The Omission Index, Ch 10: The Charisma Drain Pt. 1

The applause for Juliana Legrand was a physical force, a wave of adoration she rode nightly. It was the sound of her future arriving right on schedule.

Tonight, the noise was especially loud. It was the final preview before the opening night of "City of Whispers," and the excitement in the theater world was intense. Juliana, standing in the wings, felt the familiar, thrilling hum of it through the worn floorboards. It was a current that resonated deep in her marrow. She was twenty-six, about to get everything she'd ever dreamed of. People were already saying her name for a Tony Award.

She took a deep, calming breath. The smell of dust, stage makeup, and old velvet filled her lungs. This was her moment. She was Eliza, the fiery, captivating heart of the show. The role was a second skin. The lines flowed like poetry, and the songs came from a deep place inside her. She felt a nervous flutter, yes, always, but it was the good kind. It was the kind that made her focus sharper, that made her shine brighter.

"Five minutes, Ms. Legrand," a stagehand murmured. His voice was respectful, almost worshipful.

"Thank you, David." She gave him a brilliant smile, the one the newspapers were already calling 'luminous.'

As David hurried away, another figure appeared from the deeper shadows of the backstage maze. Juliana didn't recognize them at first - just a dark shape, then resolving into someone vaguely familiar. Maybe a new intern, or an overly eager fan who'd somehow gotten past security. They looked ordinary, easy to overlook, but their eyes were different. They held a raw, extractive heat, fixed on Juliana with a focus that appraised her, measured her. A hunger stared out from them, the kind that calculates the worth of a meal.

"Ms. Legrand?" The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet it had an odd, unsettling quality. "I just… I had to tell you. You're… extraordinary. Truly. The way you command the stage, the… the light you have."

Juliana, used to adoring fans, managed a polite, if slightly strained, smile. "That's very kind of you. I hope you enjoy the show." She started to turn, wanting to focus, to prepare.

But the admirer stepped closer, moving into her personal space just a little too much. "Oh, I will. I'll be… enjoying every moment." Their gaze didn't move, and for an unsettling second, Juliana felt a strange, prickling sensation. It was like a cold draft on a warm night, a momentary, unexplainable dip in the usually vibrant energy that surrounded her. She shivered, a tiny, involuntary movement. It was nothing, she told herself. Nerves. The pressure of the night.

"Excuse me," she said, a little more firmly this time, and stepped past them, heading towards her spot. The stage manager was giving the two-minute call. The admirer didn't follow, but she could feel their gaze on her back, heavy and disturbingly intent, until she stepped into the bright glare of the stage lights.

The opening notes of her first song swelled, and Juliana stepped forward, ready to become Eliza, to command, to captivate.

But something was wrong.

The first line, a line she knew as well as her own name, felt… distant. Like an echo from another room. Her voice, usually so rich and powerful, came out thinner, a little weak. She pushed, but the usual source of emotion, the vibrant core of Eliza's character, felt… dry. Empty.

A sour heat rose in her throat. She stumbled over the next lyric. Her mind was static. White noise where the lyrics should have been. The dance moves, usually so natural, felt clumsy. Her arms and legs felt heavy and unresponsive. She looked out at the sea of faces, a blur beyond the footlights. Instead of the usual thrill, a wave of deep, unexplainable tiredness washed over her. She reached for the electric current that always flowed between her and the audience and found only dead air. A pilot light snuffed out in a vacuum.

Her co-star, Michael, shot her a confused, concerned look as she missed a cue. The orchestra seemed to stumble, then recover, trying to follow her weak lead. She could feel the energy draining out of her. Her stage presence, her Juliana-ness, was disappearing like mist. The dazzling smile felt like a heavy grimace she could barely hold in place.

The rest of the act was a waking nightmare. Lines forgotten, notes hit flat, movements wooden. The vibrant, fiery Eliza dissolved into a hesitant, terrified amateur. She could feel the audience shifting, murmuring. Their initial confusion was hardening into disappointment, then into something worse - pity, perhaps, or even scorn.

When the curtain finally fell on Act One, met with a stunned, weak scattering of applause, Juliana stumbled offstage. Tears of shame and sheer, unexplainable terror streamed down her face. Her agent, her director, Michael - they all rushed towards her, their faces showing shock and concern.

"Juliana, what happened? Are you ill?" her director asked, his voice tight with worry.

She could only shake her head, choking on sobs. She didn't know. One moment she had been on top of the world, ready to conquer it. The next… the next, the animating spark inside her was gone. Extinguished. She was a marionette with cut strings, a shape that looked like Juliana Legrand but was empty of her. The whispers had already started backstage, she could feel them - the dream role, the Tony buzz, all of it dissolving into a spectacular, unexplainable public failure. Her career, so bright just an hour ago, felt like it was already over.

***

The noisy telex machine was a common sound in Hale's late afternoons at the SHEPARD Oregon field office. It usually announced another piece of human sadness or strange event needing their attention. He was halfway through a lukewarm coffee and a thick report on unusual mushroom growths in the Siskiyou National Forest when the priority alert chimed. It was a sharper, more urgent sound that always tightened the skin across his shoulders.

He tore off the message. The thin paper felt cool in his hand. NYC METRO - UNUSUAL MENTAL DECLINE - CREATIVE SECTOR. REF: LEGRAND, J. (BROADWAY); PETROV, A. (COMEDY); CHEN, L. (MUSIC - CELLO). The summary was short, almost like a doctor's note, yet it painted a disturbing picture. Three rising stars, each about to have major success in their fields, had suddenly, catastrophically, and unexplainably failed. Juliana Legrand's spectacular meltdown during the "City of Whispers" preview was the most public. It was already making sympathetic but confused headlines in the New York newspapers. The comedian, Anton Petrov, had frozen in the middle of his act during a live TV taping, then started rambling incoherently. The cellist, Li Chen, had walked off stage minutes before a career-defining concert, saying she could no longer feel the music. Her hands had suddenly become clumsy and unresponsive on the strings.

There was no physical injury. No clear medical cause. No drugs, no alcohol, no known mental problems found in their first background checks. Just a sudden, specific disappearance of talent, confidence, and that special 'spark' that made them stand out. The local NYPD were stumped. Officially, they thought it was extreme stress or sudden stage fright. But the similarity of the collapses, the exact way their abilities were lost, had triggered an alarm in SHEPARD's systems that detected unusual events.

Hale leaned back in his chair, the mushroom report forgotten. He pulled up more files: grainy newspaper clippings showing Juliana Legrand's tear-streaked face; a transcript of a short, panicked interview with Petrov's agent who kept muttering about a "curse on comedians"; a brief medical note on Li Chen stating "severe psychogenic amusia and motor skill decline of unknown cause." Witnesses, when there were any, spoke of a sudden change, a light going out, a clear absence where vibrant talent had been moments before. Jinxes. Bad luck. The usual explanations when the normal world didn't make sense.

He felt the familiar faint hum in his own senses, the subtle mental impression that always came with truly strange things. The residue from these events didn't feel like a breakdown. It felt like a theft. The emotional static left behind had a clean edge, a precision that suggested a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.

The intercom on his desk crackled. "Hale, report to briefing room two. Agent Kwan as well. Flight to JFK in ninety minutes." It was Director Cromwell's voice, short and efficient.

Hale sighed, drinking the last of his cold coffee. New York. He wasn't fond of the city's overwhelming mental noise, the sheer cacophony of human emotion that always felt like a dull roar in the back of his mind. But this… this had a chilling precision to it.

He found Kwan already in briefing room two. A map of Manhattan was lit up on the main screen. Kwan looked as calm and prepared as ever. Their handler, Director Cromwell, a man whose face seemed permanently marked by the weight of too many secrets, gave them the information.

"The official story is 'severe, localized stress affecting high-performance individuals'," Cromwell stated, his tone dry. "Unofficially, it stinks. Three unusual collapses in as many weeks, same method, no clear physical cause. We're treating it as a potential Level One psychic event, possibly targeted." He looked at Hale. "Your specialty, Agent Hale. See if you can pick up any leftover mental signs, any pattern to the 'drain,' as one witness put it." He then turned to Kwan. "Agent Kwan, you'll handle the human side. These people are traumatized, their careers in ruins. See what you can find out. We need to know if this is a coordinated attack, a new type of psychic hunter, or just a string of very unfortunate, very public breakdowns."

Hale nodded. A psychic hunter. The thought matched the cold, targeted feeling he'd already sensed.

On the plane to JFK, Hale adjusted his earplugs and closed his eyes, trying to center himself before the overwhelming sensory assault of the city. The gentle hum of the engines was a merciful reprieve from the constant psychic static he dealt with daily. Across the aisle, Kwan reviewed case files with his usual methodical precision, occasionally making notes in his neat handwriting.

"First time working a potential hunter case?" Kwan asked, not looking up from his papers.

"Third," Hale replied, opening his eyes. "The last one was in Portland. Guy was draining street musicians of their ability to play. Left them with shaky hands and no sense of rhythm." He paused. "This feels different, though. More surgical."

Kwan glanced up, his dark eyes serious. "Broadway's a bigger stage. Higher stakes." He returned to his files. "We'll need to be careful. These people are already fragile."

The noise of New York City hit Hale the moment they stepped out of JFK. It was a huge wave of sound, smell, and mental energy that was both exciting and tiring. Horns blared, sirens wailed in the distance, and the air buzzed with the mixed worries, dreams, and quick joys of millions. It was a big change from the quiet green of Oregon, like a loud shout after a long whisper. The cacophony pressed against his temples like a physical weight, and he quietly turned on the brown noise loop in his special earbuds, a small defense against too much sensory input.

Their first contact was Detective Rourke, a tired, seen-it-all cop from the Midtown South precinct. His area included the glittering heart of Broadway. They met him in a small, coffee-stained office that smelled of old files and stale cigarettes. Rourke looked like he hadn't slept well in a week, and it was clear he was suspicious of their "federal agency" status.

"So, you're the spooks they sent about our 'falling stars'," Rourke grunted. He pointed vaguely towards a pinboard full of photos of Juliana Legrand, Anton Petrov, and Li Chen, mixed with newspaper clippings about their spectacular failures. "Frankly, between you and me, I think the pressure just got to 'em. This city chews up talent and spits it out. Always has."

"We're considering all possibilities, Detective," Kwan said. His voice was calm and even, a contrast to Rourke's negativity. "Have you noticed any similarities beyond their professional meltdowns? Any unusual witnesses, any shared friends?"

Rourke snorted. "Similarities? They were all hot. About to become big stars. Then, poof. Gone. As for witnesses, you get a thousand stories backstage, none of 'em match. Some say Legrand saw a ghost. Petrov's manager thinks someone slipped him something, though drug tests were clean. Chen… she just walked away. Said the music died in her. It's a goddamn mystery play, and I don't have the script." He pushed a thin file across the desk. "That's all we got. Addresses, next of kin, the usual. Good luck. You'll need it."

As they left Rourke's office, Kwan caught Hale's eye and gave him a slight nod - their practiced signal that they'd both noticed the detective's dismissive attitude masked genuine concern. They'd worked together long enough to read each other's professional instincts.

Juliana Legrand now lived in a small, shadowed apartment on the Upper West Side. It was very different from the glamorous penthouse suites her coming stardom had promised. The woman who answered the door was a diminished version of the performer Hale had seen in photos. Her eyes were dull, her movements slow and uncertain. The 'luminous' smile was gone, replaced by a tight, anxious line.

Kwan handled the first meeting with gentle skill. His voice was a low, soothing murmur that seemed to get past her immediate fear and suspicion of strangers. Hale watched, observing, his own senses already reaching out, brushing against the mental leftovers clinging to her like a dark cloud.

"Ms. Legrand," Kwan said softly, after they were seated in her dimly lit living room, which felt more like a tomb than a home. "We understand this is incredibly difficult. We're just trying to understand what happened. Anything you can remember, anything at all unusual, leading up to that night at the theatre…"

Juliana stared at her hands, twisting a frayed thread on her robe. "It was… normal," she whispered. Her voice was thin and weak. "The usual nerves, the excitement. I felt… strong. Ready." She looked up, her eyes filled with a confused pain. "And then… on stage… it was like a switch flipped. Everything just… emptied out. The words wouldn't come. The music felt… strange. My body wouldn't obey. It was like I was a stranger in my own skin, watching myself fail."

Hale focused, letting the room's immediate mental noise fade. He reached for the imprints on Juliana herself, on the very air around her. The despair was a crushing weight, thick and heavy, settling like fog in his chest. The shame was a burning, shameful mark that prickled along his skin like heat rash. But beneath that, fainter, more insidious, was something else. He felt it - a subtle, chilling feeling of being violated, like a delicate machine being expertly, cruelly taken apart. The psychic wound had edges as sharp as broken glass, cold to his mental touch. A mental sign of theft, precise and targeted. And mixed with that, almost like a faint, triumphant after-smell, was a sharp, biting feeling of deep, almost joyful envy. Someone had enjoyed this.

"Was there anyone new?" Kwan pressed gently, his gaze kind. "Anyone backstage you didn't recognize? Anyone who seemed… overly interested, perhaps, in the hours before the show?"

Juliana frowned, trying to remember. "It's always a circus backstage before a big preview… agents, producers, people wishing well…" She paused. A flicker of something - confusion, unease - showed in her eyes. "There was… someone. I don't know who. Just… watching me. Very intensely. Said I was… extraordinary." Her voice trailed off. "I thought they were just a fan. It felt… a little strange, but…" She shook her head, as if trying to get rid of a troublesome memory. "It's probably nothing."

Later, Hale and Kwan visited the theatre. It was now dark and echoing between performances. Standing on the empty stage, Hale closed his eyes, touching the spot where Juliana had stood. The mental residue was stronger here, layered with the ghostly applause of a thousand past performances. The psychic atmosphere pressed against his consciousness like thick humidity, making his temples throb. But the sign of her collapse was sharp, a jagged scar in the theatre's mental history. He felt the echo of it again. The void. The cold satisfaction of the one who had made it. Here, on this spot, a single, vital component of her had been located, isolated, and switched off. A key turning a lock he couldn't see.

"It's targeted," Hale said to Kwan as they left the theatre, the city's roar washing over them again. "Whatever this is, it's not random. Someone is deliberately and skillfully putting out these people's unique abilities." He felt the weight of the other victims - Petrov, Chen. "We need to talk to them. See if the mental sign matches. See if they remember an admirer with burning eyes."

The pattern was emerging from the invisible, emotional wreckage left in the hunter's path. A string of rising stars, each about to shine bright and beautiful, all suddenly and violently extinguished. It was a cruel, targeted assault with the cold precision of a signature - the work of a predator with a particular, chilling taste.

***