Spilling Guts

Part 113 - While You Were Sleeping

Louis hated waiting.

The team of four sat in anticipation as the Devil's Neckbrace went through different cycles of operation, Rachel keeping an eye on the BT readout, Hayman on the polysonogram. Louis' chair creaked every time he moved. He moved a lot. He wanted something physical to do other than unwrap and rewrap the black tie around his hand. Or scratch his chest. Fuckin' burns. He should have applied the burn cream hours ago but he'd been... busy.

The pictures on the screen were vaguely familiar from his research into the Devil's Neckbrace, but they sucked as a distraction. He had imagined they would look like a recorded Christmas light show that flashed to a song. Instead a translucent outline of a brain slowly pulsed with electricity.

And his contacts were getting dry. I should have grabbed the eye drops at my desk, if I could find them.

Balcuwitz, thank God, asked the question Louis longed to ask. "How long until we see something?"

"That's up to the device," said Hayman, eyes still on his screen. "It took months for Agent Rowe to show substantial symptoms of-- what is that?"

Louis half rose out of his chair. On Hayman's screen a few of the squiggles jumped, and kept jumping.

Rachel enlarged a portion of the BT scan on her screen. "Aren't those areas supposed to light up in REM sleep?"

"Not like that," said Hayman. "Not that strongly. What is causing that?"

"Is something going wrong?" asked Louis. If the Devil's Neckbrace was about to explode in the BT-10 he wanted to duck and cover.

"We don't have this kind of activity programmed in the baseline for the brain; it's supposed to be a constant sleep cycle." Rachel pointed at her BT screen where a scan of the jello mold had parts lighting up like specks of fungus. "Is the Devil's Neckbrace making those areas light up?"

After five minutes, the activity died down. Baseline. Boring.

"Shutting down Grovic's device," said Rachel. "Restart simulated sleep pattern. Let's see if anything changed."

Hayman and Rachel restarted the test, this time having the brain simulation go through a sleep cycle without interference from the Devil's Neckbrace.

They kept an eye on the signals from the brain simulation. It was no longer the same placid wavy lines from before. Five minutes in the lines spiked, jittery like a spot drop of water on a hot pan.

Louis had his tie wrapped around his fist tight enough to be a tourniquet. "Did you just give a jello mold night-terrors?"

Hayman's face pulled down in a grim frown. "I think we did."

***

As the intelligent people in the lab pulled together their data and theories, Louis took a walk. He couldn't help with whatever Hayman and Rachel were doing, but he would read through it afterwards, crosschecking his notes from his original report and letting his mind come up with theories. But now he was useless.

Why did I even come to the Watch after the funeral? I wanted to see people I knew, but what use am I with these problems?

Louis was tempted to go to the gym and punch a bag, or the garden level of the building, but his legs took him elsewhere. First the break room to pick up the tiramisu he had rescued from the elevator, dishing a messy mushy portion on a plate, then Med Tech.

Will's room lay in shadow. Will asleep in rumpled sheets, hooked up to too many wires, still breathing. Bits of paper and cardboard dusted over the side of the bed. A tiny diorama sat on the bedside table. Louis lingered at the doorway blocking the light from the hallway so it didn't wake Will up.

How many times had Louis looked over Will while he slept? A mothering hen. Anxious parent.

Worried partner.

Not that watching ever did any good. Nor did silence. Instead he sat at the bedside chair and set the tiramisu on the bedside table. He unwrapped the wrinkled tie from his hand, laying it over the foot rail of the bed. Will's legs had long kicked free from the covers, bent at the knees as if ready to run from whatever met him in his dreams.

Louis wanted to wake Will up to talk, but he had nothing to say that seemed important. He didn't fully understand what had happened during the test with the Devil's Neckbrace, or how to communicate how much he was sorry Will was going through such a thing, and he couldn't fix it. Any time he tried to say what mattered it either came out muddled, interrupted, or bad timing.

Talk anyway, said an inner voice that sounded a lot like Balcuwitz.

"The cookie part of the tiramisu is gonna be soggy, but it's still good. Reese and Beni haven't touched it, but you should eat it soon anyway." Food was a good opener. Now what? "I went to a funeral today. My favorite barista. Turns out she had known Retten and almost considered me a friend. Still don't know what to think about the whole thing. But I cried, if you could believe it."

Keep going.

"Rachel and your sleep doctor did some things to a jello mold that would get them hunted down by the Food and Drug Administration if they ever tried to sell it. But it gave them some ideas on how to treat you... I hope."

Will kept sleeping, machines beeping around him like a chorus of technologic birds in an aviary.

What use is this? It's the equivalent of talking to a pet rock. A nerdy pet rock that looks like... Will.

Pretty attractive shape for a rock.

Not the time or place to think of that. Move on. Talk done.

"Sleep well." Louis pulled the sheet back over Will's bare feet and walked away.

Down to Main Tech where Reese and Beni and long since gone home. No Megan or Teegan to give him a task.

Maybe he should go to Balcuwitz? The shrink could talk him through whatever was pushing in at his lungs and making him feel small.

Aside from the obvious.

And he had done enough talking. He took another detour to the break room before going back to his desk.

Day old curry fries reheated in the microwave weren't as good as fresh, but it was something to put in Louis' food journal. He added a few fried Brussels' sprouts for good measure. He munched between sips of coffee. Both his late dinner and coffee mug sat on a table he had dragged over from the break room since his desk was currently no-man's-land.

He didn't have to be at his desk. He had the day off. Grief. He had a damn good excuse.

He took a file off the top of one of the paper skyscrapers.

Woe-is-fuckin'-me and this paperwork.