I don't deserve this.

It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed Frank Calhoun's mind as he reclined against a sturdy rock and let his eyes drift over the ocean waves below the cliff. Those hazel colored 'windows to the soul' revealed the depth of weariness that had been pressing him down for several months now.

The constant service in Kaidan. Front row seats to the apocalypse. Day after day of soul crushing horror and despair. Victory there wasn't just elusive; it was likely completely impossible.

Impossible there. Maybe impossible everywhere.

The gray-green waters crashed against the shore.

Then there were the nightmares. Frank brought a calloused hand to his stubble girt face and rubbed at it silently. The nightmares of futility and failure, of suffering, of pain.

And the voice stridently telling him to wake. A voice he was sure of, but somehow couldn't remember when he left the world of dreams and slumber.

A voice that he knew wasn't his own.

Two gulls glided just inches above the water, dots of white against the darker waves. Frank watched them for a few moments, feeling envy gnaw away at him. To be able to fly. To be free. Of all of this.

He sighed, closing his eyes. He couldn't be free—none of Gaia's Chosen could—but for the time being he did have a sanctuary. A place he could try to rest and sort out what was wrong in his head and in his heart.

Felicity Bane and Mihaela Bereza had opened their home to him. Few knew of its exact location—quite intentionally—and he was honored and humbled they would bring him in. Frank remembered what Fel had told him when he had warned her he was frightened of what he might be becoming.

“You don't have friends just for the easy times, Frank.”

He didn't deserve this.

And yet.

His eyes snapped open. Grunting softly, the American-turned-Londoner pushed himself up to his feet, scanning the rocky beach. This stretch of the coast where their house was located was supposed to be relatively free of human habitation.

But he'd heard a voice down there, somewhere.

And it had called his name.

The wind that rolled off the ocean was cold, cold even against the jacket and ratty knitted cap he wore. It had taken him a few minutes to carefully pick his way down to the shore, and now Frank walked cautiously along. There wasn't anyone along the rocky beach that he could see. There weren't any prints, no sign of other humans.

He'd learned long ago that didn't necessarily count for much in the Secret World. There were all kinds of things that could fade from normal sight. Or mimic human speech.

Frank paused for a moment in his search, his hiking boots sinking into the wet sand where he stood.

After waking up a few times with his holdout weapon drawn and armed, Frank had stopped sleeping with a weapon close to hand. When he'd arrived at Fel and Mika's house, he'd turned over his carry piece, at the point he no longer trusted himself around non-hostiles.

Non-hostiles? Is that what it was in his head now?

Brow furrowed, Frank considered how those decisions affected him at present. Here he was searching for something possibly dangerous—and he was completely unarmed.

Scanning the beach, Frank noted another possibility, his frown deepening.

He could just be going bat shit crazy. Maybe there was only so much the Bees could do to cushion the mind of a Chosen.

Spitting in annoyance, Frank started moving again. Crazy or not, he was going to search a little more along the beach.

Fifteen minutes later, he still hadn't seen hide nor hair of another soul. Just gulls. Nor had he heard a distant voice calling his name.

Exhaling a long, frustrated breath, Frank shut his eyes again, rubbing his hands over his face. Maybe he'd go ask Mika what he might take to help this, she did medical research after all...

...when he removed his hands from his face and opened his eyes, he was somewhere else entirely.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

Frank turned rapidly in one direction, then another. All around him were tall, strong oaks and black alders, forming a verdant canopy above his head. The land sloped up and away on both sides of the trail he was on. On his right hand a small creek wound away from him, bubbling and burbling to itself.

Here it was summer. He could feel the humidity. He could hear the buzz of insects.

This place was familiar. The trail branched, one section continuing around a bend in the land following the creek, another heading up the side of a tree covered hill, heading towards...

His thoughts slowed, like thick mud. He couldn't...couldn't remember.

“Oh God,” Frank murmured, his heart beating faster and faster. “Oh God. It's happened. I've gone completely bibbledy fuck insane.”

He received no answer from the creek, nor from the insects flitting around his head. Breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down, Frank allowed his gaze to go up the trail that led over the hill. It went somewhere he'd been before. Somewhere he should be able to recall--

It would come up to a country road. Tall grass. The road led to a house. A house with a living room painted marigold.

A marigold room. A marigold room. Amarigoldroomamarigoldroomamarigoldroom...

Baring his teeth as his thoughts went from sluggish to frenetic, Frank shook his head from side to side.

Why was a marigold room important? Why couldn't he remember--

A voice.

Blinking, Frank stared along the other branch of the trail, the one that led along the creek. He'd heard a voice again. It had called him by name.

A young woman's voice. He should know...

Again, thoughts became glacial. His head pounded.

Frank.

His nose started to bleed.

Frank, follow the creek. Please.

“Doesn't...matter. I reckon. I'm. Nuts. Anyway!”

Growling out the words, Frank stumbled along the trail, the creek bubbling along heedless of his discomfort.

Around the bend, he saw the speaker. He knew it was her, even in his addled state.

The young woman—no more than a teenager, really—was seated on a flat rock, splashing bare feet in the creek.

Slight of build. Shoulder length dark brown hair. Blue jeans and a faded Wilmington High t-shirt. She turned her head to regard him, and hazel eyes that were the mirror of his own twinkled.

Lauren. His sister.

Dead for over a decade. He had spent years of his life grieving, blaming himself.

There was no condemnation on her pale face. Only love. And something else.

Something sad.

“What...what the fuck is goin' on?” Frank rasped in disbelief. Here he was seeing her again for the first time in...

But a part of him felt he had seen her before now.

The marigold room.

Lauren laughed softly, getting up off the rock and dusting off her jeans.

“Hello, Frank. I've been waiting for you to come back here.”

For several heartbeats, Frank just stared at what appeared to him at least to be his sister Lauren.

Except that it couldn't be her, because she was dead.

The smile on her face started to falter as he remained rooted in place, like a statue.

“Frank, I--”

Whatever she was going to say next was halted by an inchoate exclamation from Frank that fouled into an agonized moan. He staggered forward, falling to his knees as he clamped his hands to his head.

“Can't be real,” he stammered. “Going...going insane! Lauren, you're dead. You can't be here!”

Face pinched with growing concern, the teenager started forward as he started to rock back and forth.

“Frank, please, I can help. I can explain--”

It felt like his skull was about to burst. Like something was trying to claw its way out.

“What's happenin' to me!?” He bit out the words, teeth clenched as tears of pain started to roll down his cheeks.

Lauren bent down next to him.

“You have to trust me! I'm...Frank, I'm going to help you now. I'm going to help you understand. I'm going to help you remember.”

She raised her hands, palms open to him. He merely stared back, eyes wide, jaws clenched against the awful pain. Taking a deep breath, she placed her hands on the sides of his face.

“Remember, Frank. Remember.”

The words were murmured, soft. Gentle.

And he did.

He remembered everything.