Kracken
Disclaimer:I don't own them and I don't make any money off of this.
Warning:Male/male sex, graphic, violent, language, Prison!Duo, Mentally unstable!Duo.
Maniac
Heaven
He went where he was told, though he was reeling from all the sensations pounding against his numbed brain. The hallucination of Quatre told him goodbye. It was almost better to leave him behind for unfamiliar things. They didn't carry with them memories of when he was free, when he was someone, when he knew who and what he was.
Doctors. Tests. Voices encouraging him to relax. The bright lights and the sensation of being put into clothing he wasn't familiar with made him close up, turn off thought and response. He simply couldn't bear it. They tried to feed him, but it wasn't time. They tried to bathe him, but hot water wasn't something that he was familiar with any longer. It scalded his too sensitive skin.
The room was better. It contained nothing that he could hurt himself with. The plain cot, with it's soft mattress, invited him to curl up in it. He hid his head under blankets and welcomed the darkness. A voice told him things, tried to soothe and explain, but the sounds were so much static to his over loaded brain. Go away, he willed it, and, after awhile, it did.
It was impossible to sleep. It wasn't time. He was hungry, but he knew that it was long past time to eat. He wanted to stretch and exercise, but he had missed that, somehow. He decided that he was being punished. All he had to do, he reasoned, was wait until morning, and follow the schedule like he was supposed to. Everything would be all right, then.
Birds. His muddled mind identified them, even though it had been years since he had heard one. His cell had not contained a window and the walls had been thick for security reasons. Duo listened to the sound, every nerve jangling, and wondered why he was hearing them now. Another hallucination, he told himself, and tried to clamp down on it, tried to wrestle at least that much sanity back. The sound didn't go away, though.
"He's not coming out," a voice said.
"A mild sedative?" Another voice suggested.
"I think so," the first replied.
Duo felt a pricking on his wrist. After a few moments, his world softened. He could have cried in relief. When a hand pulled down the blanket, he had his shield of drugs helping him to cope as he was urged to sit up.
"Do you know who you are?" a woman asked. Hair pulled back into a bun, and glasses perched on her nose, she held a computer clipboard ready for his reply. "Can you tell me your name?"
Words had been lost a long time ago. No one had required Duo to say anything. He curled up into himself and tried very hard to ignore his surroundings.
"Your name is Duo Maxwell," the woman persisted. "Nod if you know that."
Duo's nod was very small.
"You were taken out of solitary confinement and brought to this mental institute," the woman told him. "Do you know that Quatre Winner brought you here?"
It was too much. Duo didn't need one hallucination confirming the existence of another. He plucked his shirt up and covered his face with it.
"He's not hopeless," the woman told the balding man beside her, though the man was looking skeptical. "He did respond. I think he needs to be allowed to slowly integrate into our programs. Let him call the shots until we see some improvement. Once that happens, we'll give him to Doctor Marcellius and he can work with Mr. Maxwell to overcome the effects of his long term sensory deprivation."
"He doesn't have a record of violence in the prison," the man replied. "But that might have been because of their security measures. Are you certain that he should be allowed to roam the grounds freely?"
The woman scowled at him. "He's a free citizen," she told him. "He can do anything he wishes. I hope that he wishes to stay here and accept our help."
The man looked at Duo, huddled and shaking in his shirt. "Frankly, I don't think decision making is something that he will be doing for some time."
____________________________________________
Doctor Martin watched Duo Maxwell and scribbled notes. She followed him through his day and chose to do it personally, rather than use the many vid pickups throughout the institute. The vids could miss many things, she knew, especially the subtle nuances that could tell her what her subject was thinking.
Duo was an early riser. He stood, undressed, dressed in the clothing an aid handed to him, and then allowed himself to be directed to the communal showers and bathrooms. He stayed blank, passive, and moved mechanically. The other patients startled him at first, with their noise and very presence, but he moved to a quieter corner of whichever room he was taken to, and attempted to ignore them. The breakfast in the common room was another surprise for him. He didn't want to sit. He took his tray to a rather blank part of the large room, and ate staring at the wall. When he was done eating, aids took him to his scheduled outing in the well manicured park. His reaction was very negative.
Duo withdrew into himself, hunching up and wrapping arms about himself. He made every attempt to 'not be there'. Too much stimulation, too soon, the doctor guessed and signaled the aids to take him back inside. He relaxed at once, in the comfort of white walls, and seemed even happier when they took him to the rather plain office of one of his therapists. It was her job to ask him questions, to engage him, and to make certain that he was improving.
Sitting quietly in a corner, Dr. Martin watched Duo listen, nod periodically, but offer nothing in the way of replies. "Duo," Dr. Martin said at last, "We're here to help you. If anything is happening that you don't like, please tell us."
Duo didn't respond. He was staring at the white tabletop before him. Very carefully, he began to scrape something into the paint. Intrigued, Dr. Martin moved forward to see. Even though he was damaging the furniture, Dr. Martin allowed it, wanting some insight into her new patient. When she saw the ragged letters, though, she frowned and pulled his hand away. The letters spelled out, 'Fuck You'.
"As I've said," she told him primly. "If you don't like our methods, you may have them changed at any time."
Duo flinched from her touch and hugged the hand as if she had hurt him.
"Perhaps you should be taken back to your room?" Dr. Martin suggested. "Perhaps you need a rest?"
Duo stood, but his attitude was still passive. He would go where ever he was told, his body language told her.
She called aids to take him to his room. She watched him go and then exchanged looks with the therapist. The therapist shrugged and said, "He's completely introverted. I don't think he's even aware of where he is. He nodded, but it was automatic, to please me. He didn't seem to be really listening."
Dr. Martin traced the carved letters with a finger. "How to explain this, though?"
"Aversion?" the therapist suggested. "He may be living in a fantasy and doesn't want us to intrude in it."
"Paint over it," Dr. Martin ordered. "I think Duo needs more time to adjust before we try to engage him."
___________________________________________________
It was almost his schedule. Duo followed it, day after day, as much as they allowed, and he wasn't punished. The unexpected noises, and the presence of so many others, grated and jangled along every nerve, though. He wanted to escape them and keep the silence that he had become accustomed to.
"This is Peter," an aid told him one day. "Why don't you two sit and talk?"
The plastic chairs were familiar, and the room safe and plain, but the other patient was glaring at Duo, and obviously liking this as little as he did.
"Peter fought in the war, Duo," the aid told him. "He knows a bit about Gundams. Maybe you two could talk about that?"
Both of them were dressed in comfortable, loose clothing. Peter wasn't wearing shoes and his hands were big and flexing over and over again into nervous fists. His angry dark eyes, under a mop of blonde hair, gave him a demented appearance.
"Gundam?" Peter said abruptly, was quiet for a long moment, and then said, "What would you know about Gundams?"
Duo cringed at the loud, unpleasant voice. The prison guards had stun guns and shock rods. He knew what it felt like to get on their bad side. He had learned very quickly to do exactly as he had been told.
"Nothing!" Peter growled. "That's what you know. Nobody knows but me, now. Nobody."
Duo nodded, because he knew that's what kept the guards happy. Agree with them, whatever they said. You're a fucking stupid shit killer. Nod. You're a waste of air. Nod. Somebody should execute you and save the government the dime. Nod.
"Yeah," Peter said, warming up now that his suspicions had been confirmed. "I'm an expert. The only one there is."
"He's not verbalizing, but he seems to be interacting," the aid said into his com unit. "That's a good sign. I knew Peter would draw him out. I think you should pick Peter to be in Duo's social group."
It was time to return to his room. Duo had managed his exercise routine at last, and Duo was calmer for it, but this unexpected abuse, almost shattered his nerves again. He stood and tried very hard to block the man out, to center himself on the safe place he had found in the grip of the schedule, the one where he didn't have to realize how much his life hurt and how it had been ruined.
"I guess that's enough talk today," the aid said, pleased. "Would you like to see Peter again, Duo?" Duo nodded. "I'm glad. How about you Peter. Would you like to see Duo again?"
Peter shrugged irritably. "Yeah, so I can tell him what I know and he doesn't."
"Okay, we'll work on that," the aid promised him indulgently. "Come on, Duo, let's go back to your room."
Duo led the way back, eager for that solitude. The aid stopped him at his doorway, though.
"Duo, you need to say, 'Thank you, Tim', or you can't go in." The man sounded kind, yet firm.
Duo stared at the door, hand on the knob.
The aid tried a few more times, but then sighed, and let Duo alone. "We'll try again tomorrow," he promised, "when we comb out your hair. It's a mess."
Duo had often been threatened about his hair. Take care of it or it'll be cut off. He touched it as he closed the door in the face of the aid. He wasn't certain who had kept the prison barber from giving him the shaved head everyone else had been treated to, but he had been grateful. The guards never tired of warning him, though, that their orders weren't going to hold if he allowed that hair to become a problem.
Duo sat on his bed and used his fingers as a comb, unbraiding the tangled mess, and working out the knots expertly. After a long, grueling time, he finally had it straight and braided again. Relieved,. he curled up in bed and waited for dinner.
______________________________________________________
"He doesn't look any better," Quatre complained as he watched Duo huddle against a wall and refuse to step out into the garden. He kept to a shadow, head down, and hunched inward.
"It takes time, Mr. Winner," Dr. Martin replied. "He's a severe case. We haven't even been able to get him into second level therapy, yet, because he's still not interacting with his level one, admittance therapist. He's non verbal, introverted, and unresponsive to anything other than basic, day to day, activities. We've placed him in a peer group, but his first group session was a complete failure. He... well, he crawled under his chair and refused to come out until he was given medication to calm him."
Quatre ran fingers through his hair and sighed. "Is he still refusing to believe that he's been freed from prison?"
"Unknown," Dr. Martin told him. "Without any verbal responses, or physical cues to go on, we don't know any more than we he was first admitted."
"I don't understand," Quatre said in frustration. "They must have done something to him to cause this. He is an intelligent person. I refuse to believe that he doesn't realize what is going on around him. Once out of the schedule that they gave him, it should have been obvious to him that things had changed."
"Schedule?" The doctor blinked at him and then looked down at her pad. "I wasn't told about any physical conditioning. I've only been informed about his isolation from stimulation and the drugs he was given."
Quatre rounded on her, angrily. "Exactly what has Duo been doing all of this time?"
The doctor cleared her throat nervously and looked through her notes, even though she didn't seem to need them to reply, "We allowed him to set his own... schedule... but we tempted him with activities and social interaction."
"A.M.:
7:00; All prisoners will rise for cell inspection. Bed linens will be discarded
in chute A.
7:15; Cell wash down. All prisoners will undress and place clothing in chute
A. They will be escorted, individually, to the showers while their cells are
being washed down.
8:00; After prisoners have completed their hygiene routine, prisoners will stand
for general delousing and inspection.
8:30; New clothes will be issued for the day. Prisoners will dress quickly and
then allow themselves to be escorted to the sunroom where breakfast will be
served.
9:00; Exercise routine. Make sure that the recorded instructions are followed.
9:30; Re-education cubicle. Make certain that prisoners listen to the recording
and then write in the provided journal their thoughts.
10:00; Return prisoners to cells and observe lock down restrictions.
12:00; Lunch is served. When the meal is complete, place empty containers in
chute B.
P.M.;
2:00; Prisoner must place hands against the indicated symbols on the wall. Prescribed
medications will be administered at this time.
6:00; Dinner is served. Place empty containers in chute B.
9:00;Lights out. No activity of any kind will be permitted after last alarm."
When Quatre finished reciting the schedule the Dr. had turned pale. She cleared her throat and replied, "That does match closely with Duo's activities. In fact, he's displayed fearful behaviors when those activities were late, or replaced with other activities. I see, now, that we've made a grave mistake."
"No shit!" Quatre swore. He glared at the doctor and then turned to Duo. He stalked across the grounds to where his one time friend was huddled. He said softly, "I'm taking you to my home, Duo. I should have done that to begin with. I'm sorry, that I trusted these people."
Duo shivered all over, not wanting to face the hallucination of Quatre and the disorienting garden at the same time. He covered his eyes with his hands and leaned against the shadowed wall, trying to get into the darkness there.
"Mr. Winner!" Dr. Martin protested as she caught up with him. "We have some of the best doctors here. Surely you can forgive our mistake and see what's best for Mr. Maxwell? How will you administer his medications? How will you cope with his introverted psychosis?"
"He's a Gundam pilot," Quatre told her angrily. "I should have seen it before now. He's fallen back on training. When in the hands of enemies, endure and say nothing.. He's willed himself into a place in his mind where nothing can touch him. He needs to know that he can come out now, that he's been rescued. He won't understand that in this place, which is so like where he came from."
Dr. Martin looked upset. "Sir, we are nothing like a prison."
"No?" Quatre growled back. "Set schedules, set diet, uniforms, aids that might as well be guards, medications... don't you see why he can't believe in his freedom? We're leaving, Dr., now."
Quatre reached out and gently took hold of Duo's sleeve. Duo made a small sound, almost a whimper.
"Come on, Duo," Quatre urged and pulled him away from the wall. "We're going."
TBC
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