Mind Slide (2 page)

He glanced around as he was herded to his morning breakfast. Everyone surrounding him were in different areas of the mental health scale. Gladys
, the elderly lady in front of him, suffered from severe depression brought on from the death of her husband. Michael in the corner had anger management issues.

He passed Wallace, who shoveled oatmeal in his mouth

“Good morning,” Wallace said.

Mason looked down and smiled. “Morning, Wallace. How's it going?”

Wallace shot him an angry look.

“I wasn't talking to you.”

He held his spoon in front of him and laughed, petting it like it was a dog.

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” Wallace asked his spoon.

Mason shook his head and kept his eyes forward.

He knew he didn't belong.

A few people stared at him as he laughed aloud and moved up one more spot in line. Perhaps he was wrong. He couldn't remember his family. The only picture he had of them was lost during a room transfer. He'd spent two years in the foster care system, and nine years after that in this place, after his wonderful ability was discovered.

The deal his
handlers
worked out with Yingling Behavioral Health was a mystery, but he knew it must have involved a lot of meetings and a lot of money exchanging hands. An entire wing was added, just for Mason, where he spent his days being poked and prodded. They did countless things to him, all of which he tried not to think about. He always wondered if that next experiment, or one more dose of that crap they called the Cocktail, would push him over the edge.

Not much of a past, not much of a foreseeable future. No friends, no family, no life. Maybe he was right where he belonged.

He was in a foul mood as he carried his oatmeal to an empty table near the back. Most of the people actually got along and made friends. Mason wasn't one of them. He almost made a friend once, back when he was thirteen. A girl a year older than him was in for debilitating nightmares. They sometimes ate lunch together, even talked in her room a few times, before she got better and left.

He stared at his food, eating slowly, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Stanley and Mitchell hovering over him. No one was exactly happy to be at Yingling, but Stanley and Mitchell dealt with it by lashing out. They were both a few years older than Mason. He didn't know what they were in for. Probably broken little minds from domestic violence, judging by how often they tried to pick fights.

"How's it going there, Special Treatment?" Stanley asked.

Mason sighed. It wasn't a secret where he was most of the day, and sometimes at night. He spent much of his time in his own private wing, impersonating a lab rat. From the jealous stares he received, everyone must have thought there were cupcakes on the other side of the double doors.

"Hey," he greeted, trying to keep his voice even and low.

"You're sitting at my table," Stanley said.

He took a deep breath. Doctor Rierson told him once about bullies. Doctor Rierson was the only one who tortured him that he almost liked. He said Mason should stand up to them, show them they didn't bother him. If he didn't, they wouldn't stop.

Mason liked Rierson enough to call him Doc, and he almost laughed in Doc's face.

Doc, along with technicians and other doctors, would pull him out of his room in the dead of night, push needles into his head and body, pump him full of drugs. Were they not bullies?

Mason grabbed his oatmeal and moved one table over.

He heard Stanley and Mitchell laughing and whispering to each other. They stood over him once again.

"Bad choice, Special. This here is Mitchell's table. Get up and get moving."

Mason tried to keep his hands from shaking and his eyes locked on his oatmeal.

"Look, guys. I'm not moving, okay? I'm not bothering anyone. So please, leave me alone."

Stanley grabbed Mason's plastic spoon and flicked it across the table. He gripped Mason's shoulder.

"Listen, Special, there's two ways we can do this-"

Mason wasn't sure what pushed him over the edge. It was either the threat of an incoming cliche or the nine years of having his brain studied. Whatever it was, his anger finally boiled over.

He stood up and shoved his bowl of oatmeal in Stanley's face. Still holding the paper bowl, Mason swung hard with his left hand, connecting squarely with Stanley's nose. Stanley reeled back a step, then fell on the ground.

Mitchell was too slow with his reaction. He pulled his fist back to throw a punch, but Mason's foot was already moving into his testicles. His eyes bugged out of his skull as he fell to the floor next to his friend.

The bullying was done.

Mason wasn't.

Stanley tried to sit up. His face was covered in oatmeal and blood. Mason grabbed his chair and swung it at Stanley's head. There was a sick cracking sound as a plastic leg broke across his face. Stanley let out a cry of pain and slumped back to the floor. Mason went to the side of the table and turned it over on them.

"What were those two ways again?” he taunted. “I didn't catch them.”

The air rushed out of his lungs as Big Dave tackled him from the side. Dave pinned the teenager to the floor. Mason only heard chaos. Stanley and Mitchell cried and moaned as they rolled under the table. The people eating breakfast were on their feet, cheering and smiling. More security and doctors were coming in from all over the place.

Mason heard a voice he recognized.

“What the hell is happening here?”

He looked up into the face of Doctor Albert Rierson. His graying hair was more ruffed up than usual. His steel blue eyes held a dangerous fire. He grabbed Mason by the shoulder, then he and Big Dave lifted Mason to his feet.

“You told me to stand up to bullies, Doc,” he said. “That's what you said.”

“Yeah,
stand up
to them. Not beat them to death.”

He looked down at Stanley and Mitchell. “Well, you'll leave me alone now, won't you? You sorry pieces of shit.”

“Hey! Language.”

Doc led Mason out of the cafeteria by the arm. They passed some nurses who were heading towards the cafeteria to tend to the bullies. Mason kept quiet as they navigated the halls. He shook free from Doc's grip, but stayed next to him. He knew where they were going.

“You shouldn't have done that, Mason,” Doc said. “Our relationship with this hospital is delicate, at best. You know this.”

“I'm so sorry. It just kills me to make your life harder.”

Doc ignored the teen's sarcasm. “This is gonna be twenty more phone calls and ten more meetings now.”

“Well, Doc, you let me out of here, and all your problems go away.”

Doc stopped in the hall and looked at Mason. “And where would you go? Did you forget you're a ward of the state?”

Mason's tone was laced with venom. “No, Doc, I didn't
forget
. I don't forget anything anymore. Unlike the idiots that work here. Do you know they still haven't found my parents' picture yet?”

Doc rolled his eyes. They stood in front of Mason's room. Doc ushered him inside with a wave of his hand, then Mason turned around and crossed his arms.

“I'm on lock-down, I guess?”

“I'm afraid so. I'll have to make some calls, suck up a little.”

“You have a nice day, Doc.”

Doc closed the door and locked him inside.

Mason smiled.

Lock-down meant nothing to him.

*****

Doc bought a soda from a machine in the faculty lounge. He took a deep drink before leaving.

He heard his name as he stepped into the hallway. “Albert! Hold on a second.”

Doctor Ronald Fuller jogged towards him. Doc tried to hold in laughter. He knew it was going to be an eventful day. Ronald didn't run for anything or anybody. It took very important news to make him move quickly.

“I heard Mason got in a fight,” he said. “What happened?”

Doc patted Ronald's shoulder as they walked down the hall together. “Relax, Ronald. I already left a message on the director's machine. I'm sure he'll be mad, but he'll get over it.”

“Is Mason okay?”

“Yeah. After all he's been through, two bullies are nothing.”

“Do you want to skip the underwater test today?”

Doc swallowed. He wished they could skip every test until the young man turned eighteen.

They flashed their badges as they approached the doors to their wing, and the security guard stepped aside.

“Maybe we'd better. Give him a chance to relax for a day or so.”

They walked down one more hall until they reached their lab. Various doctors and technicians were studying charts and x-rays, inputting data into computers, creating more of their Cocktail mixture. Twenty people, all devoted to the teenager that was Mason Thomas.

Doc barely had time to step into the lab before Annie, one of their best technicians, walked up to him.

“Doctor Rierson,” she said. “You've got a visitor in your office.”

He frowned. “Ah no. Another suit?”

Annie nodded and walked away.

Doc looked at Ronald. “Don't they usually tell us before they drop in?”

Ronald shrugged. “Maybe they saw something on the reports they didn't like.”

Doc took a deep breath. “Come with me. Help me handle this.”

“Sure. Then I want to spend some time on the Cocktail.” He gestured to the many reports and graphs scattered on desks and computers. “It looks like Mason's starting to develop resistance to it. I want to make it stronger.”

Doc nodded, and the duo walked across the lab. They passed the centerpiece, the metal table where Mason spent so much of his time, and approached Doc's office in the corner. He opened the door, and was caught totally by surprise.

It wasn't just a suit, it was
the
suit.

Ronald barely managed to keep from gasping. “Sir,” he said.

They didn't even know his name. They simply called him
Mister Suit
in private, and
sir
in public. They'd only met him twice, the last time being two years ago.

Mister Suit was in charge of everything. He'd made the deal, funded by the government, to locate Mason in Yingling. He'd put the team together, had the lab built, kept the money flowing to Yingling in exchange for housing the teenager for nine years.

They sent him reports and data every week. They barely had correspondence with him. Now he was there, sitting in Doc's office.

Mister Suit was an appropriate name. He was immaculately dressed. A custom three-piece suit, silk tie, black dress shoes. Doc couldn't spot a single wrinkle. He guessed Mister Suit was in his forties, with a full head of thick blond hair.

He extended his hand and rose from his seat.

“Doctor Rierson. Doctor Fuller,” he greeted.

Doc said nothing. Ronald tried not to stutter.

“Sir,” he said. “You should have told us you were coming. We wouldn't have kept you waiting.”

Suit just waved his hand dismissively and sat back down. Doc sat behind his desk. Ronald had no choice but to sit next to Suit. Doc could see the sweat beading on his friend's forehead.

“Gentlemen,” Suit said. “It's been a long time.”

“Yes, it has,” Doc said. “What can we do for you?”

Suit leaned back and crossed his legs. “I want to see for myself what we're investing in. Quite frankly, I'm having trouble reading the reports you send me.”

Doc almost narrowed his eyes. He knew Suit must have had just as many people outside his own office, interpreting everything they sent.

“Well,” Ronald said, before Doc could open his mouth and get them in trouble. “The work is progressing beautifully. We're much further along than we ever thought we'd get.”

“Can the subject control his projections yet?” Suit asked.

Ronald's shoulders slumped. “Not yet. Not without a healthy dose of the Cocktail.”

“Cocktail?”

“A little morphine, lorazepam, a touch of zolpidem-”

“Drugs,” Suit interrupted. “You give him drugs.”

Doc cleared his throat. “Yes. There's a slight problem. He's starting to build a tolerance to the drug. His projections are getting shorter and he's having trouble focusing when he's having them. He claims he no longer projects in his sleep, but we can't really prove that. We have to improve the drug if we want better results.”

Suit merely nodded. “What are his limits? How far can he go?”

“No limits, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

Doc was irritated. Did Suit not read any of the reports they sent? He pulled out a notepad and pen. “When Mason mind slides-”

Ronald winced as Suit held up a hand. Those were words Doc should have been smart enough not to say.

Mason and mind slide.

They learned years ago that Mason was simply
the subject
.