Majgen Ch. 010

He often had to remind her to brush her hair or shower or change into a clean uniform, but he did not often have to reiterate instructions for her training exercises.

Majgen's special sensitivity, that was so severely affected if she had emotions of fear and anxiety, was only partially decreased by the feelings of hopelessness accompanying depression. Weissme got the impression that the unchanging emotional landscape of her depression actually increased her perceptive empathic abilities to a certain degree.

He would have known better if he had been with her when she had been with Femaron Baglian on Drom before the Femaron betrayed her trust. He had not caught on to it from her memories; somehow Weissme was unable to compare the information Majgen obtained from his own emanations to the information she had obtained from Baglian's.

"You have dipped your sleeve in your soup, you will need to change your uniform before we go out," Weissme informed Majgen.

"Don't change now, wait till after breakfast," he instructed, as his student put her spoon down and made moves to get up and leave the table. Majgen settled in her seat again, but let her arms hang down her sides instead of picking up her spoon again.

"Eat," the Ottearon ordered to get her back on track.

He was not as prone to corporal punishment as Baglian, but he would not tolerate disobedience in a student any more than Baglian. Majgen knew this and picked up the spoon to scoop more soup into her mouth. She disliked eating these days, since of late she had to swallow with force to push even soup down her unwilling throat.

After the meal Majgen went to her room and changed into a clean uniform. As soon as she returned to the living-room she was sent back to her room by one command from Weissme.

"Brush!"

Her hair had become a mess from pulling the outer cloak and inner blouse of her uniform over her head. Weissme did not bother to speak the full sentence - brush your hair - anymore, he was frustrated with needing to repeat that same order so many times a day.

Weissme was frustrated with many aspects of training Majgen.

For one thing he was frustrated at having to control every aspect of her personal hygiene.

"Did you remember to use deodorant today?" he asked as Majgen came back to the living room a second time. She shook her head and went back to her room.

Antwoine Weissme massaged his eyebrows, trying to dampen a fresh surge of frustration wanting to rise inside him.

The Ottearon was frustrated by how hard it was to figure out how to teach her to control her special abilities. The girl seemed capable of understanding what he wanted her to try and also fairly capable of doing just that, but every idea he got, and made her attempt, turned out fruitless.

'I just can't seem to find the logic behind her special sensitivity and I am running out of ideas,' he thought.

Majgen's special sensitivity was extremely valuable because she seemed to be able to obtain every kind of information from an empaths emanations. However, any kind of information was not good enough, she needed to be able to seek out important information far more efficiently.

'I need to teach her how to search for relevant data.'

It was scientifically interesting that she could gain memories of an empaths eleventh birthday party just by passing them in a hallway, but such things wouldn't be useful for purposes of interrogating prisoners of war.

Weissme took his hand off his eyebrows, his forehead was getting sore. He had a habit of rubbing his brows when something was bothering him and the frustrations Majgen caused him seemed endless.

He kept her close to him almost all day, every day. Feeling emotional misery in her emanations had become a nearly constant agony in his life. The fact that he was directly or indirectly responsible for most of her suffering coloured the continuing experience of sensing her with his own guilt, that made it even more unpleasant.

There were many frustrations for Ottearon Weissme in connection with having Student Majgen as his personal student.

One aspect of having Majgen close by bothered him far more than any of the others; Antwoine Weissme missed his privacy. He scanned his student at least every second day, and every single time he found more of his own memories in her mind. Apart from eerily vivid simple memory samples, the girl also caught on to an immense amount of the thoughts and comtemplations he had while with her.

Every time Weissme looked into her mind and sawher analysis ofhis thoughts and contemplations he felt dissected, judged and exposed. Sometimes he tried to explain his thoughts to her, when he saw in her mind that she disapproved of something he was thinking. However, mostly such an approach turned out to be very unsatisfactory for him.

"I hate that vacant look she gets when she listens to my emanations instead ofme," Weissme mumbled to himself.

His student had taken a long time to put deodorant on, he suspected she had forgotten time again.

'She is probably running a brush through her hair, over and over, lost in depressive thoughts.' Majgen mostly forgot to brush when she was meant to, but sometimes when he sent her to her room in other errands, she brushed her hair too.'I ought to go in there and fetch her.' He would have gone to check on her sooner if his yearning desire for privacy of mind had not been so strong. He cherished even this small moment of mental solitude.

'Evil grief,' he thought to himself, then he took a few deeps breaths to get his emotions under control and went to fetch his student.

----=(To feel and be felt)=----

Weissme had been right, Majgen was brushing her hair over and over, lost in thought. She was thinking about soup, she was thinking about how bottomless even a single bowl of soup appeared when she had to eat it and how she would have to eat at least three times a day every day for the rest of her life.

When the Ottearon entered her room she realised her hair was thoroughly brushed. She put the brush down and walked to her mentor. Seeing she was moving, Weissme turned round and left her room, Majgen on his tail.

They left his quarters and took an elevator to the building's garage. There Weissme's chauffeur was waiting for them. The Ottearon always hired a private chauffeur when he was staying at one of his homes for more than a day. The chauffeur took them to the Pachel clinique. Igmal Pachel was one of Weissme's old friends and owned one of the most successful and prestigious non-empathic mental health cliniques on the planet Lorean.

In the Ottearon's opinion Pachel was in possession of an unusual insight in matters of the mind, especially considering the man was non-empathic. Weissme had not seen Pachel for years and he looked forward to having what might very well become deep philosophical conversations.

He would not speak to Pachel of his current frustrations or of the girl that caused them, but he still hoped that Pachel's wisdom of life might give him a sense of peace, at least for a while.

Majgen perceived many of Weissme's memories of Igmal Pachel during the two hour travel from Weissme's home on planet Lorean to Pachel's clinique on same planet. Weissme had a home on each of the three planets populated by humans, as well as on most of the biggest and most centrally placed human space stations. In the last four months she had become acquainted with several of his apartments.

'I wish I had a friend like that,' Majgen thought when perceiving how warmly Weissme felt for Pachel,'but I don't, I don't have any kinds of friends. Maybe I never will.'

Ottearon Weissme was greeted by the clinique's staff in the most attentive manner, Pachel had even ordered his staff to learn the basics of mentarion etiquette as a preparation for his friend's visit. Antwoine Weissme assumed his old pal had wanted him to feel at home in the clinique during the tour he was sure Pachel would offer. His old friend never asked him to 'meet up at the clinique to head off to dinner from there' without ulterior motives.

'He must have been quite adamant when giving instructions on how to greet me,' Weissme thought, while maintaining an expression of mentarion dignity in spite of the humour bubbling within him.

The flustered secretary who caused this humour, was a middle-aged man who was trying to offer Ottearon Weissme coffee while also asking him if he was ready to be escorted to Pachel.

The intentions of the nervous man were a bit hard to decipher from his words, especially because the man was inserting the title Ottearon in every possible and impossible part of his sentences. Weissme estimated that on average every third word the secretary spoke to him was 'Ottearon'.

Ottearon Weissme remained absolutely still and kept his face unreadable retaining an appearance of mentarion dignity while waiting for the secretary to make an intelligible sentence.

Majgen had been ignoring her surroundings, but the undertone of panic in the secretary's voice stirred something inside her. She raised her eyes from the floor, to look at the man whose words seemed to become even more of a senseless babble the longer he talked. Majgen did what Weissme had not done; she entered the man's mind.

'That poor soul,' she thought as she felt the strength of the secretary's anxiety.

The man was in financial difficulties. Pachel had ordered his staff to welcome Ottearon Weissme with mentarion etiquette, but this secretary had not had a chance to study up on the basics of mentarion manners. He had been unlucky enough to be the one at front desk when Weissme arrived, now the secretary feared for his job.

Majgen got the impression that the man overestimated the risk this occurrence constituted to his employment, most likely because of the high level of stress his financial difficulties induced in him. However, her heart still bled with sympathy for the distress he was feeling.

'He is not used to mentarions, he doesn't know that Ottearon Weissme's manner is normal behaviour for his kind, the poor man thinks Weissme is furious. Of course he does, how else could one who doesn't know otherwise interpret such lack of response when seeing distress in a fellow person.' Majgen was ashamed on Weissme's behalf.

'I can't believe the Ottearon thinks this is funny. Is he blind? Femaron Baglian wouldn't have eased the man's suffering either, but Femaron Baglian wouldn't have been laughing inside in this situation.' Majgen wanted to clench her teeth, but mentarion dignity forbade it, she was meant to remain as still as her mentor.

The secretary finished yet another senseless sentence and went quiet as if expecting a reply.

'He isn't aware that his sentence was utterly meaningless. Why doesn't Ottearon Weissme say something?' Majgen focused her senses on her mentor, he was still amused.

'Why don't I say something?' She knew very well that she was meant to remain quiet unless spoken to, when moving in public with her mentor.

"Actually, Sir, Ottearon Weissme would like to be escorted to his friend, the Therapist Pachel. Once there he would like a heated Hacca brew with floating frosting, if you would be so kind, Sir," Majgen said and bowed to the secretary in the mentarion fashion.

Her statement brought immediate and clear emotions of relief relief to the secretary, it also caused a severe change in Weissme's emanations. First surprise, then disbelief and finally, after Ottearon Weissme touched the top of her mind - anger.

'Insolent brat! She knew exactly what she was doing, she knew I would disapprove and still she...' Weissme's thoughts were interrupted by the secretary's first understandable request.

"Follow me please, Ottearon. I will, Ottearon, take your Ottearoness to Pachel, Ottearon."

'I won't let her get away with this,' Weissme concluded to himself,'insolence like this has to be punished.' The Ottearon started contemplating punishments, while following the secretary.

Majgen followed Weissme's line of thought through his emanations. When she had seen relief wash across the secretary's face, she had felt her act of self-sacrifice had been worthwhile. However, now fear rose in her. She could follow how her mentor mentally discarded one punishment after the other, each of them for being too mild for the offence.

She was nauseated to realise that the Ottearon was looking forward to this opportunity to punish her severely. Majgen sensed from him that semi-consciously he expected that beating her would give relief to many of his frustrations regarding her.

'Semiconsciously,' Majgen thought,'Baglian would never consider such aspects semiconsciously, Femaron Baglian knows himself well enough to recognise his own ulterior motives consciously, at least in matters like these. He would also never plan future punishments while being agitated.' Feelings of revulsion began to intermingle with her fear.

When they arrived at Pachel's office the Ottearon halted the secretary before he could activate the door alert to announce their arrival.

"Just a moment, Secretary Tzatzavitj," Ottearon Weissme said and turned to Majgen.

"You will wait for me right here, next to this door, Student Majgen Rahan. You will not move from that spot until I come back for you, Student."

Majgen nodded in an obedient fashion and moved to stand at the wall right next to the door. Ottearon Weissme watched her get in place, his eyes were harder than a stern mask of mentarion dignity required.

'I will deal with you later, Student,' Weissme thought. Majgen picked this thought up from his emanations, it struck her harder than it would have if spoken loud.

Just as the door to the office opened and Weissme moved through the doorway Majgen obtained another piece of information from the Ottearon's emanations.

'Semiconsciously he is hoping I will try to run away while he is talking to his friend, he wasn't planning to leave me unguarded like this before I made him angry. He is hoping I will attempt to flee because it will give him further cause to beat me,' she thought while the door closed behind Weissme. Majgen's emotions were in turmoil, the depression she was suffering from withdrew from her conscious mind temporarily bested by strong emotions.

Anger aimed at Ottearon Weissme was trying to claim its right in her emotional spectre.

'He is trying to set me up, that agenda is semiconscious, but still... Part of him wants to fool me into bringing more punishment upon myself!' She pulled the hood of her uniform on with an aggressive lift, she was alone in the corridor but she was too well-trained in the mentarion ways to allow herself the luxury of grinding her teeth with her hood down.

'Ottearon Weissme still thinks of me as an irresponsible teenager, who would run from my duties like a coward if given the opportunity and a scare.' Majgen clenched her hands into tight fists.'I am not a careless teenager, I am a mentarion! And I willnot flee from my responsibilities. One in eighty million, I am one of the few that carries this gift to become able to heal the minds of others, to lessen suffering in my fellow person. I have no intentions of trying to let this gift go to waste. I amnot a child!'

For humans anger had always been a strong emotion, but also an emotion that would easily fade or hide in a person's deeper recesses when faced with inactivity and lack of stimulation, even for time-spans as short as to be measured in minutes.

Within less than an hour Majgen's anger had to yield to fears of what punishments Weissme was planning, she was also filled with a more general despair rising from the loneliness and lack of joy in her existence.

These emotions suited the emotional build of her depression and the clinically defined condition once again took hold of her conscious mind.

The design of the corridor was typical for non-empathic human company buildings. The walls and ceiling were coloured with a unanimous light shade of green, they were devoid of ornaments or patterns. The only decorations were pictures hung at orderly intervals. The visual impression the floor added was simple too.

The carpet was patterned but to Majgen the repetitive theme of the carpet seemed lifeless. If not suffering from a depression her word for the theme would most likely have been boring - not lifeless.

The elevator at the end of the corridor opened, and a man stepped out of it. Majgen heard his footsteps on the carpet and also heard how his footsteps stopped a good distance from her. She paid no heed to it however, she was used to the way suddenly noticing a mentarion very often caused non-empaths to pause their errands to gawk with surprise and curiosity.

The footsteps resumed after a couple of moments and continued their path down the hallway. The man passed her and walked on for a few steps, then he stopped and turned around to walk back to her again.

"Am I bad?"

Majgen raised her head at the sound of his voice to face the person talking. Her eyes appeared clouded and vacant, she was in a depressive daze. The man repeated his question talking slowly with emphasis on each word, he thought he was talking to a underdeveloped person.

"Am... I... bad?"

Pushing herself out of the daze, Majgen forced her eyes into focus and studied the man's face, while contemplating his question.

"Im sorry, Sir, I do not understand what you mean with that question. Would you care to be more specific, Sir?" Her clear phrasing startled him.

"Oh dear, I thought you were..." He managed to stop himself before saying 'retarded'. Majgen did not look into the man's mind, but she understood what he had been about to say. It was not the first time she had been mistaken for the Mentariata's only other adult rank 10 student.

"I... I..." He cleared his throat. "Im sorry to have... bothered you. I... ah... I need to go... I mean I need to be somewhere... not here... somewhere else. Another place you see. So... uh... good-bye." The man turned and walked away. Majgen resumed her waiting pose, not giving a second thought to the intrusion.

The man walked briskly to escape how awkward he felt regarding his mistake. He took the elevator back to the recreational parts of the clinique where he intended to try to find a way to divert himself from this new embarrassing memory.

He walked round a bit to find an appropriately distracting activity, he found that a smaller assembly of clients were watching dancing show broadcasts while sitting in comfortable couches in one of the glass-rooms. The room was sound proof but the people looked like they were practically yelling to each other while commenting the show, so he guessed the music was playing loud.

'Noise and company without commitment to talk. Perfect!' he thought to himself and entered the glass-room. The volume on the dance show had indeed been turned up to very high, the other onlookers were apparently used to this amount of noise, they seemed able to communicate well with yells and gestures. The newcomer however could only shake his head and shrug when they tried to talk to him, hence they let him be for the duration of the show.

The dance show kept running for more than half an hour after he arrived to the noisy sanctity of the room. As he had hoped the deafening beat of the music got his mind off the embarassing encounter with the Tenth Ranked Mentarion Student, while the show lasted at least.

As soon as the show ended, he fled the room. His motive to escape was that the onlookers chose that moment to turn the volume down, obviously desiring to focus less on viewing broadcasts and more on interacting socially.