The footsteps resounding through the halls of Psychwatch reminded Margo of pebbles tumbling down a steep hill, beginning slowly but escalating into a violent landslide. Three days since the Rabbit Hole infiltration, yet the day looked like any other. Her colleagues? Not a scratch on them. No trauma or regret bogging them down, rendering their expressions sour. As she sat beside Royce, the two of them awaiting forthcoming therapy sessions, Margo declared herself a primary exception.

Neither one of them bothered to check on the other. All they knew of was their own wounds. Half of Margo's face dimmed purple by contusions and a gaping spot in her teeth, a minuscule patch of tattered flesh where her right molar used to be. Royce with his withering, corpse-like physique yet impeccable posture, back straightened, shoulders back, head high. An animatronic constructed in his likeness could've taken his place, and no one would've known the difference.

"When was the last time you took your meds, Sandoval?" he asked Margo, signaled by the tapping of her fingernails against the aluminum frame of her pillbox.

"Last night at eleven," she said, staring ahead at her colleagues rushing by like cars on the freeway. "I figured night was the best time to take them. My worst episode to date happened at night, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

The two of them nodded, taking the moment to embrace the silence.

"Do you still take meds, Royce?" Margo asked.

"No. They made it harder to sleep. Not that it made much of a difference. I only really get about three hours of sleep per day."

"Do you get nightmares like I do?"

No answer. But as Margo pivoted her head to the left, she saw him nodding his head.

"This your first session?" Royce asked.

"Yeah," Margo said. "First in a long time. Although, I had one with Mason after coming back to work from the rally incident. I didn't know it was her at first. She made it seem like an AI ran the session."

"That's odd."

"Yeah. I hate AI-conducted sessions."

"I'm okay with them. Sofia helped me get used to them."

Margo's eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah, I forgot about Sofia. Who is she anyway?"

"Just a woman I care deeply about. But I can't always tell if she knows what's best for me."

"Well, we're Psychwatch officers. Shouldn't we technically already know what's best?"

"Since when did working for this place mean our opinions matter more than anyone else's?" Royce asked.

"Since we started shooting people who say otherwise."

Another way to bring the silence back. Margo cringed, but she couldn't tell which moment of comprehension humiliated her more. The words that'd come out or the disapproving glances of her colleagues passing by. And another layer of discomfort built upon the later presumption when she declared to herself that they undoubtedly saw what she said as only the ramblings of a patient amid another psychotic episode. A pathetic schizo, just like the voices told her.

"Have you ever thought about that?" Margo said. "Ever wondered what would've happened to us if we weren't part of Psychwatch? Because I hadn't. And I'm an idiot for not doing so."

"You're not an idiot, Sandoval," Royce said. "Besides, Psychwatch wouldn't gun you down. You're harmless."

"And probably so were most of the people we've killed."

"You mean the patrons in the House of Pleasure? The Rabbit Hole? Or those psychos at the rally? And the Sentient traffickers we found?"

"Those weren't the mentally ill, Royce. Their victims were!"

Royce took a deep breath. "I partially agree with you in that regard, kid. We've done more harm to the mentally ill than they've done to us. But that's not always the case. Some veterans suffering from PTSD have hurt more people off the battlefield rather than on it. And don't you remember what happened to Tetsuo Fujioka's parents? The man who killed them was schizophrenic."

Never in her life would she have predicted such a reminder would hurt her as deeply as it did.

Her coworker took notice of the offense she took and held his hand out, reassuring her. "I'm not saying you will end up like that man. Anyone can become violent like that, which means we're all just as likely to become the polar opposite. And the fact you're here, waiting for therapy, means you're doing better than lots of other people. You're doing better than me, in fact."

Yes, I am, Margo wanted to hiss at him, but that would've only proven them both wrong. So she sank back into her seat and took a deep breath, hands gripping the armrests as if she were on a rollercoaster, holding on for dear life. Terrified.

"How am I doing better than you?" she said.

"It's obvious you didn't hesitate to get help as soon as possible. But me? I had to be forced to get help. I would've probably let myself join the list of casualties at the rally if the medics hadn't found me and Holloway. In fact, most doctors would probably declare that I left the hospital a little too soon."

"Why'd you hesitate?"

Royce gazed off into an unknown location.

"Royce?"

"I have enough reminders of my failures," he said, "and very few sources that allow me some form of consolation. The doctors back at the hospital, Psychwatch, Sofia. They all feel...cold. After some time."

Margo nodded her head.

"I tried getting into religion lately. But I don't know which one would be the best for me. Are you religious, Sandoval?"

"No, not really," Margo replied. "I'm open to the idea of a higher power that created the universe, but I think I'd have a hard time believing it actually cares about us."

An apathetic being of power, she thought. Just like Psych...

"Well, I hope those religious groups a little more confidential than this place," Royce said, "what with them always talking about forgiveness and other outdated nonsense like that."

"You think forgiveness is outdated?"

"Well, let's be honest, when was the last time you'd seen anyone forgive someone for something?"

Margo turned to him with eyes remaining glued to the wall and said, "When was the last time you saw someone do something that could even be forgiven?"

Royce's mouth gaped open once more, and he slumped back into his seat, another modest string of exhales departing his lungs. "Too long," he whispered. "Way too long."

"I think I might forgive my mom, though."

Royce raised his brow. "What did she do?"

"She lied to me. She made me believe we were fine all these years. But we're not."

"Well, nobody's ever gonna stay in great shape forever, Sandoval. Believe me."

"But when did your problems begin?"

"I've always had them. Never had what many would call an ideal childhood. But admittedly...I'd say the worst of them began the day I joined Psychwatch, thinking that would change everything. Becoming a doctor-cop actually did change everything. But for the best? I really can't say."

"I understand," Margo replied with a nod.

"Forgive me, Sandoval, but I disagree. You'll understand soon, but not now. Not until you've found the right way to take it all in."

"Have you found your way to do that?"

"I thought I did. Thought it would've kept me safe. But I'd only fucked up worse than ever before."

What did you do?

The words were there. The temptation to have them leave her tongue ate at her like buzzards. But the silence that came between them once more soothed them, far more than any therapy. The silence was her ideal treatment, Margo thought. No more digging deeper for now. The depth she'd found herself at burned her enough already, and more layers of lies destined for unearthing awaited her.

"I'm sorry, Sandoval," Royce said. "For everything. Everything that has happened and will keep happening."

Not much of an apology, Margo thought, but I appreciate the honesty, as slightly unnerving as it sounded.

"No worries," she said. "We just gotta stay out of trouble."

"That's impossible. We're Psychwatch officers."

"Then we'll do like you said. Cut away if they get too personal. Because the worst thing a person can do is make themselves the most influential person in your life for their own self-benefit."

"I can't believe you remembered all that."

Maybe he didn't say what he said that night after all, Margo thought. Or maybe this is his way of making up for it?

The clop of footsteps echoed around her, and she looked up to see their colleague, Kusanagi. Or as she'd learned the other day, Joseph Kusanagi. Out of the riot gear they'd donned during their descent into the Rabbit Hole, Margo realized how handsome he was. Tannish skin, jet-black hair, slender face streaked with faded scars that evoked experience rather than anguish. He sported a dark gray suit with a navy blue tie, the apparel Margo would've worn had fate permitted her further time as an Empath.

"Hello again, Margo," he said with a smile. "Are you ready for your session?"

The sound of her first name uttered by another colleague who wasn't Carl, Holden, or Nikki perturbed Margo, as if precious data fell into the hands of her worst enemy. But Kusanagi wasn't her enemy, she told herself. He was hardly anything, really. A coworker. Another pair of hands around another Fatemaker.

Maybe he could be a genuine friend, she thought, a rarity to her.

"Yes, sir," she said.

Kusanagi nodded back before glancing at Royce. "Nice to see you again, too, Brian. Back for CBT?"

"Yes," Royce replied.

"Who's supervising your session today? If you don't mind me asking."

"Andrade, I think. But I'd prefer someone else. She's been off in her own world lately. Sometimes, it feels like I'm her therapist."

The hell is her problem? Margo thought, and she thought harder. The inspector had grown quieter over those passing days. Sterner, as if in mourning. But what could she have lost? One arm and the respect of the commissioner wasn't enough?

"Ah," Kusanagi said. "Well, why don't you let the commissioner know and reschedule with another therapist?"

Royce shrugged. He'd given up, Margo thought. Or maybe the opposite. Maybe he was so desperate to talk to someone, he'd scrape the bottom of the barrel just to find a willing set of ears to talk to. Or perhaps Andrade making her own predicaments known made him feel obligated to ensure her own recovery. Either way, desperation seeped from every pore.

"Alrighty then," Kusanagi said, clapping his hands together. "Margo, could you please follow me? And Brian, I hope everything goes well for you. You know who to call if you need some help."

Margo could've sworn she heard Royce mutter under his breath, "I'm not sure if I do."

But rather than contemplate what kind of turbulence plagued his mind, she rose from her seat and said, "Nice seeing you again, Brian. We can get through this, I hope."

"Yeah," Royce told her. "I really hope."

* * *

Cognitive behavioral therapy. CBT. Like many other miracles, Margo had only heard the tales, delivered as lectures and video examples back in high school and training. Ways to improve one's thought process, one's self-perception, how they navigate life. It all sounded so accommodating and caring, but somehow she'd convinced herself she never wanted to take part in it, never be the patient in such a situation.

You're not weak just because you're attending therapy, she told herself. I'm not weak...right?

"Please have a seat," Kusanagi said as the two of them marched into the SafeSpace. Tranquil blue light engulfed the room and all of its contents. Kusanagi swerved around his desk while Margo took the seat before it. She waited for the man to assume the position as well, the lens of his ThoughtControl piece on full display.

The lens worried her, made her feel exposed. What was he looking at? What did he know about her that she didn't know herself?

"So," Kusanagi said, "what brings you here today, Margo?"

Margo forced herself to chuckle, a hasty expulsion of air from her nostrils. "It's not obvious?" she asked.

"Ah. Right. Paranoid schizophrenia diagnosis." He cleared his throat. "How would you describe your thoughts revolving around this revelation?"

"Mostly negative," she said. "Unsurprisingly. I'd say I feel like someone has lied to me, and it hurts even more realizing that these lies have been going on for a long time. Maybe even since I was born. I'm sorry if this all sounds negative—especially because I feel like the worst the things I say, the more of these sessions I'll have to attend—but these last couple of days have been probably the most frustrating, overwhelming moments of my entire life. So there."

Kusanagi nodded his head. "There's nothing wrong with all this frustration. It's one of the most natural things you can experience in situations like this. And—"

"But Psychwatch trained me to stay calm in situations like this," Margo said. "I can assure you, 'calm' is one word I certainly wouldn't describe myself currently. Even with my new medications."

"What medications are you taking? And when was the last time you took them?"

Margo curled her fingers around the pillbox and jolted her hand over Kusanagi's desk.

"I see," he said, reading the letters as they materialized across the screen on the box's lid. "Well, if you experience any known side effects, let us know as soon as possible."

Was he just...insulting me? Margo thought. "Are antipsychotics known for having mood-altering side effects?" she asked.

"Not entirely. The most common side effects are weight gain, drowsiness, restlessness, disrupted bodily functions like vomiting and constipation. But the important thing is that you let us know if something is happening that...shouldn't be happening, basically."

His patient flashed him a halfhearted thumbs-up.

"So," he said, "you say you feel as if you've been lied to, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Who does this extend to? As in, is this a general belief you hold against the world around you? Or are there specific people you feel betrayed by?"

Margo shrugged. "Would it be weird if I said I haven't quite figured that out yet?"

"No, not at all! Especially in moments of distress."

"Should I still say the names of the people I do genuinely feel betrayed by?"

"If that's what you feel is best," replied Kusanagi, flashing a small but blatantly cautious grin.

I don't know what I feel, goddamn it! Just...frustration. Nothing good. That's what I feel!

"No, I think I should still figure it out more," Margo concluded.

"No problem," Kusanagi said, clapping his hands together. "Even though you don't have any names down yet, what have people done to make you feel this way?"

"They treated me like I was sane this whole time. Like I wasn't just talking to voices and people that weren't there. Sure, maybe they genuinely didn't notice, but...people are smarter than how we usually assume them to be, so I feel like they knew what I was doing and just didn't say anything about it."

Kusanagi nodded his head. "I like what you said. 'People are smarter than how we usually assume them to be.' It's true. People pick up on a surprising amount of things. In which case, why do you believe they said nothing?"

"Probably because it'd be rude to go up to someone and just ask them if they have a psychotic disorder. Or any disorder, really. They probably just assume it's something that can't be controlled."

"I see what you mean." Kusanagi paused to think, brushing his hand through his hair. "But fortunately, these things can be controlled. Eradicated? Not entirely. Prevented? Not always. But controlled? Managed? Absolutely. This paranoia you feel, the negativity, it can all be overcome. Of course, it won't happen instantly, but you'll definitely notice when you've made progress."

"I hope so," Margo said.

Her coworker before her snapped his fingers, startling her. "That's actually part of the therapy," he said. "Redirecting your thoughts in order to reduce distress. Grounding yourself in reality. For example, saying things like what you just said right now: 'I hope so.' 'Hope' is too ambiguous of a word. Whereas saying it can be done is much more concrete because patients have the potential to make progress through CBT."

Margo remained silent. The words felt informed and comforting, but she couldn't help but alternately interpret the declaration as blind, optimistic rambling, undermining a distressful crisis of identity. Just as how Jack once told her she knew nothing of the pain people really went through, these scars others possessed that she did not, the sincerity of Kusanagi's response somehow felt as if it didn't reflect personal experience. Didn't reflect the weariness of an individual who'd truly overcome such a dilemma. Instead, it sounded more like words off the pages of a textbook, promises of a commercial read in animated voices.

"I can tell something's on your mind," Kusanagi said. "Are you having doubts? Because that's just as natural as anything else, Margo. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Not really doubts," she said, voice low and careful, "but...sorry if this sounds rude, but do you really believe this therapy helps?"

"Of course! I've worked here for quite some time, so I've seen plenty of folks come and go, both as an Empath and as a Neutralizer. I can tell you're asking because I made everything sound so easy, right?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I apologize for making it come across as easier than it really is. I know describing it like that can appear insensitive. But ultimately, it's true. It's absolutely doable. You don't have to become a full-blown optimist thinking everything is gonna be rainbows and sunshine all the time, but rationalizing things and grounding yourself in reality doesn't mean having to become overly pessimistic. In fact, rationalizing my thoughts has kept me from becoming a far more cynical person because it helps you know what's real and what's not."

"How so?" Margo asked.

"To show you how it works, we can use examples from your life. Are there any hallucinations you've noticed?"

Margo clenched her fists until her knuckles cracked. "I thought I had a sister."

"Oh? Is that so?"

She wanted to say more, but she'd felt as if a hand reached its way up her throat, its clammy fingers moments away from snatching her tongue. Kusanagi's astonishment didn't help matters in the slightest. Margo imagined him thinking, Fuck, I don't think this has ever happened before. She's hopeless.

"Tell me a little more about this sister," he said. "What was her name? What did she look like? And what made you realize something wasn't right whenever you saw or spoke to her?"

With a dry, anxious gulp, Margo said, "Her name was Ellie. She never said how old she was, but she was older than me. I'd never seen her in person before, so when she talked to me, I'd always believed we were talking on the phone or through my ThoughtControl piece."

"Interesting. Was that how you discovered she was a hallucination?"