Chapter 4: Feelings
When Andy woke up, the world was quiet.
Not that sound had disappeared—in the distance, the ventilation system still hummed its constant drone, occasional footsteps echoed down the corridor, muffled voices drifted from the room next door.
But that relentless, invasive noise of consciousness had vanished.
Those whispers, emotional fragments, echoes of thought that had been present like background static—now they were silent. Or more accurately, contained behind an invisible barrier.
He lay in the Infirmary bed, staring up at the ceiling tiles.
White acoustic panels dotted with tiny holes arranged in perfect geometric patterns.
He counted the holes while experiencing the stillness inside his own head.
This was completely new—like having true privacy for the first time.
A mental space that belonged only to him, uninvaded by everyone else's thoughts.
Dr. Brenner's medication had probably helped, but more than that, it was Andy's own will.
During his coma, when that ancient voice had echoed through the depths of his consciousness, some instinct had awakened.
Not learned. Remembered.
Not an ability gained through training, but a rediscovery of something he'd always possessed.
Like breathing. Like blinking.
"Is it... calling me?"
The voice surfaced again, but it didn't come from outside. It rose from within—low and distorted, carrying an echo like a cry from the bottom of a well.
Andy tried to focus on it, but every time he drew close, it scattered like smoke, leaving only a strange sense of familiarity.
The sound of the ward door sliding open interrupted his thoughts.
Dr. Brenner walked in, followed by a young researcher holding a tablet.
The doctor wore a charcoal suit today instead of his usual lab coat, making him look more like a kindly grandfather than a scientist.
"Twelve, how are you feeling?" Brenner sat on the edge of the bed, his voice gentle as if asking after a favorite grandchild.
Andy sat up. His hospital gown hung loose on his shoulders, revealing freshly healed injection marks on his collarbone.
"I feel good," he said, his voice steadier than expected. "I can control it now. I'm not just... passively receiving anymore."
Brenner's eyes narrowed slightly—a micro-expression of interest. "What else?"
"And..." Andy hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the ward door.
It stood slightly ajar, revealing a slice of hallway where a nurse pushed a medication cart past. "I think I can move things."
"Show me." Brenner's tone was calm, but Andy could sense the excitement surging beneath the surface.
Andy took a deep breath and focused on the door. This wasn't telekinesis—not exactly. Something else. A bridge between perception and reality.
He felt the weight of the door, the friction in the hinges, the resistance of air. Then he imagined a hand pushing it—not a physical hand, but a hand made of will.
The door moved.
At first just a slight tremor, then it swung inward slowly, steadily, until it clicked shut completely.
The whole process was eerily silent—no sound of physical contact, just the soft click of the latch settling into the frame.
The room went still.
The young researcher's fingers flew across the tablet screen, unfazed.
Brenner didn't move, his eyes locked on the door as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Several seconds passed before the doctor turned back to Andy. Then he noticed the blood trickling slowly from beneath Andy's nose.
"Ah." Brenner's voice was exceptionally gentle.
He pulled out that crisp white handkerchief again and carefully wiped the blood from Andy's face, his movements so tender it was like cleaning a fragile piece of china.
After wiping it away, he didn't pocket the handkerchief. Instead he looked into Andy's eyes, revealing a meaningful smile.
"Come on," he said, standing and extending his hand. "Papa's going to show you something interesting."
The hallway to the Rainbow Room felt longer than Andy remembered, the fluorescent lights more harsh.
He walked beside Brenner, feeling his palms sweat.
Not fear exactly. Something deeper. Like an animal returning to territory where it had been hurt, instinctively on guard.
They stopped in front of the Rainbow Room door. That milky white door with the rainbow painted across its center—still unnaturally bright.
Andy stared at the pattern, suddenly remembering how it felt when he'd lost control: the flood of pain, the crying faces, his own uncontrollable tears.
He took a step back, but Brenner's hand held him steady.
"It's alright," the doctor looked down at him, smile gentle but firm. "They won't blame you."
It sounded like comfort, but Andy's perception caught something more complex beneath: Brenner didn't care if they blamed him. He only cared whether Andy was ready to re-enter this "social experiment."
The door opened.
Familiar smells rushed out—foam padding, disinfectant, kid sweat. The clatter of toys and low conversations cut off abruptly.
Every eye in the room turned toward the door at once.
This time, Andy's perception clearly captured the spectrum of emotions behind those stares.
Toward Brenner: a mixture of fear and respect from most of the children—trained, conditioned reflexes.
But toward him—toward Andy—the emotions were much more direct:
Rejection. Disgust. Wariness. Fear.
Like invisible walls erected at the entrance.
Andy felt his breathing quicken. Those emotions weren't just perceived—they had weight, pressing down on his chest.
His mind started spiraling—what if they rushed him? What if Two started something again? What if he lost control?
His mental power began leaking out uncontrollably, like water seeping from a cracked container. He quickly reined it in, forcing himself to breathe deeply, then pulled free from Brenner's hand and walked quickly to the furthest corner.
There was a small table with drawing paper and crayons—it looked like a safe island.
He sat down, back to the room, trying to focus on breathing.
Brenner made his rounds, routinely checking each child—asking about activities, patting heads, offering smiles.
He looked like a father who genuinely cared, but Andy knew every interaction was being recorded, analyzed, filed away for some larger purpose.
Finally the doctor came to Andy's corner and gently placed his hand on his head.
"Don't overthink it," Brenner whispered, voice audible only to the two of them. "You can play however you want. Remember—you're special, Twelve."
Andy nodded without looking up. He felt Brenner's hand linger on his head a moment before moving away.
Footsteps receded. The door hissed open, then closed.
Now he was truly alone.
The atmosphere shifted immediately. The surface politeness maintained in front of Brenner vanished, replaced by undisguised hostility.
Andy could feel stares drilling into his back, hear deliberately lowered conversations, sense the antagonism rippling through the emotional field.
He lowered his head, staring at the blank paper. Pure white, empty—like his mind in this moment. Or rather, the mind he was trying to keep empty.
The crayon spun between his fingers. He didn't know what to draw, but his hand seemed to remember.
He closed his eyes and let his consciousness drift back to that first moment: the operating room, flickering lights, a woman crying, Brenner's hands...
He drew vaguely—uncertain lines, distorted shapes.
An operating table? A light? A face?
All of them. None of them.
Blurred fragments from a newborn's perception, memories of shadow and light from before vision fully developed.
But he captured something—an atmosphere: cold, mechanical, lonely.
Just then, a hand touched his shoulder.
Andy spun around sharply, the crayon in his hand streaking a violent red arc across the paper.
"Easy, it's just me." The blonde man smiled, his handsome face arranged in carefully calculated friendliness. "Remember me?"
Henry. Number One. Andy had glimpsed this name in fragments from Brenner's memories—though the information had been scarce. The earliest test subject. A special case. And now... an assistant?
Andy looked at him warily, his perception automatically unfurling to capture the complexity of Henry's emotional field.
Surface layer: friendly interest.
Beneath: deep calculation.
Deeper still: that familiar pain and something buried even further down... chaos.
"I remember you," Andy said, his voice surprisingly steady even to himself. "I sensed how much pain you were in that day. All that negativity."
Henry looked startled—clearly hadn't expected Andy to be so direct.
Then he smiled—genuine surprise mixed with a certain twisted appreciation.
"Then I should thank you," Henry said, sitting in the empty chair beside Andy, movements casual like they were chatting on a park bench. "If your power hadn't erupted that day, I'd probably still be getting punished."
"Punished?" The word caught Andy's attention.
He studied Henry, his perception focusing as he tried to pierce that friendly mask.
Henry's gaze flickered briefly toward the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling before returning to Andy's face.
"Yeah," he lowered his voice, "this place isn't as great as you think. For us, this whole facility is basically one giant prison."
His fingers brushed lightly across the table, tracing the chaotic lines in Andy's drawing.
"The subjects, the guards, the trainers, the doctors—we're all his prisoners. Some of us know we're locked up. Others have forgotten the cage exists."
Andy frowned. "Why? Papa doesn't have that kind of power. He hasn't locked us up, has he?"
"No, he's always been locking us up." Henry's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "These kids all like him, listen to him—but have you ever wondered why he's only this good to you and Eleven? Why you two get special treatment, special attention?"
Andy followed Henry's gaze across the room to where Eleven sat in front of a simple testing apparatus.
Small red blocks dropped from the top in free fall. She didn't need to use telekinesis to make them land perfectly in the designated slots.
She played with focus, but her expression remained neutral.
"Because... we're different?" Andy remembered the thoughts in Henry's consciousness before the incident.
"Exactly." Henry leaned forward, his eyes glinting strangely under the fluorescent lights. "You're naturally powerful. Unlike the others who need training or only master one ability, you were born with massive psychic power. You..."
He paused, searching for the right word. "You're unlimited."
The word carried weight—a promise and a warning.
"What about you?" Andy looked directly into Henry's eyes. "You said before that 'we' are the same. So you're also... unlimited?"
Henry's smile faltered. The friendly mask cracked, revealing genuine exhaustion and deep bitterness underneath.
"Maybe once," he finally said, the lightness gone from his voice. "But not anymore. I can't."
He clearly didn't want to continue that topic and quickly shifted gears: "Anyway, you don't really know me yet, do you? My name is—"
"Henry. Number One." Andy cut him off. "I saw things about you in Papa's memories."
This time Henry was genuinely shocked. His composure shattered completely—eyes wide, lips parted.
Andy could sense violent fluctuations in his consciousness: surprise, wariness, reassessment, and something strange... hope?
"You saw them?" Henry's voice came out rough. "So what kind of person do you think I am in Papa's memories?"
Andy answered honestly: "I didn't see much. Just everyone's names and faces, and... fragments. You were his first case study, but I didn't see what happened after."
He paused, then added in a child's simple tone: "But I can feel that you... don't mean me any harm."
Henry's expression became complicated. He stared at Andy for a long moment, then slowly revealed a genuine smile.
Not the calculated, manipulative one from before, but real—tired and somewhat sorrowful.
"Yeah," Henry said softly. "I don't mean you any harm, Twelve. Actually, I hope you can do what I couldn't."
"Do what?"
Henry didn't answer directly. He looked at Eleven across the room—she'd just successfully landed the tenth red block perfectly in the center slot, a fleeting, almost imperceptible look of satisfaction crossing her face.
"Do you know why Dr. Brenner values psychics so much?" Henry asked, turning back. "Why he collects us, trains us, studies us?"
Andy shook his head.
"Because of the Gate," Henry said, voice so low it was barely audible. "He believes there's a gate to another world. A dimension completely different from ours. And psychics—especially powerful telepaths like you and Eleven—are the only ones who can sense that gate. Maybe even open it."
Andy felt a chill. The phrase "another world" touched something deep in his consciousness.
Memory fragments surged: darkness, sickly-sweet smell of decay, flickering lights, that ancient voice...
"The key," Andy muttered, repeating the word from that voice.
Henry's eyes lit up. "Exactly. The key. You're the key he's been searching for, Twelve. More perfect than me, more powerful than Eleven. You can do it, if you're willing—"
He stopped abruptly.
In that moment, Andy felt a sudden, sharp spike of pain—like something trying to breach his mental barrier. Not from Henry. Not from any of the kids in the room.
From outside.
From somewhere deeper.
Andy clutched his head, fingers digging into his short hair. His perception stretched outward uncontrollably, piercing through the floor, through concrete and steel rebar, down, down, toward the deeper levels of the facility—
Something was there.
Sleeping in the darkness.
Waiting.
Calling.
The key... open... let me in...
"Twelve?" Henry's voice sounded far away. "Twelve, what's wrong?"
Andy opened his eyes and found himself shaking. Cold sweat soaked the back of his hospital gown.
He looked at Henry and saw concern on his face—this time it seemed real.
"Below..." Andy gasped. "There's something below. It's... calling me."
Henry's expression turned serious instantly. He glanced quickly at the security camera, then grabbed Andy's hand.
"Listen," Henry whispered urgently. "If you hear that voice again, if you feel that pull—clear your mind immediately. Block it out."
Then he stood up, resuming the professional demeanor of an observer as if the conversation had never happened.
"Keep drawing, Twelve," he said, voice returning to normal volume. "Dr. Brenner will be very pleased to see your progress."
He turned to leave but paused at the door, looking back at Andy.
That look was so complex Andy couldn't fully read it: concern, warning, and something like desperate hope.
Andy looked down at his palm.
He picked up the crayon again, but this time he didn't draw the operating room or blurry memory fragments.
Instead he looked across the room at Eleven. She'd stopped her game at some point and was quietly watching him.
Just then, Dr. Brenner's voice cut through the silence from the doorway: "Time's up, children. Get ready to return to your rooms."
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