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Save Point: Resting Your Chemistry

The readouts in her visual field are quite educational and show the full back-traceable history of a really quite simple and subtle psychoactive, in the format of a string of warnings or error-laden messages. It's the sort of thing normally found as a printed dot of soluble emulsion on fine paper, so the pellet under her tongue was plenty to completely saturate brain and nervous system.

Its structure is simple enough to bypass the blood-brain barrier, and because it didn't affect any other functionality, the nanites seem to have treated it as purely recreational until it spiked things way beyond reasonable levels and then - whatever the hell that was - happened on the roof.

She can vaguely remember jumping head-first off the building from several stories up, with blind certainty that she knew what she was doing and it was perfectly safe. Then there was lightning, at least she thinks it was, but it wasn't.... what, exactly?

She doesn't really like lightning, because it is one of the few things that could really hurt her. Not 'hide under the bed' type dislike, but still. Standing into high places in a storm is the sort of simply unwise she tries to pragmatically avoid, like walking under ladders.

She has a worrying metal image of descending gracefully to the cobblestones in a sort of sphere of odd fractal electricity, not with the usual acceleration imposed of gravity but at a fixed rate, and turning a smooth tumble as she goes. Like a mad acrobat aiming to land some death-defying thrill stunt in a stack of hay, only there was no hay or leaves or any damn thing else.

Ignore that. Your brain was still fried at that point. You're confabulating.

Okay, so clearly you made your way down to the ground _by whatever means_and the neuroelectric spike associated with being startled by the lightning put things well out of bounds, at which point the nanites concluded that there was such a thing as too high, and started trying to fix it.

Since it was just a simple chemical, well at least as compared to some sort of lethal biological or nanotechnological contagion, probably that didn't take too long. And once all your thoughts were folded neatly back inside your skull, instead of drifting randomly all over the place, you managed to pull it together enough to somehow make it back to your rooms, although these are relatively far out of town and so presumably you didn't just, you know, walk there. Maybe you hitched a ride or caught a bus or something.

She's vaguely dissatisfied with these answers, as she is with all of the missing bits that aren't fully present in her memories. They feel like interruptions to her system, an assault. Normally she has a faint but persistent memory of her own thoughts, even when she's asleep, she is vaguely aware on some level that she is sleeping and remembers it when she wakes up. True interruptions of her consciousness are an affront that demands suitable retribution.

So, what exactly has she learned from this slightly misguided cult infiltration, other than that they make really damn good drugs at a hobbyist level? Well-

Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock, so she answers it. Making, of course, that mental check as usual before she opens up that she's wearing clothes.

Yes, there are clothes. She doesn't remember putting them on but whatever. Open door is a go.