The Loop

Chapter 2: The Confusion.

The reception for chapter 1 has been really good. Hopefully, the same can be said about this and later chapters.

^8^

"But how...?!" He didn't feel anything. No foreign vectors entered his barrier. And as far as he's aware, that's not how vectors work. Then what? What could possibly bring him back here? Was it the work of an Esper? Likely. A reality manipulator on a universal scale? No Level 5 is that strong. Then a level 6? There's no such thing as a Level 6 except for...

"No, don't even go there. No such thing as that." He mumbled to nobody but himself. Sweat formed and flowed down his face, dripping down from his chin onto the tiled floor.

"Think, you cunt, think." He slapped himself multiple times, hissing over the overwhelming pain he'd inflicted upon himself. "What could possibly be the trigger that caused it?"

The coffee? No, then he'd gone back every time he touched one. The crashing? Those brats? That stupid conversation? He didn't even hear them yesterday and here he is! The clone can't be it as well, he didn't even see her yesterday!

Can he call it yesterday? Does it even exist?

Clicking his tongue, he kicked his front door, ripping through the hinges and sending it down onto the empty road. He walked out, practically still sweating from the adrenaline.

He didn't pick the stairway this time, choosing to jump over the rails. 'I need to think clearly when it comes to these kind of stuff', he thought.

He went back walking through the alley, letting his feet take him where he needed to be as his mind focused on what's really important.

When the sounds of the inner-city were registered in his brain, he realized something. The city is a bad place to clear one's mind, and the best way to make sure that a trigger remains inactive is to never activate it to begin with.

If he does nothing, then there's nothing to trigger.

With a lazy sigh and a rub at the back of his head, he turned on his heels and walked towards his apartment. A minute into the walk, he gave up and just jumped across the labyrinth of alleys.

Inside his apartment, he lay on his couch, head laid atop the palm of his hands, his left foot dangling on the side whilst his right was hanging on the couch's shoulder.

He lay there for minutes on end. Head visualizing while his eyes stare blankly at the grey, monotone ceiling of his. Occasionally, he would blow out breaths of air, or play with his hair.

It was boring, to say the least. He was so bored that he started drawing on his ceiling using the surrounding air and then multiplied its vibration, enough to create a small plasma. With it, he used the scorching heat as a marker. He made a few sketches, most of them are just doodles.

He also drew a toy car from his childhood during his time in the orphanage.

Another thing that he'd tried was reading. There were plenty of books on his shelf, many of which are classic and he had come to associate them with some sort of sophistication.

Reading these books was boring, however, which meant that it wasn't an ideal choice for a distraction.

But a distraction is still a distraction. He sucked it up and read through them, no matter the amount of pages. The worst one, however, was one book by Timothy Dexter. A pickle for the knowing ones, it's called. It's horrendously boring. It's a ridiculous and embarrassing tome. The spellings are eye-catching, and so was the content however.

Eye-catching, as in if you were to gouge out your eyes and use them as tennis balls for the dogs to play and chew with, maybe let the dogs hump your eye holes while you're at it.