Don't Let Your Schemes Be Dreams or: Life Lessons from the Annual Psychonauts Holiday Party

Somehow, the drinks at the annual Psychonauts Holiday Party never seemed to improve year after year, despite Truman’s repeated insistence that he would ‘make it happen.’ Sasha frowned into his martini glass -- the only true redeeming feature of the Holiday Party was the open bar -- and ignored the way the former interns were attempting to telekenetically pluck the badges from Coach Oleander’s shirt without Oleander noticing. They were hardly being subtle, but Oleander had never been particularly good with subtlety.

“Maybe we should stop them.” Mila said. Her own drink was very pink and very fizzy. A tiny umbrella poked out the top.

Sasha took a drag of his cigarette and shrugged. “I believe it will serve as an educational experience for all involved.”

The Motherlobe’s mess hall was decorated in strings of colored lights, and someone -- Helmut seemed like the most likely culprit -- had put on a playlist of guitar rock covers of classic holiday songs that piped over the speakers. Sasha thought it was an improvement over Otto’s usual insistence on atonal, rhythmic electronic music that put half the staff to sleep and the other half into a trance state that induced mild euphoria on themselves and everyone around them. Milla herself was dressed festively in greens and reds, abandoning her usual neons in favor of colors that were only somewhat more sedate. She looked unspeakably lovely. Sasha, as always, felt drab in comparison. He was dressed in his usual turtleneck and jacket, though he did wash his hands before he left the lab.

Milla said, “As long as no one gets hurt.” Her lips were pulled into a straight line, and Sasha could tell that she was fretting over the children.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Agent Vodello,” a voice piped up from below them.

It was good that Razputin’s skills at stealth were improving, but Sasha disliked surprises, and he disliked being ambushed even more. He glowered in Razputin’s direction. “Yes, thank you for your input, Junior Agent Aquato.”

Razputin just beamed at the two of them. He was wearing his usual outfit -- Sasha’s old clothes along with his helmet and oversized goggles -- though he had also accessorized with a fake white beard over his face that was liberally coated in cookie crumbs. “The Coach probably won’t steal their brains and turn them into fiery death machines again.” He took another look at where Junior Agent Nerumen had managed to seize Oleander’s hat and dangle it in the air above his head, much to Oleander’s obvious consternation. “Probably.”

“How are you enjoying the party, Razputin?” Milla asked. She was smiling again, because she was fond of all of her former campers.

“It’s been great!” Razputin insisted, somehow managing to brighten even more. “There’s all this delicious food, and my parents didn’t manage to convince Hollis or Truman that the Flying Aquatos should be allowed to perform during the party.”

“That’s wonderful, darling!” Milla said. “It’s nice to hear you’re enjoying yourself.” She offered him a cookie. This one was shaped like a Christmas tree and covered in green sprinkles. Razputin grabbed it immediately and scarfed the entire thing down without taking a breath.

“Ugh, Raz!” Lili Zanotto scampered out of the crowd to grab at his sleeve. “You’re taking too long and we couldn’t find--” She looked up to see Sasha and Milla standing there, and her mouth snapped shut.

Sasha raised an eyebrow. He had spent enough time as a camp counselor to know when a child was keeping secrets from the adults. He didn’t even need to be psychic to feel the way her consternation was vibrating in the air. “Was there something you wanted to tell us, Ms. Zanotto?” he asked.

“Uh, nope.” Lili said. “There was just something that um, uh, Uncle Bob wanted Raz to see, and now we’re going to go now-- to see Uncle Bob.” She yanked harder at Razputin’s sleeve, shooting him a furitive look.

Razputin glanced back at her, grimaced, and babbled to Sasha and Milla, “Right, I have to go see -- Uncle Bob, I mean, not that he’s my uncle, but Bob Zanotto, who is Lili’s uncle.” He let himself be dragged back into the crowd with a little wave of farewell in their direction.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Milla asked. She did always take an interest in the students’ interests, no matter how trivial they seemed.

Sasha took another puff of his cigarette. “We could have peeked into their minds and found out.”

“You know we only do that when we think they’re in danger,” Milla chided.

“It’s true that Razputin has an uncanny knack for finding trouble,” Sasha admitted, “but I think he’s demonstrated that he’s more than capable of handling it -- with or without our assistance.”

Milla laughed, the sound of it bubbling up into the air. “That he has, darling.”

Sasha didn’t let himself dwell on the conversation for too long. It was natural for the children to get up to mischief, and it was just as natural to let Ford Cruller deal with the fallout of it. As long as no one’s brains exploded, Sasha considered his instruction and supervision a success.

The party dragged on. Sasha was pulled into an argument between Cassie and Hollis about the proper practical applications of mind linkage during operations. He attempted to listen sympathetically next to the bar as Helmut bemoaned his inability to serenade Bob during the party due to his current lack of vocal chords. Despite Razputin’s protests, the Flying Aquatos did put on an impromptu performance in the middle of the mess hall and almost knocked several light fixtures off the ceiling while Razputin hid his face in his palms.

As the night drew to a close, the crowd began to thin. The former interns seemed to have given up on their attempts on Oleander’s person, despite the fact that Oleander was slumped over in one of the booths, snoring loudly and drooling out of one corner of his mouth. Ford Cruller was chatting with the other members of Psychic Seven. They seemed to be having a spirited debate about the very first Psychonauts Holiday Party and who was responsible for shattering all the windows in the old office with a particularly unfocused psi-blast.

Sasha was about to call it a night himself and go back to his quarters when it struck him all at once -- a psychic distress signal coming from the direction of Hollis’ classroom.

Despite the few drinks he’d imbibed that night, he was still a psychonaut, responsible for the mental safety of the people within this building. He lept into action, running in the direction of the distress signal as fast as he could. The room was empty when he arrived, dark and silent and still. Sasha attempted to reach out with his psychic senses, trying to get a fix on the disturbance.

There was a flash of psychic energy behind him, something bright and vivid, and he spun around, only to come face to face with--

“Milla!” he said. She had hurried into the room herself, one hand to her temple, also searching for the source of the distress.

The lights flicked on. Before them floated the psychic projection of a hand. Its index finger pointed upwards, toward the ceiling. Sasha did not believe in following the instructions of psychic threats, but he still looked up.

“Oh,” Milla said, and Sasha could understand the sentiment. The entire ceiling was covered in greenery that hadn’t been there before. All of it had been roughly taped to the plaster haphazardly with duct tape. Milla squinted at it. “What type of plant is that?” It did look to be of a single type, small clusters of long, thin leaves.

“I don’t believe it has any psi-sensitive properties, but perhaps I could take a sample back to the lab…” Sasha mused. He reached up to telekinetically pluck a sprig from the ceiling.

As he did so, he heard the sound of hushed whispers. “I told you this was a stupid plan,” one of them hissed. “Of course it didn’t work.”

“How is this my fault?” another said. “Sam’s the one who got too much mistletoe.”

“You’re the one who couldn’t find anything better than duct tape,” yet another answered. Apparently the junior psychonauts had cooked up more than one scheme for the night. This did explain why Oleander had been left unperturbed in his sleep.

Sasha glanced over at Milla, who was doing her best to hold in her laughter. Poor dears, Milla said over their psychic connection, they sound so upset.

He had never considered himself a particularly giving or demonstrative person, but tonight, he had enjoyed the alcohol and the company, and he was feeling generous. All right. Shall we give our audience what they want? Out loud, he said, “Ah, I see. It seems as though we have stumbled into one another underneath the mistletoe.”

Milla did smile at that, the way she always did when she thought Sasha was ‘pushing his boundaries in a healthy and productive way.’ “Oh, darling,” she replied, her voice dramatic and breathy, “we can’t ignore such an important tradition. We’d be setting such a terrible example.”

Sasha’s heart thudded in his chest, the rhythm of it speeding up despite his attempts to keep it steady. Had he ever imagined this moment before? His censors were the best in the business, and they wouldn’t have let even the tiniest hint of this slip through. He and Milla were partners, colleagues, friends. It would be far too dangerous to jeapordize their working relationship on an idle whim. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose we have no choice.”

He leaned toward her. She leaned toward him. Their lips met. It would have been an unremarkable kiss, but Milla was anything but unremarkable. The emotion he felt was all too familiar, but until now, he’d only ever seen it in the minds of others. It reminded him of the first time he ever used his psychic powers, the way his understanding of the world had tilted ever so slightly to the left when he realized he could sense things he had never sensed before. His breath caught in his throat.

Behind them, there was the sound of scuffling. “Did something happen?” a voice hissed that sounded suspiciously like Razputin. “You’re in my way. I couldn’t see.”

“The show is over,” Sasha said, clear and loud, knowing that they could hear him now. He let himself smirk as the sounds of scuffling morphed into the pitter-patter of scurrying feet.

When they were alone, he turned back towards Milla. Her eyes were twinkling. “Merry Christmas, Sasha,” she said.

“Merry Christmas, Milla,” Sasha replied, and he let her lead her back to what remained of the party.