until... ... until they were ready.
There is no problem. You are safe. You are safe.
[Mistakes... must know... mistakes...] You are safe from harm. You are safe from fear. Ease away from your concerns. . . .
[Stop them ... stop the mistakes ... stop the end of everything...]
Lyta Alexander, whose mind was being very quietly and deliberately ripped in half, sat in her quarters. Actually, sit was probably too mild a word. She was in a half-crouch, like a cornered animal, barefoot and atop her desk.
Her quarters looked as if a hurricane had blasted through, and as it so happened one had: Hurricane Lyta. She sat there, her feet partly curled up under her. Her hair was askew and she was muttering to herself, and her muttering was mirrored by the words on the wall.
"There is danger... danger... remember the danger," she said to herself, the words coming so rapid-fire that it might have been impossible for any listener to pick up what she was saying. But the words from her lips were not important. Rather, the words from the tip of the marker with which she was scribbling were the key elements. All over the wall, and even on the furniture, she had scribbled over and over again, "There is danger," mirroring the words she spoke. "There is danger, remember, there is danger. Remember. There is danger, remember," in all different sizes and shapes and colors as she had gone through one writing implement after another. There was barely any room left on the wall, and when there wasn't room she began writing on top of that which had already been written. It was the act of writing the words that was important, rather than the finished product. She wrote to reinforce her own worries and concerns, to try and sort out to the best of her desperate ability the voices that were