The dream of Adrian still clings to me like static electricity as I sit in the corner of the general store, phone in hand. The darkness behind my eye pulses with remembered recognition, with the lingering sensation of someone who truly understood what I'm becoming. But that understanding came at too high a price.
Time for a different kind of understanding.
Twenty-three voicemails. Twenty-three chances for James to explain, to prove his innocence or confirm his guilt. My fingers tremble slightly as I access the first one, timestamped just after I fled the headquarters.
"Vesper?" His voice sounds ragged, desperate. "God, please be okay. I just heard... the headquarters... I'm trying to get there but there's police everywhere. Church forces too. Please, just let me know you're alive."
Delete. Next message, thirty minutes later:
"They're not letting anyone near the building. Something about structural instability, but... the distortions are visible from the street. Reality just... folding in on itself. I can see shapes moving in the windows that shouldn't... that can't... Please call me."
Delete. Next message:
"Sarah's dead. They found her body. And Marcus... what was left of him... Vesper, I swear I didn't know. The information about Marcus, about Mother Superior – it was real. All of it. But I never thought... never imagined they'd do this. Please. I need to explain."
Each message carries the raw edge of panic, of desperation. Either he's the best actor in the world, or...
"I found something else," his voice continues in the next message. "In the old records. About the time when your mother was pregnant with you. She... she wasn't alone. There were others. Other pregnant women. The Church was running multiple experiments simultaneously."
The darkness pulses as I absorb this. My mother wasn't unique? Wasn't their only attempt?
Next message:
"They had five women. All carefully chosen, all exposed to Their realm during pregnancy. Your mother was their primary focus, but the others... they were like control groups. Different levels of exposure, different methods. They wanted to see what would work best."
Delete. Another message, this one shaking with urgency:
"Most of the women died. The babies too. Your mother was the only success – you were the only child who survived with the gift. But Vesper... one of the other women survived. Not like your mother, not transformed, but... she got away. And I think I know where she is."
My hand tightens on the phone. The darkness stirs, interested now.
"Her name was Rachel Chen. No relation to Sarah, but... she was a scientist too. Understood more about what they were doing than the other subjects. When she realized what was happening to her baby, she ran. The Church hunted her for years but never found her. Never knew if her child survived."
I think about another child like me. Another person who might understand what this is like. Not like Adrian, twisted by the Church's forced evolution, but someone natural. Someone born to it.
"The records say Rachel was different," James continues in the next message. "She didn't just accept what the Church told her. She studied the process, understood it scientifically. Kept her own records. If she survived, if her child survived... they might know things about this transformation that even the Church doesn't understand."
More messages play, James describing his search through old files, his growing certainty that Rachel Chen is still alive somewhere:
"She was smart. Changed her name, moved constantly. But she left traces – scientific papers published under pseudonyms, theories about quantum biology that sound too close to what's happening to be coincidence. I think... I think she's been studying this all along. Trying to understand what the Church did to her, to her baby."
Delete. Next message:
"The last paper was published three months ago. A theoretical piece about human consciousness existing in multiple dimensions simultaneously. It's her, Vesper. Has to be. And if she's still alive, still researching... maybe she can help us understand what's really happening. Not the Church's religious interpretation, but the actual science of it."
The darkness pulses with possibility. Someone who might understand this academically, scientifically. Someone who fought the Church and got away. Someone who might have answers.
The final messages are shorter, more urgent. James describing possible locations, patterns in academic publications, ways to track down Rachel Chen. Then, last night:
"I think I found her. A small research facility in Oregon, doing work on quantum consciousness. The director's name is different, but the theories they're publishing... it's her work. Her understanding. Please, Vesper. This could change everything. She might know things about what you are, what you're becoming, that even Mother Superior doesn't understand."
The messages end. The phone goes dark in my hand. The darkness behind my eye pulses with revelations, with possibilities, with the hope of understanding.
James is still out there, searching. Still trying to help me understand what I am. Either he's part of an elaborate trap, or...
Or he's found someone who might actually have answers.
The walls ripple around me, reality responding to my turbulent emotions. I think about Adrian, about his offer of transcendence without understanding. Think about this Rachel Chen, who might offer understanding without surrender.
The darkness offers power, offers ways to know the truth. This time, I don't push it back. Let it pulse, let it grow, let it show me possibilities.
Time to stop running. Time to find out if there are others like me. Time to understand what I am from someone who fought the Church and won.
My phone lights up with a new message from James:
I have coordinates. Let me help you find her.
I stare at the words for a long moment, feeling reality bend around the weight of decision. The darkness pulses, offering direction, offering certainty, offering ways to know if this is real.
Time to find out.
Time to understand.
Even if that understanding changes everything I thought I knew about what I am.