"Tea." I responded as she measured my blood pressure.
"The worst kind."
"Worst kind?" She moved on to listening to my heart and lungs via stethoscope.
My arms and legs constantly feel heavy. I've been on sick leave for the past month. Amman asked me if I wanted to just quit school, and then have him home school me, but I assured him that I plan on returning, eventually. Until then, I just wait everyday for Amman to come home with tomorrow's homework. Funny thing, when I'm sick, thanks to Amman, I learn everything a day before everyone else. Well, not necessarily. Sometimes the lessons are postponed when the headaches strike; I have abrupt scathing migraines, usually lasting two to three hours.
Two weeks after her presentation at school, Mira came to visit me at home; I articulated rather 'aggressively' that it was probably not in my best interest for my LL-3 sector to be activated. I proceeded to politely plead with her to find a a safe, viable solution that would cease all psychic function from my mental apparatus, if at all possible.
Next, I politely expectorated a lovely fragment of saliva in the general direction of her feet, then exited the room, lamenting. These actions prompted the obligatory scolding from Amman, but later that day I received via email an apology in the form of 10-point, black, aerial text. In this genuine piece of Mira's heart, I found out that she had once been my father's grade school teacher, and was invited to take part in the search for a procedure to make a working psychic apparatus go dormant. Naturally, I was ecstatic.
I had no objections thus far.
What a horrible place. Every pair of eyes that met mine sent looks of pure loathe and despise. My father, being a civilian, couldn't accompany me, so I had to walk alone all the way from the front doors to the clinic wing, then off to the laboratories. Usually they just have me swallow this pill, or give me that injection. Then they see that there's either absolutely no change, or I leave even more lethargic than I was to begin with. I found the lack of progress somewhat demoralizing, but stayed strong, hoping for a breakthrough.
I've been relaying on things like coffee to give me my energy, but Mira protested by buying me a jump rope. She says I'll feel stronger if I exercise.
"You like your new jump rope?" my father asked one evening as I concentrated on synchronizing my jumps filling the night air of our backyard with the soft swoosh of the rope on the grass.
I stopped jumping. "I think it's helping." I held it out to him. "Would you like to give it a try?"
"Sure!" Amman reached for the jump rope. I had no idea how fit he was. In seconds, the rope had whirled around him like an impenetrable force field. His face did not contort, nor show any signs of discomfort despite the impressive display of physical ability.
"Doesn't quite have the nostalgia of a hula-hoop, does it?" I asked him, trying feebly to sound smart.
"That was a little bit before my time."
"What? Those thin, cheap, plastic hoops are older then this old man who can jump rope like a pro-athlete?" I noticed he wasn't even breathing hard.
"Well, to be fair, the jump rope has always been a form of exercise and recreation. The hula-hoop is dead for all practical purposes."
"At school they have hula-hoops every Physical exercise period," I answered.
"Well, looks like they aren't nearly as dead as I thought they were."
"You're not saying you didn't have a hula-hoop when you were a kid?"
"You did your homework. I did have one, just like everyone else. They were one of the only toys the government let us play with. Everyone had one. The thing is, I never touched it. Didn't really care for it."
"What else could you have? Besides the hula-hoop?"
"For me? Four varying shades of colored crayons, and a sail boat. Never had any sisters. Couldn't tell you want sorts of things girls were given. Now, let's talk about something else."
I wanted to know why my father didn't like hula-hoops, but suddenly a pain shot through my eyes to the back of my skull. I clutched my head and fell to the ground, gasping for air.
"Oh, for Pete's sake," my father muttered as he put an arm under my back to support me. "These headaches are becoming unbearable. What's Monika doing?"
Headaches were a normal part of life now. They came and went, sometimes bad, like the one I was having now, and other times unbearable. "I'm okay," I said to Amman, squeezing my eyes shut and willing the pain to subside.
I found myself occupying a lot of time reading, which helped to contain the headaches. My brain didn't hurt when it was occupied, or rather if my brain was occupied it couldn't know it hurt. I became an expert on things like the Second American Civil War, which happened a few decades back. I learned that my father fought as a rebel commander. I also found out a lot about technology, and the evolution thereof. That sort of stuff was just a byproduct of my interest, though. What I truly loved was history, world history from World War II and after. Naturally the books were only fluent in American History, but I got my fix one way or another. Luckily enough for me, reading not only calmed my headaches, but it also kept my powers in check. Whenever a book wasn't around, I would doodle frivolously, or write.
A few days ago I learned just how vital it was to keep my powers under control. I 'slipped' and jumped into Max's mind while he was visiting for lunch. I lived through him in a sensation I could never describe no matter how hard I tried. I was still myself, but heard what he was hearing, saw through his eyes, even tasted the soda in his mouth and felt it go down his throat. Unfortunately at that moment in time Max had been remembering an old memory of his best friend back on the moon. He was making a mental comparison of him to me. We really were remarkably similar in personalities. His name was Sean. So, with boyish delight, moments after I regained my full, undivided consciousness, I asked Max if he kept in touch with his old friend Sean. Max began to tear up and left the room. His mother, who had been visiting my father, later explained that Sean died of skin cancer at the age of 6.
Since then I've been trying not to 'slip.'
"Well today's the day!" Monika exclaimed.
"Hopefully." I replied as lab assistants hooked me up to a moderately sized machine. One of them kept giving me dirty looks. Most of the Scientists didn't carry any grudge against men, but she had me on the Russian account, too, which is bound to piss some people off. I felt my mind start to somersault but I pulled my eyes away from the hard-eyed Scientist and thought of facts from the 2nd Civil War.
Today's the day I'm suppose to have my powers turned off, according to Monika. She had been the lead researcher and developer of the new procedure which sends a special wavelength electromagnetic pulse into your psychic apparatus, which supposedly disables it. Maybe the wavelength varies depending on the person, or maybe it doesn't work. Otherwise the main branch of the military would be all over this lab like a field full of ants on a cherry, so they could turn the device into a weapon against Russian psymen.
"Ready?" a voice asked me over the intercom. It was male, calm and pleasant. Probably a computer. All the researchers stayed in the adjacent room with a large pane of glass separating us. Their white lab coats were covered by a huge glare, but I could still make out most of their faces. They looked skeptical.
"Anytime," I answered apathetically.
A rush of dissociation flowed into my brain. It wasn't my first time experiencing a stasis field. I closed my eyes and let my head rest softly on the rest behind it as the machine buzzed swiftly around my cranium.
I looked down at the shiny white shoes. The stockings had a run in them, so I pushed my lab coat down slightly to try to cover it up, then looked up to see me lying on the long lab bench, my shirt off and probes attached all over my chest. A machine spun around my head, buzzing. I toke a quick glance at the closest computer console to check the ratings. According to the sensory probes I was still outputting well over 300p's of psychic impulses. I realized I wouldn't be able to stop it, but maybe I could bring it down to 200p's or so. My powers would surely shrivel and die after that kind of drop.
I reached down and started pushing buttons. One to increase the spectrum, another to re-verb the waves being emitted in my stasis field. I wrote down the changes on the clipboard I was holding.
My brain's electro wave output level was down to 60p's. All the waves and emissions would probably detract a lot from my immune system, through. I better send myself off with some antibiotics and cold medicine.
I looked down again, startled. I had to throw up, badly. As I looked up I saw vomit creeping down the side of my chin. I put my hand up over my mouth to keep it from spilling out. Purely out of habit, I took a look at the screen one last time before running to get a bucket. My psy level was well over 1000p's. I tried to run, but slipped and landed firmly on my nose. The warm blood crept across my face as I lay glued to the floor, the taste of copper met my lips as the blood pooled. My assistants were calling out behind me. "Monika, what's the matter? Monika, are you hurt?"
Wait a second, I thought, I'm not Monika, I'm Isaac.
"He broke the machine?" My father erupted with laughter, grinning from ear to ear.
"That's right," Mira responded, "His psy levels were higher than Monika's. He slid into her mind, and she didn't even notice it, but Isaac could answer all of Monika's questions and indulge us with deep detail when asked what Monika thought and felt. He verifiably was Monika."
"So?"Amman interrupted, "I know Isaac's slipped into people's minds before, in fact just last month he-"
"Sliding to such a high degree, unnoticed, into a high-ranking psy officer with special training in warding off psychic intrusion is an act worthy of high praise for a 12-year-old boy." Mira interrupted back.
"That's just great and all, but I'm waiting for you to explain the new plan to get these powers to die out."
"There is no new plan," Mira said. "They're probably going to be with him for the entirety of his lifetime."
"The entirety of his lifetime is what I'm worried about."
"In my personal opinion, I think he'd do great at the Psy Academy. I think you should enroll him there. They'd take him, no doubt."
"He's been to the Psy Academy. He's obviously Russian, and male."
"It's getting better. These days teachers and staff enforce a zero tolerance, no discrimination policy. My granddaughter told me all about it."
"We've been there. He's not going," Amman's voice had shifted from light sarcasm to his regular stern teaching voice.
Mira tilted her chin upward but said nothing.
"I didn't know you had a granddaughter," Amman said into the awkward silence.
"Her names Lena, she's a wonderful girl, and a pacifist."
"Then why is she going to the Psy Academy?" he asked.
"Just because you're going there doesn't mean you have hopes of becoming a military officer. The majority of the students go into math, science, business, psychology, technology, you name it. And I know you don't want to hear it, but I think the Psy Academy might be the only option when it comes to controlling that boy's powers. Think about it, Amman. Where else can provide him with the means necessary to focus and control his abilities?"
"That's all very well, Mira, but can you guarantee that Isaac won't be killed before graduation?"
"No, I can't guarantee that it'll be a cake walk, but I can guarantee that what doesn't kill him will only make him stronger."
Amman picked up a glass and filled it with scotch. "Well, we'll see what Isaac has to say after we tell him all this."
"I think he already knows," Mira said softly, a twinkle in her eye.
Mira and Amman both turned their heads to look at me as I lay on a couch, sleeping. They were both thinking of the same thing, but their attitudes towards it couldn't have been more different.
Amman drained the glass and closed his eyes, his face set in a grimace.
"I'll be off then," Mira rose from her seat and began walking towards the door.
"I'll contact you later," Amman voice was quiet, he continued to stare at me. "Good bye, and thank you for everything."
"It's my pleasure, really. I'll look forward to your mail." Mira glanced at me as she shut the door. "Sweet dreams."