A Quiet Corner

(I)

Recruitment

Soon it’ll be over. I wonder if I’ll miss it.

Like every swollen Friday, Simon allowed his mind to wander. To wade deep into the dark blue forest of destructive imagery. This cool, November Friday would be no different. He closed his eyes.

It began.

With most students prim and proper in their sixth period classes, anxious with weekend plans, or anxious without any plans, there was little time to react. The brown bottomed floors of the campus shook, subtly at first, then fiercely. An ugly darkness draped them in in a false night when the lights became sparklers, and the glistening glass desktops turned to sour milk.

For a few moments – an idle calm whispered in on frozen air. A calm that seemed almost taunting – like the tense moment after lightening in a Midland summer, as you waited, and counted eager seconds on your fingers for the thunder to clap.

Teachers, like their pupils, were struck dumb, but as time crept forward, and a distance grew from that opening jolt, everyone drew settled breath.

When it struck again, and it did so swift and strong, tension turned to terror, and grim turned to gloom. The tall stretched walls buckled and wailed and screeched from the angered stress of the floors above.

The alarms sang loud their agony, singeing the air like burnt toast. Fiendish panic, an operative result of adrenaline and fear bellowed like a chorus, as a mighty mayhem gnawed at the Danaus Academy like a great beast.

Many sought refuge in the passages – crammed wall to wall with screeching students. The less quick, and less agile dove under desks, lab tables and the capsule simulators affixed at the walls.

The chaos continued, with ripping partitions, raining glass, and crushing screams. Evacuation seemed hopeless – a senseless waste of time.

The Dean, and his true, trusted staff were in shock. Confusion came pouring like a hard rain or an avalanche or a landslide. Fear was now the same as rational thought, and rational thought the same as horror. Their offices were crumbling around them. They thought short and reckless for the students above, then headed for the exits.

The scene grew like mushrooms or wildflowers after a forest rain. Seconds ticked like minutes as the cold time froze.

In less than 20 minutes, the four storey school, hailed as an architectural gem of Europa, was reduced to a mound of masonry, glass, metal… and bodies.

Simon opened his smiling eyes.

[Quite a vision, Simon, and you find this fantasy satisfying?]

[Hello?]

Silence.

[Is someone there?]

A continued – demeaning silence. Simon shook his head. Scattered thoughts. Maybe it’s… No, wait… I imagined it.

[Hello?]

[Yes – I’m here.]

Anger – anxiety – sickening fear.

[How dare you….?]

[….what? Intrude upon your insatiable hatred of everything living?]

Horror bit at the boy as he turned in his seat. Angered, sweating, and disturbed he scanned the vacant faces in glimmering desks. A gripping, tremulous feeling saturated him. An enemy assault – an attack. Which one of the pathetic prims was it?

[Oh, my!] The condescending thought scorched him like a torch. [Could you honestly imagine Troy, Perry, or Mia with this ability?]

Simon slunk into his desk. He saw his own despair reflected in the glass top. He continued scanning the vacant faces. His Analytical Thinking class had become a nightmare.

[Perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe you’re not the one for whom I’ve been searching.]

An immoral minute crawled ahead and he fell into acceptance. The intruder was hidden. Within the school, perhaps, maybe watching through some surveillance feature he’d yet to disable.

[Still trying to work it out, eh? Did you honestly believe your abilities were that unique?]

[Who are you?!]

Simon’s hands began to shake – half in anger – half in fear. There was another. Inside his mind. His teeth clenched.

[I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere, Simon, but… there’s something I would like you to consider.]

[WHAT?! CONSIDER WHAT?!] His thoughts were angry – aggressive, but… curious. Someone had violated his mind. It was inconceivable.

[You’re using your gifts to play – to dabble in exploits beneath even those you loathe the most for their intellectual failings.]

[What are you talking about? How do you know what I’ve been doing? Who are you, damn-it?]

[Apparently you’ve been using your talents for sadistic entertainment. And…]

[…What, sadistic? I haven’t…]

[…Simon… Embarrassing Mr. Erasmus by having him forget to fix his zipper after the washroom. Having Ms. Davies misplace her keys over and over again, causing her to question her own faculties.]

Simon squirmed. He felt helpless – defenceless.

[Need I continue?]

[No.]

[These are children’s games. Cheap, and vindictive. And now you envision yourself moving up to senseless slaughter with the destruction of an entire school.]

[Wait! Those were just pranks… games… I’m bored here, don’t you get it?]

[My time is limited, young man – and I value it. I also know when to accept my mistakes. I fear you are not the one I’ve been looking for.]

[WAIT! DON’T GO! I need to know who you are.]

The boy was in a deranged panic. He was unnerved by the intrusion, but more unnerved at losing contact with the intruder. He crawled deeper into the thin, tight seat – into his quiet, anxious mind.

[I’m sorry – I just don’t have the luxury of time.]

[Wait! Just answer one question before you go. PLEASE!]

[Please, Simon? Funny, I wouldn’t have imagined you pleading for anything. In fact, I’m quite convinced you’ve simply taken whatever you’ve wanted.]

[What if I changed?]

There was no response. Simon grabbed the ends of his desk with blue knuckles – the muscles in his arms, like strung, taut cables, hurt.

[Did you hear me…? What if I…?]

[Yes, I heard you. I’m simply considering my decision.]

Simon brightened – the air freshened – the feeling of ugly despair and seeping anxiety lifted.

[And?]

[That was the right question.]

[Crisp – so, who are you? And how can you…?]

[…I’ll have an answer for you before the day’s end. I have something urgent to attend. That is, unless, you’re really planning to take down the school, and killing all of those infantile prims as you call them.]

[Wait – No. That’s just a game. I do that every week. I wouldn’t really do it… Don’t go. I need to know more about….]

[…This afternoon Simon. But, there is one thing.]

[What?]

[Assuming you don’t destroy the school, and I do believe you won’t – but… that plan you have for Ms. Derricks with her skirt clasp… embarrassing her in front of…]

[…Forget it. I was only going to do it because she was thinking of failing me. I promise I won’t – I won’t do it.]

An anxious pause.

[I have to go. I’ll have that answer for you later – before the end of the day. Do take me at my word. If I confer to you a time, you should consider it a mathematical certainty I’ll deliver.]

[But when?] Agitation cut him in earnest. Another Telepath. The first time he’d encountered one, and he was leaving. Or, already gone. [How will I know if you’re even here?] His heart was racing – beads of sweat fell from his forehead. [Hey! Are you still there?]

‘Mr Borealis! MR BOREALIS!’

‘Uhm… yes, Ms Pidara?’

‘Simon.’ His teacher – shrill and sharp – arms folded. ‘I’ve been calling you for nearly five minutes. You should consider getting your sleep at night – not in my classroom.’

‘I-I’m sorry, Ms. Pidara. I must have dosed off.’ He looked around at the squinty, prims peering at him. The delicate woman’s eyes probed him. His nerves were stretched like piano strings. He looked sick and cold and drenched in green sweat.

‘Is there something wrong?’ A cutting voice.

‘Fine – No… I’m fine. I promise, it won’t happen again. Could you repeat the question?’

‘Well…’ A softer voice. She was taken aback by the defiant teen’s compliant response. ‘Would you please analyse the phrase on the projection, deriving from it at least three discreet suggestions?’

‘Sure.’ Bright and attentive, he straightened in his chair. He read the phrase aloud through quivering lips. ‘What time is it?’

Many wary eyes searched him – eyes that usually found every way possible to avoid him. He then provided the young academic seven discreet suggestions – possible interpretations of the question.

When finished, Ms. Pidara, appeared spellbound by his eager participation, and far-reaching analysis. She thanked him and began rearranging his interpretations on the high, shimmering panel.

The class, her lecture, and his agitation continued.

As the module light flashed, Simon left the classroom immersed in equal portions of fear and anger. The handsome, yet ill-mannered, 17-year-old, with chocolate brown hair and green, glass eyes, stood hot and compressed in the corridor.

The ceiling glowed bright overhead – the walls, shadowed and clumsy beneath, seemed to close in on him. Illegal smoke filled the air, and Simon felt strange and unsettled.

He’d been invaded. The looks, and stares from the prims who had to walk around him, failed to register. His hatred for them was pure, and understood.

There was something new to consider. His pranks, destructive games, and mental assaults over the years were known – possibly observed. But… by who? Who entered his mind during class to badger him about his years of entertainment?

Maybe I imagined it. His thoughts ablaze. Yeah – that makes clean sense. Maybe I was plaguing myself for something I did. Maybe something recent. Yes – that’s it. Surely. How stupid.

This was comfortable, crisp logic.

But – what if…? He had to think, but, just as those around him, whose minds and thoughts, to him, were easy prey, if there was another… pause – another like him… a longer pause – whatever he was thinking, even now, was being overheard.

The scorching vulnerability was infuriating.

It was possible he was as unaware of a telepathic assault as the pitiful creatures around him. Putrid thoughts filled him like a cold, colourless mist.

[Hello?]

Silence.

They were my own thoughts. Yeah. This is bullshit. I’m pathetic. Time for class.

Maths, sixth period, was demeaning. Mr. Erasmus was so painfully absorbed in his ludicrous equations, Simon was able to pull from him the answers to every problem with little effort.

When the spectacled, pot-bellied man would lose focus, wandering into some insecure ramblings about his income taxes, or his babbling wife from Ganymede, and Simon needed an answer, there was always his fall-back quarry, Isabella Diderot.

Isabella, though a nebulous prim, was dedicated and dutiful. Sharp and searching. Prim and Proper. With her six millimetre thick glasses, stringy, blond hair, she looked like a bug from one of the Calisto colonies. He laughed, glimpsing her from the back.

Periodically, while foraging (his term for telepathy) for answers, or a slice of amusement, Simon would stop, look around, and question for the intruder.

[Hello?]

Each time the question simply drifted – unattended.

Half way through maths Simon was convinced he’d invented the earlier incident. He dispensed with the absurd notion that there was someone else. It was irrational. Ha! How stupid. Another year here and I’ll end up one of them – a prim.

He chided himself, then got on with his ritual entertainment. Listening – enjoying – making the bright ones lose focus when working equations – making his least favourites voice their thoughts aloud – embarrassing. Simple fun for a telepath – something to do. But then, after ten years – even fun could get boring.

With the clock enticing the end of the day, during eighth period Computer Science, Simon was himself again. He watched and listened like a skilful spider – an artist – a sculptor – as Ms. Ferguson fell to vulnerability.

There’s nobody listening – Some weird hallucination. Stupid. Time for more boring fun.

The process was simple. A trivial set of suggestions dropped into her sub-conscious, which she’d perceive as her own thoughts. These could be anything. This dress makes me look old – heavy – overly desirous. Does he know I’m 38, and not 32, as I told him? Do I look younger without my glasses? Any of these would do the trick. A cyclonic effect of destructive rumination. The full set would be like dropping her into a whirlpool of destructive insecurity.

I’ll give her a full set – she deserves it.

Once set into motion, it was like yielding the effects of a siphon. All ecstasy now, listening to the tiresome woman pour one insecure thought after another, on top of the ones he’d implanted. And watching her positioning herself, again and again to gain glimpses of her reflection in the classroom window. Just satisfying enough.

Ms. Ferguson was failing fast. Even elemental programming knowledge was now in question to the rapidly faltering teacher. Her preparations for the class were tumbling along with her self-esteem.

It’s funny, he thought, perceiving her questioning herself on rudimentary skills. Once a person had fallen into that synaptic whirlpool, the wholeness of their mental acuity becomes equally compromised.

He was chuckling inside, wondering whether the pathetic prim with a teaching credential, could manage to turn the blasted box on at this point. He watched and listened and smiled. It was just enough to make this final period of the day tolerable.

He sat back, with fingers locked behind his head, worshiping the moment.

Then, like a dark cloud passing over him, Simon had a thought. A shrieking, damning, paralysing thought. It sliced into his bliss and everything turned to foul, grey mist. What if the intruder worked for the police? What if he was part of the military? What if he hadn’t manufactured it? What if…? Pause… A bitter tasting image of him leaving school and being stopped by Federal Agents on the steps appeared.

Another image sliced through him, sour and mean. He fell from it, like you would from a bright light in a darkened alley. Hell itself seemed to be reaching up through the floor – clawing, and gnawing at him.

Handcuffed and sullen he was being led away to an unmarked transport – fear searing him – scalding blood racing through him. More images. Questions, and hard accusations – a darkened room – agents with black gloves, twisted faces.

He was bleeding, aching – Please stop! No sympathy here – more questions – more cutting accusations – more beatings – more guttural laughter. He shuddered beneath their sordid enjoyment.

He was about to snap. The room was spinning. He was beginning to hyperventilate – a panic attack. He was going to pass out.

[Unsettling, isn’t it?]

He jolted – his mind cleared. The room came back into focus. It was over. Dear God, it’s over.

[You – you’re back.]

[Well, to be honest… I never left.]

[So you baited me. That’s sick.]

There was a delay – an awkward sickening pause. Simon felt sure the intruder was scoffing.

[Let’s just say I allowed you to draw your own conclusions. But, let me ask you something.]

[What?] An indignant reply.

[It took you a string of three to five suggestion for you to send that poor teacher of yours into a landslide of insecurity, didn’t it?]

[What’s your point?]

[During your own plunge into threatening, insecure questions and imagery, can you deduce the number of suggestions I placed into your mind to send you into that well?]

[Wait! I can’t remember how it started – I mean – I don’t know. Who are you, damn it?!]

[One, Simon. Just one.]

[Bullshit. All of those images…?]

[…Yours.]

[All of those questions about…]

[…All yours. Every one of them. Just a simple image of the Police – a suggestion of peril, and you took it and developed it into quite a quagmire. A rather vivid one, too. It was a simple deduction that you would have, at some point, delved into a worst case scenario of your activities, so, I presumed a mere suggestion of an event you had already played out.]

[OK, so you’re better at this than I am. What do you want, a medal? Applause?] An angered grimace.

[No Simon, neither would I find appealing, and neither would assist our cause. I would, however, feel more motivated to continue if you were to right our Ms Ferguson. She happens to be a very sweet woman, who takes her position seriously. It’d be nice to see her regain her confidence, so she can complete her class, and meet her young man feeling settled.]

[OK, I’ll do it. Then you’ll tell me who you are, right?]