Chapter Text
In concurrence with diagnosis, the following are to be prescribed to Patient #505:
• Compazine – for nausea: taken orally; two to three times daily; side effects may include dizziness, drowsiness, blurred vision, or dry mouth
• Vicodin – for severe pain relief: taken orally; twice a day with food or drink; side effects may include nausea, dizziness, drowsiness, or constipation
Recommended period of prescription is two months. Period of prescription may be subject to change. Dosage may be subject to change.
Authorized Psychiatrist Signature: Dr. Flug Slys M. D.
Dr. Flug placed the last dot of his signature on the prescription order and tapped the pen against the edge of his desk. He had already read the document three times before signing, but one more time couldn’t hurt.
Patient ID: #505 Name: Unknown Species: Bear Sex: Male
Reason for Admittance: Severe depression and anxiety associated with physical disability and emotional abuse
Tap, tap, tap. Flug continued through the rest of the report, mouthing along with every word he read under his bag. He had practically memorized the whole thing by now, but he refused to scan or skip through anything. His patient deserved the utmost care.
He owed 505 that much, at the very least.
At the end of it, the doctor looked over his signature one time for validity. Satisfied in his work, Flug opened the door of his office and headed down the hall to the nurse’s station. Each floor had one; the mental institution he worked for, the Global Psychiatric Medical Center for the Criminally Insane (say that five times fast) was immense, immaculate, and important. It was well known for being prepared for anything.
The nurse on duty gave him a meek smile, her name tag reflecting “Susie” by the bright fluorescent lights above. Flug didn’t interact much with her – there were so many staff members here after all – but he knew an introvert when he saw one. They had an understanding of each other, based on quiet work shifts and generic small talk.
The doctor slid his prescription request through the opening in the glass window. “I’ve got a, an order to fill out. Can you send it down to pharmacy?”
“Sure thing,” Susie nodded. Her face softened as she read the name on the file. “How’s Patient 505 doing?”
“Eh, depends on how you look at it, I suppose.” Flug brought his hands up in a balancing motion. “He just came out of surgery a few hours ago so he’ll be having trouble for a while. But,” he paused, and smiling tilt spread along his goggles. “Long-term, I think this will really help with his progress.”
“Oh, that’s good,” the nurse was typing away at her monitor, glancing at the report every so often. “He’s so sweet to all of the nurses. He certainly deserves the best.”
“Ah, yep.” Flug was already scooting his way back to his office. “Well, I’ll be heading back now. Thanks.”
“Of course Doctor, I know how busy you get. Don’t forget about your lunch break.”
“That only happened one…a few times.” He adjusted his paper bag self-consciously and gave a sheepish wave before turning around. Honestly, he thought, work through lunch four times and everyone gets on your case about it. His face burned.
After entering his office and closing the door – maybe just a tad too quickly – Flug took a moment to compose himself. He straightened his lab coat, brushed the wrinkles out of his pants, and took off his long yellow gloves to apply a squirt of hand sanitizer from the bottle on the desk. He rubbed his hands until the gel soaked in completely, then meticulously put the gloves back on, one finger at a time. The routine ended after he checked his headwear for signs of tearing and smoothed out every crinkle.
It was funny, sometimes, how he worked with the world’s most unstable people when he himself was maybe one electron short of a stable element.
With a sigh, the doctor plopped back into his swivel chair and pulled up his business email. There were no new messages, so he clicked on one from two days prior. It was an invitation from the European Federation of Psychologists’ Associations about a convention being held in Austria in two months. They wanted him to be a key speaker.
Dr. Flug was not a natural leader, or a skilled communicator, or a genius making the next big psychological breakthrough. Hell, he wasn’t even the head of the institute he was employed for. But the fact of the matter was that he was still an employee of one of the most respected establishments of correctional psychology in the modern era, and every single patient he’d worked with had successfully been integrated back into their respective societies after serving their sentence, no relapses or repeat offenses whatsoever. It was a feat unmatched by most, regardless of country or institute, and people had been taking notice of it for a good while now.
Important people.
So EPPA wanted him to share his secrets, wanted him to demonstrate his success so that others could replicate it. Never mind the fact that he was currently with an institute in Guerrero, Mexico and would have to travel that far in such short notice. Never mind the fact that he had patients who needed him, who were used to routine just as much as he, and who, when pressed, could still be very, very dangerous.
Never mind the fact that he himself honestly couldn’t explain how he had done it.
But none of that mattered to them. They had invited him to speak, to be a someone among many other someones, and he knew it would help his credibility immensely. So he contemplated the message, wrote and rewrote drafts of his response, and after an hour of deliberation finally had something he convinced himself was professional yet personable. He sent it before he could change his mind again.
Flug took a deep breath and touched the rim of his paper bag. It wasn’t a big deal, really. He just had to write a convincing speech, practice said speech, book a plane and hotel for that weekend – thank god EPPA was willing to cover the costs – and figure out some way to keep his patients stable while he was away. Within two months. On top of his already heavy workload.
Hoo boy.
Speaking of the devil tends to make him appear, and the doctor’s office phone rang just in time to snap him out of his growing anxiety and turn it into a heart attack instead.
“Gah!” Flug pin-wheeled as his chair creaked backwards, threatening to tumble. He only managed to catch himself when one sneaker hooked under the desk and kept him awkwardly there. With some clumsy maneuvering he was vertical in his seat again, and answered the call with an exasperated “hello?”
“Oh Dr. Slys thank goodness, please can you come to Floor 5? Patient #243 is having an episode and we can’t calm her down!”
Well crap. The doctor jumped hastily from his chair and almost ran with the phone still in his hand. “O-of course, sir, I’ll be right there!” He hung up and dashed out the door and down the hall, past the startled Nurse Susie straight to the elevator. He jabbed the ‘up’ button and twitched his fingers against his side as it rumbled down. With a ding the doors opened and he rushed inside, hitting the lit ‘5’ on the console and repeatedly smacking at the button to close the doors until it happened.
Floor 5 was reserved for patients who were either struggling with reality or were a hazard to themselves and others. Most of the staff had affectionately dubbed it as the “Asylum Floor” when in the break room or in one-on-one chats, but no one dared utter it in front of the patients or the general public. Regardless, there was a certain caution by those required to go there for anything more than a scheduled check-up.
Flug ran past padded cells and surprised nurses like a man fleeing a bull.
He finally arrived at one cell halfway down the hallway, with a whiteboard marking it as #243 with a little smiley face beside it. Smacking and shrieking came from within in repeat. There was an intern standing in front of the locked door, looking hopelessly haggard and lost. He practically grabbed Flug by the shoulders as the doctor skidded to a halt.
“Thank god you’re here, Doctor! She hasn’t stopped hitting the walls!” The intern was shaking both of them. Flug pulled out of his grip and glanced over him. Simple blue scrubs with a white apron – standard intern uniform. Nametag read Martin. Tanned skin. Thick curly black hair and wide eyes. Probably new.
“What’s the situation?” He peered into the glass window; the patient was ramming herself shoulder-first into a cushioned wall, struggling against her straitjacket. She was screaming.
“Oh she, she didn’t want to take her medication and when I tried to get her to open her mouth–”
“You d-don’t force – why would you – I’m going in there. Lock the door behind me.”
“But Doctor–!”
“That’s an order!” He didn’t wait for Martin’s response before unlocking the entrance and slipping in. There was a quick chink behind him that told Flug the intern could at least follow orders. He focused on the young woman who was still screaming and spitting. She hadn’t noticed him yet.
“Dementia?”
The screaming didn’t stop but his patient whirled his way, long red hair spread like a skirt around her. Her lips curled in a snarl as she yelled and charged him. Flug braced himself against the closed door and pushed off to the left at the last second, ducking past Dementia as she continued. She didn’t even try to come to a stop, just whacked into the door and twirled again. They circled each other a moment.
With a hiss the girl launched herself again, but the doctor was ready. He sidestepped and the instant she lost balance was the instant he wrapped his arms around her waist and knocked her onto the floor, half on top of her. Dementia spit and cursed nonsense but Flug refused to give her a chance to maneuver herself.
“Dementia, it’s okay, it’s just me, it’s Flug! You’re not in danger, calm down. You can do it.” His voice was loud to reach over her cries at first, then lowered as the sounds died down. His patient slowly stopped kicking and screaming, but her head still thrashed about and Flug knew better than to let go yet; he’d been bit before.
After a moment Dementia stopped moving completely, exhaustion making her pant with her head turned to the side and her messy hair covering her face. Her captor took one arm off and waited for a response. Nothing.
“You with me?”
“…Sí. Estoy aquí.”
“Ah,” Flug sat up. “Bueno, Bueno. ¿Cómo estás hoy? ¿Estás bien?”
“Sí…bien. Gracias, Señor.” Dementia blew red bangs out of her face and side-eyed him. “Doctor.”
“Dementia. Glad to have you back. I missed you.”
“Mm. Get off me. You’re too heavy.” He complied and she rolled into a sitting position effortlessly despite her attire. “What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Flug pulled on his bag, knocked slightly askew in the scuffle. His patient wrinkled her nose.
“I dunno, I was...” she trailed off and her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Some idiota was screwing with me!”
“He has a name, Dementia.”
“So do I, Flug, and you don’t see him using it.” She sneered at the door, where a pair of nervous eyes ducked out of sight. Her doctor rubbed his arm – it felt bruised, probably from hitting the floor so hard.
“That’s true, I’ll talk to him, but he told me you were refusing your medication. We had an agreement about that.”
Dementia shrugged, unapologetic. “I wasn’t refusing, just having some fun. You shoulda been here to see his face.” She grinned, revealing pointed teeth. “New meat’s so funny!”
Flug had a good idea where this was going. “You pretended you didn’t speak Spanish. Or English.”
“Damn right! Pretty good act too, got him all flustered. They never know what to do when the crazies are spouting some nonsense language.” The girl’s giggles were borderline maniacal and then stopped abruptly. A frown snaked across her face. “But then he had to go and ruin it. Doesn’t he know he can’t touch us without a reason?”
“I restrain you all the time.”
“Well yeah,” a hair flip, “but you have a reason. And I like you. You’re one of us.”
Flug was very happy the cameras didn’t record sound in these rooms. “No, I’m your doctor. You’re here on charges of vandalism, larceny, and attempted murder. There’s a difference.”
“Suuuuuure. Keep telling yourself that. Hey! Maybe you can repeat it at night to fall asleep instead of counting sheep, how does that sound?” The giggles came back full force and Dementia stuck out her tongue. “Just say, ‘I am better than these losers. I’m not just here because it’s where I belong. I –”
“Okay, that’s enough. I think we’re done here.” The doctor stretched and winced. He straightened out his lab coat. “It’s been fun to wrestle, Dementia, but that honestly wasn’t on my schedule for another three days. I’ve had my fill.”
“Well that’s too bad, I could always go another round.” She waggled her eyebrows at him but huffed when he didn’t give the reaction she was fishing for. “You’re no fun. I hope you fall down the stairs.”
“You don’t mean that.” Flug walked to the door and waited for Martin the Intern to hurry up and unlock it.
“Yes I do, I mean everything. And I mean it that you’re one of us. Can’t deny fate, Señorrrr.” Dementia rolled the last ‘r’ hard, tumbling onto her back, feet in the air. “Someday destiny will come knocking, mi amigo. Just you wait.”
“Mhm. Let me know when you hear it.” The intern came through and Flug was out. He glanced back to see his patient pretending to ride a bike, legs rotating in the air. His face went soft for just a moment under his mask.
It became hard again when he turned to a very fidgety Martin, who at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself.
“You are aware of our policy regarding patients on this floor, correct?”
“Yes sir…”
“Repeat it to me.”
“Attending staff are not to touch the patient in any way without permission unless no other option is available and the patient is at risk of hurting themselves or others.”
“Exactly. So what was that?”
“I…she wasn’t taking her medication…”
Flug gritted his teeth, irritated. “She was trying to get you to crack. It worked. If you’re going to be here, you need to adhere to the rules we have in place. It’s what keeps us in top shape and without incident. What you did today was unprofessional and dangerous. You don’t know the patient’s personal history. You don’t know what could set her off. If she’s being uncooperative, you ask for assistance. Do I make myself clear?”
“I, I…”
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“You bet your goddamn job it won’t. Now get out of here. I’ll take care of the patient’s medication.”
The intern nodded, flush with red embarrassment, and hurried out swiftly. Flug shook his head, mumbling German, Spanish and English disappointment and grabbing Dementia’s prescription, left forgotten on a tray by the door.
Dementia took it with nothing more to say to him.
Coming back to his office was even more of a relief than usual, but the doctor didn’t give himself time to relax. He straightened his lab coat, brushed the wrinkles out of his pants, and took off his long yellow gloves to apply another squirt of hand sanitizer. He rubbed his hands until the gel soaked in completely, then meticulously put the gloves back on, one finger at a time.
The bag was checked last as always, and Flug felt his body loosen more as each crease was worked out. By the time his headwear was perfectly uniform again, he was already slumping into the swivel chair again. A click, a browser pop-up, and an email login.
There was a new message from the head director.
Flug arched an eyebrow as he opened the message. He clasped his hands together as he read, and the eyebrows shot higher and higher.
Dr. Slys,
This is to inform you that we will be bringing in a new patient who is to be placed on Floor 5. He is scheduled to arrive tomorrow at 14:00, and we formally ask you to join us at his orientation. You have an unparalleled success rate in the rehabilitation of patients, and we hope you will consider becoming his primary psychiatrist. This incoming patient is a high-profile criminal, and his case file is attached below. Please let us know as soon as possible if you are available for the orientation if not the case itself. We can discuss the details and any questions you may have tomorrow after the patient’s orientation.
Respectfully,
Dr. Lauren Rorschach, Head Director,
Global Psychiatric Medical Center for the Criminally Insane
The file was where the director claimed it was, but Flug didn’t open it yet. Instead he tapped a spare pen against the keyboard, digesting this new information.
It was pretty apparent why he’d been asked, beyond the reason given in the email. The doctor was currently only treating two patients – 505 and Dementia. He usually took three or four at a time, but his third had just been released a week ago, expected to make a full recovery in the reintegration of society. This request would have been fine if he hadn’t just been asked to go to that damned EPPA convention so soon.
But two months were never enough to even make a dent in the psyche of a Floor 5 patient. Someone new probably wouldn’t care if he was gone for a weekend, and it was maybe just one more thing to ask a few nurses to watch this incoming patient along with Dementia.
No, it really wasn’t a bad idea to add another case. He could use the money anyway.
Mind made up, Flug clicked curiously at the case file download. It was fairly barebones – understandable, he wasn’t an authorized doctor for the patient yet – but what caught his attention was one thing. Well, two when he really read it.
The first: criminal charges higher than nearly any Flug had ever personally seen. None of it petty either; forgery, identity theft, no less than twenty-five successful robberies, and murder of all three degrees. The list ended with a ‘remaining charges confidential’.
Jesus.
The second: just like 505, there was no known name for the patient. Unlike 505, who ended up being referred to just by his patient ID, this patient had an alias.
Black Hat
Flug’s stomach turned. He had the feeling it would be a long day tomorrow.