BRAIN CHIP pt. 2
(By NEUROFABULOUS)
Plankton blinked, his breathing shallow.
For a moment, she saw the man she knew.
But it was fleeting. His gaze
shifted again, searching for something
that wasn't there. "Karen?" he asked,
his voice unsure. "Safe? Karen."
Karen felt a spark of hope, but it was
quickly extinguished when he began
to echo her words once more, his speech
still broken and erratic. "Safe," she
whispered, her voice barely above a
whisper. "You're safe, Plankton."
He nodded, his eye still not quite
focused on hers. "Safe," he echoed, his
tone softer now. "Safe, Karen." The
humming in his throat had ceased,
but his hands remained in a constant
flurry of movement, as if searching
for something only he could see.
"Yes, you're safe," she assured him,
her voice steady, trying to hold onto
the fragile thread of sanity that
was weaving through his words.
She took another tentative step closer,
hoping that physical proximity
would help ground him. "I'm here."
Plankton's hand reached out,
his movements less frantic now,
his voice still echoing hers, "Here.
Karen, here. Say Karen."
Karen nodded, her voice a soft
whisper. "I'm here, Plankton."
The repetition seemed to soothe
his nerves somewhat. His breathing
evened out as he mirrored her words.
"Karen here. Here Karen."
Her hand hovered over his,
their fingers almost touching.
"You're ok," she said, willing both of
them to believe it. "You had a fall, but
you're ok now."
Plankton's hand stopped moving
for a moment, his eye focusing
on hers. "Ok," he murmured.
"Fall." The echo was faint,
but it was a start.
Karen took a deep breath,
her heart pounding in her chest.
"You're ok," she said again,
hoping the repetition would
bring him back to her. "You
fell, but you're ok."
Plankton's hand twitched,
his eye flickering with a spark
of something that resembled
understanding. "Ok," he echoed,
his voice softer. "Fell. Ok." He
started to rock again.
Karen watched him, her mind racing.
What was happening to her husband?
The fall had changed him, his speech
reduced to echoes and fragments.
Was it a concussion? Shock?
Or was it something more serious?
Her eyes searched his, looking for
any sign of the man she knew, but
his gaze remained distant, lost in
his own thoughts. "Plankton," she
said, her voice filled with love
and concern. "Look at me."
He blinked, his eye flicking up
to meet hers barely before he
averted her gaze. "Karen,"
he murmured, the word a question
and a statement, disliking eye
contact.
Karen felt a surge of panic,
but she pushed it down, focusing
on keeping her voice calm.
"Look at me, Plankton," she
coaxed. "It's ok. You're safe."
He took another deep, shuddering
breath, his hand still fluttering.
Slowly, his eye met hers again, but
then he squeezed his eye shut to
avoid it.
Karen felt a tear slip down
her screen. "Look at me," she
whispered, her voice cracking.
"Please, Plankton."
Slowly, his eye opened, meeting
hers for a brief moment before
flitting away again, as if shy.
Karen tried to hold his gaze,
desperation clinging to every
word she spoke. "Plankton, I'm
right here. You're safe with me."
His eye darted away again.
Her mind raced. What could be
causing this? Was it the fall?
The impact? Or something
deeper, something she couldn't
see? The silence in the room
was deafening, filled only with
the echoes of their fragmented
conversation. She took another
deep breath, willing herself to
think clearly.
"Plankton," she said, her voice
soft, "can you tell me your full
name?"
His eye searched her face, his
hands still fluttering. "Plankton,"
he murmured. "Karen said Plankton.
Plankton response, full name. Name,
Sheldon Jay Plankton." It was a small victory,
but it was something. He knew
his full name. Perhaps there was hope
yet. "Good," she said, her voice
soft. "Now, can you tell me what
my birthday is?" Plankton nods.
"31 July 1999."
Karen felt a mix of relief and
disbelief. Despite his condition,
his memory was still intact.
It was his speech, his ability
to form coherent thoughts and
maintain eye contact that was the
problem.
"Plankton," she began, her voice
gentle but firm, "I need you to
stay still for me, ok?" His
body stiffened slightly, his eye
flitting towards her before
quickly darting away. "Look at me,
just for a moment."
Karen watched as Plankton's eye
moved back to hers, the fluttering
of his hands momentarily halting.
"Good," she said, her voice filled
with encouragement. "Now, I
want you to tell me, without
echoing, what your favorite color
is."
Plankton took a deep breath,
his eye locked on hers, the
challenge clear. "Color," he murmured,
his voice a whisper. "Favorite."
He paused, his mind working overtime.
"Red," he finally said, the word
escaping his lips like a
sigh of relief.
Karen's eyes widened with
hope. He'd answered without
echoing. "That's right," she said,
smiling softly. "Your favorite
color is red."
The room felt a fraction less
heavy as Plankton's shoulders
slumped in relief, his stimming
subsiding slightly. "Red," he repeated,
his voice stronger this time,
his eye lingering on hers. "Red."
Karen felt a flicker of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, she could
reach him through these
fragments of speech. She had
to try. "What time i---" But then
Plankton interrupts. "Time is
the continuously indefinite
progression of existence
occurring in an apparently
irreversible succession from
the past, through the present
and into the future. It is a
component quantity of various
measurements used to sequence
events, to compare the duration of..."
Karen's eyes widen as she tries to
interrupt his sudden outpouring
of information.
This isn't just a concussion.
This is something she's never seen
before, something that scared her
to her core. She gently squeezes
his hand. "Plankton," she says,
trying to get him to focus. "What
I meant was, do you know what
tim-"
But he cuts her off again, his
voice a recitation. "Time is
a dimension in which events can
be ordered from the past through
the present into the future, and also
the measure of duration of events
and the intervals between them."
Karen's eyes fill with tears.
Her simple question had triggered
a deluge of encyclopedic facts.
"Plankton," she whispers, her voice
shaking. "I just need to know if you
know what time i---"
He starts again, his words rapid
fire, each syllable a bullet. "Time,
a nonspatial continuum that allows
for the existence of events in sequence."
Karen's mind spun. This wasn't
the Plankton she knew, the man who'd
always had a way with words but
now they were cold, clinical, not
his own. "Plankton," she interrupted,
firm but gentle. "Please, just tell me
what time you think it is now."
He stared at her for a second, his
eye unblinking. Then, as if a switch
flipped, he said, "Time is the
measurement of moments and
temporal intervals." His voice had
shifted, no longer robotic but
still not quite right.
Karen knew she had to keep trying.
"Plankton," she said, her voice steady,
"what time do you think it is right now?"
His eye darted around the room,
his mind racing. "Time," he murmured,
his voice a mere echo of his former self.
"Now." It was a simple answer, but
the way he spoke it made Karen
churn. There was a detachment
to his tone, as if he was reciting
a line from a play he hadn't quite
memorized.
Karen took a deep breath,
fighting the panic that threatened
to consume her. "Plankton," she said,
enunciating each word carefully, "do
you know what time it is?"
He looked at her, his eye
flicking to the clock on the
mantle. "Time," he murmured. "Clock.
Tick-tock." He wasn't
telling the time; he was just
describing the clock. She tried
again, her voice strained. "Plankton,
please, tell me what the clock
says."
He looked at her, his eye unfocused.
"Clock," he murmured. Then, with
a jerk, he turned his head to look
at the clock. His hand moved to
his forehead as if to ease the
pain of processing the information.
"Five," he finally said, his voice
still flat. "Five o'clock pm, pacific time."
Karen felt a glimmer of hope.
At least he could still read the clock.
But his inability to answer a simple
question without breaking into
a disjointed monologue was odd.
"Plankton," she began again,
choosing her words with care.
"I need you to tell me what you had
for lunch to..." "Chumbalaya!" He
exclaims. "10:43.51 am pacific time."
Karen's eyes widened. His response was
unexpected, jolting her with fear.
This wasn't just a slip in
conversation; it was as if his
brain was rewiring itself in real-time.
"Love," she said, her voice shaking,
"Just tell me what you had for lunch."
"Chumbalaya had for lunch, at 10:43:51
am pacific time."
Karen's mind raced as she
tried to decode his words.
He'd mentioned a time, but
it didn't make sense in the
context of her question. Was
it a memory, a random fact?
Or a clue to what was happening
to him? "Plankton," she said,
forcing calm into her voice, "can
you tell me what you ate?" "Ate
Chumbalaya!" He says.
The sudden clarity of his answer
was a relief, but it didn't
explain his strange behavior.
Karen took another deep breath,
trying to stay composed.
"Okay," she said, her voice
shaking slightly. "But what
was the actual meal?" Plankton
looked confused, his hand
flapping again. "Meal, meal,"
he murmured, his eye searching
the room. "Food. Chumbalaya was
Plankton's consumption for lunch."
Karen's brow furrowed as she
tried to parse his words.
"Food," she echoed. "What else
did you have with your Chumbalaya?"
He paused, his hand stilled for
a moment as he searched his
memories. "Breadsticks," he said,
his voice a little clearer now.
"And soda. Diet soda. Consumed.."
The sudden clarity in his
speech was jarring, but it
gave her a glimmer of hope.