“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”

Nate feels the sensation of warm ceramic against his palm. He sets the cup of tea down on the counter. When he looks up at the kitchen sink, a chill breathes itself into his lungs and strangles him from the inside out. He tries to ground himself by picking out sights and sounds from the room, but everything is covered in a thick layer of mental fog except for the man in front of him.

“Tell me about the girl,” says Nate’s father. “The mind transfer. Your new cadet.”

“We haven’t spoken in years. How did you know she was my--”

Nate stiffens when they make eye contact. He downs the rest of the tea in one swig, trying to smother the strangling feeling. He knows better than to question his father. “She’s strong,” he begins. “Picked up everything and moved to a new country, just to put herself in the line of fire. She’s confident and won’t let anything get in her way. Adya has her future pretty figured out for someone who is always forced to meet high expectations.”

“A far cry from you, yeah?” he says with a sharp, bitter jut of laughter. 

Nate bites his lip and grips at the edge of the counter. He carries the empty mug over to the sink. “You have no idea who I am.”

“You have no idea who you are, either.”

The sound of running water, then silence. He blinks.

“Look in the mirror, Anastasio.”

Nate runs his hand over the bathroom sink. Bodies stand at the counter beside him, but their faces are too hazy to put names to. Standing in the communal bathroom like this was a regular activity for him, once upon a time. A Dialogue with the Self, they called it. Meant to promote “honest discussions” about one’s feelings. But honesty was whatever the Brotherhood decided it to be.

The other men at the counter speak to their reflections but no sound comes out. Something yanks at Nate’s hair and forces him to face his own. His hair is short and neatly combed back. Too neatly. The cross pendant tucked beneath his shirt feels painfully cold against his chest.

“Have you ever considered leaving the Brotherhood?” the mirror asks.

“No. Never,” he says.

“Why not?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Because I’m afraid of what will happen when I’m alone.”

“You’re afraid of not knowing. Not knowing your future, not knowing how to be responsible… but be honest, when have you ever been sure of anything?”

Nate turns on the faucet and brings the cold water up to his face. This isn't me. Not anymore. This is not real. “I left eventually and I am sure it was the right choice,” he says, his decisiveness wavering.

The long counter shrinks into a single bathroom sink and the bodies disappear when he wipes his face on his shirt. It’s far less clean than the one provided by the Brotherhood, but far more familiar. Drawers that never shut all the way. Lighting made dim by the broken fixture he never bothered to call the landlord about. Empty bottles littering the bathroom counter. 

Nate winces at the heavy eyes and pale skin that look back at him. He hates the way this image looks almost as much as it hates him. 

“See what happened?” his hungover self says. “You left, and now you’re wallowing in your regret. You have no support system. You can’t even keep your own damn apartment clean. You wound yourself too tight, and now you’re a broken toy. Waiting to be put back together.”

“Not anymore,” Nate says into the mirror. “I’m an ACA agent now. I help people. I don’t drink or smoke or fight anymore.”

“It tempts you, though. Do you think it was a coincidence that you chose a career that forces you into conflict? You love the chaos. Just like your dad.”

Nate curls a fist through his hair, startled by how short and dirty it used to be before he went into rehab. 

“Go on, point a finger,” his reflection says. “Blame the Brotherhood for turning you into an addict. Blame your father for teaching you that you had to fight for love. Blame the universe for putting you on this earth at a bad time. But you’d be wrong.”

He blinks. The bottles are gone and the lights are a fluorescent white. Placed on the counter is his jacket, folded neatly with the Goddard logo looking right at him.

“Look in the mirror, Agent Anastasio.” Nate offers a half glance at his ghostly reflection and almost stumbles back into the shower curtain. His uniform is torn from the neck-down, soaked in blood that continues to trickle out from his shoulder. The rumbling of the earth and the crashing of concrete becomes deafening in his ears when he looks away. His image is unfazed by the blood pooling at his feet; in fact, his lips spread into a grin. “The only person you can blame is right here.”

“I am not you anymore!”

He throws a fist into the mirror and watches it shatter into the sink. The physical pain is nothing compared to the ache in his chest. The temptation was too strong and he gave in, just like the reflection knew he would.

He turns around; the shower curtain gives way to a vast, open room, bestrewn with sparring mats and water bottles. A silhouette stands in front of the sunlight pouring in from the open garage door. Only when she approaches can Nate see the horror in Adya’s eyes.

“I didn’t… this isn’t--” he begins.

“If you can’t be honest with anyone else, be honest with me,” she says. He catches sight of the pistol in a shaky, but tight grip between Adya’s hands. The bounty hunter’s pistol. “What makes me different from any of this? How do I know you won’t run and hide from me like you used to?”

“I can run from myself all I want because there is no consequence,” he says. “But if I ran from your training, ran from you, it might be what finally kills me. I can’t.”

She raises the pistol a foot from his face. “I want to hear you say it,” she mutters.

Nate rests his hand on top of the barrel and lowers it, looking directly at his cadet. “I will not fail you, Adya.”

And for the first time, he starts to believe it. Even if just for a moment.

His eyes snap open and the pain shoots through his shoulder like a thousand needles. He winces and bites down on his cheek. The feeling of blood being drawn from his mouth goes completely unnoticed from beneath the agony on his right side.

“Woah, woah, woah, easy,” Murphy says with a soft push on his good shoulder. “Easy, bud. You’re okay, Nate.”

The fog clears and he sees his three teammates strewn about the room; concerned, but gentle. Tristan leans against the windowsill with an energy drink in his hand. Val sits in the chair to his left and implores him to take a few deep breaths along with her.

“Are dreams always this bad when you’re on narcotics, Murphy?” he asks.

“Not always. You’ll forget it soon, anyway.”

He looks around. “Where’s Adya?”

“She came by earlier. Said you were pretty scattered, so you might not remember that, either.”

Nate settles back against the pillow and wishes that he did. Until she comes by again he’ll have to sit with the ugly memories, waiting to repeat what he told her in his dream.