The Universe's Mixer

Lyra couldn't remember how she had come to be in this strange and creepy place. The only jumbled thoughts she had were of waking up in an uncomfortable bed made of starchy sheets, and lime green jello being thrown against the wall. They tried to take her compass away, but she had kicked up such a fuss that they decided to let the child be, and dose her up with some nasty medicine.

Everything made her feel sleepy, despite not wanting to sleep. She fought as much as she could, but it was really no use, and there was no way to fight off the horrid dreams that plagued her sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she'd see her mother's cold, calculating smile as she slowly began to sever the invisible bond between herself and daemon, Pan. Her ears filled with the screams of the soulless children crying out in despair, or perhaps they were her own? she couldn't quite tell. Either way, she woke up screaming, thrashing in a sea of starchy sheets.

Today the nurses had ushered her out into a large common room, and dug up some old dolls for her to play with. They remained untouched, and she instead flopped in front of the strange box which played moving pictures - was it called a television, or something? She couldn't quite remember. It had been such a novelty the first time she'd seen one in The City, now it became more of a hinderance. She just wanted to be able to think, but her brain felt dead, as if a zombie had taken a bite out of it.

"Its no bloody use" She muttered to the wilted tabby cat that had sprawled out on her lap. "This place is driving me bloody bonkers."

In spite of his best efforts, Watson had not been able to find Buffy. He'd been back to the janitor's closet with water and a muffin, but she hadn't been up in the ceiling. He'd checked. Not well - he hadn't gone crawling about - but he'd peeked up into the space above the tiles and hadn't seen any signs of her. She'd either come down, or she'd crawled off to a place where she couldn't hear him calling her name.

From there, he'd been at a loss. He'd wandered a little, but she hadn't been in the room with the televisions, nor had he spotted her down at the cafeteria. Perhaps they'd found her? She might be up in her room, drugged and unable to move. Or she might've gotten free.

Watson preferred the latter. He'd just decided to go with that theory, as unlikely as it may have been, when a nurse spotted him coming around the corner. "Where are you headed, dear?" The nurse was an older woman, nearing sixty and gray. John didn't much care for being coddled, but he decided not to argue. "I'd like to see the courtyard. Some fresh air, yeah?"

"You're headed the wrong way," the woman said. "Let me show you."

And so John had followed the nurse down into the open area reserved for patients. John briefly smiled his thanks and wandered off to get a look around. He hadn't been the only one with the idea - a few other people were enjoying the fresh air, too. With a reluctant sigh, John moved over to a bench and sat down next to a woman.

He was ready to be out of there.

The Man in Black sat patiently on a plush leather chair. Not standard hospital issue in the least, but then again neither was Walter. The hospital garb did not suit him, so it became what he desired. He was trapped in a circle of glowing runes, pale letters of the old ones that understood magick and science were one in the same. He was a captive audience so long as the circle remained powered.

The psychiatrist sat nervously, outside of arms reach stalwartly intent on getting his patient assessment form completed. He was the third today. The first went home after four questions and shot himself in the head. The second dropped his pencil and reached for it as it crossed the protective glyphs. He made a really comfortable chair.

"Date of Birth?" The doctor droned
"March the 4th" Walter replied softly
"Mother's name?"
"Janet Anderson"
The doctor stopped writing.
"That's my birthday and my mother's name." The doctor said nervously.

Walter smiled "I know." looking more deeply into his eyes "Any more questions? Favorite memory? Secret desire? Perhaps... date, place and method of death?"

Shaking uncontrollably, the doctor left leaving the door open.

"How rude...." The Man in Black waited patiently in his gilded cage for his next visitor.

They had changed his medication again. Maybe to keep him from getting overexcited and taking out the TV and security monitors. There was no camera in Harry's room - the device hadn't survived Harry's first glare at it. It wasn't as though he was trying to cause a disruption... only when he was. Just in little ways. To remind himself that he was, in fact, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, Professional Wizard.

But the medication now made him pretty damn exhausted, and loopy as hell. He couldn't have turned cereal into breakfast in this state. It was a good thing he was in his room, because laying facedown on the bed, his too-long legs hanging off the end, was about the only thing he could muster the energy for.

Until he remembered the small parcel the doctor had given him. Something about positive interaction with a known reclusive that Harry hadn't paid much attention to. A minor reward for good behavior. Save the world a few times, Harry thought, and I didn't get so much as an honorable mention. Talk to a fun girl, get a present. Maybe being a loony isn't so bad.

He grunted his way onto his back, groaned into a sitting position, and took the plain white-paper-wrapped item from his pocket, opening it slowly. Something glittered, and Harry paused, then tore the paper away. Inside was a silver necklace, with a battered silver pentacle amulet. The circle had been hammered in and out and back into shape, but it still fit snugly against the dark, uncut ruby inserted in the back. He held the pendant in his palm, the silver strands of the chain hanging behind his hand, and gently touched the pendant. His mother's amulet. The only possession of hers that Harry had ever known.

Harry became aware of someone looking at him. He hunched, instinctively protecting the necklace, and looked at the doorway. Another patient stood there, this one unfamiliar - but they all were, apart from Fred. Harry glared at the intruder, and gently caressed the pendant in his hand. "A visitor, preciousss," he murmured, his voice coming out like a wheeze from a rasping throat. "What has it got in its pocketses? We finds it, yes. We finds it, and we takes it, precious." The patient widened his eyes and ran off.

[Come on. Wizards can't always fall back on the "Thou Shalt Not Pass" cliche.]

The corridors, bathed in their chemical light, felt endless. Beauty walked them with unhurried steps, her fingers dragging invisible lines across the faintly textured wall at her side. There was no reason why she should be here, but there was no reason why she shouldn't. She simply was. She was. But.... behind the quiet that wrapped around her, something felt wrong. Beauty wanted to be doing something. Her calloused hands told her enough -- that she should be doing something, that she'd been working somehow. What she'd been doing... where she'd been... why she'd been there... These were questions that she barely asked before they dodged out of her thoughts again -- water cycloning, uncaptured, but a force that circled and circled and got her nowhere.

The chair she just passed looked familiar. She squinted at the upcoming metal grate. There should be a lady sitting behind it... Yes, there she was. She didn't look up from her reading, and Beauty didn't call out to her. The next open walkway was some sort of common room. She had bypassed this room before, choosing instead to explore first. But now she knew the corridors and the rooms she could access. Perhaps.... Perhaps these other people knew what she should be doing. Without much concern - although she felt like she should be concerned - Beauty let her tingling fingertips fall away from the wall.

She ducked into the common room, then stood against the wall and took in her surroundings. Chairs across the room, scattered. Divans, scattered. There were those boxes filled with pictures and light -- she knew them, somehow, even though she couldn't say why. They were certainly foreign. Weren't they? But they weren't, really... Swallowing, she took in the tables, the checkers and chess, the uniform that they almost all shared. She was wearing it, too. It should have made her blush; women should wear something far more feminine than this. It seemed to her that what she was wearing should be reserved for men only. But it didn't make her blush. It didn't make her feel anything. Plucking at the rough cotton fabric hanging from her elbow, she looked up again.

"Hello," she said -- apparently to no one in particular. But someone had heard her...

"You can't let these delusions effect you like this, Harry."

"Yes, sir." Harry's voice was soft, as though trying to apologize for it's baritone quality.

"You already brought yourself harm. Look at what happened to your hands."

Harry's eyes remained locked in place, staring at the ink blotter on the doctor's desk. He wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, not directly. He didn't let his sight drift to his mangled left hand, the burn scars that covered the skin and had melted to the bone in areas. Nor did he look to the thick cuff of bandages around his right wrist. The infirmary had called it friction burns, from slipping out of the leather straps.

"I know, sir."

"And the business with your foster father..." The doctor trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken after the way Harry's eyes shut and his jaw tensed. "Well. Perhaps that's for another day." When Harry's expression didn't change, the doctor sighed, and looked over the file on his desk again. "I'm willing to give you another chance, Harry. But if you don't stay on your medication, you may have another episode. And then I'll have no choice but to keep you confined to maximum security."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Very well." The doctor pressed the intercom on his desk. Immediately, the speaker issued a high-pitched squeal of static, making the doctor flinch. He tried again, and the speaker fizzled and died. With a sigh, the doctor stood and went to the door, calling an orderly to take Mister Dresden to the common room. As such, he missed the way Harry opened his eyes, looked at the faintly smoking speaker, and smirked.

Harry was wheeled to the common room, since the medication he was being given made him too unsteady to walk. He thought he looked foolish sitting there, his well-over-six-foot frame in a chair made for average-or-smaller framed people, being pushed along by a five-foot-four orderly. He nearly got up to help, but he was rather firmly pushed back into the seat when he tried. So instead, Harry watched the scenery. Watched the number of guards, orderlies, and nurses. The gates they passed through. The positioning of the security cameras.

His mind was fuzzy from the drugs, but that was a temporary thing. If he played along for a bit, he might get his medication reduced. Then he could learn more about whatever the hell was going on here.

He was left in the chair, turned towards the television set. There were others watching, and Harry didn't feel like spoiling everyone's day, so he looked around. There was a clock on the wall beside him. Slowly, with effort, Harry began to gather his will. Normally this would barely take more effort than simply tossing out a hand to direct the magical aura he naturally carried with him, but the medication was messing with his ability to focus even that much. After a full minute of effort, Harry stared at the clock and whispered "Hexus."

The ticking stopped abruptly. Harry settled in his chair and wondered how long it would take before the television died.

The only certain thing in life is change. Most of Harry's changes, lately, hadn't been good ones.

Maybe this one wouldn't be good either... but it didn't have that feel to it.

He took forty minutes shaving and putting on his nicest clothes, which amounted to jeans and a t-shirt that had actually been ironed. He didn't have any cologne, so the deodorant and soap would have to do. Harry didn't allow himself to think about what was going on. In a dream, if you ever start to realize it's a dream, poof! It's gone. Harry didn't want that to happen.

After that, waiting for Murphy to come back, he spent a while just... breathing. She'd said an hour. That would be fifteen more minutes. So Harry listened to the water around the boat. The ticking of the clock. The peaceful silence. Drinking in the comforting sense of solitude all around.

( Screw this Zen crap. )

Jack knew when he had first awaken that morning that things were just "not right", and not just with him. He wasn't home that was for sure and it was noisy, and oh yeah, there were bars everywhere. That was just a few of the things he noticed first. However his first thought was that he was back on Satellite 5. And he felt off a bit too. But it was a very very good way to feel off.

It was bright and shiny and Jack was easily distracted by bright and shiny. Some of the nurses and orderly's were very bright and shiny in Jack's opinion as well. They fed him nicely which he liked but they also kept him drugged which wasn't so great but it seemed he didn't have a choice. He didn't really remember when or how he got there but it had been a bit of time now, though the days seemed to run together some of the times.

Luckily he is allowed out and about and he quite liked being out amongst other and interacting with them. Jack liked people and liked being among them. No one knew when, how, or if they were going to get out but sometimes, Jack didn't care. He was feeling good.

Very very goood.

For now at least.

"No nononononono!" Jack shouted as he ran down the hallway. The staff weren't really very good at predicting his moods or what he would do and when he would do it. They constantly underestimated him, and more than occasionally believed him when he pretended to be catatonic. They would baby him sometimes when he babbled at them. He was kept in a straight jacket when they were at their best and most wary, but it wasn't often enough. His escapes from his room and their immediate care were many. But he never tried to escape the grounds.

Because this was his place. He'd owned it. He'd held a court here. He'd tormented the entire City with this as his home base. He didn't want to leave it. And having a whole bunch of people around just made it all the more fun for him. So he didn't want them to go either. Jack was really quite happy with the way that things were going. He even loved the games he played with the doctors, nurses, and orderlies. Well, truthfully, he loved those most.

Currently, the man known as The Joker was running down the corridor of the second level, heading toward the elevator or stairs, whichever would be quickest, and determined to get to the commons. He wanted to spend time with some of the other patients. See if he could get somebody riled up maybe. Insight a food fight, perhaps. Or just make somebody cry. He wasn't sure of his plan just yet.

Currently, the man known as The Joker was wearing a straight jacket, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. He could feel the straps on the back that held the pieces of the jacket in place. He could hear the jingle of the buckles. He wouldn't be able to get out of it, he knew that. Not on his own. But maybe he could convince one of the others to help him. Promise them something. Even if it wasn't something that he could give.

Currently, the man known as The Joker was running down the hallway in a straight jacket and he had on no pants. They'd been helping him get ready for the shower when he'd broken free. Leaving the jacket on for the last possible moment. He'd slipped right by them then. They hadn't expected him to run around with no pants on, apparently. Jack didn't care. Sort of freeing, this not having any pants on.

There were three burly orderlies chasing him at the moment. He kept looking back at them to gauge the distance before they'd spring and tackle him to the floor. That was going to hurt. Probably a lot. Probably on parts of himself that he was going to wish he had pants covering.

"Nononononono!" Jack yelped, a large smile on his face. "Help! Somebody! Help! I need pants! Help! They took my pants!"

He whizzed by patients in wheelchairs, people coming to the doors of their rooms, confused nurses, and shocked doctors. He stuck his foot out at a guy with a walker, sending him sprawling and detaining the orderlies for a split second while they tried to decide if they should help the guy or go after Jack. It was just enough for him to get to the elevator which was just closing.

Jack turned and smiled at the other occupant. It wasn't quite a friendly smile.

She ever could keep track of time very well, considering she spent most of her time in space with light either always there or always gone. Depended on how close you got to them stars. Mal didn't ever let Serenity get too close. And once they broke atmo' it could have been days, weeks, or months since Kaylee last saw a flippin' calendar. Not that she minded it then, she minded it here. Now, Kaylee didn't argue, and she hardly ever fought. So she was on the 'good list' she supposed. Still, she hated sitting around not doin' anything and being trapped was bad. It made her think of the alliance prisons, not that she'd ever spent time in them! And then it made her think of that bounty hunter and she'd shutter and try to think of happier things.

Shinier things.

Kaylee missed the City now, or really being out in it. There was an out wasn't there? Was she even still IN the City? She was having problems remembering everything. She supposed it was something about the monotone atmosphere of this place. She'd heard it was called somethin', but Kaylee couldn't tell if she was hearing things or if there really were people screaming things around her. She knew she was allowed out of her cell, no better word for that thing, and around. But she didn't exactly.. she couldn't exactly.. it was complicated.

She was trying to stay sunny about everything. That was the thing Kaylee's were good for. Nothin' in the 'verse could stop her from being cheerful! As long as they provided strawberries.. and if they'd just let her have some tools so she could fix somethin'..

She kept finding herself in the dining area, cafeteria, whatever they called this place. She liked being around people. Any people. Kaylee loved talkin' and their stories were sometimes interestin'. Just had to be sunny! Eventually they'd get out right? Maybe someone would call to break out. Kaylee had no problem making that kind of trouble, but until she had a good idea of what was going on, or until she saw something she could fandangle and make a good break for it she was just buying time.

Like right now. She didn't mind the food. Or the company. She just smiled at anyone who happened by and tried her best to look friendly. She liked making friends. She took another drink of water and gave a look around.

It was dark, and then it was bright.

River was scared, when she was capable of fright. She was enraged all of the time.

Her room was not big. It didn't need to be, because she was too dangerous not to be kept in restraints. They'd known that when they came to take her. River could remember parts of that, the taking. She'd been leaving rehearsal, her ballet bag on her shoulder. A van had pulled up, men had gotten out. One of them shot her with a dart, and the dart hit her neck. After that, everything was fuzzy. River didn't blame herself, however. The man was blank. There was something wrong with the man.

And that part didn't matter so much now, anyway.

The light on the ceiling was very bright when it was on, and River knew the drugs she was on made it seem brighter.

She knew, from a doctor, a doctor that came in and measured her heartbeats, measured her brainwaves, stuck needles into her arm and into her temples, made her scream, that she'd come into this room limp and doll-like. Orderlies had removed her clothes and left her thermal strips of fabric were strategically placed across her chest and abdomen, covering the relevant areas. She'd been placed on a slab, something like a gurney, and restraints slapped on her wrists and ankles, then her hips and shoulders, and one on her head. The one on her head was bolted to the floor and made of metal. It felt to River like a cold helmet.

It had sensors in it. They were mapping her brain activity. Simon had tried this a few times, with better equipment.

She'd woken up after her arrival already strapped down, already mostly naked, laying there in the dark. She could hear a pen scratching. When the light went on, River glared at the note scribbler. Two needles went into her arm at different points and River yelled. Her veins felt like ice, then fire, and then finally River couldn't think much anymore. Her brain felt like.. like it had before she met John Coffey. River knew this wasn't permanent, and that the doctors here did this to be sure she couldn't hurt them.

Because they used words like lethal when they described her. Weapon. Brilliant. Amazing. Dangerous.

They never let her off of the gurney fully conscious. The cocktail of drugs would be allowed to wain until she could stand on her own, weakly. Then two orderlies would undo the restraints, beginning with her head, stand her up, wash her, reclothe her, and put her back. There was a drain in the floor for the water and a shower nozzle on the far wall. She never left the room.

River didn't eat anything that didn't go through an IV into her arm. She knew the contents were high in sugar and that they meant to keep her weak.

Because when the lights went off...

... they tried everything they could to trigger her.

There were two doctors behind a glass panel. River could see the panel at her feet, like a window to a better world. She could see them conferring, nodding. Flashes of things would come to her, from them.... the posters hung around the City were things they knew to trigger her. River considered the word 'trigger' and struggled to keep coherent.

They would never stop picking.

One of the two doctors vanished from behind the glass, and River heard the door swing inward. She heard talk of her charts, of her cerebral cortex, of stimulating different parts of the brain until they got the right combination...

The doctor wore blue latex gloves.

River moved her mouth to say "hands of blue." No words came out.

She closed her eyes as a needle went into her neck and the lights went out. Behind her closed eyes, River could see Serenity. She could see Hannibal smiling at her. See Simon.

"Write that response down," the doctor said.

At the end of his first day of exploration, the Doctor finally found his way into the dining hall. Inside the cafeteria, he quickly discovered that there were benefits to being 'mad' - he could ask for strange flavor combinations without any back-talk or mockery from his dining companions. After loading a tray with a slice of pizza (pepperoni with strange green peppers), a bowl of lime gelatin, and baked beans, he found himself a seat at a table. There, he proceeded to alternate bites of each dish.

It wasn't good. The beans were tolerable, but the peppers on the pizza tasted like fire dipped in brine and the jiggle of the green gelatin was downright terrifying. He turned the dessert dish upside down on his tray so that he wouldn't have to watch the mess swaying gently every time his knee bumped the table. Then he devoted his attention to picking the jalapenos from what remained of the slice of pie.

The Doctor felt uncomfortable and a little off - a mix of fatigue left over from all of the medical staff's tampering with his body chemistry, combined with the not-entirely-appetizing food. He knew that he needed to eat something, but honestly. If this was the main diet of the residents, no wonder they were ill.

There were restraints and different things being pumped into her. Katniss did not like this. She serve her time in the Games, she did what they wanted her to do. It wasn't her fault that they made promises they didn't intend to keep. They forced her hand. They told her that if Peeta and herself made it to the end then they could both live. They made it to the end. She killed Cato. They reneged on their word and she had to do something so Peeta wouldn't bleed to death. Damn idiot broke his wound open and she couldn't let him die. He loved her and somehow she loved him as well.

She remembered that she was allowed to go home and she talked with President Snow. He wasn't impressed with her performance in the games. He wasn't impressed with what she did for Rue either. He didn't like the thought of unity between the districts. That's how wars start. They must have gotten her when she was asleep and took her back to the Capitol and then hooked her up these machines. What were they going to do? Use her to dispell the rumor that their was going to be another uprising? She would have done that if they asked. "Why?" She tried to ask but she didn't think that they could hear that.

Soon after being medicated she was able to sit up and eventually stand up. She knew who she was but she didn't know where she was right yet. She was mellow now and not trying to figure out how to get out of here. If you asked anyone this was an improvement with Katniss. Once she was allowed to leave her room she walked to where the other patients were sitting and sat amongst them, staring blankly at the television. She knew things were happening but she didn't know what and she didn't seem to care either.

Eleven steps to the door, turn left four steps and down two flights. It wasn't the entire key to this place, but it was a start. Frank felt the effects of anti-psychotics coursing through him. Little firemen, designed to quench the flames that burned inside his mind for so long. How nice of them.

The frontal assault did not quite work as intended. It took The Punisher four seconds to make it to the stairs... sorry about the neck Doctor. Another nine seconds down the stairs, the last two after the taser hit him on the back. Fuck... plan B.

Torture and interrogation were nothing new to Castle. Sure they called it "therapy" and "counseling." Same difference. If the CIA, the GRU, and Vietcong could not break him, there was no way bipedial pill dispensors asking him how he felt about his mother would get anything accomplished. Ask him about his wife and children one more time. The clipboard would do the job quite adequately... later.

Smile and wave, tell them what they want to believe. The door gets closer, and burning this place to the ground could wait a couple more days. If he played nice he would get group therapy. Frank simply couldn't wait for that.

They had learned quickly that Hannibal Lecter wasn't one to be trusted. They had learned quickly that despite the medications they gave him, he was still quite lucid. They had learned quickly that he didn't like his situation. They had learned quickly that he could be very violent.

At one point, Hannibal had bitten the hand of a doctor. Not a simple, easy bite, either. He had ripped off the flesh all the way to the bone. Devouring muscle and paralyzing a hand that had only been trying to make him more comfortable. An unknowing nurse who had not before worked with Hannibal was the next victim. She had bent over him from the opposite side of the bed he was strapped down to, and he had opened her neck with his teeth.

They tried many drugs, but they all wore off too quickly. He gave them a sense of paranoia when entering his room. When they wanted to work on him, when they wanted to help him get clean, they had to almost overdose him with medication and work very quickly. There were always four of them. They all had a task to complete so that they could focus only on what they were doing. Only the most trusted of doctors and nurses, only the most responsible, were allowed to work with Hannibal Lecter.

He was not allowed out of his room. He was not allowed visitors. He was not allowed any of the freedoms that other patients had. His room was lined heavily so that he could do no damage to himself, not that it seemed to them he would hurt himself. It was also so that he could not hurt those who were caring for him with body checks or quick movements. They had put him into the straight jacket early on, leery of letting him have access to his hands. The mouth guard had come only after the second biting incident, when they felt badly knowing they could have prevented the nurse's death if they'd done it right after the first.

Hannibal was also strapped down to the bed. A plain metal thing that was more autopsy table than bed. Tightly. They had brought in a second set of straps just to be sure. The young man seemed to possess an extraordinary strength. Nothing like some of the others that were in here, but far more than an average human. He was strapped down, and still he would thrash sometimes. He would appear calm and when he was approached, his whole body would tense like a cat, and he would try to attack. It scared the staff even with him so restrained.

All of his food was liquid, so they didn't have to take the mask off to feed him. When they cleaned him, they kept him strapped down. The jacket didn't come off. His lower half was the only thing exposed fully to the water. It disgusted him that he had to spend hours in filth because they had only given him a catheter and nothing to resolve other issues.

He was treated like an animal. Many of those who came to tend to him used earplugs or headphones if it wasn't something that needed the direction or assurance of others. They didn't want to hear him talk. His voice was too soothing, his words too convincing. Even in the haze of heavy medication, he could still weave a spell with that voice, almost getting his way a few times in the early days before they'd all learned.

When he was alone in the room, he was perfectly still. He was not there, it seemed to them. When he was alone, Hannibal retreated into his mind palace. He thought of River and wondered where she was. He viewed pictures of her, relived interactions with her. His whole life played before him. He visited the museum in his head and was quiet.

"Doctor."

"Doctor."

"Doctor."

"Doctor....Wait a minute. He's not a doctor."

"Just humor him." The staff seemed more than willing to play along with one of the inmates. One who seemed to believe he really was a doctor. ( Actually he was, but that was a whole other kettle of fish. )

Norman. Wake up!

Groggy. Confused. Lost. Everything was blurry. Norman just wanted to roll over and lie on his side. He wanted to continue sleeping. But he couldn't roll over. And the voice was loud in his mind. Loud and screeching.

Wake up, you rotten, good-for-nothing, worthless, child! Would you dare disobey your Mother?!

Norman mumbled something indecipherable. His head was like a cloud. A fluffy cloud floating through a cheese grater. He didn't know where he was. He barely knew what he was. He only knew that he was asleep. And when he was asleep, Norman was at peace. He was happy. He had solace. But the voice continued. It grew louder and more insistent. Then the voice began to have form and Norman knew that he couldn't ignore it any longer. It was too dangerous to ignore that voice.

"M-m-mmother...?"
( His eyes slowly opened. )

Claustrophobia was a feeling that Spock was unaccustomed to. He was usually so calm. So composed. So rigid in his mannerisms and in his thoughts. But something in him had changed since he'd awoken to find himself trapped. Isolated. Restrained. Drugged. How very human of his captors to use internal medications on him. On a physiology that might not have been made for such medications. It brought out the very essence of his Vulcan nature. It tore at his logic, created waves in his mental sea of unwavering strength. He wanted to lash out in anger. In frustration. He wanted to be rashly emotional. He wanted to be violent. And he could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest in response to this destruction of his emotional barrier. A barrier that his mind worked feverishly to repair.

His species was not meant for this kind of confinement. It tasted bitter in his mouth. He felt like he was tiptoeing around an alter-ego of his own making. The inner Spock. The true Spock. The Spock that wanted to give in to both his illogical human and feral Vulcan tendencies. He didn't know how long he could control himself like this. He wanted to beg his captors to keep him sedated. To knock him out of his conscious mind. In slumber, he might be able to fight it off longer. But he couldn't. Another one of his human emotions prevented him from calling out to the ones who had put him in this place. And this was an emotion he could deal with the least.

Pride.
( For the first time since arriving in The City, he felt sad. )

It had taken the hospital staff a while to decide what to do with the Doctor. He wasn’t the only unusual patient in Arkham – they’d seen everything from supervillains to the undead - but when it came to anatomy, he was unlike the others. The Doctor was not human, or at least not a variant that the medical staff recognized. He’d woken the first night after his abduction, confused but lucid, hours earlier than expected. He metabolized the normal dosage for his height and body weight in half the regular time, so they’d increased the medication.

( It had almost killed him. )

The iv in Lorne's arm dispensed an orange liquid. When the nurse changed the plastic bags full of the orange liquid, the change neither stung nor smelled like oranges.

His room had a nice big window and a view of the courtyard, and it seemed to only be the second floor. He got to leave, sometimes, and chatter with the nurses at the nurses station. He got to walk around, taking his iv on a little wheeled trolly with him, and watch TV in the common room. He got to sing if he felt like it, which hadn't been too often, but Lorne knew he'd done it and the acoustics were lovely here.

He couldn't tell when he'd gotten here, or how. Hadn't he just been with Angel? He didn't know. The orange stuff kept him in a state akin to human drunkenness--just out of it enough not to put two and two together, but his empathic abilities not really impeded. Asylum orderlies made sure to give him sleeping meds, too... they knew, somehow, what depriving Lorne of sleep would do and weren't prepared to deal with it.

As long as everyone was nice to him, Lorne didn't seem to mind what was going on. No one sang here, but him, and no one really hummed--at least not orderlies or nurses.

His connection to the Powers that Be was effectively severed. Lorne was just a green demon that liked to sing and picked up on the moods of others.

Today he stood in the hallway chatting up a pretty nurse named Emily, talking all about Judy Garland's career.

"Emily, do you think we could get a copy of 'The Wizard of Oz' out in the common room?" He didn't quite ask her with as much brightness in his voice as was normal, but it was close.

Emily considered. "Uh, I'll see what I can do, alright?" She didn't see the harm in it. It was just a movie. And Lorne would just sing, and the others would ignore it. No one had even asked why he was green, or what was wrong with him.

"That'd be swell, sweetie," Lorne said, walking past her and continuing down the hall. There was a library room down to the left, and he meant to find it.