The generator inspires awe, but it does not evoke elegance. It is squat, and gnarled, and lumpy. Its base sits heavily upon the earth in a way that feels visceral, as though its huge bulk is actively compressing the dirt beneath it.

But while it is not graceful, it exudes a sense of power. It manages to assert itself against those within its presence, forcing one's gaze to return to it again and again as though possessing a strange sort of gravity. The other trees that surround it look spindly, almost frail in comparison to its stalwart silhouette.

When Sara makes no move to stop me, I draw closer, until I am within the shadow casted by its wide, dense canopy leaves. Unlike the LinkPorts, these are huge and paddle-shaped; they are reminiscent of large, wild-looking lily pads. The trunk, however, is a familiar sight, albeit on a larger scale. Woody fibers, thicker than my arms, circle and entwine and press against each other to form something impenetrable. But there are glints of something metallic nestled within the grooves and cracks: wires have been threaded all throughout the tree.

I glance backwards at the rest of the group. While the others have kept their distance, they too are entranced by the generator's strange anatomy. Sara, however, stares right at me. There's a touch of amusement on her face as she glides forwards. There's a pause before the others move as well, trailing behind.

She stops a few paces away and regards me. Light filtering through the low-hanging canopy drapes her in an emerald halo.

"What now?" I ask, composing my expression. I don't want her to see the reluctant awe in my expression. "We're here - so how do we get into LeafLink?"

She smirks and lifts her hand, which disappears into the lowest layer of the canopy. After a moment, the leaves rustling with her movements, she retracts her arm. There is a small, wooly fruit clutched in her hand.

The group clusters around (me included) to see what she's picked from the tree. With deliberate showmanship, she breaks open the fruit's exterior, peeling back the fuzzy rind. Within it nestles a multitude of small, pea-like objects. They are reminiscent of pomegranate seeds in size.

"The pollen you've been breathing in since arriving here was the first step," Sara says. "Consuming a single one of these will complete the connection, and allow you access."

"What are they?" Johanna asks, leaning closer.

"A tool of epigenetics," Sara says. "Your environment, living conditions - and your diet - can all trigger certain segments of your DNA, your genes to express themselves and manifest. The seeds of the generator, once eaten, will work along the same principles, stimulating dormant genes that will allow you to form a mental connection with the generator. The pollen helps the mind express the ability to receive information from LeafLink, but these help the brain develop the skill to send information back. A two-way street, so to speak."

"We just eat them - simple as that?" Bridget seems nonplussed. "What about a release form?"

Sara smiles thinly. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Every single person in Locust Valley has done this already."

"Alright," I find myself saying. I surprise myself with my own willingness to participate. "Hand one over."

It's odd, but in that moment I can literally feel a battle waging in my mind. On one side replays the horrid surprise I'd encountered at the supermarket, the terrible things that have been whispered about online about LeafLink. It reminds me that this was the thing that took my job, that left me spinning out of control and struggling to pay my rent. But the other, louder part of my brain has been thrilled since the moment I'd stepped into this town. I'd been provided a home, a job with mysterious, exciting, creative purpose, and the chance to make my mark on something.

It makes me uncomfortable to realize how opportunistic I am - how willing to accept and adjust my viewpoint to get ahead.

"Mr. Vitalli?" I look up. Sara has a single seed in her other hand. It's outstretched, an offer.

"Sorry," I say, "got a little distracted there." I take the seed, and with a odd sort of nonchalance, pop it in my mouth. Fear of ruining its effects means I do not chew, but sort-of dry swallow the thing, masking my grimace with a smile and a thumbs up.

The others peer at me, no doubt waiting to see if I'll drop dead on the spot, or start foaming at the mouth. I shrug back at them.

One by one, they each take a seed and swallow. Satisfied, Sara simply drops the remainder of them onto the forest floor and dusts off her hands.

"Let's get back to the conference room," she says, already turning away. "You'll want a place to sit down. The first time can be a bit... disorientating."

I'm not sure what she means initially, but by the time we've returned to the door from which we came, I am distinctly uncomfortable. The odd, fuzzy headache that has plagued me all morning has reached a fever pitch, and from the sounds of the others' grumbling, they aren't feeling all that hot either.

It is a relief to get out of the sun and enter the facility's cool interior. The too-bright walls are unpleasant, however, and I try not to look up as I find a seat in the room and sink down into it. The others follow suit. Bridget lets out a low hiss as she drops into her own seat.

"What the hell is this?" she murmurs.

"This is normal, right?" Johanna asks shakily. "It means it's working...?"

I would have raised my own protests as well, but the sensation is incredibly distracting. The buzzing that fills my head feels angry somehow, like a swarm of stinging insects.

"I want you all to close your eyes," Sara says. After a moment, she adds, "the sooner you enter Leaflink, the faster your discomfort will pass."

We all squeeze our eyes shut.

"The first wave of participants really struggled with this part, admittedly," Sara's voice was lower, more somber. "They - we - had the wrong mindset going about it. This isn't a computer, or a phone, but we were expecting there to be an on-and-off switch. A button you could press that would take you to LeafLink"

"But there's not," she says. "When you dream, or imagine, or calculate, you don't think about turning anything on. You just do it. That's what you have to learn."

She suddenly changes tack, "Do you feel that pressure in your head?"

There are sounds of assent from the group.

"It's your brain rewiring itself. I want you to focus on the sensation, to really think about how it feels."

I let out an audible sigh, but I try to pay more attention to my headache.

Truthfully, I'm expecting nothing to happen. Mediation and its various contemporaries wasn't something I ever really understood, and so the whole 'clearing your head of distractions' rhetoric always seemed like fanciful wording.

But something jolts inside my head; my vision narrows. All I can think about is that fuzziness, that buzz, those million grains of sand rattling around inside of me.

It's easy to forget how fast, how varied our thoughts run throughout every waking moment. To have a sudden blankness come over me, to have nothing in my head except an overwhelming buzz... it's impossible to explain how fully adrift you become.

"What does it feel like?" Sara asks us. Her voice sounds hollow, tinny, as though it is echoing up from the bottom of a well.

"Like sand," I can feel my lips move, hear myself speak, but I am just a spectator.

Distantly, the others answer as well.

"Dust,"

"Flour,"

"Sugar,"

"Yes," she says, "like all of those. Try and shape it."

A few minutes ago, I would have blanched at her words, but somehow, what she's saying makes a kind of sense.

Within my mind, as though her words have triggered it, something forms. I find myself encouraging it, letting it grow until this charged bundle of intention appears in my inner vision. I can manipulate it, as though it were some ephemeral limb, and so I jab this extension of my psyche into the swirling drifts within me.

The buzz, the dust, the sand - it parts for my mental touch, and I slowly get a feel for the sensation. With a delicate balance of mental force and visualization, I can shape these not-particles into various shapes. It's hard, though, and I feel myself slipping.

This is all happening within my mind, I was aware of this. But somehow, the material I'm manipulating feels different than my thoughts, the mental constructs I'd created.

It's something else - alien.

"Form a tunnel," Sara is saying. "Shape a gap in the material, and let yourself drop through."

With that blanket, that damper, still draped across my mind, my thoughts flee in the face of pure intuition. It is a powerful guide, and I start to build upon the sand, following Sara's orders like a soldier. It is easy to focus on the task, despite the sand's stubbornness.

It feels like both an eternity and no time at all, but I finally coerce the sand into what feels like a tunnel - of sorts. I can visualize it; there's a funnel, the base wide and gaping. The interior is hollow - a hole, or an entryway that tapers off into something I can't quite grasp.

"Do you have it?" Sara asks. Her voice still feels so far away.

"Yes..." the words leak out of us. "Yes, we do..."

Sara speaks again, but I already know what I have to do. I let go, releasing tension in my body I've built up throughout the entire process. But the tunnel stands strong, doesn't fall apart. Instead, I feel myself moving, if that's possible. It's as though the inside of my head has a physical space, an environment in which directions and movement exist.

With another startling jolt, this inner version of myself falls forward, dropping into the funnel, dropping deep, deep down through the hole.