#0 - Larynx: Voices from Without

Larynx did think it strange that they had asked him to return to work earlier than expected after the accident. He was meant to have gone on long-term leave to recuperate until he cleared the psychiatric profiling tests to be deemed fit and sound to return. That was standard procedure for a class 3 breach. As far as he knew, the Joint Administration: Nova Ultimate Supervention, or J.A:N.U.S, was the arm of the government dedicated to managing the proliferation of the various supers that had emerged over the years. The Super Sept would not admit it, but their methods of managing the nova population had been less than successful, whether by inspirational leadership, or by other less public means.

The facility in which Lawrence Nixon worked focussed on individuals who had been identities to have exceptional abilities for some reason or other, but did not possess what was commonly considered ‘superpowers’. Unfortunately, for Megasonic Adult Tearhead, they made a mistake in their classification. Perhaps his name was a vital clue they should not have ignored.

They had discharged Larynx from observation as he showed no symptoms or side effects. But no one was aware of his eruption event while on leave. Today he was back at the facility. His colleague, Ray Eston, had excitedly messaged him when he heard of Lawrence’s return. It’s an S-level case, should be fun! As he walked through the main doors to his office, a gnawing concern struck him: he knew that some of the security protocols of the lower levels would trigger in the event of a nova-incursion. Would he trigger them himself?

On his desk was the case file. Anders Dvorak. The last sign off on it was Dr Adam Kettering, but that was from the J.A:N.U.S. station in Europe. Dvorak was now here, in the United States, and Larynx’s main appointment today was to assess him.

There was another file on his in-tray, but coded lower priority. Perhaps Larynx would have the chance to look at it later, or perhaps he could procrastinate dealing with Dvorak and read through the rest of his emails first.

What do you do?

Dvorak would keep.

Megasonic Adult Tearhead's head exploding.

Read emails.

Bits of brain and bone hitting the bulletproof glass.

Read the less deadly file.

Waves of iridescent energy warping glass and walls and flesh.

Lawrence slammed a fist on his desk, unclenched then clenched it while he focused on his breathing. The technique was called 'grounding', and he needed to be mindful of the present moment, not the past even if the past's effects were very much grounded in him and his future.

"Emails, then file, then patient," Lawrence said, amazed at how strange his own voice sounded to him now, as though listening to a recording of it, and everyone hates hearing their recorded voices.

There was a slight ripple in the air in front of Lawrence as he vocalised his thought. In fact, he could've sworn it was merely a thought in his head, as there was no one else in his small office, but sound came out of his mouth.

The emails were mostly standard fare: two updates to filing and security protocols, a notification on tomorrow's staff meeting, a couple of replies to Lawrence's queries to background information for his patients, an invitation to a conference. Two emails caught his notice: one was from his own divisional director, Charles Gauss, asking for a specific report on a case he dealt with last month, the other was from a someone he hadn't spoken with for a while, an ex-colleague during their shared stint at New Mercy General Hospital, a Dr Randall Quiller.

Hi Lawrence,

Haven't had a chance to catch up with you since you started Janus. When are you free for a coffee? I've got an interesting case I'd like to hear your opinion on. It's official business, which is why I'm emailing rather than dropping you a call. Let me know.

Cheers,
Randall

Lawrence noted the email signature below: The Ordinal Foundation. That he hadn't known, that Randall was working there. The Ordinal Foundation was the paramount think-tank in the area of theoretical physics as applied to cosmic phenomena, alternate unvierse theory, quantum bleed and incursion. What that had to do with Lawrence's expertise in psychiatry was not obvious at all.

---

The physical case file on his tray was a pi-level flag. It was sheer coincidence that the patient's nickname on the top of the file was simply "Bighead".

The grounding was working, enhanced by the shock of seeing the ripple. He had to focus on work again. Lawrence started typing.

Randall,

It's always good to hear from you. Let's have a working lunch. I usually grab a bite around noon during the week. Let me know when and where is good for you. I admit to being intrigued. What can you tell me in prep for our meeting?

Regards,
Lawrence

Email sent, he looked at the Bighead file.

It was another headcase.

Lawrence could effortlessly search up Henry 'Hardhead' DiCarlo in the J.A:N.U.S. database, which gave him access to state and law enforcement records. He was a mid-level enforcer for the Vercetti family with the usual rap sheet: extortion, racketeering, assault, last served sentence two years ago, etc. The manila brown casefile contained internal documentation relevant to J.A:N.U.S. jurisdictional interests, and the psychological review notes were what caught Lawrence's attention most. While DiCarlo was widely regarded as a stubborn hit-first-talk-later thug, hence his moniker, he began more recently to show signs of foresight and tactical planning in his criminal activities for the mob. This was accompanied by a increase in cranial size, which led to his newer nickname, 'Bighead'. His own squad left him out to dry in the last altercation, leading to his arrest.

The pi-level colour coding meant that Bighead was to undergo placement assessment, whether or not it was worthwhile to further investigate his condition, or if he was to be returned to the state penitentiary.

---

It was a while later before Randall's email reply popped up.

If you don't mind meeting downtown, Julien's at Gilbert Street. That's near enough to the office in case you're curious enough to come up after lunch. I'm free today or tomorrow.

Bring what little you know about xenopsychiatry. :)

Randall

Today should be OK. My cell # is still the same should anything happen at short notice. I'll see you there, and I'll brush up on my exoanalysis just for you.

Lawrence

He smirked. Comparative transhuman cognition was a necessary part of his job since some novas' thought processes were very far from the human baseline. Some were so far they might be considered alien, and Lawrence had read and applied Samachson & Certa's 'Supervenience and Emergentism: What We Know and What We Need to Know' on so many occasions that he might as well have been trying to head shrink aliens, not alienated novas.

'If Randall wants me to analyze The Plenipotentiary, he can go screw himself,' Lawrence thought and chuckled. That was his first little laugh since the incident, since the horror, since... He grounded again, clenched his fists again, focused on his breathing again.

"Little horrors, one at a time," he said softly. "First horror... Bighead. Assess and process before ten. Write up after-session report and recommendations by 11. Prepare for meeting at noon. After lunch, read file of then interview second horror... Anders Dvorak."

Lawrence didn't want to go down where someone like Dvorak was held because of the quantum resonance detectors. Not yet. The man was dangerous but the man would keep. Lawrence would get everything out of the way first so he could devote his entire afternoon to the second horror.

With file, trusty notepad, and recording equipment in hand, Dr Lawrence Nixon headed to confront his first horror of the day: Bighead.

Pi-level clearance was mid-tier security. Just one level down from the office section, it was variously described as placement or processing, depending on which side of the fence one sat on. One philosophy in the agency believed that supers were to be regulated as much as possible, and that included registration, co-opting, or deployment according what was permissible or valuable to societal demands and national interest. The other view recommended that supers ought to be kept away from society as much as possible, with only key novas in places of position and power, according to national security.

But Lawrence's task today was not to deliberate on which of these philosophies were more appropriate. His interview with BigHead was to establish whether the subject in question possessed what would be deemed mental powers, for which he would be classified as a nova, or whether the condition could still be written off as within the acceptable range of human development or variance.

The interview room was much more akin to a consultation room than some of the high security restraining options in the lower levels. A guard was posted for the entire corridor, and the door had a self-locking feature with code or fingerprint access, but otherwise the room itself was cosy enough to be a doctor's office. Henry DiCarlo had already been escorted in, and sat in his chair awaiting Lawrence's arrival.

And it was unmistakeable why he was now known as BigHead.

After talking with the guard, Lawrence steeled himself outside the door before entering. He put on his game face and started his brain wheels turning in circles of analysis and observation. He looked the man over as best he could before sitting down across from him. Lawrence started the recording device even though the holding area was monitored, laid out Big Head's file even though he knew the information on it already, and kept his pen in an inside jacket pocket because he'd heard enough horror stories about what even a baseline human can do with a stray pen in an unguarded second to someone within striking distance. There was a psychological drama to all this, a play in which each participant knew the way the set pieces were laid out even though exactly what the plot and dialogue were only stood revealed as they played their characters.

"Henry DiCarlo, I'm Dr. Nixon. As you can probably guess, I'm here to assess you. I want to get you whatever help you might need, and no, walking free is not an option. You'd be surprised how many people ask that first. It's obvious you've undergone some physical changes. Can you tell me what your experience of them has been like?"

DiCarlo bore all the features that plainly identified him as one of the made men, a soldato or soldier in the mob hierarchy. Added to that were his big broad frame and compact muscles, visible under his standard-issue facility garb, down to his mutilated fingerprints, a tradition still practiced today despite the more modern methods of identification. What was different, apart from the fact that his head was twice the size of an average person's, was that when he spoke, while he still retained that distinctive southside accent and enunciation, he spoke with perfect grammar and syntax.

"I do not feel any different Dr Nixon, despite my outward appearance." Lawrence could feel DiCarlo sizing him up, glad that he had stashed away even his own pen away from a potentially dangerous mafia hitman. "I feel physically fine, eat well, sleep well, still able to hurt people who get in my way. Haven't needed a single aspirin for this." He tapped his temple with a finger, causing one of the bulging veins to twitch a few times, unbeknownst to him. Whether or not he was lying or simply expressing false bravado or outright arrogance common amongst thugs and heavies was hard to tell. "They should promote me to consigliere, I have a number of ideas I could implement straightaway."

What Lawrence didn't have were test results, for they hadn't run any yet, this being only the placement stage. He could recommend the usual resonance imaging scans and M-R node detection, but not all novas possessed brain nodes, contrary to the widely-accepted Mazarin-Rashoud theory before proceeding ...

... but then he remembered Megasonic. That was one file he hadn't yet dared to read. For all he knew, the accident could've been set in motion as early as the testing stage. There was no telling whether there were contra-indications when quantum resonant imaging was applied to novas or would-be novas. Do all novaheads blow up? There was that throbbing vein again on DiCarlo's forehead.

What if Lawrence got caught? What if he got scanned? What if his head exploded?

The mental runaway train might crash into another panic attack. When in doubt and fear, externalize and project.

"I'm sure you do but it seems your own people don't quite trust you anymore. Doesn't it bother you? The bulging veins, the neck pain, the big head?"

Mental health professionals can be bitches when they're ready.

Pushing so hard so early might not be the best course of action but it had an oddly calming effect on Lawrence. He focused on BigHead's big head instead of seeing Megasonic's exploding one.

"Then it's their loss. Perhaps I should set my sights higher." DiCarlo seemed unperturbed by Lawrence's attempt to call attention to his deformity. There was almost a tone of smugness, no doubt fueled by his belief that he was being reviewed by someone he regarded as beneath him. "People do not object to large musculature, overdeveloped pectorals, defined abdominals. It is about time they showed some respect for sizeable craniums." The mafioso's ego appeared to have grown alongside his mental capacity.

The throbbing veins on his temple and forehead seemed more and more prominent, as if they had begun to take a life of their own. In equal parts triggering to Lawrence's accident, as well as somehow, bewitching, as if its pulsing called out to the good doctor to come closer...

A bit of stick, a bit of carrot. Such fascinating veins, though, despite the very real possibility of an aneurysm. Nova-enhanced giant cell temporal arteritis? Perhaps Lawrence can bring BigHead around to the potential dangerous condition.

"Careful about those high sights. The sun can blind you to reality... and just blind you. I don't want you to talk about controlling anything or changing the world, Mr. DiCarlo. I want you to talk about making sure you're alright. Your hypercephalic condition may seem like a blessing but it might have side effects even your obviously increased intellect may not be able to realize. Let's not talk about control. Let's talk about cooperation and consultation. Let's make sure your skull won't eventually crack open and that brain leak out."

While Lawrence certainly got the sense that DiCarlo was getting ahead of himself as far as his ambitions were concerned, his ego growing in tandem with his head, he did feel that the mafioso was being pretty transparent and honest in his description of his condition and how he felt about it. "I have no reason to mistrust your questions and intentions Dr Nixon, nor have I a need to be dissembling in this matter. I have not experienced anything beyond what you would consider abnormal."

That much was certain to Lawrence. DiCarlo could genuinely be accurately classified as non-nova, despite his transformation. There remained that one last matter. One of the veins seemed to move towards Lawrence. The good doctor had the inexplicable sense that the impetus for its movement was being caused by himself, as if it was connecting itself with Lawrence's own veins, as if, and there was no better way to explain it, it somehow 'belonged' to Lawrence than to DiCarlo. He just needed to touch it ...

"Thank you for your honesty. Let me continue with my own. I've seen many abnormal things, Mr. DiCarlo, and lots of them have hurt themselves or other people despite being apparently in control. Just be weary of that, and remember that seeking help is vital sometimes, as is having a realistic self image and overview of one's limits."

Lawrence tilted his head slightly and observed the throbbing vein.

"I want to respect your space, Mr. DiCarlo, but may I gently palpate a section of your temple to help rule out nova-enhanced giant cell temporal arteritis?"

DiCarlo looked at Lawrence a little curiously, "I thought this was a psychological assessment, not a physical examination." Notwithstanding, the now-brilliantly endowed thug saw no reason to deny Lawrence the request, compliant as he now was, and nodded.

Lawrence placed both his hands on either side of DiCarlo's temples, leaning forward to examine more closely the enlarged vein. Nothing strange happened. It appeared to be a throbbing vein.

Well, nothing strange happened, if by strange Lawrence was expecting some untoward effect to occur, or some eruption to take place, or worse, some accident like the one he had experienced previously. What was strange though was that Lawrence saw that the small veins on the back of his hands now looked more prominent, more 'green', and at the same time the vein on DiCarlo's head seemed to subside somewhat.

All this while, DiCarlo did not express anything discomfort or comment on the examination. For the mafioso, it was as if nothing had transpired, save for Lawrence touching his head. The net effect seemed like the throbbing was 'transferred' over to Lawrence.

No ravenous, blood-spewing veins lashed out to assail him. That was good, Lawrence thought, but had he transferred some... toxin from Bighead's big head to himself? He couldn't explain it but he couldn't resist it, and he might as well actually inspect the superficial temporal arteries and superficial temporal veins... which seemed as normal as possible he assumed for someone with hypercephaly.

"Thank you. I can tentatively rule out nova-enhanced giant cell temporal arteritis but I'll recommend further scans to look for it and any other potential conditions," Lawrence said as he sat back down and disinfected his hands under the table with a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his coat pocket. He made sure to keep them hidden.

"If there is anything you need within reason, I will do my best for you, but you have to do what's best for you, too. There is always someone smarter or just smarter in a different way."

All Lawrence wanted to do was inspect his hands closer but that would have to wait. He was here to help BigHead after all, and he couldn't jeopardize the man's future by being selfish and negligent... not in this place.

Lawrence had pretty much enough information and sufficient observation, based on his expertise, to ascertain DiCarlo's state and complete his evaluative assessment of this 'BigHead'. From the interview, DiCarlo's checked all the right boxes for him to still be categorised as a non-nova, despite the exaggerated cranium and regardless of his now over-inflated ego and potential megalomania. He was still to be remanded at the state penitentiary for his most recent criminal activity, but at least he wasn't to be filed under the purview of J.A:N.U.S.. This concluded Lawrence's duties regarding the case.

There was one other possibility to investigate, even if it was out of Lawrence's jurisdiction: what caused DiCarlo to become BigHead. The case bore resemblance to the phenomenon known as nova eruption, a well accepted, though not well understood, phenomenon both within and outside of J.A:N.U.S.. It wouldn't be within Lawrence's scope to find out more, unless he wanted to.

Amidst all this, and because Lawrence hadn't yet the opportunity to examine his hands further, he might've discovered that the hand sanitiser he used was efficacious in its usual sense, except for where the veins were. Over the surface of those veins, the sanitiser simply beaded and slid off.

With goodbyes, assurances to follow up on DiCarlo, and a check to make sure he left carrying everything he entered with, Lawrence exited the room. He nodded to the guard, said everything went smoothly and that DiCarlo could be returned to his cell, and he made his way up the floors to his office. With his back pressed to the locked door, he inspected his hand and the throbbing green veins. Had he stolen something from DiCarlo, something that would truly have made BigHead special? It was such a strange feeling yet he also felt at ease with a possibly dangerous unknown. Lawrence tentatively poked at the veins with his index finger.

It was undeniable. The dorsal veins on the back of his hand were throbbing as if they had a life of their own. Alarmingly, what appeared to be a symptom he saw on his hand a few moments ago was now 'spreading' up his forearm as well: his cephalic and basilic veins were prominent and pulsed in regular rhythm with the flow of the blood in them. At this rate, the phenomenon would cover his entire body in the next half hour or so.

And yet, somehow Lawrence did not get the impression that, strange and inexplicable as the phenomenon may be, that it was in some way harmful to his physical being. In fact, it was much less strange than his accident weeks ago. He had no way to explain the intuition of his that these throbbing veins were 'attracted' to him, and had 'left' DiCarlo's person in order to inhabit Lawrence's.

All the same, it would be very problematic to walk around and be seen in the J.A:N.U.S. facility sporting this skin condition. Lawrence needed some way to deal with it, fast!

Lawrence took off his shoes and sat in the lotus position on the office's carpet. He focused on making the veins stop throbbing, stop being green, begin pulling into his body. He paradoxically tried to speed up the spread, to make whatever this was engulf him as quickly as possible, accepting it as completely as it had chosen him.

If this worked, would he still be able to make his lunch appointment? If it didn't, would he even be able to leave the building? If it did work, he would walk out of J.A:N.U.S. immediately to meet Dr Randall Quiller no matter the time. Further exploration could take place later if this exploration was successful... and he hoped it was.

It surely had to be the sonic wavelengths resonating within him that attuned the the strange veins to him. Lawrence began to comprehend what was 'inside' those veins. It was certainly something organic, something that could be said to be alive. It was like a parasite, no, not quite, more like something symbiotic, ready to nestle into Lawrence's skin through the epidermis, down to the dermis, but stopping short of the subcutaneous layer. Lawrence found he could exert some measure of control to make the symbiotic colony do exactly that, and as he did, the popping veins began to subside until the surface of his skin was as unblemished as it originally was.

Clearly this was something DiCarlo was unable to do. The next interesting question was where the thug had caught the bug from, so to speak. It, or some of it, must have travelled from one host body to another, seeking to nest in the most mutated part of DiCarlo's body aka his cranium, but never quite settling in. It would not be too difficult to request information regarding DiCarlo's arrest as to his last whereabouts for Lawrence to conclude his own report on DiCarlo, that is if Lawrence was going to talk about the symbiote at all in his report.

But for now, Lawrence could breathe a sigh of relief that he showed no untoward sign of throbbing green veins.

"Hello, new friend," he said, feeling the odd power flowing through it and him.

Lawrence sighed, the low reverb sounding odd to him but not unpleasant, as he and the exosymbiont accepted each other. Tracking where it came from would be necessary but that was a task for another time, most likely after lunch and the Horror. Learning what else it could do was also a priority but, like tracking, that would wait.

With shoes back on, Lawrence went out to lunch and xenopsychiatry.

Randall had already gotten them a table at Julien's by the time Lawrence made the drive back into the city central. Getting off the turnpike took him to the main thoroughfare, but weekday traffic was unproblematic as he headed to Gilbert Street where the restaurant was. What occupied his field of vision as he drove into the district was of course the unmissable tallest landmark, First Tower, headquarters of the Ordinal Foundation. The Foundation was essentially the largest think-tank in the country, set up to study the quantum realm and the interactions between quantum forces and reality as we know it. Helmed by the Ordinaire family, or more affectionately referred to as the Ordinals, they were the only set of novas the Super Sept recognised as having full authority and jurisdiction to operate independently without needing their direct oversight.

"Lunch is comped. I get to put this on the corporate account, so order up." It had been a while since he last caught up with his ex-colleague, nearly a year ago, maybe two. Randall looked a little rounder on his cheeks, and there was definitely a pronounced double chin. "In return I get to pick your brains about," and here Randall lowered his voice a little, not much because it was something secret, but because he tried to contain his enthusiasm for the case, "not just an alien, but one purportedly from another dimension."

Lawrence let out a questioning grunt which sounded weird yet not unpleasant to his ears, hopefully nothing out of the ordinary to Randall.

"An extradimensional creature? Is it humanoid? It's amazing that so many aliens look like us but things from other planes? The odds are just..." he trailed off into silence.

"Who has it?"

"It's with us, upstairs." Randall cocked his head in the direction of First Tower. "You know the Super Sept deals with aliens in our universe, that's what the Plenipotentiary is for. I hear he's off-planet dealing with some trade negotiations, which sounds much less sexier than defending the earth against a galactic invasion.

Other dimensions though, waaay more unpredictable. This one's not from this neck of the woods, if you know what I mean. Looks humanoid, just like us in fact, but I don't know if it's a shapechanger or not. But the brainwave readings are all over the place. I get some of what it's thinking, but the rest, the rest is gibberish. And that's with the sanity dampeners on full, in case, you know, it's a cthulhu scenario." He chuckled at his own reference to Lovecraftian horror.

With the Ordinal Foundation paying for lunch, Lawrence decided to splurge on a Super Venti Flat White and a chicken artichoke on ancient grain flatbread sandwich plus a spicy Italian panini for later.

"Good move on the sanity dampeners. Non-AI computer-mediated interaction might be another buffer against invasive memetics... but it seems too late since you've already gone human brain to entity consciousness. I have a few questions. How did you come across it? Did it come here openly or was it caught sneaking in? Did you go to its dimension and get it there or summon it? Can it return home of its own power? Are you keeping it here somehow?"

He paused.

"Maybe more than a few questions but the most important ones: What does it say it wants... and when can I talk with it?"

"Whoa there bigshot," Randall laughed, "I guess your career at J.A:N.U.S. really took off ayy. Seriously do they give you that much free rein over all that information?" Lawrence and his old friend had completed their doctorate together, but their careers evidently took different paths. "I'm just a lowly scientist in the Foundation, that's all beyond my paygrade, alright well, maybe not so lowly," he dropped his voice a notch, more out of deference than anything else, "but that's sort of thing only the First knows."

"I can clear you to come up and talk with it, in fact I was hoping you'd offer. That J.A:N.U.S. badge of yours gets you everywhere. But here's the short version of what I can make out so far: it's rambling on and on about wanting or needing or giving some blood, or bleed, or bloom, or boom, or at least that's what the translation matrix says." Randall gulped down his entire cup of melon tea as if his throat went suddenly dry. "And that's with the neural bypass interface hooked up in order to 'understand' it better.

Well we can head up after this. Lemme finish up. You must be hungry." Randall waved at Lawrence's double portion. Did Lawrence unconsciously order two servings because he needed to feed more than one ... entity?

Had he ordered more food than normal? Perhaps the exosymbiont was exerting some control over him... or maybe his body simply knew what its new needs were. Either way, more to experiment with later. He should also give it a name. Exos?

"Long day. No breakfast," Lawrence answered with a smile and raised his Super Venti in salute, "but you look like you've been putting lots of meals on the corporate account for someone who supposedly isn't a big shot."

He chuckled but went back to being serious quickly.

"If you can get me authorization to even know it exists, that's impressive. Getting me in to analyze its psyche? That sounds pretty big shot to me. If there are some things you can't tell me about the internal workings of Ordinal, fine. I understand that but I need some answers first. Have your own people hit complete dead ends? And why me, Randall? Not to talk you out of deputizing me but your people have far more experience with the truly bizarre than I do."

"Alright I should know better than to play down my role in this. Sure sure, I may be team lead on this one, but Ordinal's really a big science think-tank. We do unstable molecules, quantum nullification, phase matrix calculus, entanglement resonance, heck it's pretty obvious we do dimensional research, but xenopsychiatry? That's not us. Anyway, all the medical professionals we have are over at Third Institute; we have cross species genetics, biomatter studies, even soft psi imaging, but still no one to tell us how someone thinks. Maybe that's potential for a new department, but I truly don't call the shots for that.

Nova comprehension and control? That's all J.A:N.U.S. as far as I undersrtand. That's why I called you. I suppose the First could've contacted your Director directly, but, um, I haven't flagged this case for his attention yet, at least not until I've got something concrete to say."

"If the First hasn't heard yet, then neither have I," Lawrence said with a wink, "but I'm intrigued. I'm all yours for a cursory appraisal, Randall, but anything more in depth will obviously have to be officially sanctioned. The last thing I need is to break dimension containment protocols and get sentenced to the Fantômas Zone. If we can go now, I'll try to push back or reschedule my one appointment this afternoon."

Lawrence called his department secretary to inquire about the status of the Horror assessment.

"That's why this is still just lunch, and I'm talking about this openly without fear of eavesdropping. Nothing official nor classified yet. But hey, if you figure this out maybe they'll start a new division and even hire you. Won't take too much time, I did promise a short one today. I've cleared you to come up with me."

"Your schedule, your call. Just remember when the report is due to Gauss." Stephen, case manager from the administration office and generally the most effective yet most bored bureaucrat in his division was who Lawrence called. The Horror was safely incarcerated in one of the holding cells at the J.A:N.U.S. facility and wasn't going anywhere soon.

With lunch done and Lawrence's sandwich to-go doggy-bagged, he could feel his 'Exos' offer a vibe of approval at the prospect of a future panini. He stepped out to the street, letting Randall lead the way to the looming building that was First Tower. What he saw next was a not uncommon sight for many who worked or lived in the district, but it was a rare picture for one such as Lawrence. One moment he was marveling at the height of the tower as it reached towards the sky, with its pair of resonance spires forking even higher into the heavens. The next moment he saw a bolt of white fire, no it was a figure swathed in fire flying so quickly they appeared to streak from the top of the tower and across the sky. Lawrence knew what or who it was, although he had never seen him up close. It was a member of the Ordinals, the Fourth himself, obviously speeding off for some urgent task. Even though Lawrence had his feet firmly planted on the ground, the sheer visual of his flight mildly triggered Lawrence's acrophobia. For some reason he had the sense that he was connected somehow to whatever the Fourth was about to do, and that unnerved him ever so slightly.

Randall noticed Lawrence's pause. "Yeah they're always coming and going. I think this time it's got to do with the NLF attack at Waid University." The Nova Liberation Front or NLF were regarded as a terrorist organisation vehemently opposed to the Nova Registration Act. The Sept had largely sent them undergrounded, but once in a while they popped up like a bad pimple, or in Lawrence's case, a throbbing vein.

As Lawrence looked down at his shoes to literally ground himself against his fear of heights, he also thought about all the flying metahumans he'd talked with who all seemed to glow when they spoke about the open sky. If only his patients could see how big a bag of neuroses he was, and how increasingly full that bag was growing day by day. Wrapped panini in hand, he followed Randall into the first fortress.

"NLF attack? What happened? I've been out of the news loop recently."

Randall obviously hadn't realised that Lawrence had been out of commission for a while and had only just begun easing himself back to work. "You must be kidding. It was all the news! And surely it would've been in one of your daily briefs, it's right up J.A:N.U.S.' jurisdiction. Except for some reason, the Ordinals have been on the case. Means it's gotta to do with some quantum-related threat. Big explosion at the Waid University lab. Explosion? Terrorist attack? The Fourth came back empty-handed. Think he didn't manage to track the renegades down. He was certain they were NLF though."

"Sorry Dr Quiller, we're at Code 4. That means no visitors for your level." The security station stopped Randall and Lawrence as they stood at the main lobby of the ground floor of First Tower. The foyer was as futuristic as one could imagine, walls made of plasti-steel, bio-signature gantries before one could get to the lift lobby, holographic AI 'security guards' standing by the security station, and a localised hover drone concierge interface to greet incoming entrants.

Randall protested, "I had Dr Lawrence Nixon here cleared beforehand." He beeped in his voice recognition, and a bioscan of Lawrence confirmed both Lawrence's identity and his J.A:N.U.S. security clearance level. "Once again, our apologies Dr Quiller. Perhaps you could reschedule your guest," was all the friendly AI interface could repeat. Randall turned to Lawrence, "dammit I'm sorry man, dragged you all the way down town for nothing. Maybe we can do this another time?"

At J.A:N.U.S., Lawrence was used to Brutalist architecture, 1970s carpeting, and grumpy humans. This Science Nouveau of The Ordinals was a nice albeit startling change. The scan made Lawrence uncomfortable but he was glad alarms hadn't started blaring. Maybe they were silent alarms.

"So much for the grand tour. At least I've got this panini for later. I might as well ask before I'm teleported outside for loitering: what does Code 4 denote?"

"That's for irregularities in any of the research stations, unexpected occurrences. You know back in our grad days, when an experiment would blow up, but no one got hurt because it was a small scale poof that left our faces blackened with soot? Well over here that's a Code 4. We're almost excessively careful with any accident, any breach, and have protocols for each degree of risk. The only level lower than a Code 4 is a Code 5, that happened a couple of weeks ago when one of the spiders got out and bit one of the interns or something."

Randall reached over to tap on the touchscreen interface of the hovering drone reception, and then paused quizzically. "Hmm, strange." He swiped and repeated, Dr Lawrence Nixon, Psychiatric Assessment Unit, J.A:N.U.S.,", and then looked back at Lawrence. The machine blipped and flashed a response. Randall's face showed no emotion. "I'll walk you out." He turned and exited the building, his hand on Lawrence's right elbow, clutching it more tightly than he let on.

Some distance outside, at the small plaza in front of the building, Randall let go. "There's a standard security scan at the front reception, more for registration than anything else. Yours blipped to record that -" and here Lawrence's old buddy revealed the consternation on his face, "- you have a quantum signature." The system had just tagged Lawrence Nixon as a nova.

So... Silent alarm. Lawrence wondered whatever happened to the spider-bitten intern.

"If you've got time for a beer or something stronger, I've got a story."

McAnally's Pub sat under the street level in its building's basement. It was mostly empty except for the bald bartender to whom Lawrence gave a quick salute and raised two fingers while he and Randall sat at a corner table. Two microbrews soon arrived and Lawrence quietly told Randall the tale of the exploding head and all that followed minus today's exosymbiont incident.

"Obviously it's my voice. I don't know what's happened exactly but I've got a... a super larynx now. After seeing what happened to that poor bastard in the sublevels, I don't know what to do. I've been in a daze, carrying on like nothing's happened, waiting for something to go 'ping' and J.A:N.U.S. guards to drag me down below to cut my throat open and make me scream..."

Lawrence clenched the beer bottle like a Titanic survivor clutching an expensive yet broken table leg.

"Speaking as a quantum scientist, I sure would've wanted to see that," Randall gave a low whistle at Lawrence's retelling of the accident. "Sorry man I didn't mean to sound insensitive. And you're sure you're none the worse for wear? Good health and all, except you can now sing in every register?" It was a weak attempt to make light of the situation, but nothing another round of beers couldn't fix as Randall waved to the bartender.

That was when Lawrence noticed the ice cold brews didn't taste as cold, nor tingled as the liquid slid down his throat. Was that his imagination, or an after effect he was only beginning to discover?

"Well my lab can run tests, but not quite the kind relevant to your condition. I can measure the degree of your quantum ability according to the M-R scale, but really, the best place to determine the extent of transformation is J.A:N.U.S. itself. You know that. Besides you have to register yourself, stat. You probably have to make up some excuse to explain why you didn't do so straightaway." J.A:N.U.S.' jurisdiction as Lawrence well knew, was to register, monitor, and if necessary police all metahumans.

Of course, Randall didn't know as much as Lawrence did about the multiple levels below the J.A:N.U.S.' facility. The benign administrative sections were unconcerning, but the lower levels? They were exactly as Lawrence understood and feared. He'd be a subject for profiling and testing as part of the registration process, given the nature of the accident.

Lawrence sipped his beer quietly for a minute, not even noticing the changes at first.

"I'm terrified, Randall. What I saw down there, it screwed me up for weeks. Hell, I'm still screwed up. I feel like I'm still changing but there aren't any megalomaniacal drives to take over the world just yet."

He took a large gulp.

"I don't trust them, Randall. It was a miracle I was even able to go back today, much less do my job. I need someone else to know what's going on, even if it's just secondhand with no evidence. They scare me, and I've been scared enough in my life already. I... I want to speak with the Ordinals, Randall. I don't know if it's possible but I want asylum."

His friend was genuinely concerned, and Randall wasn't that insensitive as to be unable to pick that up. He wasn't as naive either; what Lawrence described did not utterly surprise him. Sure the Joint Administration: Nova Ultimate Supervention was the main authority in all legislative and policy matters on meta-humans, not excluding matters regarding management, rehabilitation and even incarceration. It was no leap of logic to envision that which Lawrence spilled the beans on: that J.A:N.U.S. had been conducting experiments far beyond the ambit of its official directive.

"I don't see where you can go that isn't covered under their jurisdiction, short of running away to some other sovereign nation state. Or go underground somehow, like the NLF. But is that worth it? Throwing everything in your life away? Novas do lead perfectly regular lives, sort of, so long as you are registered." Randall instinctively parroted what a sensible citizen of Capitol City might say to an emergent nova, but part of him also wanted to admit to himself that the advice seemed hollow in the light of his good friend's very real dilemma.

"Look, I think I can set you up to meet with the Ordinals, but I can't predict what their response might be. I'm sure they don't run an adoption shelter for wayward novas. Let me see..." Randall pulled out his phone, which appeared much more like a future future version of a miniature tricorder/communicator than the erstwhile television series could ever envision. "The Fourth is out." That much both of they knew. "The First is not to be disturbed. I personally haven't seen him in weeks. The Third, well, he's a starter, not a solver. I think our best bet is to speak with the Second. She's not in the Tower though, we'll have to head out to the Array. Damn, I'm going have to ping to say I won't be back so soon." His fingers swiped over what appeared to be his scheduling app.

Little cold, no fizzy tingling... Was his throat hardening, becoming desensitized to subtle sensations? Was the exosymbiont working its way endo? God, what else bad would happen to him today? At least his tongue was still tasting just fine, and he savoured the brew's rich flavours.

"I didn't want this. I didn't want any of this. I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I... Damn it. Thank you, Randall. Everything just keeps happening, getting worse, and it's like there's nothing I can do except shut up and shoulder it. Maybe I should have asked for help a long time ago, not just for me but for whoever's still in those dungeons. I appreciate whatever you can do to help but I don't want you getting in trouble because of me. I don't want to put you at risk."

Lawrence took another gulp and focused.

"The Second. The Array. You'd better drive... or does your personal teleporter have a group setting?" he tried to joke.

Aiding and abetting an unregistered nova could be as trivial or as serious as the authorities cared to bother. The truth was that the registration of different emergent novas were prioritised differently on a scale of able-to-projectile-barf-at-will to nuclear-meltdown-generator. The onus was on the responsible citizen to report themselves to a civic registrar office or have themselves reviewed at a nova assessment clinic, a simple enough routine. The problem, especially for Lawrence, was that both of these options would essentially lead him back to J.A:N.U.S., the authority behind the nova population. There was no possibility of his getting off lightly for his deception thus far, not without an interrogation of precisely the kind Lawrence wished to avoid, or worse.

The drive took Randall and Lawrence out of the city to the southern flats, past the power grid and the outlying industrial trade hub. Clear of the tall skylines of the city proper, Lawrence could see the north-western mountain range that framed the outskirts of Capitol City. Curiously, although they were too far to make out anything in detail, Lawrence thought he saw some rather strange cloud formation activity over one of the old amusement parks situated there. Mystery Mountain or something, he could vaguely recall.

Turning back to see where Randall was finally arriving at, was the Second Array. The location would have been more properly named or described as an observatory, were its purpose to study celestial occurences and observe events in space. But, as Randall had rambled on during the ride, it was a superstructure to detect, observe and measure quantum dimensionality, to 'see' beyond this reality and into other alternate possibilitites. To the onlooker, it could be described to look like a cross between a futuristic wind farm with its tall antennae posts of varying heights, and the arcane configuration of a more complex Stonehenge, almost like a parabolic receiver, across acres of land.

Randall's car cleared the gated security, and continued to drive towards what appeared to be the main observation building in the compound.

Lawrence couldn't remember the name of that old park but it was on the tip of his tongue.

Mystic Mountain?

Whatever it was called, meteorology wasn't his specialty, and the sight before him was far more awe-inspiring. Pictures and other promotional propaganda didn't do the place justice. He looked at the future built in the present, and he wondered about what it must be like to have this feel normal and mundane.

"With all the parallel worlds at the Ordinals' fingertips, I'm thinking about stepping through a quantum looking glass into a safer reality, a real wonderland. Hhh. If it were that simple, no one working here would still be here. I refuse to believe this is the best timeline."

Lawrence took in the sights, his heart started to beat faster.

"Honestly, Randall, do you think this will do any good? Will the Second just call security and have me hauled off back to J.A:N.U.S.?"

"Depends which version of you you think you are." The female voice right behind them startled both of them, with Randall nearly crashing the car forward in the lot before he could come to a full stop. The only entity that didn't seem to react surprised was Exos. "You may think you're hard done by in this world Dr Lawrence Nixon, that you're too good for it. Have you heard the story of the king of Gyges and his invisible ring? Are you so sure you won't do whatever it takes if there were no consequences?"

Now the voice was in front of them, and a youthful-looking, remarkably attractive woman in blonde hair materialised before them. From the jawdropped expression on Randall's face the person before them could only be ... the Second.

For a man whose special ability centered on his voice, Lawrence was speechless for a few seconds after the Second spoke.

"I..." he croaked. Maybe there was something in his throat. "I remember the Gyges argument from college. Does absolute power without absolute oversight corrupt absolutely? Is great power without great moral responsibility dangerous?"

Lawrence oddly smiled.

"I think the vast majority of us are wronged by the world but we do our best to survive. I'm no better than some, no worse than others. I'd like to think I'd still be a mostly good person if I could seduce queens to murder kings or control reality with a snap of my fingers. I'd honestly rather not find out. It's people with too much power and not enough moral oversight that terrify me. It's people like Gyges that brought me here... asking for help."

"I cannot turn you invisible Mr Nixon and hide you away from your employers. And it is not for me to judge whether you deserve to be helped, whether you are the best version of you in the quantum multiverse. I am here simply to preserve this version of us against all other possibilities amongst all other worlds. You deserve exactly as you deserve, no more, no less." It was here that Lawrence could tell her beauty was a cold one, bereft of tangible emotion, as if she had erected a forcefield to keep her true feelings inpenetrable. It was common knowledge that the Second was the partner, some say wife, if that societal label was still apt, of the First. Much could be speculated on the nature of their relationship, given their dispositions.

"Yet I am prepared to make you an offer. Your hopefulness in approaching me speaks of a certain, wilfulness, self-preservation as you deem it. Very well. Ordinarily I'd leave it to the Third to handle such venial matters, but you can have a go at it to prove yourself. I will offer you some suitable arrangement if you succeed.

I want that mountain." The Second raised her arm and pointed in the direction of the range Randall and Lawrence had driven past earlier. She was pointing directly at the hill which Lawrence recgonised as Mystery Mountain.

Great power, great responsibility, no emotion. This was a variation on Gyges: there was no seducing this queen, only serving.

"The old amusement park?" he asked, restraining himself from quipping about her que sera sera attitude. "I'm not just looking out for myself. There are other people who need help. What do I have to do up there to look out for all of us?"

"The park itself I have no use for. The mountain escarpment, however, is an ideal position to install a series of harmonic re-broadcasters to synchronise with my set-up here, increasing its directional sensitivity and quantum wavelength." She pulled out what looked like a futuristic baton which, with a swipe of a finger, became a holographic tablet displaying cross-section schematics of what lay beneath Murder Mountain. "Conveniently, it comes with its own power generators from hidden underground turbines, no need for renovation. This was formerly the secret base of the Aces, before they were eliminated by the Sept. It should still have dormant security defences, not noted on this map. That's up to you to figure out." She handed over the overall layout schematics to Lawrence. "I want it functional, not leveled. If you need to recruit help to do so that's on you. Questions?"

Lawrence looked quizzically at the hologram then at the Second.

"I'm a doctor, not a canary... but I'll have a look in the cave. I won't risk anyone else spelunking so I'll go alone. May I ask why you haven't sent your own personnel in yet?"

"I have. Hence the map data you have before you now. Besides, aren't you my personnel?" The Second was not so transparent that Lawrence could read her reaction to his questions.

"I suppose I am, yes," Lawrence said with a resigned chuckle. "I see other canaries have gone before me. At least one survived to fly back with this information... or long enough to sing into a comm about it... and they've no doubt cleared the defenses up until that point. What defenses were encountered before? And are you sure the villains' lair is really empty?"

"They don't have to come back for me to get the intel. The device you're holding is also a spatial imaging scanner. It will automap wherever you go, to an effective radius of ten meters. It doesn't read past solid objects, but will at least be able to calculate the density of scanning opacity of rocks, walls, floors, and so on, so as to give you an accurate layout of your surroundings."

The Second looked like she was almost about to flash irritably at Lawrence's questions, but her emotionless demeanour held out. "As far as I'm concerned the Aces were the defences. Anything else is just technology to be bypassed."

Lawrence was surprised to find the device in his hand but not shocked.

"OK. I'd appreciate a ride up or some transport. I'll be your canary but flying isn't my thing."

He might be pushing it with the Second but he really did need the transport to Murder Mountain and he wasn't about to ask Randall for anything else but a ride back to the city if possible. His friend had already done so much, Lawrence wouldn't put him in any more possible danger.