Chapter Five
ON MY WAY up from the FPMP parking garage the next morning, a text came in from Bethany. Join me on the mat today, I found you some answers.
Bethany gave me a nod of approval when I walked into the yoga studio, and I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of myself for showing up.
“Victor,” she said, “I’d like you to meet someone.
” Bethany gestured to a woman with a mop of white hair barely constrained by an alligator clip, bare feet, and glasses.
She was a generation older than me, but clearly fit enough to unfold from a triangle pose without moaning and groaning anywhere near as much as I did. “This is Dr. Hall from R&D.”
The woman smiled warmly and extended her hand. “Please…I’m not nearly that formal. Call me Evelyn.”
Bethany looked particularly happy with herself. “If anyone can help you with your app, it’s Evelyn.”
I was already cringing over the fact that one of my colleagues had been called away from her desk to help me conquer a goldfish. “You really shouldn’t have bothered. Y’know how it is with updates. The minute you get the lay of the land, someone reinvents the wheel.”
Not sure what sort of metaphor I’d been aiming at, but Evelyn got the gist. “You seem anxious—but don’t worry about me! I’d love to hear exactly what you think. Fair warning: I’m an empath.”
Normally, thanks to the badges we all kept visible on our lapels, everyone in the building knew everyone else’s level and talent. But since our IDs were hanging by the door off our blazers and sportcoats, it was awfully transparent of her to lead with that.
“Medium five,” I said. That was my official level, anyhow, though anyone who worked closely with me probably suspected it was a lot higher. I always downplayed as best I could. Given National’s propensity to “recruit” psychic overachievers, it was in my best interest to keep my mouth shut.
“So, what’s going on with the app?” Evelyn asked.
“I feel ridiculous even saying this out loud….”
I may be no empath, but I can tell when someone is just humoring me.
Evelyn seemed genuinely interested in how I was using the game.
I showed her a screenshot I’d accidentally taken sometime prior to the update.
I explained how the alpha waves made it easier to focus on my extrasensory impressions.
And I managed to keep myself from resorting to any unprofessional language when I walked her through the sticking point at level 18.
“A grown man,” I concluded. “Shown up by a goldfish.”
“Don’t underestimate the importance of play.
It’s a lot more beneficial for cognitive function than beating yourself up, that’s for sure.
But I’m with you on the new mascot. It’s just a gimmick to boost engagement metrics rather than actually improving the user experience.
The original intent of the app was to guide users into the optimal brainwave patterns for focus and emotional balance.
But it sounds like you’ve taken it a step further, using those alpha waves to sharpen your psychic perceptions.
That’s a fascinating use case I hadn’t considered. ”
“Why would you have…considered it?”
Evelyn’s eyes sparkled. “Because I’m the app’s creator!”
I scrambled to recall just how insulting I’d been as I bitched out level 18. “Look, it’s a great little game—I wouldn’t keep coming back to it if it wasn’t—“
“Relax, Agent. No need to feel awkward. Yes, my research was behind the original app, but I sold the intellectual property to a commercial developer ages ago. The Blip character has nothing to do with me.”
“That’s...actually a huge relief.” I let out a cautious breath. “Thanks for not taking offense at my goldfish-related frustrations.”
Bethany chimed in, “It’s natural to vent. I’m just glad I could help.”
“I figured you might know something,” I told her, “but I never expected you to track down the actual creator. That’s way above and beyond.”
Bethany seemed especially pleased with herself as she stepped into her sandals.
I said, “And what were the chances the app’s inventor was down the hall from me this entire time?”
Both women looked puzzled.
Then Bethany said, “R&D isn’t in Chicago.”
Evelyn pulled on her suit jacket. The F-Pimp badge dangling from her lapel marked her as Empath 3. “But it’s a quick enough flight from Dulles.”
Dulles International Airport. As in, Washington DC.
As in…holy cripes.
“You’re from National?”
* * *
“I just remembered something I’ve gotta do,” I said, hoping to cover whatever spike of panic I’d no doubt just broadcasted for half the agency to pick up on.
I’m no stranger to empaths. Hell, my first real boyfriend was strong enough to make a grown man cry.
And then break into a fit of laughter.…and then crap himself.
Back then, I’d rationalized that his ability to read my inner workings made everything easier.
Because then I wouldn’t have to struggle with talking about how I actually felt.
Since that time, life experience has downloaded me a major update. I’ve come to see the advantage of being able to pick and choose what other folks knew about those inner workings of mine.
The only thing I felt around Stefan nowadays was anger. And if he didn’t glean that from his sixth sense, no doubt my face conveyed the emotion loud and clear.
My initial impression of Evelyn had been a good one, though, so she must have felt something shift. I could only hope that the static of my general state of anxiety was enough to blot out my specific fear and loathing of FPMP National.
“If I can watch you use the app,” she was saying, “then at the very least, I should be able to figure out how to step you through the sticking point. But this is a fantastic opportunity to develop an entirely new protocol that actually works for you.”
A little spike of interest betrayed me. Did I want to be able to shift into alpha without the help of a cartoon spaceship? Hell, yeah.
But not under the watchful eye of Big Brother. “I really shouldn’t waste your time.”
Bethany, ever “helpful,” said, “Of course you’re not wasting Evelyn’s time, Victor. She came all the way out here just to see us!”
That was her idea, not mine. I edged toward the door. “Thing is, I’m smack in the middle of a—” I barely stopped myself from saying murder investigation. “A case.”
I escaped into the hall. Evelyn fell into step beside me. For an empath, she really wasn’t reading the room. “That’s just perfect. It’s every researcher’s dream to see their work being used the way they meant it to be—not simply repackaged based on whatever’s trending.”
She smiled, a little wistful.
“Mood Blaster wasn’t supposed to trigger a dopamine hit.
I built it for stabilization—mostly for the kid I used to be.
I was so anxious—some of it was my anxiety, of course, but back then, no one knew about empaths, and how we weren’t only generating our own anxiety, but absorbing it from the world around us.
Let’s just say I was a pretty high-strung kid.
Anyway, that was the original purpose of the app.
To help children self-regulate without pumping them full of pills.
But once the app got picked up commercially, it became about stickiness.
Retention, color psychology, push notifications.
” She shook her head. “I can’t say I was surprised.
The moment a thing is effective, someone somewhere wants to monetize the curve.
That doesn’t mean it stopped being useful… it just got diluted.”
She sounded sincere. Which made things worse, somehow.
I kept my face neutral and hoped she wasn’t scanning me too hard.
Then I remembered how confrontational my neutral-face looked and attempted a smile.
Which probably came off more like a wince.
Hopefully she’d think I’d done it in the spirit of commiseration.
Empaths were so exhausting.
“The readings Mood Blaster uses are rudimentary,” Evelyn went on. “There’s only so much input a smartwatch can track, at least in its current state of development. Think about what you could do with better tech.”
Oh, I thought it plenty. Whenever someone tried to hook me up to an electrode, I thought about the lab cracking open my skull and sticking wires directly into my gray matter.