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Chapter Text

When Sasha arrives back in his laboratory at the Motherlobe, he telekinetically deposits Loboto on the table in the center of the room.

"I see now that using a foreign mental construct to interrogate your mind would never have worked," Sasha reflects aloud. In the privacy of his work area, he is finally free of the Motherlobe's strictures against smoking in communal areas, and so a lit cigarette soon finds its way between his lips.

"Oh?" Loboto asks with polite interest. He rises to a seated position on the table. "How do you figure?"

A telekinetic hand prods Loboto's chest until he's lying on his back again.

"Please remain supine on the table," Sasha says, pulling the floating monitor which will give him readouts of Loboto's approximate mental state, once calibrated, to the center of the room. "We don't want you collapsing and hitting your head."

"You should really invest in a dentist's chair," Loboto advises conversationally. "Patients respond better to more comfortable seating, you know. Although between you and me," he adds in a conspiratorial tone, "I usually skimp on the chairs in the waiting room!"

Sasha is still arranging the floating monitor to his liking, but he pauses at this. "Are you experiencing physical discomfort?"

Loboto flippantly waves a hand. "Oh, just the usual! These old bones... You'll understand when you're older."

"Hmm." Sasha touches his temple, and the black monitor comes to life with a riot of colorful lines, squirming and thrashing on the white background like a Silly String massacre. "Chronic pain can create a kind of disruptive mental interference—"

"You're telling me!"

"—Psychic noise, essentially," Sasha concludes. "I'll ask Agent Mentallis to drop by with some Amygdapentin." After a moment's consideration, he adds, "And a dose of rabies immune globulin."

"Oh, good," says Loboto. "I didn't much like the look of that squirrel."

"Its thoughts didn't strike me as those of a creature stricken with rabies," Sasha assures him, "but I'd rather be safe than sorry... Give me a moment."

As Sasha steps out of his periphery, Loboto says, "Sure, sure," and takes a moment to acquaint himself with the view. He suspects he'll be seeing a lot of it: the circular ceiling of a circular room, made of some kind of dense, radiation-shielded metal alloy. Metal ceiling beams, radially arranged with the precise equidistance of notches on a compass.

Sasha returns to Loboto's side after exchanging his sunglasses for a pair of green-tinted goggles, wearing a shining white lab coat and burgundy rubber gloves. A ridiculous contraption sits atop his head.

"I just can't keep up with the youth fashion trends these days," Loboto laments.

"This," Sasha says, "is a Medulla Retooler."

Loboto frowns. "Oh," he says unenthusiastically.

"Not to worry. This won't be as invasive as the other forms of psychic intervention you've been exposed to," Sasha assures him. "The medulla controls autonomic functions, such as breathing, digestion, and blood pressure. But in people who suffer prolonged periods of stress, these functions can become disrupted. Hyperventilation, stomachaches, high blood pressure—that sort of thing."

"Okay," says Loboto, hunching his shoulders.

"Before we make another attempt to resolve the foreign influences in your mind, I need to make sure those essential brain functions are working properly."

"Pish posh! I'm fit as a fiddle!" Loboto objects.

Sasha smiles agreeably. "If that's the case, then this will only take a moment of your time." Then he flips down the visor of his contraption and says, "Deep breaths, Caligosto."

All nerves, Loboto asks wryly, "Should I say 'ahhh', too?"

Sasha chuckles as he places two fingers on his temple, and something small and tinny in the contraption's mechanical innards whirrs breezily to life. "If you like."

He doesn't say 'ahhh'.

Gradually, he becomes aware of a fist-sized presence inside his head, at the base of his skull. It isn't exactly pressure that he feels, but something like... like his brain is a plum in the palm of Sasha's hand.

Loboto titters apprehensively—and then he can't stop, as giggly as if he'd taken a great puff of nitrous oxide. He tries to speak, but he can't keep a straight face long enough to get out a single word.

"I'm going to touch your chest," Sasha speaks over Loboto's hysterical laughter—and then he does, his gloved hand resting lightly on Loboto's sternum. It makes for a strangely symmetrical counterpoint to the light psychic touch cradling the base of Loboto's skull. "Try to normalize your breathing as best you can."

It's harder than it sounds. Loboto laughs into his hand, gritting his teeth to try and stop—though he knows better than to punish his enamel like that. The downward pressure of Sasha's touch increases incrementally, and the result is surprisingly grounding. When Loboto inhales, his chest pushes up against Sasha's palm; and when he exhales, the pressure of Sasha's touch gently compresses his lungs again. It's like shifting to a higher gear on a bicycle, Loboto realizes: the additional resistance offers less maneuverability, but it focuses the cyclist's energy. Uncertainty makes way for a greater effort, and the bike handles more smoothly as a result.

Loboto catches his breath. Sasha's hand exerts gentle pressure on his chest, remaining until his breathing is slow and even. Only then does Sasha pull his hand away.

"All done," Sasha declares, powering down the Medulla Retooler and flipping up the visor.

Loboto turns his head toward Sasha, frowning in bewilderment. "That's it?" He hardly felt a thing. And when the device powers down, the innocuous presence at the base of Loboto's skull recedes with a slight tingling feeling.

"I'm as surprised as you are," Sasha admits, lifting the bulky headpiece and rolling his neck. "Your breathing pattern's baseline was a bit disrupted by anxiety, but that's not unusual for someone your age. I was more concerned about your digestive system." Sasha levitates the device out of sight, and it clatters quietly, as if he's placed it on a metal instrument tray.

"I am a dentist," Loboto reminds him. "What, did you think I'd be squeamish?"

Sasha relights his cigarette with pyrokinesis, taking a thoughtful drag as he gestures vaguely and says, "Rather than a question of mental fortitude, I anticipated a bit more resistance in the form of physical nausea."

Loboto snorts. "What for? I got my sea legs years ago!"

Sasha remains quietly thoughtful at that. He turns to the floating monitor, which Loboto can make neither heads nor tails of. He's not sure if it's something he said, but he starts to feel that put-on-the-spot unease as the silence drags on.

"Well! It's been fun, but I should really get going. You have my insurance information, right?" Loboto sits up, and the lab bursts before his eyes into a dazzling kaleidoscope of gunmetal fireworks.

Oh, he thinks. There's the nausea.

Loboto holds a hand to his face and sways. He's tempted to shake his head to rattle his marbles back into place, but he suspects that will only make things worse. He moans miserably, and when the world swims back into focus, it's mostly Sasha Nein.

Sasha holds Loboto's shoulders firmly in place, an anchor in choppy waters. His green safety goggles are impenetrable, but his brow is furrowed deeply with concern.

"Please," Sasha entreats, "don't try to get up."

"Now you tell me," Loboto grumbles. With Sasha's assistance, Loboto lays back down on the table, and Sasha graciously goes without mentioning the fact that he did, in fact, tell him earlier.

When Loboto is more or less cogent again, Sasha attempts to explain. "These psychoactive devices are capable of extraordinary things, but they can leave the mind... vulnerable. And while you have some fairly sophisticated mental defenses, you aren't the one who put them there. Ergo, I suspect those defenses aren't reflective of your actual resistance to other types of mental stress."

"... Can you say that again," Loboto asks woozily, "but with less words?"

Sasha sighs. "You're going to get dizzy. So please remain lying down on the table."

"I can do that!" Loboto woozes.

One of the computers across the lab chirps with an incoming call.

"Ah, that will be Agent Mentallis," says Sasha. "Please excuse me. I have to take this."

"Okey-dokey, pokey-lopey..."

Sasha hesitates, fiddling with his cigarette in thought. When he steps away to answer Agent Mentallis's call, he brings the floating monitor with him.

It wouldn't do to leave Loboto unsupervised for very long.

Chapter Text

"Sasha!" comes Agent Mentallis's voice, so strangely reminiscent of the tinny advertisements of every Otto-Matic throughout the Motherlobe that Sasha almost thinks the call hasn't gone through. "What's all this about a kidnapping? And a mole in the Psychonauts?!"

"The kidnapper has been apprehended—"

"Hello!" Loboto crows. Sasha turns to see Loboto waving enthusiastically at Agent Mentallis's image on the screen. He sighs.

When he turns back, Agent Mentallis is leaning closer and squinting. "That's him...? Ah," he says, comprehension dawning on his face. He adjusts his glasses with a satisfied smile. "Working him over, eh? I love your scientific tenacity, my boy!"

"Yes, well," Sasha deflects. "His mind is surprisingly well-protected, and he won't talk."

"Oh, I wish I could be there," moons Agent Mentallis. "But you've caught me in the middle of a delicate Psitanium experiment, and I just can't leave it unattended!"

Sasha hesitates. "If this is a bad time..."

"No, no! I always have time for you," Agent Mentallis insists. "It'll keep for a few minutes. I can see it from here." He glances out of frame so quickly that Sasha nearly misses it between one moment and the next.

He decides to keep this brief.

"I need Amygdapentin."

"Amygdapentin?" Sasha nods, and Agent Mentallis smiles smugly. "You know, Sasha, you wouldn't get so many tension headaches if—"

"It's not for me," Sasha interrupts.

"What?" Agent Mentallis frowns. "What could you possibly—? For your kidnapper?" 

"Respectfully, Agent Mentallis, you and I employ very different methods in these kinds of situations."

Agent Mentallis rolls his eyes and huffs, but he's smiling indulgently. "Fine, fine. I'll contact the clinic and have them push through a prescription for you—"

"I don't need a prescription—"

"The Otto-Matic can't dispense it without one. Oh—unless you wanted to be the one to write up and file all his intake paperwork...?" Agent Mentallis steeples his fingers and purses his lips, as if he's genuinely curious. "Perhaps your interrogation came up with his insurance information?"

Documenting Loboto's presence in the Motherlobe is something Sasha would like to do, but it's not as if he can spare the time.

"... Point taken."

Agent Mentallis claps his hands triumphantly. "Excellent! Then I'll have that taken care of in a jiffy. Anything else?"

"Yes," says Sasha. "Rabies immune globulin."

Agent Mentallis's triumphant smile quivers with repressed laughter. "... Squirrels in the jet again, I take it?"

Sasha sighs. "If you come up with any revolutionary money-making schemes that would cover the down payment for an underground hangar..."

"You'll be the first to know," Agent Mentallis assures him. Sasha can't shake the impression that the man's overtly sympathetic expression also contains poorly hidden amusement. "The Otto-Matic can't dispense rabies immune globulin, but I'll bring a dose to your lab when I reach a stopping point in this experiment."

"Thank you, Agent Mentallis."

The call ends, and Sasha sighs, shaking his head as he returns to Loboto's side with the floating monitor in tow.

"That guy sounds like a gross negligence lawsuit waiting to happen," Loboto cheerfully observes.

It's so surreal to hear Loboto give voice to Sasha's private thoughts that he has to double-check his telepathic boundaries. Dryly, Sasha says, "You read my mind." He enjoys a private moment of humor to himself—and then wonders if perhaps that was in poor taste.

"Did I?" Loboto asks, bemused. "What are you thinking right now?"

Of course. Loboto's... cerebral particularities likely leave those more nuanced social cues outside his grasp. "I'm thinking of stepping out for a moment, so please don't go anywhere in the meantime." He steps around the end of the table where lay Loboto's feet; Loboto's head lolls on the wedge pillow to follow his movements. "Another traumatic brain injury is the last thing you need."

"Aha! That's just what I thought you were thinking!" Loboto declares.

"Remarkable," Sasha indulges, lip quirking. He begins walking toward the door to the lab, but as he steps over the grate encircling the table, he adds, "In that case, we'd better pencil in some tests to gauge your telepathic tendencies."

"Oh, fiddlesticks..."

Sasha chuckles quietly as the pneumatic door closes behind him.

Despite his expectations of the man, Sasha doesn't think the strangely congenial vein of their interactions is unwarranted in a one-on-one environment. Loboto has many childlike moments, and Sasha is many things—an agent and a scientist among them—but his primary vocation is child educator.

He ails under no sincere delusions that Loboto is a child, any more than he considers Ford Cruller a child just for being a bit scatter-brained. Sasha and Loboto's communication styles just happen to mesh by happy accident.

Hopefully that will be a help, rather than a hindrance.

Agent Mentallis is as good as his word: the Otto-Matic spits out a bottle of Amygdapentin which Sasha pockets, feeling uncomfortably clandestine about the breach of protocol which made it possible.

"Need a recharge?" the recording of Agent Mentallis's voice intones. Sasha glances at the display screen as it runs the ad reel. "Try PSI Pops!"

... On a whim, Sasha charges another purchase to his account.

He stops over by the water cooler on his way back to the lab.

"I apologize for the wait," Sasha says when he returns with a paper cup.

Loboto turns his head toward the door. "Hmm? Did you go somewhere?"

Sasha pulls a swivel chair up to the table and helps Loboto to a seated position. When he hands over the cup of water, Loboto asks, "Should I rinse with this?"

Sasha pauses. "No," he says slowly. "Not unless you want to, but I'm going to ask you to drink it in a moment, so do with that information what you will."

As Sasha pulls the medicine bottle from his pocket, Loboto uses the water to rinse and spit.

... Well. Sasha supposes that's his prerogative. And perhaps an enthusiast of dentistry is more conscious of when the last time he brushed his teeth was. Come to think of it, Sasha hasn't brushed his teeth at all since they left camp. The taste of cigarette smoke is really starting to adhere to the enamel.

Compartmentalizing that bit of sensory unpleasantness, Sasha holds out a white tablet of Amygdapentin for Loboto to take—but Loboto leans away from Sasha's hand as if he holds smelling salts, rather than an innocuous dissolvable tablet.

"What is that?" Loboto demands.

"Amygdapentin. It's a highly effective painkiller," says Sasha, "since it targets the pain center of the brain—"

"I know what the amygdala is," Loboto interrupts, lifting a hand in exasperation.

"... Of course," says Sasha. "I'll be sure to cater my explanations to their intended audience from hereon out. My apologies." He returns the tablet to the bottle and holds the bottle out instead. "You're welcome to examine the label, if you like."

A series of gestural negotiations results in an exchange: the cup for the medicine bottle. Sasha tries to ignore the fact that he is holding a paper cup full of Loboto's backwash.

"'Sasha Nein'," Loboto reads. "'Take one'... 'Pain, anxiety, mood swings'... Hmm..."

Needing a distraction from the cup's contents, Sasha belatedly asks, "Do you mind if I smoke?" He didn't feel the need to ask before, but perhaps thinking about his dental health is making him more conscious of what he's inflicting on himself—and those around him, at the moment.

"You weren't already?" Loboto asks distractedly. "I hadn't noticed. Go ahead—I'm used to it."

Sasha waits to see if Loboto will realize what he has just revealed—but Loboto pays Sasha no attention as he continues to peer at the medicine bottle, trying to make out the small text on the label.

The moment passes unremarked-upon, and Sasha squares himself away with a cigarette while Loboto reads.

In the same skeptical tone with which he accepted his Employee of the Year award, Loboto eventually says, "Okay... I guess it's fine." He holds the bottle in his prosthetic hand and opens it with his organic one, doling himself out a single tablet and dropping it in his mouth. He returns the bottle to Sasha, who gratefully exchanges it for the cup of backwash.

Sasha examines the notches left behind on the label by the metal forceps of Loboto's curious prosthetic.

Loboto sighs dramatically and smacks his lips when he's taken his medicine and finished his water. Sasha floats the cup away to the recycling.

"Good. Please keep me apprised of your pain levels," Sasha says. He hesitates. "And... I have something else for you."

"Not more medicine," Loboto grouches. He bends his knees like he wants to draw them to his chest.

"No, it's—well." Sasha pulls a PSI Pop out of his jacket pocket, and Loboto perks up. "Technically, it is medicinal..."

This seems to concern Loboto not at all. "Do I get a sucker for being such a good patient?" he asks with coy delight.

Sasha clears his throat and straightens, holding up the PSI Pop like a prop in a lecture. "PSI Pops are a Psitanium-derived confection, which have a restorative effect on..." Loboto bounces enthusiastically in his seat, and Sasha sighs, his arm wilting from where it holds the PSI Pop aloft.

"... Yes," Sasha says as he hands it over. "You've been a model patient. Thank you for your cooperation."

Loboto takes the treat, vibrating with excitement. But he pauses before putting it in his mouth. "Wait... This thing isn't loaded with sugars, is it?"

Having tasted them himself, and enjoying a more than cursory acquaintance with Agent Mentallis, Sasha says in no uncertain terms, "Oh, most certainly."

Loboto grimaces, then looks thoughtful—then he seems to convince himself of something, and he says, "Well, that's why they're 'sometimes' foods, right?" And without waiting for an answer he shoves it in his mouth, looking entirely satisfied with himself.

"The Amygdapentin should alleviate any physical pain you're experiencing," Sasha says. He sits in the chair he's pulled over, telekinetically tilting the monitor displaying Loboto's colorized mental state into a position more favorable for viewing from his angle. "And that PSI Pop should help with any dizziness or fatigue you're experiencing as side effects of the Medulla Retooler."

"Mmm..." Loboto hums.

Sasha shifts his focus to the monitor. The disastrous riot of colors doesn't become any less of an eyesore, but Sasha knows better than to expect leaps and bounds of improvement at this stage. Save for the most extreme cases, the psyche does not typically undergo drastic, sudden shifts—and when it does, it's usually for the worse.

But the recovery of a mind is a slow, piecemeal process. So Loboto's diminishing pain can only be surmised by the way the thrashing lines incrementally achieve greater definition and sharpness; and the Medulla Retooler's improvements and Sasha's spontaneous offering of a PSI Pop seem to have reduced the chaos from a tornado down to a mere whirlwind.

Another observer might not even see what Sasha does, and it's arguably no progress at all. But the small improvements are something Sasha finds gratifying nonetheless. He takes a long, meditative drag of his cigarette, and he watches the minor shifts within the colorful maelstrom on the monitor while Loboto floats on a candy floss and Psitanium cloud.

It takes Loboto a while to finish his PSI Pop—likely concerned about the dental ramifications of biting down on hard candy, which Sasha can hardly begrudge given the man’s priorities—and when he finally does finish it, his stomach growls. This catches Sasha’s attention and draws his gaze away from the mesmerizing dance of colored ribbons on the monitor.

It was a long ride from the Rhombus, Sasha reflects, and longer still since he ate anything substantial. He likely hasn’t noticed because nicotine is an appetite suppressant, but he should probably eat all the same.

Also, he’s almost run out of cigarettes, and the impact that will have on his productivity stands to be even more significant than low caloric intake.

Sasha stands. "Let's go to the dining hall," he suggests. 

“Hm?” says Loboto. He fiddles with the white stick of the PSI Pop’s remains. “I thought you were going to keep me locked up in here until I squealed.”

“You’re not off the hook,” Sasha elaborates. “But it’s not my intention to torture you. On the contrary—I consider your well-being to be my personal responsibility. Starving you would hardly serve that end.”

Loboto frowns. “Didn’t you imply I’d concuss myself if I tried to get up? How does that figure into my well-being?”

“Yes,” says Sasha patiently. “But the Amygdapentin and the PSI Pop should have helped with that. Why don’t you try standing up? I’ll be here to support you if you lose your footing.”

“Okay,” Loboto murmurs doubtfully. He drags his legs over the edge of the table, and as he pushes himself very slowly to a standing position, Sasha stands in wait, his arms extended in silent offer.

But there's no need: Loboto stands unassisted, looking down at himself in bewilderment.

“Good job, Caligosto.” Sasha lowers his arms. “How are you feeling?”

“Floaty,” Loboto reports.

Sasha considers that PSI Pops might induce a kind of euphoria in the non-psychically gifted. Or perhaps that’s the Amygdapentin. “Any pain?”

Loboto shakes his head, patting himself down like he’s trying to find his pain in his pockets.

“Then if you’ve no objections, I suggest we get something to eat.” Sasha walks backward in a descent from the low circular dais on which the table rests, prepared to assist Loboto if need be.

Loboto manages with a minimum of stumbling nerves. “You’re not worried I’ll try to escape?” he asks suspiciously.

Sasha laughs. As he turns toward the door, Loboto falls into step beside him, and Sasha says, “There are psycho-reactive authentication systems on nearly every door. You wouldn’t get far.”

"Oh," Loboto groans. "Good..."

Chapter Text

They don’t make it far before Loboto is distracted by the scenery.

“Oh!" he gasps, approaching the fish tank inlaid in the wall with a smile of reverent astonishment. 

Back in the Rhombus of Ruin, Oleander alluded to Loboto’s preference for fish as subjects for his brain experiments. Sasha hadn’t given that tidbit much thought at the time—but even if he had, he would never have guessed that Loboto's preference was a manifestation of his fondness for the creatures.

Though Sasha has passed this way countless times, he can’t recall the last time he stopped to admire the fish. Which seems a shame: their colorful patterns are pleasing to the eye, particularly when tastefully subdued by the tank's dappled blue light, and the slowly undulating plants in the enclosure invoke a sense of mesmerizing calm.

Enthralled, Sasha steps further into the burbling ambiance of the fish tank, and the sight and sound and smell induce an aquarium-like solemnity, in deference to which Sasha lowers his voice as he asks, “Do you like fish?”

Instinctively matching Sasha's volume, Loboto leans in a little closer and says quietly, “They're smarter than most people think! Did you know fish can recognize symbols? And use tools to solve problems?"

“Is that so?” Sasha's area of scientific expertise is the human mind, not animal minds. “I didn’t know that,” he admits.

Loboto wiggles his fingers at a passing fish, fingertips just shy of the glass. The fish slows and lists away to peer at Loboto’s face, and it kisses the glass curiously with its pale, puckered mouth. Loboto giggles, delighted. “Some are even smart enough to recognize faces!"

“Compelling,” Sasha murmurs. On a whim, he waves as well, his lip quirking in a smile as the fish makes a valiant effort to nibble his fingers through the glass.

They remain there until Loboto’s stomach rumbles again, at which point Sasha gets them back on track to the dining hall.

In consideration of his non-levitationally-inclined companion, Sasha descends the ramp into the atrium on foot. He hangs back as Loboto slows to take in his surroundings, head on a swivel and eyes roving with observational interest.

"Huh... Looks different from this angle," Loboto mutters. Sasha was prepared for Loboto to be overwhelmed, but he's handling the wide-open atrium with remarkable equanimity.

While Loboto takes in the sights, Sasha takes responsibility for getting them to the dining hall without incident—a responsibility which he soon finds cause to act upon, as a speedster brain rolls recklessly into their path. Sasha throws an arm out to prevent Loboto from colliding with the ball, and Loboto stumbles, but the anticipated collision is narrowly prevented.

"Oh!" Loboto cries in astonishment. "What a beautiful brain!"

"W-What?!" the brain responds, its vocoder fluctuating with a greater abundance of emotion than Sasha previously thought possible. "I... Um, thank you? Y-You too! Wait, I can't see your brain, what am I saying...?!" The brain's ball revolves fitfully before swerving off, its trajectory clearly confused by its emotional state.

"I want one," Loboto says wistfully as it goes.

"That's a person, Caligosto," Sasha chides.

Loboto sighs with resigned longing, and Sasha adjusts his goggles to conceal a smile. Loboto's enthusiasm for brain science isn't unusual in the Motherlobe, but Sasha only knows one other person who matches Loboto for sheer enthusiasm on the subject.

When the neon sign for the Noodle Bowl looms above them, Loboto asks, "Hey, didn't we just run into a noodle bowl?"

Sasha coughs. "Caligosto, please. Bowls are merely hemispherical, not spherical."

"Alright, alright..."

They're early enough to be spared the lunch crowd, and a table by the curved glass wall avails them of a bird's-eye view of the lobby. Loboto gnaws on his basket of fries and stares vacantly through the glass.

Sasha bides his time.

When he's polished off half his turkey wrap, Sasha dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin and says, "Tell me, Caligosto. Do you consider yourself primarily a dentist, or a brain surgeon?"

"Eh?" Loboto mulls on the fry in his mouth as he considers this. "I wouldn't call myself a brain surgeon at all! Maybe a... brain migration specialist," he eventually decides. He waves a fry thoughtfully. "I'm not big on invasive procedures."

"No?" Sasha sips his coffee—the dregs of the breakfast brew, burnt and flat, but he strongly suspects he'll be needing it—and goes on, "An interesting line to draw. I presume it's not for ethical reasons."

"I never cared about that," Loboto freely admits. "Just preference! Not all optometrists want to be laser eye surgeons, is all."

"Fair enough," Sasha allows. "And dentistry? I couldn't help but notice you're not licensed..."

Loboto waves a dismissive hand and rolls his eyes. "Oh, who needs licenses! It's not as if the criminal underworld goes around making sure you're compliant with the Federal Dental Association..."

"Fascinating," Sasha says. "Is there a high demand for dentistry in the criminal underground...?"

"Oh, sure! Outlaws have terrible teeth. Brawling, drinking..." He smiles sidelong at Sasha. "... Smoking."

Sasha drinks his coffee impassively. "And brain migration?"

"Well, it's quicker than plastic surgery when you're on the lam! Harder to suss out, too."

Sasha lets this new information sink in. A buckshot of deeply concerning mental connections crack to life in his brain, but he carefully compartmentalizes them for later scrutiny. He can't afford to get distracted.

Sasha perseveres. "While we were in your mind, you seemed interested in turning over a new leaf."

Loboto shoves a fry in his mouth and averts his gaze.

"That being the case, I don't suppose you'd be interested in divulging the method by which your former clients came into contact with you?"

"... Well," Loboto says with difficulty, "Most people who want drastic brain operations turn to psychic intervention. So the only place a regular Joe like me could break into a job market like that is to go where there's no... Where psychics are..."

Loboto falters, and the fry he's holding drops into the greasy white basket.

"What," Loboto says slowly, "did you just do?"

Sasha sips his coffee, battling with a bout of disappointment-induced speechlessness. "Your reluctance to divulge your client's identity is based on fear of reprisal," Sasha explains. "... Fear stimuli are mediated by a subcortical brain network centered on the amygdala."

Loboto grips the table harshly with his prosthetic. "Aren't you a clever little so-and-so?" he grits out.

"I am sorry for misleading you," Sasha says sincerely. "But I need that information."

Loboto whines, gouging the table's surface with the metal forceps of his prosthetic.

Sasha sighs and sets his coffee aside. "Caligosto," he implores. "Please."

Loboto hunches his shoulders, an expression of deep and inconsolable conflict betraying his desire to help. Sasha wants more than anything to reach across that divide and make contact with Loboto's unencumbered mind.

But brute force won't get him there. Sasha sighs. "I understand," he says. "We don't have to discuss it now."

Loboto slumps with disappointment and relief. A tenuous silence lingers, and Sasha wonders if he should have been subtler on the approach to avoid squandering the promising rapport they've been developing.

"Are you still hungry?" Sasha asks when Loboto morosely finishes off his last fry.

Loboto pouts like a chastened child. "I want a cheese plate."

Sasha quirks a smile. "Alright," he says. "Anything else?"

Loboto squints at the chalkboard menu behind the counter. "Oh, I shouldn't get a soda... I've already had candy today..."

"Water, then. It's important to stay hydrated." Sasha stands. "I'll go put that order in. The restroom is over there if you'd like to make use of it."

Loboto takes Sasha up on that, and Sasha approaches the counter to put in Loboto's order.

... And as long as he's waiting, he might as well get a few other errands taken care of.

When Sasha returns, Loboto is staring down at a colorful disc of charcuterie: cheese and crackers and fruits and berries and cured meats. It's a small to middling serving, but Sasha has always considered it the most respectable choice on offer for late night snacking.

Sasha reclaims his seat opposite Loboto.

"I can't eat all this," Loboto confesses.

"We can share it, if you like."

"Hmm," Loboto says thoughtfully. Then, "This isn't water."

"No," Sasha agrees. "It's soda." And he places a collapsible toothbrush and a travel-sized bottle of toothpaste on the table between them. "They had these in the vending machine."

Loboto's prosthetic eyes hone in on this offering with the mechanical immediacy of an automatic turret. "Oh thank God," he says in a rush, and he snatches them up and hastens back to the restroom.

Sasha smiles a satisfied little smile and helps himself to Loboto's cheese plate.

Chapter Text

Sasha can’t help himself.

As Loboto constructs an elaborate cheese-and-meat cracker sandwich with what remains of the cheese plate, Sasha watches with rapt attention, marveling at the dexterity Loboto manages with the ungainly-looking prosthesis. He is fascinated by the mystery of the mechanism: it moves with uncanny precision and delicacy, silent save for the soft slide of polished wood.

Then Loboto opens his mouth improbably wide and eats the whole thing, and the nuanced articulation of the man’s prosthesis suddenly seems like the least uncanny thing about him.

When Loboto finishes his food, Sasha clears his throat and queries, “Almost ready to head back?”

Loboto sighs dramatically, crushing his empty soda can with his metal claw in muted tantrum. “I guess so,” he grumbles. “I’m brushing my teeth again.”

“Take your time.” 

Though Loboto huffs as he stands to make use of the facilities, Sasha takes consolation in the fact that the man is not so tense and dejected as he was mere minutes ago.

Incremental progress is better than none, he reminds himself.

Loboto pouts until Sasha agrees to stop over by the fish tank.

He supposes he doesn’t mind terribly, but for the agents and other employees who linger when they see the superstar Agent Nein in their midsts. Their minds practically vibrate with curiosity. For the sake of his own sanity, Sasha imparts a strong psychic suggestion that they have somewhere more important to be.

Once they’ve cleared out, Sasha can properly appreciate the atmospheric benefits of the tank. He lights a cigarette to enhance its calming effect.

Sasha expects it to be difficult to tell when Loboto spaces out, but it’s actually quite simple: his face relaxes like anyone else’s might, and his mechanical eyes quietly whir, like a camera lens being gradually taken out of focus. His eyestalks sway like reeds in a breeze.

When a nearby fish swims away and Loboto doesn’t follow it with his eyes, Sasha takes the opportunity to disengage from the tank.

“Come along now, Caligosto.”

At Sasha’s gentle bidding, Loboto blinks slowly—which Sasha might not have otherwise noticed, but they’re standing so close that he can hear a sound reminiscent of a very tiny camera shutter.

“Okay.”

Loboto’s dreamy reply is accompanied by an unexpected gesture—he reaches out with his prosthesis and loosely grabs the elbow of Sasha’s lab coat, like a young child reaching clumsily for a parent’s hand at the supermarket.

Sasha is thrown just long enough for Loboto to sway on his feet, once. Then he composes himself with a quiet cough, and he guides Loboto back to his lab.

Sasha walks slowly for Loboto’s benefit, not quite willing to disrupt the man’s unusually cooperative state by hurrying down the corridor.

Loboto’s state is disrupted regardless when they arrive back in Sasha’s lab.

“Agent Nein,” says a young girl’s voice. “May I just say, it is an honor to be working with you?”

One of the interns sits on Sasha’s examination table. He quickly rifles through the filing cabinets of his puzzle box mind for her name.

“Miss Natividad,” he says politely, stepping further into the room. “My apologies, but I’m a bit busy at the moment...”

“Oh, of course! I'm just here to lend a hand with whatever needs doing. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your... associate?” Norma’s question trails off innocently enough, but her gaze falls to the place where Loboto’s hand clings to Sasha’s sleeve.

Sasha folds his arms, intending to convey he’ll brooke no untoward insinuations; though this has the inadvertent effect of dislodging Loboto’s hand anyway.

“Norma, this is Dr. Caligosto Loboto. Caligosto, this is...”

Loboto steps forward, suddenly alert, clasping his hands with a look of friendly delight. “Nora, was it?”

Norma’s smile twitches. “Norma.”

“Moira,” Loboto amends. “Pleased to meet you.”

In the hopes of stopping Norma from confronting the monumental task of getting Loboto to remember a name other than his own, Sasha interjects, “Dr. Loboto is considering joining us here at the Motherlobe in his capacity as a dentist.”

“That’s right!” Loboto agrees gamely. “Psychic powers won’t protect you from tooth decay, you know!”

Norma pales, as if learning Loboto’s profession has dried up her bottomless well of curiosity in an instant. “Ah. Well... Welcome to the Motherlobe...”

“Thank you, thank you!”

Sasha is grateful to Loboto for running interference, intentional or not. It gives him a moment to telepathically confer with Agents Vodello and Forsythe on the subject of the intern program.

“Now that I think of it, Norma, there was something I needed help with. Why don’t you go to lunch, and when you come back I’ll have organized my notes into something actionable.”

"Sure thing, Agent Nein!” Though she'd seemed perfectly content invading his lab in his absence, she seems eager now to escape the presence of a friendly dental healthcare professional: she hops from the examination table and beats a quick retreat, ensuring Sasha is between her and Loboto when she jogs around them.

The moment she's gone, Sasha makes a beeline for his terminal.

“Sasha?” Otto leans precariously backward in his chair and into the frame. “Have things grown urgent? I was going to head over soon—”

“Before you do,” Sasha interrupts, “I don’t suppose you have those old... agent orientation guidelines?”

Otto glances over Sasha’s shoulder. Loboto sits on the examination table, kicking his legs with the idle whimsy of a child.

“A bit premature to start hazing the man, don’t you think?” Otto asks with affected concern, his eyes creasing with amusement as he feigns ignorance.

“Otto, please.”

Otto chuckles and adjusts his glasses. “Just having a bit of fun, Sasha. I’m guessing you were finally assigned an intern?”

Sasha sighs. “How did you guess.” 

“I just sent Gisu off to vent the Psychoseismometers. You wouldn’t believe the negative psychic uproar caused by Truman’s absence, and now rumors of a mole? Tsk. It’s quite overdue, if you ask me.”

“Word travels fast,” Sasha remarks, resigned and unsurprised.

“In the nation’s hotbed of psychic gossipmongers? Yes, you could say that.”

“Regardless...”

“Right, right! Agent orientation guidelines...” Otto taps his chin, then drops his fist triumphantly in his palm. “Ah, yes! I have it on physical media. Wouldn’t want that coming out in a data leak...”

Sasha battles with another sigh. It’s no use asking Otto to send it over the network, then. “Would you be kind enough to bring it over?”

“With the rabies immune globulin?”

“... If you don’t mind.”

“No task too great for my former mentee!” Otto winks with avuncular cheer. “When do you need it by?”

“I told Norma to go to lunch, so...”

“Norma?” Otto looks thoughtful. “She’s a clever girl. If she could tell you were stalling, she’ll probably take her time.”

Sasha recalls the shrewd look Norma had given Loboto’s hand. “She probably knows.”

“Then we have a minute. I’ll bring everything over when I’ve wrapped up here.”

The call ends, and Sasha returns to Loboto’s side.

“So!” Loboto says, eagerer than Sasha expects. “What’s our next brainteaser, hmm?”

Sasha meditates on their recent successes and failures. “The Corpus Collacerator, I think.”

Loboto's unexpected eagerness vanishes with the arrival of an unpleasant sneer. “That sounds... violent.”

“It’s not.” Not unless Sasha takes the safety off. “Try not to worry over the dramatic naming conventions.”

“Alright,” Loboto says doubtfully, watching as Sasha approaches his standing device dispenser. “What does this one do?”

As Sasha cycles through the devices, he explains. “The corpus callosum connects the two hemispheres of the brain so they can communicate. I'll be using this device to temporarily interrupt that connection.”

"And that will accomplish... what, exactly?"

Sasha selects the Corpus Collacerator and stands beneath it so the dispenser can secure it to his head. He retrieves the Medulla Retooler from the nearby instrument tray and puts it in the slot which formerly housed the Collacerator.

"With any luck? Isolating the part of your brain which has compartmentalized the effects of the brainwashing."

"And with no luck at all?"

Sasha hums. "Hard to say... Everyone's brain is wired differently, after all. But you'll likely experience a little dizziness, disorientation—that sort of thing."

When he stands beside the examination table again, Loboto laughs.

"Is that a stand mixer on your head?"

Sasha smiles. "No, but it feels like one—so I'll keep this brief."

With that optimistic promise, Sasha gets to work.

Chapter Text

Something is wrong.

Loboto's initial response to the Corpus Collacerator is unremarkable—unusually so. He should be exhibiting some symptoms of impacted mental faculties: disorientation, forgetfulness, dizziness, numbness in the peripheral nervous system... But even as Sasha uses the device to erect soft psychic barriers in every conceivable configuration, Loboto gives no indication through questioning that his thinking is compromised at all—not in a way that wasn't already in evidence, that is.

Most of the devices Sasha uses were personally designed by Otto Mentallis. They may cut a few design corners or shirk abundantly cautious safety measures, but above all, they're reliable, and they're built to last, and when they fail they tend to do so in spectacularly obvious fashion. Yet the device gives every indication it's in good repair, despite having no effects. Normally when these things break there's absolutely no mistaking it: a telltale rattle, an electric whine, an explosion. The silence is more unnerving than any of these.

Sasha sets the device aside and makes a mental note to ask Otto to take a look at it when he drops by the lab with everything else.

It is as he's deciding which diagnostic tool to try next that Loboto rumbles with his first complaint.

"My head hurts..."

Sasha returns to his side. Loboto sits curled up on the table, head in hands.

"Where exactly does it hurt?"

Loboto whines wordlessly. With some gentle prompting, he eventually grits out, "Everywhere."

Sasha adjusts the floating monitor, frowning at its frenetic spaghetti dance. "Can you describe the pain?"

Loboto's breathing quickens, saliva gathering behind clenched teeth so his subsequent reply of, "Excruciating," comes out viciously sibilant.

Sasha was hoping for such illuminating adjectives as 'sharp' or 'throbbing', but this is equally elucidating, if for no other reason than Loboto's vehemence reveals his pain is quickly worsening. It gives him pause, and concern. "Caligosto, try to relax. And breathe deeply. All that tension is likely to worsen your pain."

With visible effort Loboto's shoulders slacken as he hisses like a deflating balloon. But no sooner is this modicum of progress made than the man starts to tremble. The claws of his prosthesis clatter, and the limb falls limply to his side. A feeble whimper wiggles free from behind chattering teeth.

"Caligosto?" Sasha says softly, leaning into the man's field of view. "Talk to me."

Sasha needs no telling that Loboto is distressed—but the wrenching sob still takes him sharply aback. Loboto's striking prostheses gave no indication he was on the verge of tears—and indeed none fall, as if his tear ducts were sealed by whatever providence brought Loboto his curious augmentations.

"Hurts," Loboto croaks, and Sasha's chest tightens, feeling inadequate in the face of a problem he can't solve.

He racks his brain. The Amygdapentin shouldn't have worn off yet, unless Loboto metabolized it unusually quickly... In retrospect, the man's frame should have made his fast metabolism obvious, but Loboto is hardly in a state to accept more medicine now. Morphine or sedation would be effective, if blunt—it would be better to correctly identify the problem and resolve its source before its painful symptoms. The monitor displays more colorful chaos than before, but it is ultimately only useful for mental impressions. It doesn't give Sasha enough detail to make an actionable prognosis without the equal likelihood of making things much worse.

Sasha can't remember the last time he felt so out of his depth.

In a desperate bid for better information, Sasha yanks his goggles down and grasps Loboto by the shoulders. He meets the dim light of those trembling eyestalks and reaches out with his telepathy, establishing the sort of raw psychic connection he would balk at in any other circumstance.

Their brief connection opens Sasha up to such breathless depths of pain that it overpowers him immediately, sending him sprawling to the floor with a gasp. He scrambles to his feet, bracing himself on the table where Loboto now lays curled up on his side, moaning with pitiably animal incoherence.

Pressure, Sasha thinks, staggering to his circular rack of psychoactive devices. He needs to relieve the build-up of pressure. He doesn't wait for the wheel's leisurely rotation to deliver the proper device to him, instead wrenching the Deep Lobe Trepanator from its casing, hastening back to Loboto and mounting it on his head.

He flips down the visor and hisses at the visual readout: Loboto's head is filled to bursting with psychic pressure.

The Deep Lobe Trepanator can create avenues for psychic energy to escape the brain. This is not especially useful for psychics, who tend to unconsciously vent extra psychic energy on their own (hence the stray thoughts often found floating in the Motherlobe's atrium, and the purpose the Psychoseismometers serve in collecting them); nor is it ordinarily useful for non-psychics, who tend to have no issue managing the low-level psychic energy ordinary thought produces.

But upon further consideration—Loboto's exposure to Psitanium at Camp Whispering Rock, Raz's psychic intrusion at the Rhombus of Ruin, and then the interrogation on the jet... All on top of whatever psychic interference had been laid down by Loboto's mysterious employer? It seems obvious now that it would all be too much for the man.

Sasha has spent so long immersed in psychic research that he seems to have forgotten that not every mind can tolerate such an onslaught. Emboldened to resolve the issue now he knows what's wrong, Sasha quickly uses the device to identify several key weak points in the skull through which to vent Loboto's excess psychic energy.

It's fortunate the current model of the Deep Lobe Trepanator can accomplish such feats non-invasively.

"Caligosto," Sasha says firmly, hoping his tone will convey his confidence and offer Loboto a small measure of comfort. "I'm going to move you now."

Loboto gives little resistance to being laid on his back. Sasha lays a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I need you to hold still. I'm going to count back from three—"

"N-No, please," Loboto stammers incoherently, trembling so hard he might be having a seizure, if his faculty for speech didn't preclude such a possibility.

Sasha bites his tongue. Perhaps a different approach.

"Alright," he soothes, rubbing Loboto's shoulder with a gloved thumb. "Alright. I won't do anything. This will pass on its own, after all."

"I-It will?"

"Yes," Sasha lies. "You just need to breathe. Breathe and relax. The pain will stop once you relax."

Loboto whimpers. "I can't."

"Just do your best. Any progress at all will help," Sasha says, honing in and locking on to the places where the natural psychic barrier around the brain is thinnest.

Loboto covers his face with splayed, tremoring fingers, as if he hopes to compose himself despite the pain. The introduction of the limb does not create a significant obstruction to Sasha's preparations.

"You're doing very well," Sasha soothes, and prepares to initialize the trepanning process. Loboto is very still. "That's it—"

Loboto's back arches from the table with a strangled cry—then he gasps, gulping and heaving for air like a man washed ashore. Sasha squeezes his shoulder in assurance, watching with private satisfaction as the psychic pressure vents without complication from Loboto's brain.

Sasha takes his own advice and breathes deeply. He feels scraped raw after establishing a direct telepathic connection with someone for the first time in years, and with such dramatic results: remnants of Loboto's pain bounce around inside his skull, lingering like an echo.

But they're out of the woods now.

He realizes he's still pressing Loboto to the table, and he slackens his grip, patting the man's shoulder awkwardly. "Caligosto? Are you alright?"

"Yes," Loboto says faintly. "Yes, I'm. Better. I think."

"That's good." Sasha sighs with unrestrained relief, straightening his spine and adjusting his coat. "Keep focusing on your breathing, and shout if anything hurts. I'll just be a moment."

Sasha returns the Deep Lobe Trepanator to the instrument tray beside his ill-used psychoactive device dispenser. The broken harness is a small price to pay for having narrowly avoided a gruesome disaster; it's been a while since the Motherlobe's last exploding head incident, and Sasha isn't proud of how close he just came to breaking the streak within the confines of his lab.

He replaces his goggles on his face before returning again to Loboto's side. He frowns with trepidation at Loboto's slack jaw, but the gentle rise and fall of his narrow chest precludes the possibility that he's suddenly expired on Sasha's table. Then he snores, and Sasha snorts with relief and disbelief.

If Loboto can easily sleep after something like that, then he's remarkably resilient.

Or maybe he's just tired. Sasha can relate; with his subject unconscious, he is suddenly quite alone in the spacious silence of the lab, his heartbeat pounding in his ears his only company. It renders him suddenly and acutely aware of his own fatigue.

Sasha sits on the floor with his back against the table, removing his goggles again to rub his eyes. He feels a minor tension headache of his own coming on, and unfortunately the Deep Lobe Trepanator cannot be used on oneself—none of these devices can, for thoroughly well-documented safety reasons.

For all his unorthodox methods, Otto seems to understand well the dangers of psychoactive self-modification without supervision.

Sasha summons the floating monitor, committing to memory the much calmer state of Loboto's mind it currently reflects. Then he dismisses the readout and tethers the monitor to the main computer system, and he makes a call.

Otto's expression is one of fond incredulity until he blinks, straightening in alarm and grabbing either side of the monitor housing the video call on his end.

"Sasha, are you alright? You look..."

Sasha belatedly realizes his goggles are hanging around his neck again. It's nothing Otto hasn't seen before, but he'll acknowledge it's rare. Maybe he has bags under his eyes. But he has no need to hide them during long-distance communications. There's certainly no risk this way of opening a telepathic connection.

"I'm fine," Sasha assures him with a staying hand. "My subject's mental state is simply proving to be a challenge, so I have a bit of a headache. If you could come assist me with the Deep Lobe Trepanator..."

Deeming the current stakes higher than Sasha's idle requests from earlier, Otto does not prevaricate or mention anything else he has going on before immediately agreeing. "Yes, of course. I'll be there right away. Anything else?"

Sasha thinks. "Just don't forget the rabies immune globulin," he says, amused despite himself at the reminder of Loboto's concerns over the squirrel. "And—"

"Yes, and the approved hazing rituals, you ridiculous man, I didn't forget. For heaven's sake. Anything else?"

Sasha shakes his head. "That's all."

Otto rolls his eyes, failing utterly to hide his concern as the connection goes dark.

Sasha lays his head back against the table with a sigh, settling in for the short wait while Otto comes to assist him. Perhaps a second pair of eyes will help him make sense of things.

Chapter Text

Otto is, to put it mildly, in hot fucking water.

He paces fretfully, his abstract art whimpering and snapping in sympathetic response to their creator's agitation. "Hush," he tells them, as much a command as it is a self-soothing gesture. He comes to stand before the Brainframe, finding a measure of calm in its orderly activity. Still, his worries are not so easily dismissed by its hypnotic flow.

Not today.

All this 'mole in the Psychonauts' business spells nothing but trouble for Agent Mentallis.

Hollis and the recently-returned agents were mum on why they suspected treachery from within the Motherlobe's own ranks. Even Oleander, who on a good day indecorously recounts war stories which implicate him in nothing more than an overactive imagination, is uncharacteristically silent as the grave. That alone would be enough to unnerve Otto—he once thought it would be a hot day in the ninth circle of hell when Oleander finally discovered discretion— yet after asking Otto about their ‘military options’, the man had simply retired to the bowling alley bar, where the Motherlobe’s surveillance system assures Otto he still remains.

Military options, Otto thinks with a weary shake of his head. The Delugionists are just what their name implies—delusional, if they think they can resurrect Maligula. He had once been hopeful that martyr status would not befall poor Lucy as a consequence of their confrontation, but he supposes that’s what infamy and renown on a global stage will do to a person’s memory.

His pacing brings him back to his desk, and he sinks into his chair so heavily it rolls backward with the weight of him.

“Oh, Lucy,” he moans, dropping his head dismally into a hand. “Is this my fault?”

Otto's abstract blob of mercury sadness sniffles disconsolately at his side, and he pats its head as if it were a whining dog.

Guilt has chased him doggedly ever since that day, calling into question every decision leading up to that decisive moment. Otto was the one who brought Lucy into the fold—and though he is not so uncharitably Puritan as to wonder if the seeds of evil had always laid dormant within his dear friend, hindsight makes it difficult not to view his own actions from a consequentialist’s lens.

But he had had good intentions, and Lucy had flourished in their company. She accepted the risks just as they all had, and it disserviced her agency to shoulder the blame for everything himself. Nor could he bring himself to blame her for any of it; she could no more resist the urge to aid her family by returning to the Grulovian regime she'd escaped than she could stop herself from being taken in by its propaganda.

Otto shudders on a sigh. The blob of sadness gloms to his palm in condolent affection.

What more could he have done? All his friends had tried to reason with Lucy while Otto prepared the Hyperhyglaciator. While he was operating the device, troubleshooting last-minute issues and ensuring it stayed on-target, had he missed an opportunity to interject, to say exactly the correct thing which would have restored Lucy to their side?

He still doesn't know. And now the Delugionists, whipped into a fanatical fervor over their larger-than-life idea of a long-dead tyrant, had kidnapped Truman as some kind of intimidation tactic? Truman wasn't the Grand Head for nothing, and as little as Otto thought of the Delugionists it was certainly an effective show of their capabilities. Not just anyone could kidnap the Grand Head of the Psychonauts. Granted, it would be easy for someone like Otto—in fact he has been known to 'kidnap' Truman on a fairly regular basis, dragging him out of his office for fresh air when the man got too engrossed in his work.

For a family friend, of course, it was laughably easy.

But just because a fellow Psychonaut would have the easiest time didn't necessarily mean a fellow Psychonaut was the culprit. Which suggests to Otto that those in the know must have some other reason for suspecting treachery from within.

A reason it would behoove Otto to discern sooner, rather than later.

Perhaps Sasha will be willing to divulge his theories to his former mentor? It is with this hopeful hypothesis in mind that Otto seats himself at his work desk and rings Sasha up in his lab.

"Sasha!" he says, allowing an appropriate amount of his concern and distress to come through in his tone. "What's all this about a kidnapping? And a mole in the Psychonauts?!"

Since Otto is endeavoring to act natural, he makes no effort to conceal just how intrigued he is by Truman's supposed kidnapper lying on Sasha's exam table. Through the grain of the video connection, he can't make out many details.

But the man's silhouette looks troublingly familiar—as does the clawed prosthesis he waves in blithe greeting from across the room.

If Sasha succeeds in cracking the man's brain open like an egg, oozing secrets across his table, will he discover something that implicates Otto? And if he does, will Sasha come to Otto with that information?

Or will he bring it first to their superiors?

As a consequence of these anxieties, Otto cannot help offering to take the man off Sasha's hands, though as a rule he abhors overreaching. Of course, Sasha declines, which Otto might have expected—but he also asks for Otto's assistance, which soothes some of Otto's anxieties. Surely Sasha would not want him involved, if he were under suspicion of any kind? Not for the first time, he commends himself for putting in the effort to mentor Sasha properly all those years ago.

The dividends of trust it's yielding now might just save his skin.

Due to the oversight which is Otto's privilege as the architect of most of the Motherlobe's internal systems, and the Otto-matics in particular, he takes notice when Sasha has his Amygdapentin dispensed. The dollar amount doesn't look quite right, though, and since such inconsistencies can be vital clues in identifying system errors early, Otto takes the liberty of a closer look—only to huff when he sees it's because Sasha charged the purchase of a PSI-POP to his account.

Agent Nein's dislike for sweets is the subject of much gossip and lament among the Motherlobe's more amorous residents—Otto certainly never managed to motivate Sasha during their mentorship with the temptation of imported chocolates—so this little splurge can only be for Sasha's patient.

Otto shakes his head fondly. "You're soft, Sasha."

For all that Truman's kidnapper could very well pose a threat to Otto—and that's something he intends to deal with sooner rather than later—he takes heart that his former mentee is so compassionate, despite his comparatively dis passionate demeanor.

Perhaps Sasha will even hear him out, if any of Otto's illicit dealings come to light during his interrogation of Truman's kidnapper.

Amid his stress and uncertainty, dealing with Gisu, wrapping up various projects and tasks in his lab, and general time blindness, Sasha calls him a second time before Otto gets around to leaving.

It's not like Sasha to pass up an opportunity to mentor a promising intern and give them busywork instead—but of course, the scale of the Motherlobe's current crisis makes Sasha's reasoning self-evident. Otto is not directly involved in the investigation, so he unfortunately cannot use the same excuse to pass the buck on his own mentorship responsibilities.

Venting the Psychoseismometers is arguably a deferral of a different kind, but at least it is a gainful one. The 'agent orientation guidelines', and their farcical scavenger hunt list, was something the Psychonauts of old had put together for a lark. It was a different time.

Otto wonders if he should take Sasha's willingness to use them as indication of a similar willingness to bend the rules, or a kind of toothless disdain for Norma in particular.

Regardless, he prepares them as asked, simply grateful that he can earn more goodwill from Agent Nein in exchange for these small favors.

Otto really was on his way out the door when Sasha called him for the third time—but given the state of the man when the call goes through, Otto elects to take this as evidence of Sasha's scatter-brained state, rather than a failure on his own part to be timely. He can't remember the last time Sasha called him this many times in one evening to ask for help. His latest project is clearly pushing his abilities to the brink.

Exhibit A: Sasha never goes without eye protection—for fear, he once confided in Otto, of telepathic ‘accidents’. Otto can't remember the last time he saw Sasha's eyes, but now they bear all the signs of Exhibit B: acute fatigue. He grabs the monitor and peers at it closely, as if he could turn Sasha’s face toward the light and inspect his eyes for other concerning signs. "Sasha, are you alright? You look..."

He doesn't even know how to finish that sentence, but Sasha assures him he's fine. As if, Otto inwardly scorns. Sasha may not have learned deflection from Otto, but he perfected it by imitating him, and Otto recognizes his own tells in Sasha now.

Foolish boy.

As soon as the call ends, Otto gathers the last of what he needs before departing for Sasha’s lab.

Rabies immune globulin. Hazing rituals. He casts about for anything else that might assist the man, his mind lingering worrisomely on Sasha's haggard appearance—and his eyes land on the latest model of the Otto-Shot, sitting pretty in one of the display shelves near his work desk.

Yes, he thinks, plucking it from its shelf with telekinesis, aided as always by his trusty eye pendant. That will do nicely.

Chapter Text

Sasha returns to his senses when he hears the brisk report of footsteps on the polished floors. He jolts when the grate below him does, as the footsteps clatter to a halt directly in front of him where he sits with his back against the examination table. He opens his eyes—only to snap them shut again when he realizes he isn't wearing eye protection.

"Otto," he stammers, because in that brief glimpse he'd recognized the man's patent leather shoes and distinctive winter coat. "Wait—"

Shifting air currents bring a faint impression of warmth to Sasha's bare face in the cool lab, along with the scent of Otto's particular brand of science—amniotic fluid and electrics. Sasha screws his eyes shut tighter on reflex, turning his head away.

Otto tuts with tender reproach. "Open your eyes, Sasha."

Unthinking, Sasha complies—a Pavlovian response to a tone Agent Mentallis hasn't taken with him in years—and his trust is repaid. He needn't have worried: Otto is wearing opaque goggles of his own, and as he takes Sasha's chin to turn his face toward the light, Sasha submits to the inspection with the knowledge that he is in good hands.

"How bad is it," Sasha sighs, no longer fumbling for the goggles around his neck and instead patting himself down in search of a cigarette. He could certainly use one.

Otto hums as he manipulates the skin above and below Sasha's eyes, the better to expose them to the light. He pulls out a penlight and shines it in each eye. Sasha winces, but bears with it.

"Pupil dilation normal," Otto reports him as he stows the penlight. Seeing the world without barriers feels novel when Sasha so rarely goes without. He finds himself searching Otto's expression on instinct, despite those opaque lenses giving him little to work with beyond the faint furrow of his mentor's brow. "But your eyes are bloodshot. Sasha, when did you last sleep?"

Sasha puts a cigarette between his lips and grumbles wearily at the reminder. He snaps at the end of his cigarette on reflex—but a pang of pressure in his skull reminds him he probably ought to avoid overtaxing his psychic faculties so soon.

Otto's mouth twists with disapproval for what is an old and unresolved argument, but he takes the liberty of lighting the cigarette for Sasha with a lighter, rather than commenting on the habit. The fact that he brought one at all speaks volumes of the trust and familiarity they've built in the years they've known each other, and puts Sasha all the further at ease.

Sasha inhales gratefully and blows the smoke aside, considering the question. "The Rhombus of Ruin, perhaps." It had been more unconsciousness than sleep, and hardly restful besides—but it was ironically the truth, though it sounds like a wry non-answer. No wonder he looks a mess, and feels like one too.

Otto pulls away, and Sasha sets his cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he replaces his goggles, wrinkling his nose as smoke drifts into his face. It's a frustrating inconvenience, not being able to levitate the damn thing, but he's hopeful he won't have to deal with it much longer.

When Sasha lifts his gaze to Otto, the other man has replaced his goggles with his usual square glasses—and he looks as if he's seen a ghost.

"... Is that your idea of a joke, old boy?" Otto asks faintly, his smile strained.

Sasha frowns and reclaims his cigarette from his mouth to accentuate an incredulous gesture. "Agent Mentallis, don't tell me you're superstitious—"

But through the haze of a burgeoning headache, Sasha's mind grinds to an abrupt and sudden halt. As a veteran of the Psychonauts—a founding member, Sasha reminds himself, as if he hadn't etched the totem poles at Camp Whispering Rock into his mind ages ago—Agent Mentallis would doubtless be aware of many of the organization's closely-guarded secrets, if not all of them.

Including the location of highly-classified black sites, like the Rhombus of Ruin.

Sasha groans and drops his face into his hand. "... Please don't tell Agent Forsythe I mentioned that."

Otto's brow furrows as he runs a hand through his wild hair, looking conflicted. "... You're out of sorts, Sasha," he eventually says, graciously shifting the subject away from Sasha's loose lips—for now. "Let's get you sorted with the Deep Lobe Trepanator, first. Shall we?"

Sasha reclines in his office chair, feeling much improved with the release of pressure.

"Thank you, Otto," he sighs. His head rests heavy on his shoulders—like the past few days without rest are finally catching up to him.

"Don't mention it," Otto says, removing the Trepanator from his head and setting it to one side on Sasha's desk. "I'm glad I came when I did. Your brain looked like it was about to burst... Just what kind of experiment were you working on, to put yourself in such a state?"

Sasha rubs his temples. "I'll tell you everything," he promises. "But I... need a moment."

Otto softens. "Of course, Sasha. I'll just administer that rabies shot to your... patient, shall I?"

"... I don't want to trouble you," Sasha says. Loboto is his responsibility. He should be the one to handle the particulars. 

Otto smiles gently. "It's no trouble at all, my dear boy." He squeezes Sasha's shoulder. "Take a rest for now."

"Well, alright... Oh, and do you have those—ahem—agent orientation guidelines?"

Otto winks. "I took the liberty of handing the scavenger hunt list over to Norma on my way in... I suspect that'll keep her out of your hair for a while."

Sasha sags with relief. "Thank you," he says. As ever when he concedes to have his mentor and veteran Psychonaut step in to lighten the load, Sasha feels subsumed with the assuring feeling that his affairs are in good hands. "Perhaps I'll just... rest my eyes, for a moment."

Otto squeezes his shoulder again before dropping his arm. "There's a good man." He turns with a swish of his coat, waving a hand over his shoulder and reaching into his lab coat pocket. "I'll look forward to your debrief of the situation when your eyes are done resting."

"Yes," Sasha murmurs, slouching in his seat and letting his neck rest upon the curve of the chair back. "The wound site should be... on his hand..." He trails off as blessed oblivion envelops his mind in a blanket of weariness. He is asleep before his eyes fall shut.

Otto calls over his shoulder, "Sasha, which hand did you say it was?"

When he receives no response, he nearly raises his voice to call out to the man again—but as his steps slow and he comes to stand beside the exam table, he realizes his question was uninformed, and more to the point, unnecessary.

Sasha's patient only has the one hand to begin with.

Otto's brow furrows, and he pockets the sealed syringe of immune globulin again to instead perform a closer inspection of Loboto's prosthetic arm. He removes the righthand wrist restraint to lift the dull, wooden prosthesis gently toward the light.

"Now, how did you come by this?" he mutters, forgetting himself for a moment in the face of a detail so unutterably peculiar. "I know I didn't make it for you..."

Otto examines the three claws at the business end of the prosthesis, and experiences a sense of nostalgia so distant he can nearly smell the dust of old ideas. He squints, adjusting his glasses, and—ah, yes. The pepper grinder attachment.

Otto can't possibly recount every prosthesis he's made, but this one had been such a novel and strange commission that he still remembers being delighted by the sheer whimsy of it.

"Ah, that old line cook!" Otto recalls with quiet triumph. "I wonder whatever became of him... Well, probably nothing good," he muses with a rueful smile, throwing a wry glance toward the face of Sasha's snoring patient. "... Seeing as you're wearing his arm."

With a glance over his shoulder at Sasha's office, Otto feels around the forearm of the prosthesis for the catch that will reveal its hidden compartment. He almost doesn't notice when he does find it, because the compartment is stuck shut. The power supply must not have been replaced in ages.

He eventually pries it open with his nails, and pulls free the small Psitanium arrowhead that powers the mechanism. He holds the faceted purple relic up to the light—but its former glow is gone, dull and unremarkable. He detects no telltale gleam of psychic power within.

It's completely depleted.

"I apologize for the inconvenience this will undoubtedly cause, but I'm afraid I can't afford to have anyone discovering this," Otto says quietly as he pockets the arrowhead. "Which is a shame, really—the irony of a Delugionist wearing a prosthetic limb fashioned by a founding member of the Psychonauts is terribly rich..."

Otto closes up the empty power housing of Loboto's prosthetic arm, and resecures it in the table's wrist restraint.

"Now, with that pressing business concluded..." Otto walks around the foot of the table, producing from his pocket the rabies immune globulin he had come over here to administer in the first place. "Let's get you taken care of, hm?"

Speaking to an unconscious patient perhaps makes one look mad, but it helps keep a practitioner's thoughts organized. And the subconscious mind is a curious thing. Studies consistently show that the human brain is always taking in information, even as the mind rests in an unconscious state. Even the Brainframe seems to benefit from being spoken to.

So, there's hardly any harm in upholding his usual standard of bedside manner.

The biggest barrier to administering Loboto's shot is evidently a comically long green biohazard glove. Otto snorts.

"Dr. Loboto, was it?" Otto had known Norma would prove a nuisance to Sasha—just as he'd known he could solicit her for information about Sasha's 'guest' in exchange for a PSI-POP. "A dentist, indeed... More like an old-fashioned barber-surgeon! One might think you're expecting to be elbow deep in brain matter with gloves like these." He releases the second wrist restraint and lifts Loboto's sleeve to unroll and remove the glove, revealing a pale blue arm and knobbly knuckles.

Careful examination of the man's hand reveals a faint impression of what is most probably squirrel teeth. Otto tuts.

"I don't think these even broke the skin... But better safe than sorry, don't you think?"

Otto steps away to hunt down Sasha's supply of sterile gloves and borrow a pair. Then he returns to the exam table and unpackages and prepares the syringe. He holds Loboto's hand very still as he dispenses a few drops of immune globulin from the end of the needle onto the wound site, careful not to make contact and thereby contaminate the needle.

"You know, back in my day, rabies shots were administered through the stomach?" Otto says idly. "And you needed no less than three shots after just one exposure! Ah, the marvels of modern medicine..."

Though the marvels of modern medicine don't help him much where Loboto's slight frame is concerned. The rest of the shot is meant to be injected into the nearest suitable muscle—but a pessimistic pinch of Loboto's upper arm reveals he has precious little to spare.

"I've mentored children with more arm muscle than you, doctor," Otto murmurs. But as modest as it is, it will suffice. The bicep would be better, since it's closer to the wound site—but there's even less muscle there.

Otto telekinetically reels in Sasha's abandoned chair for additional stability and seats himself at Loboto's elbow. He natters on about nothing in particular as he sanitizes the wound site, pinches the surrounding skin gently to gather the muscle in one place, and injects the full dose of rabies immune globulin. He disposes of the syringe in Sasha's sharps container and covers the injection site and the wound site with colorful band-aids, before removing and disposing of his gloves.

"... And, there. All done." Otto dusts his hands of the glove's inner powdery coating.

His business done, he really had nothing left to do until Sasha could wake and give him a debrief on the situation.

But that only made the temptation to investigate on his own all the more difficult to resist.

He was keeping it together on the surface, but inwardly, he was on the verge of panic.

A mole in the Psychonauts... Otto bites his thumb nervously. While he's had plenty of unsanctioned side projects over the years—just to make ends meet, you understand—he hopes whatever outside dealings he's had haven't implicated him in the kidnapping of Truman Zanotto. It had to be someone else! 

The fact that Dr. Loboto possessed a prosthesis Otto once made under one of his many pseudonyms was an unnerving coincidence... But surely it was just that? A coincidence?

Otto paces in silent thought, holding his thumb trapped between his teeth so he doesn't implicate himself by venting any more damning thoughts. He braces his other hand on the Otto-Shot hanging around his neck. He traces its grooves and edges absently, as if it can serve as a thinking stone to ward off troubling thoughts.

Sasha startles awake and wipes his hands down his face, standing at once and striding out to the main lab area as he hastens to make himself presentable.

"Otto, I'm so sorry to make you wait—"

Otto pivots on his heel to face him, clasping his hands graciously. "Sasha, my dear boy! How're you feeling?" He winks. "Eyes all rested up?"

Sasha feels rare heat rise in his cheeks. He hasn't fallen asleep at his desk in ages. It's almost like he never left the mentorship program. "Yes," he says, adjusting his goggles awkwardly. He clears his throat. "Thanks to you."

Otto straightens and lets his shoulders roll into a lax gesture of hospitality, like he's welcoming Sasha to his own lab—or back to the world of the living. "It's no trouble at all, Sasha, really. You have plenty of good people here at the Motherlobe willing to support you. Why not lean on us a little?"

Sasha sighs. "I'm afraid that will be even more difficult than usual," he admits, "considering we have reason to believe there's a mole in the Psychonauts..." He offers Otto a grateful smile. "But I'm glad to have your support, Otto. I doubt you of all people would be colluding with the Delugionists."

"Too right," Otto agrees. "Though, I have to ask... What makes you so sure there's a mole?"

Sasha hesitates. "Computer, lock the door." At the resounding click, he continues quietly, "We received a distress signal via a secure communications line that Truman Zanotto had been kidnapped, which we answered. On the way from Camp Whispering Rock to the Motherlobe, we hailed the command center, and they declined to provide us with any intel... But when we finally arrived here, Agent Forsythe said she never received any communications from the jet."

Otto's brow furrows. "... Curious."

"Our communications must have been intercepted," Sasha concludes. "And—I really shouldn't disclose this," he adds, "but maybe you would have some insight, as the only founder of the Psychonauts who hasn't gone incommunicado..."

"Sasha," Otto says, looking uncharacteristically serious. "You can trust me. I won't tell anyone I heard it from you."

Sasha relaxes marginally. "Thank you. Then..." He steps away from the exam table and beckons Otto to follow. When he obliges, Sasha cups a hand over his mouth and whispers, "When we tracked down Truman Zanotto's psychic signature, we discovered he had been detained in an abandoned Psychonauts black site, at the very center of the Rhombus of Ruin."

Otto rears back with a sharp grimace. "That old place?" he hisses softly, glancing sidelong at the sleeping Loboto. "... But it's been abandoned for years! More to the point, how did Delugionists get the access codes?!"

"Dr. Loboto is not a particularly stable character," Sasha continues. "There's no way he could have done it alone."

"I see," Otto says softly, perching his chin in one hand as he taps the camera slung around his neck. "And, how did you determine Delugionists were involved, by the way...?"

Sasha shrugs, remembering his acute sense of defeat when they had failed to discover the identity of Loboto's employer during their impromptu foray into the man's fractured mind. "We created a mental construct to try to extract the information... But his mental defenses are quite formidable. Which is strange, to say the least, for a non-psychic."

"But that's not completely beyond the pale," Otto volunteers. "Delugionists are staunchly anti- psychic, after all... And among that demographic, plenty of those ungifted in the psychic arts have developed methods to protect their minds from psychic intruders."

"That's an angle I hadn't considered," Sasha says, his voice swelling with soft epiphany. "That his mental defenses might not have been placed there by a psychic, is..."

Otto shrugs in commiserative sympathy. "We psychics often fall into the trap of thinking that any psychological phenomenon can be traced to, or solved by, psychic intervention... But mankind has cultivated its mental fortitude for millenia with techniques like meditation, intellectual rigor, and philosophical discourse." He shakes his head and lifts a hand, tilting it from side to side to imitate a wobbling scale. "Power scaling is not so simple as measuring raw psychic output—not when intellect and emotion play just as much of a crucial role in determining the shape of our psychic inner world!"

"... This has been quite illuminating," Sasha says, perching his chin in his hand as well. "As always, your insight is invaluable."

Otto makes a gracious gesture toward Sasha, as if he couldn't have done it without him. "Insight I could only offer because you entrusted me with your thoughts, my boy!"

Sasha smiles. "There are few others I trust as I do you, Otto."

"Oh, stop," Otto demures, playing at bashfulness though his chest puffs up with pride. "... But, seeing as you hadn't considered that possibility before... Am I right to think there was another reason you suspected Delugionist activity?"

"Oh! Yes," says Sasha. "Only Razputin—a particularly precocious camper we had this summer—was able to make enough headway in Loboto's mind and discover anything about his employer. Possibly because Raz was able to build an emotional connection with him, during their encounter in the Rhombus... Anyway, Raz saw something like a memory—or a construct—of Loboto's employer, securing his silence by threatening him with a rather detailed vision of Maligula."

Otto listens patiently to Sasha's account, nodding along as he follows. But this last pronouncement makes the blood quickly drain from his face.

"And this... Razputin," Otto says faintly. "Did he... seem to know anything, about...?"

"Maligula? Or the Delugionists?" Sasha shakes his head. "He said she looked familiar, but it seems he simply read about her in Psychic Tales—"

"—Issue 43," they say at the same time.

"Yes," Sasha says, "he actually had the issue on-hand. Ah—I don't suspect anything untoward by that detail, though. He's just a bit of a... Psychonaut fanatic."

Otto sighs. "It never sat right with me that they turned that tragic tale into fodder for pulp fiction... But I suppose we must keep the lights on somehow." He casts his eyes aside and upward, gazing dismally at the flickering fluorescents.

"Indeed," Sasha says, watching his mentor's expression shift between shades of troubled grief.

"... Well!" Otto concludes, once he's mastered his expression. "That is certainly troubling. And so you aim to circumvent Loboto's mental defenses, thereby determining the identity of his mysterious employer—possibly even the mastermind behind Truman's kidnapping... Yes?"

"Yes," Sasha sighs. "But I can't say I've made much headway."

Otto taps his chin. "An egg too tough to crack?"

"More like an egg too scrambled to make heads or tails of." Sasha folds his arms. "His mind is an utter mess... I've tried a few things, but with every attempt I feel I've come no closer to the truth. It's like every time, I just end up back at square one."

"Perhaps the problem is merely one of diagnostics," Otto reasonably suggests. "You mentioned you hadn't considered the possibility of non-intrusive mental conditioning before I mentioned it?"

Sasha nods. "That's right."

"Well! For all your diagnostic needs, look no further than my latest invention!" Otto holds up the camera hanging around his neck. "The Otto-Shot camera can turn anything you see into photographic memories —with six different filters for all your psychic imaging needs!"

Sasha blinks, impressed. "Are you saying that device can take X-rays, or MRIs, instantaneously?"

"Well," Otto hedges, "I wouldn't call it instantaneous... With so many features, it was difficult to find room for photo paper and instant developer... But! I can head back to my lab and develop them right away! At no extra charge," he adds with a playful wink.

"Otto, that would be an immense help," Sasha enthuses. "If I could see what his brain looks like, or even just a visual psychic impression while it's at rest..."

"Leave it to me," Otto assures him, fiddling with the camera to ensure the film reel has been fully wound. "While I'm getting set up, would you mind removing that shower cap? It's unlikely to interfere with the photo, of course. But since I don't know what material it's made of..."

"Of course."

Sasha returns to the exam table and cradles the base of Loboto's skull in one hand to lift the shower cap away.

"Ah... Otto..."

"Hmm?" Otto hums, peering experimentally through the viewport of the camera.

"Would you... come take a look at this?"

Otto lets the camera hang around his neck as he comes to answer Sasha's summons at the head of the exam table. "What seems to be the...?"

Otto goes stock still when he sees Dr. Loboto's exposed cranium.

Pale scars ravage the skin with all the vibrant violence of a volcanic topography map. Tufts of thin, dark hair sprout like enterprising trees trying to flourish from foundations of scorched earth. Poorly, Otto would deign to add.

"... Did I do that?" Sasha asks in a horrified hush.

Otto lifts his gaze. "No," he says sharply. He reaches out to touch the skin, and confirms by touch what he suspected at first glance. "No," he says, softer this time, "this is an old injury."

Loboto's scars are unnervingly reminiscent of old photographs Otto has seen in his research: just one of the many horrors faced by patients in mental asylums. He knows the undesirables of society were driven off the streets, apprehended from freakshows and carnivals at the beginning of the last century, because they were deemed unsightly to the general public. The very name, 'asylum', is itself a grim irony, one that has always left a sour taste in his mouth. A word meaning 'shelter' or 'refuge', when they were anything but. Mental asylums, at their inception and for most of their history, have been little more than mills for callous scientific advancement—and the grist its unfortunate patients.

Otto is well aware that the work he and his comrades undertook in the name of psychic advocacy encompassed an even larger scope of human rights than any of their respective fields. Their work espoused the inherent dignity of all human life, no matter how disposable they were deemed by society at large.

The scar tissue is thin and tender. As Otto traces the lines—feels the faint impression of healed bone beneath—Loboto flinches in his sleep, and Otto swiftly pulls away.

"... What sort of medical intervention would necessitate such drastic treatment?" Sasha quietly wonders. He pats himself down for his cigarettes, and lights one with a grip steadied by sheer force of will. 

Otto shakes his head drearily. "I doubt necessity ever came into it, my boy."

Sasha takes a drag and blows the smoke back toward the ceiling vents. Otto doesn't have the heart to give him any judgmental looks at the moment.

Though Dr. Loboto may be as old as Otto, and suffered these injuries long before the Psychic Seven grew prominent enough to decry the mistreatment of psychics in mental asylums, the sight of such a distinctive injury still strikes him as a kind of failure. 

It is terribly difficult, Otto thinks, to save everyone.

Failing that, he had at least hoped to prevent the next generation of psychics from having to see the ghoulish consequences of that systemic violence, through his efforts to reshape the world with his old friends.

He wearily sighs. "... Well. I suppose that may go a ways toward explaining the 'scrambled' state of your patient's brain, eh...?"

"Indeed," Sasha soberly agrees. Then, "By way of a rather gruesome spatula, at that."

Otto snorts unflatteringly, throwing a look of helpless castigation toward his mentee. "Stop," he chides with an unwilling smile.

"What can we do but laugh at such grim circumstances?" Sasha asks piteously. "Otherwise, despair will consume us... I suspect Dr. Loboto would feel the same."

Considering Loboto's eccentric get-up, and Sasha's prior experience in dealing with the man, Otto is inclined to optimistically trust his judgment on the matter. "Indeed? That's a relief," Otto offers. "Perhaps when he wakes up you can repeat that joke about the spatula to lift his spirits."

Sasha exhales sharply in subdued laughter.

"Now," Otto says, lifting the Otto-Shot now that he's remembered why they're here in the first place. "Let me take these pictures, and I'll get out of your hair."