Reverse: 1999 story · Event stories
Anecdote: A Night Without End
8 scenes, 823 lines
1. Recollection
132 linesOnly that day dawns to which we are awake. —Henry David Thoreau
In the wake of the chaos, staff are pacing hurriedly between the wards and corridors.
The glass from the broken window has already been cleaned up. Now their main focus is getting the damaged equipment out into the abandoned warehouse.
Hey! Careful, you idiot! The materials for this thing alone could pay your rent for six months.
S-Sorry ...
Ah, crap! Not the Anawa Water Purifier!
Seriously? Can't Vertin and her broom-riding henchman show a little more care? This was decommissioned back in 1920 'cause the mortality rate was too high—but it's a total classic.
Hey, Mesmer Jr.! I'll take this one! It's no use to you anyway. Just let it live out its final days in my lab!
Their call doesn't reach the intended recipient, instead only echoing through the corridor.
No response. Then it's theirs.
Sweet! Alright, you, put that down and help me carry this back to my lab!
...
Away from the chaos outside, Mesmer Jr. sits at her desk.
Before her sits a mountain of machine damage reports and request forms. They tower well above her head.
This entire incident has been a logistical nightmare.
Broken machine report, check. Transfer special patients, check.
Right, my "special" classmate. This is the last time I clean up your mess.
She stacks the pile of documents into a box.
Only one sheet of paper remains on the desk.
This is an entirely different problem, one that belongs solely to her.
*sigh*
She picks it up for what feels like the hundredth time.
"Patient 'Jerry Wilson' has undergone the required evaluation period. He may be discharged after a final examination by the attending physician."
...
She closes her eyes and tilts her head back as she contemplates this.
She puts the consent form back into the drawer.
Amidst the hurrying people, a girl in a green nightgown stops in front of an iron door. She's talking to a man through the little barred window.
Yes. Every three weeks, Ms. Tooth Fairy brings me here for a checkup.
She said that the bad cells in my body are like a disobedient little puppy, hehe.
She said, "Who knows where it will have run off to tomorrow?" That's why I have to have these scans.
Heh-heh, I get it, kid. When I was around your age, my ma gave me a puppy. She was a ball of energy, running and jumping around the room. She even tried to dig a hole in the couch.
My ma said she was a hundred times more annoying than the sound of the neighbor's drilling. Heh-heh.
She must have been quite the nuisance.
For a while, yeah. She wouldn't leave me alone—stuck to me like a piece of gum to a shoe.
But then a few good-for-nothing human kids tried to wail on me, and my little bodyguard chased 'em all off. Heh, she tore those kids' pants apart. Course, my ma went to their houses later and helped patch 'em back up.
The man on the other side of the barred window lets out a long sigh.
Would ya listen to me? When did I become an old man telling old tales?!
Anyway, kid, you can trust the staff at the LSCC. Yeah, they're an odd bunch, but they'll help ya recover.
And when that happens, maybe you can get yourself a real dog—your own little troublemaker. Heh-heh.
I'm telling ya, before you know it, it'll be half your size and your loyal bodyguard. Just like Betsie was to me.
The man gives a reassuring smile through the bars in the window. Cristallo closes her eyes, imagining the little dog happily running around her feet.
She opens her tired eyes. She looks as fragile as a newborn bird.
I've always thought I'd be too weak to take care of another life. Thank you, sir.
She rummages through her pockets, eventually pulling out a small piece of candy.
Do you like candy?
My mom taught me to be generous to new friends, but this toffee is all I have at the moment. It's a little sticky. I hope you don't mind.
Of course, I don't mind!
He reaches through the barred window and gently takes the child's gift.
*clang—clang, clang*
Hm?
A huge crash echoes from elsewhere in the building.
Heads turn in confusion.
Gold! Gold!! See this?! This California gold?! I dredged it all by myself straight from the river of blood! It's mine, haha! All mine! I found it myself!!
He staggers through the bewildered crowd in the corridor, half of his brain exposed through his open skull.
Further down, two staff members are struggling to move a piece of equipment as they try to catch up with the escaped patient.
I TOLD you your dosage was off! And what's the point of restraint straps if they don't actually RESTRAIN the PATIENT?! Now we're gonna be stuck here all night writing the longest, most annoying incident report ever!
B-But, based on Mr. Cobb's medical history and age, the dosage was appropriate, considering half his brain has been removed.
A normal dosage would've put too much strain on what's left of his brain, and based on the Glasgow Coma Scale, he was already in a state of—
Ugh, save it for the report!
He reaches for the emergency security button on his chest, but quickly sees the patient charging toward a young girl like a raging bull.
...?!
Gold! No one can take it from me! It was my father's! It's MINE!!
The girl, unable to move, sits frozen. Tragedy seems inevitable.
A hand rests on the girl's shoulder.
Ms. Mesmer Jr.?
14:27:10.
She glances at the time.
Your appointment's next, Ms. Cristallo. One moment.
She waves her hand, and security swiftly moves in.
Restrain him. We already have enough mess to clean up.
Uuhh—uh! Here! Yeah, right here! Have to bury my gold.
The "gold" clutched in his arms is in fact a pillow. It slips from his grasp and falls to the floor.
He goes limp as a cold liquid is injected into his body.
His mind grows foggy, his speech slurred.
*thud*
As the needle in his neck is withdrawn, he crumples to the ground.
Whose decision was it to skimp on the midazolam? We have more than enough of it to keep these lunatics under control.
I'll have to file an incident report with the director about this.
Tsk.
The man lowers his eyes in an attempt to avoid confrontation. He leaves, pulling the newly hired intern by the arm.
Let's go, newbie. See what compassion leads to? You better remember this, else you won't have much of a future here.
...
He lowers his head in shameful silence.
Wait.
The verdict hasn't been announced yet. She seems to have found new charges against her suspects.
"Adam Thompson." That's your name, right? This is your ID number hanging on the door. Number 1415-132-5SG.
She points to the iron door in front of Cristallo.
Yes, Ms. Mesmer Jr.
Ms. Cristallo has been conversing with your patient.
This is a tier two management area. Regulations dictate that our patients aren't allowed to communicate with anyone other than the relevant care staff, unless special allowances are given.
*clang—clang*
The patient behind the door suddenly slams his head against the iron.
Stop! Stop talking! Damn hook-nosed witch, get out of my head!
Needles! Plague! Ooooh, those bugs have crawled inside my head and bitten me sore!
...
See? He was just rambling to himself. No need to terrorize the kid over it.
You know, with Lucy's new plans and now the Timekeeper incident, we really need all the help we can get.
So do us all a favor, Ms. Mesmer Jr., and try not to scare off the new recruits.
Someone has to stand up for the newbies.
Alright.
Without another word, she turns and leads the girl away.
The intern lets out a deep sigh of relief.
Thank you, sir. Oh, and ...
Mr. Wilson, thank you for your help, too.
The man behind the door gives a gummy grin as he rubs his reddened forehead. It seems he's quite the actor.
Glad to be of service, "officer."
Cut it out, Jerry.
He gives him an almost contemptuous look.
While Cristallo's treatment is short, she still needs a place to rest afterwards.
Mesmer Jr. has led her to a nearby abandoned ward.
The place is littered with boxes of papers and equipment, but it's safer than the occasional madman-terrorized corridor.
Wait in this room while your treatment takes effect. Don't go anywhere. Tooth Fairy will come pick you up soon.
Okay, thank you.
Her eyes fall upon a nearby pile of books. She has always been an avid reader.
Um, may I read these books while I wait?
Cristallo leans forward, tucking her slender wrists between her legs.
Mesmer Jr.'s eyes glance over the pile of disorganized books with the same interest that a garbage collector looks at some soon-to-be-crushed cardboard.
An urgent voice echoes from outside the door.
Ms. Mesmer Jr., Madam Lucy is waiting for you in the office.
Mesmer Jr. leaves, closing the door firmly behind her.
As her footsteps fade, Cristallo slowly relaxes.
She takes the book at the top of the stack.
There's something between its pages. She opens it up to find some kind of dreamcatcher tucked inside.
Removing the dreamcatcher, she flips to the title page.
"Dorothea."
She turns the page and reads the first line.
"I had never treated a patient who was one of the Manus before."
"His name was Jerry Wilson."
2. Severance
186 linesI had never treated a patient who was one of the Manus before. His name was Jerry Wilson. In fact, I had never had the opportunity to. You see, I met him on my first day at the Laplace Rehabilitation Center. From submitting my application to my first day at the center, the process had been remarkably fast. I remember the night before I started, I was too anxious and excited to sleep. On one hand, I was thrilled to become an attending physician at the rehabilitation center, a pinnacle in the career of anyone in psychiatry. On the other hand, I understood that when a massive institution suddenly speeds up its administrative processes ... ... it means they are facing some urgent issues—a situation that cannot be delayed.
Oxygen saturation's critically low, heart rate's plummeting, pupils are dilated ... Patient Wilson's fallen into a coma.
We were rushing Jerry Wilson through the halls on a gurney. It was a race against time.
Sweat gathered on our brows, but there was no time to stop and wipe them.
His heart and lungs are failing!
Get him to the OR! We need an ECMO machine! Get it over here, quickly!
Fisher! Fisher?! Damn it, where is he? We need that ECMO machine!
Our shouts echoed through the corridor, but no response came.
Fisher was nowhere to be found.
Fisher's in the washroom. I'll go grab the machine!
Damn it! Do we have to get him diapers or something?
The situation was beyond urgent.
The situation was beyond urgent.
The number of patients under the effects of the Storm Syndrome was overwhelming. Most of them were arcanists employed by the Foundation, and a few were ordinary humans suffering severe neurosis as a result of intense mental stimulation.
Some swallowed razor blades, some smashed their foreheads into bloody messes. Many had bowel obstructions from shoving things down their throats and ended up vomiting their own waste.
Some well-meaning Foundation members had dragged their colleagues into safe confinement, only to have their legs broken by them.
Diamonds, triangles, hexagons ... if there was one commonality in these afflictions, it was the delirium in their mutterings.
I had just taken over as the attending physician at sunrise, and by the time I regained my senses, the sun was rising once again.
It was then that I understood why someone who wasn't even a psychiatrist, a girl oscillating between psych wards and ORs, was given this position.
They weren't lacking any psychiatric researchers or professional medical staff, nor did they need another skilled surgeon.
What they needed was a general practitioner, someone capable of bridging the gap between both fields.
I've come to see myself as a "wall mender," someone who seals the cracks the "Storm" leaves behind.
Is this the machine? I brought it over.
A young girl pushed the machine over to us.
Ah, thank you! Well done, girl!
But I'm afraid I don't have a free hand to push it. Could you help us get it into the OR?
Okay.
So she pushed the cart. Her small frame was totally dwarfed by the size of the machine.
"How absurd," I thought. "Why should a child do such a job, no matter how understaffed we are?" Of course, I didn't know the whole story back then.
But if I could turn back time. I mean, go back into the past ...
I would stop that child from ever joining us.
Heart rate at 65 bpm. Patient's vitals are stabilizing.
No, no, wait!
It's accelerating!
Ugh ... Agh!
The ECMO machine had been keeping his blood circulating, giving him a fighting chance.
But at that moment, his blood began to boil like molten lava.
It was an impending "volcanic eruption."
Shut it down! Shut it down!!
But the others were slow to respond, perhaps due to their exhaustion.
As two staff members fiddled with their gloves, fear shining in their pupils,
and another dropped her scalpel,
the child moved swiftly. She obeyed my command with calm precision.
Okay.
*ding*
Watch out!
...!
Blood spurted from the ruptured machine, spraying the walls and ceiling,
and the clothes and face of the child.
Blood transfusion! Get a new machine in here! Now!
...
As we undertook the surgery, she stood silently by, awaiting instruction—whether from me or anyone else.
Despite the blood splattered on her face, she remained unperturbed.
In fact, she was the calmest of us all.
Two months later
Jerry Wilson?
He was curled up, unmoving in his bed.
This is the third time the alcohol disinfectant has gone missing.
I don't believe we have any germaphobes in the rehabilitation center. Do let me know if you see anything, alright?
He remained silent.
Well then, I suppose I'll seek help elsewhere. Thank you for your ... cooperation, Mr. Wilson.
I closed my notebook and prepared to shut the door.
Wait, wait.
Could you reduce the dose of my anesthetic?
A trembling hand emerged from under the covers, pointing to the IV drip.
It's a fixed dose, I'm afraid. Any less, and your emotions will disturb you again.
But I want to dream on my own. I want to see my mother.
I'm sorry.
Every medical professional must learn to refuse their patients. It's for their own safety.
What, so you didn't reprimand him or prepare to take any enforcement measures?
Tut tut, Dorothea. Which hospital taught you to treat your patients like pets?
Empathy is a tool that should rarely be used by a medical professional.
I'm starting to think that you're an undercover arcanist, desperate to take care of your fellow man, rather than a human doctor.
Maybe I should do a little blood test and see if there's any arcanum in you, huh?
Oh, great! I'll add "arcane blood test" to my list of things to do. It's not like I already have enough to deal with!
Setting aside the jokes, I returned to the point.
Anyway, I'm just telling you to follow my lead.
If there's one thing I've learned during my time here, it's that we take away the power of these psychiatric patients not to punish them, but to prevent them from punishing themselves.
And how do you propose we stop Jerry from chugging all the disinfectant in this place? Or will we just pump his stomach over and over again?
No. I've replaced all the disinfectants in this corridor with an alternative, throat-burning variant.
Pfft ...
Hahaha! You really know how to think outside the box, don't you?
At that moment, I noticed the child coming out of the sickroom, busily adjusting the sleepwalking machine.
I finally asked the question I'd been aching to ask.
What on earth did that poor child do to end up as a volunteer in a place like this?
They were silent for a moment, then shrugged.
It seems there was no real interest in the answer.
She's not a volunteer; she's a Mesmer.
"She's a Mesmer." "What kind of answer is that?" I thought.
Alright.
I brushed aside the topic, continuing our conversation on Laplace's logistics and the collaboration with the St. Pavlov Foundation.
But my mind was no longer fully present.
I mean, what does "She's a Mesmer" even mean?
I know the history of the Mesmer family, of course, and the contributions they've made to the fusion of arcanum and human science.
I know about their grandeur and pride, and the endless debates over their conspiracy theories and scientific ethics, and I know about their secrecy.
But what does any of that have to do with a child? And with ...
Hello? Dorothea? Dorothea!
Huh?!
My mind had totally wandered off.
Think we lost you for a moment there. Don't worry about it. Happens to the best of us. Anyway, we're off. See you on Thursday.
See you then.
...
With a wave, they disappeared through the doorway.
I sank into the chair in the corridor.
If something went wrong, it was usually during the rehab center's night shift.
But still, I enjoyed these moments.
It was calm—tranquil, even.
There were no patients wandering the halls, only their steady breathing as they slept,
and the humming and occasional beeping of the machines.
The receptionist, who usually wore a stern expression during the day, looked calm and soft at night.
I could see her feet from beneath the desk. Her socks had little bears on them.
I stepped into that same river three times.
...
Mr. Cobb was mumbling in his sleep again.
The first time, the shepherd had left his flock, and the farmer had quit his hoein', too.
Daddy grabbed his shovel, and we both went out on horseback to find the river.
Old Cobb said we'd never go wantin' ever again.
He said that the trains roared—that not even the devil could take away our fortune.
But I asked him—I asked my dad, see—I asked him, "Where did my little dog go?"
Before I could realize what happened, my eyes had already closed.
I didn't notice that someone was standing in front of me.
Dr. Dorothea ...
Huh?
Child, do you need help with something?
According to Article 3 of the Laplace Rehabilitation Center's regulations concerning patient management, if a patient damages or steals medical equipment or medicine, they are to be transferred and confined within three days.
Mr. Jerry Wilson should be no exception. It's your duty as the attending physician to carry out this regulation.
She had heard our conversation.
These deranged arcanists are beyond reason, Dr. Dorothea. We need to deal with them rationally.
You're a human. You should understand this better than me.
Hm. I suppose you're right, Mesmer Jr.
You'd better go submit a report to the Laplace management committee.
She stepped back.
I could, but I don't want to.
I kneeled down and looked her in the eye.
They're right. You're not like a human at all.
That comment was almost a whisper.
Dr. Dorothea! What are you doing sitting out here?
The nurse hurried over.
I glanced at Mesmer Jr.
Sorry! It was my fault.
Didn't you hear your pager?
An SPDM student has developed new symptoms. We need you there immediately, Dr. Dorothea!
It seemed she knew this child.
Arcanist blood can have a subtle influence on the maturation of a child, often affecting their hormone levels and subsequently, their emotional state.
Most arcanist children unconsciously discover their arcane skills and will naturally start to use them.
But a small number of children develop severe physical and psychological issues. Their bodies and minds reject their own bloodline.
He's already showing serious compensatory reactions.
His body's drawing nutrients from his limbs to support what it considers vital organs. If things go on like this, his limbs will necrotize, and we'll have no choice but to amputate.
*cough* Mesmer Jr. ...
His sudden awakening caught me off guard.
He gripped the girl's hand like a drowning man grabbing onto a floating piece of wood.
C-Can you tell the doctor not to cut off my legs? Please *cough* I-I promise I'll never throw paper balls at you again.
*cough* I swear ... I-I swear ... *sob*
She remained silent.
I removed Joseph's hand from hers to ensure he didn't hurt her.
Then I stroked his burning forehead.
Everything will be alright, Joseph. You'll keep your legs, I promise. Just get a good night's sleep, and you can take a little walk in the morning—wherever you want.
I signaled the nurse to bring the anesthetic mask.
Mesmer Jr., are you alright?
Again, she remained silent.
...
She was trembling like a child who had just crawled out of an icy river.
Yes, a child. It suddenly struck me. She was no older than my sister when she still begged me to buy candy for her.
Her nails were dug deep into the palm of the hand that Joseph had grabbed. She was looking at the floor.
Listen, Junior, go outside and rest for a bit, okay? I'll take care of the surgery.
No. I'm staying. I promised him. I already promised him.
She hadn't spoken her promise aloud, but I understood what she meant.
Lia, let's begin.
I gave the nurse a nod.
...
The more cruel cases we witness, the stronger, yet more fragile, we become. After I graduated and started working at the hospital, everyone around me said I was becoming less human. When my sister told me about her trivial school problems and tears streamed down her face ... I remembered the child whose eyes had been burned out by his parents' cigarettes, praying I'd perform some magic to restore his sight. But I could neither comfort nor save him.
Don't blame yourself, Junior. Whether you got the injection to him in time or not, it wouldn't have made any difference.
...
Her eyes were on me, but I could tell she wasn't all there.
They were hollow, vacant.
Please step aside. I need to throw these into the medical waste bin.
According to the rules on the disposal of medical waste, these legs must be brought to the proper location.
She carried the blood-and-leg-filled bag to the end of the corridor.
As I washed the blood from my hands, I couldn't help but imagine Joseph running through the fields,
laughing and playing with his friends.
Eventually, the anesthesia wore off.
And the boy's heartbreaking cries wailed through the hospital.
3. Salvation
100 linesHealing and helping are only small parts of our work.
The rehabilitation center houses a large number of mentally unstable patients. Besides protecting them, we must also protect ourselves.
You! You people are tryin' to pull my soul clean outta my head! Steal my organs and then stuff those-those damn curses into my body!
I won't allow it! I-I WON'T!!
He was crouched in the corner, waving a syringe in his hand, threatening anyone who tried to approach.
He's completely lost control, Dr. Dorothea. We have to call for help!
No, wait! Come on, Dorothea, use your brain. Something must've triggered this. There has to be a way to calm him down.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Let me give it a try, kid.
What? But you're a patient, too! We can't let you do this.
Are you sober, Mr. Wilson?
Yeah, thanks to your throat-burning disinfectant.
I studied his face. He was right. His eyes looked clear. I nodded to the staff.
Hey, Cobb, you ruined my breakfast. What's got you so worked up?
Why don't we have a talk, huh? We can share my bread.
He inched closer to the hysterical old man.
Don't eat none of their breakfast, you hear?! The milk's poisoned!
No problem, buddy! No problem at all! You know, I'm more of an alcohol lover than a milk drinker. I never even touch the stuff!
Ah, good, great! Your head won't morph into a diamond. Hah, you won't become one of those terrifyin' horned devils.
Cobb continued to mutter to himself.
Listen! Listen to me! They done somethin' to the spoons in this place. They changed 'em into triangles so they can bury geometry inside you! Then, "Bam!" it'll burst through your belly, and you'll be just like them!
Look, I have a spoon in my pocket. See? It's oval! Does that make you feel better, buddy?
Yes! We've figured them out! Now we just have to pretend that nothing's happened. Yeah, we'll go back to our rooms. That'll fool 'em! They'll think we're one of them!
Jerry Wilson put his arm around Cobb's shoulder and slipped the oval spoon into his pocket.
Who would've guessed that a triangular spoon would be the culprit?
It was easy to escort Cobb to his room after that.
You should tone down the look on your face, little girl.
Most of the time, they just need a friendly face to make 'em feel better.
Your arcane skill ... what's it called again? Magnetotherapy? It's not a cure-all, you know.
But my arcane skill has been tested many times. The results can't be wrong.
No, I must have misused it. I haven't fully mastered it yet.
I was supposed to calm him down. It was my responsibility, my duty.
She started to scratch at her scalp, and her words went from monotonous repetition to murmured fragments and broken phrases.
I saw her pride wavering—saw her fear. Things had reached a tipping point.
Is she alright?
Junior! Mesmer Jr.! Hey, kid!
I grabbed her trembling hand, and she finally raised her head to look at me.
Her eyes were red as she looked at me, but she hadn't done anything wrong.
How about we go for a walk? I need some fresh air.
...
The rest area near the rehab center wasn't fancy, but it was good enough for us.
We sat down by the lake, our reflected white clothing blending with the pale moonlight.
Out there, you can't hear the wails and groans of the patients. We finally had a moment of peace.
I took a cigarette from the pack in my pocket and placed it between my lips.
*sigh*
You know, humans like me always need something to rely on.
After a brief flame, the smoke swirled in the air.
Promise me you'll keep my little secret, won't you, Junior?
I will.
Thank you.
Some rely on alcohol, some in their dreams. Obviously, I rely on nicotine.
When faced with terminal illnesses and death, we rely on things all the more.
There's a nurse I know who specializes in caring for abandoned or defective arcanist children.
Mesmer Jr. hunched over, listening intently.
Every time a child died, she would kick a stone from one end of the hospital grounds to the other.
When she was done, she'd go back to her post as if nothing happened.
I'd never seen such an odd thing to rely on. Anyway, one day, she suddenly stopped doing it.
I paused to put out the cigarette.
Why would she do that? That helped her, didn't it?
I'll have to let you ponder that one yourself. I've told you my secret, so what's yours? What do you rely on, Junior?
I don't know. The SPDM doesn't allow the kinds of things you mentioned.
I just do as I'm told, moving back and forth between the SPDM and Laplace. My father says that I'll become an important member of the LSCC in the future and bring honor to the family.
He said that I must make my contribution to the peace of the world. He said that the Mesmer arcane skill is special—that I should use it to help calm those in need.
Heh. No one asked for your opinion, did they?
But it's the duty of the Mesmer family to put our arcane skills to good use. We're the only ones who can do what we do.
We have to follow the rules. We have to follow reason. That's how things get done.
My father said that the entire family gathered and decided on the optimal path for each of us, including me.
Ah, I'm jealous. I've always been more on the figure-it-out-as-you-go train.
I've done all sorts. Served at restaurants, delivered a foal ... Hah, I fainted the first time—wasn't expecting so much blood.
When I came to on the hospital bed, my future colleague said, "Guess the little duckling dove head first into the ocean." Hahaha!
I've never experienced anything like that. At the SPDM, we just do as we're told—what must be done.
You'll have your chance, Junior.
I patted her on the shoulder.
They're experimenting with memory storage using the artificial somnambulism machine. When things calm down at the rehabilitation center, I'll take you into a few of my memories. There are plenty of foals and plenty of times when I've made a fool of myself.
But I suppose your arcane skill lets you go to dreamland whenever you like, right?
She shook her head.
I haven't dreamed since I came to the LSCC.
At least it means I don't have nightmares anymore.
I was worried about her. Dreams help us release our repressed emotions. If her feelings didn't have anywhere to go, they would surely emerge elsewhere in her life.
Here, take this. It'll help you sleep.
I know, I know—a human giving you an arcane item. But this thing works.
I-I'm not allowed to use things like this.
I placed it in her palm and closed her fingers around it.
Put it by your bed.
Someday, you'll need it.
Ah, welcome back, ladies.
Last set of pills, Jerry. Not long now until your treatment's complete.
I noted his physical condition in my notebook.
And please, stop self-harming as a form of protest. It's us, not the Foundation's people, who have to clean up after you.
Regulations dictate that you'll be with us for a while longer. I hope we can get along in the coming days.
Junior came in to administer his last round of Magnetotherapy.
Please close your eyes, sir.
But he didn't close them.
Could you ... reduce the dose of the anesthetics today? I think I'm ready to dream.
She nervously looked up at me.
I shrugged.
Let him dream.
Hm?
She's reached the end.
This is the last entry in the diary.
4. Consolation
85 lines
Pedra from the St. Pavlov Foundation has passed down an order to the LSCC.
We need to release Jerry Wilson, Mesmer Jr.
Is that part of the plan?
Her question is neutral, her expression unchanged.
Their statement read, "Please release Jerry Wilson at the appointed time as per the St. Pavlov Foundation's request," so I believe it is.
You seem a little puzzled.
I'm not.
It's just that I have quite a few matters to deal with. But I'll be sure to follow their request.
I'll take my leave now, Madam Lucy.
She closes the door, her footsteps hurried.
You're right, Madam Lucy.
Something was a little off.
Yes. She seemed to be expressing what we call "emotion"—surprising. I always considered Mesmer Jr. to be an employee who followed logic and reason.
People are still hauling broken machines around the rehabilitation center. It is a chaotic scene.
This will need to be submitted to the LSCC for further dismantling. Its recyclability is questionable.
And please, don't let Medicine Pocket find out about this machine. I'm not filing another secondary accident report on their behalf.
Understood, Ms. Mesmer Jr. Alright, folks, let's get this thing into storage before they see it.
Before long, all the machines in the corridor have been cleared.
Mesmer Jr. sits on a chair, taking in the emptiness.
There is no ticking, no beeping, no steady breathing. The new receptionist sits at the counter.
...
I stepped into that same river three times.
Cobb's voice echoes from a nearby ward.
By the second time, people had quit leavin' their homeland. The tailor started weavin', and the blacksmith lit up his forge once again.
I sold the foal and my lover's jewelry and went back to that river.
Without a penny to my name, I scraped that riverbed—tore my flesh and nails apart for my dyin' lover.
One grain, two grains—there wasn't much gold left in that barren land.
The townsfolk all said that Little Cobb had become Old Cobb.
Yeah. He sure did. There weren't no Little Cob no more.
...
...
I warned you! I warned you all!!
Blood laced the shattered glass in his hand. It wasn't his.
*splutter*
The point of the shard was dug deep into her neck, blood pouring down it and over Jerry's clenched fingers.
Dorothea!!
Just let me out of here, and no one gets hurt! You! You heartless bastards!
You Foundation fools want me to obey, follow your orders, be a boot-licking dog!
But not one of you has ever accepted a single one of my requests! So let this damn human murderer pay with her blood!
Security personnel closed in on him.
I-I don't understand. All that has nothing to do with us! We're only responsible for your treatment!
So let's make a deal.
The man stepped back, suddenly realizing that his foot had been bound by a wire.
Now!
The gurney carrying Dorothea was rushed down the corridor.
Dorothea! Dr. Dorothea!!
The child paced beside the gurney, her chest soaked with blood.
Her vital signs are weakening. She needs a blood transfusion immediately!
Damn it! Why'd he have to wake up now? We don't have the staff to deal with this.
Fisher! Fisher!! Get another surgical team over here, now!
"Could you ... reduce the dose of the anesthetics today? I think I'm ready to dream."
"Could you ... reduce the dose of the anesthetics today? I think I'm ready to dream."
"Let him dream."
It was supposed to be a quiet night.
*cough* Junior ...
Her voice was weak, her lips trembling.
Dr. Dorothea? Danny! Danny, she's regained consciousness!
Come ... closer ... *cough* I ...
The squeaking of the turning wheels and the fervent chatter in the room drowned out her weak voice.
Stop talking, Dr. Dorothea! Your throat ...
N-No, child, come closer.
Mesmer Jr. leaned close.
Only she could hear what she would say next.
...
...
Mesmer Jr., we need to enter the operating room.
You have to let go of her!
The gurney slammed through the operating room doors.
As the doors closed behind them, Mesmer Jr. was left alone on the other side.
No! No!!
Tears poured down her face as she collapsed to the ground.
After a long while, a comforting hand rested on her shoulder.
What did she say?
She didn't respond. She just silently watched the flashing red light.
A stack of medical records and consent forms lie on Mesmer Jr.'s lap.
The room is silent. She is alone.
Jerry Wilson ...
Her pen pauses.
She stares at that name in silence.
Then signs her name at the bottom.
5. Funeral
78 linesTwo days later
Hey, Mesmer Jr.!
Medicine Pocket is urgently knocking on her door.
I heard you guys scrapped an old circulation machine! You have to—
Ms. Mesmer Jr. isn't in today. She's on leave.
Huh?
They scratch their head. They would sooner believe that Manus Vindictae had occupied the LSCC.
Leave? Mesmer Jr.? You're messing with me.
Why would I do that?
Fine, I'll come back tomorrow.
Medicine Pocket's disgruntled footsteps pace past the closed door.
But Mesmer Jr. is too busy rummaging through a box to hear them. It's marked "For Destruction."
Here.
She pulls out a floppy disk. These serve as the initial backup for the artificial somnambulism device used to experiment with memory storage technology.
The faded label on the floppy disk reads "Dorothea."
This must be the one you wanted me to see.
Attaching the magnetic patch to her head, she lies down and closes her eyes.
This is the first time she has initiated artificial somnambulism on herself.
"Reading floppy disk. Please keep your eyes closed, and do not interrupt the process."
"Read successfully."
*beep-beep-beep—*
Haha! Happy birthday, Dorothea! Alright, time to make a wish! What does our little genius want to do when she's all grown up?
Um, I wish to be an athlete or an astronaut, and I want to travel the world and see everything!
Oh, and-and I also want a pony! And a pool big enough to hold a whale!
The candles burn as her list of wishes goes on and on. The adults' expressions grow awkward.
Even the puppy is anxiously pacing under the table.
Darling, I think that's quite enough.
No, no, I'm not done yet! After buying a theme park, I want to give all the children across the world a long holiday so we can ...
The man chuckles, patting his wife on the shoulder.
Let her speak. I think our little genius has a lot to wish for.
Mesmer Jr. stands at a distance, watching.
You had a lot of unrealistic dreams, Dorothea.
No, no, sis, it wasn't your fault. You did everything you could.
Her distraught sister squats down, dirtying her nurse's uniform.
You don't understand, Dotty. I can't take it anymore. I can't bear to look into those children's longing eyes.
How can I keep doing this? How long can I keep lying? Telling them that everything will be alright?
Yesterday, I kicked another stone across the ground. When I kicked it into the corner, you know what happened? It bounced right back—right off all the other stones I've piled up there.
There's so much beyond my control. It's breaking me, Dotty. I can't bear it anymore.
I'm going home to rest for a while. Maybe do something else, you know—something that keeps me closer to family.
Dorothea puts her hand on her back, sharing her burden.
No matter what, I'm always here for you, sis.
She hugs her sister, the medical school badge clutched tightly in her hand.
This isn't the first resignation that Mesmer Jr. has seen. In fact, this scene is rather common.
Coward.
If you intravenously inject 40 milligrams of dopamine solution for every 60 milliliters, to maintain the appropriate rate, the intravenous injection speed should be ...
*huff* I'm coming, LSCC.
She's surrounded by books, utterly engrossed in her studies.
She's alone.
Hey, kid, you doing okay? Your Uncle Benjamin's getting married tomorrow. I hope you can make it. Your dad's about to explode over the voicemail you left. Call him back soon.
Uh, this is Mark from the hospital, remember? You gave me your number. I found a great restaurant. If you're free, I mean, if you're interested, give me a call back.
*beep—beep—*
Her books are like a wall, blocking one voicemail after another until the beeping sounds.
She sees her graduation, the bare winter trees, and her classmates posing for photos.
She sees her being scolded by the head nurse for smelling like cigarettes.
She sees her announcing a family member's death for the first time and how she ran to the bathroom afterwards and sobbed uncontrollably.
A family trip, a ball, a funeral, a prayer.
Struggles and joys, anesthesia and defibrillators ...
Her hand approaches her forehead.
All she has to do is press the magnetic patch, and the somnambulism will end.
Hm?
In the darkness, a figure stands in the distance.
But the silhouette neither approaches nor moves away. It just stands there like a statue.
You've grown up, Junior.
*inhale*
Her hands tremble.
But only for a moment.
Goodbye.
*sigh*
Looks like this will be our last meeting, Dorothea. According to protocol, these files will be destroyed next.
She tosses the floppy disk back into the box and checks the time.
Three minutes and four seconds longer than expected.
Still within controllable limits. The Mesmer family agent will arrive in three hours and four minutes. If he's on time, that is.
She stands up, straightens her clothes, and closes the door.
It's as if she is leaving the funeral of a stranger.
6. Discharge
112 linesA misty rain covers the city.
The square is empty save for two figures.
A white umbrella and a black umbrella.
Your news has reached the family in Berlin. They send their regards, Mesmer Jr.
Now that you've been promoted to a level two therapist and are fully responsible for artificial somnambulism, we have granted you a seat on the family council.
He hands her a badge.
We've sent many children to the SPDM over the years. You're the only one to reach such status.
Thanks to you, the St. Pavlov Foundation has requested a third meeting with the family.
Your parents have conveyed their pride to us.
So the matter's dealt with. I can leave now, right?
She pockets the badge without a glance.
Not quite so fast. I'd like to speak with you personally, Mesmer Jr.
Personally? Alright, then allow me to begin.
Your bureaucratic tone makes me sick, Elegy. Or should I call you Jeffrey Mesmer?
It seems you've settled right into your role as the family agent.
From the family's illegitimate playboy son, who scoffed at the rules and ran off to an underground clinic, to this.
It seems you've turned over a new leaf, or were you left no choice?
Though I won't speak on the family's decisions, I'm afraid I'll have to maintain a degree of skepticism about your position as the family agent.
Ah, how nice it is to drop the formalities.
I'd heard about your sharp tongue, Mesmer Jr. If you must know, I—
I'm not interested in your story, nor do I want to answer any of your questions. I'm leaving.
She turns and walks.
Then, are you interested in the medical student funded by the Eleventh Mesmer Foundation?
According to the records, you worked together for a time. Her name was—what was it ... oh, Dorothea.
...
She halts.
The Mesmer family pulled some strings to get her through the LSCC's review process. I heard she died at the hands of a deranged patient. What a pity.
You're overthinking it.
Is that so? The family is rather concerned about this matter since it involves the Foundation's decision to release Jerry Wilson.
I have no doubts about his release.
The immense hand of the Mesmer family has always loomed over her. She is quite familiar with it.
Such matters are down to the appointed members of the Mesmer family. My view is limited. There's no use speculating.
What if I told you that Dorothea was pushed into the LSCC to help pave the way for your current achievements?
Though there have been some twists and turns, you've far exceeded the family's expectations.
There is no smile on her face.
Of course, if it weren't for you, she might not have died. She'd probably still be living her ignorant, foolish little life.
Such a pity that decisions always come with sacrifice, Mesmer Jr. I truly regret that.
What are you trying to say, Jeffrey?
She grips the umbrella handle tighter.
But if even a thousand—ten thousand—deaths like Dorothea's could create someone such as you, Mesmer Jr. ...
It would be worth it, would it not?
He drops his umbrella, letting the rain soak his coat.
After all, who is she in the face of all those our family can save?
Ah, I'm jealous. I've always been more on the figure-it-out-as-you-go train.
And besides, being part of this great plan is something the children funded by the Mesmer Foundation could only dream of.
You know, humans like me always need something to rely on.
She was just a small weight on the scale. She's fulfilled her purpose.
I hope you have sweet dreams, Junior.
Her umbrella is low, hiding her face from view. She starts to step backwards.
Do you agree? I'd love to hear your thoughts, Mesmer Jr.
His face is full of anticipation, like an interrogator about to get his long-sought-after answer.
She lifts her umbrella, revealing a surprising expression.
You're expecting me to be disturbed by your words—to have a strong stress reaction.
Should I have fallen into hysteria so you could report on my instability back to the family?
We're all Mesmers, Elegy.
His face suddenly turns cold.
Many times I've been dissatisfied with the decisions of the Mesmer family council; there's no doubt about that.
But rationality must always outweigh emotion.
The purpose of a scalpel is to make an incision.
We all know that the time of the Hippocratic oath is long past.
Elegy squints, intrigued.
It seems you're no longer that nervous little girl.
Good. Very good.
He lights a cigarette, smoke rising amidst the rain.
Do you know why they made me, an illegitimate son with no inheritance rights, the family agent?
Because a lamb that has left the flock best understands what the other lambs are thinking.
The most devout believers are the ones with the most fragile faith. The followers deepest in the field are the ones who most want to leap the fence and see the outside world.
I'm very happy, truly. Mesmer Jr.—the youngest in the family, the "darling" in everyone's eyes.
I'm glad you're standing here now.
Tell me, what did Dorothea say to you in her final moments? I heard she whispered her final words only to you.
She didn't say anything.
Hah, I get it. Go ahead and keep your little secret.
That's not what I'm doing.
She raises her umbrella and stares directly at him.
I didn't hear what she said.
She'd started to bleed out. Her throat had already filled with blood.
I leaned in to her pale lips.
But I couldn't hear anything.
...
The shard of glass had penetrated 6 centimeters into her neck.
All I could hear was the gurgling of blood in her throat.
...
Can I go now?
Go ahead.
The two umbrellas leave each other.
Like two pieces on a chessboard.
Cristallo and Tooth Fairy are chatting in the ward. They have just completed her second treatment.
So, Ms. Tooth Fairy, where did that doctor named Dorothea go in the end?
I haven't seen her around here. She lost something important, and I want to return it to her.
She holds the book in her hands, a slight worried look on her face.
Ah, I remember that doctor. I'm afraid she's no longer with us.
I think it's best to leave it here. Someone else will take care of it.
Wait, could I ask you one more favor?
Cristallo clenches the book in her hand.
It's okay.
Cristallo pushes herself up from her wheelchair and struggles to her feet.
...!
With all her strength, Cristallo raises her hand.
Ms. Cristallo, I can deliver it to her for you.
No, thank you. I just want to make sure Ms. Mesmer doesn't lose it again.
*cough* That should do.
She sits back down in her wheelchair.
Let's go back, Ms. Tooth Fairy.
Of course.
They make their way back.
The dreamcatcher hangs on the doorknob, awaiting the return of its owner.
*click*
Hm?
Jerry Wilson, right? You're free to go.
Get out of Laplace.
7. Dream
77 linesHer body, along with her consciousness, plunges into the sea, falling and falling.
A deep sleep is about to descend.
But her consciousness touches the bottom.
Is this a dream?
A rare possibility. This would be the first time in three years my body has voluntarily triggered a dream.
What's that?!
Two figures emerge from the fog.
Their faces are familiar.
Yes, she knows them.
Still hiding away in the recesses of my mind ...
Oh, it's you. That plague sent over by that damn family again.
Your shame is precious, isn't it? You're going to keep it all for yourself—take it to the grave with you, aren't you?
Well, I'm going to knock some sense into you, you narcissist! Dorothea would still be alive if she hadn't gotten close to you!
Was it really rational to let Jerry Wilson go? He should've paid for Dorothea's death! You could've punished him in a thousand ways.
But you just had to listen to the higher-ups and let the bastard go, didn't you, Mesmer Jr.?
Hah. How noble! How rational of you! But, wait a minute, this was all because of you, wasn't it? So what gives you the right to make that decision?
He stares at her like a suspect on trial.
Another figure steps forward.
Wretch. When you looked at Dorothea's bloodied corpse, did you not even waver?
How can you still stand here and give us orders after that?
How can you still have the nerve to show your face at Laplace?
The figures fade away.
And new faces appear.
When it came to restraining Vertin, you could've done things your own way, couldn't you?
You didn't have to follow your orders.
Hey, coward.
Are you really so willing to be a pawn? You got no guts? No power to stand up for yourself?
Pft. You're just a boot-licker for the bigwigs.
What a pathetic wretch.
Mesmer Jr. turns her back to the fog.
Of course, her feelings of shame and guilt would manifest in her dreams. She knows this better than anyone.
They attack her, just like her patients' dreams attacked them.
Time to leave.
With every step, she leaves the fog further behind.
Until a small hand gently tugs at the hem of her skirt.
Mesmer Jr. ...
You've come for us.
...
Those voices ... They're her classmates, her friends that gathered under George the Oak and shared their memories and dreams of the outside world.
Two small silhouettes emerge from the fog.
They move together as they cautiously approach.
They're trembling.
Why are you only coming now? Why didn't you come with us? Did you betray us?
Mesmer Jr. clenches her fist.
No, I-I didn't.
Why did you watch us disappear in the "Storm"?
Those questions, those uncontrollable impulses from deep within.
You could've stopped them.
You could've at least spoken up for us, right?
Tears roll down the children's faces.
Why?
Weren't we the best of friends?
Did you forget our promise under George the Oak?
*sniff* We wanted to live, too.
More faces emerge from the fog.
Fearful, hostile, sad, painful, pitiful, crazed, wretched, weeping, screaming, angry, mocking, hateful ...
... jealous, resentful, scornful, disdainful, malicious, helpless, sorrowful, questioning ...
—Familiar.
The faces surround her, and the same word leaves all their mouths.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
There are too many voices to count.
She stands there.
Alone, with no one beside her, the road ahead still foggy.
She turns around.
One by one, figures stand, all staring intently at her.
The fates of countless Mesmer family members intertwine and converge upon her.
She looks back at the faces in the fog.
...
8. River
53 linesRunning, running ... Through the grass, over the wall, and now in the depths of a tunnel.
The free world outside the St. Pavlov Foundation is right before him.
Hahaha! You can't stop me! None of you can stop me now!
Even the Foundation's hounds will lose my scent eventually!
He heaves his exhausted body through the darkness like a walking corpse.
The toffee drops out of his pocket.
...?
Heh ...
He steps on it.
It crushes under his foot.
Damn Foundation bastards—siding with the human that killed my ma and not even putting that devil to trial! How can you expect me to help you after that?
He drags another foot forward.
He wipes the blood smeared on his face from the fall, madness in his eyes.
Heh! Joining you and betraying Manus Vindictae was the dumbest decision I ever made.
But this time ... this time, I've got all kinds of dirt on you!
Mr. Forget Me Not ... he'll reward me for all this, and Manus Vindictae will make that murderer pay!
The whistling of the wind grows stronger as he approaches the light at the end of the tunnel.
On the other side, the people waiting to receive him have already arrived.
I-I'm free!
On the instrument screen, a small cursor is slowly moving.
Unbeknownst to the staff of the rehabilitation center, an agreement had been made.
Now, let's see which hole this little mouse scurries into.
...
Alright, Mr. Cobb.
Your evening walk's over.
Shall I take you back to your room?
He lends the old man an arm.
The corridor is silent, save for their footsteps.
I ever tell you 'bout the river I stepped in three times?
Yes, Mr. Cobb. You've mentioned it several times already.
Really?
He looks at the staff member as if seeing him for the first time.
Sorry, what's your name? I think this is the first time we've met.
Adam, sir.
Cobb rubs his wrinkled nose.
His hunched back has become quite a burden to him.
Anyway, kid.
The third time I stepped into that river ...
*sigh* I've grown so old, you see—forgotten where I am.
They say my mind's goin' backwards. All I remember are these old stories.
His mind is clearer than it's been for quite some time.
I come from a big family, and many nights the other kids would lock me up in the house, boltin' the windows and doors. Funny. I can't seem to recall any of their faces now.
Anyway, one day, I snuck out.
And back to the river I went.
Some say we can never step into the same river twice.
The kids all said that the river had long dried up—that there wasn't nothin' but cracked dirt left behind.
But I knew they were lyin'.
He closes his eyes.
Because ...
Ah, d'you see it?
My puppy—the one I lost—has been hidin' there by the riverbank all along.