“And so you, you take one of these, and you become a monster?”
“One becomes someone else, not an animal. The chemicals in the medicine alter your thoughts, memories, senses, ultimately your whole mind. In my case, I became a Gremanese Private, with orders to report to someone.”
“A Gremanese psychopathic killer?”
“That was the second part of the pill. The pysche of a famous mass murderer was stored in the chemicals to be released first. I suppose that explains my determination to scramble the desert - and my heatstroke, among other things.”
“This story is almost unbelievable,” Bertrina rubbed her head.
“Ask the Minister if you don’t believe me,” Plel laid back down, staring at the glowing roof. “It was because of Ragzin. Like photographs or electric lights. Besides, anything’s possible now. Supposedly dead nations now grow three heads, rich men become petty servants. Jardenia is like wet clay again.”
Bertrina said nothing.
“Are you tired?”
“Would you like a pillow? Take one.”
Time had left the two, and after what seemed like a day later, Plel found Bertrina staring at the door that hung flush to the wall across the room, the frosted glass playing with dark shadows.
“The Minister said he’d be here,” Bertrina’s head rested against the wall, the file reassembled from the ground on her lap.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m reporting to him here, yes.”