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.