METANOIA [01.02]

Hospital Stay

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..02.01 | Resuscitation

September 5th, 2057

Red. Red and teeth and metal. Cutting… tearing… rending in violent delirium.

Was he the one the blade was turned against? Was he the one holding it? Was he angry or excited?

He was lying on cold cement; beside him a familiar man’s smoldering face, half of it missing or charred black. He had the urge to kick it away, a gross hatred bubbling up from the shadow of his heart. He was restrained by a great pity.

Pity. How piteous that soul. How pathetic.

Why look at it? Why not turn around and be rid of the sight?

John’s eyes lingered ever still.

When it happened was unclear, but there was eventually a shift and the world became nothing more than impressionistic blurs. His eyes registered bright lights and the presence of other people. These facts weren’t conscious observations, just signals from the most basic levels of his nervous system, yet that fact more than anything pushed them over the border into what was “real.”

More time passed, the voice in his head returned, and his vision became his again. He found himself neatly tucked into a pristine hospital bed. The morning sun did its best to try to shine through the window screen but could only steal in through a small gap at the sill. Those bright rays spilled onto his sheets and the framework of the bed to create a canvas of highlights and shadow.

John couldn’t help but stare in fascination at the horribly mundane scene. The sheet was a pale, uninspiring blue, but he appreciated how the light pierced through its thin materials to ever so subtly reveal the shapes and colors below. And the bed frame had no flair or frills, but its clean, matte finish made the modern manufacturing look all the more reliable and sturdy as it glowed brilliantly in the sun.

There really was nothing special about any of it. And he felt profoundly glad to see it.

He met a yawn with a restrained stretch of his arms, then took in a deep, slow breath to feel the air in his lungs…. Sharp aches in his side wrested his attention with a wince and a sputtering cough, which in turn set off a dull throb in his head. A pleasant reminder of what brought him there.

“Oh, careful now. You’re still not completely healed.”

To his right, a nurse had noticed him while she cleaned and prepped some equipment. With a few more careful breaths, he settled back down.

The nurse greeted him energetically—though with mind to her volume: “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

“Like—” His voice caught at first, prompting a quick clearing. “Like I got cut up.”

“Well, I’ll have some medication for the pain here for you in just a moment, so that should help. Good to see you’re awake, though, that’s progress.”

“How long has it been?”

“About a day and a half. It’s September fifth now.”

“Mmm…”

There was a brief pause. The nurse seemingly expected more of a reaction. “Um… It’s nice that you’re taking things in stride!”

“I was thinking it would be a lot longer, honestly.”

“I guess it’s all good news, then!” The nurse’s expression struck John as endearingly ditzy, with eyes closed as she smiled and her hands folded by her face. “I heard the surgery went very well, and we were able to use a newer technique for getting your lungs sealed up and drained. Thankfully, the punctures were relatively thin, and you were lucky enough that the cuts didn’t get too rough, so they sealed up nicely. You also lost quite a lot of blood and oxygen, and technically, you died at one point, but thankfully…”

She paused and looked to the side with eyes that said she had just caught herself making a pretty large error.

“And you probably don’t need to hear any of that! Everything’s great! Just get some good rest, and you’ll be out of here in no time, ah-haha…” She went on with a nervous smile and laugh, hoping to glaze over her little slip on her patient care training.

John allowed it, too happy about being alive to care about medical formalities already done and dealt with. He simply grinned in amusement as he asked, “Is my phone here and working? Any calls?”

“Got it right here!” She walked over to his bed and picked it out of a tray on a table within arm’s length of him—charging cable still connected. In her other hand, she held some kind of medicine. “Just bear with me a moment…” She set the phone back down, then went through a series of very well-practiced motions to administer the medication.

For all the bubbles floating in her words and expressions, her quick, precise movements with the medicine and equipment showed that her employment was no accident. John had known many nurses; the real airheads didn’t make it, not in that city.

“Okay, that’s it for now! We’ll be back shortly to feed you. Please don’t do anything strenuous. Oh! And a friend of yours was waiting for you to wake up. He said his name is Ed. Are you feeling up to a visit?”

“Yeah, that’d be fine,” John answered plainly, trying to suppress the smile forming.

“Alrighty! I’ll send him over in a little bit then.”

And with that, she left.

John retrieved his featureless black slate of a phone and got to work messaging the “need to knows”—or at least his direct team members at work. His parents were likely informed, so he sent them a message to play down the details and keep them from panicking—not that it would stop them from flying across the country as soon as they could to see him. Besides that, a few other expected people had tried to contact him when he never showed up for work the day before. He replied with some vague details. Sometimes with a shot of his sickbed view for evidence, complete with snarky comments to downplay the seriousness.

One person had been a bit more proactively concerned than the others:

Ed: Hey, I heard you weren’t here today. Something happen? - Yesterday 11:24
> Yoooooo - Yesterday 16:10
> I heard someone got hospitalized in the parking garage last night and I’m putting 2n2 together so if you don’t respond tonight I’m calling every hospital in the area. - Yesterday 20:03

John chuckled to himself. Then, feeling that the immediate tasks were out of the way, locked the screen. The dark reflection on black glass made him curious, and so he turned it back on to examine himself with the camera. He looked mostly the same as ever: short locks of raven-black hair, a neat goatee and chin strap, sharp facial features a flatterer might call “striking” in the right light, and those stone-grey eyes.

He was still a bit pale, understandably, and much leaner than that short hospital stay would warrant. When was the last time he ate a full meal? For a few moments, he let his head and arms fall back to rest and thought of nothing. A moment later, a wash of blissful comfort erased the subsiding pain in both chest wounds and relaxed his muscles—the work of the medication, no doubt. A rather wonderful effect.

As the minutes passed, his eyes slowly drooped shut.

Then a long overdue thought finally surfaced, and his eyes shot back open: What exactly did happen that night?

John knew he was usually a little too comfortable with abnormal situations. On more than a few occasions, his stoicism in emergencies had even unsettled a few of his friends—a trait he picked up from the men in his family. Even so, he felt it would be downright irresponsible to act like nothing had happened.

His memories were telling him that what had simply been a very angry, middle-aged man one moment was a flesh-tearing abomination of bloody fury the next.

Such a thing required some measure of contemplation, at the very least.

Where did it begin? The fight between those two men, yes? He never really did pay attention to what that was about. The older man was so deeply offended his blood vessels could pop, yet the haughty one seemed like he was barely acknowledging the other man’s existence—let alone his opinions. From the way he was acting, John would have put good money down that the prouder one frequently found himself as the target of his peers’ ire—just, in secret more often than not. In contrast, and though John only had a few short scenes to work with, his gut impression was that the haughty one was the sort of ambitious and cocky that had enough actual talent to keep him that way. When smaller men get on the wrong side of that, the envy can become a potent poison.

Playing back each moment that followed, John recalled the whole ordeal. Clear and vivid, his memories felt immaculate, but that alone couldn’t erase his doubts. The human mind—especially an imaginative one—is freakishly adept at creating false memories. Something he’d caught his own mind doing on more than one occasion back in his teen years thanks to frequently lifelike dreams.

However, he had enough material evidence to shelve the “nightmare” hypothesis for the time being. Mere nightmares can’t tear a hole in a man, let alone many. All of which matched perfectly with what he remembered: a chunk of his side, a scratch on the arm, and five nice punctures through the lung.

He felt his chest. He was never one for anatomy, but his heart was around there, wasn’t it?

He stopped thinking about it.

There was the possibility that he had experienced a drug-induced hallucination. However, even if the initial cut he received had been laced with some chemical, it would have been physically impossible for a poison or drug to affect his visual processing that quickly—or so he had to figure. He at least knew blood didn’t carry toxins thatquickly, and it had been hours since he had consumed anything, so the chance he had been drugged beforehand was low.

It was possible he had some kind of brain disorder that twisted his perception. He obviously hoped that wasn’t the case, but the only other possibility he could think of was that he had witnessed an actual demon possession, and that was… an idea that supported the brain disorder hypothesis. John wasn’t one to reject the possibility of the paranormal outright, but a lifetime of discovering mundane answers to life’s many “mysteries” certainly biased his thinking against it.

A knock on the door interrupted his internalized investigation. A muffled voice called through: “Hey, I’m coming in.” The metal latch gave a faint clack, and in strode a tall, familiar man with dirty-blond hair and outfitted in a preppy polo and tailored jeans.

Barely turning to face his guest on account of the medicine, John gave a friendly but very casual, “Sup.”

“Oh, man…” Ed walked over to the bedside, his eyes wrought with not-yet-relieved worries, his mouth trying to find words that his vocabulary didn’t contain and so settled for an expletive before saying, “How long have you been up? I’m sorry, it probably hasn’t been long at all, has it?”

John thought for a moment with a hum, then gave his phone a quick glance. “Maybe twenty minutes? But I’m pretty lucid now, so don’t worry about it.”

“That’s good, I guess. So, what…” Ed’s head bobbed slightly as he tried to size up the injuries on his friend. “What happened exactly?”

“Well, if I’m remembering correctly, I got cut bad over here…” John gestured to the spot on his lower left ribs now covered by a clean hospital gown. “… a little bit on the forearm here… and then I got stabbed right up here in the chest.”

“Stabbed!? What kind of psychopath did you run into!?”

John recounted the events as he remembered, substituting the clawed abomination with just a disgruntled, knife-wielding office worker.

“What in the… That’s some awful luck.” Ed plopped down into a guest chair. He rested his elbows on his knees as heavy worries brought his eyes to the ground. “This is insane… I mean, people are people no matter where you go, but it’s hard to believe someone here would go so far off the deep end.”

“It’s not that hard to believe,” John countered. “Yeah, this city’s thriving and new—like what? twenty years now?—but that means everyone’s still got baggage from their old lives.”

“Guess some people didn’t get the memo on what it means to ‘start fresh.’” Ed gave John a slight nod and a grin as if John had done something especially clever in the past.

He probably could have accepted that comment without shrugging a year ago, but now…

Ed’s grin yielded to the serious atmosphere as he was reminded of another topic they had avoided too long—and would again. “Yeah, I get it… I was probably just letting myself get a bit too optimistic.” He turned to the window, drawing up the shade to survey the expanse of buildings, roads, parks, and plazas beyond. John peered out as well as he could from his bed.

“The ‘Joule’ of the West and the Forefront of World Progress—as the promotional videos claimed…” Ed declared.

A claim so arrogant, gaudy, and grand that it demanded the whole nation’s attention and many eyes more. It was a shamelessly pretentious boast but had enough money and talent behind it that—when all was said and done—tens of thousands still flocked there on that promise of a better life. Or at least a more exciting one.

“… And every bit of it is true. But I guess not everyone can see it. I’ve actually heard a few other surprising stories this last month.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about this particular event being part of some trend,” John said.

“Yeah?” He tried to wear his usual, happy-go-lucky smile, but a doubt remained. “It’s not like I’m worried about the city’s future, but what makes you say that?”

“It would have been an… extremely abnormal situation, no matter where it happened.” He wanted to say more to Ed—no one in John’s mind deserved more trust—but he still had to convince himself.

Ed gauged John’s expression for a brief moment, then finally donned a cheerful mood and stood up. “Well, if you’re not worried about it, I’m not worried about it! Hope you heal up nice and quick—got a bunch of juicy political gossip to go over with ya. No rush, though.”

John huffed amusedly. “I certainly won’t then.”

Ed chuckled. “Alright, man. See ya! Get well!”

John barely had time to settle down again after his friend left when the nurse returned with food. Once again, she delivered efficient care with overly detailed commentary and a bubbly presentation.

Before she could take off again, John asked, “Hey, was there anything else wrong with me when they dragged me in? Any poisons or drugs in my system… or maybe brain issues?”

“Nope. Not besides the usual effects of oxygen starvation, but we treated you for that,” she tucked away her usual chipperness as she answered. “Is something wrong?”

He admitted outright, “I don’t think I’m remembering what happened properly.”

“I see…” She gave it some thought. “Well, there’s a good chance the recent trauma messed with your memories. Are you having problems remembering anything else?”

“No. Not that I can tell. It just feels like I was… hallucinating when I got injured.”

Another pause told John that she was being quite careful in considering the implications of what he said. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re concerned, and we’ll see about getting a psychologist. However, the other man who was injured was looking to talk to you when you were ready, so maybe that will help.”

“That would be good. Is he here now?” John asked.

“No. It might be a bit, I think. We’ll call him and let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“Oh, and the police said some investigators would be coming by when they could. Don’t worry, though. They said you’re not in trouble, they just need your testimony.” Then, with the cheeriness she had greeted him with: “Try not to think too hard about your fuzzy memories for now and get some good rest. Bye bye!”

The little hospital room returned to silence and John immediately got to thinking too hard. How could he not when the cops were going to come knocking? There was one particular thought he had to check, though he was fairly certain of what he’d find. He grabbed his phone and started searching. Type, tap, parse. One site… then another.

Nothing. Exactly as anticipated. There were hundreds of stories about Joule being a nest of demons, thousands if he stepped out of the lines of the curated search engines. Each with varying levels of fantastical descriptions—all meaningless fiction.

While the internet had remained useful for referencing some kinds of information, it had been decades since anyone could trust the rest. Articles, images, audio, video; every kind of media could be—and often was—the product of some content generator. Countermeasures had been attempted. Laws were put in place and automated scanners were made. Yet, the laws were nigh impossible to enforce because the scanners rarely worked. The damage was done. The technology had spread too far too quickly and was impossible to rein back in. Any image could be fake. Any news story could be a lie. Any friend you made in a chat could be a robot. That became the assumption until proven otherwise. The only information that could be taken at face value was what came directly from a trusted flesh and blood friend. That kind of trust became a man’s gold, and anyone with a lick of sense would suffer all the shames of ignorance before yielding it.

For those with no gold, the world was a maddening place.

There were some trusted sources to be found—a handful of news outlets and personalities whose internet presence was secondary. But they fought tooth and nail for legitimacy, so who would risk that all to publish a story of a demon suddenly appearing? Demons don’t exist.

And that besides, Joulians didn’t care for independent news sources. If facts were found outside official channels, be it city council or an official company feed, it probably came from a snoop—and Joulians didn’t care much for snoops.

Even if a brigade of cops and ambulances had arrived at his workplace that night, only the handful of people still in the area who saw would have cared. If the responders saw the freak, they wouldn’t really want to share. If a photo got out, everyone would treat it as a gag. Demons don’t exist.

That made the other survivor of the incident John’s most reliable means of double checking his own memories. The cops… he might be able to ask… or they might say nothing.

On that note, another point came to John’s attention: if the other man from the incident lived, then that would mean either the attacker fled or…

John’s subconscious dredged up his last memories of the incident. His ears recalled a loud pop, and his arm the strain of reaching out and digging his fingers into flesh. He remembered a blurred burst of color, then the smell of cooked meat.

Then there was a vaguer image of a later time as he was lying on the ground.

If his other memories were broken, he hoped that one was, too.

..02.02 | Vincent

Midday

Despite how quickly everything had happened, John recognized the man immediately. A canine face with chiseled features, the marks of middle age worn proudly, and the prim stylings of a high-class professional. “Vincent Gauthier… Pleasure to meet my savior,” he said with lighthearted exaggeration as sharp eyes analyzed and evaluated. His tone was bereft of that bludgeoning superiority he had brandished before, but his words still dripped with confidence that carried right into the firmness of his handshake.

Between the man’s visage and demeanor, John felt as if he had just greeted a wolf. Savior or not, Vincent’s interest would last only as long as John continued to prove himself worthy of it.

“That’s nice you think that,” John replied. “So maybe you can tell me what I did, exactly.”

“Memory feeling a bit hazy there, eh? If I hadn’t heard the paramedics’ comments while they were retching over that thing’s corpse, I’d have assumed I was high.”

“‘That thing.’ So, it wasn’t…?”

“Human? The freak was like an angler fish with legs.”

Relief washed through John. “And I killed it?”

“Yeah, blew its head right up.” Vincent smirked at the memory. “Wished I could have done it myself, but… it was cathartic enough just to watch. How did you do that, anyway? No one found any guns or tasers around you.”

“That’s the part I’m fuzziest on. I was already losing oxygen fast, but I remember reaching out, and then… No. Before that there was something odd…” There was still something odd. With some focus it became defined. An intangible force that surged and receded like water on his toes as he stood at the edge of an ocean.

Vincent had a brow raised in curiosity as John drifted into his thoughts, yet he waited patiently.

John returned to reality. What he had to say was so vague he felt foolish trying to share, even more so to a man who seemed as critical as Vincent did. Yet, be it from a sense of kinship or some other subconscious signal of trustworthiness, John spoke freely: “While I was dying on its claw, I felt… something like a wave. It wasn’t anything happening with my body, it was… different. Then I reached out my hand and… I ‘popped’ it.”

Vincent was still understandably confused. “With what, though?”

“My hand.”

“That looked and sounded like electricity to me.”

“Yeah, to me too,” John admitted. “I could barely see at that point, but I can say quite confidently that I wanted the thing dead. Very dead.”

“Then your wish was granted,” Vincent snickered. “I suppose if that imbecile could turn into a living movie monster, I shouldn’t be surprised you managed your own bit of magic.”

John held his chin and thought a moment. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He took a deep breath as he considered the implications. There was a sharp tugging in his chest and soreness along his left side. The last round of painkillers was starting to wear off. “I don’t know about you and your leg, but I’m feeling pretty certain this isn’t just a dream.”

“I’m doing a lot better than you, but”—for a brief moment, Vincent let his own lingering pain pull his grin down— “I’m gonna have to agree.”

When that fresh wave of pain dissipated, John wondered aloud, “If I really was arcing electricity out of my hands, what else is possible now? What isn’t… And, what will the triggers be…” Try as he might to think through it all, his guest and growing discomfort made it impossible to focus his thoughts. “Sorry, I got nothing else for now. Maybe once I get some proper rest I’ll have better ideas.”

Vincent couldn’t hide his disappointment well, but he was at least trying to. “All good. Didn’t think we’d find all the answers that easy.” He crossed his arms in contemplation, tapping his left fingers on his bicep while his eyes ran out the window. A curl in his lip said something thrilling was going through his head. “Hey, John. What are you planning to do now?”

“I’ve seen that face a few times in my life. You’re getting some ‘ideas,’ aren’t you?”

“One or two. So, what are you planning to do?” Vincent clearly wasn’t going to let this one go.

“Try to stay sane until they let me out of this bed so I can get back to work.”

“Not gonna try and solve this fun little mystery?”

“Of course I’m gonna try… on the side,” John answered.

“Good; that will do for now. I’m still working out the fine details of my own plans, but we should at least keep in touch—swap notes.” Vincent could barely hold his cool exterior intact under the building pressure of his excitement. “Feels like for the first time since I got here that we got something legitimately ‘new’ on our hands.”

John realized then that he had been thinking the exact same thing.

After nearly being murdered, an average man would have been fearful or angry. But Joule was not home to many average men—for better or worse.

Once they had exchanged the contact info they needed to, Vincent went his way. There was a satisfied smile on John’s lips as the nurse returned to administer the last round of medication for the night. It amused him that she ended up being more right than she likely realized. With the new dose of medication, every bit of anxiety that had built up since he woke had finally melted into quiet anticipation.

..02.03 | Interview

September 6th

Though already sure of his mental state, John went through with voluntary examinations the next morning. His mind may not have broken, but something had certainly changed—it had to have. That wave-like sensation was ever present once he realized it, though it had grown more faint overnight.

Its irregular push and pull was a thoroughly alien presence and he could not make up his mind as to its nature, be it material or spiritual or something else. Yet, when he was alone in his hospital room, there was something to it that brought comfort rather than fear. A feeling akin to having a blinder removed from the edge of one’s vision. His other senses felt much the same as before—if not, perhaps, the slightest bit sharper.

The doctor’s examination started with a simple quiz to check his short- and long-term memory. A nurse proudly declared that he showed no signs of issues there—a welcome confirmation after the physical trauma. Then they moved to tests of his other mental faculties and got equally positive results. More great news, but it wasn’t what he was looking for.

“I’d still like the full brain scan, if that’s okay with you,” John insisted.

The doctor responsible for him asked calmly, “Are your memories of the incident still troubling you?”

“Would it make sense if I said that my head feels different? And I don’t think it’s the medication.”

“If it will give you peace, we can have it done.” The doctor stood up and gathered his notes. “Our schedule for the machine is rarely at capacity—praise be—so we may even get it in before you’re discharged. For now, I must inform you that it is about time to speak to the police investigators. Do you have any objections?”

The suggestion caused John to tense up slightly, but a part of him was also excited to see what he could learn about the case—if they really weren’t pinning anything on him. “Sure. I can talk to them now if they’re ready.”

“Very well.”

The doctor left, and a half-hour later the door opened again for two new guests. They had clean three-piece suits—one brown, one navy—and ties with darker, muted colors.

The lead in brown was a taller, muscular man with buzzed hair who projected strict professionalism. All of which contrasted in a tickling way with his round, softer face.

The navy suited man was on the shorter side with a lean build, straight, black hair just long enough to tie into a knot, and a short mustache with a pointed soul patch. He had a look like a gentleman warrior, but his aloof smirk and relaxed stance spoiled the image.

For all their contrasts, the two at least shared in a strong air of competence.

John greeted them simply. “Hello, officers.”

The man in the lead replied, “Good evening. The doctor says you’re in high spirits. An impressive rebound, considering what you went through.”

“I was hopped up on adrenaline or numb from blood loss for the worst of it, so I can’t even call it the most painful experience of my life.”

The wily one in navy chimed in. “Great. Was worried we’d be getting nothing but half-delirious babbling from you today.”

“They have some real professionals staffing this place,” John said. “Fixed me up quick.”

“Indeed.” For just the briefest moment there was a thousand-mile stare in the eyes of the one in brown. “Well, to introduce ourselves, I’m Declan Malown, and this is Kagiso Okabe. We’re with the Joule Police Department, as I’m sure you’ve been informed, and we need your testimony on the incident.”

“Of course, but can I ask a question first?”

Declan nodded.

“How abnormal of a case is this to you?” John asked.

Neither man’s expression changed as they considered the question. John tried to meet their piercing stares head on… and he succeeded… mostly.

“Violent crime is an abnormal event in this city,” Declan claimed.

“Yeah, but this case had to be a step more stranger than that, I’d imagine.”

“… Quite a few steps more.”

“Jumped the whole staircase, I’d say,” Kagiso added. “Believe me, we’re prepared to hear a wild tale.”

John took a long, relieved breath. “I’d better tell you what I can, then, eh? About ol’ ‘Angler Tooth.’”

“If you’d kindly,” Declan confirmed, pulling out a paper notepad—a rarity in that part of the world.

Kagiso leaned into the wall and made himself comfortable for story time, laughing to himself about John’s phrasing. “‘Angler Tooth.’ Yeah, I see it.”

Unlike with Ed, John gave the detectives the full account of what he remembered right up to when he blacked out. He included every detail exactly as he remembered it—no matter how outlandish—watching intently for their reactions. The investigators listened without objection even as John described the abomination that attacked him. Through the whole telling, neither man so much as raised a brow in skepticism.

“Then I woke up here,” John finished.

“Has anything else happened since?”

“Nothing.”

“What about that electrical pop you heard at the end? You’re sure you don’t know where that came from?”

“As I said, I’m pretty sure it happened when I grabbed the thing’s head, but… I mean, I’ve never had a taser and I don’t know how you’d get one that powerful.”

Declan thought for a moment, then asked, “Can you show me your hands?”

“Sure.” John reached out, palms up and fingers stretched. He, too, had thought to check that detail earlier. but his hands were unmarred. The investigator took another note, then went quiet for a time.

John took that opportunity to ask a question of his own, “What did you think of the body? Was it the way I remembered?”

“I’d say your version was a little toned down,” Kagiso claimed. “Declan actually gagged when he saw it. Mind you it was just one quick ‘Mmph!’ but that’s saying a lot for him.”

“I’m surprised you’re being so candid about this.”

Declan responded, “You the type to watch all the old, cloak-and-dagger detective shows? Great stuff, but you know how information flows in the ‘modern age.’ We don’t need pomp and circumstance to keep this lid shut. Of course, that makes it harder to gather info as well. So…” Declan leaned forward and asked sternly, “Are you sure you can’t remember any other details from that night?”

John ran the mental treadmill again, but nothing was coming to mind.

Kagiso urged him on: “That angry balding man. He ever cover his mouth at some point? Slip in a little something extra? No chance he injected himself with something?”

John shook his head. “Wouldn’t there have been a needle mark on him?”

“There might have been at one point, but he was also human at one point.”

“What about the moment you lost consciousness?” Declan added. “Think again real hard about what else you might remember.”

“I’ve been trying. There was this ‘wavelike’ sensation just before the electrical shock—or like a breeze, you could say.”

“Hmm… a breeze on the fourth basement floor? Would you say that you felt a chill?”

“No, not a chill. It didn’t feel ‘physical’ at all, if that makes sense.”

If Declan was more skeptical after that claim, he didn’t show it. “And you think this might be related?”

“Possibly. The timing seemed meaningful, and then…” He was going to claim that he still felt it, but then realized he no longer did. “… I don’t really know, actually. Those memories are the fuzziest and it’s been hard to concentrate between the pain, painkillers, and visitors.”

“Understandable.” The investigator rose from his seat. “Well, if that’s all, then we can get out of your hair and let you rest. If you remember anything else, give us a call.” With a few swift motions, he pulled out his own phone, tapped away, then John’s buzzed in receipt of the contact info payload.

“Sure. I’ll let you know if I remember something.”

Kagiso waved. “Take care, now!” And then they were gone.

With the return of silence, John sank into his bed and tried to rest, but his mind would not yield; he was stuck on that auspicious absence. Despite what he had told the investigator, he was beginning to feel quite clear about his memories. There was another inexplicable phenomenon alongside the transforming man and the electrical shock, and he had felt it again the day before. Nevertheless, it was true that he was having difficulty focusing, so perhaps his mysterious “waves” were obscured by the noise of his mind.

First, he tried to meditate, empty his mind, and listen. He felt… something but was that it? It was too faint to be sure; it blended in with all of the other novel sensations of his circumstances. Sighing in frustration, he took a different approach. He had always had a rather detailed imagination. So much so that he could sometimes trick his senses. Perhaps he could take advantage of that.

He tried to recreate that last struggle in as much detail as he could: the impact of his kick on its wet, sinewy frame; the feeling of its writhing muscles as he held its arm back; the pooling of fluids in his lung and the choking and sputtering that caused. His right hand flexed subconsciously as his past self shot a hand up at the demon’s head. There was strain in his battered arms, pressure in his chest as its claws slipped through, the vomit-inducing discomfort of having one’s ribs scraped by a jagged nail, then the desperate, stabbing struggle for air as no amount of coughing and spitting would clear the fluids from his lungs.

All of it so vivid, so real—just as it had been, just the way he needed it to be.

John grabbed his chest and gasped for air. To his own nerves’ surprise, there was plenty of oxygen to be had back in the present. Nevertheless, the sudden jolt upset his tender, healing wounds, creating a not-so-imaginary pain and triggering another coughing fit.

It took almost a minute for John to calm himself and a lingering nausea argued with him not to try again. He tried to heed the warning, but he couldn’t find the peace he needed to sleep. He had to feel it again, he had to prove to himself that it was real. It was neither intellectual curiosity nor obligation that made his obsession, but a primal belief: if he could summon it again, then that mysterious, intangible breeze would bring him something of immense value.

And so, he threw caution to the wind and continued to relive the sensations in his memories in all of their grim glory. His body protested, but his obsession pushed him through. His lungs ached, but their sacrifice bought him progress. Then, finally, his suffering bore fruit. There it was, fainter than the day before, but in the absence of any distraction he could let that weak energy permeate his being.

On a whim, he raised his arm to the way it was the moment the killing blow was dealt. To his nervous system, there was a red-eyed horror with fangs from the abyss alive before him. It was a detestable thing, an evil—something that needed to be removed from the world just as quickly as it had come to be. It wasn’t fear John had felt that night as his strength drained, it was revulsion. Even if he was to die, he could not allow that thing to live.

His heartbeat raced, pupils dilating. There was a quiver of anticipation in his mind as a flow of intangible power ran through his hand. Something in his head convinced him it was electricity, but his nerves were un-assaulted and his muscles calm. And it mattered little to his instincts what the form of that weapon was; all that mattered was that it was a weapon.

A pale-blue flash lit up the dark hospital room with a sharp crack. Eyes wide, John sat frozen as the scent of ozone wafted through the air.

He smiled.

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Next

METANOIA [01.03]

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