In the waiting room, time seemed frozen. Not a single sound pierced through the air. He found it odd that the sleek computers on the front desk didn’t make even the slightest hum, that the rusty old chair hadn’t so much as creaked when he sat down, and that the lady at the front desk hadn’t yet given him even the faintest whisper.

He nearly fell out of his chair when the lady croaked out his name.

“Professor Hoffman?” she sounded bored. “Officer Atwater is here to see you. The eighth door down the left, marked ‘Ward for the Criminally Insane Children.’ He’ll meet you at the gate.”

“Thank you,” Professor Hoffman nodded in her direction as he hurried down the hall.

Officer Atwater was leaning against a wall, whistling. He had a deck of cards in front of him, shuffling themselves mid-air.

“Albert!” Officer Atwater cried, snatching the cards out of the air and shoving them into his pocket. “ Long time no see, man.”

“Jonathan,” Professor Hoffman nodded, shaking hands with the officer. “It’s nice to see you again. I presume you know why I’m visiting today?”

“Eh. They don’t tell me nothin’ down here. I’m just the gatekeeper to head office,” Officer Atwater said. “Fill me in, why don’t ya?”

He was, in fact, paying the fine for the release of one of the children in the cells. The professor was working on a study that provided more insight into the psychological well being of child murderers captive in prison. With much digging to find a poor area of the country with easily bribeable security, he found a child to take back to his lab, which was specially built to accommodate human test subjects.

“Sounds interesting,” Officer Atwater said when Professor Hoffman explained this to him (leaving out a few details). “You better be careful with this one though, he’s been locked up for about twelve years. Mind’s gone off long ago.”

The officer pressed his finger to a divet in the doorknob, which buzzed, and swung open with a small click.

The room was larger than he expected. It was completely gray, save for the harsh fluorescent lights flickering above them. Several spider webs stretched from ceiling to floor, and a thick layer of dust coated just about everything in their sight. The room contained dozens of round, metal domes, about a meter in width and height.

“These are-”

“Yeah. The Incubae, Hell Domes, Hell Cells, whatever you want to call them, ” Officer Atwater answered. “Sorry about the dust. Cleaning doesn’t come by much. Don’t have a reason to.”

The Incubae were something of the cruellest torture. Cold and dark, a prisoner would be subjected to a dome for the rest of their lives. They would receive no food and no water but would survive regardless. A prisoner would retain the appearance and texture of their normal flesh and bones but would have the actual properties of titanium metal. If they attempted to commit any form of self-harm, there would be no outcome. With a completely soundproof barrier and complete darkness, the prisoners were said to have gone insane in the domes.

Professor Hoffman suddenly felt very uncomfortable, standing in a room full of what he knew to be under the indestructible domes, mentally disturbed children.

“This way,” Officer Atwater called.

“I’ve heard the rumours. A warping of time. A single hour that passes by in the Incubae is equivalent to a thousand more for the prisoner,” Professor Hoffman said.

“Nah, false rumours,” Officer Atwater said.

“But there’s been scientific evidence!” Professor Hoffman argued. “An innocent man thought to be guilty, subject to the Incubae was released and tested. His brain scan showed a year-by-pherin of a thousand.”

“How are you supposed to tell time in hell? They don’t know how long they’ve been in there. And their minds slowly deteriorate from the uncertainty.”

Growing more uneasy, Professor Hoffman gestured amongst the Incubae.

“But- they’re only children,” he said.

“The child you’re about to meet was found in his best friend’s living room, standing in a pool of blood, smiling over the body. You think he’s any less evil than someone a few years older?” Officer Atwater chuckled.

“But he’s only a child,” Professor Hoffman whispered again, more feebly this time.

“Oh, yeah. The children get off easy. Another guy, locked in a Hell Cell with a spider. He’s spent decades with the little legs crawling all over him. We took the spider out five years ago, and he still swats at the walls at night. Oh, here we are, Cell 876.”

Professor Hoffman held his breath as the police officer reached down to unlock the cell door.

Whirr.

A pair of eyes. Wide open.

Blink.

The boy named Asher is lying down, sprawled flat on his back. He looks up. And for the first time in what seems like ten, twenty, a hundred years, he can see.

At first, he is confused. He cannot remember a time when he had opened his eyes and seen something, anything. Then he remembers.

Asher sits up. He looks around, then pauses. Howls.

He is free.

Free.

________

It was nearly eleven at night when Professor Hoffman reached his laboratory. He had left the drab grey prison unit as quickly as possible and had been swept away into the night’s adventures. A frosty wind tugged at the corners of his coat, smothering the already faintly flickering street lamps one by one as it whistled past his ears.

Jamming his thumb into the lock, he glanced over his shoulder again at the sleeping boy, suspended in the air, snoring softly. Professor Hoffman flung the door open in his haste to leave the blustering snowstorm behind him.

“Dear lord. Horrible weather out today, isn’t it?” Nicolas Bhakta, Professor Hoffman’s young assistant called, rushing over to shut the door.

“Never mind that,” Professor Hoffman said impatiently. “Nicolas my boy, allow me to present our fifth case study.”

Nicolas turned his eyes towards the floating boy, who was dusted over with a fine layer of snow.

“Good heavens! You actually got him! This is fantastic news. Shall I go get the testing room ready, sir?” The young man rambled, delighted by the success of their long journey. “This will surely be the best report yet. How ever did you get him here safely?”

Shrugging off his heavy coat, Professor Hoffman chuckled at his assistant’s excitement. “He did attempt to put up a fight. Why, he cried like a wolf when we first opened the dome. We did inject him with a bit of a sleep sedative, to calm the nerves. Nothing serious.” Professor Hoffman pulled out a thin, compact envelope, with the numbers 01823 scrawled on its yellowing surface. “Let’s take a look shall we?”

NAME: #01823 Asher

DATE OF BIRTH: Circa 480 SC

ESTIMATED AGE: Imprisoned around ages 9-12, would be in early twenties

REASON FOR IMPRISONMENT: Found in family home, bludgeoned younger sister to death

Professor Hoffman flipped through the rest of the papers. There were gruesome pictures of the crime scene that Nicolas didn’t particularly care to dwell on, but which Professor Hoffman studied with horrified interest. How, he wondered, exactly a mental disorder could ever drive a human being to kill another just for enjoyment? He remained deep in thought as he glazed over the pictures of gory images, and when he finally tore his gaze away from the paper, Nicolas had finished setting up the testing room.

“All fired up and ready to go, sir,” he reported.

“Superb. I’ll bring over the boy.” Professor Hoffman replied, making his way over to Nicolas. The testing room, a small stark space no larger than a broom closet, was clean and crisp, its glass walls sparking. On the outside of the room was a control circuit, where Professor Hoffman took a seat as Nicolas stuffed the boy behind the glass doors.

“Now, Nicolas, can you tell me what this particular machine does?” Professor Hoffman asked.

Nicolas squinted, concentrating. “Let’s see now… well, it responds to the subject’s neurological thought process. The scenario that plays out for them is a reflection of their state of mind- as an example, a person in a state of fear may see the death of their loved ones play out in front of them. The subject will then live in their scenario, unaware that we are watching them.”

“Excellent, per usual,” Professor Hoffman said, nodding his approval.

“Now-” he turned to the board, fingers dancing over the keys. “Let’s see what his mind conjures up,” he whispered eagerly, turning a dial with a small click.

As the boy opened his eyes for the second time, Professor Hoffman was struck by how much they resembled the raging snowstorm outside- cloudy, unfocused, chaotic.

Contrary to the first time, the boy was absolutely silent. And when he stood up, a scene began to unfurl.

The boy sat alone, in the middle of a child’s bedroom, scrawling in a leatherbound journal, humming to himself. Professor Hoffman squinted to make out the writing more clearly, and saw only four words repeated over and over again: All The Cat Games. “Write that down,” the professor hissed to Nicolas, who fumbled around for a pad of paper.

“Older brother?” A little girl stood at the doorway, clutching a sheet of paper. Professor Hoffman realized with a jolt that this was the same girl in the photographs from the boy’s files.

The boy, not speaking, turned towards his sister, eyes narrowed.

“I just wanted to tell you- well you see- I’ve discovered-” the girl said, bouncing on the balls of her toes with excitement.

“Spit it out, will you?” the boy said harshly.

“I just- here.” She thrust the sheet of paper in his hands, beaming with excitement. “I’ve discovered it!”

“Right,” the boy said slowly, turning the sheet of paper over in his hands.

The girl’s smile faltered as she saw the look in her brother's eyes.

“Big brother? Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Yes. Actually, I have a surprise for you. A reward. Just close your eyes.” The boy shifted, to reach for something under his bed.

“Okay!” the girl responded brightly, covering her eyes.

“Just you wait,” he whispered, drawing a long, steel bat from under the covers.

Realizing what was about to come, Professor Hoffman yanked the key out of the control board, and the boy’s eyes fluttered shut again; the simulation fading.

“I’ve got all of it down, sir,” Nicolas says, slightly out of breath. “What’ll we do next?”

“Next?” he murmured. “Everything.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Nicolas asked, slightly confused.

"It’s about time I tell you the real reason we’re researching this boy.”

The first thing that Asher did when he woke up was swat at his own ear violently and shout profanities at the ceiling.

The simulation that the boy was thrown into was meant to respond to his current psychological state of mind and weave an alternate scenario according to such. Professor Hoffman found it strange that any such scenario would require any such immediately profane reaction, but he found it not nearly as odd as what followed.

The boy halted abruptly, and a look of triumphant realization came over his face as he drank in his surroundings. He then noticed Professor Hoffman and his assistant Nicholas, whose eyes were as wide as saucers, and beamed at them.

“So we finally meet,” the boy, Asher, said with a breezy air of common folk greeting each other at a cocktail gathering for the first time.

What was happening? Professor Hoffman could have sworn that the comment was directed at himself and Nicholas, but that was impossible. Maybe the simulation had started, but for some reason, it wasn’t visible through the viewing monitors?

Professor Hoffman leaned towards Nicholas and hissed, “Do you suppose that an error is present in the simulation code?”

Nicholas barely shrugged, his eyes glazed and unfocused. They were glued to little Asher, who was standing with his arms folded and a smirk on his face.

“I’m guessing you want to know how the hell I’m talking to you?”

Professor Hoffman was too shocked to inhibit any sort of fear. “In all my years of research, I have never come across such a case as this one. This code has been developed many times over by the best researchers in Glomersberg. What on earth…?”

“Well, before they shoved me in that hell-hole of a prison, they ran a bunch of simulations on me, many of which, had the same coding as the one you’re using right now. Every time I was put through it, I noticed a small error in the simulation: a small, green speck, right at the corner of my vision. Barely noticeable, yet, ever so present,” he paused for a moment before continuing again. “I spent fifteen years in prison thinking, a lot of which included the actions that would require me to override it. Any other questions? I’ve got plenty of time. More than I’ll ever need or want.” He chuckled to himself at the last sentence.

Gathering his whirling mess of thoughts, Professor Hoffman nearly bubbled over with questions, but only a single, burning question forced its way out of his mouth. “Why did you kill your sister?”

As discreetly as he could, he typed a line of code on a keyboard to alter the boy’s mind, which prompted him to answer the question as honestly as possible.

Asher smiled as if anticipating this from the get-go. However, he seemed very eager to answer, possibly since he had no one to make conversation with but the bare metal walls of his cell.

“Curiosity. I mean, haven’t you ever wondered? Just what it would be like to hold that power in your hands? To be completely in control? All those books and movies I was exposed to described wonderful, terrible things. Like the light fading from someone’s eyes as they die. The rasp of the final, gasping breath. Fingers clawing desperately at the ground. A scream, so spiked with fear that it pierces your brain; so that you never forget.”

Asher went on, his grin widening into that of a madman’s.

“It was a sort of addiction that you can’t be torn away from; like any other addiction, I kept looking for more and more graphic content. Eventually, you begin to crave it. But content can only give you so much excitement, and you begin to thirst for more.”

“And the thirst becomes so unbearable that you have to try it out for yourself. To quench your thirst with blood. My sister happened to be in the room when I first held the axe in my hands with the intent to kill.”

This was too much for Nicholas, who stood up abruptly and hastily mumbled an excuse to leave the room.

The boy is insane.

Professor Hoffman hadn’t realized that he had spoken the words out loud until Asher said, “You of all people should surely understand where I’m coming from, Professor. I’m well familiar with your work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You study it. Psychopathy. A lot of people do, but you’re different. I’ve seen the look in your eye. It’s the same as the one I used to see in the mirror all those years ago. You crave it too.” Asher said gleefully.

“Young man-”

“You’ve got the same fascination as me!” He cried. “Going around the world, studying murderous children--don’t try to deny it!” Asher sang. His voice dropped into a low whisper. “I can show you how it works if you want.”

“I-

“Just release me, and I’ll take you to this place. You can keep me chained if it’ll put your mind at rest.”

Deep inside him, Professor Hoffman felt something sinister as he stood up, halted the code, and went to open the door.