Asylum Meme

[alkali]

Meme, Interrupted



"People ask, How did you get in there? What they really want to know is if they are likely to end up in there as well. I can't answer the real question. All I can tell them is, It's easy."


Well, you've really done it now. You're in a mental institution. Maybe it's a modern facility with a therapy garden, compassionate staff members, and a warm environment meant to help nurse people back to health, or maybe it's a glorified dungeon where the government shoves people they don't want to deal with and patients are abused by staff. Regardless of what it is, you're there, and it doesn't look like they're planning on letting you out any time soon.

Maybe you're actually not supposed to be there and you're trying to arrange for your release. Maybe you actually are meant to be there and you're struggling with your illness. Maybe you're not a patient at all and you're just there to visit or earn your paycheck. It's up to you.

Rules:

1. Post with your character's name, canon, and your preferences on the subject bar, and set up the situation.
2. Tag other people. Are you a visitor? A staff member? A fellow patient? A hallucination? It's your choice.
3. Have fun!

Comments

Sherlock Holmes || BBC Sherlock

[desecrated]

It is miserable, and so very boring, and at least pretending he suffered from selective mutism might hurt his cause for leaving, but they were safe.

That was the point.
It's true he sits and stares and pretends not to hear anything alot of the time (except of course when he's drugged - he has no control over his speech then, but - as far as he knows all they'll hear is babble, they won't think anything of it.)

They ask him because that's the thing now - to talk to a patient who can't (no won't) talk back. His head hurts from the electroshock, he supposes it's a little like being tortured only one actually gets a bed (sometimes).

It's amazing what people start to do when they think the "subject" won't respond.

Please come find me. I'm right here.

[emotioneater]

"So you're the one who doesn't talk, eh?" Sherlock gets a blonde teenager plopping down next to him, his expression looking a little vague and unfocused from the drugs they've forced into him. Cooper hasn't been mixing with the usual residents thanks to being on suicide-watch for the past week, thanks to a stunt he pulled which involved swallowing all his medications at once. This is the first day they've let him back out.

"Not that I blame you," he continues on as if Sherlock has responded to him. "Sometimes, I think I shouldn't have said anything at all. Maybe I would've gotten out of here much sooner."

[desecrated]

Sherlock just stares at his hands in his lap, it's better he doesn't respond to much, that's the point of this, then they won't find the others. He doesn't want them to find them.
He doesn't trust the residents, not really.

Also there's something that is just off about everyone here.
Not talking hasn't gotten him out of here, so he doesn't know what the point of not talking is going to get him to leave.

Maybe when they can see they can't 'treat' his problems. There's just something odd about the patient, really. He doesn't look up though, the idea is pretending that he may hear but he usually ignores. Keeping up the act.

Darkwing Duck

[terrorthatflaps]

a [His daughter had been heartbroken to finally put her adoptive father in a safer environment. When she was younger, playing along with some of his more eccentric flights of fancy had been a fun adventure, but the worse he got--or maybe the older she got, the more knowledgeable--the more the realization has sunk in. Some days, we was the mild-mannered middle class father Drake, and some days he put on a costume and performed dangerous stunts while yelling annoying comic book type lines.

The last time he'd gotten caught doing some property damage, and the cops took a look at his record over the years of various disturbances and reckless behavior...eventually he ended up here.

Here is pretty nice; Gosalyn had made sure, and Launchpad double sure. Nobody thinks he's dangerous. Except for him. He just needs a calm place to have some therapy, a little medication, enough that he settles back into his usual self, gets released when they know he can level out and stick to the program. Which is easier said than done. On his bad days, he's convinced this is a sinister plot by the Fearsome Five, and he ties a bedsheet around his neck (it makes the nurses panic, but he's never been suicidal). They've confiscated a number of masks made out of a lot of different materials, and he always ends up with another one somewhere.

Today is a bad day, slipping around the zen-like garden, trying to hide in bushes in order to surprise some poor nurse, doctor, patient, someone who ends up striking him as 'shady' in his mind, with a dramatic entrance.]

I am the terror that flaps in the night! [In place of smoke, he throws handfuls of leaves and grass, just for the illusion.]


b [Someone did this to him, just to get him out of the way. Maybe it was Negaduck, maybe it was Magicia, maybe Steelbeak--he doesn't know who, but they won't get away with it.

Thankfully nobody here knows his alter ego; since he's refused to name himself anything other than Darkwing Duck, they've given him a John Doe moniker: Donald Johnson. He never answers to it. He tries never answering to it. At first it was easy. Now that they try to get needles and pills involved?

They've labeled him a violent patient and have been keeping him away from others. Look, if some quack of a doc's gonna come at him with a needle full of who knows what, then someone's going to get punched.

A few someones, as it turned out. He doesn't know if this is a legitimate facility or just some kind of elaborate cover. He hasn't been allowed to contact anyone outside, and he hasn't been able to find a way out--yet. It will happen, oh yes it will...just, uh, give him a couple more hours? Until the fuzziness of whatever they put in him wears off. Yeah, a few more hours, and he'll have a master plan...]

what a thing of beauty

[imstaying]

a [Jim has dealt with crazies before. Acutally, it's been part of his job so much that usually the other patients' antics don't phase him. What does, however, is that he's trying to keep a low profile and not be picked out as a troublemaker. And now it's raining leaves and there's talk of terror and dramatic hand gestures and no, he can't be involved in this.

He stares at the guy, the leaves, the "cape", then quickly looks about if any of the staff have noticed them yet. Nope, still in the clear.

Okay, he can do this. Keep it nice and quiet, get the guy to calm down before the docs notice something's going on. This is just like dealing with hyped up suspects 101, right? No big deal. Was that a line from Batman? Would be helpful to know but hell if he remembers.]

It's noon.

I live to please

[terrorthatflaps]

[The blase reaction has him momentarily faltering from the lines he'd prepared. Geez, guy, they don't all come off the cuff!] I'm also the terror that flaps in the day. I flap where there is danger afoot, and danger never sleeps! It may occasionally take breaks, but that's up to criminal unions.

[He looks this guy up and down with suspicion.] Say, you wouldn't happen to be part of a criminal union, would you?

joseph lasile | kings

[lasile]

[He is curled up in the corner of his cell; cell because it is exactly what it looks like, except they call this a "room" and this place a "mental institution" instead of a prison. He has forgotten how long it has been since he was brought here, captured and made dead to the world. His hair is long, dirty, covering part of his face, making him look almost unrecognizable.

He hears shots in the distance, a commotion. There are yells - The King is dead, the King is dead - People running around. He doesn't know how long it passes since then. His stomach is hurting, his head is too, but he doesn't know he is hungry, he doesn't know that it's the lack of medicine that they forcefully addicted his body to that's making his head hurt.

He does have enough clarity to know that there have been less voices lately, less holds. But he doesn't connect the dots, doesn't connect what he hears with what he sees and he used to know. In fact, he doesn't even know who he is, anymore. Mind half-broken.

It is a while before more voices come. There is a new King, they say, and the new King ordered his soldiers to bring back all the prisoners of this place, so their crimes can be reevaluated. He can hear doors opening, he can hear screams and pleas, he can hear people crying and others yelling their thank yous; those are still the sane ones. Eventually, his own door opens too.

He doesn't move.]

Anders | Dragon Age | OTA

[doctor_feelgood]

[They told him his condition was called "schizophrenia." There is no spirit living inside Anders' head. He is not an avatar for Justice. According to them, these are just hallucinations and delusions of grandeur. Once the doctors discovered his manifesto, they added "paranoia" to the list of symptoms.]

[But Anders refuses to believe he's crazy. He continues to insist that Justice is very real. If only he had some way to prove it, but they must be suppressing his magic, somehow...]

[hapostate]

[ After a year on the locked ward - a year of constant supervision, intensive therapy, and even heavier drugs - wandering the drab, greying halls of the institute's considerably more liberal half is freeing. He's only been out a month or two, but all except the most diligent of the medical staff have already lost any more than a cursory interest in Hawke. He's calm, he's friendly, he rarely resists. In a word, he's become boring. At least as a case study. He's not getting any worse (were it even possible), but he isn't improving, either. He's settled.

And his trial run out in the "open" wing has been going remarkably well, a fact for which only their eternally disinterested guards truly care. Hawke's only real hobby - other than aimless roaming and chatting up everyone in sight - is, after all, breaking up fights, or stepping in to defuse bad tempers before they can even get started. Peaceably. Cheerfully. Usually with an abundance of really bad jokes. He'd be the perfect poster boy for rehabilitation, in fact, if the case that'd landed him in the nuthouse hadn't been so damningly gruesome.

He's in for life, with a trail of bodies in his wake miles long. Hopeless from the start, he was indoctrinated into his father's secret world of monsters and magic as a child, beliefs he only grew into, clung to all the more stringently as the real world fell apart around him. Or, well, that's what they say. Hawke tells it differently (and then they call him a compulsive liar, too - but at least he's entertaining).

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he rounds the next corner, a little more direction in his rambling than usual. Although Hawke talks to everybody, there are few people he actually likes. Anders is one of them, however offensive their fellows tend to find his not so occasional ranting and raving. They have a common thread between them. Magic, belief. And though Hawke knows it only earns them harsher scrutiny, the imminent disapproval of the doctors who are supposed to be making them better (for a given value), rather than letting them feed into each other's delusions, he's not about to start letting that kind of small-minded judgement dictate who he calls friend. There are precious few enough of them left. And fewer still who don't look on him with the same pity the shrinks do.

Luckily, Anders is rarely difficult to find. (Usually, he's a hop and a skip away from being carted off and sedated, Hawke thinks.) He checks all the regular haunts, from his room to the common room, the little (heavily guarded) stretch of the grounds they're allowed - until he manages to locate the right inmate, always identifiable at a distance by that unkempt mop of blond hair.

Hawke's call is an unfamiliar sound, in the dulled colorless world of the asylum, full of unreserved enthusiasm, spirited and bright, ] Anders! What's the good word?

[doctor_feelgood]

[It always amazes Anders how Hawke manages to stay so cheerful in this place, but the feeling is a welcome change of pace.  Anders always looks forward to visits from Hawke. In fact, it's the reason he had stopped his tenacious escape attempts. Whenever the orderlies caught him, they would double down on his security until he could earn back certain privileges. He hates being so compliant, but not having been put in isolation for a few weeks is quite nice.

The corners of Anders' eyes crinkle as he greets his friend with a warm smile, though he cannot mask the ever-present weariness in his face.] Just the usual. They've started allowing me more time in the garden. Heavily supervised, of course.

[It's a bit ridiculous that one little garden seems like a big deal. Compared to the the rest of the free world, the "privilege" of one garden is almost laughable. But it is nice to get some fresh air every now and again, and if Anders does decide to try another escape attempt, that garden is probably his best bet.]

Tim Drake | 63!DC Preboot | ota

[thegoshdarn]

patient

[From the outside, she guesses it does look like she's been failing spectacularly to cope with Bruce's death, which is why she agreed to talk to Dick's therapist in Metropolis. Tim's intention was to cooperate just long enough for it to be determined that she's not a danger to herself so she can be done with this as quickly as possible.

Things just snowball from there. The psychiatrist who's supposed to be assessing her apparently took one look at her history and pre-determined that she was suffering from some kind of abandonment complex and now appears to be flirting with the idea of diagnosing her with reactive attachment disorder, which is just stupid. And she had the misfortune of getting a nightmare the first night she was here, so now they're encouraging her to take a light sedative at night to help her sleep.

Right now, she's just sitting in one of the common areas, apparently thumbing through someone's old copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Apparently, because she's really more considering whether or not it would be worth it to just escape from this whole stupid situation.]

undercover

[Alicia Draper has been suffering episodes of severe depression and self-injury, which nicely explains her array of scars. Luckily, she has caring family who have sent her here to recover under the care of the expert doctors on staff. And if she happens to also be covertly gathering information for an investigation, then who'd notice?

Hopefully no one, since Tim's currently slipped out of her room when she's supposed to be asleep so she can have a look around.]

John Cooper | Agent of Hel series

[emotioneater]

[The doctors find Cooper a most fascinating patient. His delusions are extremely detailed, starting with his first supposed death in 1798, and going all the way up until the present day. His file is thick, chock-full of the detailed notes of his supposed immortal life. He doesn't mind telling the story, though their patronizing, pity-filled glances grate on his nerves.

More troublesome are the other effects of his delusional state. He refuses to eat, claiming he doesn't need physical food. Attempts at medication are met with angry outbursts and violence. Then there's been what's seen by the doctors as many suicide attempts and what he will claim are attempts to prove his immortality.

The one positive thing to come out of having him on the ward is his ability to calm other patients down. Whenever he's around them, their emotions seem to level out, making them easier for the doctors to deal with them. When asked how he does it, Cooper will just laugh and wink. If only someone believed him...]

Todd the Wraith // Stargate Atlantis

[commandshumor]

What happens to a twelve thousand year old creature who has spent the majority of that time hunting and feeding off humans, only to have that changed?

Apparently he ends up here.

The retro virus worked. Todd no longer could feed upon humans. The IOA rolled over the thought of having him destroyed and dissected, but decided it was best to keep him alive to see what the long term effects might be. However, he couldn't stay on Atlantis either. So he was set up in a special hospital to be looked after.

Once a week he was examined head to foot and asked a series of questions revolving around pain, mood, and so on. The rest of the time, he had to occupy himself in the fifteen by fifteen foot chamber that was his. Playing chess with the guard was fun, until he learned all the rules and knew how to beat him every time. He was allowed puzzle books, the more difficult the better, but the only way he truly managed to pass the time, was simply reading. History was a favorite, and he had thousands of years of earth's history to catch up on after all. But learning languages was also another favorite. Trouble was, he plowed through so much so quickly that the budget for such pleasantries ran out. So they had to rely on donations, which were few.

The hospital itself was like any other, only his room was below ground, to ensure he was hidden from the public.

As the weeks and months rolled by, he began to hate his room. He paced when he couldn't keep still, and when he could, he found himself running his fingers over his right palm, where his feeding slit used to be. His appetite dwindled and even when a dozen books, all that would typically keep him well and occupied were given to him, he never touched them. The old wraith longed to be outside and see the sky again...

[secondaryqueen]

One afternoon the door of his cell unbolted with a grinding click. No explanation was made over the intercom, nor did anyone appear in person to take him anywhere. When he tried it, the door opened into what appeared to be a common area containing furniture, more books, boxed games, table, chairs, a food preparation area, and other things meant to entertain or educate. On the walls were other doors, all of them bolted and resisting his attempts to open them. All except two. The first led into a cell just like his own, a stack of books, many sketchbooks filled with drawings that went from rough forced sketches from someone who had never drawn before to, over time and many pages, accurate representations of what could be viewed from a cell, the perspective of the room, the curve of the pages of an open book. Words copied onto a page, the shapes of the letters more important than the words, someone who could not read, but found beauty in the script. Many renditions of a foot, trying to gain accuracy here too. There were pages of drawings of the common room, but most surprising of all, tucked between the last pages of the book he opened was an actual green leaf, a little limp, but still fresh. The occupant had been here recently, very recently.

The second door opened to a washroom with showers and toilets with stalls around them for privacy, but it was also empty of all but echoes and the scent of an opened bottle of an herbal soap.

However, the third door revealed an atrium with a barred sky overhead several stories up, metal shutters reflected the light down into the underground tower, bouncing it onto the smooth walls. A potted tree and plants filled the space. There she was, the inhabitant from the small cell, dressed in similar utilitarian blue clothing, hunched over a new sketchbook, attempting to put onto paper what she was seeing. When the door opened she looked up, startled by the intrusion, and hissed. The charcoal pencil tore through as it skidded across the page, dropping, forgotten as she rose to her feet, the latest sketchbook clutched in her hands.

Like him her hand had no feeding slit but, unlike him or the others that had been temporarily cured by the virus, there was no scar where one once was. She had never consumed the life of another. Somehow the humans had gotten their hands on a female prior to her first feeding and prevented her from fully becoming Wraith.

She had thought she was alone here. Had been alone for a very long time, so long that she had stopped listening and even hoping for others. This was an illusion or another test to pass, given by those that kept her here, the 'doctors'.

"Go away," voice cracking from disuse. "I will not play another game."

Each time she had invaded their minds the consequences had been unpleasant, the room gassed, more samples taken, medications given to try to mute her inner voice. Finally she stopped using it, pretending that one of their 'cures' had worked. Locked herself down so she did not get out accidently and no one could get in, a mirrored surface that reflected only the listener.

[commandshumor]

He was, needless to say, very shocked at what he found on the other side of a door he assumed was just an emergency exit, bolted on the other side perhaps. Apparently not however.

There was so much here. Books, artwork, even a window to the outside, which he stared up through for a long time, until he heard something in one other other rooms. One was a bathroom, his own was pitifully small with a simple shower. This was pure luxury. He tried each door to no avail, and then another one finally gave in.

And he got a second shock. A female Wraith.

Sheppard had been kind enough to ensure he was not experimented upon. The only drugs he'd been given had been the retrovirus and that had been before coming here. But it seems that kindness had not extended to her. And they'd captured her early. Maybe straight from the cocoon judging by the complete lack of a feeding slit...They'd robbed her of much it seemed.

She couldn't even tell he was real.

Todd thought about what to do. Killing the female would be a mercy. But then, they might just go acquire another. He figured quite quickly why they brought her here, though the motive why still eluded him. And without a hive or facility, he questioned how she'd reproduce. Wraith had not carried their offspring within them to full term ever since they found a way to integrate their genetic material into their ships and the like. It allowed the female to choose whether she wanted drones, warriors, or females, and freed her up to produce as often as she liked and go where she pleased, without being encumbered by a swollen middle. It was hard to say if females could produce the "old fashioned" way anymore, it'd been many generations since they made that switch.

They must have figured it out somehow, otherwise why pair them up?

"Calm yourself, I'm not an illusion." he assured her, moving around to lean against the wall, arms folded.

Jim Street | SWAT (2003) | OTA

[imstaying]

a) patient

[It's a mistake.

It's a fuck-up, it's temporary and he knows the others are in the Captain's office 24/7 to get him out, probably getting bureaucratic obstacles shoved in their faces in return. Jim has been through enough psych evals to know the last one wouldn't have warranted a prolonged stay in the institution (he's sure of it - maybe a little too sure). Probably will turn out to be an "unexpected" mix-up of records in the end. It won't stick but Jim will be out of the picture for a while.

It's a test, a trick, he's convinced of it, all under the guise of helping him to get back "on track". Support for the officer in times of duress and massive stress. Or what the fuck ever. The Captain knows exactly how much this was gonna piss him off. It's working, too; already the frustration manifests in bodily tensions when he doesn't pay attention, hands clenching into fists, teeth biting, fingers digging into his arms or legs until he becomes aware of his actions and can force himself to relax again.

The lack of excercise has him on edge which isn't helping. They want him to lash out, to snap, give them a reason to point a finger and take him off the team. Whenever someone approaches him he's polite but reserved, trying to keep the anger in check, trying to stay out of trouble.

It's a thin line.]


b) visitor

[Something about that last one was off. Maybe it's the overtime, maybe it was something they said or did, maybe it's guilt of his own personal fuck-ups. Whatever it is, Jim cannot let go.

That's the first step down a very dangerous road, he knows, and it'll show up as a huge red flag in his records. But the feeling doesn't go away, not after days, not after one week, not after two, no matter how many miles he runs, how many other criminals he arrests, how many fucked up situations to dream and care about instead he encounters.

Eventually he looks up whatever happened to them since he made the arrest, jots down the address of the institution and well, here he is.]

Doctor Herbert West || Reanimator/H.P. Lovecraft

[notfresh]

His time spent as Doctor in asylum had brought nothing short but the full brunt of Doctor West's curiosity of the human mind, and it's many different functions. There he was, in the middle of the pinnacle of madness and deprecation to which a human being could fall towards. Just how many secrets could he unlock here, what could drive such persons to these fits pandemonium that the State deemed it fit to lock them away?

Even more forefront on his brain was, exactly what would the reanimation of these patients be like?

With such broken minds, Herbert West couldn't imagine that he'd be capable of bringing back anything cognitive. With their nervous system already damaged, or some other form of deformity keeping the already insane patients crippled, most for life. No matter, his curiosity could wait. He currently had another appointment to make.

Doctor West is many things, and competent doctor, is indeed, one of them.

Malcolm Merlyn | Arrow | OTA (can do prose or brackets)

[saidyouweredead]

[Patient Option]

The name on the chart wasn't real. Private asylums were wonderful places to put a person to forget about them or to make sure they were forgotten. It could be a modern day oubliette if someone had enough money and skill with digital or paperwork forgery.

Malcolm didn't waste the few hours that his mind was his own wondering if it was Ra's doing or maybe even Thea's. One should never underestimate the ability of a Merlyn to wait until the time was perfect to strike, Malcolm had to muse to himself in these clearer times. Maybe it was that Lance girl, still angry over the death of her sister. Nyssa would have at least put an arrow through him or slit his throat. He hoped. No, it was looking more likely to be one of the Queens or Lances. Even Diggle wouldn't do this to him.

Sedation was more the rule than the exception, keeping him too lethargic to strike out. An old tactic, but one Malcolm could ruefully appreciate even as he was a victim to it. Someone would slip up sooner or later, even with a well paid staff. A bit of information would escape in recordkeeping on some computer or another, and Felicity would scoop it up. Some orderly would be a little too intent on what was going on after work than the dosage being given. Sooner or later it would happen. Until then, Malcolm slouched against the wall of his padded cell, drug glazed eyes staring stupidly at the opposite one. Thoughts (and time) were slipping past him but things were slowly becoming less foggy.


[Would be Rescuer posing as a staff member]

This all should have been easier than what it was, but whoever had done this had covered their tracks well. If it hadn't been for the accidental spotting by ... Malcolm didn't want to think about it, didn't want to consider the person he was here breaking out reduced to a drugged zombie.

The smile that had disarmed so many when he was a corporate CEO served Malcolm well as he wove his way past nurses prone to suspicion and peons with an over-inflated sense of worth. Malcolm told them what they wanted to hear and offered the correct forged paperwork that said he was 'Doctor Jason Merlyn' recently transferred from Central City, specializing in working with high risk patients. Who would suspect the well-dressed, well spoken gentleman of anything? Or the fact that he had numerous throwing knives secreted under his white coat, a few syringes of sedatives around his wrist?

Now to find who he was looking for.

Buffy Summers | Buffy the Vampire Slayer

[whenimdone]

[Patient]
This couldn't be real. She couldn't be here, not again. She'd- she'd chosen her life, chosen reality over demonic hallucination, this wasn't real. She hadn't been in an institution since she was a teenager, since she'd stopped talking about the slayer, about vampires, and they'd let her out. The hallucinations about still being trapped there, the ones she'd had in Sunnydale, they were just that, hallucinations. They had to be!

Except here she was, clothed in flimsy scrubs, trapped at night in a tiny white room with a bed that had cuffs attached, wandering through clinical white corridors during the day- when she was allowed out. Because she'd panicked, the first time she woke up in that room. She'd fought, and they'd held her down, human men, human women, people who shouldn't have been able to pin her, had, because she was so weak. They'd held her down, strapped her own, there'd been needles, and syringes and drugs, and god she hated it. The drugs had left her so weak, dazed, confused, the world around her a fog, and that was the only time they let her out to wander.

They told her she'd always been here. Doctors told her that she'd relapsed, that she'd been catatonic ever since- since the last time. Since the time that had been a hallucination. They said her parents were coming, that they were on their way, but it would take awhile, and god. Her mom was dead, her dad was- her dad didn't care about her. He couldn't be coming. But they said they were both coming, and she wanted to believe it, couldn't believe it, and everything was so confusing and foggy and where were her friends? Her sister? Where was Giles?

She needed help. She needed out. God, someone help her get out...


[Visitor]
Buffy, as a rule, didn't like hospitals. But if she didn't like hospitals, she liked mental institutions even less. There were too many memories there, too many nightmares, too much she didn't want to think about or remember. But there was someone here she cared about- someone here who she wasn't entirely convince belonged here. And, given her own experiences, she was not going to leave them here to rot.

She just needed to talk to them first. See them. Then figure out what came next.

Torunn Thorsdottir | Marvel

[daughterofthunder]

[You know the problem with telling everyone you're a Norse God? People tend to not believe you. And when you continually insist that you are, in fact, telling the truth, it leads to situations like this. Locked away, sedated, and kept far far away from the weapon that could mean your freedom.]

Isabella Pendergast | Agent Pendergast Series

[pendergastbelle]

[This isn't the first time she's been in a place like this; and she is certain it won't be the last. Mental illness runs in the Pendergast family -- most of its members found (at one time or another) to be criminally insane. Like Comstock Pendergast, a magician who killed his partner before committing suicide. Or Antoine Leng Pendergast who was a serial killer bent on discovering the secret of immortality. Or Cornelia Pendergast who poisoned her whole family, believing them to be possessed by 'Yankee Spirits'. Or Diogenes Pendergast, her father's brother and by far, the worst of the bunch.

But Isabella wasn't like them. At least not yet. She had been diagnosed years ago as a borderline manic depressive with obsessive compulsive tendencies. Problem was, the largest of those obsessions was the idea that she was doomed to end up like so many Pendergasts before her. An idea that had not been helped at all by her relationship with Cornelia. For Isabella adored the old woman for some reason and in her own way, Cornelia seemed to adore Isabella. Enough so that the elder Pendergast left her family estate, Ravenscry, to the girl.

It was unhealthy and detrimental to Isabella. Especially when it ends in her flushing her meds. Talking about why should she delay the inevitable. Why should they even believe a force of nature could be stopped.

That, and the fact her father had found her wandering central park in the rain, had led to her being here. Just for a few days. To make sure her meds were once again working.]

Bart Allen/Kid Flash II | DC Comics (pre-boot/au) | Patient

[kid_flash_found]

The mind is an amazing thing, especially when one can't even remember who they are. They've been calling him John, because John Doe is the only name they have. His fingerprints weren't in any system anywhere in the world, and he doesn't remember anything that can help. His accent places him as being from the midwest, but even the best analysts seem to think it's an acquired one, rather than native. One even suggested that English might not be his first language.

This John Doe also has a prodigious memory for anything he sees or hears, being able to repeat back entire books or conversations without effort, but he can't remember anything about his life. Not even where he read most of the books he knows. By day, he's just a polite young man with one glaring problem that keeps him from being released.

Night is another story. He has nightmares that leave him thrashing and screaming, but the dreams vanish the instant he wakes, leaving only a sense that there is something important he has to be doing, but he just can't remember. Sometimes there are words that he says asleep that can be understood, but none of them mean anything. There is something wrong that needs to be fixed, if only he could remember...

[thegoshdarn]

John Doe might not have any friends that he can remember, but Bart Allen has one very specific friend with access to some scarily extensive intelligence and surveillance. No one was even looking for him - no one even knew to look for him - but Oracle forwards her a report someone made about finding him that comes with a snapshot that looks painfully like Bart, so Tim has to know.

She doesn't even have to go in undercover. Officially, the Neon Knights Foundation is considering making a sizable donation to the facility to provide affordable, quality psychiatric options for minors. It's easy enough to arrange for a tour of the place as it stands now, and while she's there, she asks if she can walk around a little by herself to get a feel for the place.

When she spots him, she honestly just freezes up, feeling like all the air was punched out of her at once. Because. That's Bart. It has to be. He's alive, and she can't quite get past that fact enough to actually go talk to him.

[kid_flash_found]

He's finishing up the crossword puzzle in today's paper when the young lady with a familiar face walks in. Well, you'd have to be a whole lot less connected than John is to not know Ms. Drake-Wayne and her organization. But why she'd be staring at him? That's a real mystery. He's a little scared to find out. The nightmares are horrible, but he's just fine, aside from being a real blank slate.

The weird thing is that he sees her moving with slow determination because of her crutches and what looks like some kind of brace hiding under perfectly tailored clothes. It makes him feel angry for some reason, but not at her. He knows the story, that she was nearly assassinated, but feels wrong somehow, seeing her.

He wants to go and talk to her, but he has no idea what he could say. He's literally nobody, and she's probably the richest teenager in the world.

J. Sebastian Moran / BBC Sherlock

[tigerjack]

When someone you've called friend puts a gun that shouldn't be loaded to their head and and pulls the trigger, you blame yourself. Sometimes you feel a little crazy.

When you don't follow in your father's footsteps and he resents it, sometimes you go a little further than you should to prove that you are your own person. Sometimes you act a little crazy.

When you have an addiction to something you shouldn't and you can't do that thing, sometimes you are a little crazy.

When you are a little off balance and someone pushes you further down that road, sometimes a judge, who is paid off, will rule that you are crazy.

"The gun wasn't loaded." Correcting himself, "The gun was loaded. Loaded with blanks. I checked. I was certain..." Wasn't certain anymore. What if he made a mistake? What if he killed James?