Beeping sounds forced him to open his eyes. Annoyance curled in his gut. He was supposed to design the specifications for the security of their new hideout. Instead, a white ceiling greeted him. Dim incandescent light stung his periphery. When he attempted to turn his head left, a soft pillow crunched underneath. As his senses returned, he felt the thick blankets pressing him down into the thin mattress which had served its due time. The smell of disinfectant was stark in the air, drowning everything else.

Strange. This was a strange day.

The beeping continued, irking the hell out of him. Somebody turn that off. He could do it himself, couldn't he? His arm followed his brain's directive, coming to view in the process. The looping tubes and lashes of stark white adhesives stopped him. What was going on? Why...

Voices overlapped with the monotonic trills. It was from a machine, but what kind, he didn't know. Where was he? What happened to the Game—

A shadow fell over him, pinning him into the mattress. Metal creaked as his and his attacker's weight crashed against it. The force heightened, pushing him deeper into the crumbling mess. No matter how hard he squirmed, the opposing weight won. The voices surged louder, lacing around the beeping until they pounded in his temples. His throat constricted, cutting off any stream of air. The weight. It crushed him.

His hands clawed at the intangible force. If this was Seven trolling him—

He gasped, his eyes flying open and his body bolting upright. His shoulders rose and fell, his breaths close to wheezing. He clutched his chest, rubbing the ebbing feeling of the weight crushing it. Did his heart burst in his dream? He never got the chance to stay and see for himself.

What had that been about?

The Game was back in full swing, characterized by the rusty metal walls surrounding him. Memories from yesterday flooded his mind. Right. He and Two went around the Eastern Region, away from everyone, for any place to pass the dawn away. They found an abandoned trailer hewn entirely out of metal. Time had its fill, with multiple loose bolts and whiny mechanisms at every turn accompanied them inside. But it would have to do, mostly because Thirteen's body gave out.

He had a vague recollection of leaning against the trailer's door upon shutting it and feeling something warm trickling down his shin. His wound had reopened after all the scrambling about. He had been trailing blood since his brief altercation with Two in the forest. It was amazing he lasted that long.

The next thing he knew, he woke up in a strange world. In the darkness, his eyes had adjusted enough to see his fingers. All were stained with dried blood, mud, and hints of plaster and concrete debris. He gathered the details of the dream before they flitted into a horizon he could never reach. His breaths had settled into a rhythm, albeit a little shaky.

Clear tubes looped around his arms, held close to the skin by adhesives. Voices. Tons of them. The beeping. A machine made them, but the dream didn't let him see what it was. A pillow underneath his head, crunching against his hair when he turned his head. The mattress—thin. The blankets—thick. Was it cold? Maybe. It stunk of disinfectant. Dim lights. Incandescent. The bulbs flickered and sparked. A hospital? Why would he be there?

"You have those too?" Two's voice zipped through Thirteen's thoughts. He turned to find the esper tinkering with the portable screen. Without Thirteen's biometrics, he wouldn't be able to do anything to it. Unless, of course, he took advantage of Thirteen being out cold. "It's been a while since I witnessed someone having those."

Thirteen pinched the bridge of his nose. "What—you mean dreams?" he asked. "Why would it be a while...?"

The realization sunk in. Ever since he woke up inside the Game, he didn't really think about the times he slept. Sleep, for him, was hours of a black wall bulldozing his thoughts and consciousness. It killed him in exchange for rest. When he woke up, he'd move on to his day. Not a memory of a dream. Not even a fleeting thought. Surprising how he still knew the word and associated it with what he experienced now.

Thirteen's mouth parted slightly just to cope with the truth. Ever since the Game started, he hadn't been dreaming. Except for the sliver of memory of a woman with luscious brown hair, he had no memory of what his life was outside the Game.

He whipped towards Two who startled out of his fascination on the screen. "Can you read my memories?" he prodded. "I mean...all of them?"

Two chewed on his lip. A finger tapped his chin. "I could try," he said. "I can only read things from the recent upload, meaning, the short-term. Anything deeper and more buried in there, it takes a while."

It occurred to Thirteen a blanket indeed covered his legs. That was probably why he thought the blanket was thick and heavy. A quick look around the trailer revealed this once to have been a residential place, however strange that might be. Complete with a bed, a makeshift sink, a spot for the living room, and a few bookcases filled with dusty knickknacks, it seemed as if they picked a good location.

"What do you think caused the dream?" Thirteen ventured. "Up until now, I was fine."

Two jerked his chin in a vague direction behind Thirteen. "You were pretty banged up when we met," he said. "I noticed the blood on your neck when you collapsed by the door."

Another memory blinked out of his subconscious. "Ah, that," he said. His fingers reached up and touched the sore spot. Pain stung his scalp and something deeper. "Five is to blame."

"Hmm," was Two's only contribution. As if he wasn't surprised by it. "Do you want me to read your mind?"

"Aren't you already?" Thirteen cocked his head to one side, aiming to poke some fun into it. Instead, his tone came out clipped. Flat.

Two looked away and scratched the side of his face. "I can't turn off my ability, you know?" he said. "I wish I could, mind you. People are hopeless."

Thirteen could imagine. Dealing with his thoughts alone was hard enough. He scooted over and tapped the empty spot on the bed. It was a four-poster, complete with the ornate headboard and spire-like posts leading up to a nonexistent canopy or bunk. The esper followed and crossed his legs atop the rumpled blanket.

"Okay." Two breathed, more to steady himself than prep Thirteen. "I'll be reading now."

Before Thirteen could shimmy away, Two's padded fingers locked his head in a vise-like grip. A wave of pins and needles nipped at his scalp as Two's ability washed over him. The esper's lids shut, the eyeballs flitting everywhere underneath. His lips moved, but no words flowed out. Should Thirteen close his eyes too? Feel the rhythm or some cheesy shit?

"Stop thinking so loudly," Two snapped, startling Thirteen to submission. His shoulders slumped and leaned into the tides of calm and ease descending over him. A minute passed. Two. Thirteen lost count around two and a half. Instead, he twiddled his fingers.

After what felt like an eternity, Two inhaled sharply and wrenched his eyes open. His green eyes settled on Thirteen's, a serious expression ironing his features. "What did you find?" Thirteen dared ask.

"As expected, I had to probe deeper than what I'm used to," Two answered. "But I saw the source of your dream. It was..."

Thirteen leaned forward, almost knocking his forehead against Two's. "What? Why can't I remember it, and why did it appear as a dream?"

"If you're asking for my theory, it could be because it was repressed. Buried into your subconscious so that you wouldn't think of it every waking hour," Two replied. "Then, you said Five knocked you in the head. Perhaps the concussion was enough to restart the synapses—the circuits, if you will."

Thirteen drew away and sank into himself. Of course. Whoever watched them from afar, whoever controlled the Game, had to make sure no one thought of what lay beyond it, from their lives to the people they knew. Whatever mess Thirteen found himself in, it was planned up to the most meticulous detail.

"Do you know what's more interesting?" Two offered.

Thirteen glanced at the boy but didn't say anything more—a sign for him to continue. "Apart from the memory that resurfaced in your dream, I found nothing else," Two said. "No memories went farther back than that bit, and no new details were added compared to what you remember now."

Which formed a different path leading to a different conclusion. An idea popped into Thirteen's head. No doubt it passed onto Two. The esper's eyes lit up. "Well, can I?" Thirteen asked.

Two hummed his agreement. Thirteen peeled off the bed, hearing the boards creak at the absence of his weight. He retrieved his fallen jacket and dug around for Karrel's chip. Two's expression changed from bewildered to shocked to awed in a span of seconds as he watched Thirteen slide Four's chip out of the bioreader and slot Karrel's.

Thirteen waited a few more seconds for Karrel's ability to load into his system. He slotted Four's chip back into his jacket and donned it. Keeping it unzipped, the hems tickled his bare feet. "Keep your ability active," Thirteen instructed. "Let me try something."

Two blew a breath and shut his eyes a second time. Thirteen did the same. Karrel's ability pulsed into his fingertips as he imitated what Two did to him. The path of Two's ability was chaotic at best. When the chip allowed him access to replicate it, ghostly whispers whizzed through his head. It was as if he welcomed a dozen street children into his head, both to play and wreck things. Who knew Two's thoughts were this noisy?

Inhaling a deep breath, Thirteen focused on Two's mind and imagined the motion of peeling back layers. Memories and thoughts mingled in his mindscape. Flashes of color, sparks of life, and deep swirls of passing and permanent sentiments clattered around in one messy narrative. Two's whereabouts for the last few months during the Game became clear. Thirteen resisted dwelling on them, moving inward. Further. Deep, deep down.

The sparks faded and turned glum the deeper Thirteen went, plunging Two's mind into the shadows creeping from the chambers' walls. That was why he flinched when a wall of light burst from the horizon. He exhaled. He was fine. It was just light.

He looked through the bright veil and came across a familiar scene. A boy woke up from a dreamless sleep, confused about his whereabouts. The beeping was there, as well as the scent of disinfectant. Instead of a boy with dark brown curls, however, a boy resembling Two replaced him.

A soft gasp escaped Thirteen's lips as he pulled out of Two's mind. "That's..." he breathed, pushing his hair off his face. His fingers tangled with the dark curls. For a second, he thought they turned orange. "It's the same."

Two flashed him a concerned look. "The same?" he asked. "I can never read my own mind, because...well, that would be awkward, but I have the same memory as you?"

"Exactly like it," Thirteen said. What was going on? Why did they both have residual memories of the same nature—hell, even the same composition and details—residing somewhere deep in their heads? Did the others have those as well? If so...

If so, then it proved Thirteen's hypothesis further. That memory wasn't natural. It was imprinted. Engineered into their heads for the same reason some memories were blocked and buried.

"The Corrector, right?" Two said, snatching Thirteen's attention before it spiraled into oblivion. "That's all we have for now?"

Thirteen nodded. "Do you know anything about them?" he asked.

A shake of the head, and Thirteen had his answer. More information brought more questions. More questions pulled them farther and farther from the truth. If Thirteen was to find the answers and arrive at a truth, he had to do it faster. Time worked against him, bringing him more foes than allies.

And if he was to stick to his principles and commit to his promise, he has to make everyone listen to his discoveries. They have to understand that the enemy wasn't in each other nor in the Game. It was in no one else other than The Corrector.