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Ohshit.

He's got multiple powers. Bongo no like.

All of a sudden, my options have narrowed neatly. He needs to go
down; it needs to be soon. My stomach knots. For the first time in my
life, I'm seriously contemplating killing someone.

What if I get caught?

There's always the easy way, going to the police. Psychopaths are
their bread and butter. But can I trust them to catch him and keep
him? And to not believe him when he starts foaming at the mouth about
foxes? It might be too dangerous to turn him over to them. My stomach
is a hard ball as I contemplate the fact that I'm completely alone in
this.

Everything has dwindled down to a neat point of singularity,
though, and the clarity I'm drawing from that is wonderful. My first
priority is to stop this spree he's on. Second, to find out what he is
and where his weaknesses are. Third, to use them against him.

After a few minutes, I pass him a new note. It says,

That's good, because I want to talk.
What were you planning to do once you impressed me?

When I can, I try to get another hook into his mind. Third time's
the charm.

You drop your note over his shoulder, and try to get a fix into his mind
while he’s reading. You fail again, as your probe slides off the
gleaming steel surface of his mind. He’s *so* focused! You’ve never
met anyone with a will that strong before -- he’s defended himself
against you twice without even knowing it.

He starts to write. And scribble. And write. And crumple. Write.
Scribble AND crumple.

You marshall your strength and try again, full force. If you fail this
attempt, it’ll be several minutes before you dare try it again.

The hard shell of his will splits like tinfoil, and you almost withdraw
in alarm, thinking it might be a trap -- that he might have noticed.
No... you hit a weak spot in the wall. You’re in, and in *solid*.
Something must have seriously distracted him.

And distracted you, it seems, since you didn’t notice that he’d stopped
writing. He folds up a piece of paper and tosses it over his shoulder.
It lands on your desk... or *stands* there, rather, as it’s folded into
an origami figure.

A fox, of course.

You unfold the paper and read the message that he’s written.

"I love you."

Wonderful. Just peachy keen.

He deliberately didn’t answer your question. The next question is, of
course, why?

The answer is pretty obvious, you realize. He didn’t *know* what he’d
do after he’d impressed you. He hadn’t thought that far in advance!

In fact, he probably hasn’t even tried to impress you yet. He said he
didn’t want you to see what had happened at the park. He might not have
even known you’d be there. Running away like he did certainly supports
that theory.

It’s true: Most stalkers don’t know what to do when confronted by their
stalkees. This one doesn’t, that’s for sure.

NOW what do you do with this guy?

Eh-heh.

Oh, not good. Oh, so not happy. I was so hoping that he just had
a job for me. It's going to be hard to cover up those crocodile
teethmarks in my butt.

I lift myself slowly out of the Nile and sit on the banks,
thinking. The situation is almost as bad as it can get. On the other
hand, this gives me a certain freedom in dealing with Ferd.

There's only one answer to "I love you," and it's a lie. So I
decide to be gnomic instead. I write a poem in Chinese on a sheet of
paper, with each character turned a quarter-turn (so the first is
upright, the second is lying on its right side, the third is
upside-down, etc.), and fold it into a chrysanthemum, then roll it down
McEnnis's shoulder into his lap.

Oh, hey, that was kind of fun. Anatomy Pachinko.

I start writing questions on quarter-sheets of paper and folding
them up into wee origamis:

What's your name?
What's your birthday?
What's your major?
Where do you live?
Are you allergic to MSG?
How does that toy of yours work?
Is your toy on automatic fire, or is it a manual?
Does it have a recoil?
You have quite a fixation with dogs.
Read Chinese?
Don't worry, there won't be a quiz.
But you might want to take notes.

If Ferd flips me another note or gives me a puzzled look when he
sees the Chinese poem, I look innocent and keep folding origamis. When
I have a good handful, I start discreetly rolling them down his
shirtfront. First one at a time, then two or three or four, until his
lap is full of origami. "Discreetly" is the keyword here. If I can do
this as an illusion, I will, especially since I can make each note
vanish like melting snow when he takes his attention off it.
Otherwise, the professor's back is turned when I roll the notes, and if
other people start noticing, I flick them onto the floor in front of
Ferd instead.

My head is zinging with adrenalin and mischief. Either this will
charm Ferd's slacks off, or he'll blow up again. It would be a great
scientific test of whether his power really is some sort of catharsis,
like I suspect. 'Course, that's hard on my classmates. So as a last
resort, if he starts acting truly annoyed, I'll accidentally drop my
pencil in his lap. Of course, that means I'll have to reach over and
grab it (JUST THE PENCIL, PLEASE), which means I'll be leaning over his
shoulder, so my mouth will be good and close to his ear when I
apologize. Softly and breathily.

Ooooh, I've got myself a new toy. One I don't have to worry about
breaking!

I flip one last note over his shoulder, this one not folded into
origami: "It's only fair that you decide where we have lunch, but I
suggest Chinese."

You write out your poem, fold it up, and roll it down his shoulder. You
then fold up a dozen or so blank origamis, which you can mentally ’write’ on as you see fit. Since your first origami *does* contain
writing, he’ll be expecting soemthing in the rest of them, and won’t
even come close to questioning their reality. You smile slightly as you
see him turning the now-unfolded poem/flower over as if it’ll make more
sense that way.

He scribbles somethign on another piece of paper and tosses it backwards
to you as you drop two of your latest creations into his lap. You
quickly unfold the note -- he didn’t bother getting artistic this time
-- and read the line. "I don’t read Chinese." Big shock.

You ’write’ the note that he’s just unfolded to say, "I don’t write
English." He nearly falls out of his seat.

You assault him with a stream of ’notes’ which he dutily unfolds and
’reads’. He’s getting extremely frustrated. But he does his best to
answer them.

What's your name? John McEnnis

What's your birthday? [He doesn't respond to this
one]

What's your major? Art/Art History

Where do you live? [He doesn't respond to this
one]

Are you allergic to MSG? No

How does that toy of yours work? What toy?

Is your toy on automatic fire, or is it a manual? What are you
talking about?

Does it have a recoil? Huh?

As you prepare a second barrage of irritating questions, you realize
that the last time you embarrassed this guy, someone else went off the
deep end. Hey, for all you know, he might’ve burst into flame out in
the hall (although the lack of alarms seems to suggest otherwise). It
might not be the best idea to antagonize this guy.

Ah, what the heck. You drop your pencil into his lap, and reach down to
grab it. You whisper an apology into his ear as you do so...

He stands up, nearly knocking you over. You awkwardly drop back into
your seat to avoid falling down, as you watch him manuever past the
other students, heading towards the aisle.

He’s *leaving*?

Sigh. Twit. He acts like an asshole, but he reacts like a puppy.
It would be kind of cute if he were papertrained.

I sink down in my seat and pray the lecture doesn't become too
exciting in the next ten minutes. I'm going to need all of my
concentration to talk to Ferd.

The auditorium door has barely swung shut behind Ferd when I burst
through as though I had come up the aisle at a run. If my looks are on
a scale from 1 to 10, with 1 being "I'm not here, don't notice me" and
10 being "spoiled for all other women," I usually putt along at 2 or 3.
When I burst through the door, I'm at 6. Not enough to stop his
heart, but more beautiful than he's ever seen me in the flesh, a
definite suckerpunch to the libido.

And I look confused and distraught. Let's see how many Damsel in
Distress buttons we can push.

I say, "I'm sorry," --his name is not Ferd, it's John, *John*--
"John. Did something I do upset you? I didn't mean anything by
these." I hold up a palmful of the origamis I didn't get around to
giving him. "I want to get to know you."

(Ugh, Damsel in Distress dialogue is so flat!)

If Ferd is willing to talk, I lead him off to the side of the hall
or behind a pillar or something--some quiet location near enough that I
can stay linked to him and far enough from the crowds that he won't
attract undue attention by talking to the empty air. When he's settled
in, I sit or lean opposite him and watch him until he starts to speak.

While this is going on, the real me tries to at least look like I'm
keeping up with the lecture. I also want to grab the crumpled notes
and read them.

If Ferd doesn't want to talk, I look mournful and say, "I'll see
you again, won't I? Please don't make others suffer because I've upset
you." As he walks away, I watch him for a moment, then turn and go
back into the lecture hall. My real self scarfs up the crumpled notes,
then I pick up my books and leave class as quietly as possible. (I put
an illusion into the teacher's head to cover my retreat if I can. What
the other students think isn't important; they don't grade my papers.)
I follow Ferd for as long as I can, hopefully without breaking the
link, and don't make myself known until he tries something hinky or
goes somewhere nicely remote. Or until some other suitable moment pops
up.

If Ferd gets noisy and there's no calming him, I twist his
perceptions until he walks into a wall. Fool. That should give me
enough time to shove the notes into my bag, grab my things, cover my
escape from the classroom, and be leaning against a wall with my arms
crossed and a distinctly unimpressed look on my face. (Or whatever the
situation demands. I'm talking to this twerp come hell or high water.)

He dashes out into the hall and you ’follow’. You make sure he sees you
as you burst out through the doorway, even though he’s got his back to
the door and is moving very quickly away... a slight tweak to his
’peripheral vision’ and you’re within his range of vision without him
really noticing anything amiss.

He freezes, like a deer caught in the headlights. Much to your
surprise, though, he isn’t staring at *your* ’headlights, like most guys
would when you’ve made yourself this attractive. He’s transfixed by
your eyes. Pity he’s a psycho -- most SANE men aren’t that polite.

Of course, you realize, this means that only a nutcase wouldn’t stare at
your chest. There’s got to be something wrong with that, but you can’t
spare the time to think about it further.

You ’walk’ up to him and say, "I'm sorry, John. Did something I do
upset you? I didn't mean anything by these." You ’hold up’ a handful
of non-existant origamis. "I want to get to know you."

"I gotta go," he says, and begins to walk away quickly.

"I'll see you again, won't I?" you call after him. "Please don't make
others suffer because I've upset you."

You send your illusion-self back into the lecture hall while your
real-self gathers up your stuff and snatches up some of Ferd’s crumples.
You try to skew the professor’s perceptions to make him think you’re
still sitting there, but you’re a bit rattled by Ferd’s behavior, and a
bit distracted by keeping the link with him. Your probe slides right
off the professor’s mind like it was teflon-coated. Ah, screw it. You
can always sleep with him for a better grade.

He’s gone by the time you reach the hall, of course. But you sense that
he’s still somewhat nearby, since your hooks are still securely fastened
in his brain. You can’t track him with your mental abilities, but you
*can* follow his scent.

Ooh... he’s scared.

Ew... he’s in the Men’s room.