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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: The Pretender and all of the associated characters are the property of MTM Entertainment and
NBC, who despite their lack of attention to schedules, are actually making money off this series, unlike me. I
am in no way attempting to steal these characters for profit or sex, I just enjoy writing about them and I
enjoy creating my own little world for them to live in. During the course of this fanfic, you will once again
meet two of my characters and you’ll probably wander across a third. These guys are solely mine, and if
NBC or MTM Entertainment - or anyone else for that matter - wants to use them, feel free (I warn you,
though, Bridgett bites). This story is meant to cause no harm to anyone and is not intended to cause any
copyright infringements. If you want all the money I’m making off of this, beat up a little kid. He’s probably
got more.
If you’ve read The Winds Of Change, congratulations, you’re in the right place. If you haven’t, I’d suggest
reading it or getting a copy as this story follows that one and you may be a bit lost. Otherwise, just sit back
and enjoy the ride. Comments, suggestions, gripes or funny jokes should be emailed to me at
Pretender7@yahoo.com.
RATING NOTES: This story will eventually fall out of the R ratings and wallow into NC-17 due to Violence
and (M/F) Sexual Content Part One doesn’t quite get there, but the others most likely will. If you’re under
eighteen, get your parent’s permission before you read this. I assure you, before you all scamper off, the
sex is not *the* story, it’s just a vital (and virile) part of it. Each part will be given a separate rating until the
entire piece is completed then it will receive a rating. Capishe?
Without further ado –
The King of the Blues (also known as Icarus Falling, Part Two)
(rating: PG)
Introduction
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
October 3, 1970
Simulation Lab 12-4
The sim lab was set up to look like a hotel room. An obviously well worn, disheveled king-sized bed
served as the focal point of the ensemble. A small overturned desk, a broken television, a small
dresser with a broken mirror and a small floor lamp completed the room’s furnishings. When Jarod
entered the sim lab, he couldn’t help wondering why the room looked both so chaotic and so
ordered at the same time. Over the speakers of the sim-lab sound system, a warbling guitar
accentuated a singer’s poor voice elevating both to some level of artistic palpability which strangely
moved the young Pretender. Jarod turned towards the tall man standing where the room’s fourth
wall should have been. “Sydney, what am I doing in here?”
“A young man has died, Jarod. Important people want to know why. Tell me what you can.”
Immediately, Jarod twitched and his face grew pained. With a cry, he fell to his knees. When he
was younger, Jarod had trouble controlling his pretending ability. He would immediately pretend on
any stimulus provided to him. Now, at the age of eleven, he was increasingly able to control when
he started and stopped pretends, but not yet how strongly the pretend affected him. He continued
to fall, his head slumping to the ground at his knees. Although Sydney had seen this reaction in
Jarod before, he was still concerned. The generation two pretenders had basically been weeded out
to the two who would be of the most benefit to the Centre. Sydney found himself increasingly
growing attached to Jarod, adopting him like a son.
“Jarod, what do you see.”
“Pain, Sydney. Pain and sadness.” Jarod lifted his head up and the tears were streaming down his
face. His voice was choked with a sorrow far beyond the tears and the man’s death.
Sydney, who had been expecting this to be a very direct Pretend, was very surprised at Jarod’s
reaction. “What’s wrong, Jarod?” It was almost a statement or perhaps a polite invitation to
continue with the sim. It was not really a question of concern for Jarod.
Jarod ignored Sydney and slowly stood up. He crossed the small room and circled behind the bed.
The sweepers had taken great care to re-assemble the room as it had looked that night. Jarod was
walking around in it like he owned the place. Behind the bed, Jarod reached down and picked up a
white guitar. It felt very heavy to him, much heavier than he imagined it would weigh. Jarod had
never seen a guitar before, but he instinctively slipped the strap over his right shoulder and picked
up the small guitar pick lying in the tangled bed sheets with his left hand. Jarod began to absently
strum on strings. “Who was this man, Sydney?”
“That’s not important, Jarod. Please continue with the sim.”
Jarod almost tentatively touched the neck of the guitar with his right hand. As his fingers touched
the maple-wood neck, some sort of psychic circuit was completed and Jarod again fell his knees.
The tears began to flow again. “He wanted to die, Sydney,” Jarod cried, his voice choked with the
tears. “That’s all he ever really wanted.”
Intriguing, Sydney thought. “Why, Jarod?”
Jarod suddenly stopped crying and stared straight at his mentor, “Sydney, what is love?”
“Jarod, that’s not important here. Finish the simulation.”
“NO!” Barked Jarod with a ferocity and anger Sydney had never seen before. Jarod was not
emotional. Pretenders were not emotional by nature. Jarod looked at Sydney like a tiger ready to
strike. “That’s all that’s important, Sydney! That’s why he wanted to die. He didn’t know what love
was. This,” he held up the guitar, “was all he knew of love. He could never find anyone who could
make him feel like this guitar did, like any guitar did. He tried, he knew many women, took many
different chemicals all in the pursuit of some other meaning of love, when all he wanted was for
someone to care about him and not about this damn guitar!” Jarod took the guitar and slung it at
the remnants of the television on the floor.
Sydney winced at the violence Jarod was displaying and privately he thought he should be more
careful when he accepted these emotionally involved sims.
“All he wanted was acceptance. No one accepted him! Sydney, why couldn’t someone love him
the way he loved life, the way he loved others, the way he loved that guitar? The guitar, any guitar,
felt better in his hands than any woman ever did. All he wanted was to know love, Sydney, so don’t
tell me love doesn’t matter here. Love is the reason he wanted to die.”
Sydney knew he needed to end the sim or risk doing damage to Jarod by exposing him to these
powerful emotions. “Jarod, did he purposely kill himself?”
Jarod just blankly stared at Sydney. With tears streaming down both cheeks and his chest rocked
with sobs, he presented a picture Sydney would not soon forget. “No, Sydney, you just don’t get it,
do you? He didn’t kill himself here – he died a long time ago, in London. This,” Jarod’s hand swept
the room in a grandiose gesture of possession, “was just his body finally catching up to his soul.”
Jarod wistfully stared up into the darkness behind Sydney and started to quietly sing:
“And so Castles made of sand
falls into the sea, eventually…”
*****
Chapter 1
The Scottsman Inn
San Antonio, Texas
October 17, 1997 1530 CST
The smallish, poorly lit room had few of the charms Jarod had come to expect from his recent
bases. The unit was not provided with either a kitchen or a separate living room and was barely
large enough for him to do his Tai Chi exercises, even with the smallish queen-sized pushed to the
far wall. The ridiculously small table had barely enough room for him to set the DSA reader up
properly. Fortunately, the back wall had a counter that housed the phone, a dreadfully undersized
and overworked refrigerator and little else. The laptop, line-splitter for the phone and the DSA reader
which now lined the counter reminded Jarod of a control station.
The Scottsman wasn’t a particularly deplorable place to stay, especially when compared with some
of the establishments he had been at recently. The only major problem was the lack of a kitchen.
The Centre had grown accustomed to searching for him and if they should narrow down the location
of this Pretend, then he wanted them to have the most difficult time locating his lair. Again, he
constantly reminded himself that familiarity and pattern, no matter how conducive to personal
comfort, would get him caught. He had to stay at a quintessential motel in order to keep Miss
Parker honest. San Antonio was too small a city to give her any chance.
Not to say that San Antonio was a small city. Quite to the contrary, San Antonio was the third
largest city in Texas and had a population larger than some smaller nations. The only problem for
Jarod in a town like San Antonio was that the major industry was tourism. This meant that hotels
proliferated and transients stayed for days, not weeks. The relative isolation of San Antonio bred a
feeling of an Oasis, which the tourism bureau and the locals sponsored and even nurtured.
Consequently, transitory people either found permanent housing here or moved on. Weekly
apartments and so-called flop houses were rare in San Antonio. As he was intentionally staying
away from the YMCA’s this left very few establishments that met his primary needs for shelter,
anonymity and basic housing conveniences. So if the price of freedom was eating his meals in
restaurants, then so be it.
As the last remnants of the protein shake which had served as his lunch slid from the glass in
Jarod’s hands, through his lips and into his memory, he absently reached down to the bed and
recovered the red notebook which he had been carrying all day. As he set the glass back down on
the counter, he flipped open the cover and again scanned the article from today’s San Antonio
Gazette:
Local Girl Vanishes, Brings Total to Six, Authorities Baffled
(AP) – San Antonio, TX. Tiffany Brown, a local night club dancer, was reported missing yesterday
afternoon. Tiffany Brown was a long-time resident of the area. Her husband reported to police that
she never came home from work on Wednesday morning. “She always came home right after
work,” her husband Ron told this reporter. “She loved our daughter too much to leave. I just knew
something had happened.”
Local authorities have been waiting the required 24 hours since Tiffany was last seen leaving the
River City Cabaret, a local gentleman’s club, on Wednesday at about 2:30 AM. She was not seen
leaving with anybody, but sources tell this reporter that she had many regular customers at the
club. Authorities are refusing to speculate on any possible connection to The Stalker, a man who
police believe has abducted five other women in the last six weeks. The police have no leads on
this man. Any citizens with any information about the whereabouts of Tiffany Brown are advised
that a sizable reward has been offered for her safe return.
Tiffany, 22, was a responsible mother, friends told this reporter…
The story trailed on and gave an exhaustive account of the life and habits of Tiffany. Jarod had
taken notice of the story due to a recurring pattern he had seen over the last six months. Three
separate times a group of eight women disappeared within one metropolitan area and their bodies
were never found. Jarod had been too busy lately to undertake the pursuit of this vicious killer
before now, and he had patiently waited for the killer to strike again. Jarod knew the modus
operandi of the killer like his own sleep habits. The killer always centralized in one city and
operated over a six to eight week time period. He had begun to suspect the killer always only took
one girl a week, but recently the killer had sometimes taken two or three women in a week. The
disappearances always stopped after either eight weeks or eight women, though. Jarod didn’t know
the significance of eight but he did see the pattern. Jarod figured he had two weeks to nail this guy
before he would vanish again for another few months. Plenty of time.
Jarod checked the guitar lying up against the wall. The Ibanez 470RG was strung with brand new
Ernie Ball SuperSlinkies and the guitar was perfectly tuned a half-step flat, just like the musicians in
Lafayette had taught him to do. He knew they all thought he was strange for using the ultra-modern
guitar but when he played they didn’t wonder for long. Jarod could feel every note and every sound
the guitar would make. With a floating tremelo and a re-wound bridge pickup for sustained high
note resolution, Jarod had the crimson guitar set up perfectly for him.
He had spent the last two months perfecting his skill with the instrument in preparation for the arrival
of the Stalker. He had sat session on four albums for the producers at Alligator Records and there
was even talk about trying to produce an album for him, but he really wasn’t that interested. This
was another skill, another trade. It was not really different from performing surgery or flying a
helicopter. Learn the hand positions, learn the strum patterns, learn the chords. After that, it was
simply repetition, repetition, repetition. Jarod was getting very fast indeed on the scales and chord
transitions. His nearly photographic memory helped him to remember chord charts and diagrams
with ease. Coupled with a two week study of the fundamentals of music history and an in-depth
analysis of every facet of rock, blues and jazz since 1900, Jarod felt he was prepared for the
Pretend.
He picked up the guitar and began to run scales. The BluesStoppers went on stage at ten tonight
for their first gig of a two week stay in San Antonio. Most nights they were playing at Tex’s Sports
Bar on the Riverwalk. Next Saturday, though, they were scheduled for the weekly Battle of the
Blues at the Hilton Lounge. The band wanted to be ready. Occasionally record executives showed
up to hear how the local talent compared with the outstanding house band at the Hilton. Jarod
wanted to be ready, after all, Jarod Guy was their lead guitarist and a large part of the reason they
were here.
*****
TL-8, Executive Boardroom, The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
1730 EST
Despite the fact the sun had slipped below the far off horizon, no one in the mahogany and leather
conference room made any indication artificial lighting was needed. The four men had been
colleagues for over thirty years, yet none had troubled himself to learn the first name of any of the
others. Misters Johnson, Daniels, Parker and Smythe sat in the veiled seclusion of the conference
room cloaked in a darkness that was only symbolized by the lack of proper light. The board
meeting was proceeding right on schedule and now it was time for the four most powerful men
outside the beltway to deal with their most pressing matter.
Mr. Parker, the junior member of the group, rose from the table to let in the expected speaker. Had
she not been standing, waiting at the door, she would not have had a chance to offer excuse.
“Bridgett, please come in.”
Bridgett strode into the darkness of the room and felt both the oppressive weight of the power in the
room and the crushing loneliness of the men seated in front of her. Wearing a tailored silk blazer
and a skirt which came to an abrupt end mid-thigh, she was dressed for the occasion and dressed
as she always did: to impress. She could feel four sets of eyes tantalizingly linger over the sterling
pendant which hung purposely low on her deeply tanned chest. She had intentionally worn no
blouse under the blazer counting on the added interest which her ample cleavage would provide.
Despite her two inch stiletto heels, though, she was still the smallest person in the room. She
more than made up for that with her sheer presence. She could almost feel the room grow brighter
as she took up her position at the foot of the gaudily oppressive table.
Her dark hair was tightly spun up into a folded bun on the back of her head. Even now, she could
feel the slightly sexual pull of the hair on her scalp. The silk of the blazer and the feelings of lust
washing off the men in the room aroused her in a subtle but warming way. She felt like a Greek
goddess, climbing down off Mount Olympus, greeting the council of elders of some nameless
village. These men were some of the most powerful men in the world and they cowered in her
presence. She knew, with the knowledge that only a woman of incredible beauty and confidence
can have, that they were already eating out of her hands and she had not yet spoken a single word.
“Gentlemen,” she began, her husky, sensuous voice spilling through the dark eddy currents of the
room, “I am here to give you my report on project Icarus.”
Mr. Johnson, the senior most member of the board motioned slightly to her to continue. This was
the greatest honor she could have hoped for.
“Operation Kansas was completed right on schedule. The subject was intercepted and analyzed.
All data has been properly filed in accordance with the operational instructions. Further, despite
some untimely interference from SIS, the subject was allowed to proceed relatively unharmed.
Phase one was a complete success.”
“What about the program and the data? Did you retrieve that as well?” The anxious question came
from Mr. Parker. His attempt to draw attention away from the bungling of his daughter was both
futile and naïve. Even Bridget saw clear through it.
“The program has been given to technical, however there was no data in the files. Perhaps the units
which the subject designed for the mission were a failure and the data was not retrieved. Technical
will have a full report on the matter when they have completed their investigation.” Bridgett could
feel Mr. Smythe undressing her as she spoke. She silently reached out with her mind and began to
pick up his indecision as to what color her bra was. She turned and looked directly at him, a
chance under the best of circumstances, and answered him, “Red.”
Mr. Smythe, to his credit, showed no indication of embarrassment or distress at this. Instead, he
filled in the detail in his mental fantasy and continued to undress her.
It was Mr. Daniels who spoke next. “Mr. Parker, are you sure that this is such a wise decision? If
our agent had the target within range, why not apprehend?”
“That was my decision,” Mr. Johnson replied. The conversation was dropped immediately.
“Gentlemen, phase two is scheduled for kick-off tomorrow. I will be leaving immediately after this
meeting and heading directly for the target area. Are there any further instructions or any changes
to the operation directives?”
Mr. Johnson shook his head. His mind was a blank slate to her. This, more than anything else in
the world, frightened her.
Mr. Smythe, apparently recovered from his private thoughts, stood. “We do have one other thing to
discuss. Let me see if she’s arrived.”
Bridget was unprepared for this and immediately her mind clicked at the sly smile on Mr. Smythe’s
face. The man had not been involved in the fantasy at hand, but instead had filled his frontal
consciousness with an expected image in order to form a barrier to his real thoughts. Bridget was
suddenly very uncomfortable with the prospect that someone was coming through the huge double
doors whom she did not expect. Her face, though, remained set and disinterested.
Mr. Smythe approached the door and swung it open to reveal a person whom Bridgett could not see
due to the position of the door to herself. This positioning had undoubtedly been planned to the
most minute detail by these men. The reaction on Mr. Parker’s face, however, told her everything
she needed to know.
*****
Miss Parker strode into the room wishing she had not chosen to wear the stiletto heels she
normally fancied. The staccato ringing of her heels on the floor sounded like gunshots in the dark
conference room. She had never been called up to this level before and the fear was plain on her
face. As she entered the room she could not help notice the very average height woman standing
at the foot of the conference table. Around the table were men she had met when she was a child
but never really knew. These were the Directors of the Centre and her presence here was not a
welcome sign. Her father sat impassively watching her stride to the side of the smaller woman. He
looked like he was watching an execution.
Miss Parker cast a quick glance over the other woman as she walked up to the table. Her suit was
similar to Parker’s own, however it showed little of the flair for fashion that she showed. The
obviously expensive suit was neutrally colored and very traditional. The lack of a blouse was
intriguing, especially as Miss Parker passed her shoulder and found that her cleavage provided quite
a view from the vantage point of one three inches taller. A red bra, Miss Parker noted. Her rival was
dressing to impress. This woman was a dangerous person, because she was obviously more
accustomed to being in this room. To Miss Parker, that was threatening enough.
“Miss Parker, I would like you to meet one of our new Sweepers, Bridgett. Bridgett, this is Miss
Parker.” Mr. Smythe made the introduction and immediately set Miss Parker at some level of ease.
Personnel at the Centre were delineated as either staff or management by the way they were
addressed. If a person was addressed as Mister or Miss, then they were management and
consequently higher ranking than any staff member who was addressed by either their first or their
last name without the respectful Miss or Mister. Married women in the Centre were still referred to
as Miss and in most cases were referred to by their maiden names. In no case did the marriage of
a woman change her name at the Centre. No doubt this was a subtle attempt to reinforce the fact
that family and relationships existed only outside the Centre.
Miss Parker felt some ease as she discovered that she outranked the woman next to her. She
made no attempt to greet her, as that would not have been professional. “Daddy, why am I here?”
Mr. Daniels cut her off sharply. “Miss Parker, we are very disappointed both with your repeated
failures to apprehend Jarod and your insubordination in Arkansas. The SIS is still investigating the
manner in which you came to arrive in Arkansas and caused the injuries to yourself and Dr. Greene.
As of right now you are on permanent suspension pending the outcome of the SIS inquiry. You will
be in a pay status, however you will have no duties to perform here at the Centre. I suggest you
contact a good lawyer and begin to prepare to answer many questions.”
Miss Parker was devastated. She had nearly captured Jarod in Arkansas. She had expected
some type of recognition for her dedication there. Now this? She could feel the acidic burn of tears
and the bitter betrayal of her voice choke out a single word, “Why?”
“That is all, Miss Parker,” Mr. Daniels continued, unaffected by her naked show of emotion. “We
will contact you at your summer house. If you attempt to resume any Centre related activities or
continue contact with Jarod during this suspension, the sweeper teams will be given instructions to
either apprehend you or to consider you as a traitor to the Centre. You may leave now.”
Miss Parker looked down at the etched face of her rival, knowing immediately her place in this
whole affair. As she turned to leave, she whispered, “Don’t ever let me see you on the outside,
bitch.”
As she left the room, she could have sworn she heard the woman say back, “Count on it.”
*****
As the door to the conference room quietly closed behind the battered shell of Miss Parker, Mr.
Smythe stood. “Bridgett. You know what you have to do. Do not fail us.”
Still shocked at the ferocity of the attack on Miss Parker, Bridgett could only answer, “Of course,
sir,” as she turned and walked out through the side door she had used to enter. Bridgett was not
management in the Centre and as such, she would never be able to walk the main hallways of this
level. Not for the first time she realized that she liked it much better that way.
*****
As Bridgett left the room, the four men called the meeting closed.
Mr. Smythe caught Mr. Daniels on his way towards the door. “Mr. Daniels, did you really have to
be that strong with her? After all she is Parker’s daughter.”
Mr. Daniels just looked at the younger man and shook his head. “Parker women are bad news
around this place. One day you’ll come to learn that.”
“What about the other one?”
“You heard the Mr. Johnson. Project Icarus is to proceed with no changes. Bring the other pieces
into place as per the original operation directives.”
Mr. Smythe stopped and allowed his colleague of thirty years exit the room first. As he looked
back over the cold, lifeless conference room, he couldn’t help but smile. Jarod would learn not to
bite the hand that fed him all right.
It was time to release the hounds.
*****
Offices of Dr. Shafton, MD
Clinical Psychiatrist
Dover, Delaware
1830 hrs.
Despite the brutal nature of his injuries and the incessant itching of his healing leg, Sydney was
quite contented to be somewhat incapacitated. The cane he had taken to using while enduring the
walking cast had grown quite comfortable in his hand and he almost felt dignified using it. The cane
somehow felt reassuringly firm in his grasp, an anchor, so to speak, with the injury he had
sustained and the lessons it had taught him. Even here, after having sat for nearly an hour, he still
gripped the ornate polished redwood handle. He could tell that Dr. Shafton was taking careful note
of his reliance on the cane as more than a physical need. He knew he would have.
He had been very faithful and attentive the last few months for his therapy. All registered
psychiatrists were required therapy at one time or another and most continued to maintain a
professional relationship with a colleague throughout their careers. Much in the same way no
surgeon would operate on themselves, psychiatrists knew that they could make little or no personal
progress without the direct routine therapy which they recommended for their patients. Years at the
Centre had precluded such therapy for him, though. Only recently, as he was moved from a staff
position to a management position, was Sydney finally starting to have the time to deal with issues
buried long ago.
It was still unsettling to be referred to as Doctor Greene in the Centre halls. He always felt that
name was somehow too formal and too abrasive. No doubt this was due to the structured and
harsh lifestyle the only Doctor Greene he had ever known had imparted upon his children. In his
review of the simulations with Jarod he saw so much of his father in himself. He still cringed at the
harsh and abrupt manner in which he regularly dealt with Jarod. His own hatred of his father had
caused him to knowingly shun family life and retreat completely into his work at the Centre. He had
vowed never to follow in his father’s steps and treat his children that way. Though he never had any
children of his own, he had broken that promise like so many before and after, never realizing what
he had done until years after it was too late.
The years of his intensive work had paid countless dividends for the Centre. Jarod almost single-
handedly elevated the Centre from a dark defense and intelligence research agency to a multi-
national corporation with capital investments far exceeding most first world nations. The Centre had
been a willing target for all his energies and he drove Jarod much harder and much faster than any
of the other Pretenders. Jarod had in many ways been his own protege. Jarod was Sydney’s only
claim to immortality and his only claim to kinship. With Jacob back his coma and the rest of his
family long dead, Jarod was all Sydney had in the world and Jarod hated him.
He couldn’t blame Jarod, any more than his father could him for the hatred which had always boiled
deep beneath the surface, knowing no light, no release. Sydney knew that in order to ask Jarod for
forgiveness and truly expect to receive it, he must first learn to forgive himself and his own father.
Then, he might one day get a chance to achieve the only goal left for him in this life: the love of his
son.
His appointments with Dr. Shafton had been very erratic over the last six months, partially because
of the demands placed on him by the Centre in his pursuit of Jarod. His relentless pursuit did not
allow the time for true introspective and for true inner healing. The last two months, though, had.
He had been immobilized for two weeks while the laser surgery to fuse the broken bones in his leg
together had healed. On a younger, more fit man, this healing may have only taken a day, maybe
two. Sydney had relished the time and paced his recovery slowly and deliberately. Even now the
cast he wore was decidedly unnecessary. He primarily wore it as a ward against the domination of
the Centre.
Silently, Sydney turned from the soothing seascape painting he had been staring at and returned
the warm, caring look which Dr. Shafton was giving him. She was so much more than his
psychiatrist. To Sydney, she represented everything he was missing in his life. Although she was
a widow, Sydney knew that their professional relationship eclipsed any chance of a personal
relationship. She was a radiant, beautiful woman whom Sydney had found immensely attractive,
but she was worth so much more to him as a doctor and a friend than she ever could as a lover.
Sydney spent long hours convincing himself of that.
As he took in the radiant light from her gaze, he couldn’t help but notice that she had silently been
staring at him, waiting for him to finish whatever line of thought his very focused mind had wandered
along. The grin on her face belied the fact that he had been blankly staring into space for nearly five
minutes. She, like most competent psychiatrists knew that most revelations occur in the final five
minutes of a session. This defense mechanism in the patient allows the mind time to think about
something before it is analyzed and dissected by the doctor.
“Let’s talk about what you’re thinking right now, Sydney,” her warm, soothing voice started. The
round, musical quality of her voice always seemed to reach to him like a physical force and draw
out of him whatever she wished. He was powerless to her voice.
“I - I think I’m in love with you,” he replied, more surprised at his own words than she was.
“I know, Sydney. We can talk about that later. First, we need to talk about you.”
And with that, fifteen minutes after the session was scheduled to end, Sydney began to cry. The
real therapy had begun.
NBC, who despite their lack of attention to schedules, are actually making money off this series, unlike me. I
am in no way attempting to steal these characters for profit or sex, I just enjoy writing about them and I
enjoy creating my own little world for them to live in. During the course of this fanfic, you will once again
meet two of my characters and you’ll probably wander across a third. These guys are solely mine, and if
NBC or MTM Entertainment - or anyone else for that matter - wants to use them, feel free (I warn you,
though, Bridgett bites). This story is meant to cause no harm to anyone and is not intended to cause any
copyright infringements. If you want all the money I’m making off of this, beat up a little kid. He’s probably
got more.
If you’ve read The Winds Of Change, congratulations, you’re in the right place. If you haven’t, I’d suggest
reading it or getting a copy as this story follows that one and you may be a bit lost. Otherwise, just sit back
and enjoy the ride. Comments, suggestions, gripes or funny jokes should be emailed to me at
Pretender7@yahoo.com.
RATING NOTES: This story will eventually fall out of the R ratings and wallow into NC-17 due to Violence
and (M/F) Sexual Content Part One doesn’t quite get there, but the others most likely will. If you’re under
eighteen, get your parent’s permission before you read this. I assure you, before you all scamper off, the
sex is not *the* story, it’s just a vital (and virile) part of it. Each part will be given a separate rating until the
entire piece is completed then it will receive a rating. Capishe?
Without further ado –
The King of the Blues (also known as Icarus Falling, Part Two)
(rating: PG)
Introduction
The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
October 3, 1970
Simulation Lab 12-4
The sim lab was set up to look like a hotel room. An obviously well worn, disheveled king-sized bed
served as the focal point of the ensemble. A small overturned desk, a broken television, a small
dresser with a broken mirror and a small floor lamp completed the room’s furnishings. When Jarod
entered the sim lab, he couldn’t help wondering why the room looked both so chaotic and so
ordered at the same time. Over the speakers of the sim-lab sound system, a warbling guitar
accentuated a singer’s poor voice elevating both to some level of artistic palpability which strangely
moved the young Pretender. Jarod turned towards the tall man standing where the room’s fourth
wall should have been. “Sydney, what am I doing in here?”
“A young man has died, Jarod. Important people want to know why. Tell me what you can.”
Immediately, Jarod twitched and his face grew pained. With a cry, he fell to his knees. When he
was younger, Jarod had trouble controlling his pretending ability. He would immediately pretend on
any stimulus provided to him. Now, at the age of eleven, he was increasingly able to control when
he started and stopped pretends, but not yet how strongly the pretend affected him. He continued
to fall, his head slumping to the ground at his knees. Although Sydney had seen this reaction in
Jarod before, he was still concerned. The generation two pretenders had basically been weeded out
to the two who would be of the most benefit to the Centre. Sydney found himself increasingly
growing attached to Jarod, adopting him like a son.
“Jarod, what do you see.”
“Pain, Sydney. Pain and sadness.” Jarod lifted his head up and the tears were streaming down his
face. His voice was choked with a sorrow far beyond the tears and the man’s death.
Sydney, who had been expecting this to be a very direct Pretend, was very surprised at Jarod’s
reaction. “What’s wrong, Jarod?” It was almost a statement or perhaps a polite invitation to
continue with the sim. It was not really a question of concern for Jarod.
Jarod ignored Sydney and slowly stood up. He crossed the small room and circled behind the bed.
The sweepers had taken great care to re-assemble the room as it had looked that night. Jarod was
walking around in it like he owned the place. Behind the bed, Jarod reached down and picked up a
white guitar. It felt very heavy to him, much heavier than he imagined it would weigh. Jarod had
never seen a guitar before, but he instinctively slipped the strap over his right shoulder and picked
up the small guitar pick lying in the tangled bed sheets with his left hand. Jarod began to absently
strum on strings. “Who was this man, Sydney?”
“That’s not important, Jarod. Please continue with the sim.”
Jarod almost tentatively touched the neck of the guitar with his right hand. As his fingers touched
the maple-wood neck, some sort of psychic circuit was completed and Jarod again fell his knees.
The tears began to flow again. “He wanted to die, Sydney,” Jarod cried, his voice choked with the
tears. “That’s all he ever really wanted.”
Intriguing, Sydney thought. “Why, Jarod?”
Jarod suddenly stopped crying and stared straight at his mentor, “Sydney, what is love?”
“Jarod, that’s not important here. Finish the simulation.”
“NO!” Barked Jarod with a ferocity and anger Sydney had never seen before. Jarod was not
emotional. Pretenders were not emotional by nature. Jarod looked at Sydney like a tiger ready to
strike. “That’s all that’s important, Sydney! That’s why he wanted to die. He didn’t know what love
was. This,” he held up the guitar, “was all he knew of love. He could never find anyone who could
make him feel like this guitar did, like any guitar did. He tried, he knew many women, took many
different chemicals all in the pursuit of some other meaning of love, when all he wanted was for
someone to care about him and not about this damn guitar!” Jarod took the guitar and slung it at
the remnants of the television on the floor.
Sydney winced at the violence Jarod was displaying and privately he thought he should be more
careful when he accepted these emotionally involved sims.
“All he wanted was acceptance. No one accepted him! Sydney, why couldn’t someone love him
the way he loved life, the way he loved others, the way he loved that guitar? The guitar, any guitar,
felt better in his hands than any woman ever did. All he wanted was to know love, Sydney, so don’t
tell me love doesn’t matter here. Love is the reason he wanted to die.”
Sydney knew he needed to end the sim or risk doing damage to Jarod by exposing him to these
powerful emotions. “Jarod, did he purposely kill himself?”
Jarod just blankly stared at Sydney. With tears streaming down both cheeks and his chest rocked
with sobs, he presented a picture Sydney would not soon forget. “No, Sydney, you just don’t get it,
do you? He didn’t kill himself here – he died a long time ago, in London. This,” Jarod’s hand swept
the room in a grandiose gesture of possession, “was just his body finally catching up to his soul.”
Jarod wistfully stared up into the darkness behind Sydney and started to quietly sing:
“And so Castles made of sand
falls into the sea, eventually…”
*****
Chapter 1
The Scottsman Inn
San Antonio, Texas
October 17, 1997 1530 CST
The smallish, poorly lit room had few of the charms Jarod had come to expect from his recent
bases. The unit was not provided with either a kitchen or a separate living room and was barely
large enough for him to do his Tai Chi exercises, even with the smallish queen-sized pushed to the
far wall. The ridiculously small table had barely enough room for him to set the DSA reader up
properly. Fortunately, the back wall had a counter that housed the phone, a dreadfully undersized
and overworked refrigerator and little else. The laptop, line-splitter for the phone and the DSA reader
which now lined the counter reminded Jarod of a control station.
The Scottsman wasn’t a particularly deplorable place to stay, especially when compared with some
of the establishments he had been at recently. The only major problem was the lack of a kitchen.
The Centre had grown accustomed to searching for him and if they should narrow down the location
of this Pretend, then he wanted them to have the most difficult time locating his lair. Again, he
constantly reminded himself that familiarity and pattern, no matter how conducive to personal
comfort, would get him caught. He had to stay at a quintessential motel in order to keep Miss
Parker honest. San Antonio was too small a city to give her any chance.
Not to say that San Antonio was a small city. Quite to the contrary, San Antonio was the third
largest city in Texas and had a population larger than some smaller nations. The only problem for
Jarod in a town like San Antonio was that the major industry was tourism. This meant that hotels
proliferated and transients stayed for days, not weeks. The relative isolation of San Antonio bred a
feeling of an Oasis, which the tourism bureau and the locals sponsored and even nurtured.
Consequently, transitory people either found permanent housing here or moved on. Weekly
apartments and so-called flop houses were rare in San Antonio. As he was intentionally staying
away from the YMCA’s this left very few establishments that met his primary needs for shelter,
anonymity and basic housing conveniences. So if the price of freedom was eating his meals in
restaurants, then so be it.
As the last remnants of the protein shake which had served as his lunch slid from the glass in
Jarod’s hands, through his lips and into his memory, he absently reached down to the bed and
recovered the red notebook which he had been carrying all day. As he set the glass back down on
the counter, he flipped open the cover and again scanned the article from today’s San Antonio
Gazette:
Local Girl Vanishes, Brings Total to Six, Authorities Baffled
(AP) – San Antonio, TX. Tiffany Brown, a local night club dancer, was reported missing yesterday
afternoon. Tiffany Brown was a long-time resident of the area. Her husband reported to police that
she never came home from work on Wednesday morning. “She always came home right after
work,” her husband Ron told this reporter. “She loved our daughter too much to leave. I just knew
something had happened.”
Local authorities have been waiting the required 24 hours since Tiffany was last seen leaving the
River City Cabaret, a local gentleman’s club, on Wednesday at about 2:30 AM. She was not seen
leaving with anybody, but sources tell this reporter that she had many regular customers at the
club. Authorities are refusing to speculate on any possible connection to The Stalker, a man who
police believe has abducted five other women in the last six weeks. The police have no leads on
this man. Any citizens with any information about the whereabouts of Tiffany Brown are advised
that a sizable reward has been offered for her safe return.
Tiffany, 22, was a responsible mother, friends told this reporter…
The story trailed on and gave an exhaustive account of the life and habits of Tiffany. Jarod had
taken notice of the story due to a recurring pattern he had seen over the last six months. Three
separate times a group of eight women disappeared within one metropolitan area and their bodies
were never found. Jarod had been too busy lately to undertake the pursuit of this vicious killer
before now, and he had patiently waited for the killer to strike again. Jarod knew the modus
operandi of the killer like his own sleep habits. The killer always centralized in one city and
operated over a six to eight week time period. He had begun to suspect the killer always only took
one girl a week, but recently the killer had sometimes taken two or three women in a week. The
disappearances always stopped after either eight weeks or eight women, though. Jarod didn’t know
the significance of eight but he did see the pattern. Jarod figured he had two weeks to nail this guy
before he would vanish again for another few months. Plenty of time.
Jarod checked the guitar lying up against the wall. The Ibanez 470RG was strung with brand new
Ernie Ball SuperSlinkies and the guitar was perfectly tuned a half-step flat, just like the musicians in
Lafayette had taught him to do. He knew they all thought he was strange for using the ultra-modern
guitar but when he played they didn’t wonder for long. Jarod could feel every note and every sound
the guitar would make. With a floating tremelo and a re-wound bridge pickup for sustained high
note resolution, Jarod had the crimson guitar set up perfectly for him.
He had spent the last two months perfecting his skill with the instrument in preparation for the arrival
of the Stalker. He had sat session on four albums for the producers at Alligator Records and there
was even talk about trying to produce an album for him, but he really wasn’t that interested. This
was another skill, another trade. It was not really different from performing surgery or flying a
helicopter. Learn the hand positions, learn the strum patterns, learn the chords. After that, it was
simply repetition, repetition, repetition. Jarod was getting very fast indeed on the scales and chord
transitions. His nearly photographic memory helped him to remember chord charts and diagrams
with ease. Coupled with a two week study of the fundamentals of music history and an in-depth
analysis of every facet of rock, blues and jazz since 1900, Jarod felt he was prepared for the
Pretend.
He picked up the guitar and began to run scales. The BluesStoppers went on stage at ten tonight
for their first gig of a two week stay in San Antonio. Most nights they were playing at Tex’s Sports
Bar on the Riverwalk. Next Saturday, though, they were scheduled for the weekly Battle of the
Blues at the Hilton Lounge. The band wanted to be ready. Occasionally record executives showed
up to hear how the local talent compared with the outstanding house band at the Hilton. Jarod
wanted to be ready, after all, Jarod Guy was their lead guitarist and a large part of the reason they
were here.
*****
TL-8, Executive Boardroom, The Centre
Blue Cove, Delaware
1730 EST
Despite the fact the sun had slipped below the far off horizon, no one in the mahogany and leather
conference room made any indication artificial lighting was needed. The four men had been
colleagues for over thirty years, yet none had troubled himself to learn the first name of any of the
others. Misters Johnson, Daniels, Parker and Smythe sat in the veiled seclusion of the conference
room cloaked in a darkness that was only symbolized by the lack of proper light. The board
meeting was proceeding right on schedule and now it was time for the four most powerful men
outside the beltway to deal with their most pressing matter.
Mr. Parker, the junior member of the group, rose from the table to let in the expected speaker. Had
she not been standing, waiting at the door, she would not have had a chance to offer excuse.
“Bridgett, please come in.”
Bridgett strode into the darkness of the room and felt both the oppressive weight of the power in the
room and the crushing loneliness of the men seated in front of her. Wearing a tailored silk blazer
and a skirt which came to an abrupt end mid-thigh, she was dressed for the occasion and dressed
as she always did: to impress. She could feel four sets of eyes tantalizingly linger over the sterling
pendant which hung purposely low on her deeply tanned chest. She had intentionally worn no
blouse under the blazer counting on the added interest which her ample cleavage would provide.
Despite her two inch stiletto heels, though, she was still the smallest person in the room. She
more than made up for that with her sheer presence. She could almost feel the room grow brighter
as she took up her position at the foot of the gaudily oppressive table.
Her dark hair was tightly spun up into a folded bun on the back of her head. Even now, she could
feel the slightly sexual pull of the hair on her scalp. The silk of the blazer and the feelings of lust
washing off the men in the room aroused her in a subtle but warming way. She felt like a Greek
goddess, climbing down off Mount Olympus, greeting the council of elders of some nameless
village. These men were some of the most powerful men in the world and they cowered in her
presence. She knew, with the knowledge that only a woman of incredible beauty and confidence
can have, that they were already eating out of her hands and she had not yet spoken a single word.
“Gentlemen,” she began, her husky, sensuous voice spilling through the dark eddy currents of the
room, “I am here to give you my report on project Icarus.”
Mr. Johnson, the senior most member of the board motioned slightly to her to continue. This was
the greatest honor she could have hoped for.
“Operation Kansas was completed right on schedule. The subject was intercepted and analyzed.
All data has been properly filed in accordance with the operational instructions. Further, despite
some untimely interference from SIS, the subject was allowed to proceed relatively unharmed.
Phase one was a complete success.”
“What about the program and the data? Did you retrieve that as well?” The anxious question came
from Mr. Parker. His attempt to draw attention away from the bungling of his daughter was both
futile and naïve. Even Bridget saw clear through it.
“The program has been given to technical, however there was no data in the files. Perhaps the units
which the subject designed for the mission were a failure and the data was not retrieved. Technical
will have a full report on the matter when they have completed their investigation.” Bridgett could
feel Mr. Smythe undressing her as she spoke. She silently reached out with her mind and began to
pick up his indecision as to what color her bra was. She turned and looked directly at him, a
chance under the best of circumstances, and answered him, “Red.”
Mr. Smythe, to his credit, showed no indication of embarrassment or distress at this. Instead, he
filled in the detail in his mental fantasy and continued to undress her.
It was Mr. Daniels who spoke next. “Mr. Parker, are you sure that this is such a wise decision? If
our agent had the target within range, why not apprehend?”
“That was my decision,” Mr. Johnson replied. The conversation was dropped immediately.
“Gentlemen, phase two is scheduled for kick-off tomorrow. I will be leaving immediately after this
meeting and heading directly for the target area. Are there any further instructions or any changes
to the operation directives?”
Mr. Johnson shook his head. His mind was a blank slate to her. This, more than anything else in
the world, frightened her.
Mr. Smythe, apparently recovered from his private thoughts, stood. “We do have one other thing to
discuss. Let me see if she’s arrived.”
Bridget was unprepared for this and immediately her mind clicked at the sly smile on Mr. Smythe’s
face. The man had not been involved in the fantasy at hand, but instead had filled his frontal
consciousness with an expected image in order to form a barrier to his real thoughts. Bridget was
suddenly very uncomfortable with the prospect that someone was coming through the huge double
doors whom she did not expect. Her face, though, remained set and disinterested.
Mr. Smythe approached the door and swung it open to reveal a person whom Bridgett could not see
due to the position of the door to herself. This positioning had undoubtedly been planned to the
most minute detail by these men. The reaction on Mr. Parker’s face, however, told her everything
she needed to know.
*****
Miss Parker strode into the room wishing she had not chosen to wear the stiletto heels she
normally fancied. The staccato ringing of her heels on the floor sounded like gunshots in the dark
conference room. She had never been called up to this level before and the fear was plain on her
face. As she entered the room she could not help notice the very average height woman standing
at the foot of the conference table. Around the table were men she had met when she was a child
but never really knew. These were the Directors of the Centre and her presence here was not a
welcome sign. Her father sat impassively watching her stride to the side of the smaller woman. He
looked like he was watching an execution.
Miss Parker cast a quick glance over the other woman as she walked up to the table. Her suit was
similar to Parker’s own, however it showed little of the flair for fashion that she showed. The
obviously expensive suit was neutrally colored and very traditional. The lack of a blouse was
intriguing, especially as Miss Parker passed her shoulder and found that her cleavage provided quite
a view from the vantage point of one three inches taller. A red bra, Miss Parker noted. Her rival was
dressing to impress. This woman was a dangerous person, because she was obviously more
accustomed to being in this room. To Miss Parker, that was threatening enough.
“Miss Parker, I would like you to meet one of our new Sweepers, Bridgett. Bridgett, this is Miss
Parker.” Mr. Smythe made the introduction and immediately set Miss Parker at some level of ease.
Personnel at the Centre were delineated as either staff or management by the way they were
addressed. If a person was addressed as Mister or Miss, then they were management and
consequently higher ranking than any staff member who was addressed by either their first or their
last name without the respectful Miss or Mister. Married women in the Centre were still referred to
as Miss and in most cases were referred to by their maiden names. In no case did the marriage of
a woman change her name at the Centre. No doubt this was a subtle attempt to reinforce the fact
that family and relationships existed only outside the Centre.
Miss Parker felt some ease as she discovered that she outranked the woman next to her. She
made no attempt to greet her, as that would not have been professional. “Daddy, why am I here?”
Mr. Daniels cut her off sharply. “Miss Parker, we are very disappointed both with your repeated
failures to apprehend Jarod and your insubordination in Arkansas. The SIS is still investigating the
manner in which you came to arrive in Arkansas and caused the injuries to yourself and Dr. Greene.
As of right now you are on permanent suspension pending the outcome of the SIS inquiry. You will
be in a pay status, however you will have no duties to perform here at the Centre. I suggest you
contact a good lawyer and begin to prepare to answer many questions.”
Miss Parker was devastated. She had nearly captured Jarod in Arkansas. She had expected
some type of recognition for her dedication there. Now this? She could feel the acidic burn of tears
and the bitter betrayal of her voice choke out a single word, “Why?”
“That is all, Miss Parker,” Mr. Daniels continued, unaffected by her naked show of emotion. “We
will contact you at your summer house. If you attempt to resume any Centre related activities or
continue contact with Jarod during this suspension, the sweeper teams will be given instructions to
either apprehend you or to consider you as a traitor to the Centre. You may leave now.”
Miss Parker looked down at the etched face of her rival, knowing immediately her place in this
whole affair. As she turned to leave, she whispered, “Don’t ever let me see you on the outside,
bitch.”
As she left the room, she could have sworn she heard the woman say back, “Count on it.”
*****
As the door to the conference room quietly closed behind the battered shell of Miss Parker, Mr.
Smythe stood. “Bridgett. You know what you have to do. Do not fail us.”
Still shocked at the ferocity of the attack on Miss Parker, Bridgett could only answer, “Of course,
sir,” as she turned and walked out through the side door she had used to enter. Bridgett was not
management in the Centre and as such, she would never be able to walk the main hallways of this
level. Not for the first time she realized that she liked it much better that way.
*****
As Bridgett left the room, the four men called the meeting closed.
Mr. Smythe caught Mr. Daniels on his way towards the door. “Mr. Daniels, did you really have to
be that strong with her? After all she is Parker’s daughter.”
Mr. Daniels just looked at the younger man and shook his head. “Parker women are bad news
around this place. One day you’ll come to learn that.”
“What about the other one?”
“You heard the Mr. Johnson. Project Icarus is to proceed with no changes. Bring the other pieces
into place as per the original operation directives.”
Mr. Smythe stopped and allowed his colleague of thirty years exit the room first. As he looked
back over the cold, lifeless conference room, he couldn’t help but smile. Jarod would learn not to
bite the hand that fed him all right.
It was time to release the hounds.
*****
Offices of Dr. Shafton, MD
Clinical Psychiatrist
Dover, Delaware
1830 hrs.
Despite the brutal nature of his injuries and the incessant itching of his healing leg, Sydney was
quite contented to be somewhat incapacitated. The cane he had taken to using while enduring the
walking cast had grown quite comfortable in his hand and he almost felt dignified using it. The cane
somehow felt reassuringly firm in his grasp, an anchor, so to speak, with the injury he had
sustained and the lessons it had taught him. Even here, after having sat for nearly an hour, he still
gripped the ornate polished redwood handle. He could tell that Dr. Shafton was taking careful note
of his reliance on the cane as more than a physical need. He knew he would have.
He had been very faithful and attentive the last few months for his therapy. All registered
psychiatrists were required therapy at one time or another and most continued to maintain a
professional relationship with a colleague throughout their careers. Much in the same way no
surgeon would operate on themselves, psychiatrists knew that they could make little or no personal
progress without the direct routine therapy which they recommended for their patients. Years at the
Centre had precluded such therapy for him, though. Only recently, as he was moved from a staff
position to a management position, was Sydney finally starting to have the time to deal with issues
buried long ago.
It was still unsettling to be referred to as Doctor Greene in the Centre halls. He always felt that
name was somehow too formal and too abrasive. No doubt this was due to the structured and
harsh lifestyle the only Doctor Greene he had ever known had imparted upon his children. In his
review of the simulations with Jarod he saw so much of his father in himself. He still cringed at the
harsh and abrupt manner in which he regularly dealt with Jarod. His own hatred of his father had
caused him to knowingly shun family life and retreat completely into his work at the Centre. He had
vowed never to follow in his father’s steps and treat his children that way. Though he never had any
children of his own, he had broken that promise like so many before and after, never realizing what
he had done until years after it was too late.
The years of his intensive work had paid countless dividends for the Centre. Jarod almost single-
handedly elevated the Centre from a dark defense and intelligence research agency to a multi-
national corporation with capital investments far exceeding most first world nations. The Centre had
been a willing target for all his energies and he drove Jarod much harder and much faster than any
of the other Pretenders. Jarod had in many ways been his own protege. Jarod was Sydney’s only
claim to immortality and his only claim to kinship. With Jacob back his coma and the rest of his
family long dead, Jarod was all Sydney had in the world and Jarod hated him.
He couldn’t blame Jarod, any more than his father could him for the hatred which had always boiled
deep beneath the surface, knowing no light, no release. Sydney knew that in order to ask Jarod for
forgiveness and truly expect to receive it, he must first learn to forgive himself and his own father.
Then, he might one day get a chance to achieve the only goal left for him in this life: the love of his
son.
His appointments with Dr. Shafton had been very erratic over the last six months, partially because
of the demands placed on him by the Centre in his pursuit of Jarod. His relentless pursuit did not
allow the time for true introspective and for true inner healing. The last two months, though, had.
He had been immobilized for two weeks while the laser surgery to fuse the broken bones in his leg
together had healed. On a younger, more fit man, this healing may have only taken a day, maybe
two. Sydney had relished the time and paced his recovery slowly and deliberately. Even now the
cast he wore was decidedly unnecessary. He primarily wore it as a ward against the domination of
the Centre.
Silently, Sydney turned from the soothing seascape painting he had been staring at and returned
the warm, caring look which Dr. Shafton was giving him. She was so much more than his
psychiatrist. To Sydney, she represented everything he was missing in his life. Although she was
a widow, Sydney knew that their professional relationship eclipsed any chance of a personal
relationship. She was a radiant, beautiful woman whom Sydney had found immensely attractive,
but she was worth so much more to him as a doctor and a friend than she ever could as a lover.
Sydney spent long hours convincing himself of that.
As he took in the radiant light from her gaze, he couldn’t help but notice that she had silently been
staring at him, waiting for him to finish whatever line of thought his very focused mind had wandered
along. The grin on her face belied the fact that he had been blankly staring into space for nearly five
minutes. She, like most competent psychiatrists knew that most revelations occur in the final five
minutes of a session. This defense mechanism in the patient allows the mind time to think about
something before it is analyzed and dissected by the doctor.
“Let’s talk about what you’re thinking right now, Sydney,” her warm, soothing voice started. The
round, musical quality of her voice always seemed to reach to him like a physical force and draw
out of him whatever she wished. He was powerless to her voice.
“I - I think I’m in love with you,” he replied, more surprised at his own words than she was.
“I know, Sydney. We can talk about that later. First, we need to talk about you.”
And with that, fifteen minutes after the session was scheduled to end, Sydney began to cry. The
real therapy had begun.
