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When Krista strides into the lobby and calls Eliot’s name, it’s the Mastermind who stands and follows her into her office.
He folds himself down to sit on the sofa, just like Eliot would. He shrugs the straps of his ever-present backpack off his shoulders and places it by his feet, the same way Eliot would. But, there’s something about his eyes when he looks at her—just briefly, before looking down and to the side—that Krista recognizes as Elliot, the Mastermind.
Krista sits in her chair and pulls her laptop onto her lap, ready to take notes. She smiles. “Hello, Elliot. It’s been a while.”
Elliot’s lips curl into a slight smile, pleased at having been recognized. “Krista.”
“How are you feeling?”
And, just like that, Elliot’s smile fades. He rubs at the back of his neck. “That’s, uh, sort of why I’m here.”
Krista tilts her head in a gesture for him to continue.
“It’s, um. We’re kind of freaking out right now? Like, all of us.”
Concern washes through Krista. Their last session had gone well, she thought. Eliot had a stable job and an apartment with his sister. The system was healthier, as a whole, than ever. What could have happened to unnerve the entire system?
Could Elliot—? Or Mr. Robot? But, no. They’d put their grand schemes of vigilantism aside after Eliot woke up. It was nothing like—like—
Krista breathes out, slowly. “Is that why Eliot called to move up his appointment?”
Elliot frowns, picking at the hem of his charcoal T-shirt. “Sorta. Yeah. We just...didn’t know what else to do.”
“Since you’re here, why don’t you try telling me about what’s going on?”
Elliot presses his lips together. His eyes dart to the side.
Which alter, Krista wonders, is sitting beside him on the sofa? Eliot?
“It’s Mr. Robot.”
Krista reers back a little in surprise. “I thought things were better between Eliot and Mr. Robot?”
Ever since Krista helped Mr. Robot write a letter to Eliot, Eliot has reported only good things about their relationship. During one session, Eliot even admitted he felt closer to Mr. Robot than ever before.
“No, they are,” Elliot says. “Practically inseparable, those two.”
He lets out an amused huff of laughter at his accidental joke before narrowing his eyes at the floor in thought. “But, that’s not—There’s just this new thing Mr. Robot is doing.”
Krista doesn’t need to go back in her notes to remember the psychological warfare Mr. Robot and the Mastermind waged against one another. The chess game comes immediately to mind. Elliot overdosing on drugs to shut Mr. Robot out. Mr. Robot shooting Elliot in the head, killing him over and over again. He’d been different the last time Krista saw him, consumed with guilt, but Mr. Robot—in his twisted way—had done those things to protect Eliot. And after their last meeting, after hearing Mr. Robot speak about his purpose, which he seems to hold onto above all else, Krista can only imagine what new lengths Mr. Robot will go to protect Eliot.
Krista ignores the insistent knock of her heartbeat against her ribs and tries to affect a calm, attentive expression. “What sort of thing?”
Elliot, seeing her expression, winces. “Not like that. He’s not hurting anybody. He’s just hurting. In general.”
Krista frowns. “Can you tell me more about that?”
“He cries, like, all the time, now. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing. Working? Crying. Hacking? Crying. Watching a movie with Darlene? Crying. Eliot drew him a picture of Flipper the other night and he just—he started sobbing. He won’t even tell us what’s wrong. Just says,” Elliot drops his voice deeper and it comes out sounding like he’s raked it over gravel, “‘Leave me alone, kid, I’m processing shit.’”
“I can see how that might make you feel concerned.”
Elliot snorts. “Concerned. More like fucking terrified.”
Elliot shifts, fidgeting in his seat, so Krista waits, giving him her full attention.
“I know,” Elliot starts. He looks to the side again before dragging his gaze back to Krista. “I know you helped him. Before, when he—”
When Mr. Robot had come to her, tears streaming down his face, unable to make them stop.
“You’d like me to talk to him again,” Krista says.
“Please?”
Krista sets her laptop to the side. She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs, considering. She’s only met Mr. Robot a handful of emotionally fraught times. In spite of his disdain for Krista and her profession, it was he who sought her out during their last encounter, he who asked for her help.
Given the positive results of their last meeting, it’s interesting to see the Mastermind sitting across from her and not Mr. Robot. Interesting, but not surprising.
Elliot appears to sense her hesitation. He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “Look, it’s not like we want you to fix him. As far as we’re concerned, he’s got a lot to cry about. Dude has earned the right to cry like a frikken baby, if that’s what he wants. We just—”
Elliot wraps his arms around his middle. He stares into the far corner of the room, emotion flooding his storm gray eyes. “I know what it’s like to feel alone. And, it sucks. But, you help me. Eliot, too. We just thought, maybe—”
Elliot shrugs, glancing at the empty space beside him. “If he can’t talk to us, maybe he can talk to you?”
In all of their sessions together, never once has Elliot spoken so earnestly, so honestly. It speaks to how much he’s grown, how much he’s evolved as a person. A year ago, he and Mr. Robot were at each other’s throats, sometimes quite literally. And now?
Krista is so very, very proud.
“Do you remember when you first came to see me?” Krista waits for Elliot to nod. “You were so angry. You resented being forced into therapy. Understandably so; It was not under the best of circumstances. But, during those first sessions, Elliot, you were completely closed off. Sullen, even.”
Eliot opens his mouth, but Krista continues before he can try to deny it. “We both know therapy only works if the person receiving therapy is open to it. Mr. Robot may not be open to it, Elliot. Not in the same way you and Eliot are. That being said, I’m certainly happy to speak with him if—” Krista closes her mouth with a snap.
The person sitting across from her is not the Mastermind. The alter sinks into the cushions, his legs spread wide, his arm thrown across the back of the sofa. He looks straight at Krista, meeting her gaze with glassy, overbright eyes.
“Hello, beautiful.” His consonants are clipped, as usual, but the tone of his voice has lost most of its familiar bite.
“Mr. Robot, it’s good to see you.”
Mr. Robot gives a quiet huff of not-quite laughter. “I bet you say that to all your patients.”
“How are you?” Krista asks. “Elliot was—”
“—just ratting me out. I heard.”
Krista waits for him to continue. Normally, it’s not difficult to get Mr. Robot talking. Not like Eliot, who lacks the self-confidence to speak freely. Or Elliot, too riddled with anxiety, too busy trying to pick the other person apart before they can do the same to him, to focus on conversation.
But, when Mr. Robot just stares at her, tightlipped, Krista asks, “Have you read anything good, lately?”
Mr. Robot blinks, thrown off guard. He recovers quickly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What.”
It isn’t a question so much as a demand.
“The last time we spoke, you mentioned that you like to read. Have you read anything lately that you enjoyed?”
Mr. Robot’s eyes well up. He rubs at them almost absently, as if the action has become second nature to him.
Krista very carefully maintains a neutral expression.
“Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” Mr. Robot says. “Philip K. Dick. And, no, there isn’t some special connection to my name, so you can stop looking for one.”
Combative, as always, Krista doesn’t say. Instead, she smiles and says, “I don’t think I’ve read that one, though I’ve heard it’s very good. If not your name, is there something in particular that drew you to it?”
Mr. Robot rolls his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Blade Runner.”
Krista quirks an eyebrow. “Blade Runner?”
A tear trails down Mr. Robot’s face. Mr. Robot dashes it away with the back of his hand. “The, ah, kids were watching Blade Runner. Loose adaptation of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? apparently. Or, that’s what I’m told, anyway. Wasn’t really paying attention.”
Mr. Robot runs a hand through his hair as another tear slips down the sharp swell of his cheekbone. “Eliot—Eliot got it for me. The book, I mean. From the library.”
“That was very kind of him.”
He snorts. “He’s been walking on eggshells, doing nice shit for me, trying to—trying to cheer me up.”
Mr. Robot’s eyes dart around the room, cataloging exits. It’s clear he feels like he’s slipped up, given her an opening upon which he expects her to pounce.
She leans back in her chair, hands clasped in her lap, trying to appear disarming. “Do you like science fiction, Mr. Robot?”
He blinks again in surprise before schooling his expression into false nonchalance. Except, he can’t quite extinguish the quiet rage smoldering in his eyes. “The fuck is this? Book club?”
“We could talk about something else, if you would prefer.”
Planting his hands on his knees, Mr. Robot pushes himself up to standing. Striding the short distance to her chair, he leans into her space, his hands on the armrests on either side of her, crowding her. His lips curl into an ugly smile, his face only inches from her own. “I keep telling you. You’re not going to get inside my head.”
Heart constricting in her chest, Krista forces herself to meet his furious gaze head on. “Do you feel like having someone outside your system know whether or not you like science fiction as a genre constitutes having them inside your head?”
A tear clings to Mr. Robot’s lashes. He searches her expression, but whether or not he finds whatever he is looking for, the tear falls. Followed by another. And another.
When Mr. Robot came to her, weeks ago now, tears had fallen in slow, silent tracks down his face. Mr. Robot hadn’t made any noise then. Just as he doesn’t make any noise now.
Could he be ashamed? Or, could there be another, more traumatic reason Mr. Robot learned to break down in silence?
Krista reaches through the cage of his arms to pluck a tissue from the table beside her, nearly knocking her laptop to the floor as she gropes blindly for the box. She holds the tissue between them like a white flag. Truce.
Mr. Robot stares at the tissue like he doesn’t quite trust it. But, he takes it, crumpling it in his hand before finally backing off, collapsing onto the sofa.
Krista lets out a long, unsteady breath. Looking everywhere but at him, she composes a mental list of five things in her line of sight: The sofa. The lamp on the table. The tissue box beside the lamp. The black backpack at Mr. Robot’s feet. The rogue staple embedded in the fibers of the carpet.
Mr. Robot looks her up and down, concern knitting his brows together. “You, ah, okay?”
“I’m fine,” Krista says. Her voice comes out higher, tighter than she intends it to. She winces.
Mr. Robot frowns.
“Since Vera—” Krista shakes her head.
Keep it professional, she reminds herself. Focus on the patient and not the residual terror pooling at the base of her throat.
Mr. Robot only meant to scare her. Intimidate her. It’s quite literally his nature to lash out when feeling threatened. Just as it is her job to push him, challenge him.
To her mental list, she adds four things she can feel: The brush of her skirt against her leg. The bite of new leather pumps digging into her heel. The lotioned skin of her hands. The firm press of the chair beneath her.
“Shit,” Mr. Robot says. More and more tears fall, one right after the other. “I’m—fuck—I’m sorry. I didn’t—Jesus Christ. I should have fucking—I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
Krista takes another deep breath and lets it out, visualizing the remaining fear and anxiety leaving her, as well. She imagines shutting it in the dark depths of her desk drawer to be confronted later.
Giving him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, she says, “I’m fine, Mr. Robot. Thank you.”
Mr. Robot shifts in obvious discomfort. “I, ah, yeah. I like science fiction. Trek over Wars. Fuck George Lucas.”
That startles a laugh out of Krista. “I guess that brings us to the all-important question.”
Mr. Robot tenses.
“Kirk or Picard?”
In spite of the tears staining his cheeks, a slow smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Kirk. Hands down.”
“Because he’s a lady’s man?”
“Common misconception. Kirk might be a space-cowboy, but he’s a fucking gentleman. A romantic, even. He’ll wine, dine, sixty-nine you and—before you know it—there’s a goddamn ring on your finger.” Mr. Robot snorts, making it obvious he finds the whole concept ridiculous. “No, it’s more—”
Mr. Robot balances an ankle atop his knee, bouncing the supporting leg. He narrows his teary eyes in thought. “End of every episode, Kirk’s not sitting there high and mighty in his stupid chair. He could be king, in that chair. Make declarations, rule from on high. Instead—”
With a small, frustrated frown, Mr. Robot shakes his head. “He’s got his crew, right? Literally surrounded with ‘em. Twenty-four-fucking-seven. Spock, McCoy, the little Russian kid, Uhura. But, they—He’s not just their captain, and they aren’t just his crew. It’s like—They don’t just follow orders because it’s their job. Y’know? They do it because they’re his—”
Mr. Robot sniffles, but he doesn’t move to wipe away the tears freshly spilling down his angular face. Instead, he picks at the crumpled tissue in his hands.
“Family,” Krista finishes. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Titling his head back against the sofa, Mr. Robot stares at the ceiling. “Are we really gonna spend the entirety of Eliot’s Psychiatric Fun Hour talking about Trek? You’re not gonna ask me about—”
Mr. Robot waves a vague hand at himself.
“Would you like me to ask you about—?” Krista makes the same vague motion with her hand.
“Fuck, no.”
“Then we can spend our remaining time talking about Star Trek, if that’s what you want. Or, we can talk about something else. We don’t have to talk at all, in fact.”
Mr. Robot looks at her like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“But, it’s clear to me that your system is concerned about you,” Krista continues. “And, I think if you really didn’t want to be here, Mr. Robot, you would have already walked out that door.”
Mr. Robot glances at the door, like it’s still an option he’s considering.
Krista sits and waits, flattening her expression into something still and serene.
“Fuck, it’s creepy when you do that,” Mr. Robot says. He sniffles, lips turned down in a deep frown. “Fine. Alright? Fine.”
Krista smiles. “Fine, what, Mr. Robot?”
Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Mr. Robot makes an aggrieved sound. “Fine, headshrink me if it’ll make everyone happy.”
Krista waits a beat, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me about the crying.”
“I don’t—” Mr. Robot huffs. “It’s like before. I’m trying—I’m trying to do what you said. Trying to just let it happen. But, it won’t stop. And, it’s like—it’s like I’m on a goddamn hair trigger. Shit doesn’t even have to be bad, either. Elliot told you about the drawing? Practically sent me into hysterics.”
“You told Elliot that you were processing. Is there something in particular that you’re trying to work through?”
Mr. Robot slumps onto his side on the sofa. For a moment, he buries his face in the cushions, breathing in the conditioned leather. “No. I don’t know.”
“Would you like to know what I think?”
Mr. Robot makes a muffled sound into the cushion.
“I think you were so determined to keep your system safe that you never allowed yourself to process your own emotions. It was your purpose, you said, to protect them. To shoulder the heavy burdens. To absorb their hurt, their heartache. But that kind of trauma? I think it was too much for even you to bear alone. And I think you did the only thing you could do to survive. You shut down, turned off everything that wasn’t your purpose, until that was all that was left of you.”
Mr. Robot just lays there, tears streaming down the bridge of his nose to soak into the leather of the sofa. His breath hitches, once, twice. He swallows, looking miserable.
“Believe it or not, I think the crying is actually a good sign,” Krista continues. “Somewhere along the line, you...rebooted.”
She expects him to roll his eyes at the analogy, but he wriggles onto his back, propping his legs on the arm of the sofa and grumbling at the ceiling, “So, I’m—what? Initializing updates, please stand by?”
Krista smiles. “In a sense.”
“Recalibrating. Like a goddamn ink-jet.”
Krista smothers a laugh at the derision in his voice, aimed not at himself, but at the comparison. Like he has been personally victimized by said printers and now holds them in nothing but contempt.
Mr. Robot turns watery, gray eyes on her. The ghost of a smile haunts his lips.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Krista says, ironing out her smile. “Allow yourself to feel and to process. But, I want you to remember one thing.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You are not alone, Mr. Robot. At the end of every day, you’re surrounded by people who love you, who care about you. Twenty-four-seven. Don’t shut them out.”
Mr. Robot lets out a heaving, shuddering breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, cutting off the fresh flow of tears, and throws both arms over his face, hiding himself from view. He drags huge, gulping mouthfuls of air in through his open mouth as he sobs into the cage of his arms, choking on each keening whine and broken whimper that manages to escape.
Her heart breaking for him, Krista averts her gaze and waits.
The young man who sits up, wiping his face with the ruined tissue still clutched in his hand, is not Mr. Robot. His smile is genuine yet shy, laced with the threads of his exhaustion. His shoulders are rounded with it.
“Hello, Eliot,” Krista says.
“Hi, Krista.” His voice is smaller and quieter than Mr. Robot’s, nasal-thick after Mr. Robot’s breakdown. “Sorry. Mr. Robot said something about being too old for this shit and needing to take a fucking nap. Guess he tagged me in.”
She plucks a new tissue from the box beside her and leans forward to pass it to the young man on the sofa. “That’s quite alright, Eliot. We still have a few minutes left in this session. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”
“No, not—not in particular. I just wanted to say thank you. For talking to him. He’s not used to leaning on anyone else. I don’t think he even really knows how. I mean, we didn’t, not at first—the other Elliot and me.” Eliot smiles, his gray eyes glinting with fond exasperation. “Mr. Robot is smart, but he’s stubborn. It might take him a while to really get it, but...I have a feeling some of what you said today actually made it through.”
Krista smiles. “I certainly hope so.”
Eliot scoops his backpack from the floor and shrugs one of the straps onto his shoulder. He stands. “See you again next week?”
Krista stands and follows him to the door. “I will see you then. Call, of course, if anything changes and you need to move your appointment up again.”
At the front door, Eliot pauses to give an awkward little wave and hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder.
Once he disappears from view, Krista gives Brittany, the receptionist, the signal to give her a few minutes before her next patient.
Brittany pops her gum in acknowledgement and goes back to her game of Solitaire.
Back in her office, Krista quickly types a few notes in Eliot’s file, adding lines to the sections dedicated to both Elliot and Mr. Robot. Afterward, she sets her laptop on the table, closes her eyes, and breathes.
Speaking with Mr. Robot—the raw, unfiltered emotion of him—often leaves her feeling drained, but when Krista opens her eyes, she smiles with renewed warmth.
It’s time for her next patient.