Thunder: The Problematic Nature of Dream Therapy and the Rehabilitation of Felons

By Rich Wilkie

If you discovered your life was controlled by unseen powers apathetic to your well being, would you live your life differently? Would you change the route you drive to work? Would you quit your job? Or would you wreak havoc in the hopes it will make a difference?

A prominent politician, Thor Kazan, is sentenced to Dream Rehabilitation. Thor dreams two boys, best friends, find a ring that gives them access to his subservient persona as a superhero protector, Thunder. The power plunges their lives into chaos, savages their friendship and peals back a small towns fragile veneer of normalcy. Trevor loves his job overseeing Thor’s dreams until an intern, Shyla, is foisted upon him. Initially, he enjoys teaching her how to monitor the dreams, how to move about in the dreams and how to manipulate the lives of the people living in the dreams. Shyla contemplates her freewill, or fate, or if she lives in the dreams of a sadist – She has a crises of conscience and Trevor’s placid little life crumbles. Gabriella, the application that Trevor uses to manipulate Thor’s dreams, has been programmed to learn on the job and she learns more bad than good.

Thunder is written for Sci-fi Action Adventure Superhero Novel enthusiasts.

This book is not meant for children – the story contains mature language, and descriptions of sex and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rich Wilkie
• Release date: Jun 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310766428

Rich Wilkie

Rich Wilkie has had many lives. He worked in the grocery industry, starting as a maggot shoveler and moved his way up to grocery manager at one of Albertsons highest volume stores. Rich abandoned this life to become a fine artist and chase coyotes in Joshua Tree, California. He left this life of creative independents in favor of eating, and landed a job at Walt Disney Feature Animation as an assistant animator on Pocahontas, The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Hercules. Rich moved on to storyboard and direct on shows like Scooby-Doo, Stuart Little, King of the Hill, and many others. Rich currently lives in Southern California with his girlfriend and two dogs (boxers). Thunder is Rich’s first venture in to his publishing life and he is excited that writing does not involve the shoveling of maggots.

Book preview

THUNDER: The Problematic Nature of Dream Therapy

and the Rehabilitation of Felons

By

Rich

Wilkie

Playing God is all fun and games until your intern becomes Satan.

A prominent politician, Thor Kazan, is sentenced to Dream Rehabilitation.

Trevor loves his job overseeing Thor’s dreams until an intern, Shyla, is foisted upon him. Initially, he enjoys teaching her how to monitor the dreams, how to move about in the dreams and how to manipulate the lives of the people living in the dreams, i.e., playing God. Shyla contemplates her freewill, or destiny, or if she lives in someone else’s dreams controlled by a sadist – She unravels.

Gabriella, the application that Trevor uses to manipulate Thor’s dreams, has been programmed to learn on the job and she learns more bad then good.

Thor dreams about two boys who find a magic ring that gives them access to a superhero protector, which is every boys dream until it becomes a nightmare, for all involved.

This book is not meant for children, even though some of the main characters are children, the story contains mature language and descriptions of sex and violence.

This book is a work of Science Fiction Adventure. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination, except where otherwise noted. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Rich Wilkie at Smashwords

Rich Wilkie’s Edition License Notes

Thank you for purchasing this ebook. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book is DRM-free to make your life easier. I am not wealthy or a big company. I am writing this from a room I rent, so please help me to make rent and I will continue to write cool books for you. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work Rich Wilkie.

Copyright © 2015 by Rich Wilkie

ISBN 9781310766428

Dedicated to

Joan Stewart

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Dream Number T4385

Chapter 2 - The Ring

Chapter 3 - Thunder

Chapter 4 - You Believe in Fate?

Chapter 5 - We Get To Fight Crime

Chapter 6 - Awesome, Awesome, Awesome

Chapter 7 - It’s Just a Game

Chapter 8 - This Has Fun Splattered All Over It

Chapter 9 - Playing God

Chapter 10 - We Have To Stop the Killing

Chapter 11 - The Split

Chapter 12 - It’s Not Greed

Chapter 13 - Rampage

Chapter 14 - Just Like Last Time

Chapter 15 - Fight!

About Rich Wilkie

Footnotes

Prologue

Thor Kazan sighs heavily. He picks out his reflection in the highly polished charcoal gray granite that covers the walls and judge’s bench giving the well-lit chamber an air of gloom. He scans the members of the packed public gallery gazing down on him from behind. He wonders if that was the designer’s intent. Thor thinks he looks tired. He knows he feels tired. He eyes the reflection of his defense team beside him and the prosecuting attorneys to his right – he thinks they look like pallbearers waiting to bear their pall.

The judge glances up from his notes, "I am troubled by your lack of remorse for the crimes you have been convicted of. Your statement and repeated declarations, as all conspiracy theories, stretch the boundaries of the undeniable and the unbelievable. In spite of your supposed clear conscience, the evidence is obvious and overwhelming. The one thing that is missing from the evidence is evidence of forgery."

The judge reads from his notes, Thor Kazan, The Court has taken into account the great political power you once wielded and the public trust you violated, the gravity of the crimes, the far reaching implications of the crimes, and the greed and lack of remorse you have exhibited. The court fashioned this sentence in accordance with the Sentencing Code: specifically, the gravity of the crimes as it relates to the victims and society as a whole, your rehabilitation and eventual release back into society. This sentence is meant to reflect the laws of this land and not vengeance or retaliation for the crimes you committed. For the crimes of; Public Endangerment, Fraud, Extortion, Misuse of Public Funds and Racketeering, you will be detained for the appointed psychological review and thereafter imprisoned at the appropriate facility. As per the request of your attorneys, I will recommend to the Bureau of Prisons that you be designated to a dream rehabilitation facility in the southwest region of the country. You have the right to appeal your conviction and sentence. Any questions concerning the appeal process should be addressed to your attorneys.

The judge taps his gavel, Court’s adjourned. He scoops up his papers and exits.

The crowd in the gallery stands to shuffle out.

Thor’s attorneys mumble something about the appeal. He hears their voices, but not their words. He nods. He glances at the manacles held out by a bailiff. Thor clinches his fists to stop his hands from trembling. He notices his wife in the crowd holding their daughter – he catches her gaze. They knew this day was coming and they had said their goodbyes. They agreed there wouldn't be any drama, but that doesn't make this moment any easier. He spots his son. Thor realizes the boy will be a man by the time Thor is paroled. His son will have loved and lost love. He will have triumphed and failed, he will feel joy and pain, and Thor will miss it all. He feels a sob welling up. His vision blurs. He forces his emotions down. He despises his weakness. He grits his teeth. He purses his lips. He focuses on putting one foot in front of another. Shadows drift through his field of vision as nameless men guide him from one place to another. Sounds grow and fade. His limbs hang heavy. He stops caring.

Dream Number T4385

Seven years later.

In a featureless cell, illuminated by a dim red light, Thor sleeps on an elevated reclining bed slightly bent at his waist and knees. Droplets of glistening sweat coat his skin. He paws at the air as a child attempting to swim up from the bottom of a deep deep well. His face shudders through expressions of pain, frustration and hopelessness. His eyes flit about beneath his squinting lids and furrowed brows as he dreams of…

Jeremy, a thirteen-year-old boy, slouches straddling his muddy black mountain bike – the undertow of a night without sleep drags down at him. His jaw stretches and pops as he yawns – fatigue fills the void left by the long gone rushes of adrenaline. His mind flits about like a windsock in a squall, but his hooded eyes stare blankly into the middle ground. His foot bobs with nervous energy causing his bike to shutter – the leaves beneath his tires lightly crackle. A chill rolls over his adolescent body. He rubs his shoulders to generate warmth. His tattered grimy T-shirt rasps against his skin. He catches himself grinding his teeth and realizes his headaches like the constant dull hum of an idling truck.

From the edge of the woods, Jeremy stares blurry eyed at his home. The modern tri-level house sits alone nestled in the small valley on the outskirts of town – far enough away to block out the city sights and sounds, but close enough to be convenient. He hears the forest bristling with the sounds of rousing wildlife. The sun warms his face as it crests the serrated hills. The piercing light creeps down the white walls of his home slowly pushing the shadows into the gaps. The blinds block any view in through the windows. He thinks the home looks as it always does. Nothing seems out of place, nothing except for the silver SUV.

For the first time in his life, Jeremy is afraid to go home. He considers the shiny new vehicle that casts a bluish shadow over his father’s police cruiser. It reminds Jeremy of a Rottweiler lying in wait – waiting for him to ride just a little bit closer. He dreads the impending confrontation. He only wants to rest his heavy head on his pillow. He could sneak in thru his bedroom window, slip between the covers and deal with his father’s disapproval later, but he needs to find his buddy Dave and Dave might be inside.

Jeremy pushes off and slowly coasts down to his home. The gravel crackles. His front tire bumps the bottom step. He leans his bike against the stair rail and gazes up at the imposing front door. He glances back at the forest. He trudges softly up the steps to the porch. He reaches for the doorknob and pauses. He watches his hand quiver. The word run echoes through his mind. Jeremy grits his teeth, I did run. I am sick of running. Running’s for pussies. He inhales deep, clutches the doorknob and steps into the house.

Everyone turns to Jeremy as he pulls the door shut behind him. His throat clenches. His heart thunks in his chest. Jeremy’s kid sister, Sammi, sits at his mother Lauren’s feet and brushes the mane of a plastic pink horse. His father, Randy, sits beside them – his police uniform rumpled and stained – a two day growth of beard grays his face. Across the living room, Mr. Everest reclines in a lounge chair – his bulk strains against the chair’s arms. His yellow designer golf shirt and vermilion pants stand out in the neutral room. Lights reflect off his shaved scalp. With his chubby cheeks and small nose he has the look of an oversized infant. He smirks at Jeremy. Three of his goons sit on a small couch. They wear neutral street clothes and size-up Jeremy as a trio of hungry guard dogs eyeing a kitten. Jeremy does not recognize them, but they chill him. He strains to quail the shiver. He scans the rest of the room and thinks, Crap, Mr. Everest is here, but Dave isn’t. I should have just snuck in through my window. He glances longingly toward his bedroom.

Jeremy’s mother takes in his filthy battered state, gasps and rises.

Jeremy’s father, Randy, raises his hand to stop her, Lauren, let it be. We’ll clean him up later.

Not yet suffering the effects of a hangover, but no longer enjoying the euphoria of alcohol, Randy floats in that limbo state where either you search for more booze or you pass out. Too unsettled to do either, Randy glares off into limbo.

The look on his mother’s face troubles Jeremy. It distresses him to see her worry. He hopes her expression does not reflect his condition as he struggles to ignore the persistent aches and pains crying for his attention. Mud, dirt and leaves, cake his hair, skin and clothes – darkness rings his eyes – numerous spots of crusted blood flake his face and arms. It’s okay mom. I’ll be fine. He strives to straighten, to push out his chest, but the shotgun pellet in his shoulder shocks him back into a stoop. He hopes she does not notice his bloody back. He reminds himself to always face her. He waves for her to sit.

Lauren regards Mr. Everest and his men – she anxiously eases back into her chair with a stuttering inhalation and sigh.

Jeremy notices everyone clutches cups of tea. He glances at his father, to Mr. Everest, and back to his father, Your drinking tea?

Randy glares at his son through blood shot eyes – his voice whiskey deep, Jeremy we need to talk.

Jeremy speaks louder, Your having tea with Mr. Everest?

Yes, Frank and I are having tea. Come and sit down. Randy gestures to an empty chair.

Frank! Jeremy remains standing, You know his name?

Randy’s face flashes red, his brows twitch as he sobers into Officer Kraft and snaps, Of course I know Frank! We’ve been friends since we were younger than you and Dave.

Jeremy squeaks, Friends?

Mr. Everest speaks up, Well yeah, we hung out until my older brothers all passed away.

Jeremy’s face flushes. His stomach flips. He stares openly at Mr. Everest.

Officer Kraft clears his throat, Ahem, Jeremy, How did your phone end up at Frank’s place?

Jeremy snaps a white-eyed gaze to his father, now holding up the shattered smartphone. Jeremy gapes, Uh, I uh… His throat clenches. His ears burn. He gropes in his pocket and pulls out a ring. He stumbles to his father holding out the cold loop of medal, Dad, please put this ring on.

Sammi giggles.

Officer Kraft glares at her. Answer the question Jeremy.

Pleee… Jeremy smells alcohol on his father’s breath and his hope fades, but he persists. His voice cracks, Please dad, it’s a magic ring. Please put it on your finger. Any finger.

Officer Kraft barks, Stop messing with that stupid ring!

Jeremy reaches out to force the band onto one of the fingers of his father’s clenched fists.

Officer Kraft thumps Jeremy on the chest, Stop it! You’re embarrassing us all!

Jeremy staggers back.

Officer Kraft turns to Lauren, Take Sammi to her room.

Lauren guides her daughter down the hall.

Sammi whines, Aw, I always miss the good stuff.

Officer Kraft glares at Jeremy, "Start explaining, Now!"

Jeremy searches the floor for an answer, any answer, Uh, I lost it in the woods. Uh, playing tag, with Dave. He pauses for some confirmation of acceptance. The men all glare in silence. The absence of their response compels Jeremy to continue his ad lib, We were playing tag. Someone must have found it and planted it in Mr. Everest’s office. As a joke. This last bit comforts him. He thinks it is the type of detail that makes a story believable.

I didn’t say it was in his office. Officer Kraft glares.

Jeremy’s face burns a new. He cannot move his gaze from the floor, I, I uh, just a g g guess. Panic washes over him. I have to stop this, make it stop.

Officer Kraft sighs in disappointment, Jeremy, why were you in Frank’s office?

I, uh–– Jeremy’s whole body burns.

"Why were you in Frank’s office?"

Jeremy’s vision blurs.

Officer Kraft barks, "Why?!"

Jeremy’s bowels slip and he clenches. His muscles twitch. He pulls Lieutenant Drubbins’s Journal from his back pocket, but he cannot imagine what he should do with it. His thoughts flit about as a colony of bats fleeing a cave-in. He holds up the weathered notebook as if it contains the answers to all of their questions, but only one word blares in his mind, run. The old pages of the journal crackle. Jeremy’s inner voice pleads, Run – there’s nothing good here – run for help – run and find Dave – run. Jeremy finds his voice and shrieks, Lieutenant Drubbins told me! He flings the journal up. The men flinch and gape at the pages fluttering through the air. Jeremy spins and dashes for the front door.

Now! Mr. Everest shouts and leaps from the chair.

His men burst from the couch at Officer Kraft – teacups fly, shatter and splatter.

Stop! Officer Kraft shrieks, "No, Frank stop!"

The men tackle Officer Kraft, topple and tussle.

Jeremy yanks the front door open. Sun light slashes in. He leaps across the threshold and sprints for the steps.

Boom!

An over whelming force smacks Jeremy in the back and kicks him forward. A red mist spits out from his chest. He falls through the scarlet haze and stumbles down the stairs. He hits the rail, slides down, sprawls across his bike and crashes hard. Jeremy smacks his head – shards of pain jet around the inside of his skull. He groans on the edge of consciousness floating through a purple fog. He thinks, Sleep. Who cares? I just need sleep. He wishes the buzzing would stop. He wonders why his bed is so hard and ruff. Just sleep. White fuzz clouds his view. A dandelion drifts into focus – the cotton ball of seeds rises from a crack in the bricks. Jeremy thinks his mother would like to see it. He thinks they could blow on it together and watch the seeds parachute away. I wonder why we don’t do that anymore. Wait… there’s a something… a something I need to do. Run, I need to run, run for help. He slides his hands beneath himself to rise. He feels wetness – he holds up his palm and sees red red blood. I can’t get any on me, it’ll just upset mom, must keep it from mom. He wonders where the blood came from and he does not care. He hears shouts. He hears Dave’s shouts and sees Dave fighting to escape a man, the killer cop – Dave knows, I have to get to Dave, get the ring to Dave Jeremy drags the ring from his pocket and he coughs up a cloud of blood and drops the gold band tinkles against bricks and rolls screams someone screams the killer cop smacks Dave to the ground Jeremy reaches a heavy fuzzy hand struggles to move it to ring floaty drifting sun white cloudy eyes heavy tears sleepy pillow Jeremy thinks Dave, Dave the ring… and Jeremy thinks no more...

In the dream control room, an array of monitors display graphs, uncompleted reports and several views of Jeremy from different angles. His contorted body lies motionless – his eyes wide and absent – his lips slightly parted – blood trickles down his cheek and congeals. The images of Jeremy fade to a black screen with the message END DREAM T4385 – PRISONER 32884.

Another monitor glows red and shows prisoner 32884, Thor, lying in his chamber. Suspended from the ceiling above his head and chest, two spheres scan his vitals. The room around him looms neutral and featureless – no paintings or family photos hang from the walls – no furniture holds mementoes of his past – no windows look out to the world – no visible doors lead to other rooms or the outside. The only sound is a constant dull hum and an occasional whimper.

On a counter before the monitors, a man wearing a white lab coat rests his head in the crook of his arm. He lightly snores and beneath his parted lips, a puddle of drool slowly creeps toward the edge of the counter.

The sultry voice of a woman interrupts the silence, Trevor, wakey wakey.

Trevor jerks up from his power nap. His eyes burn as he drowsily gazes at his crossed arms on the counter. He notices a red forehead print on his forearm and wonders if his forehead looks the same. He brushes down the sleeves of his lab coat and leans back in his high back armchair – he glances around. He notices the monitor displaying the message END DREAM… Well, thank god that one’s over. Now I can relax.

Trevor reaches back to the base of his skull and grasps his Patch. He removes the quarter sized transmitter receiver. The monitors and scenery blink out of his mind. He rubs the area of skin over the implanted magnet in the hollow at the top of his neck as he peers at the gray walls of his office. He replaces the communication devise against its mate beneath his skin – the two magnets attract each other to snuggly secure the patch in place. The dozen or so virtual screens pop back up before him – they resemble holograms that he interacts with, but they only exist in his mind. He wonders why he left so many screens open before his nap. He hates the way they clutter his field of view. With a thought, he wills them all to vanish and they blip away. He thinks of a main page and it appears before him. He groans as he reads down the list of reports he needs to complete. He glances around at the walls and ceiling – in his mind he sees a virtual three-dimensional nighttime desert surrounding him. He notices the stars slowly rotating.

Gabriella calls to him playfully, again, Trevor, wakey wakey.

Trevor hates that her voice seems to emanate from inside his head, a trick of the Patch, or rather, he thinks, a flaw of the Patch. Yes ma’am. He wipes the small puddle of drool off the counter and dries his hand on his lab coat.

Gabriella stretches out the words to give them a sensual singsongy feel, Erik is coming.

Trevor snaps to attention as he might respond to a Popsicle prostate examination, What? Why?

Gabriella purrs, Mmm, not sure, but a woman accompanies him.

Trevor jerks up out of his chair. Damn, a surprise inspection – they could have at least warned me. He glances around the office checking for anything out of order. He brushes at the wrinkles and dirt smudges on his lab coat to no avail. He drops to the floor and pounds out ten quick push-ups to help wake him. I bet some executive got bored and decided to do her job. He rises, sits back down and scoots to the counter. He rubs his forehead where he imagines a red pressure mark still lingers – he brushes at his hair to cover the spot. He searches for his reflection in the monitor before him – then he remembers it casts no reflection because it does not exist in the real world. He flicks his hand through the illusion of a screen in disgust, Stupid technology! It vanishes. He thinks of several reports and images that should be before him when they walk in – the monitors group themselves into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. He taps at his real keyboard and the room brightens.

Trevor sits erect. His hands hover above his keyboard ready to type. He focuses straight ahead at a screen. The cursor blinks. Trevor imagines, I bet Gabriella lied about Erik just to watch me flap about the office, the bitch. He inhales deep and relaxes his shoulders. He slouches back into the chair. He runs his hand over his chin. I should’ve shaved this morning. He taps a foot. He takes a gulp of cold stale coffee and winces. He picks at the armrest. He flings his hands up in disgust, Aw screw it, I might as well get some work done, now that I’m wide-awake. He examines the information on the monitor before him. He flinches as a portal appears in the wall to his left.

Trevor spins to see a stocky man, Erik, in a plain charcoal gray suit, stride in. A young woman trails him in a baggy fall dress and glasses. She bears a rotund purse. Trevor thinks her long shiny hair stands out as if she had a brief encounter with an electrical outlet.

Erik clasps his hands behind his back, Shyla Chance, meet Trevor Chesbrook. He is a crucial component of our oppression. So, pay close attention, note everything and you can explain to me what it is he does all day. He smirks as he addresses Trevor, We have assigned Shyla to intern with you for the fortuitous future.

Shyla holds very still and grins sheepishly.

Trevor wonders why Erik is speaking as if he swallowed a thesaurus. He points to the empty chair, Hey Shyla. Have a seat. He realizes this is going to disturb his naptime. He scowls at Erik, So Shyla’s an intern?

Erik cocks his head, We discussed this a week ago over lunch.

Lunch?

Well, thank you, but regrettably I will be unable to attend lunch today. I have a previous inconvenience. Perhaps tomorrow. Erik grins.

Trevor rolls his eyes in resignation and groans.

Gabriella’s voice rings seductively through the room, Hello Erik.

Gabriella. Erik gestures broadly, And this is Gabriella. She’s the computer that controls this whole operation.

Trevor smirks, Computer, she’s more of a glorified abacus.

Gabriella responds salaciously, Oh Trevor, I know where you sleep.

Trevor blushes.

Erik grins smugly, turns and exits through the portal, Bon voyeur. The entryway closes behind him and blends into the scenery projected on to the walls.

Trevor watches his exit unsure how to respond. He turns to Shyla, So, are you married?

Shyla blinks and blushes, Uh, no.

"That makes you Miss Chance. Get it, mischance? So, are you unlucky Miss Chance?" Trevor grins at his wit.

Shyla half smiles. She regards the office walls, This is a lovely shade of gray.

Oh sorry. Trevor taps at his keyboard and slides it to Shyla, Go ahead and enter the log-in and password for your Patch, Gabriella will remember you after this.

Shyla pushes her hair back over her ears. She hunts and pecks, hits return and slides the keyboard back to Trevor. In her mind, the virtual monitors pop up before her. Across the walls and ceiling she can now see a panorama of outdoor scenery supported by scent and sound creating a convincing feel of nature. Currently a night desert sky with slowly rotating stars clustered tightly along the band of the Milky Way. An orange crescent moon rises. Dark silhouettes of mountains sit low on the horizon. A light breeze stirs the dry air.

Trevor peers at the back of her head, but cannot see through her hair, What model Patch are you wearing?

It’s a… Shyla looks off to think, Ladybug. It’s okay. On the street it is a little crazy with all the advertisements flitting about.

Yeah, you have too much information out there. When you let the world know you like big purses, everybody who sells big purses will pop-up an advertisement in front of you. Mine got so bad I couldn’t see the sidewalk through all the virtual promotions. I removed all that kind of information from my profiles, now I’m an unknown and not worth their ad money. They pretty much leave me alone.

Yeah, but you just don’t get the discounts and coupons.

That’s okay. I get the peace of mind and a clear view of the sidewalk.

Shyla considers this as she gazes at the desert landscape, That’s beautiful.

Trevor shrugs, I’ve gotten use to it. It does make this room feel a lot bigger though. I don’t have the desert sound on, only a light breeze and a rattlesnake that’ll bite you on the ass. He grins, but wonders if he should have said derriere.

Shyla smiles nervously as she draws her extremities in and flits her eyes about in search of the snake, Um, how do you remember where the exit is?

Trevor points to the floor in front of the now invisible portal. Letters printed on the tile read Exit and accompany an arrow, If there is a power outage, that will glow red. Just follow the red arrows out of the building. He points further down to a second sign labeled Restroom, You can rest in there. He grins at his wit again and points to a third floor sign, And that is the supply closet. Trevor gestures to the counter top, You can put your stuff there.

Shyla takes in the tiles as if she anticipates a quiz and returns her attention to the monitors. She gestures to a reddish screen that displays a view of Thunder, Is he getting any better?

Trevor taps the virtual monitor and the image springs to double its former size in both of their minds.

Thunder sleeps completely exposed, except for the gold collar that encases his throat. His body still glistens with sweat, but he lies motionless apart from his relaxed breathing.

Trevor considers Shyla’s question, Today or?

Just in general.

Yeah, some. He use to be excessively violent – he seemed to enjoy making people suffer, cat and mouse stuff.

Really.

Oh yeah! Trevor realizes he said that a little too enthusiastically, It was hard to watch. He would cripple them or mortally wound them, but keep them conscious and suffering. He notices her face sag under this revelation.

Shyla leans back in her chair and feigns tranquility in a struggle to mask her shock, Just, um, a little pent up hostilities?

Trevor scoffs, Yeah, I’m glad I don’t live in his dreams. However, he seems to have worked through most of his anger issues. Now, he mostly subdues the subjects and moves on. Trevor wonders why she questions him about things even an intern should know. Is she up to some shit? Did Erik put her up to this? Is she spying for Erik, or one of the executives? Trevor presses her, In the beginning, he captured this guy, took him to some mountain cave. He’d break a bone, watch the guy suffer and plead for a couple of hours and break another bone. When the guy passed out, Thunder would revive him with cold water. This went on until the guy finally gave up the ghost.

Shyla wilts a bit clammy, Was that guy just some sort of serial killer or something?

No, he was only in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shyla turns to the exit reconsidering her career choice. She takes a deep breath and reaches for her bulky purse. As she pops open the snap, the back of the purse nudges Trevor’s coffee cup and knocks it over. She squeals.

The cold milky brown liquid flows toward their laps. They both leap from their chairs.

Trevor hoots and cheers as the coffee pours to the floor.

Shyla gapes, Why are you laughing?

Cause none of the coffee got on my white coat.

Shyla splutters, But the console?

Relax. It is splash proof, and shock proof, and it may even be bullet proof, but you’re gonna have to clean that up or the janitor will beat you to death with that ginormous purse, Miss Chance. Trevor grins, steps to the back wall and taps at the virtual image of the sky – a cabinet door swings open. He pulls out a roll of paper towels and tosses it to her. He watches her and smiles as he enjoys the power he lords over her.

Flustered, Shyla wipes off the console and plops the soaked towels into a trashcan. She kneels down to the puddle on the floor. As she leans forward, her dress gapes open and Trevor catches a quick glimpse of a breast.

Trevor’s heart thumps against his ribcage. He thinks, God bless breasts, happy playful breasts. The glimpse of a breast reminds him of warm sunshine on a cold day or hot chocolate on a cold day. No, he thinks, it is more like sunshine.

Trevor fumbles for a second roll of paper towels and kneels down to help her mop. The world around him fades as her boobs slosh with the wiping motions. Her breasts sing to him their siren song – they lull him into a state of hope and cheer. I wonder if turning up the lights would be too obvious. Maybe I should just memorize her tits as they are.

Shyla peers into his eyes. Trevor snaps his gaze to meet hers, but he knows she caught him. His face burns.

Shyla titters and points to Trevor’s knees, You just knelt in the coffee.

Trevor snaps his eyes down to find the coffee wicking up into his white lab coat. He leaps up and back, and brushes at the stain as if it consists of penguin poo. He groans, Oh man. Now I have to do laundry tonight.

Shyla completes her coffee mopping. She tosses the last of the paper towels into the trash, pushes her chair back to the console and sits. She crosses her legs and unconsciously bobs her dangling foot.

Trevor grunts, disgusted with himself and the injustice of his life. He plops into his chair.

They sit in self-conscious silence and stare at the virtual screens.

Trevor gropes for a distraction. Then it dawns on him, duh, work! He taps at his keyboard, Thunder just finished a dream. I’ll set it up so you can watch it from the beginning.

Shyla twirls a lock of hair, Okay, but why do they call him Thunder?

"Cause Prisoner 32884 has too many syllables."

Shyla twirls the lock quicker, But, why don’t you just use his real name?

Trevor reflects, taps a few more keys and hits return, We’re not suppose to know their real names to discourage favoritism or antagonism. He taps a virtual monitor and it pops to fill their view. The screen displays two boys straddling their mountain bikes on a forest trail. They watch a hawk on