Labels are hard. Once there are enough similarities for them to be assigned to you, it's usually too late. I didn't need a PR consult to know the Nursery had an optics issue. It was on my list of problems to fix—issue was, the list was itemized by importance, hence 'optics' on a part of my life no one out of the loop knew about was pretty far down the list.

And now it was too late.

Miles followed me up the walkway at a healthy distance, giving the perfectly manicured lawn a dubious look as he took care to keep off it. "This where you keep your landscapers?"

I walked backwards for a moment, about to make an off-handed comment, before actually taking it in. The grass really was pristine. It almost had to be system related. "Just taking a guess, but it's probably someone's pet project."

Miles' brows dove downward on a collision course. "Still not picking up on what you're putting down."

There was no point in delaying any further. "As you've probably put together, subjugation is my bugbear ability. Taken on its own, from a purely rational standpoint, it's insanely powerful. But..."

"The capacity for abuse is off the chain," Miles filled in. "And from what I gathered, it can potentially make anyone you happen to use it on a loose end, if they don't like what you forced them to do."

"That was my interpretation as well. Of course, as we both know, the system loves to leave things out." I fished the key for the deadbolt out of my inventory and paused at the door. "Good news is, the loose end thing isn't a problem. If I order someone to do something they abjectly hate, they don't do much other than go far out of their way to avoid me. From testing, it's more reflexive than intentional." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

"Great," Miles said, in the sort of tone that implied he couldn't give less of a shit. "And the bad news?"

"There are side effects."

I opened the door and stepped inside, before Miles could ask more questions. He caught it and slipped in behind me, squinting at the sudden bath of yellow light. The ample baseline of a gentle lo-fi track reached us first, synthesized mids cranking out a simple melody in a major key.

There were fewer people awake than there would have been in the middle of the day, but the recreation area was still crowded. Several figures dressed in sweatsuits sat in a circle in the center, the backs of their easels facing each other. Beyond them, through the large bay window that framed the back yard, several nursery initiates tended a Zen garden with a variety of tools, working beneath the illumination of several grated lights scattered around the yard. They waved at us as we passed, but that was as far as the acknowledgement went.

"What the fuck," Miles said, slowly turning in a circle to take the place in. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. His eyes darted about, resting on two women crocheting in rocking chairs, then back to the easels and the Zen garden beyond them. "What the fuck."

"You haven't even seen the music room." I gestured for him to follow, and when he did, led him into a wide room at the east end of the house. Whoever used it last did a helluva job cleaning up. Several guitars, acoustic and electric, decorated the walls. A baby-grand sat in the center, its top popped up.

Seeing Miles at the end of his mental rope lent a degree of schadenfreude. But judging from the way he was acting, he was starting to get pissed off. A second later, when I gestured for him to follow me to the kitchen, Miles didn't respond. Just stared at me blankly. "What the fuck is this place, Matt?"

I shrugged. "Solace. The Nursery."

"Solace," Miles repeated slowly.

"There's a bit more happening under the hood, but from what I can tell, subjugation is primarily pavlovian," I explained, closing the music room's door. "Positive actions—actions in line with the order given—reward positive stimulus."

"Monkey shoves square block into square hole, monkey gets treat. Dopamine," Miles filled in the blanks. "How does that have anything to do with this kumbaya shit?"

"I'm getting there." I chewed my lip. "The positive effect doesn't fully fade. They remember it and cherish the memory. Report a... sense of purpose, stronger than anything they've ever felt before. It gives them clarity and silences their mental noise, whatever that might be. There's a semi-permanent effect that remains. A calmness that lends itself to clearer thought."

I didn't think it was possible, but Miles somehow managed to look even less pleased. "And what happens when it wears off?"

"Nothing directly," I skirted around it, best I could. "There's nothing stopping them from returning to their lives, and living those lives however they please. But most choose to seek me out. In part because they're somehow physically drawn to me, and because it's difficult to simply move on from what they've experienced. Which led me to an impasse. I couldn't ignore them. They don't mean any harm, but the constant tracking and attempts to get my attention were going to be a problem, eventually. So yes, I considered the obvious. Of course I did. And after deciding that the obvious was too horrible, and I didn't want to go that route... this was the alternative."

"You still haven't explained to me what is happening here," Miles repeated. He was less animated somehow, as if the sudden left turn was actually throwing him off.

Right on cue, barely audible through the soundproofing, was a distant muffled chime. "Even better. I can show you."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

/////

The packed up easels sat in the corner of the large living room, now cramped by a circle of chairs that sat a dozen people. Other than Miles and myself, everyone present was wearing the same gray loose-fitting sweatsuit, in varying poses of focus and thoughtfulness. A woman named Stephanie, not much older than Sae, sat on one leg, the other kicking idly as she listened to the speaker's story. She was a LRE insider, one I'd caught planting C-4 charges around one of the entrances to Kinsley's sanctuary.

Kinsley wasn't actually there—the sanctuary was a void, a pocket dimension—but still, I'd figured the attempt warranted additional attention.

Miles seemed more lost than ever, the deep pools beneath his eyes growing darker the longer he waited for the promised explanation.

At that moment, the speaker was an over-muscled User who went by Curtis. As he spoke, the wooden chair occasionally creaking ominously from the weight, I spotted several eye-rolls and a few quiet sighs. Warranted, as Curtis had shared some variation of the same story over several occasions, but to my benefit, at least, he was predictable. "The counting doesn't help. It never helps. The same shit keeps rattling around in my head, and I feel it, right here." He smacked his palm to his forehead and left it there, mouth tight, eyes distant, hand pressing hard enough it left an imprint when it dropped to his side.

"Someone want to take that?" I prompted.

Stephanie leaned back in her chair. "Rule Five. What we feel is secondary to what we do. Thoughts that become actions, depending on outcome, are worthy of guilt. Impulses on their own are blameless."

"Exactly," I nodded approvingly, and returned my attention to Curtis. "We cannot police where our minds wander. You told me once that you wanted to change. Here in group, you're describing a situation that, before you joined the nursery, you might have been tempted to escalate. From the sound of it, you didn't. Where's the disconnect?"

Curtis shook his head in frustration. "It isn't as straightforward as you're makin' it sound. I thought about getting out, breaking his window, draggin' him outta the car and letting him know. Visualized it. Had a hand on the door handle. Felt myself leaning that way. Like it was an incline."

"And what happened from there?" I prompted.

"Started... thinking about how the whole point of what we're doing here is to better ourselves. How I'd have to come here and talk about it, if I went through with it. And even despite all that I still wanted to. So I counted. Got to twenty before the light turned green. He turns right—cause he's the kind of twit who somehow missed the memo that you can turn right on red—ends up heading a whole different direction than the way I'm goin'." Curtis' mouth firmed in disappointment. "Think that's why I can't be proud of it. The only reason I didn't put my fist through that man's face? Is because I waited too long, and running him down was too much of an inconvenience."

"Well, I can understand why you feel like an asshole," I agreed. Curtis winced as I continued. "Do you know why you're counting? What it accomplishes?"

"Uh," Curtis looked up. "It gives my mind something else to focus on."

"Exactly," I panned the room, and a plethora of attentive faces stared back. "And maybe this is obvious, but that's the entire point. Of counting. Pressing pause on an inherently harmful impulse. Cycling your breathing. Giving yourself a chance to turn your focus inward, rather than outward. It feels like a failure because you followed the directions and didn't achieve what you wanted. You were still angry. But look at the result. The counting gave Joe-Schmo time to get distance. By simply stalling your initial impulse long enough to think of all the reasons doing what you were about to do was an inconvenient, terrible idea. And as you continue to count, and be mindful, your mind will make those same connections faster."

Curtis' smile was brief but precious, a quiet sort of relief that went beyond words.

Several seats down from him, Miles, who'd been uncharacteristically silent to this point, jerked his head towards the glass door. I rested my hands on my knees and scanned the group, mustering an expression I hoped imparted calm, and followed Miles outside. By the time the door closed, he'd chain-smoked his first cigarette down to the filter, dropped the butt among the white rocks of the Zen garden, and withdrawn another.

"What's—"

He snapped, demeanor flashing with fury as he spoke. "It's not cute. What you're doing here. Playing pretend. Acting all insightful and enlightened, like everything you're doing is for their own good. Like the group therapy is a public fucking service. Do you actually think you're the first fucking person to try this shit? Because hoo-boy—"

"Lower your voice," I warned him, trying to stay neutral. This was going more poorly than I'd hoped.

Miles turned his head to the side in exasperation. "Half the fucks in there are from the order for crying out loud. There's a cop, some asshole from the lodge, a couple LRE, and I'm guessing, at least one person from every shifty guild in the dome. And you've got them wrapped around your finger, drinking the kool-aid and talking about their feelings."

"A little hypocritical."

Miles' jaw worked. "Which part?"

"The part where you're pretending to give a shit about them," I said bluntly. "There's a few unfortunate misfires but most of these people have the sort of history you'd throw your weight around to try and get them the needle for. I ask nothing of them."

"'Cause you don't have to," Miles rounded on me, furious. "Because you stroked their neurons the right way and now they'll jump all over themselves for your approval. Because you put them all in matching outfits and stripped away their individuality. Because you made them feel like they're all a part of something bigger than themselves. Because this isn't therapy, this is a fucking cult."

There it was. The label.

I'd been expecting him to get there. Still. Hearing it aloud pissed me off.

"I'm the fucking counterweight, Miles," I pounded a fist against my chest. "I didn't ask for it, but the gods, or aliens, or whatever the fuck are dead set on turning us against each other, and it doesn't take much. The last transposition event almost ended in open war. So yes. Having lines of information lets me stay ahead of the game and act as a watchdog. You of all people wanna fleece me for having informants?"

"It's not the same. Not even close to the same," Miles glanced back inside, then lit a third cigarette. "If you'd managed to bag a few VIPs in the mix, I might feel different. Looking in there now? All I see is ground floor. No leadership."

It was blatant fishing. He was downplaying everything, trying to strong-arm me into revealing any higher placed Users I held sway over. That was fine. Miles could have what he wanted. But not the way he expected.

Not at all.

I snapped my fingers, feigning recollection. "Now that you mention it, there is someone. A guild leader."

"Who?"

"That should be obvious. Personally, I would have left him alone. But a good friend warned me he wasn't good people." I leaned to the side and waved, summoning the late arrival monitoring us through the bathroom window.

Miles spun, turning his attention back to the house in time to watch Roderick make his way towards us, golden crown on his brow glimmering in the night, his heavy boots crunching across the stones.