Hypnotized
Knock, knock, knock.

Outside Whistler's door, she thought she heard television talk show babble. Rhiannon stepped back a few paces, narrow shoulders climbing to her ears while she pocketed her hands.

To pass the time, she looked at her footwear, the black leather rounds of new boots. She thought you could tell a lot about a person by their shoes. These, still polished and clean, the laces tight and blunt-tipped, hadn't been introduced to many asses yet. Standing there in her sunglasses and hooded sweatshirt, she felt like the unibomber. But she wasn't used to dealing with bruises and cuts that stuck around after a fight. It was embarrassing. The 'what the hell happened to you' stares, the uncomfortable feeling that somebody sympathetic was about to point her to a domestic violence shelter. In the future, Rhiannon decided, she needed to give her civilian friends more credit for dealing with it.

Her shoes creaked as she bounced on her toes. "Open up," she murmured, looking at the number on the door.

Dr. Phil hadn't been the same since he tried to fix the marriage between the Macy's sales clerk and her undead husband. Most thought it had to do with the man having tried to eat McGraw's brains in the third segment. Whistler considered it more likely that the pseudo-psychologist had hit bottom and just came to the realization. Pride had definitely gone before the fall, and it was a long climb back up to relative normalcy.

He flicked off the television set once he was certain of the knock at the door and padded across the bare floor in his socked feet. The Agent didn't bother to peer through the peephole as his sixth sense informed him of his friendly visitor. The locks turned and chains were pushed back.

What he didn't expect was the state of his best friend. A trace of a bruise leaned out past Rhiannon's sunglasses. "Don't you look like hell," he spoke plainly. "Get in here before they think I'm your pimp and you've been holdin' out on me."

"God, you're so sweet." Rhiannon's mouth twisted into a smile at the corners. She squeezed past him and took off her shades, tossing them on a table. Uncomfortably warm in the sweatshirt, she eased out of the sleeves, mindful of recent stitches in her forearm and chest.

He turned the TV off, she noticed. She wondered if he was ashamed of what channel he was on. "You're turning into a housewife." Rhiannon pulled the garment over her head, releasing a messy curtain of brown hair. She balled up the fabric and slapped the warm television screen with it. "Game shows and menopause commercials."

"When I've got a three pound box of chocolates, then you can worry," Whistler smirked. Him, domesticated? The last time the Agent played house, he fathered a child and then ran away when things got strenuous. He'd made some peace with Meg recently and discovered he was a grandfather. "Forget the chocolates, if I start pulling quarters from behind your ear, you have my permission to end my misery."

Whistler silently examined Rhiannon's recent war wounds, mindful that she would continue the fight regardless of her situation. He admired that about his best friend. She could be tossed everything plus the kitchen sink, and the brunette would find a way to do the dishes.

That made no sense in his brain. But the flickering images of a zombie biting Dr. Phil's cranium had unexpectedly cropped back into his brain and it temporarily short-circuited any logic.

He walked into the tiny, cramped kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. "Beer?" he queried.

She snapped her fingers twice and outstretched her fingers, a nonverbal 'hit me' of sorts. Once the cold bottle touched her palm, she wandered into the tiny living area, stepping over a pair of shoes, and collapsed on his sofa. Since he got the news electronically that Rhiannon was 'altered', the edge of being around him wasn't quite so sharp, but she still avoided any penetrating eye contact. Don't look into me, she thought, propping her shoes on the table.

Since the weather was good, she was back to jeans and a tank top. She plucked at the ribbed material of her shirt. "So what's new?" she asked, putting off the serious stuff a bit longer. She popped the cap on her bottle.


Whistler twisted off the bottle cap and took a swig of the beer. He'd walked out into the main area of his 'efficiency' apartment (a misnomer, as there was nothing particularly well done about his living arrangements -- the heat still blasted from the radiator even though the temperature had finally moved firmly into 'spring' territory, and if he wanted a hot shower, the Agent needed to run the water from 6:47 and 6:53 am) and perched himself against the ledge by an open window.

"Tried to break up a demon-meat smuggling operation out of a Korean food joint, turns out they were only peddling dog," he answered. "One of the bastards caught my shin with a baseball bat. Had a cast on for a week. That was the text I sent ya asking for a 'scratcher', if you remember.

"Other than that," the Agent continued, "been swamped with paperwork from the United Nations. Which reminds me." Whistler pedaled forward to the coffee table, rooted through three weeks of mail until he found the correct envelope and handed it to Rhiannon. "Your clearance came through. Finally. You're on retainer too. Even if we're not on a job, you'll pull a few bucks from the public purse."

Rhiannon took the envelope and tapped it on her fingertip. "I take it you didn't fill them in." Hanging onto the beer between her thighs, she tore open the envelope and flipped through its paper contents, as impressively official and boring as anticipated. "Although even if I get it back, I'd feel weird pulling money without going on jobs, and you..."

She leaned across and purposefully poked his sore shin. "Always forget my number."

She stuffed the papers inside and set the packet on the couch arm. "Either you think you can do it yourself, you don't want to share the 'glory'," that part spoken sardonically, since there was none, "Or you don't want me around for the travel." Rhiannon rotated the bottle by its neck. "Either way, it amounts to the same deal."



It took effort to offend Whistler, and Rhiannon knew which buttons to push. "It's tough," he admitted. "I'm admittin', it's sometimes tough to be around you. Not because you're my best friend, that goes without sayin'. And you don't need to hear it, but I'm still fuckin' jealous of Joseph."

Whistler took a large swig of his beer. "You're the best, in my opinion, at what there is to get done. I'd love ta take some credit for that, but it's bullshit. You would've made it regardless, Rhi. And I'm no slouch, but yeah I've been doin' this on the road alone for decades, and don't always think of partnerin' up. But you're the one I would, mojo or not. Just... I'm still processin', I guess. It's stupid. Forget I said it."

"Don't worry about it," she said, letting him slip off the hook, since the conversation was careering into territory that made him legitimately uncomfortable, rather than simply annoyed. "You'll call when you want. Just remember, I can meet you wherever. We don't have to share a car or bunk together."

And that was the downside of romantic or physical exploration with an old friend, no matter how much time passed. When it inevitably crashed and burned -- and theirs went down like a passenger plane loaded with bombs instead of luggage -- the friendship was a hollowed-out shell it took years to reassemble.

Rhiannon tipped her head back and swallowed a few sips of beer.

"So... Did you think about what I asked?" A sideways tilt of the brunette's head. It wasn't an easy proposition, but it held promise of giving Rhiannon the answers she wanted about the Collector. She knew in her gut that her brain held more details about the abduction than she could readily access. She wanted to know if Whistler could hypnotize her and walk her through the memory, an idea that required genuine trust by itself. The alternative, she mentioned on the phone, was scarier. If she couldn't dig up the memory, could he push into her mind himself and dig out clues?

Considering Whistler usually got nosebleeds whenever he went Vulcan mind-meld on people, even for a few seconds, it was a big gamble.

The corners of his lips crooked upwards. "Yeah, nothin' really to consider, ultimately. I can do it, and it's for the greater good. Plus," he took one more sip of the beer before putting the bottle onto the coffee table, "you're givin' permission. Makes it easier."

He pulled out his soft pack and removed two cigarettes. Best to be comfortable. Hypnosis wasn't rocket science; the best results were yielded when the subject was in a safe zone, receptive. "I promise not ta make ya cluck like a chicken, or stand on a chair with your arm up, yelling 'I have the power! Fuck you Skeletor!'"

His cigarette now lit, Whistler held Rhiannon's attention. "If we need to, Rhi, I'll do what you asked." His face now took a serious tone. "You trust me enough to ask, and given our recent history, that means a lot. I won't let ya down."


"I know." It was a whole lot to ask, though, because human memories weren't like computer hard drives. If he went on a personal exploration, there was no telling what Whistler would dredge up in Rhiannon's head. It could be unpleasant for both, on top of requiring masses of trust.

Lightening the mood, Rhiannon gestured at his nicotine habit. "Actually, while I'm under, if you wanna drop some suggestions about how dangerous lung cancer is, and how I shouldn't smoke... feel free." Quelling the urge to bum a cigarette, she drank a few more sips of beer and set it aside.

"Okay." She rubbed her pant legs. "Where do I sit, what do I do..." Having never gone under hypnosis before, even with a Watcher, she didn't fully understand her part in it. Staring at metronomes, gazing into objects and 'un-focusing', whatever the hell that meant, counting back from one hundred, all foreign territory. "Please tell me your eyes aren't going to turn into swirling circles."


"Damn, there goes my parlor trick," he snorted. The Agent pushed himself back against the arm of the couch. "Just get comfortable Rhi, that's the first step. It's all about relaxation."

Whistler did the same, pulling up his right leg underneath his frame. He lit his cigarette and left the other next to the placed beer bottles. "You're just gonna close your eyes, listen to the sound of my voice -- I promise not to sing -- and I'm gonna lead you into a wakeful state of heightened awareness. Think of it like when you're on patrol. Everything's geared to your surroundings, the smells, sounds. You're focused entirely on the hunt, your prey. Same deal."

The Agent lit his cigarette. "Oh and while I'd love to plant the auto-suggestion of not smoking, you need to be willing already. Doesn't work otherwise. You ready?"

"Good thing you didn't mention celibacy then." Having cracked a joke and gotten the nonchalance out of her system, Rhiannon shifted more comfortably onto the couch, pulling her legs up indian-style and dropping her hands in between. She closed her eyes and breathed, easing the tension out of her sore body one area at a time.

Rhiannon had a merry-go-round for a brain. No matter how calm she tried to be, it was always a battle to relax and meditate, to stop over-thinking and putting up watchful barriers. The comparison to how she concentrated on patrol helped, shutting down her systems and only relying on instincts. Five minutes or so passed before the tension drained out of her.

The subtlety of relaxed body posture gave Whistler the 'go' that Rhiannon was ready. He'd added the cigarette smoke into the air as much for her benefit as his. Second-hand contact would keep any subconscious cravings from battling to her conscious mind while under hypnosis. "Alright, Rhi, focus solely on my voice." His tone was modulated, soothing. "Remember to breathe deep, in through the nose and out through your mouth. Let everything else drift away. When you're ready," he continued, "I want you to extend your right arm out in front of you, hand balled into fist. Hold it as straight and stiff as possible."


Something about his voice released anything else Rhiannon held onto. It was trusted, the tone softer than usual, like the way he spoke to her as a girl, when her spine wasn't quite so steely. She lifted her arm and closed her fist, a perfectly horizontal line above the plane of the floor.

Whistler let silence temporarily envelope them both before continuing. "Put all your concentration into your fist. Don't squeeze, no physical pressure. Just your thoughts. Imagine that you're holding onto a key. This key opens doors, Rhi. And it's your job to keep it safe. It's yours to use, no one else's, do you understand?"

Rhiannon's fist loosened from its automatically clenched state, no longer looking as if she punched the air. Her fingertips nudged closer to her palm while she imagined protecting the key. "Yes." She didn't notice the noises of other apartments anymore, or the traffic on the street. She pictured herself in a vacuum, dark surroundings with nothing but the sound of Whistler's voice.

He shifted slightly to keep the blood flow in his leg. "Feel the ridges of the key, Rhiannon. Each groove, the sharp curves, the cold metal. It's getting a bit warmer now. Can you feel it?"

Within her palm, she imagined she felt the metallic press of the key. It weighed next to nothing, like a modern house key. As she thought about it, a slow heat seemed to radiate from the object. That key and her arm were the only physical sensations she paid attention to now. "Yes."

"Allow that heat to travel through your fingers, up your arm, under it envelopes your entire being, Rhi." Whistler kept his focus on her breathing. "Deep breaths in, and with every breath, the warmth will spread. And with every breath out, you'll drift further to sleep."

The first time she breathed in, she imagined the heat climbing into her wrist. On the next, it spread to her elbow. On she continued, until the warmth radiated past her knees. The sensation was comfortable, like sinking a limb at a time into a tepid bath. Rhiannon no longer heard the deep, in-and-out of her breathing. Just his voice coming to her from a slight distance. The farther into the hypnotic state she got, the calmer she became, until left without fear or reservations.


More time passed in silence. The short man remained still, allowing Rhiannon to delve deeper into her trance. "When I count to three," he finally spoke, "you will open your eyes, but you'll remain completely in a state of relaxation. You will be alert, all your senses at the forefront. Everything will be available to you. The key in your hand will open any and all doors to your memory. There will be no fear, Rhiannon. Please repeat that. No fear."

"No fear." Rhiannon's arm remained outstretched and steady.

"When I count to three, you will be back at the day you encountered the collector. You will be an observer." Whistler risked taking another sip of his beer. "You can see, hear, smell and touch everything around you. Shadows will be filled with new light." Whistler waited another moment for his instructions to resonate. "One. Two. And. Three."

Rhiannon's eyes opened. She stared straight ahead at Whistler's shirt, but instead of tiny paisleys on a button-down, she saw the small, green yard in front of her apartment building, the postal service box out by the curb. The sun was overhead and bright, but the air was mild. The construction sounds of Lincoln Park found her ears from three blocks away.

"Rhiannon?" The voice could be a million miles away, yet he was seated less than 2 feet away. "Tell me where you are. What do you see?"

"I'm at my building," she said in an inflectionless voice, all the characteristic edges and dry wit smoothed away. "At the drop-off box. I can see me. I'm coming out the door with the mail." Off behind her, on the right, Rhiannon hears the soft putter of an old car, but doesn't look at it, and neither does the dream-version of herself. She sees herself checking the envelopes for stamps and making sure the envelopes are sealed.

He leaned forward slightly. "Now take a look around you, hon," he offered quietly. "Listen to the sounds, take stock of the smells of the street. Does anything seem out of place?"

A moment passed. Then, "Yes... There's a car parked across the street. I've never seen it before. It's dark. Brown, I think." She tried to focus on the face peering out the tinted window, but it was a white blob beneath the brim of a hat. As Rhiannon concentrated harder, the car blurred out of focus. Dream-Rhiannon only glanced at it, almost unconsciously, and continued sifting the outgoing mail. "There's a man in the car, but I can't see his face. He's rolling the window down."

"Okay good." The hatted man. "He's rolling the window down. Is it a hot day?"

Rhiannon thought for a moment. "No," she said tentatively. "Not really." As she continued to watch the scene unfold in almost slow motion, she saw the nozzle of a weapon ease out the window. "He has a gun," she said, looking back and forth between Dream-Rhiannon and the nozzle. "He's shooting at me, but I don't see."

"Remember, Rhiannon, he can't hurt you now." Whistler resisted reaching for her hand to offer reassurance for fear of shocking her out of the trance. "Is it a real gun or something else?"

"Darts," she says. "It just hit my arm. I knocked it out and hid behind the mailbox. He's rolling closer." Although assured of her safety, her voice was no longer quite so calm. It filled with concern for her hiding self, the shoes of whom she could see, and then her face as it peered around. "I'm running to the door, but my legs won't work."

"It's just a memory, Rhiannon, and they can't hurt you. Remember the key." Whistler picked up the cigarette his friend had refused earlier and lit it. "What else can you see? Concentrate on his body, his clothing. How he smells. Does the man talk to you?"

"No. He doesn't get out of the car, but the others do." Rhiannon strained to see the two men as they lumbered closer. "One's tall and hunched over. The other's short. He has twelve fingers." Try as she might, their faces would not come into clarity, because Dream-Rhiannon never saw them. All she saw was the pavement passing under her legs, their profiles in the dark interior of the car, the straps they held onto as the vehicle bumped along the streets. "My eyes won't stay open. I'm falling asleep."

"Don't fall asleep just yet, Rhiannon." Whistler leaned in. "Let's go back just a little bit. Right after the dart, when they came to pick you up. Do you recognize the make of the car? Or the license plate? Can you see the license plate?"

"Not at first," she said, balling her fist tighter around the key, letting the memory run its course a second time. Not until she saw Dream-Rhiannon being carried around back did anything come clear. The back bumper, the dented and dirty rectangle of metal hanging below the hatch. Her limp body went into the wagon facing forward. "It's a station wagon. The plates say Indiana. I can see the last three numbers. Eight two seven."

He nodded and wrote down the information provided on the back of a discarded napkin. "Okay, that's very good, Rhi. Now let's move forward, okay? We'll use the key to unlock what happens next. You're awake now, coming out from the effects of the tranquilizer. Where are you now?"

Rhiannon went quiet. After a few moments of silence, she said, "It's dark. I can't tell." The walls and the ceiling wouldn't come clear, even looking on as a third party, seeing her other self stretched out on a table, lit from above so brightly that the room beyond fell into shadow. The past tense version of Rhiannon blinked in the light and her head lolled to the side. "It's loud," she said. "I can hear things rattling in cages."


"Then let's focus on the sounds, okay? You recognized cages. That's great. A really great start." He took a drag of his cigarette, careful to blow out away from the brunette. "Don't pay attention to what you can't see, just listen to what you can hear. Focus on one sound at first, block out the rest."

"I hear rattling," she said. Then she saw the cage nearest the dosed Slayer begin to vibrate. From her stretched out position, Dream-Rhiannon squinted and tried to see what made the noise. "There are hands... Little hands shaking the door on a cage. There's a man inside. He... he's tiny. He's saying something but I can't understand the words. It isn't English."

Another sound came. Splashing water. Alongside the cage, a tank of water stretched across the gritty floor. For a moment, Rhiannon couldn't access the memory, but then she thought about the key Whistler had given her -- how it could turn locks in her mind -- and its waters became clear under a bulb that heated the aquarium. "There's a tank, too," she said. "Something swimming... It's like a horse, but with fins and a serpent's tail."

Rhiannon stretched her memory and saw other cages and tanks, too. A snake with two heads. A squawing bird with scales and feathers. She described each one in turn, finishing with a mermaid's tail that was mounted on a wall, the way some fishers mounted prized bass.

Again, he made notes. Every bit of information could lead to finding the culprit. "Let's try and expand a little. Can you make out any other details of the room you're in, Rhi? Is there any natural light streaming? Are there windows? Overhead lighting?"



Try as she might, Rhiannon couldn't access anything beyond the rattling catches and that brief glimpse of a gold spark floating away from her chest, before sleep reclaimed her. "No," she said. "I can't see. I'm asleep again."


Clearly the man had things well thought out. He kept his work clean and quick, and exposure to a minimum. Whistler rubbed the minor stubble of his five o'clock shadow. "Okay. Rhi, you're now moving forward to when you begin to wake up. Things might feel hazy, but remember, you're watching objectively. What's the first thing you remember?"

"Stairs," she said. "On the porch."

"How do you mean?" He asked. "Really look at the stairs. Concentrate."

"We're going down the stairs," she said. Carried along like a sack of potatoes, Dream-Rhiannon's head tipped back and saw the world inverted. The front porch step of Mr. Berg's house, the porch swing with a broken chain, the tall blades of uncut grass. "To the car in the driveway. Everything's upside down. The house is white with shutters."

White with shutters. Stairs to the porch. Swing with broken chain. Uncut grass. All written down. Whistler scrambled for another napkin. "You're doing great. Can you see a number on the house, Rhi? Or a mailbox?"

In her memory, the house and its details faded from view as she was carried away. She heard the crunch of gravel under the men's shoes, and the sound of the wagon's hatch opening. Down the street at some distance, a lawnmower churned up weeds. The world rocked crazily as they swung her body past the bumper and into the car. A black mailbox perched at the end of the driveway. Its red flag laid flat against the side, just below the stick-on characters.

"Eleven Grace Street."

Bingo.

Whistler jotted down the address, and stubbed out the rest of his cigarette into an ashtray. "Rhiannon, you've done extremely well, and it's now time to come home. I'm going to count again to three, and when I do, you will wake up. You will feel completely refreshed, and more importantly, you will remember everything about your encounter.

"And, uh, when you wake up, you think cigarettes taste like ass." It was worth a shot.

"One. Two. Three." Snap.

Rhiannon blinked and looked at Whistler. Finding her arm still hovering in the air, now on the verge of pins and needles, she flexed it and let it rest in her lap. After some silence, she said, "I have no idea how you just did that." Dry-mouth and a strange nervousness, brought on by having allowed herself to be so open, prompted her to reclaim her beer and take a few swallows.

"Doesn't work without a willing participant." He finished the rest of his beer. "And it's amazing how much you actually 'see' without realizing it, huh?"

"Shit," she said, eyes widening as she fully realized what Whistler meant. "I have an address." She set the bottle aside and unfolded her legs. "I have to call Jenny. Not... Slayer Jennie, psychic Jenny," she clarified. "Connor said there's another girl, too, Melinda, a telekinetic." She held onto the couch cushion and worked through her thoughts. "Joseph said the Collector's eighty years old. He's using human ingredients to do the spells."

Rhiannon clamped her lips together and found her friend's eyes. "Whistler..."

"He's human? Christ." That put a giant-sized wrinkle into the equation. "We can't just kill him. Not something we can report to the police. How do you charge someone for theft of metaphysical abilities?" Whistler pulled out another cigarette and lit it. "And we sure as hell can't just take the stuff back and let him move onto the next town to start over."

"You read my mind." Rhiannon touched her forehead, trying to work through that puzzle. A piece she'd have to put in place by the time they confronted the Collector. "God. I need a cigarette." She looked around for one he offered earlier, found it next to a beer bottle. Making quick use of a silver lighter, she lit up and took a drag.

She frowned. "Whistler, these taste terrible, how old are they?" Unfortunate side effect of nicotine addiction? She simply made a face and continued smoking it, her enjoyment mildly dampened.