A FRACTURE IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS ✓

TYLER

Brendon had moved over to the metal table, organizing the nails by size. His shoulders tensed when Tyler spoke, his grip tightening on the cattle prod. There was enough sunlight filtering through the window to give Tyler a clear view of Brendon.

He looked identical to the photos from the college he worked for: untucked button down shirt with no tie, wrinkled tan slacks, fancy polished shoes, and a matching leather belt with an engraved holster for a gun. His graying hair, unlike in the photographs that showed him well kept and clean shaven, was grown out in a mop of tangles, and it looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks.

Heavy bags turned his already dark eyes into inky pools empty of all emotion. Brendon had cut across his temple and a yellowed bruise in the shape of teeth marks in his forearm. Tyler could see old self-harm scars beneath his rolled up sleeves. Dried blood stained the front of his shirt, and Tyler wondered if it was his or another victim's.

"How did you know that?"

"Ryan Ross, a twenty-seven-year-old male from Seattle, moved to Los Angeles at the age of seventeen on a full ride scholarship to California Institute of Art. He was beaten, lacerated, and suffocated repeatedly for eight days after he was reported missing by his two roommates, Spencer Smith and- and you. Cause of death was a broken neck."

Tyler was speaking so fast that he didn't realize that he'd made a connection. Spencer Smith. The officer who was with them. That was how Brendon knew they were coming. That was why there was no one home. He was with them the whole time.

Brendon raised his eyebrows, egging him on. Tyler kept talking, almost like an impulse.

"The only reason LAPD didn't put him with the others was that he didn't victim the victim's profile. He was ordinary, a B average student with a job in animation. His house was meant for three people, but they never found anyone living there."

Tyler tugged his ankles forward, testing how much he could move. The legs of the chair were loose.

"Did you live with him and decided to use him as your first? You believed normal people would work but when it didn't and he died, you decided to pick people who were a bit more recherché than Ryan."

This was meant to be an intimidation tactic- showing Brendon just how much the FBI knew about him and how close they are to finding them now- but Tyler's confidence faltered when he saw the fascination in his eyes.

"Did you- did you read all of that from his file and remember it word for word?" Brendon asked, looking impressed rather than angry. He stepped forward until he was right in front of Tyler and then crouched, the prod dropping from his hand.

Tyler paled as he realized what he'd done. He gave him exactly what he wanted: proof of how valuable his mind is. "I- I-"

"I knew you had a brilliant eidetic memory, but this?" Brendon grabbed the sides of Tyler's head and examined where the throbbing was the most intense, laughing incredulously. "Oh, this is unprecedented."

Tyler shook his head, fighting tears back. No matter what, he couldn't show just how terrified he really was. "I'm nothing special. Anyone could do this."

"And humble too. You have so much more potential compared to the others. They all had one skill, one thing that made them special. But not you. None of them were a jack of all trades like you are."

"Jack of all trades, master of none," Tyler recited without thinking, Fear pumped itself through his veins, making him antsy.

"But oftentimes better than master of one."

Oh, no, Tyler thought.

"My other patients' minds expanded like I'd hoped, but they never lasted. Spencer said they got worse, losing their skills, their wit, and sometimes even their memories. But I denied it, until that poor girl couldn't even say her own name. Then I knew my work was flawed."

Brendon laughed, tapping the end of the prod to his chin. "That was the only kink in the experiment that I couldn't put my finger on. What was it that prevented them from expanding their minds. Eventually, I narrowed it down to their mastery at only one thing. They weren't pliable. But you, you could be it. Your mental capabilities are much more diverse and well developed compared to the others. You could be the game changer."

Brendon stood, picking up the cattle prod and bringing it to life in a sprinkle of soaked. Panic shit through Tyler and he blurted, "Wait, wait, wait! I- I know why your other patients didn't get better!"

The prod was forgotten once again, dangling at Brendon's side. "You do?" His eyes widened by a fraction.

"Yes!" Josh always said that Tyler was the best bullshitter he'd ever met. Tyler hoped for his own sake that he was right. "It was the experiment itself, not the subjects. For each vic- patient, you used a different method, right?"

Brendon nodded, clearly invested in his story. "I paired their mental capabilities with excitatory pain responses that I presumed would fit best."

"But the results were inconsistent."

"Yes. Some of them excelled my tests, while others failed and eventually perished."

"So, it's your method. You need a consistent independent variable in order to have an accurate and consistent dependent variable."

Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think about them. He let out the slightest exhale of breath and Brendon tilted his head.

"Why are you so scared? We're only talking."

Tyler couldn't speak, his body was frozen in fear as he begun to see the hole he'd dug himself into. The more he talked, the more he realized why Brendon chose him. He had multiple areas of expertise, unlike the other victims who only had one or two, which meant only one thing.

More variety in torture.

"I may be a chemist, but I'm not following those silly strict rules like those other imbeciles who call themselves scientists. A singular variable would be helpful in looking for the same results each time, but I'm not looking for accuracy. I'm looking for progress."

Tyler skipped a beat.

"And since you're much more skilled than you're letting on, we'll just have to go through the list and see which one works the best."

There wasn't have enough air in Tyler's lungs for him to scream when the cattle prod was thrust against his calf, jolts of white-hot electricity coursing through his body. He made a choking sound as his throat closed up. Black spots formed in his vision and stayed there even when Brendon removed a few minutes later to prod.

He was panting now, breathing heavily. The anxiety building in his mind was getting the better of him as the pain subsided to a heavy throbbing. His chest constricted, letting little air into his lungs.

"M-medication. I need my medication," Tyler gasped, pushing his back into the chair.

It wasn't a complete lie. He did take medication to help with his anxiety, but that wasn't why he was having a panic attack. Tyler had a horrible epiphany that Josh must've seen him get kidnapped. He couldn't remember exactly what happened after Brendon drugged him, but he remembers two gunshots, one bullet hitting Josh.

So, why didn't he follow him? Even with a gunshot wound, he was one of the most stubborn people Tyler had ever met and would've chased Brendon down to the ends of the earth.

Josh couldn't do that if he was dead.

Brendon hummed then smiled. "You take medication to repress your gifts. You won't need that now. I'm going to free you."

He jammed the prod into Tyler's left thigh, and he let out the loudest scream he could muster. Waves of fiery shock coursed through him. The spots in his vision grew until he could barely see anything in front of him. A ringing had taken over his ears.

There was no more feeling in his left leg, so Brendon moved to the right. Tyler didn't last an hour before succumbing to the darkness, letting himself fall unconscious as the pain continued, consistent and overwhelming.