If epilepsy had a secret twin hiding in the shadows, it might just be teleportation. In “Vitamors,” episode of Impulse Unraveled, the show paints teleportation not as a superpower but as a curse—one with seizures, blackouts, and moments lost to a void. It’s not unlike epilepsy: a moment you’re here, the next you’re gone, left only with trembling and fragments. Maybe it’s more than metaphor. Maybe teleportation is just epilepsy misunderstood, misnamed, or worse—invited.

The episode wastes no time unraveling something even darker: a Mennonite community trafficking fentanyl. It’s presented so casually, it’s unsettling. The spiritual leader has his son smuggling drugs across the border—drugs that kill tens of thousands a year. For a group meant to be devout, there’s a bitter irony. Breaking laws seems permissible if cloaked in religious purpose, but when the church’s “mission” turns into drug trade, it begs the question: is this faith, or fanaticism? Maybe fentanyl is their sacrament. Who are we to judge, right?

Henry teleports while sleeping.

Even the method of distribution carries a modern coldness. Drug pickups are made at Amazon lockers and local gyms—everyday places transformed into portals of quiet destruction. There’s a chilling efficiency in it. It’s like the opioid epidemic has automated itself, leaving no corner of life untouched.

But Vitamors doesn’t let the guilty walk freely. Poetic justice strikes hard when the Mennonite leader’s own son dies from the very fentanyl they helped funnel. His death is not just a loss—it’s a judgment. A death sentence delivered not by court or state, but by the hand of their own sins. It’s almost biblical: the blood of the lamb staining the altar.

There’s symbolism in how the Mennonites bury their dead three days after death, no doubt mirroring the resurrection of Christ. The irony is thick—using ritual to honor the dead while their hands are stained. Meanwhile, other Christian sects mark the resurrection every Sunday or annually on dates distorted by differing calendars. Faith becomes a patchwork of interpretations, none quite sure of the truth they claim.

Meanwhile, law enforcement attempts to act like gods themselves. Local police request federal border logs to track crossers, believing control equals power. Every border crossed is a sin tallied, a record of movement, as if salvation or damnation were filed in government databases.

In contrast, modern life softens Sunday—not with reverence, but “Family Fun Day.” No worship, no labor—just leisure. A different kind of rest, one void of spiritual weight, but still holy in its own consumerist, distraction-driven way.

A particularly eerie moment lands in Henry’s classroom. As she dozes off, the teacher’s words distort, sounding like warnings—echoes of the unconscious. It’s deeply reminiscent of Jamie’s dreamlike scene in Halloween, where the teacher’s voice transforms into something prophetic. Both girls enter a liminal space through sleep, unlocking messages perhaps not from their teachers, but from elsewhere. Warnings cloaked as lessons.

Townes, Henry’s neurodivergent friend, is notably highlighted in this episode. His autism is portrayed with clarity and depth. He wanders mid-conversation, unable to pick up on social cues, lost in his own thoughts. Henry’s frustration is met with his simple truth: “I need to go to class.” Townes doesn’t live in the world—he observes it from behind a pane of glass.

In a moment of raw honesty, Henry tells Townes that she teleports in her sleep. He doesn’t question it. Instead, he tells her she was “summoned.” It’s chilling. Henry finds the experience terrifying, yet the implication is ancient: dreams have always been the domain of divine messages. God spoke to prophets in their sleep—why not to her? God only uses the written Bible now to talk to people.

The episode ends with more rumination on gravitational labs and Einstein’s theories. The blending of particle physics and teleportation feels purposeful—like the show is whispering that science and the supernatural are not opposites, but twins. Maybe teleportation isn’t fantasy. Maybe it’s a function of energy, of dreams, of sin.

Vitamors is Latin for “life and death.” This episode lives up to that name—offering a story not just of teleportation, but of destruction, judgment, and moments caught between two worlds.