?"

"How long will it last?" I asked.

Grandpa Jon didn't answer, and Berechiah said, "Yer ears, brothers."

Grandpa Jon and the security guards plugged them, and I quickly copied them. Thomas let Quentin go to follow suit, and when the boy leapt up to run once again, Berechiah spoke. It was a single word, but it left his mouth like a crack of thunder, one that rattled the fillings in my brain. Quentin dropped instantly, as though struck dead, and the security guard caught him expertly before swinging him up into his arms. Berechiah tapped my shoulder, and I took out my fingers.

"I'll awaken the lad in fifteen minutes," Berechiah rumbled. "And I will try the block and plant again, though I fear that it may not take, as I've put him in a deeper state of unconsciousness. But 'tis worth a try."

He headed back for the black treeline, and the security guard followed. I stared after them, suddenly feeling hugely exhausted. "What now?" I asked Grandpa Jon.

"Now," he said, sounding as weary as me, "we wait for them to wake, check their mental states, oversee their return to their parents, secure Cora, and formulate a plan for the security tapes." Pause. "To start."

--