It was déjà vu all over again. First, the cold foreboding ambience that had assumed control of her environment when she had finally escaped the subway and found herself stumbling home, barefoot, her instincts guiding her the entire way. Then, from her dreams, the illusionary worlds within her head: endless seas of faceless people passing by her, each and every one of them ignoring her true existence and brushing her away with quick passes and cold shoulders. She remembered crying out in those dreams, her pleas going unanswered. She remembered spinning in crazy circles at the crux of the detached masses, seeking just a moment's worth of stability, feeling much like an unseen spirit trapped in an alien world filled only with transient pedestrians on route to nowhere, their primary motivation to ignore her very existence.
Here in this foreign place she encountered these same feelings. They surrounded her as they had in her reverie and she considered herself to be dreaming again, but in this scenario her pain seemed all too real, and although all conditions seemed so much a fantasy in every aspect, she forced the assumption of reality upon herself as nothing in her life of late really seemed at all convincing.
She had successfully feigned her swoon as the bald guy—she had not yet come to the conclusion as to whether this was the same bald guy from her class that had pursued her into the subway—spoke to the other voice, that deep almost otherworldly voice whose source she had judiciously decided not to investigate. Peeking through squinting eyes, she waited until he was at a distance before breaking for the door that had somehow materialized in the wall. Of course his footsteps quickly approached behind her, but luckily a maze of hallways appeared and she snuck her way through them, hoping that they would soon guide her through an exit from this mysterious, dark place.
She eventually found an exit, but instead of leading her to the familiar outside world, she found herself at the threshold of a large round room, its deep dark diameter perhaps a full hundred yards. Inside were a multitude of bald men, donned in black clothing, all wearing sunglasses. They either ignored her or seemed not to see her as they worked feverishly on some type of project. Around the circumference of the room, a number of the workers were constructing platforms of some fashion, each about four feet high, only a foot or so wide. Above ran a series of catwalks where the men had hoisted small box-like fixtures, each containing a single surface constructed of glass or plastic. In one corner of the room a small structure sat quietly like a waiting animal, its walls made of glass, a series of dials and controls visible inside.
She gingerly paced forward, surrounded by her enemy, glancing nervously about. Never had fear and trepidation consumed her like it did now, and if not for the experience in her dream, she knew she would not have had the fortitude or nerve to undertake such a task. And remarkably enough, like the people in her dream, they left her untouched, continuing on with their project as if she had not existed, as if she were a ghost unseen by those in the tangible world. She peered up at the squarish fixtures above. A flickering danced from the glassy surface of one. Lights? Then another flashed, and it seemed that indeed these were some kind of light fixtures. She took her time, pacing over to the small structure with the control panels inside. Here tiny lights flashed on a rack of what appeared at first glance to be stereo equipment: equalizers, CD players, power amps. Did this make sense? She looked from her position over to the platforms again. They looked like...bars. Was she in a nightclub of some sort? If so, then who were these bald men?
Confusion swirled around her like a great tornado, her thoughts muddled by fear. What in God's name was all this?
Suddenly a hand came down on her shoulder. She spun, heart reaching for her throat. It was him, the bald guy who brought her here.
He smiled. "I'm different than the rest of these guys," he said, pointing. "Recognize failure." He then removed his sunglasses and laughed, and Jaimie recognized his face. She'd seen it a dozen times before in the newspaper.
Bobby Lindsay.
Once again, Jaimie fainted, this time right in the arms of Bobby Lindsay.