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Apollonia did not feel like she was in a bad shape anymore.  Yet she felt dizzy all the same, and was nearly leaning on Kiseleva as they went.

She noticed a handful of Response officers, but Kiseleva said something that let them move past.

Then, they saw the group travelling down the hall.

She recognized the rich prick at the rear walking with Y.  She thought she’d seen something about the man in the restraint suit being guarded, but she couldn’t recall what.

Y’s attention snapped to her.

“Please stand aside,” he said.

“Doctor,” Kiseleva said.  “Apollonia is having some kind of episode.”

Y hesitated.  “I can summon Dr. Zyzus to assist you,” he said.  “I am very sorry, Nor, but I am distracted with another important task.”

The rich man smiled.  “I do not mind you tending to a special patient, doctor, if you wish to pause.  I give you permission.”

“I didn’t know it was a bad time,” Apollonia said, glancing at the rich prick, wondering what his game was right now.  “Go on, I’ll talk to the Zyzus guy.”

Y hesitated – she’d never seen that in him – then stepped over.  “He is summoned, but I will take a moment to be sure you are healthy enough to wait.”

He bent over, matching her height perfectly, peering into her eyes.

“She entered a fugue state and then became very weak,” Kiseleva said quickly.  “She was exercising hard, but the medical readouts were highly abnormal.  I’ve never seen brain patterns like what they read.  I quadruple-checked them with my Response scanners and local scanners to rule out mechanical malfunction – but all seems to be correct.”

“. . . I am seeing very unusual activity,” Y admitted.  “Apollonia, how do you feel?”

“Just a little dizzy,” she said.  “And noodly.  You know, weak.”

“A perfectly appropriate analogy,” Y replied.  “Did anything else occur?”

Apollonia hesitated in saying.

How did you tell someone that you think you read another person’s mind?

Even as she thought about it, she felt her consciousness slipping.  A vague memory of falling asleep with her parents awake, watching the television and talking softly came to her.  The memory startled her more than her own drifting consciousness.

She heard the rich man talk, this time to Kiseleva.

“You’re the one who executed the pimp, aren’t you?” she heard him say.

Kiseleva said nothing, ignoring him.

“Your shot was impeccable.  Your bullet pierced both his heart and spine.  Death was inevitable after that.  But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Be quiet,” she heard Kiseleva say.

“Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?”

“Be quiet,” she repeated.  “It is not a request, it is an order.”

“Nor?  Nor, are you all right?” she heard Y ask.

She could not muster the energy to reply.

Then all hell broke out.

A yell of alarm, then a sound like a mallet striking a side of beef.

Apollonia felt snapped out of her trance-like state at the noise, opening her eyes in time to see one of the Response officers being sent flying into a wall like he weighed nothing.

Jan Holdur had broken free.

The other officer raised his sidearm, but was unable to even get a shot off as Holdur grabbed his arm, snapping the bones like they were nothing.

The officer screamed, but brought his other hand up in a blow that staggered Holdur.  Holdur shoved him back, tumbling into the wall, where he fell onto his broken arm.  Agony, like electricity, shot through him, and Apollonia felt it.

Everything seemed to slow down then, as she felt Y push her away.

It was for her own protection, she realized.  Because Jan Holdur was turning already to look at her, and she felt his desire to kill her.

Kiseleva was reaching for her own sidearm, turning to face the man, but she was moving too slowly.  Holdur already had the initiative.

Then she saw Y moving, faster than any being she’d ever seen, faster even than Holdur.  He was a blur in her vision, darting forward.

Holdur’s eyes began to move towards the new threat, but they were not fast enough.  Y’s mechanical hand thrust inwards unerringly, taking the man by the shoulder.

He was sent into a spin, twirling towards the wall.  Even in the strange slow motion she was feeling, she saw how the man’s whole body was pulled along, ripples through his skin, as Y brutally slammed him into the bulkhead wall.

Then Y’s other hand slammed into his back, on his spine.

The man’s eyes bulged momentarily, his vision going glassy.

But despite the shock and drama of it all, her eyes were pulled away from him, like light pulled into the event horizon of a black hole.

They fell on Romon Xatier.

She barely knew the man.  He was obviously some rich asshole, but she didn’t know who the big players were on Gohhi.

But her earlier reading of him had not been nearly deep enough.

He was not a thing of the Dark.  But he was as close as a man could get.

She felt she was falling, but in slow motion, her body still barely moved back, but she couldn’t even feel the sense of terror one felt when they felt themselves going down.

She could only stare into the man, a swirl of feelings and fleeting images.

Into his mind.

It was not like she would have guessed.  She had scarcely believed that she had just read a mind earlier, and it was not an open book that she could peruse for specifics.  Instead it was a jumble of id and ego and superego – or however one wanted to describe the mind – all at once, playing on different layers, blurring into one another.

Images, half-formed and grotesque popped up; Y, somehow flesh and blood, bleeding.  A broken old man gasping for air as blood bubbled from a gaping hole in his chest.  A woman – no, several women, different yet all blurring into one image – dying or dead.  Among them she saw her own face.  Kiseleva’s.

He felt such joy in each image of suffering, but they were not quite enough – never quite enough, not the Platonic perfection he was so desperate for.

All of it unclear, like an unfinished clay sculpture, the details not set, even still slightly fluid.

Dreams, hopes, memories.  She could not tell one from the other, but she knew this:

Romon Xatier was a killer.

He had done this.  She felt the satisfaction, the feeling like he had just struck some just blow against Y and the Sapient Union.  Felt, through his own hand, the device he had just activated.  It had cost so much, been given to him by . . . someone, but she didn’t know who the man was, and like all the other images he was blurry and unclear.

He had deactivated the suit that kept Jan Holdur under control, done it in the hopes of . . . what?

She felt her body hitting the floor, felt pain shock through her, but her mind’s eye fixation on Xatier did not falter in the slightest.

She sifted, felt – saw herself.  Or at least, saw herself as Romon saw her.  A pointless puppet, only acting at being human.  A random woman, but a soft spot for Y.  Dull, ordinary, just a target.  A tool for striking at an opponent that he secretly feared.

Yes, the fear was there.  Eating away at a part of him like a cancer.  It was new, unfamiliar, and he hated it.  He’d never felt afraid before.

. . . kill her, you fool . . .

. . . smug machine, your turn to be humbled . . .

. . . show me red, please I want to see the blood so much . . .

His thoughts.  She heard them like whispered words, talking over each other.

This man is a monster, she thought.

And she felt the shock course through him as she thought it.

Until now she’d been only feeling, with little internal monologue.  But she realized now that whatever was happening, she was not just viewing.  She was projecting as well.

Her own feelings began to surface, no longer fully lost in Xatier.  She felt dirty, disgusted to have even touched someone like him. 

His emotions began to turn more fearful, shocked, her emotions bleeding into him, an unknown force he could not control or explain.

It’s me, she thought.  Apollonia Nor.

The person you thought was just some meaningless hollow puppet.

She felt him react to that, shocked, his head turning towards her, still in this strange slow movement of time that she existed in.

Y’s blow against Holdur had sent a splatter of his blood flying and a drop grazed Romon’s cheek as he made eye contact with her.

She felt a surge inside.  Rage, hate.  A desire to lash out at this man who had actually thought he could kill her just to hurt her friend.

You’re a monster, she thought again.

But you’re far from the biggest one here.

Her emotions burst to a climax, and her own vision seemed to fly into him, a sound that was part roar and part primal scream ripping through his mind.  She felt the physical meat that was him ripping, shredding apart on the smallest scale.  Blood vessels bursting, neurons firing and then melting.

His fear had reached a level like that of an animal in the jaws of a predator, and she knew now, for the first time with certainty, that she was that predator.

On some level she’d always known she could lash out and hurt people.  She had done it, without even meaning to.  Or meaning to, but not admitting it, like on New Vitriol.

During the battle against the Hev, after Squats on Sand had died.

This thing had come out of her, and it had killed.

Now, she finally used it consciously as a weapon.

Romon knew it was her.  Knew that this was the result of his own plans and desires.

She made sure he knew that.

And made sure he knew that he was about to die.

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