Page 72 of Victorious

EON

“DIRECTOR Roy, come in.”

Gabriel held the door as Helena stepped into his office, followed by the same stone-faced soldier who always trailed her, the one who’d showed up at his house upstate that day. Now, like then, he took one step inside, then stood silently against the wall.

Gabriel nodded to the seating area.

“Please, make yourself at home.”

His new office wasn’t as welcoming as the one in his old house had been, but it still provided a stark contrast to the rest of EON. Here alone, the cold white walls and floor were interrupted, the former by shelves, the latter by a rich green rug. He’d forgone a desk, opting instead to place two elegant chairs across a low table, creating a sense of equity between therapist and patient. But Gabriel wasn’t allowed to interview the EOs beyond their cells, and so, until today, no one had occupied the other seat.

“Coffee?” he asked.

A shallow cabinet stood against one wall, and on it sat a machine, and a pair of matching cups. As Helena chose her seat, he switched it on, slipped the buttons at his cuffs, and began to roll his sleeves.

“Espresso,” he said, carrying the twin cups to the table, and setting one before her. “One sugar, if I’m right.”

“Do you have it written down?” she asked.

Gabriel smiled and touched a finger to his temple. “Good memory.” He sat, and flipped his notebook open, turning to a blank page.

Helena arched a brow. “I didn’t come here to be analyzed.”

“Of course.” He shook his head. “You know what they say about old habits.” He made a show of setting the notebook and the pencil down, taking his espresso up instead. “Well then, what should we talk about?”

“I’m not sure,” said Helena flatly. “You invited me.”

“Indeed I did,” he said. “I thought we should check in about my work.”

“All right,” said Helena, taking up the cup and saucer. “You’ve had six months. What have you learned so far?”

The truth was, not enough.

A frustrating pattern had emerged: EOs were proving less communicative and more combative than ordinary patients, resisting treatment. Even medicated, they were surprisingly defiant, and seemingly determined to withhold as much as possible.

“A pattern is beginning to emerge, between the nature of their near-deaths and their abilities. A poetic symmetry of sorts, between their state of mind and their resulting powers.”

That much he’d managed to pry out of them.

But files could never provide more than an outline, an incomplete picture.

Therapy was meant to be a dialogue, and much to his frustration, the vast majority of his patients currently refused to speak. He needed their trust. Or at least, their cooperation.

Gabriel studied the small cup in his hand. “It’s challenging,” he said. “A few have been quite talkative…”

Of course, the trouble with those—with all patients, even those who sought out therapy—was their ability to lie. Sometimes they meant to do it, and sometimes there were simply things they would not—could not—face. Gabriel’s job was to draw out the truth.

“And the rest?” prompted Helena, dropping the sugar cube into her cup.

The rest still saw him as an enemy instead of an ally.

A captor, not a confidant.

“It’s hard to build rapport with a cell wall in the way.”

Helena took a sip. “It’s protocol.”

“Protocol,” he echoed blandly. He looked down at his notebook, the pencil marking his place. “Do you know why I write in pencil?” he asked, plucking it free. “Because in my line of work, few things are absolute. People change. Minds change. Every thing in this world is subject to change. Everything can be revised, improved upon.” He rolled the instrument between his fingers. “Why not EON?”