June 4, 2045 - 3:00 PM

Noah Garrison shivered in his seat as a wall of holographic screens came between him and Mason.

On opposite sides of the wall, Margo and Andrade watched over him, their thoughts colliding in a battle neither of them knew was going on. Andrade remained as hostile and doubtful as ever, exchanging scowls between him and her colleague across the room from her. Margo, however, watched over the man as if he were a younger sibling getting scolded by their parents. Only his punishment wouldn't have been merciful like a grounding. Knowing Psychwatch, the poor guy could end up locked in the psych ward or drowned in medications until he'd pass out. Or possibly even death.

And Margo knew Andrade wanted to see him punished. Because that would've meant another win for Psychwatch. Another sign that nobody could fuck with them. That they were the top of the hierarchy, the food chain, and everyone else.

Mason moved some of the screens to her side. "Our records say you were last taken to the emergency room because of an overdose on July 4, 2042," she declared. "When did you say you searched the Rabbit Hole for your wife?"

"Th-th-the day after the rally incident," Mr. Garrison stuttered. "I've been clean ever since that last OD. And I took a drug test at the hospital after my trip down there just to be sure I came out clean."

"Did you tell them where you went?"

"No, I just told them I blacked out after a party with some friends."

Mason raised her brow. "That still doesn't make you sound very responsible."

"Yeah, I'll admit: I'm not the smartest of people. I was a damn hedonist. All I cared about was temporary happiness through drinking and drugs. But my daughters make me happier than those ever did, and I wanna set a good example for them now. So thank you for looking after this city, Commissioner."

Mason nodded. "And thank you for your contribution as well, Noah. The images gathered by our Psych Expressors through your experiences were very beneficial to our investigation. Because of them, I've managed to identify another target."

"Really? Who?"

"The man from the Rabbit Hole wearing a CamoSynth suit," Mason replied. "There's a likely chance my colleagues and I have run into him before."

"Damn. What are you gonna do once you find him again?"

A small grin formed on Mason's face, something strangely unsettling to witness. "I recommend keeping an eye on the local news for the next few days. You'll see soon enough."

Mr. Garrison laughed. "Hell yeah. Hope you guys get that son of a bitch."

"We will." The two of them rose from their seats, and Mason shook his hand. "Thank you for your cooperation. We hope to see you at our next session."

"I will for sure, ma'am. I promise. Hope y'all have a good day." And he marched out of the room.

Once the doors closed behind him, Andrade jerked away from the wall, approaching the desk. "You're really sure he's not bullshitting us?" she said.

"Absolutely," Mason replied. "The images generated by the Psych Expressors were very straightforward and matched everything he discussed with you and Sandoval earlier. His medical records confirm he took a drug test—which came back negative, I should add—at the Temple University Hospital on May 27 at 7:45 PM. And now that he's just proven that Slater really is involved with the Rabbit Hole, we're closer than ever before to saving this city."

"How do we know it was Slater? It could've been some other pendejo with drugs and a CamoSynth suit."

"And how many of them do you know, Andrade?"

Andrade shrugged. "A few, but they're all back in Miami."

"Well I can assure you, he's telling the truth. Got enough evidence here to prove it. And if you're still doubtful of me, Daniela, then...there's not much I can do about that."

And with that, Andrade resumed her old position against the wall.

"So who's this Slater guy?" Margo asked.

"Malcolm Slater," Mason continued. "A forty-seven-year-old drug dealer. White guy. Nice mustache. You could probably mistake him for someone's father or grandfather if you saw him out on the streets. He was particularly friendly with Holloway years ago. Smuggled him far more Apaths than his required dosage. Kept going until he tried asking for harder stuff. Luckily we kept him from overdosing a second time."

Margo gasped. "If you know about all this, why haven't you arrested him yet?" she barked.

"Firstly, because he doesn't have a diagnosis for anything, aside from being a compulsive liar. Secondly, because he actually used to work for Psychwatch for a while. He was a pharmacist developing new medications for the Empath division. But he got himself fired after Holloway's overdose. We found out he dug his own grave a long time ago by hoarding stashes of medications and selling them on the black market, including illegal narcotics. However, as despicable as he was, we were able to expose the ingredients behind Wonderland Mist and many other drugs just like it because of him. And the best part is he still thinks we don't know about his blocker chip and his CamoSynth suit."

"So that's how he keeps himself hidden?"

"Exactly. And originally I was gonna leave him for the Philly PD to catch, but as usual, Psychwatch uncovered far more secrets at a faster pace than they ever could. Now we know where his den is. And we know how many total disguises he has in his CamoSynth suit. And once he's no longer useful to us, I'll alert the FBI of his location."

That sounds like it'll make way for so many legal consequences for us, Margo thought to herself.

"You don't look so good, Sandoval," Andrade said.

"Sorry," Margo croaked. "Just a lot to take in. And I know that Psychwatch already has a strong partnership with the FBI, but...something just doesn't feel right."

"How so?" Mason asked.

"It seems like so many corrupt people are being protected right now. We're protecting Slater and Jack. You're protected by the FBI—"

"Are you calling me a corrupt authority figure?"

That was all it took for Margo's throat to go dry. For the room to grow colder. For sweat to start beading across her forehead. And for her to declare her distrust in the organization she once looked up to and once dreamt of working for.  Now the only dreams she had of them were nightmares, one that she hadn't woken up from since the day someone broke into her home and no one batted an eye.

"Well?" Andrade prompted. "Answer her question."

Margo's palms were sweaty. She wanted to bolt out of the room, but the only thing bolted was her feet to the ground. Her posture grew crooked, and the floor took her attention away from her fearsome colleagues who were far superior over her. That was it. She wanted to quit. Pretend she'd never even set foot in Mason's office.

"Sandoval," Mason continued slowly, "I know how little you trust me. I know how much paranoia must be flowing through you, especially ever since that night of the home invasion. And I apologize if I wasn't as supportive as I should've been. It was a very busy evening."

"I don't care what happens to me anymore," Margo muttered. "Just bring Carl back."

"If you want to be a good Psychwatch officer, you need to look after your own well-being, too, Sandoval. And I already told you before. He'll be returning sometime this week."

Just like Ellie, Margo thought, and her mouth gaped open consequently.

"Why do you look so surprised?" Mason asked.

Margo snapped out of her daze. "Nothing," she said. "It was nothing, Commissioner."

"Y'know, you can extend your mental recovery if you'd like. It's dangerous for someone with no regard for their own safety to be in a position that could potentially affect the lives of others."

"I'm fine. This is my therapy."

Mason and Andrade stared at her for some time. She couldn't see them—her eyes refused to move from the floor—but she knew they were looking at her. Something felt like it was crawling down her neck to the end of her spine. The room was as cold as the night of the blizzard, yet she could still feel beads of sweat on her forehead. Now she understood why Andrade thought she was sick.

Maybe she was.

"Alright then," Mason declared, tapping her desk, erasing the holographic images before her. "Glad you're in better shape than Royce at least. Poor bastard's still got several months left, and we still haven't gotten a single comprehensible response from him yet."

"Sorry to hear that," Margo replied quietly.

"No worries. We're paying for his treatment. Hopefully, he's more grateful for it than Holloway. And speaking of Holloway...here comes the hard part of our job."

* * *

June 5, 2045 - 1:35 PM

The sky was blue the day they found Malcolm Slater. There were clouds. White ones, bright like chunks of the sun itself hovering over Philadelphia. And unlike its online portions, the Psycho Slums could never reach the heavens. Their buildings were short and splashed with unattractive colors. Broken windows. Fenced-up doors. Graffiti. Every once in a while, a corpse. A place in need of a god most, but instead whoever was out there to answer their prayers thought it would be more entertaining to watch instead.

We will answer their prayers, Mason thought as the van drove her and her officers into the forbidden area. One way or another, we will. Psychwatch works in mysterious ways.

The ride was bumpy. Mason, Margo, Andrade, and their other colleagues in the van shook and jumped around as the vehicle did, clutching their Fatemakers and hoping for the best. Who knew what awaited them at the end of the road? It could've been some petty criminal. Or a terrorist. Or maybe even another neo-speakeasy full of pedophiles and robotic imitations of missing underage girls. All of them very disgusting thoughts. But Margo hoped that they'd never come across anything like the House of Pleasure ever again.

And by hoping for that, she knew she'd just ensured they'd come across a place far worse than that.

She tensed up as the van began to slow down. She could hear the gravelly sound of the dust crunching beneath the tires. She looked over at Andrade, a small holographic screen hovering before her. From the back, she saw a small red dot blinking on the far-right corner of the screen. It was him. Slater. Even with that blocker chip that rendered him invisible to the Scans, he was still caught like a fish in a net.

"Remember," Mason ordered. "No drones. Not until the FBI arrives. Andrade, inform Holloway."

Andrade raised a finger to her ThoughtControl piece. "Get ready, cabrón," she spoke into it, and they waited.

A small projector protruded out of the van's ceiling, twisting and turning to find a clear spot. Once it aimed at the space before the doors, it clicked in place and lit up, filling the empty space with hazy light. The light molded into a humanoid shape, a body without its defining features, like a mannequin. But Jack eventually came into view, and he'd forgotten to wear his smug grin like a mask as he usually did. Instead, he presented his other default emotion: boredom.

"Ready for a reunion?" Mason asked him.

He nodded quietly. No quips. No profanity. Just a nod of his head.

Andrade pressed several buttons on the wall beside her. "Activating Crawl Patrol," she declared. "Holloway, prepare for transference over to external projectors."

He nodded his head again.

"Launching in three, two, one..."

Margo flinched in her seat as three sharp pangs erupted outside the van like a hammer against steel. Jack's projection dematerialized within the vehicle, and the space was empty once again. She could hear the Crawl Patrol bots skittering across the street like insects, the sound sending another shiver of discomfort down her spine. Two medium-sized screens appeared against the wall beside her, nothing but gray murky squares.

"Activating Stealth," Andrade said, and with a tap of another button on the wall, the Crawl Patrol's mechanical chatter went silent.

Views of the street appeared on the screens. On one was the left side of the van while the other showcased the right side. Both screens managed to display Jack's holo-projection forming outside, the three projectors floating above the street like hummingbirds. Once everything above his torso was formed, he proceeded his journey down the street to the meeting point, still looking as if his mind were on a different planet while his body walked the earth.

"Wait," Margo said, "why would Slater cooperate with Jack if he's just a holo-projection? Won't he know he's still working for Psychwatch?"

"We upgraded the projector's optics yesterday," Mason replied. "And we've programmed the projectors to fly in strategic patterns to remain hidden during the meeting. By the time his full-body projection has completely generated, Slater won't be able to tell he's not physically present. And even then, I didn't plan on keeping that a secret for long."

"You mean you want him to figure out his client is just a hologram?"

"Not immediately."

Vague as usual, Margo thought. Just like Ellie.

She shifted around in her seat so she faced the screen directly. The feed from the Crawl Patrol was surprisingly smooth and stable, like a tracking shot in a movie, despite the fact it came from borderline microscopic cameras on what were essentially robotic insects. She could see Jack quietly make his way down the street, rundown buildings towering over him like large gravestones. His holographic projection glitched as it struggled to complete its full generation, and at times he appeared translucent. At first, Margo wondered why he was so silent and why he wasn't even trying to make himself appear far more interesting than he really was. No stupid grin, no forced posture. Just a stiff taking a walk down the street.

She came to two conclusions: either he genuinely didn't want to see this man again, or he was just "saving energy", waiting for the perfect moment to unveil his facade once more. Maybe the two could've gone hand in hand. Maybe the guy who awaited them saw through the mask as well, and Jack knew that. Maybe Slater even taught him how to create the mask, how to wear it. And if that's true, he didn't teach him well.

"Huh," she heard Jack mutter.

"Who the fuck is that?" Andrade said, squinting at the screen.

Margo, Mason, and the other officers gathered around the screens. The Crawl Patrols made their way up the fronts of two dilapidated brownstones, both on opposite sides of the street from each other. Now the entire road was within view, from the cloudy sky above to the garbage and litter below. Jack stood three dozen feet away from a scantily dressed woman in all black. Her skirt, her stockings, her lipstick, everything. She flashed Jack a flirtatious smile and a wink.

"Very subtle," Jack said, his expression remaining blank as he approached the girl. "You're trying too hard, Slater. Real hookers don't stand in the middle of the road blocking the goddamn traffic."

"Recognize her, Holloway?" Slater said, his voice ravaged by static as it slowly transitioned from the girl's to his own. "I introduced you to her the night Psychwatch let me drive you around town. Bet they regret that. Did you tell them yet? What you did to her?"

"Yes, and I told them the same thing I told you: I felt threatened, and I didn't know necks were that easy to break."

"Did you tell them about her cement burial?"

Jack stopped moving. If he were a better person, he would've been aware of the looks of disgust that crossed the faces of nearly everyone in the van. But he didn't care, especially because he couldn't actually see them. "So are you gonna keep cosplaying as this dead bitch throughout our whole meeting, or are you gonna show your face yet?"

"Hold your horses, kid," Slater replied, his voice back to normal. Suddenly, his entire body was rippling like water. "I barely got this thing five days ago. Still getting the hang of it. Give me a sec to change back to normal."

Jack stood before his unreliable acquaintance while his colleagues continued to watch through the Crawl Patrol, all of them staring in awe as Slater's true self came to light. The CamoSynth suit became nothing more than a transparent cloak, and Slater stood before Jack wrapped in plastic and emblazoned with an amiable smile. He sported a small brown mustache and a combover, obviously balding. Underneath the invisible suit, he wore a green, buttoned polo shirt and khaki pants. Mason was right. The guy looked harmless. And maybe he was. The guy looked like he could be put out of his misery by a cigarette.

"Alrighty, I'm back," he declared, removing the part of the suit covering his head.

"Thought you already had one of those," Jack said, and unbeknownst to him, his colleagues wondered the same thing.

"Nah, I lost the first one in a fire several years ago. Working out the kinks again." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, what brings you here? Did Psychwatch finally free you?"

"Yep. Just got released this morning. Took nearly eleven fucking years but I'm out. And now that I'm out, I've only got one thing in mind: to get numb."

"Well, bud, you came to the right place. Although considering the number of Apaths I've fed you over the years, I'm surprised you can still even feel your toes. Follow me."

Jack clenched his fists as he followed behind Slater. Margo could tell he wanted to kill him. But his holographic form provided a barricade between him and cathartic release. The only thing he would manage to hurt is himself by tackling the wall of his cell.

The two of them approached another brownstone. One that was three stories tall and beige-colored. Like everywhere else on the block, the windows were destroyed and obscenities stretched across the front of the building in spray paint. Once Slater got the door open for him and his bitter guest to enter, one of the Crawl Patrol bots scurried inside while the other kept watch outside, giving the officers a view of the building's exterior and the holo-projectors carefully hiding in places where they could still be useful.

"How hasn't he figured it out yet?" Margo asked.

"I'm sure he has," Mason replied. "Holloway's steps don't make any noise."

Margo's mouth dropped open like a trash chute. She quietly chastised herself for not realizing it sooner. Suddenly, she felt as if taking her eyes off the screen would kill her instantly.

"I give them two minutes before I expose this location," Mason said. "Whether progress is made or not."

Back on the screens, Jack stood in the middle of a decimated living room, large rifts tearing through the wallpaper and carpet. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a faint orange glow on the dust floating through the air. Slater could be heard in a separate room rummaging through his belongings. He reappeared seconds later with two suitcases, one in each hand, and he lowered them to the floor to pop them open.

"I got the usual," he said, tapping the back of one case with the tip of his shoe. "Apaths, Euphors, Xanax. I've got some other stuff in the back, too, if you want."

"Like what?" Jack asked, staring down at the cases.

"Well, usually I snag and sell shit that Psychwatch hands out. Even the Xanax came from there. People keep forgetting it's an anti-anxiety med. But I've also been dabbling in