You *carefully* head to your algorithms class.

Your next class, Algorithms, is held in a small, dingy computer lab across campus. You walk deliberately, eyes firmly staring ahead, immediately darting down the instant another person comes into view. Campus is relatively tiny, so you arrive there in about five minutes, but you're so nervous about accidentally affecting anybody around you, it feels like twenty. Still, after what seems like a torturous eternity, you arrive there.

The class is "taught" by a part-time teaching assistant who obviously could care less about his job. What's his name? Brad? Brian? You really don't remember, and don't particularly care. You've heard rumors that he only has the position because he's the nephew of some high-up administrator at the college, and you can definitely believe it, as he certainly doesn't seem qualified to teach the subject, mostly regurgitating words from your textbook -- when he bothers to lecture at all, that is. Most of the time he sits at his desk while having all of you do machine problems.

Today is no different. You take your seat in the lab, which consists of two long, glass tables. (The fact that they're glass is somewhat odd; maybe the school got them cheap when some business liquidated? you wonder.) Atop each table sits two rows of mid-range computers, facing away from each other, and each is accompanied by an old, threadbare office chair. The room is warm from the combined heat of all the machines and their large monitors, but not uncomfortably so.

You move to sit in your usual seat -- back row, left-hand side, near the door -- when you realize that's probably a very, very bad idea. There are no assigned seats, but you usually sit at that spot for a certain reason, a reason that you probably shouldn't encounter today. Instead, you choose to sit way over in the back right-hand corner, away from the door.

You move the mouse to wake up your machine, and type in your student ID and password to log in. The desktop appears, and you double-click on the Visual C++ icon to launch it.

Just as you do... the reason you usually sit near the door there walks in. Or, rather, she glides in, as though she were floating, her feet not quite touching the ground.

She is beautiful. Her raven-black hair flows in waves around her head, falling nearly to her waist. Her skin is like velvet, the color of cafe au lait. She wears a pleated scarlet skirt that extends down to her knees, and below that, sheer black stockings and what appear to be sensible black flats. (You think. You've never really paid attention to shoes beyond their ability to protect your feet from pointy objects.) Above her waist, she wears a sleeveless white shirt, and a simple knitted pink sweater.

She sees you sitting in a spot different from your usual one, and is briefly surprised. You don't notice this, though, as you are very deliberately looking at any and every corner of the room except her eyes. You're briefly pissed off at the Manipulator on your forearm; normally the two of you exchange a friendly smile and nod, and despite the fact that you don't even know her name and are too shy to ask, that little exchange almost almost perks you up a bit. Now that damned armband has taken that away from you.

Despite your attempt to avoid her, she takes a seat diagonal and across from you, and logs into her machine. For the first time, you're annoyed that the class is relatively sparse, as the few other students that filter in all take seats at the other table -- maybe because the lighting is a bit brighter on that side of the room. You could use the distraction, and curse yourself for not sitting at the front table with them. Oh well, too late to change now, you think. _The TA, or worse, she, might ask you why you're moving, and that could open a whole other can of worms I'm not ready to handle._

You plunge yourself, wholeheartedly, into your work, and as you do, the shift in attention helps you a little bit. Nevertheless, you can't help but get a little introspective. It's not as though you have a "thing" for Indian women, any more than you have a "thing" for Asian women, or blondes, brunettes, redheads... okay, maybe redheads, but you digress. You're a shy, horny, lonely, nineteen-year-old straight virgin male. Your "type" is women who are alive and breathing. But, honestly, it goes deeper than that. You revel in variety and difference, and you believe that almost everybody is beautiful in their own way. Heck, you've even found yourself staring at some guys from time to time, although you're pretty confident that you don't swing that way in general. The simple fact is that you're intensely curious, intensely empathetic, and intensely horny, and the three of these combine to form some sort of Sex Voltron that essentially means you just want to see and experience the physical, intimate side of so many different people.

But what's going to happen now? you think. I've always enjoyed looking at all those different people, comparing and contrasting them, imagining how they appear underneath their clothes. I can't exactly do that when any stray eye contract could lead to me inadvertently fucking with their brains!

Your id pipes up, reminding you that the Manipulator gives you the power to actually see what anybody looks like, instead of fantasizing about it.

Of course I know that, you snap at yourself. But at what cost? This thing can't just be some sort of magic wish-fulfillment device, and I have no idea what sort of permanent effect it might be having on others. I won't risk harming other people just to satisfy my own libido.

You shake your head briefly, as though trying to shake the thoughts off of you; you're supposed to be working on algorithms, after all, not psychoanalyzing yourself. But as you stare at the code on your screen, your eyes defocus, and your mind flits off into reverie. You fantasize about what she looks like under that shirt. You assume she's wearing a bra, as you've faintly seen the outline from time to time; what color is it? Is it simple, or elaborate? Beneath it, what size are her breasts? Does she have large areolas around her nipples, or small ones?

You get the urge to briefly glance at her, sitting across from you, and quickly stifle it. For the first time, you curse the glass tables in this room, as they give you a perfect view of the sheer stockings covering her long legs, extending up and disappearing underneath her skirt. I wonder what lies beyond that hemline, you think, as you bore a hole into your computer's monitor with your deliberate, laser-like stare. You imagine it probably matches her bra; she seems to be the sort of person who pays attention to that. Is her underwear simple and cotton? Lacy? Sheer? Non-existent? You chuckle inwardly at that last one, knowing that it's highly unlikely that she's that sort of person. A bra, but no panties? Preposterous, she'd never allow for such a mismatched ensemble.

As you're mentally deciding what sort of underwear she's wearing, you're startled by an unexpected sensation: a soft, but definitely noticeable, buzzing sensation on your upper left arm, right where you've concealed the Manipulator. You're glad the buzzing isn't any stronger, or somebody might hear it. You quickly stand up, walk over to Mr. Useless Teaching Assistant, and excuse yourself to go to the restroom.

Once you're safely locked behind a toilet stall, you roll up your sweatshirt sleeve and take a look at the Manipulator. A new symbol has appeared on it; below the glowing green circle on its largest segment, there appears a small checkmark. It glows too, but in a cool white instead of a color. As you look at the checkmark, it fades out, and the buzzing sensation does as well.

What the hell was that? you think. Some sort of "okay" indicator? No sooner do you think that than you get your answer.

You can't really describe the feeling of having thoughts just appear in your brain, thoughts that are definitely not your own and yet somehow are. You wonder if this is how a psychotic break feels, this weird dissociation from your own ego. The thoughts are words, but it's not like you "hear" them or anything -- they're just there.

The thoughts in your head read:

Changelog
Version 1.4.1 - decreased activation threshold of telepsychic interface due to excessive inadvertent triggering of functionality. Interface now requires specifically subvocalized commands to activate.
Enabled alternate power consumption algorithm.

It's extremely odd, knowing something while also knowing that you didn't know that thing only seconds before. But here you are anyway.

It makes perfect sense, you think. This device can alter the minds of those around me; of course it's also capable of altering my mind. You realize that what happened was a software update -- that you no longer have to worry about accidentally scrambling the brains of whoever you look at. It's such a relief that you let out a long, ragged sigh, and a strange ****-sob-laugh. You hadn't even realized just how tense and nervous you'd been.

Since you're already in the toilet, you use the opportunity to do your business, then wash up and return to the classroom.

Sitting down, you return to your work, but after only a few seconds, the bell rings. You sit there for a little while, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that you can calm the fuck down. You're still shaking a bit from all of this, but at least it'll be easier to make it through your one last class before lunch. After that, you can go home and relax, but until then you're determined to see this through.