Chapter 3

Ray sat in office, looking down at the desk in front of him. It seemed expensive, too expensive for a lowly pion. With a lack of handy desk labels, presumably so the owner of the desk could remember their own name, he assumed they were important enough to not need a desk label.

She entered, finally. A woman of indeterminate age, but older than her thirties, glasses and an expensive lab coat. She was trying her hardest to look apologetic. 

“Ray Harwell.” She said. “Thank you for coming to see me. I’m Dr. Piwitti.”

“You told me something was wrong with my sister?” Ray said, wanting to get to the point.

“Yes.” Piwitti sat down at the desk. “There’s no good way to say this. But your sister has developed some unforeseen mental… difficulties.”

“You mean she’s gone crazy?” Ray nodded. “Developed PTSD?”

“That.” Pitwitti nodded. “Along with dem dissociative fugue.” Ray nodded. It could often go hand in hand with PTSD. But his sister was not the type to be overtaken by grief and stress.

“What do you think caused it?”

“It’s too early to say…”

“You have made an approximation.” Ray interrupted. “You’re a psychologist.”

“How can you tell?” Piwitti raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “I don’t have my certificate up in this office.”

“The way you speak.” Ray shrugged. “And the fact you didn’t fight me when I wanted to get to the point. You wanted to know what kind of person I was, and so you adjusted your approach with me.” Piwitti nodded.

“You’re right. I do have an approximate reason behind the diagnosis.”


“I think that the grief of loosing her partner and the trauma of her injuries were too much for her to handle…” the doctor began to drone on in psych speak. Ray tuned her out. So Alex knew something she wasn’t supposed to and they had made her crazy.

“You have a solution?” Ray said in a pause.

“Yes.” Pitwitti folded her hands over her mouth. “But it’s experimental.”

“Past the clinical trials?”

“Mostly.” Piwitti nodded. “Really just waiting on approval. But we have invested too much in your sister to have all that time and money go down the drain, not to mention the bad press. We need her sane.”

“And you think your treatment will help?”

“We have high hopes in it’s success. Your sister is a perfect candidate.”

“What is it?”

“Memory suppressant drugs.” Ray nodded. He knew that several governments were working on the drugs. He didn’t know that someone had succeeded in getting it to clinical trials. 

“So,” Ray nodded. “You need me to stay quiet about her experience in the IJS CSD.”

“Precisely.” Ray sighed. It was for his sister, who was not actually crazy. But he needed her safe and out from under the IJS.


Zoe Fleischer