Office of Rhonda Mancini, Psychologist, PhD

McLean, VA

March 3rd, 2018

1445R

Erica POV

"You mentioned earlier that you're scared to sleep, right?" Dr. Mancini asked after scribbling down some notes.

"... I guess," I replied, fidgeting with the fabric of my shirt.

"Would you like to elaborate?"

"No, but isn't that the point of all this?"

"You got me there."

"... so now?"

"Whenever you're ready."

I told her a false tale: one of Ben's murder at the hands of a mugger while on a class field trip. The mugger—a desperate addict—got violent and killed him when he didn't pull out his wallet fast enough. A nearby cop saw the situation and ran over, prompting the mugger to run. But the cop pulled out his pistol and shot the mugger until he didn't get back up.

I gave her truths dressed up in lies: photos of Ben's gunshot wounds, his blood all over me, his lifeless body.

But the whole truth was much, much worse.

It started at the briefing, like always. FBI Special Agent Hansen, Dad, and Grandpa briefed us on Operation Steel Tiger, with the former then deputizing us as temporary federal agents. We finalized a few more details up until around ten minutes prior to our departure.

I called out to Ben, sharing a brief interaction that Zoe quickly shoehorned her way into. They were professional and rather cheerful, not bringing up the past. I remembered Mike's passive aggression as Zoe ran her mouth, along with the rocky moments that came with Chip and Jawa—all who desperately tried to make my life a living hell, had it not been for Ben calming them down. The three of us then set a plan to get cheeseburgers after the raid was complete... "for old time's sake," in Ben's words.

We loaded up in FBI minivans and set out to Montross, VA. Ben and Zoe sounded nervous, but were in good spirits overall. Dad was uncharacteristically quiet the whole way there, looking deep in thought. I eavesdropped on Ben and Zoe's conversation, finding myself jealous... even as we were on a mission to take down an ISIL cell. I was unfocused, but saved by Dad's announcement that we'd arrived. I went off to join Hotel Team: twelve US Marshals Service SOG operators in charge of covering the northern building of the storage facility (Building 4)—the same one that was to be breached and searched by Delta Team.

After a brief planning session, we drove up to a certain distance, stashed the vehicle, and patrolled the rest of the way. But when we arrived at our set point, the team leader encountered something.

"TOC, this is Hotel. We've encountered something at our primary set point. Looks like a bomb. Requesting EOD, over," he called over the command net. After a few seconds that included what I could only assume to be a negative reply from the TOC, he nodded. "Roger, Hotel out."

We shifted positions as quickly and quietly as we could, but our alternative set point provided less of an effective blocking position. But we had already wasted time.

"Hotel is set," the team leader said on his command radio a few moments after we'd gotten set up. Seconds later, I could hear the sound of metal and wood breaking and men shouting. The shouting gave way to gunfire, muffled by the walls of the buildings. But after a brief period, some of those gunshots could be heard outside—if I had to guess, some of them were running.

But suddenly, there was a problem. The team leader tried hailing the TOC and failed, making me raise an eyebrow under my monocular NOD. I tried thinking the situation through, only to be suddenly consumed by darkness.

And then suddenly, my point of view changed as I was no longer in my own body. I'd gone from the surrounding forest to inside what I assumed was Building 4. The room smelled of fertilizer, containing several packages surrounding a man rigging up a device of some sort. The man was Rasel Nasry, ISIL's newest member.

The operator whose body I was inside shouted a command in Arabic and raised his rifle, lining up the terrorist in his sights and firing—I had no control whatsoever, being nothing more than a spectator—killing Rasel before he could reach for his detonator and pistol. Gunfire could be heard throughout the rest of the building as men shouted and shot their rifles. But even through all the cacophony, I could still tell whose perspective I was seeing: Ben's.

Ben breathed rapidly as he took his rifle off the dead terrorist and swept the rest of the room, with more operators coming in behind him. They declared it cleared, passing the message along to the team leader.

"TOC, Delta is all clear. Say again, Building 4 is—what the hell?" the team leader exclaimed as he fiddled with his radio. "The fuck? Comms ain't work—"

And then, the explosions began. Every package in the room, plus some throughout the rest of the building, exploded into a cloud of smoke and shrapnel. The building was rigged—not to bring it down, but to kill and/or stun everyone inside... and it worked. Ben and the operators stumbled, coughing from the dust and what I could only assume to be some sort of chemical weapon. Some took shrapnel to their faces and neck as well.

Metal clanked, giving way to footsteps and suppressed gunshots as what I could only assume to be more terrorists entered the scene—there were at least six. They used the hidden trapdoor, catching the team off guard. From Ben's dazed point of view, I saw the gunmen rapidly shooting the operators—no crazy stunts, no beheadings, no cliche villainous actions... just quick, ruthless executions. Ben tried to raise his rifle, but was pummeled by the largest enemy. He fought tooth and nail, but when a second terrorist joined in the buttstock bashing, he was knocked unconscious.

When he awoke, he was being dragged through the tunnel. His weapons, helmet, and plate carrier were missing and his ankles and wrists were bound. His head throbbed with pain, with blood flowing from his broken nose. He tried to struggle, but was too weak to do so.

They stopped for a moment, shoving him against the wall.

"So you are the young infidel... you are responsible for the death of our brothers," one said.

"You know our brothers in Azerbaijan and Iraq?" another sneered. "Two Arab martyrs... gone because of you, imperialist child."

So this was payback. After the events of Operation Fox Hunt—the mission to Mexico—special forces from the Army raided a SPYDER safehouse in Azerbaijan, killing some bad guys and discovering links to al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. Some time later, British special forces would kill a high-ranking al-Qaeda operative.

"F-fuck you," Ben coughed, with the first terrorist spitting on him in response. Then, in a move that surprised me, Ben threw in one more taunt—quite possibly out of a mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. "Go to hell, goat-fucker."

"American dog!" a third growled, pulling out a suppressed pistol and jamming it against Ben's throat. He then fired—much to the surprise of the other terrorists in the tunnel. If I had to guess, they wanted to give Ben a much worse death, but the third man lost control and decided to finish it. Ben was conscious for a few moments more after being shot in the throat, sounding as though he was choking on his own blood. The other terrorists hissed for the third man—"Youcef"—to stop, but it was too late. He fired twice more, this time in the chest.

And then it all went dark.

Dr. Mancini started talking some more, and I made sure to pay attention—Mom and Dad's orders—but the rest of the nightmare continued to play in the back of my mind.

And somehow, it proceeded to get worse.

The scene then shifted to Ben's funeral. Standing in the pouring rain beside Dad and Grandpa, I could barely hear the words of the minister, who continued the service, undeterred by the storm around us. The funeral was coming to a close, with Ben's casket being lowered into a hole beside the graves of his family—his father, mother, brother, and sister, who were murdered by Hallal's assassins. But the strangest thing was that I was further away from the group of mourners, able to see myself, Dad, Grandpa, Mike, Zoe, and all the others.

"Damn, that's more people than I expected."

I turned to my right and was shocked to find none other than Ben as he watched the lowering of his casket into the ground. Like me, he wore dark, formal clothing that you'd see at a wedding... but something was off. And that something was visible as he turned to face me head-on, making me recoil at the sight: blood staining his white shirt from the gunshot wounds to his chest; blood flowing from the gunshot wound in his neck; blood dripping from his forehead—his head had been mostly affected by blunt trauma, but something sharp left him with a minor cut; and several bruises covered his face, including a black eye.

"Aw, c'mon... I'm not that ugly, am I?" Ben asked teasingly.

"What the fuck?" I gasped, more creeped out by his calm attitude than anything else.

"Oh, just visiting my favorite female spy... do I really look that bad to you? Also, your hands are dirty."

"What are you—" I asked, stopping when I took a good look. They were stained in a red liquid and had an oddly metallic smell to them... blood. But that wasn't there a few seconds ago... was it?

"Ah, I think that might be mine, Erica. Sorry about that."

"Wha-what? H-how?"

"I dunno. Kinda corny, isn't it? My blood, your hands? I mean, it's not wrong, just a bit... over the top, y'know?"

"No, nonono, you're not real... this is all in my head," I muttered, trying to convince myself more than him.

"I dunno," he replied, reaching out to touch me, but I backed away before he could.

"No, stay back! Stay back!"

"But if you say I'm not real—"

"Just get the fuck away from me!"

"Erica, it's me! Ben Ripley, remember? The kid you used as shark chum? C'mon, you're my friend! You're not my enemy!"

"I don't know, Ben... she kinda is," a new voice said behind me. Whirling around revealed the source to be none other than Mike, who had Zoe standing at his side. Both looked absolutely pissed off—much like the post-Christmas falling-out of 2016. "What the fuck are you doing to him?"

"I-I didn't—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Zoe hissed, her green eyes glowing as she clenched her fists. "You know what you did, Ice Bitch!"

"Guys, calm down!" Ben soothed. "I mean, sure... she treated me like a piece of equipment, hung me out to dry on several occasions, and played with my heart like a cat with a ball of string... but you don't need to go crazy. Just let bygones be bygones, alright?"

Just like before, the anger came not from the boy I hurt, but his loyal friends—with the victim himself trying to restrain them. I wanted him to stop talking, to let them unleash every bit of their hatred, to join them in their hatred... but he refused to give in to his anger, driving me deeper into my own pit of shame. Why couldn't he just turn on me like the rest of them? What was his fucking problem?

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain as something was lodged in my back—right behind my heart—with enough force to briefly lift me off my feet. As I yelped in pain and shock, the force was redirected, pushing me face-first into the muddy ground.

"Can't just let bygones be bygones, hoss," rumbled a voice that was incredibly difficult to forget, especially considering that its owner was from a hick town in eastern North Carolina. Slowly, I turned my head sideways to see none other than a pissed off-looking Chip Schacter in my peripheral vision, M16 in hand with an attached bayonet... and that bayonet was stuck right in my back. "That ain't how things work."

"Bit crude, but seems appropriate," Jawa said beside him as he looked down upon me, thunder booming in the background—his generally calm California surfer accent sounding unusually menacing. "I would've just shot you, but... fuck, nothing like fixing bayonets... 'specially to deliver the feeling of getting stabbed in the back."

"Fellas, no need to play rough! Like I told Mike and Zoe: just let that shit go. Best way to handle being manipulated," Ben said matter-of-factly, sounding like a guy lecturing his friends for doing something stupid. "Chip, please calm down."

"Fine," the farmboy muttered, thrusting once more to shove the bayonet further in my back before he released it, leaving his rifle. "Best spy in the Academy, huh? Don't mean jack to carbon steel."

"C'mon, let's get the fuck outta here," Mike said, walking over and tugging Ben to follow him back towards the gravesite, the rest of the group following. "You gotta undergo your last rites, bro."

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I could only watch as my ex-friends—one of the better things to have happened to me—walked away, leaving me in the dirt with a blade in my back. And why? All because I couldn't let go of my own ego.

Wait, where did that come from?

"From me, you fucking moron," said a female voice, its source grabbing me by the hair yanking me all the way up to my tiptoes. Instinctively, I tried to fight, but the woman punched me in the liver with her other hand, making me recoil. She then took her free hand and gripped the rifle, squeezing the end of the barrel with supernatural force, making much of the M16 break off and fall into the mud. But not only did she leave the bayonet in (and a little bit of the front end of the gun with it), she drove it further into my back before wrenching it out again and dropping me to the ground. "There, that's better... I respect a man who can turn a ranged weapon into a melee one, but... nothing beats a good knife, doesn't it?"

"Wha-what the fu—" I choked out as I looked up at the woman. She wore a black dress and raincoat, same as me, but they were rife with tears and other damage. Her black hair was let down, blowing sideways in the wind (despite it being wet) that had now joined the storm. In one hand, she clenched the now-detached bayonet as she looked down at me, a malicious smile with teeth that looked like fangs and glowing blue eyes. She looked like some sort of demon from the darkest pit of hell, but she also looked like...

No... it can't be...

"Erica, sweetie!" not-Me greeted. "How lovely of you to start paying attention to me again!"

"Wh-what?"

"Oh, come one! Don't you remember me? The voice that lived rent-free inside your head, constantly reminding you of just how shitty you are?"

I remembered the times when I mentally talked to myself. Some of it could be found comedic by a third party, but much of it was annoying. But now, the source of that very same voice stood before me bearing a blood-stained blade. It was terrifying, to say the least.

"You're all nice and fucked up in the head... now I can finally get rid of you!" not-Me growled, her smile growing as she knelt, driving her knee into my stomach and pressing the bayonet's edge against my throat with just enough force to draw blood. "It's a wonder how you're not dead yet—Chip never misses—but I'm glad he left you alive for me."

I tried to resist, tried to speak, but my body remained motionless as the blade pressed further into my throat. Somehow, it became harder to breathe than it already was, and unconsciousness refused to claim me... giving non-Me a window of opportunity, which she exploited by... pulling photos out of her jacket.

"Look familiar, princess?" she mocked as she shoved a photo in my face—me, my family, and fellow students during that 2015 Christmas break... but Ben's head had an "X" the color of blood on it. The "Xs" then began appearing on every other head until only mine remained untouched. "No? How about this?"

Then came a photo of myself, Ben, Zoe, Mike, Chip, and Jawa together, looking like we were friends hanging out at school. But for some reason, all our eyes were blacked out, with small words in white on them, each tailored to the person they applied to.

For Jawa: "INTELLIGENCE."

For Chip: "BULLET-CATCHER."

For Mike and Zoe: "TOOL EXTENSION."

For Ben: "TOOL."

For me: "MANIPULATOR."

"You're quite the friend, Erica," not-Me said as she took a look at the photo herself. "All you can ever think about is yourself and your status. Nothing wrong with that—I quite like that mindset—but you do it by dragging down everyone else and using them as stepping stones... and you called Dad an egotistical narcissist. At least he redeemed himself. Now how about this?"

Then came an older-looking photo that didn't make any sort of sense: Ben and I were in it, but so was Joshua Hallal. For some reason, the three of us posed together like we were friends. All of our eyes were blacked out, with small words on them.

Joshua's said "TRAITOR: KIA."

Ben's said "ASSET: KIA."

And mine...

"CENTER," not-Me said, digging the blade even further into my throat, making it even harder to breathe. "You were at the center of everything. You let Joshua manipulate and throw the ever loving shit out of you, and you took it out on Ben."

I tried to respond, but could only emit a gurgling sound—I'm fairly certain there was blood in my windpipe.

"Nobody's blaming you for Joshua's betrayal... but you had no right to use Ben the way you did," not-Me hissed, looking more pissed off than all my ex-friends combined. "You had to be the real one while I was stuck in your goddamn head, forced to watch you fuck up everything! Well, if I can't kill you in real life, I can certainly kill you in here!"

She tossed aside the photograph and shoved one last picture in my face: Ben's dead body. Even when I closed my eyes and tried to turn away, all I could see was him when we found him in Montross. My ears rang from thunder, pained screams, and echoing words that sounded like Ben's. And no matter how hard I tried, they only persisted.

"You left me to die!"

"Don't you fucking get it?! It's all lies! ALL OF IT!!"

"You're no fucking hero! YOU NEVER WILL BE!!"

"This is your fault, GOD DAMN IT!!"

"You can't save SHIT!!"

"YOU TURNED ME INTO A FUCKING KILLER!!"

"The only villain here is you, Erica... only you..."

The demonic Me let out a screech equivalent to that of a banshee as she raised the bayonet and began ruthlessly stabbing my torso, neck, and head, screaming "TIME'S UP!" over and over again, her screams combining with Ben's as I was slowly consumed by the mud, still not blacking out—

"Erica? Erica?"

"H-huh?" I stammered, breaking free of my recollection to find Dr. Mancini with a concerned expression on her face. "Sorry, zoned out. What'd you say?"

"I said that, based on the information you're telling me, there's a chance I may have to get a psychiatrist involved at some point."

"So... medication?"

"Not quite yet. Your lack of desire to sleep sounds a bit like somniphobia—the fear of sleeping—so we're going to have to address it appropriately. I'm still going to refer you to a psychiatrist, but I do have a few things that I'd like you to try before our next meeting."

She then proceeded to make some recommendations on courses of action: one was to meet a specialist she knew for the exposure therapy route, while the other was cognitive behavioral therapy—principally the strict setting of the times at which I would go to bed and wake up. Once everything was done, we said our goodbyes and I went to the waiting room, where Dad sat patiently, reading a newspaper—he insisted on giving me a ride.

We got in the car and drove off, him at the wheel, while I looked out the window, lost in thought. I tried not to think about the nightmares, the suicide attempt, the hospital, the psychiatrist, or the raid, but that was all that occupied my mind. Was this my fate? Was I destined to be fucked in the head forever? All because of my interactions with Ben Ripley and his demise?

"Hey, Erica?" Dad asked, snapping me from my silent musings.

"Hm?"

"You... wanna come over for a late lunch and dinner?

"Huh?"

"Your mom and grandpa are gonna be there too, in case you don't want to talk to me."

"Wait, what?"

"Your mom's making chicken tikka masala... I know how much you like spicy food."

"Dad... I hate spicy food."

"... I think she's also making Shepherd's Pie."

"Dad, where is this coming from?"

"Is it so wrong that I want to spend time with my family?"

He was certainly doing this to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn't go off the rails. I knew for a fact that he used his connections to put me on light duty at work—with the officer-in-charge of my section of CTMC telling me I didn't even need to come in on certain days—and showed up in our part of the building a surprising number of times for an officer whose temporary duty was centered around training and administration at the Academy.

But frankly, I didn't really care anymore. I was too tired and out of fucks, so I agreed—however reluctantly—to join him, Mom, and Grandpa. I will say though, that Dad grew a big smile on his face when he heard that, and it did warm me a bit.

I guess our relationship really has improved.

Alexander POV

It was almost completely silent. Erica was asleep in the master bedroom—after much convincing from myself and my wife—and Dad was sleeping in the guest bedroom. Cath and I were together on the futon downstairs, her back against my chest as she breathed softly. I was still awake, thinking.

I could still see Erica all wired and tubed up in the hospital and hear her anguished words as she spilled her heart out. Audible below her frustration were the calm recommendations of the soft-spoken hospital psychiatrist as he told Dad and I how to move forward with this situation. Patient-doctor confidentiality and Erica's clamming up kept me from knowing everything, but I did know that the psychologist had referred her to a psychiatrist.

Medical people freaked me out generally, but it was always the mental ones that gave me the biggest worries, considering how freaky their field of expertise was. Maybe I was looking too much into it, but Erica was at stake here. I wasn't going to fuck things up again.

"What's wrong, Alex?" Cath suddenly whispered.

"Wait, you're awake?"

"Well, I woke up a few minutes ago, then realized you weren't asleep."

"What are you, psychic?"

"Call it feminine intuition... or wife's omniscience," she quipped, rolling over to face me. "Why can't you sleep? Is it Erica?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "I don't know what the hell to do. There's no bad guy to shoot, no amount of security I can put up... it's a boatload of mind fuckery."

"This is a mental health problem, Alex. She's still grieving."

"I... I feel useless, Cath. I'm being a fucking terrible father, like before."

"There you go again, hanging on to the past. Alex, do you realize just how important you are? Ever since you and Erica reconciled after Fox Hunt, she's been happier because you're with her. She may not say it, but you do make her feel safer. You're her father."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. Darling, you can't keep living in the past. Use it for lessons, but remember that where you live is in the present. Keep what's good and change accordingly."

"You didn't happen to major in philosophy in university, did you?"

"That was actually my minor. But Alex, you may not think you're doing much, but you being here and standing by her is essential. Fighting this battle falls on her—we can't do much in a situation like this—but she's not alone, and that's what matters."

"I know, I just... it's not enough, Cath."

"You're doing everything you can. Sometimes it isn't enough. Believe me, I know," she sighed, sounding melancholy as she snuggled closer to me. "But you're doing everything you can."

"I don't want to lose her... or you... or Dad... not again."

"You won't. Now... please, darling... rest. God knows you need it."

"Yes, dear. Night." Holding her closer, I pressed a kiss onto her temple, with her reciprocating onto my jaw. I tried to think about calmer, happier memories to help myself fall asleep easier, but my worries never left my mind. So I made a vow to myself: even if there wasn't anything I could do to help, I'd always try to find some way to be there. I was not going to lose my daughter.

Not again.

This was... a bit intense. Not the craziest thing I've written, but still. I have no idea where I'm coming up with this crap, but I swear that I'm not trying to be an edgelord (i.e., edgy shit for the sake of edgy shit). Ben's death evidently will have a lot of ramifications that we're going to see later on. I'll have something in the next chapter to offset the doom and gloom—an entire book of that would be exhausting.

Also, for those that haven't caught on, I don't really know jack about psychology or psychiatry, and am relying on medical websites to paint the most realistic picture possible.

Thank you for reading and as always, be sure to leave your feedback in the comments! Take care of yourselves and each other.

Until next time,

- ADF-2