The two women watched the lanky teen leave through the swinging doors of the Emergency Room. The one nearest the bed made a notation on her clipboard and tossed it onto the counter. I cant believe you just let him walk out of here. What kind of therapist are you?
The second woman continued to pet the albino mouse cupped in her left hand. What did you want me to do, Dr. Phelps? Lock him up in a padded room? You think that would help?
The first woman beckoned to an orderly, who rushed to change the blood-stained bed-covers. He was in here last week getting a bottle of sleeping pills pumped from his stomach. Today, he slit his wrists. Tomorrow, they may not find him in time. That kid has some serious problems! Youre his state-appointed psychiatrist, you should know that!
The other woman smiled sadly, and held the albino mouse up to her face, petting it with her cheek. The mouse peeked over her thumb and leveled his pink gaze at the doctor. Hes been in my office quite a bit more than yours. I know all about his problems. They started when his father died just after the Rikti War, in an accident during the rebuilding. His family lawyer sued the city for millions, then promptly married his suddenly-wealthy mother.
Dr. Phelps looked at the emergency room doors, but of course, young Timothy was already gone. Cant be, she said simply. You see the state of him? Tattered clothes, worn out sneakers? Thats no trust fund baby.
The psychiatrist turned the mouse to face her, bumping noses with it affectionately. No, hes not. Not really. He dropped out of high school and ran away from home two years ago. He gets a stipend from his trust fund, but he signs every check over to charity. Refuses to touch one cent of it. What little money he has, comes from a job at the Photo-Mat.
The doctor raised an eyebrow, Stubborn kid. Not too bright though. Why not take the money?
Its complicated. He says he doesnt like the idea of his dad dying just to keep his traitor mother and her new husband living in style. Says he wants it to mean something. He feels like taking the money would be like taking their side.
Dr. Phelps opened her mouth to say something, but the teleportation grid over the hospital bed suddenly whirred to life, tracing a pattern in the air over the bed with red lights. Automatically, she sprang into action, snatching a hypo-spray applicator and a tissue regenerator from the table beside her. A body materialized, dressed in torn red spandex, and gasping desperately for breath.
A quick injection at the unconscious heros neck and he twitched, eyes blinking open. Hello, again, Dr. Phelps!
She shook her head. Virgil Viceroy Youre my second chronic suicide in twenty minutes. When are you going to learn?
Virgil smiled as she began to work on his many deep cuts and gunshot wounds. It was glorious! You should have seen it! He winced as she pinched a deep gash shut and aimed the green light from her regenerator into it, sealing the wound.
Im sure youll tell me all about it in ten minutes when youre back here. There. Now be CAREFUL will you?
And just like that, he was gone again. She turned back to the Psychiatrist and her mouse. But that doesnt explain why hes so depressed. Why hes suicidal.
The psychiatrist scratched the mouses head with a long pink fingernail, Well, its obvious, isnt it? He needs to make a difference. But he cant. Hes just a kid making minimum wage, living in a disgusting little cockroach infested motel room. It gets to him. Hes got no real future. Hes smart enough to see that.
The doctor sighed, gesturing to the orderly again, who rushed over to change the bed covers for the next patient. Cant you prescribe something? Anti-depressants or a dedicated case-worker?
The psychiatrist smiled, taking hold of the mouse with both hands, one hand around its body, and the fingers of her other hand on its head. As a matter of fact, a dedicated case worker is just what I had in mind.
Her eyes locked on the doctor, she gave the mouses head a sharp twist, snapping its neck with a barely audible crunch.
Dr. Phelps stared on in horror, her mouth working, trying to understand how the other woman could so callously kill the tiny rodent she had been so affectionate with just moments ago. But then, smoky purple tendrils of energy began to seep from the tiny white body in her open palm. Gradually, they formed a basketball sized ball of dark energy in mid-air.
A nictus! the doctor gasped.
The psychiatrist continued to smile, staring at the pulsing ball of energy. Go to him, Grim. Save him. Hes probably on the ledge outside the window of his apartment. Twenty-five hundred Garment Avenue, in Kings Row. Hurry.
The ball of energy flew from the room, passing through the walls of the hospital.
You youre turning him into a warshade?
The psychiatrist dropped the dead mouse into the bio-waste bin with a look of mild disgust. Its the only way to save him. Like you said, its only a matter of time before he manages to kill himself properly. I cant give him a purpose. And I can watch him twenty-four-seven. But Grim can.
The two women watched the lanky teen leave through the swinging doors of the Emergency Room. The one nearest the bed made a notation on her clipboard and tossed it onto the counter. I cant believe you just let him walk out of here. What kind of therapist are you?
The second woman continued to pet the albino mouse cupped in her left hand. What did you want me to do, Dr. Phelps? Lock him up in a padded room? You think that would help?
The first woman beckoned to an orderly, who rushed to change the blood-stained bed-covers. He was in here last week getting a bottle of sleeping pills pumped from his stomach. Today, he slit his wrists. Tomorrow, they may not find him in time. That kid has some serious problems! Youre his state-appointed psychiatrist, you should know that!
The other woman smiled sadly, and held the albino mouse up to her face, petting it with her cheek. The mouse peeked over her thumb and leveled his pink gaze at the doctor. Hes been in my office quite a bit more than yours. I know all about his problems. They started when his father died just after the Rikti War, in an accident during the rebuilding. His family lawyer sued the city for millions, then promptly married his suddenly-wealthy mother.
Dr. Phelps looked at the emergency room doors, but of course, young Timothy was already gone. Cant be, she said simply. You see the state of him? Tattered clothes, worn out sneakers? Thats no trust fund baby.
The psychiatrist turned the mouse to face her, bumping noses with it affectionately. No, hes not. Not really. He dropped out of high school and ran away from home two years ago. He gets a stipend from his trust fund, but he signs every check over to charity. Refuses to touch one cent of it. What little money he has, comes from a job at the Photo-Mat.
The doctor raised an eyebrow, Stubborn kid. Not too bright though. Why not take the money?
Its complicated. He says he doesnt like the idea of his dad dying just to keep his traitor mother and her new husband living in style. Says he wants it to mean something. He feels like taking the money would be like taking their side.
Dr. Phelps opened her mouth to say something, but the teleportation grid over the hospital bed suddenly whirred to life, tracing a pattern in the air over the bed with red lights. Automatically, she sprang into action, snatching a hypo-spray applicator and a tissue regenerator from the table beside her. A body materialized, dressed in torn red spandex, and gasping desperately for breath.
A quick injection at the unconscious heros neck and he twitched, eyes blinking open. Hello, again, Dr. Phelps!
She shook her head. Virgil Viceroy Youre my second chronic suicide in twenty minutes. When are you going to learn?
Virgil smiled as she began to work on his many deep cuts and gunshot wounds. It was glorious! You should have seen it! He winced as she pinched a deep gash shut and aimed the green light from her regenerator into it, sealing the wound.
Im sure youll tell me all about it in ten minutes when youre back here. There. Now be CAREFUL will you?
And just like that, he was gone again. She turned back to the Psychiatrist and her mouse. But that doesnt explain why hes so depressed. Why hes suicidal.
The psychiatrist scratched the mouses head with a long pink fingernail, Well, its obvious, isnt it? He needs to make a difference. But he cant. Hes just a kid making minimum wage, living in a disgusting little cockroach infested motel room. It gets to him. Hes got no real future. Hes smart enough to see that.
The doctor sighed, gesturing to the orderly again, who rushed over to change the bed covers for the next patient. Cant you prescribe something? Anti-depressants or a dedicated case-worker?
The psychiatrist smiled, taking hold of the mouse with both hands, one hand around its body, and the fingers of her other hand on its head. As a matter of fact, a dedicated case worker is just what I had in mind.
Her eyes locked on the doctor, she gave the mouses head a sharp twist, snapping its neck with a barely audible crunch.
Dr. Phelps stared on in horror, her mouth working, trying to understand how the other woman could so callously kill the tiny rodent she had been so affectionate with just moments ago. But then, smoky purple tendrils of energy began to seep from the tiny white body in her open palm. Gradually, they formed a basketball sized ball of dark energy in mid-air.
A nictus! the doctor gasped.
The psychiatrist continued to smile, staring at the pulsing ball of energy. Go to him, Grim. Save him. Hes probably on the ledge outside the window of his apartment. Twenty-five hundred Garment Avenue, in Kings Row. Hurry.
The ball of energy flew from the room, passing through the walls of the hospital.
You youre turning him into a warshade?
The psychiatrist dropped the dead mouse into the bio-waste bin with a look of mild disgust. Its the only way to save him. Like you said, its only a matter of time before he manages to kill himself properly. I cant give him a purpose. And I can watch him twenty-four-seven. But Grim can.