Chapter One.
Rain pelted the windows of the Institute for Behavioural Research and Treatment for the third day in a row. The sky beyond was blurred with dark grey clouds and a thick mist swirled in the air, reducing visibility to almost nothing. The wind whipped the trees around the immense building, their branches tapping heavily on the thick glass windows. A flash of lightning directly overhead flickered the power on and off, only to be followed by a crash of thunder that rocked the upward levels of the decibel scale.
The atmosphere inside was not much calmer. The hallway on the third floor of the Institute was filled with screams and cries and voices of panic, creating a human cacophony to rival the raging storm outside. The orderlies and staff went from child to child, calming them with stories or a toy to take their mind away from their fear. In the large room adjoining the office Director of Psychogenic Research, sixteen-year-old Elizabeth let out a deep sigh. A dull ache moved from the base of her skull to the front, just behind the eyes. She rubbed her temples, hoping to stave off a migraine. She stared blankly at the computer monitor blinking in front of her. Determined to finish the assignment, she leaned forward and tried to focus on the work. Frustration knitted her brows as she struggled to find the concentration to finish the problems. She pushed the keyboard back slightly, and with a soft groan, Elizabeth slumped forward and smashed her forehead against the desktop.
"Are you trying to break the desk?" A voice asked dryly from the doorway. Patrick, the Director of Psychogenic Research to whom the office next door belonged, gave his protégé a small smile.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Patrick crossed the room to the girl and studied the oblong red mark slowly forming on her pale forehead. "The last time I checked, smashing your head against the desk isnot going to help you with the simulation."
"But it does makes it more interesting," Elizabeth replied with a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
"Do we need to have a discussion about self-harm?" The Psychiatrist replied with equal sarcasm. After nearly seven years as his charge, Patrick had developed a finely nuanced feel for Elizabeth's moods.
"Of course not." She pulled the keyboard back toward her.
Patrick leaned over her shoulder to peer at the screen and monitor her progress. "Not bad. Just another hour or so and then you will be done."
"Where's everyone else?" The room adjoining the lab opposite Patrick's office served as a dormitory for the five other young adults under Patrick's psychological care. The door was open and Elizabeth could see that the space was unusually devoid of life.
Patrick followed her gaze. "They're at dinner." Elizabeth glanced up at the clock, startled to see that it was nearly six in the evening. That explains the migraine, she grumbled to herself.
"Finish up and I'll have one of the orderlies bring you food."
Elizabeth nodded with relief. If the others were at dinner, it meant the younger occupants of the Institute would soon be heading down for their own meal, leaving her with blissful peace and quiet to finish the task at hand.
Later that night, after finishing the day's work and eating the evening provision of the chef surprise, a sordid concoction of wheat grass and tomato juice, Elizabeth was permitted to return to her space. As one of the oldest residents at the Institute, she was afforded special privileges such as going between her room and the lab without being escorted. Unlike the others her age who were forced to spend their nights amongst communal snores, chatter, and nightmares, Elizabeth had been assigned her own isolated room on one of the subterraneous levels. After a year of shared living, Patrick had explained that uninterrupted sleep would help her performance on more complicated simulations. Elizabeth was never quite sure if the solitary quarters were a more of a punishment or a reward.
The motion sensors leading from the hallway into Elizabeth's room flickered the fluorescent lights in the ceiling to life. She kicked off her canvas slip-on shoes and flopped unceremoniously on the twin bed, resting her hands behind her head. The previously impending migraine had been narrowly averted, but the day had been long and tiring. A complicated simulation revising transportation security measures to prevent urban terrorism had cropped up in the middle of a longitudinal study on stress-induced psychosomatic disorders, in addition to her load of coursework in metaphysics and epistemology, advanced statistical modelling, and Pashto. She rubbed her gritty eyes and determinedly sat up to reach for the pajamas that had been returned from the laundry earlier in the day.
The small metal cabinet that held her clothes was one of the few pieces of furniture in Elizabeth's space. The twin bed was pushed against one grey cement wall, a rough grey woollen blanket hiding crisp white sheets created an aura of seamless monochromatism. A small nightstand next to the bed held a single lamp and a plastic pitcher and cup for water. Elizabeth's desk was directly adjacent from her bed; though usually tidy, the abruptness with which the client needed her simulation that morning resulted in a scattering of papers and textbooks across its surface.
In the corner next to the desk was a small shelving unit. A molecular model of methane hydrate clathrate from a previous environmental biochemistry project sat dejectedly on the topmost shelf, keeping company with several binders of resource material from past simulations. The lower three shelves contained a plethora of books, the only source of joy in the room. A few on the social and emotional development of gifted learners were borrowed from Patrick, most others were textbooks ranging from tropical medicine and human physiology to torts and civil procedure, all research material from coursework or special projects she'd completed. On the bottom amongst the texts' leather-bound spines were several composition books Elizabeth used as journals. Patrick had provided them with the suggestion that writing had great therapeutic benefits, but Elizabeth had a hunch it was a loaded comment, only for the diaries to be read when she was not present. To counter any prying eyes, she spent several sleepless nights devising her own shorthand, but much to her chagrin, no one ever mentioned the inability to read the journals' contents.
Elizabeth changed into her nightclothes and conducted her evening ablutions in the small adjoining washroom. She stared at the familiar reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, chocolate brown eyes, dark hair. Dark circles were starting to creep their way under her eyes, the product of too many sleepless nights and almost no sunlight. She hadn't been allowed outside the Institute in almost seven years.
Seven years, Elizabeth realized with a start, nearly dropping her toothbrush. Three hours from now it will make seven years. Three hours from now, I will be seventeen.
Most people loved their birthdays, but Elizabeth despised, abhorred, loathed hers. May 22 was not representative of celebrations, cake, and presents. No, it was when men in raid jackets came during the night, swooping in on the house where she'd lived with her mother, father, and Shih Tzu Max. Balloons from the family party earlier in the afternoon still bounced along the ceiling and the floor of the living room was still littered with the torn-off wrapping paper from her presents.
Elizabeth remembered laying awake in bed that night, frozen with fear after hearing the deadbolt snap on the front door. Seconds later a gloved hand was over her mouth, preventing any screams of protest. She was lifted out of bed and carried down the stairs to a waiting black car, trying desperately to kick and claw her assailant to no avail. A cloth smelling of something all too sweet was pushed on her nose and mouth, and her thoughts became fuzzy. She tried to fight it, to stay conscious, but the chloroform was too overpowering.
It was the last time she saw her home and her family.
Elizabeth set her toothbrush on the counter and padded back into the room, feeling despondent at the memory she had dredged up. During the first week at the Institute, she'd made herself a solemn vow to suppress that horrible night, to lock it away in a tiny corner of her mind, never to be relived.
She collapsed back onto her bed, wishing she could cry. But that was another promise she had made herself. Crying showed weakness, and she was not weak. The energy that could have been used to scream and tantrum was instead put to better uses. Her first act of rebellion was a three-day hunger strike that landed her in the infirmary after she had fainted from dehydration. The next day, after her scheme was foiled via intravenous nutrients, she undertook a vow of silence that stretched on for nearly three weeks. It was one of her proudest accomplishments. But neither act really dealt with her underlying emotions, as Patrick said during one of their one-on-one counseling sessions.
Her avoidance defense mechanism worked fine, most of the time. But the occasional seed of despair reared it's ugly head, creating a cognitive dissonance where she cursed her stubbornness, wishing she could let loose the knot of tension that had built up over the years.
Elizabeth turned over and buried her face in the pillow, futilely waiting for the blissful oblivion of sleep.
Elizabeth was not the only one still awake at the Institute, despite the late hour. On the third floor, well after the attending night staff and orderlies had ensured that all occupants were accounted for and well on their way to dreamland, Patrick reviewed the final results of the day's simulation and transmitted the file, along with his own notes, to the parent organisation overseeing the Institute, an outfit out of Blue Cove, Delaware called the Centre. With a glance at his watch, Patrick stood up to take a quick break before continuing on the work still left to be done. He turned to the open door leading from his office to the hallway, and noticed another light on several doors down. With a smile, he decided the remaining tasks could wait a few extra minutes.
Patrick walked across the hall and tapped on the doorframe where his closest colleague, and the Assistant Director of the Department, Michelle Stamatis, was every bit as awake and at work as he was.
"It's 9pm. On a Saturday." Patrick said with a grin. "Shouldn't you be at home?"
Despite being intently focused, Michelle somehow didn't jump at the unannounced presence. She pulled the pencil from between her teeth, but continued typing at her computer. "Shouldn't you?" She retorted.
"I just submitted today's simulation and I'm trying to get everything settled for visitor's day tomorrow." Patrick moved to sit in the unoccupied visitor's chair next to Michelle's desk. "What's your excuse?"
"Incident report. Tommy the terror tried to stick a paperclip in an electric socket during Group today. Marissa wants him put in solitary, but he has to learn to socialize before we can release him." Michelle sat back in her chair and faced her guest. "Sometimes I wonder why we ever decided to go into this field."
"We went into this field," the Director said, reaching into Michelle's communal box of individual-serving coffee pods, "Because we wanted to help people."
Michelle bit back a laugh. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I'd be rich enough to retire. Speaking of helping people, where's your child prodigy?"
"I sent her to bed," said Patrick, putting the pod into the Keurig. "She doesn't know it yet, but Mr. Raines and Mr. Parker from the Centre are supposed to observe tomorrow afternoon."
Any ounce of pleasantness in Michelle's features immediately evaporated. "When they arrive, remind me to somewhere else. I've told you before, they are bad news."
Patrick shrugged, as a quiet beep from the machine signalled that his coffee had finished brewing. "My hands are tied, Mich. I've heard what happens when you cross them, and quite honestly, I value my life." He wistfully looked back across the hall to the darkened lab. "And I value Elizabeth's."
A/N: Because I just know this is going to come up, no, Patrick is not homage to Sydney in any way... the character is based upon my best friend's clinical psychology doctoral adviser and they are verrrry different people. :) Up next: Visitor's Day gone awry, a Departmental staff meeting, and appearances by some of our favourite baddies.
Chapter Two.
By the time Elizabeth finally nodded off, it was after midnight. Happy birthday to me, she mumbled to herself, feeling her eyelids droop. But sleep was not the blissful oblivion she'd hoped for. Her dreams were plagued with faceless figures calling out her name, reaching out, grabbing her. She was running from eerie shadows, cornered in the abyss between reality and nightmare, likely induced by the suppressed memories that had resurfaced.
The young genius woke with a start, breathing heavily, her face prickled with cold sweat. Recognizing the surroundings as her room from the Institute, she relaxed slightly, trying to get her racing pulse down to a normal rhythm. The digital clock embedded in the control panel by the door blinked 5:27 AM, one and a half hours before lockdown was lifted. Elizabeth tilted her head at the camera mounted from the ceiling, wondering if the security staff watching on the monitors upstairs would come check on her. She doubted it; even with the worst of her nightmares, they never sent the on-call psychiatrist down.
Elizabeth slipped out of bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold concrete floor. She knew that there was no way she could go back to sleep, so she padded across the room and plucked a textbook off the shelf. She tossed it on her bed with a muffled thump and flicked on the small reading lamp. Smoothing out the rumpled covers, she lay with her back on the mattress, feet resting on the wall above the bed, and propped the book up on her stomach. Organisational Behaviour, 8th Edition. Ten pages in, her restlessness returned. Tossing the book aside, she glanced at the clock again. 5:42 AM.
"Ugh!" Elizabeth exclaimed to no one in particular. "This is ridiculous." The young genius glanced around the sparse room, wishing for once that she was upstairs in the dormitory with the others. At least with them, she surmised, insomnia wouldn't be as lonely.
With a quiet hmph, she scanned the room, desperate for some sort of entertainment. Her gaze rested on a mesh panel situated directly over her desk. No, bad idea, her conscience warned. But Elizabeth's less prudent side had the upper hand. She thoughtfully chewed at her thumbnail, wondering just how much trouble she would get in if she actually went through with the plan hatching in her mind. With a shrug- no entertainment is worse than bad entertainment- she waited until the camera panned away from the bed, then stuffed her pillow under the covers to create the appearance that she'd returned to sleep. Slithering against the wall to avoid the camera's omniscient lens, Elizabeth quietly climbed on top of her desk and lifted the hinged opening to the air vent. She hoisted herself into the hatch and replaced the cover, pausing for a few seconds to see if an alarm had been triggered.
Nothing.
With a tiny giggle of success, Elizabeth crawled down the hatchway, staying alert for any signs of discovery. She reached a juncture in the piping and turned left. Peering through the grating overlooking the room directly next to her own, Elizabeth frowned. The bed had fresh linens, several sets of clothing were laid out on the shelving unit, and a single large manual was placed in the centre of the otherwise empty desk.
For as long as she'd been on the sub-level of the Institute, she was the sole resident. A glimmer of hope rose in her chest- maybe she was getting a new neighbour! The excitement was short-lived by the soft ping of the elevator at the end of the corridor. She booked it back through the vent and slid the panel closed. She took a dive to the ground below the horizontal window slit embedded in the door that served as the one blind spot for any passing security detail. She held her breath as footsteps echoed against the cement floor and paused briefly on the other side of her door.
The walkie-talkie on the guard's belt crackled to life. "Subject 52287 is present and accounted for," he announced. Once the security station affirmed the guard's report, the footsteps retreated back toward the elevator. Elizabeth tiptoed back to the bed, her foot making contact with its leg as she stumbled in the dark. Crap, she mentally swore, bone striking metal with a loud clang. The footsteps of the guard ran back from the elevator, punched in the code to unlock the door, and burst in, taser at the ready. He lowered it slowly as the fluorescent lights came on with a flicker, revealing nothing more than a slightly bedraggled Subject 52287 sitting on the edge of the equally disheveled cot.
"Sorry, I heard your radio and stubbed my toe when I was getting some water," she quickly lied, holding up the pitcher with what she hoped was an innocent smile.
The security guard suspiciously glanced around the room. Elizabeth followed his eyes sweeping across the small room, noting with alarm that her desk chair was askew from being used as a step up to the air vent.
Please don't notice, please don't notice, she mentally willed him.
His gaze travelled across the wall and returned back to her, but she didn't dare show any sign of relief. "You should be asleep," he mandated.
Elizabeth responded with a shrug. "I will. Thanks for checking in on me."
With a glare of utmost authority, the security guard reached for his walkie-talkie and closed the door behind him as he returned to the elevator and back up to the security station.
That was too close. Elizabeth flopped onto her back, adrenaline rushing through her system. Way too close.
Two hours later in the executive suite of the Institute, four of the five doctors on staff sat around the large conference table, waiting for the special session of their weekly planning meeting to begin. Twice a year, the Institute held a visitor's day where parents or guardians could observe their children's behaviour modification and see just what their astronomically high checks were paying for. Most of the residents of the Institute were sent by their families who paid top dollar for behavioural rehabilitation that was assured to produce "mentally sound, well-behaved young adults," as the publicity brochure spelled out. Others, however, were there by court or state order. For some of the more serious cases, the Institute was a sentencing alternative to juvenile detention, usually for offenses like truancy or possession of controlled substances.
Even more rare were the kids under guardianship of the state, admitted to the Institute only because there was no other place for them to go. It was less than likely that the children from the latter two classifications would be visited, which resulted in the necessity of a modified schedule for the day, and absolute chaos for the staff.
"I'm going to guess that we're going to have no less than three incidents today," Jennifer Charbonnet, clinical psychologist, lucky enough to oversee the group containing the majority of juvenile delinquents, said over her cup of steaming earl grey.
"I'm going to go with five," said Marissa Elliott, child psychiatrist, tasked with the youngest residents of the Institute. "Tommy the Terror was out of control yesterday, and I have no doubt his attitude will be contagious."
"Five sounds about right," agreed Michelle Stamatis, passing a cup of coffee to her younger colleague before sitting across from her. The Assistant Director turned to the psychiatrist sitting next to her, meticulously going through his pile of files. "Et tu, Doctor?"
"As the eternal pessimist of the group," said Julian Burai, the fourth voice in the assembled company, "My expert opinion is eight."
"I'll take side bets that it's my group cited for the majority of incidents," said Jen Charbonnet, pulling off her Warby Parker glasses and rubbing her fatigued eyes. Six thirty in the morning was not a favourable time for a staff meeting.
"There'd better not be any incidents today," said a cultured voice from the doorway. Patrick gave his colleagues a tired smile as he came into the room. He tossed his own files on the table, sinking into the plush leather seat at its head. "But that, I know, is wishful thinking." He passed around several folders. "Let's get started, shall we? Today's program starts at nine, after the continental breakfast. With any luck, we will have everyone out of here by twelve thirty."
"And the clinical interns will be leading the program?" Marissa asked.
"Yes, the entire cohort of Ph.D. students was called in for today," Patrick answered, referring to the schedule in the folder. "All… except for Claudette and Amanda," he said, referencing his own doctoral interns. "They have a different assignment."
"Oh?" Jen shot him a quizzical look.
"I just got off the phone with Blue Cove. We will be playing host to a contingent from the Centre this afternoon." Patrick's normally calm air was slightly ruffled as he straightened the files in front of him.
"What do they want?" Marissa asked with evident disdain.
Patrick cleared his throat and tugged at his tie, worn just for the occasion. "They are coming to evaluate Elizabeth's progress."
Julian leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Which, let me guess, affects the future of our funding, and any of our current grant requests to Blue Cove for our own research projects?"
Patrick affixed a steely look at his colleague. "Possibly. Which is why this visit needs to go off without a hitch. Michelle will be Acting Director today so I can court the Tower. If there are no objections, let's make this short so we can get to rounds this morning. There's still a lot to do."
"No objections here," said Jen. "Here's my quick update for you all. I've got 3 of my kids on their second warning, and Coulter was caught trying to make a shiv out of a pen cap, toothbrush, and staples. Needless to say, he's in isolation for the next three days." She looked to her left to pass on the proverbial baton.
Marissa passed Patrick her status report from the previous week. "We got a new patient on Friday, a six year old girl named Molly. She's here on the recommendation of her teachers, who think she is autistic, and the school district doesn't have the resources to give her an Individual Education Plan. Parents are virtually non-existent and she was raised by an aunt who is convinced she is possessed by the Devil. Non-communicative thus far, but she's scheduled for testing tomorrow. From what my interns have said, she reads at a very sophisticated level. I'm guessing her full scale IQ will be within the gifted range, maybe even above that."
Patrick nodded, glancing over the intake report with some relief. It could easily serve as a bone to throw at the Centre to keep them from breathing down his neck. "Excellent. Blue Cove will like this very much. Keep me posted with her status. I want her test scores ASAP."
Marissa jotted the note down on her legal pad. "Will do, Boss."
"Julian?" Patrick turned to the far end of the table with a raised brow.
The proud graduate of both institutions in the Oxbridge system cleared his throat and leaned back in his leather chair. In his late twenties, Julian Burai was highly ambitious, a trait he made no effort to mask. The Directorship of the Institute was a coveted position he wanted to get his greedy hands on, and he didn't care whom he stepped on in the process. "My patients are progressing quite smoothly. All have been attentive and participatory during Group, and I believe we are making progress with each one during their individual treatment. I hope to remove three of them from all meds within the next two weeks," he added smoothly.
Patrick was not the head of the psychogenic research department for nothing. He saw straight through Julian's act. "Excellent. Since things seem to be going well, you won't mind getting a new patient added to your caseload." It was a statement, not a question. "We received a call from the Madison County Courthouse that an Abigail Blankenship is scheduled to go through intake tomorrow."
The anticipated objection was put forth immediately. "Doctor Charbonnet is the juvenile justice rehabilitation specialist here, I don't see why-"
The attitude from his colleague was just about enough to send Patrick over the edge. It was time to remind Doctor Burai exactly who was in charge. "In case you didn't hear Doctor Charbonnet's report, she has her hands full. We have already assigned her four interns and twice the number of orderlies and nursing staff as anyone else. We work as a team in this department, and since your load appears to be manageable, the new case is being assigned to you. She arrives at eight in the morning."
Julian's mouth thinned at the mandate. "Very well."
"Good." Patrick looked at his watch. "Michelle, anything to add?"
"Nothing that wasn't in my weekly. I'm still taking your group for the afternoon so you can give Raines and Parker the dog and pony show?" Beneath her calm exterior, Patrick could see masked concern in her face.
"Yes. Excellent. Anyone else have anything for the good of the group?"
Grateful that all responses were in the negative, Patrick dismissed the meeting.
Handing off the master list of visitor's day preparations to Michelle, Patrick stood before the elevator bank, trying to collect his thoughts on how he was going to break the news of an audience to his young protégé.
Jennifer Charbonnet came up beside him en route to her own office and adjusted the armful of files she was carrying.
Patrick reached out to grab a batch that slid out from the pile. "Let me give you a hand."
"Thanks. How is our young prodigy?" She asked as they pushed the buttons for their respective floors.
"She's been progressing very well," Patrick replied. "Today is her seventeenth birthday. It's hard to believe she only has a year left with us."
Jen nodded. She knew the terms of the project. Upon reaching the age of majority, Elizabeth would be transferred to the Centre, possibly even taken to Triumvirate Station in Africa, if the Powers That Be determined it the best course of action.
As a scientist, Patrick outwardly tried to remain impartial, but he- and everyone at the Institute- knew that there was an undeniable level of affection for the girl. Not only was she was the closest thing he had to a daughter, but she was the centre of his academic and professional career. Her genius was the subject of numerous scholarly articles and lectures, making him one of the world's foremost experts on the psyche of the highly gifted.
When the project was first announced, back during the time Patrick was finishing the last year of his residency in the Psychogenic Research Department at the Centre, he submitted his name for Project Coordinator on a whim, never fully believing the Tower would give such a young psychiatrist the opportunity of a lifetime. But someone had faith in him, and with the assignment of Elizabeth came the promotion to Assistant Director of the Institute. Michelle Stamatis had been Director at the time, but stepped down three years into Patrick's tenure as AD to spend more time with her husband and son. Patrick was promoted to the Directorship, a further unprecedented move, especially at a mere thirty-two years old.
"I've got the on-call cell phone, so let me know if you need anything before I come down at nine o'clock," said Patrick as Jen reached her office.
"Will do. Good luck."
I'm going to need it, was the unvoiced reply echoing in his mind as he continued up to the third floor. Definitely going to need it.
A/N: I hope everyone has thoroughly enjoyed Rebirth so far... there will be some tie-in to the novel as things progress in Yunasa. And fear not, MP and J will play large roles in the future. I had to split my planned update into two since there was too much ground to cover. Sorry about that! Next up: chaos in the Institute, a Sim gone awry, and finally an appearance by some familiar faces!
Chapter Three.
Patrick reached the sanctuary of his office, and saw that the door was unlocked and the lights were on in the lab. Poking his head in, he saw his two interns, Claudette, on exchange from the Sorbonne, and Amanda, from the University of Delaware, setting up the round table in preparation for the daily group therapy session.
"Good morning," he said in his erudite accent. "Thank you both for coming in on a Sunday."
"Ah, good morning Patrick. Pas de problème," replied Claudette with a nod of her elegantly chignoned head as she pulled out six chairs from the stack in the corner.
"Let me know when you are finished. We need to go over today's schedule," he said over his shoulder as he returned to his office.
"Like we have anything better to do," Amanda muttered under her breath. She was a former sorority girl complete with a year-round tan, bleached blonde ponytail, and an overly perky disposition that bordered on whiny. Not for the first time, Patrick wished he'd conducted interviews when filling his intern position. Somehow Amanda had managed to appear relatively serious about her work on paper. He had a sneaking suspicion that Google might have been an uncited co-author.
Claudette, on the other hand, was everything he wanted in a protégé. She shared the same zeal for her work and spent many hours outside of her required allotment working on side projects to build a resume likely to one day rival his own.
Not that he played favourites, of course.
In the room next door, the first signs of life were heard as the lockdown in the dormitory was lifted and the staff nurse and orderlies woke the slumbering young residents and they went about their morning schedule. Elizabeth appeared in the doorway to the lab at ten minutes after seven, showered and dressed. She slid into her usual seat around the large table, silently awaiting the other five group members. Usually Sundays were quiet at the Institute, with a light staff and minimal planned activities. Elizabeth loved having the time to herself to catch up on reading or projects while the other kids did the homework sent from their schools back home. Visitor's day was an unwelcome deviation from that routine.
She glanced around the empty room, hearing voices coming from the office next door. The connecting door was slightly ajar, so Elizabeth silently crept closer, hoping to pick up a kernel of information, maybe even the identity of her new neighbour. A low bookshelf beneath the observation window was the perfect cover for her mini reconnaissance operation. She knelt before the shelves, tracing the spines of the familiar titles with her index finger to fool any eyes- or cameras- and craned her neck to pick up any snatches of conversation.
"…Preventative measures…can't have Raines-"
"…Pretender program..."
"…Genetic anomaly… Jarod…"
Elizabeth sat back on her heels and frowned. Out of context, the gathered intelligence was useless. There was no one named Jarod at the Institute, at least not to her knowledge, and though she'd heard of a few projects in passing, none were referred to as the Pretender program. Knowledge was power at the Institute- that was a lesson Elizabeth learned early on. She worked hard to pick up any shred of information on her background, the projects going on, sometimes even gossip from the staff. The snippets of conversation were interesting, but further reconnaissance was necessary.
Her mission was prematurely abandoned as familiar voices in the hall outside the lab forced her to abandon her post. The burst of chatter moved from the hall into the room as the others filed into the lab, accompanied by three orderlies. A nurse with a rolling cart followed behind, doling out medication in small plastic cups. One of the many games Elizabeth had devised over the years was to guess the pills in the cups based upon the symptoms and diagnoses of the other kids. The first cup went to Jane, a tall, thin giraffe-like girl with feathery blonde hair. Her diagnosis was easy- she was what the Institute categorized as a guest with "food issues" and had been admitted after suffering a heart attack at school. She swallowed the plethora of vitamins and food supplements and took her usual seat closest to the door.
Next to Jane sat Karsten, a fifteen-year-old recent addition to the group who demonstrated "issues with authority." He openly flaunted a juvenile record that made most other delinquents keep their distance. Three long scars extended from his temple to his jaw, the result of being on the losing end of a fight with a guard dog in the last detention centre he was placed. Though Anti-Social Personality Disorder was usually not diagnosed in teens, Elizabeth had had a sneaking suspicion the doctors were playing a little fast-and-loose with the DSM V guidelines, which a glance at Patrick's open files one day had confirmed. Elizabeth smiled to herself as Karsten muttered a slew of creative curse words under his breath before dry-swallowing a Depakote.
Fraternal twins Valentine and Misha sat as far away from Karsten as possible. At fourteen years old, they had seen their share of the darker side of the world, shuttled from one foster family to another, until social services decided the Institute was a better alternative. Though typically well behaved, they both showed signs of severe PTSD, usually manifested as night terrors that woke up the entire wing of the building.
Scott, the second oldest after Elizabeth, rounded out the group. A sixteen-year-old with a dark complexion, Scott was another guest with food issues, though he was at the opposite end of the spectrum from Jane. He had a large personality to match his frame, and was rambunctious and loud, which the staff believed was controlled through a careful regime of Prozac. Elizabeth, however, knew he dodged taking the meds as frequently as possible, complaining often that he hated how it made him feel 'flat.'
He nudged Elizabeth with his shoulder, tilting his chair backward at a precarious angle. "Hey G.P." G.P. The moniker stood for "guinea pig" and had originally come out of Scott's effort to assert his dominance over the group, but his authority was subverted when, rather than submitting to outrage, Elizabeth embraced the name. It was funny, she agreed, and it was not like her situation was something she could really control. "Are you excited for the party downstairs?"
"Elizabeth has her own schedule today," said Patrick, overhearing Scott. It was impossible not to- his robust voice echoed around the room several times.
"I do?" Elizabeth looked up in confusion.
"You do," he confirmed, tossing a padfolio on the table to get everyone's attention. "Alright everyone, listen up. Scott, the feet of the chair belong on the floor, please."
"Nice tie, Doctor P," Karsten snickered from the corner.
"That's enough," Patrick snapped his finger toward the smart-talking teenager. "You all are going to get the early shift for breakfast, and then, since Karsten has extra energy to burn, you can help Rosalyn and Charlie and the other administrators set up. You'll have free time if you are receiving visitors. If not, it's study hall in the library. Am I understood?"
The five teenagers in question voiced their accord.
"Good. Now, does anyone have anything for the good of the group? Any thoughts or concerns about today?"
The twins shook their heads silently. Karsten muttered something that was probably best left unheard, and Jane requested time to debrief after the event, which was granted.
"Anything else? No? Alright, Amanda will take you down now."
The blonde intern cracked the piece of gum she was chewing and ushered the group to the cafeteria.
"See you later, G.P." Scott called from the doorway.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Grow up," she called back. She turned her attention back to Patrick. "You seem…off. Is everything okay?"
Patrick pulled out the chair directly across from her and sat down. "I thought I was the psychiatrist here," he answered, good humour lost in a slightly forlorn expression. "I really hate this, Elizabeth, really, I do."
Elizabeth bristled. "Hate…what?"
Patrick studied his hands. "Mr. Parker, the chairman of the Centre, and Mr. Raines, one of his associates, will be coming to observe a simulation this afternoon."
Elizabeth gave him a quizzical look. "That doesn't sound all that bad… it's no different than any other day, is it?"
"I need you to be on top of your game. These people are not to be trifled with, and the Centre has taken an elevated interest in you. Please, for your own sake, don't bring in any other distractions to your work."
"Okay," she agreed, not entirely sure what she had just pledged herself to. The initial curiosity at the deviation from the routine was replaced with just a trace of fear as she internalised Patrick's ominous warning.
Claudette came back into the lab with a large binder of freshly photocopied materials. "Et voila, the simulation binder." She gave Elizabeth a wink before depositing it on the table, and retreated back to the office she shared with Amanda and the other interns.
Patrick stood up and pulled on his white lab coat, usually left unused hanging on the back of the connecting door to his office. "I have to look the part for our guests," he explained when he noticed Elizabeth watching. "Go ahead and get started. I'll send someone up with your breakfast in a little while. If you need anything, Claudette should be around."
Elizabeth gave a single nod and took the binder to the desk in the corner where the computer used for most of her simulations was stationed. The cover screamed out STATE V. FLYNN in bold, size 72, Times New Roman font. Oh joy, she sighed. Another criminal case. Her overactive mind craved stimulation beyond tedious case files and police reports. She flipped to the first page and started reading.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the doorframe into the lab, revealing a tall, handsome Ph.D. student. "Hey kiddo," the intern, Ben, said with a smile as he set down her breakfast tray. "One chef surprise, made to order."
"Thanks," she said, returning a shy smile. Ben was one of the few staff members at the Institute she genuinely liked. He was what she imagined an older brother would be like and looked out for her as best as he could. Ben perched on the edge of the countertop, obviously enjoying the breather from the hustle and bustle of visitor's day. "How come you're not at the circus downstairs?"
Elizabeth shrugged, peeking under the foil covering to see a usual bowl of green mush. Lovely. "I've never had any visitors the last seven times they put on that 'circus,' so it seems kind of pointless."
Ben gave her a mocking glare of admonition. "Now that is a bad attitude."
"Believe me, I wish it things were different," she replied honestly. "The Powers-That-Be said my parents were indicted from arms dealing, and yours truly was brought here after the raid on our house. I somehow doubt federal prison has a temporary release program for coming to see me."
Ben was flooredat the bluntness with which Elizabeth explained her situation. "Do they ever write or call?"
Elizabeth snorted in contempt. "No, never…and believe me, I tried. I used to write to them every single day when I was younger. After awhile, it became obvious that it was a waste of my time."
"Did you ever look up their judicial records?"
Elizabeth would have responded honestly, that yes, of course she had, but instead shook her head warily, perceiving the trap. She was not supposed to have unfettered access to the internet, and as much as she liked Ben, he was still on the side of authority at the Institute, and therefore could not be trusted.
She'd overheard someone once say trust could kill you or set you free, and was in agreement, she couldn't be too careful.
"Doesn't mean you should give up hope," Ben said wisely. "Thomas Fuller said the darkest hour is just before the dawn."
"Well, Nietzsche said hope in reality is the worst of all evils… it prolongs the torments of man," she countered.
He laughed. "You win. I can't wait for this week to be over," he said, changing the subject, trying to prolong the time away from all the shenanigans of the event.
Elizabeth trenchantly stabbed her fork into the bowl of wheat grass and tomato juice. "Why?"
"I'm flying back home tomorrow for a couple of exams, and then I get a week of vacation."
"Oh really? Where are you going?"
"A cabin in the Smoky Mountains. It'll be great- going for hikes, seeing the stars away from the congestion here, cooking s'mores…"
She looked up quizzically. "S'mores? What are those?"
Ben looked appalled. "You've never had a s'more before? It's the opus of campfire cuisine. You take two graham crackers, put a chocolate bar between them, and then add a toasted marshmallow, squish it together, and eat it. If you promise not to tell my superiors, I'll bring in my toaster oven when I get back and make you one."
"Really?" Elizabeth was ecstatic. There were almost no occasions for culinary deviation from the green goop, so anything new, let alone something dessert-related, sounded delightful. She gave Ben a sideways glance and tried to hide a smirk. "Are you going on vacation with Claudette?"
She'd seen they way they looked at each other over the past months of their rotation at the Institute, and despite their best attempts to hide it, it was painfully obvious the two were in a relationship.
Ben's initial look of shock at the casual revelation of his secret was muted to one of subtle amusement as he remembered that Elizabeth was, in fact,a genius. "Yes, we are both going. Please don't say anything- I'll throw in a package of Oreos in addition to the s'mores if you agree to keep my secret."
Elizabeth grinned. "Blackmail? I'll take it."
Ben looked at the clock and heaved a sigh. "I guess I should get back to my duty station. Enjoy your breakfast." With a wink, he left, shutting the door to the lab behind him.
Elizabeth attempted to choke down a few more bites of the disgusting green concoction, but couldn't get Ben's words out of her mind. The darkest hour is before the dawn. There was a plethora of logical reasons that her parents could have not been in touch- sealed records, no communication orders, bureaucratic holdups in disseminating contact information, the list was endless.
What bothered her more than anything was the lack of a judicial file that had turned up during her search. There was no one by the name of Stephanie or David Berkley in either the Federal or the state correctional system records. She'd "borrowed" access to both CODIS and IAFIS and neither yielded any matches. An arms dealing conviction made no sense. Her parents were doctors, for crying out loud, not international terrorists.
With uncharacteristic determination, Elizabeth put her fork down and abandoned the binder on the table. She poked her head out of the door from the lab to the hallway, and seeing no one, made her escape. Technically, since she was not at the Institute for a behavioural issue, she was allowed to walk around unsupervised. It didn't stop the staff from asking questions, though, and that was an interaction she wanted to avoid.
For all intents and purposes, the Institute was an architectural masterpiece. The interior was modern- all glass and chrome, with accents of beige and green, which Elizabeth had heard were colours specifically to "promote maximum tranquillity and healing." The place looked expensive, and rightfully so, given the exorbitant amount of money the Institute brought in annually.
Getting out of the lab was the first challenge. The second lay just outside the door to the hallway, where the desk of the department's executive secretary was located. Rosalyn was an African-American woman in her mid-60s and maintained the organizational aspects of the place with unparalleled efficiency. She sucked on peppermints and hummed gospel songs while she worked. The residents that got on her bad side quickly realised she was not someone to have as an enemy, but Elizabeth was lucky to not fall into that category. She was also lucky in that Rosalyn was away from her desk, leaving the broad corridor leading to the elevator bank entirely unattended.
Elizabeth took the elevator down to the mezzanine level, where a balcony encircled the elegantly furnished lobby. It provided a secluded view of all the festivities below; parents marvelling at how their former troublesome sons and daughters had been morphed into well-behaved angels, homesick little ones clinging to a brother or sister's hand, and an occasional burst of tears as the emotion of the event caught up to someone. Elizabeth found a spot on the right side of the mezzanine, where the shadows of the architecture concealed her presence from any curious observers and sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. A long line of people stood before the registration table, waiting to check in and receive their temporary security badges. She scanned the faces, not recognizing a single one, and moved on to the group listening to an information session given by several of the interns. No one looked familiar there, either. The meandering families all had been claimed by a child- or children- eager to show off their work on displays from the art therapy department. Patrick held court near the large auditorium, answering questions and proving progress reports on how little Johnny or Suzie was progressing, though she knew he probably was relying on the records contained on the Centre-developed tablet computer he brought with him.
She wistfully watched the scene below, trying to suppress the feelings of jealousy and the tinge of anger at her own lack of familial support. She felt her chest constrict as she realised that there was a chance she wouldn't even recognise her family if they decided to show up- and even more likely, they wouldn't recognise her. It was a strange concept, knowing that she was growing up and seeing her reflection change over the course of the seven years at the Institute, but coping came with taking things one day at a time, moving from one highly-structured day of routine to another.
Elizabeth had gone from living her life to merely existing. It was a truly depressing thought.
She stayed there for over an hour, slipping into the persona of each happy child she saw there. Becoming them meant living vicariously through their thoughts and feelings, and for a short time, she forgot her own troubles and lived in a blissful oblivion.
A dark hand knotted with age touched her shoulder and pulled her out of her reverie. She jumped in visceral reaction, but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw whom the hand belonged to- Charlie Rose, the facilities manager of the Institute, and Rosalyn's husband. He was always kind to her, even on the first instance of their meeting, when he discovered her hiding in between the stacks of the Institute's library.
"My name's Charlie, Charlie Rose. Not like the talk show host."
"Talk…show?" She inclined her head quizzically.
Charlie let out a deep laugh, one straight from his soul. "For bein' the smart kid they all've been talkin' about, you sure are an odd one. I won't tell I found you here, but we need to get you back before somebody comes lookin'." He held out a hand and after a second of cognitive dissonance, she decided to trust him.
Even seven years later, she mused in irony, some things hadn't changed.
"Miss Elizabeth, you're goin' to get caught sittin' here," he said softly. "I know it's hard, not havin' a family and all, but someone's goin' to come lookin' for you. I heard Dr. Patrick tellin' Miss Amanda that he was comin' to check on you, so you'd better scoot."
Elizabeth scrambled to her feet. "Thank you," she replied seriously, with a small nod of gratitude, and scrambled to the elevators.
The third challenge, and perhaps the most difficult, was gettingback in to the lab. The elevator opened to Rosalyn manning her post. She glanced up and smiled at the girl. "Charlie said he saw you on the balcony," she said, slipping a peppermint to Elizabeth after making sure no one was within earshot. "Dr. Patrick's on his way back now. You be careful now, you hear?"
Elizabeth nodded gratefully. "I promise. Thank you so much!" Rosalyn touched her security card to the pad on the wall and the locking mechanism disengaged, opening the door. "Thanks again," she called, slipping into Patrick's lab.
The breakfast tray had been removed, but the binder was untouched. Unwrapping the peppermint, she popped it into her mouth and savoured the cool, sugary taste. Her stomach grumbled, and she wished she had slept more than a few hours and not skipped breakfast. Too late for that, she realized, snapping to attention in a subconsciously conditioned response as she heard Patrick's voice from the doorway.
"How is it coming?"
"Um, fine," she quickly answered, flipping to a random page in the binder to give the appearance she was farther in the materials than in reality.
"Good. Our guests should be arriving soon. Keep working, I'll let you know when we're getting ready to start."
Elizabeth nodded and pulled the binder closer, hoping that she would be able to still pull off the Sim. Five pages into reading the police report, Elizabeth's worry was replaced with something much worse as she realised just what it was she was supposed to become.
A killer.
A cold warning travelled up her spine. The murder detailed in the notebook was grisly. Crime scene photographs showed a man laying face down in a pool of blood, with a close-up showing two lacerations in his neck.
Stab wounds.
This murder was up close and personal. Elizabeth had handled guns before, usually for a Sim where she had to portray a friendly force, or rescue a hostage, or something of the sort, never for an overtly malicious purpose.
Guns were crude, heavy and impersonal. There was distance between a shooter and the victim, distance that Elizabeth relied upon to keep a shred of her sanity in tact. With a gun, there was a bullet in between the pulling the trigger and the projectile hitting a person, but a knife? A knife was entirely different. There was no separation of cause and effect. The weapon would still be in her hand when it ended another person's life. She would feel the life draining from the victim, existing in a level of animalistic instinct that would be impossible to escape. Even without knowing the motive of the killer, the stabbing shown in the photograph seemed too calculated and too precise to be from an inexperienced killer. It didn't matter that it was just a simulation- it was all too real. It was ironic- in absorbing the primal and raw power of the murderer, her own identity would be vulnerable and powerless. She was venturing into a dark place in her soul where there was a probability that she would lose herself in the mind of a sociopath, and that terrified her more than anything.
When Patrick returned shortly afterward, leading a contingent of men in expensive tailoring, Elizabeth's heart fell straight into her stomach. Panic was etched across her face. She tried to get his attention while he explained their usual simulation procedure, but his back was to her. Claudette and Amanda, the usual observers to the proceedings, stood against the wall next to the door, attentively watching Patrick, oblivious to her plight.
The taller of the two men, Mr. Parker, Elizabeth recognized from a few prior visits when she was younger, had a shock of white hair and a white moustache, looking every bit as distinguished as a chairman of a multinational corporation should. His commanding baritone voice asked Patrick pointed questions, to which her trained eye couldn't help but notice the psychiatrist's nervous response.
The other man, Mr. Raines, did not ask as many questions, but watched her with an almost-predatory curiosity. He wore a gray, double-breasted suit that made his gaunt face and bald head appear ghoulish. A wheeled oxygen tank served as a satellite behind him, issuing a sinister squeak that established him as a physical incarnation of the living dead.
Two additional men accompanied the guests. Centre Sweepers, Elizabeth had overheard Patrick call them. Being the innate observer that she was, she took in their muscular physiques, identical black suits and holstered 9mm firearms. They sure are taking executive security to the extreme, she thought sardonically. The two Sweepers were dismissed as the question and answer session drew to a close, and they moved to a sentinel position just outside the door.
Around the periphery of the lab, the lights were dimmed, obscuring the faces of the figures that stood in the shadows, silently observing. Spotlights in the centre illuminated the work desk. The heat radiating from the fluorescent bulbs above Elizabeth, mixed with nerves at the large audience in the room, made her feel dangerously close to passing out.
"Patrick?" Elizabeth spoke up cautiously. The psychiatrist turned and raised an expectant eyebrow. When Elizabeth didn't answer right away he took a few steps over to the table.
"I don't think I can do this," she whispered. "Did you read it? They want me to get in the head of a murderer."
"You've done plenty of things that are difficult," he said, trying to balance an impression of strict authority and his concern for the effect of the troublesome assignment on Elizabeth's psyche. "Just relax and focus. Become each of the people in the house and tell us who committed the murder. You can do it." He squeezed her shoulder in encouragement and re-joined the others.
Indeed Patrick had read the simulation, and was well aware that the emotional depth to which she would have to delve was beyond anything she had done in previous simulations. The Centre had sent down the simulation as a measure of Elizabeth's progress to see how she handled more advanced material and dealt with the substantial level of pressure foisted upon her. As the project coordinator, the assignment gave Patrick great pause, but his hands were very much tied.
With a deep breath, released slowly to steady the mind and the will, Elizabeth drifted into a trance-like state, filtering out the many pairs of eyes watching her every move.
"Begin."
"I open the storm door. It's heavy, made of steel and fibreglass. The hinge is old and rusted. It creaks, but I don't care. The adrenaline from the cocaine keeps propelling me forward. I try the knob of the front door. It's unlocked."
"Very good, keep going."
"The house is dark. There's just the moonlight behind me illuminating the staircase leading up to the second floor. There is a set of keys tossed on the floor. Someone must have pushed them through the mail slot."
"Keep going, Elizabeth."
"I feel the weight of the knife in my hand. It's heavy, and the wooden handle digs into my palm. I walk up the stairs, trying to muffle my footsteps, but the rubber matting has worn off in places and I freeze, rooted to the spot, hearing a noise from the living room above. My entrance was more conspicuous than intended."
"Stay with it. What do you do next?"
"I make it to the third step from the landing. Peter Slocumb is there, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He has just woken up from a nap on the couch. He sees me."
"How does that make you feel?
"Angry. He gets up and starts shouting. He comes closer, threatening. He picks up the end table and tries to throw it at me. It topples over. My anger grows, fuelled by cocaine and the Slocumb's provocation. I step closer, showing him I'm not afraid. The high makes me feel invincible and sure of my actions. Slocumb glances down and sees the knife. It's too late now. I reach out and the knife makes contact, plunging into his throat. He tries to scream, but it hits his vocal cords. I can feel the anger burning in my veins, so I stab him again. A sound from the kitchen startles me, so I turn to run down the-"
The door from the dormitory opened with a bang, startling everyone in the lab, admitting a fearful toe-headed boy around eight years old. He skidded to a stop much like a deer in the headlights once he realised he interrupted something important. His shock was short-lived, however, as Tommy the Terror barrelled into the lab after him, screaming, shouting and throwing punches. The Centre Sweepers stationed outside the door to the lab burst in to investigate the melee, but rather than halting the chaos, they only added to it. The two boys dodged and evaded the orderlies by exchanging taunts and blows, their tussle reaching epic proportions when the open door from the dormitory brought forth a group of cheering spectators, eager to watch the skirmish unfold.
Elizabeth moved to get out of the way of the stray limbs flying between the boys, both secretly amused and slightly annoyed at the interruption. The tow-headed boy, whom she recognized as Daniel, one of the more angelic in the bunch of Dr. Marissa's tiny terrors, quickly ran for safety behind her, realizing that a human shield would give him an advantage in the fight with Tommy. Tommy, however, was pulling no punches, and Elizabeth found herself directly in the middle of the fight. She tried to move the boy away, telling Tommy firmly to stop, but upon turning to issue the same edict to Daniel, Elizabeth was met with an elbow making contact with the bridge of her nose with a loud whump. Staggering backwards with the force from Daniel's lack of spatial awareness, the sudden movement put her directly in the path of Tommy's meaty fist, which connected with the side of her face and sent her flying to the floor with a gasp as the wind was knocked out of her.
Tommy and Daniel froze and stared in horror, allowing the Sweepers to promptly seize them. Patrick sprang into action. "Get them out of here," he snapped at the dark-suited men holding the two squirming offenders. He ran to a now-unconscious Elizabeth. "Holy hell," he said, as a gush of blood flowed from her nose. "Call the Infirmary," he commanded Amanda. "Get someone up here now." He turned to Claudette, who was on his heels, crouched next to the girl. "Find Michelle and have her take care of Raines and Parker. Sing a song, do a dance, I don't care," he hissed. Claudette gave a single nod of understanding and directed the two visibly peeved Centre guests out of the lab.
He pulled off his white coat and rolled it into a ball to elevate Elizabeth's head. She came to a moment later, head reeling from the combined impact of the blows and hitting the floor.
"What…what happened?" She asked blearily, trying to get her racing heart and spinning head under control.
"You were a casualty of Tommy the Terror's war of attrition," he said, gently helping her to a sitting position. Blood ran freely from the girl's nose, a red rivulet trickling down her chin to the collar of her navy blue sweater. Startled, she hastily swept the moisture away with two fingers – which came away bright crimson.
"Son of a…" Elizabeth grumbled in annoyance.
Patrick held back a chuckle. Somehow, he doubted the socialisation the Centre had desired for her included the acquisition of such language. He pulled a pen light out of the pocket of his bunched up lab coat and shined it in her eyes, relieved when her pupils constricted as normal. "Do you know what day it is?"
"The day from hell," she retorted, accepting a tissue proffered by one of the remaining orderlies. "Sunday. The 22nd of May."
"Very good. Lean forward," he directed. "It will help stop the bleeding." He waited for a moment as the on-call nurse from the Infirmary came in and took over the ministrations.
Holding an ice pack on her already purpling face, Elizabeth looked up at Patrick. "So what now?"
He looked toward the door where he could hear Michelle appeasing Raines and Parker. "We'll just have to wait for the fallout. Whatever that may be."
THE CENTRE
Interoffice Memo
DATE: May 22, 2004
TO: Triumvirate Council
CC: The Institute
FROM: The Tower
RE: Pretender Program
We have grave concerns regarding the oversight of certain aspects of the Institute. The display of Simulation 58259 was interrupted, inhibiting its timely completion for our client. As such, it is our fervent desire to move up the timetable of the second phase of the project. Instructions regarding the introduction of the two Pretenders will follow shortly.
Mr. Parker
A/N: This chapter would not have been possible without the help of two truly wonderful sources of support- first, to Jacci, who is the best Beta reader on the planet. It is surreal, after being a fan of your writing for so many years, to have your incredible guidance and insight on this project. I am truly grateful. (Shrubs!) I am also indebted to my twinner, Stephanie. Thank you for answering millions of emails of psych-related questions (see, that Ph.D. is worth something after all!) and regaling me with crazy cat stories in the process. This is dedicated to the four Centre subjects hiding out in the Hybrid Biotract. (Less than 3!)