"I'm going to need you to focus," the first words out of the therapist's mouth as you lay back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Right above you was the fan, on, spinning around and creating a breeze to air out this otherwise dreadfully stuffy room. The pitch in the man's voice was low and rumbling, but his tone sung a different tune; one of yearning and dare I say, pleading. No, I dare not say, for I am merely the vesicle for you. Your vehicle on this path.

The doctor stands up from his own chair, pencil hanging out of his mouth, teeth clenched around the metal that held the erase in place. A notepad in his hand, completely devoid of any of your information but still holding the keys to the rest of his patients, inbetween the fine print that for all his years of formal training, he was able to comprehend as well as a first year French student reading Les Miserables in its original print.

"I'm going to need you to focus on the sound of my voice, can you do that?" the man's contradictory tone asked with just the slightest hint of condescension. You smile up at the ceiling and close your eyes, preparing yourself to do nothing but heed the man's words. Words which never come, for it is at this point of time you are sucked away from the drab interior of a psychologist's office and transported to a vast, brave new world. As you float in this never ending matrix of blackness, several flashes of color aid in breaking the monotony. A streak of red in front of you, dots of blue above, yellow triangles in the corners of your eyes. You turn your head to get a clearer view, and then you realize that they aren't triangles at all!

They're doors. Slightly ajar and beaming with light. Swimming through the void, the weightless chasm that you occupied, you reach one hand out and graze the cold, wooden surface with the tip of your middle finger. Thinking this leverage enough, you tap, hoping to force it open just a tad more. No avail, the door stays exactly in the position it's in.

Frustrated, you swim just an inch further, the palm of your hand rubbing up against the mahogany. Once more you push, and with a creak, it yields and swings open. A typhoon of light rolls in, momentarily blinding you in a raging rapid of illumination. You respond to this sudden change by covering both eyes with one hand. In front of you now is another void, this one red. Cautiously, you spread your fingers apart to see that you can in fact see into the significantly dimmed light. Against your own sense of judgment, you swim further into the ocean of whiteness, until finally you press your feet against something solid.

An improbable occurrence? Yes, however not impossible, as can clearly be shown. The ground forms, a dusty dirt path, worn by years and years of systematic abuse by travelers very much like yourself. Looking around, you see nothing but flat land for miles. The bone dry dirt flies every which way with each step you take.

You continue down this unmarked yet beaten trail, for miles upon miles. Why do you do this? In the futile quest for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so to speak? Faith that it will happen to you? That what will happen to you exactly? You find some long lost, forgotten treasure?

Are you even listening to your own thoughts right now? Surely, you must understand how ridiculous this pondering is! Right? No? Well, I guess I can let you venture on this journey a little further. You continue on, unshaken by the truths I presented. The sun all the way off in the horizon has just begun to droop down, slowly making its way out of sight and plunging the world in darkness. I humbly suggest you start to pick up the pace.

You heed my suggestion, and break out into a full sprint, off in the direction of the setting star.

Too late, I suppose. Almost as if it reacted to your energy, the sun falls like an anvil from the sky, leaving you with only the light reflecting off of your own two eyes. Wait a second, that isn't supposed to happen, is it? You scan the ground, the dim illumination letting you see the dark gray dirt that forms around your feet. You look back, only to see your footprints also glowing. My, oh my, what in the worlds could it be?

Oh, you think there's only one world? Cute. Keep up, scholar.

Exhausted from your hike, you fall. You land on your back and a mushroom cloud of dirt explodes in the air around you, landing on your face and causing you to choke and cough until at last, the final specs disperse from around you and land either on the ground, or on another, less easily disturbed crevice of your own body.

It is at this point I feel I should introduce myself, should I not?

I am at the core of every being capable of higher thinking, the catalyst for innovation and improvement. It is I who inspired the first men to congregate into communes, and my mar has been left on every great (and admittedly, not so great) society from the beginning of time. Efficiency personified, the light at the end of the tunnel of bloody ignorance and the only thing left standing at the end of every war.

I. Am. Logic.

And you are...?

You are a vehicle. A vessel. My vehicle. For I am unable to truly reign over those who need me in my current form, floating round and round in particles supposedly even in dispersal to each individual: man, woman, or child.

I need you. Just about as much as you need me.

Together, we can conquer these worlds of madness and disarray. Expose the men of lies and deceit for who they truly are, and decapitate the seven headed abomination of illogicality.

Open your eyes, Subject Thirteen.

"Open, your eyes." Blast! The professional is gaining ground! However, it looks as though we have similar goals, he and I. How, oddly coincidental. Go on. Open your eyes. See the world how I see it.

Reluctantly, you do so.

The world materializes around you, no longer are you trapped in that forsaken desert. You're back in the office, the stiff-still leather couch holding your prone body up. Stroking his thick, white beard, the professional stands up and makes his way over to you. The same notepad in his hand, the pencil now in the other. He swing your legs over the side of the couch and into a sitting position before standing up.

He recoils, in shock.

You close your eyes again, but this time when you do, you no longer see pitch black. Instead, shimmering green lines appear and disappear in your peripheral vision. Unbeknownst to you, he reaches for your arm, but at the last second you bring it to your head.

You scream. An agonizing, pain filled scream. Once more, he recoils.

"Calm down!" he commands, and once more your eyes open, though not on your own accord.

"Stand back," you answer, and the man darts backwards, falling into his chair. You keep your eyes on him as you walk out the door, making sure to slam it shut behind you. Down the hall you walk, until finally, you find a door labeled: bathroom.

Go in.

You do as you're told, and with head hung low, you approach the sinks. Turning the knob on one, you catch a stream of frigid water in the makeshift basket made of your own two hands, and dip your face in the puddle.

Shaking your head dry, you look up at the mirror, your own reflection staring back at you.


I would suggest we leave now, before the guards are alerted.

"All personnel be alert, Subject Thirteen is armed, dangerous, and on the loose!"

Things can never be easy, can they?

"It would appear not."

The doors burst open, one guard armed with his Zeus Mk. 11 Pistol stands in the now gaping hole of the once doorway. Despite his size advantage over you, and the fact that he's armed and you aren't, he still trembles.

"C-come with me, Thirteen..." he says weakly.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that."