2010-07-05: Fairytale Stories



Date: July 5th, 2010


Some fairytales have darker origins.

"Fairytale Stories"

Gang Warehouse

What do you get when you lock three therapists in a room and give them a psychotic overlord?

Nothing freakin' good, that's what.

As a person trained to analyze others and help them survive the trials of this crazy life, one might think a psychiatrist would be able to see their own situation objectively; use their training to help them. Dr. Amy Masterson does not appear to be living up to her name or her credentials right now. The weeks and weeks on end spent in this place are wearing on her in the worst of ways. She's been going back and forth between keeping herself busy and long spells of quiet. Now, the quiet has taken over.

At present, Amy is laying prone on the top bunk-bed, laying on top of the sheets with a hand tangled in them. A pale cheek lays on the too-small mattress. She stares out over the room from this nest, her eyes bloodshot and increasingly blank between skin darkened by exhaustion and stress. Instead of three therapists in the room, now there's two — and there's really no telling if, or when, Sydney will come back. Every time one of them leaves, there's that risk. And they're left to wonder.

While, admittedly, Dr. Fred Flint Stone has taken a tad bit longer to be worn down by the stress of their situation, he has started to show the tell tale signs. Tired eyes, muttering more and more in his sleep, pacing back and forth on occasion while he's awake. Granted he has attempted to keep a careful eye on his habits, at present he finds himself pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Stop, gaze around, eyes stopping on first the door and then Amy. Repeat. He has been at this for quite some time today. Even for someone such as himself who has worked with the Alpha Protocol and the Company, there is only so much that he can take. What he wouldn't give for a bit of actual freedom, as opposed to the 'walks' that they get taken on periodically.

Amy's stare straight ahead at the wall doesn't seem to react to much of anything other than dry air. Blink, stare, blink. However, she is bound, every so often, to get glimpses of the top of Fred's head as he paces. Finally, a noise stirs from the woman. "Nnnnnnnggggggggghhhhhh." A vague form of life sparking — just barely — in her eyes, she scrambles an arm back to pull the pillow over her head and face and hold it there. Her muffled protest fights through the pillow stuffing: "Stop iiiiiit." Hypocritcal? Maybe; she's done her share of pacing. Another tired moan of complaint escapes her from behind the pillow.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Stop. Did someone just say something? Oh yeah! Amy. Amy is capable of saying stuff, right? Fred pauses, sighing softly. "I'm sorry. Wasn't aware it was bothering you." He moves toward the wall that faces the bunks and leans his back against it. "I'm…worried." He says quietly and simply.

A shorter sound of complaint is murmured into the pillow. The woman is quit for several moments before she moves the pillow away, knocking it back — it rests haphazardly on her head. If she's gained an expression after several hours without one, it's obscured now by a curtain of static and messy red hair. "Worried," she tests the word, her tired voice slightly slurred. "I don' even know what I am anymore."

Fred gazes at the woman, eyes focusing slightly. "You're a smart woman. I'm sure you can figure it out. Constantly tired due to lack of energy. Bloodshot eyes. Dulled emotions." He shrugs. "Considering you've not been in this or a similar situation, or dealt with people who can do extraordinary things, I'd say you've done quite well. Though…I would've said that I was doing quite well, but I'm feeling the onset of…well, you know. Being locked up inside for a certain amount of time and anyone will feel like this eventually. I guess." He rambles on.

"Mmnh," Amy replies with a vaguely frustrated, pathetic sound; it lacks the energy to be a sob. "Can you maybe quit it with the psychobabble?" she makes the effort to push upright, tossing the pillow to the end of the bunk-bed as she does. "I know we're— " Evidently forgetting, in her tiredness, that she's in a space too cramped for her tall body, she thumps her head on the ceiling. " — son of a," she mumbles, leaning over to swing her legs over the side of the bed. " — I know it's our job but since our jobs got us locked in the dungeon, I— could do with a hiatus from analyzing how much everything sucks."

Fred laughs, though the sound of it is humourless. "Psychobabble." He yawns, sniffling slightly. "I just wish I knew what was going on with Sydney. I…I'm really worried about her, you know?" He stares at the ceiling, seeming to ignore Amy hitting her head on it. "Our jobs may've been what got us into this mess, but it's still who we are." He mutters. "It doesn't do any good to try to do something we're not good at. I just wish there weren't so many guards around when we go on our walks. Otherwise I'd be able to do something!" Or at least…he feels that he'd be able to."

Amy hunkers down over her knees on her awkward perch and lets her head hang, looking at Fred rather sideways. As her hair falls away from her face slightly, her dulled bloodshot eyes are revealed to be somewhat skeptical. "Nnyeah?" she questions, unenthusiastically looking the other therapist up and down. "Could you take down even one of those meatheads?" Gripping the edge of the mattress, she lets herself drop lethargically down to the floor. It's far from a feat of athleticism. Once standing, she scrubs at her face. "I keep thinking, you know— what if we gave Syd the wrong advice…"

Fred lets himself fall into a sitting position on the floor. Frowning at Amy, he says, "I…think so. I've been…trained to take down people with abilities." He says slowly and thoughtfully, rubbing the back of his neck. "So…I think I could handle them." He sounds only half-certain, however. He heaves a deep sigh, nodding to what Amy says. "I keep worrying about that myself. I hope she's okay. I care about her. To think that any advice I helped give her could lead to her being hurt makes me feel…sick. I love her too much, I don't know what I'd do if that happened." And there is that word: 'love'. He let is slip before he even realized when he said.

Amy studies Fred carefully, all the while; her skepticism piques, a strange, concerned curiosity knitting her brows. "You really…" she wanders, barefoot, over to the wall, and spends a moment looking down hesitantly, worriedly, before she wanders to slump against the adjacent wall, placing a corner between she and Fred. "You really love her?" The woman draws her knees up stiffly within the confines of her skirt and watches Fred.

Fred sighs heavily, shaking his head. Though, at the moment it is unclear whether to answer Amy's question or if it is in regard to their situation. For a brief moment, Fred doesn't say a word. He's caught up in his own thoughts. Finally, however, he turns his gaze back to Amy. "Yes. More than I've let on to her, perhaps. I'd…I'd appreciate you not telling her. I want to tell her, when the time is right. When…if…we get out of here soon. If we get out of here." He voices yet another concern. "Man, her life and mine…it been like one tragedy after another for us, it seems." He raises an eyebrow. "But, such is life. I just…wish our lives weren't being messed around with by egomaniacal powered people. All of our lives, yours included." He closes his eyes. "If it was just me, I wouldn't be so worried. But…despite the cool demeanor I've had, every time a guard takes her I just start to worry constantly. I don't stop until I know she's safe. You know?" He opens his eyes again and looks to Amy. "Not to say I don't worry about you as well, because I do. I really do." He sighs. "I wish there was a way out of here."

"Yeah…" Amy says quietly;. "Yeah, I know." To what part of Fred's admissions she refers, it isn't clear; perhaps everything. There's something decidedly unsure in her eyes as she regards Fred, but it starts to soften, sympathize. It takes a ton of effort to muster up a smile, but she does; it's weary, but a smile nevertheless. She leans ahead and awkwardly at an angle to give Fred's knee a pat. "I won't tell her. Syd… you have to be careful with that girl. I'll tell you what. If we ever get out of here… I'll give you advice."

The redheaded therapist starts to lean back against the wall. "What I said before… to Syd… about her being a good therapist." Amy looks up at the ceiling, trying to keep her voice steady. It works in waves — half steady, half trembling. "She is. But. She has ridiculous boundary issues. And with this emotional thing she has, I… I'm just scared she got into a mess with that monster…"

Fred takes yet another deep breath in and sighs it out slowly. "I know Syd…" He says slowly and cautiously. "I knew her back in high school. We were a part of the same crowd." He rubs his eyes, yawning slightly. "I know what creatures can lurk underneath her exterior. They're not bad, but they're not always pleasant either. As you may or may not know." Glancing at Amy, he attempts to give her a kind smile in return, though it doesn't quite work. It comes out just as awkward. "Emotional Manipulation. It's the proper name from what she has…had…has." It's confusing when a person doesn't have their ability in check and they don't know if they're getting it back! "This man…Roberto…he certainly isn't one to be trifled with. That's why I worry so much."

Amy shudders and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. "I don't even want to think about him," she admits. Her hands travel up through her hair and she looks wide-eyed to the door rather desperately — willing it to open. Naturally, it stays completely still — no powers suddenly spring forth to make it fly open. Their freedom doesn't come. Their friend doesn't appear. She sniffs, swallows all other noise for the time being and wraps her arms around her legs.

"Neither do I, but unfortunately he's the one who has stuck us in here." Mutters Fred. "Sometimes I feel like I should just…start singing the Flintstone's theme song when I'm around him, just to make him happy. He's like a child…a dangerous child who could kill us on a whim." And then, Fred too goes quiet. Heavy topics of discussion call for heavy silences that follow. Of course, if this were the inside of a therapist's office, there might not be so much silence. But unfortunately it is not. After a long while, Fred says, "Dr. Masterson? Why did you become a psychiatrist?"

Amy fosters that heavy silence by offering no answer in regards to Roberto; she was honest, she doesn't want to talk about him. By the time Fred asks his question, her head is lying down on her knees, turned away. It lifts, in increments, slowly facing Fred with a vaguely bewildered, hazy look. She wipes at her eyes — her cheeks are a little damp. "Uh…" she starts off hoarsely. "I guess I … I understood people, you know. I just thought, hey," she quirks a humourless smile, "that's a good thing for a psychiatrist to have. Understanding. I thought, everyone needs someone who understands. I guess I was right." She looks to the door cynically. "But it's not enough for some people." She sniffs again, blinking as she regards Fred. "What about you, Dr. Stone? Why did you become a psychiatrist?"

Fred nods along with what Amy says. "I know exactly what you mean. You could say…I understand you." He says, making an attempt at a smile again. "Because you're right. Everyone does need someone who understands them." Running his fingers through his hair he starts to respond to Amy. "Well…I'm a psychologist, actually. I have great respect for psychiatrists, though. But, I just wanted to help people, you know? My life hasn't exactly been a bed of fairy tales, so I wanted to help people find their own fairy tales. So I became a psychologist."

A hint of that skepticism sneaks back, but Amy manages another one of those weary smiles when Fred says he understands her. "How's that fairytale-makin' working out for you?" she asks, would-be joking if her voice wasn't so weighed down by circumstance — it's transformed into cynicism. "You know most fairytales are freaky," she states. "The French Hansel and Gretel slash the old lady's throat." Dismissing that as too freaky, Amy shakes her head, unnerved.

Fred shrugs a little. "Yeah. I know. The Brothers' Grimm. Their the original tellings are much more frightening. So…I suppose the fairytale-makin' is going great so far, wouldn't you?" He, too, fails and trying to joke around. "Are you married at all, Dr. Masterson?" Fred asks, attempting to change the subject once more to something a little less dark.

"Married at all? Can you be married a little bit?" Amy counters, managing to arch an eyebrow at Fred. She shuffles her feet to hug her knees closer. The subject is less dark, but still not optimistic… "Either way— mmmm. Not so much." Restless, she sighs and pushes to her feet so soon after curling so tightly into herself. For a moment, she seems apt to pick up where Fred left off pacing, but istead, she just walks toward the door and leans her head against it, listening.

Fred shrugs a little. "Well, you could be in the middle of a divorce for all it matters. In which case, you're married, but at the same time possibly separated." He explains. He sighs. "I think I'm going to attempt sleep. Though I doubt I'll be able to, worrying about Sydney."

"Sleep." Amy says softly as she turns around, back to the door. Given how roughly thugs have been known to shove in here, it's not the wisest place to be. "At least until we go for our walk. I'll… I feel like keeping watch." She looks like she could use the rest, too, but she knows it's not in the cards. A soft smile appears again on her exhausted and pale face, longer lasting than the others. "Let me know if you need a bedtime story."


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