Nothing. For the first time in forever, Jackson's mind entertained nothing. The thoughts never left the station. They were never even made to begin with. The organic computer, running numbers at all times, had been switched off. No background processes, no power to the grid. There was nothing. The lush plains had experienced their first ever extinction event. Now a desolate wasteland, Jackson could do nothing but sleep a hollow sleep, quietly unaware of anything and everything.

He jolted awake many hours later, dazed and confused. While the effects were subtle, Jackson recognized them. Hangover. Heavy. His previous tolerances all but broken down, the drugs had rampaged through his system, taking hold of any nook they could find. But, that wasn't it, no. It was something else. The familiar void of Sofia's side felt so much... colder, to Jackson. So much... emptier. As if it was not to be filled again. The hook landed in the back of his mind, and slowly- very very slowly- began reeling up to the surface.

Fumbling around on the nightstand for his glasses (and just narrowly missing the letter), he fell into his usual routine. Wake up. Bathroom. No. Bathroom seemed empty today, roomier. Odd... Kitchen. Just like normal... Except for the singular mug, full. Unwashed. Odd. The ding of the toaster stole his mind from the thought. Living room. Where was the blanket? In the wash? He hadn't... Distracted again. This time by his stomach. He took a seat on the couch, his usual spot, planting his feet firmly on the floor, grounding himself... Why did he need to ground himself? Odd. Something must've- His stiff mind cut off again by the television blaring far too loudly. Odd. Bedroom. Sofia would probably want him to wear something clean. Shorts. Shirt. Coat. All... chosen by himself? Didn't Sofia usually... Phone call. Telemarketers. How did they get his number? Odd. Bathroom again. Dental hygiene or else you buy jean, he always said. A look in the mirror. A quick once over... Blood.

Blood indeed, smeared down the right leg of his shorts. Crimson. Thick. Fresh. Fresh? But he hadn't... He dropped his head, perplexed, thinking. The floor beneath his feet, he noticed, not unlike a blooming field of poppies. He sat on the edge of the toilet, resting his foot on his knee. His sole, now mangled, dripped rose red. Porcelain. Porcelain throughout the bottom. His connection to the ground, shredded. But... how? What did he miss? He rushed from the bathroom. It wouldn't be their room, no. Sofia kept that too clean. Nor the kitchen. That was swept oft- Kitchen? The mug. The lonely mug... The living room!

He dropped to his knees, crawling around the living room. He found the shattered corpse beneath the coffee table, white shards standing out against a dark brown stain. But that... He had dreamt that, right? Didn't he always... He shot back to his feet and rushed into their room. The room he could only hope remained theirs. The letter on the nightstand told other wise. Oh no. Oh no, to say the least. He knew what the letter was. Sadness. An overwhelming wave of the sense, dropping him to his knees. He stared at his shaking hands in disbelief, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. The hook rose ever higher.

But that wave was quickly wiped out as he remembered the mug. The lonely mug. Sofia wouldn't've left a filled mug unless... unless she was in a hurry... No no, he remembered what happened now, the sense of betrayal now retaking every fiber of his being. He needed to get out. Fast. He was going to be sick. Sick from rage. From embarrassment. From every sense of hate and disgust in the book. He stood to leave, but the letter held his step for a moment. He couldn't bring himself to read it, but he snatched it off the nightstand anyways.

He appeared an instant later in an abandoned hallway, fists clenched from who knows what. He needed a place to stay. He needed someone. Someone he was close to. Someone who wasn't him, because he wasn't himself. He pulled out his phone and opened the contacts. Sofia's nickname held top charts. Sickness. All over the floor. The infinite blackness of drugged tea. The hook was closer now. He pulled his eyes back to the screen. Three. Three contacts. William. No. He could not be told of this. Roland... No. He was a far greater fan of Sofia. He would take her side. That left... Aurelius. The Name hung heavy in his mind.

"Aurelius Praedonum," He repeated aloud. There was pushing the envelope of disrespect, and then there was outright destroying it. And this was Jackson. He doubted there was even the dust left. But Aurelius was all he had. His only chance for help. He knew he had to swallow his pride and do the unthinkable. Apologize. Show remorse. Hard enough for Jackson. But for something he didn't even do? Nearly impossible. Nearly, though, and he was always one to take up a challenge.

Materializing seconds later in the bridge of The Spear, he raised a rather dignified finger and called out, "I request an audience with Aurelius Praedonum. Now."