Dr. Frederick Chilton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2017-06-11 06:46 pm
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-06-11 06:46 pm
take up my message from the veins --
WHO: Frederick Chilton & various imPorts! Possibly you!!
WHERE: Maurtia Falls mostly, and a single De Chima.
WHEN: Throughout June.
WHAT: Therapy & conflict!
WARNINGS: Psychic driving techniques as per the Kavinsky inpatient thread.
01 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - CHILTON'S OFFICE, FOR OUTPATIENT APPOINTMENTS AND ANY CONFERENCES
Bela Talbot. Klarion Bleak. Elena Fisher. Newer patients, some willing and some... Mandated. But Chilton had an open office for all, to include older patients and relapsed patients, and he was more than willing to treat his fellow imPorts. Bela and Elena both merited careful, kind care -- the sort that Chilton built his professional reputation upon. Klarion would be a fine candidate for a Project, much like Kavinsky was, but his powers were truly horrifying. Whatever sociopathic tendencies the young man had, they needed to be redirected in the most healthy way possible.
Chilton sat in his high-backed leather chair, contemplating his next session. His office, painted in a light blue, maintained a heavier resonance with its gold and black accents. A decanter filled with finely aged whiskey sat behind him, nestled within his fully stocked bookshelf. Greco-Roman paintings and busts and trinkets littered his office, and gold pens glinted from his desk. Two seating arrangements sat before his, parallel to each other: one soft, light blue sedan and one hard, uncomfortable wooden chair.
He gave all his patients the same choice.
02 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - STAFF AREAS, OPEN TO ALL BREEDS OF MINGLING INCLUDING STAFF INTERACTIONS
The boon of William Walker's recompense donation, which Chilton had summarily demanded after Walker's battle with Jack had destroyed Rincewind's office, was excessive and intended for excess. The hospital's exterior was afforded a facade change, a later Georgian design, and the basement imPort Containment Centers had been updated with three power nullifiers, one for each center, officially leased from the US Federal government. These prisons ensure that once an imPort is locked within the nearly 200 sq foot reinforced glass cylinder holding, they will not be able to escape. The main lobby, which typically contained some incarnation of Reggie Mantle, was accessible to all -- staff, patients, or otherwise. The staff lounge continued to maintain a modernize, even pompous, self-important sleekness, and brimmed with the necessities required for staff consumption. All vending machines had since been removed, thanks to the Rincewind Incident. Chilton had made the cause of this consequences very clear.
Each office associated with a staff member is decorated in accordance to the staff member's taste. While Chilton won't control the design, he'll certainly watch it -- every room in this hospital is recorded. Even the ones that aren't legally supposed to be recorded.
Staff are free to bring visitors during the day, but they must be armed with a Visitor's Pass.
When he does not hold meetings in his own office, which is indeed rather rare, Chilton will host them in a welcoming reception room on the first floor.
03 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - INPATIENT WING, CLOSED TO KAVINSKY
"Now, Kavinsky," he said, his gaze determinedly fixed on the young man before him. "Are you ready to have a little conversation?"
They were on the second floor, the inpatient wing. The lights above glowed impossible bright, ethereally white. Everything was white on the inpatient wing, to include the hallways, with the rare pop of color amplified for shock value. Distorting, dissociating, stark and brutal. Kavinsky's own room was one of many lined along, with bullet-proof plexiglass guarding his enclosure as it fit towards the hallway. Inside his apartment, as Chilton called it, was a high-tech monitoring bed, a lamp, and a table -- all bolted to the ground. The chairs that they sat in were not attached to the floor, but they also were not allowed to remain in the room while Chilton was gone.
He had security remove them after the session.
"I brought you something," he said, softly, his gaze never breaking. From his double-breasted suit he pulled out a small book. A poetry book. Howl, Allan Ginsberg.
04 THE EAR WYRM, VINYL RECORD STORE, MAURTIA FALLS
He scoured for a sound that Raina would like. The gift he sought didn't come with a purpose, this was for no anniversary nor special occasion. There was a shadow soaking his subconscious, a primal fear reverberating into his behavior. This was because of Persephone, this was because of her song. She had sung especially to him, she had composed for him a song of betrayal and isolation and disdain, and while he knew that logically his loved ones wouldn't throw him into the trash, Chilton couldn't quite shake that terror. There was a tremor in his soul, because of Persephone.
So here he was, at The Ear Wyrm, looking for an unannounced present for Raina. To delay the thought of her leaving him.
05 LOUNGE BAR, THE HOTEL CASTILE, MAURTIA FALLS
Didn't a Sally once work here? He was fairly certain, reasoning that he had a memory of a sharp-edged woman named Sally once haunting James Patrick March's hotel. Or was that a fabrication, a deterioration in the mind? Chilton stared into his single malt scotch, repressing a shudder. Last month had been something of a collapse for him, he had suffered a psychosis that he had never before experienced: hallucination. Gore dripping from the ceiling onto the carpet, shadows turning into demons. In this hotel, beneath March's care, he had hallucinated more than once. Chilton hadn't discussed it, of course, he didn't want anyone to think he might be crazy. He wouldn't even associate the episodes with this hotel, this environment, if only to indulge the inexplicably darkness pulling at his marrow, sitting him here at this bar.
But he was lonely, sitting here. Isolated. Staring into his whiskey, ignoring the distant screaming he seemed to hear only in this place.
"Buy you a drink?"
Desperation in his voice.
06 WILLIAM WALKER'S OFFICE, SWEET IRON COMMUNICATIONS, DE CHIMA, CLOSED TO THE MAN IN BLACK
He threw open the door to Walker's office, unannounced and unrepentant. The receptionist knew he hadn't an appointment, and Chilton reveled in the minor revolution of it all. His stride was quick, determined, and sharp enough to outpace any interference from any secretary fearing for their job; he wanted to see William Walker. And he would.
"Well!" Chilton threw his hands upwards, smiling with a smug triumph unique to his mouth. "Your check had cleared! Renovation is now scheduled."
07 PLAYER'S CHOICE, OTHER, CHOOSE YOUR POISON
WHERE: Maurtia Falls mostly, and a single De Chima.
WHEN: Throughout June.
WHAT: Therapy & conflict!
WARNINGS: Psychic driving techniques as per the Kavinsky inpatient thread.
01 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - CHILTON'S OFFICE, FOR OUTPATIENT APPOINTMENTS AND ANY CONFERENCES
Bela Talbot. Klarion Bleak. Elena Fisher. Newer patients, some willing and some... Mandated. But Chilton had an open office for all, to include older patients and relapsed patients, and he was more than willing to treat his fellow imPorts. Bela and Elena both merited careful, kind care -- the sort that Chilton built his professional reputation upon. Klarion would be a fine candidate for a Project, much like Kavinsky was, but his powers were truly horrifying. Whatever sociopathic tendencies the young man had, they needed to be redirected in the most healthy way possible.
Chilton sat in his high-backed leather chair, contemplating his next session. His office, painted in a light blue, maintained a heavier resonance with its gold and black accents. A decanter filled with finely aged whiskey sat behind him, nestled within his fully stocked bookshelf. Greco-Roman paintings and busts and trinkets littered his office, and gold pens glinted from his desk. Two seating arrangements sat before his, parallel to each other: one soft, light blue sedan and one hard, uncomfortable wooden chair.
He gave all his patients the same choice.
02 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - STAFF AREAS, OPEN TO ALL BREEDS OF MINGLING INCLUDING STAFF INTERACTIONS
The boon of William Walker's recompense donation, which Chilton had summarily demanded after Walker's battle with Jack had destroyed Rincewind's office, was excessive and intended for excess. The hospital's exterior was afforded a facade change, a later Georgian design, and the basement imPort Containment Centers had been updated with three power nullifiers, one for each center, officially leased from the US Federal government. These prisons ensure that once an imPort is locked within the nearly 200 sq foot reinforced glass cylinder holding, they will not be able to escape. The main lobby, which typically contained some incarnation of Reggie Mantle, was accessible to all -- staff, patients, or otherwise. The staff lounge continued to maintain a modernize, even pompous, self-important sleekness, and brimmed with the necessities required for staff consumption. All vending machines had since been removed, thanks to the Rincewind Incident. Chilton had made the cause of this consequences very clear.
Each office associated with a staff member is decorated in accordance to the staff member's taste. While Chilton won't control the design, he'll certainly watch it -- every room in this hospital is recorded. Even the ones that aren't legally supposed to be recorded.
Staff are free to bring visitors during the day, but they must be armed with a Visitor's Pass.
When he does not hold meetings in his own office, which is indeed rather rare, Chilton will host them in a welcoming reception room on the first floor.
03 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - INPATIENT WING, CLOSED TO KAVINSKY
"Now, Kavinsky," he said, his gaze determinedly fixed on the young man before him. "Are you ready to have a little conversation?"
They were on the second floor, the inpatient wing. The lights above glowed impossible bright, ethereally white. Everything was white on the inpatient wing, to include the hallways, with the rare pop of color amplified for shock value. Distorting, dissociating, stark and brutal. Kavinsky's own room was one of many lined along, with bullet-proof plexiglass guarding his enclosure as it fit towards the hallway. Inside his apartment, as Chilton called it, was a high-tech monitoring bed, a lamp, and a table -- all bolted to the ground. The chairs that they sat in were not attached to the floor, but they also were not allowed to remain in the room while Chilton was gone.
He had security remove them after the session.
"I brought you something," he said, softly, his gaze never breaking. From his double-breasted suit he pulled out a small book. A poetry book. Howl, Allan Ginsberg.
04 THE EAR WYRM, VINYL RECORD STORE, MAURTIA FALLS
He scoured for a sound that Raina would like. The gift he sought didn't come with a purpose, this was for no anniversary nor special occasion. There was a shadow soaking his subconscious, a primal fear reverberating into his behavior. This was because of Persephone, this was because of her song. She had sung especially to him, she had composed for him a song of betrayal and isolation and disdain, and while he knew that logically his loved ones wouldn't throw him into the trash, Chilton couldn't quite shake that terror. There was a tremor in his soul, because of Persephone.
So here he was, at The Ear Wyrm, looking for an unannounced present for Raina. To delay the thought of her leaving him.
05 LOUNGE BAR, THE HOTEL CASTILE, MAURTIA FALLS
Didn't a Sally once work here? He was fairly certain, reasoning that he had a memory of a sharp-edged woman named Sally once haunting James Patrick March's hotel. Or was that a fabrication, a deterioration in the mind? Chilton stared into his single malt scotch, repressing a shudder. Last month had been something of a collapse for him, he had suffered a psychosis that he had never before experienced: hallucination. Gore dripping from the ceiling onto the carpet, shadows turning into demons. In this hotel, beneath March's care, he had hallucinated more than once. Chilton hadn't discussed it, of course, he didn't want anyone to think he might be crazy. He wouldn't even associate the episodes with this hotel, this environment, if only to indulge the inexplicably darkness pulling at his marrow, sitting him here at this bar.
But he was lonely, sitting here. Isolated. Staring into his whiskey, ignoring the distant screaming he seemed to hear only in this place.
"Buy you a drink?"
Desperation in his voice.
06 WILLIAM WALKER'S OFFICE, SWEET IRON COMMUNICATIONS, DE CHIMA, CLOSED TO THE MAN IN BLACK
He threw open the door to Walker's office, unannounced and unrepentant. The receptionist knew he hadn't an appointment, and Chilton reveled in the minor revolution of it all. His stride was quick, determined, and sharp enough to outpace any interference from any secretary fearing for their job; he wanted to see William Walker. And he would.
"Well!" Chilton threw his hands upwards, smiling with a smug triumph unique to his mouth. "Your check had cleared! Renovation is now scheduled."
07 PLAYER'S CHOICE, OTHER, CHOOSE YOUR POISON
no subject
The sort of thing for a man to say when he as a pinch in his mouth and whiskey at his teeth. It isn't that Chilton necessarily strives for a rude demeanor, simply that a brusque wryness was all too easy to express when his world had shuddered as it had over the past few weeks. He was only barely conscious of it, himself.
"Perhaps you have seen me somewhere dazzling, and that is why," he continued, really pushing his luck. More likely she was right, that he had been moping about the Castile -- but Chilton was a habitual fortune pusher.
A moment longer, and he at last relented the airs, surrendering a smile. Chilton could never resist a pretty person, and she was bright and lovely in her retro clothing.
"Doctor Chilton," he said, the words as lonesome as he had been. A quick look at the bartender, about to order a drink for her -- but he saw he already had one made. Quick fella.
"And you are?"
no subject
"Another friend of the hotel." Another friend of March's, implied. She's a bit important, thank you — put on equal footing, also important. "I've seen you with the Master. He looks at you like he's in love."
A sip, wagging her eyebrows. Their bartender retreated around the corner to deliver a sad clown another bottle of the good stuff.
"You know he's demanding." Quickly, a cross of her legs left one foot ever-so-gently resting against Chilton's calf. "How's your stamina?"
no subject
Chilton was quick to lose his languid sense of superiority; the moment her leg caressed him, despite how subtle it was, he knew the energy had shifted. A quick swallow and a reel of recollection in his mind, and then he managed a quaking smile.
"James is an affection individual, yes. Eccentric in his affection. Energetic."
He looks at you like he's in love. Was he to read into that? Was she jealous? A paramour of March's, and one with control issues?
"I believe I have kept pace with him, yes. Who did you say you were, again?"
She had avoided her name.
no subject
Their audience of two sat and shared a drink in the corner booth.
"I don't like to repeat myself, sugar." She threw back her drink, the toe of her heels pressing against Chilton's stomach. Brazen indeed. "You keep pace with him, you can keep pace with me. Come up to my room."
It wasn't much of a request.
no subject
The bartender was nowhere in sight.
"Your room?"
His voice took a half pitch higher. Your room?
"I am a man engaged." Full disclosure; that was what women wanted, right? And while she could have requested his presence to her hotel room for a great many different things, his mind went to the most obvious (and frankly, most common) likelihood. The foot rubbing against his chest somewhat gave him that impression.
"But I can help with... Platonic... Requirements."
Whatever that might mean, not even Chilton knew as he spoke it.
no subject
That heel gave him a bit more pressure before she spun in place, hand reaching out to tug him forward by tie, or shirt.
"You are adorable." That smile was back, teeth totally normal. She droped her hold to lead, hand back now to take his if he showed signs of hesitation. "Engaged. Platonic. I've got a far more fun way to be intimate without sex."
Her words purred while her body language growled, meek but confident tones contrasted with absolutely dominant steps, even the set of her shoulders gave her an In Command look. She led to the stairs instead of the elevator and glanced back at Chilton like she'd found her new Mischief Buddy, not her new Bedtime Pal.
no subject
"Have you?" He swallowed, blinking, so sure that her face had softened. Her smile was a normal smile, hadn't it always been? The question hovered in his mind, a continual specter to suffer. Chilton was only just trying to get control over his composure once more, but this woman was running circles around him -- the pressure to steady himself tightened at his throat.
He followed her to the stairs, helpless.
"What are we doing, then?"
A balking question, a moment stolen so that he might smooth down his shirt and readjust his tie.
no subject
A finger against his lips, her body pressed flush to him. Blink and a miss, her movements became a bit too sudden. Something more than human, or simply far more agile than he'd noticed before. Come and go, tease, flirt with the chase. Not for long; soon enough she took a key from the front of her dress and undid the lock, smiling like she was about to show Chilton something very very naughty.
She was.
She swung the door open wide enough to drag him in behind her if necessary. It was necessary for him to be in, of course, because her next move was shutting said door.
Some pitiful, skeletal, human-like thing stared up from the corner of her room, nude, skin an inhuman white. No hair, sunken eyes, chained about the wrists and neck with just enough room to crawl a few feet. He looked up at Chilton without a hint of pleading, fully resigned to this fate.
Scratch marks on the walls around him began to drip red. Blood of fingertips long gone.
"Do you like him? Jimmy gave him to me. He used to murder children."
A pet, a horrible little creature reaching down to what looked like an empty dog dish.
The door behind Frederick Chilton was locked.
no subject
Chilton took one look at it -- him -- the former child murderer chained to the wall, and he turned around and grabbed the door handle and jangled it.
"This door is locked." Chilton turned his head around, to catch her glance again, trying hard to avoid the sunken, darkened eyes of the thing in the corner. "Why is this door locked?"
Calm demeanor, controlled speech -- Chilton was only barely trembling. He could repress panic, he could swallow it, he could force it down his throat and into his stomach until he scampered off to safety. Panic was a thing easy to control.
The acidic bile that threatened to rise, now that would take a forceful moment.
"J-Jimmy, you said. James March?"
Her words replayed back in his head, cycling through and through again. Chilton felt no compassion warmed towards the thing chained to the wall; child murder was the worst shade of homicide, even he could appreciate that. And this thing was no longer human, not to Chilton's mind.
"March gave you this... Man? Where did he acquire him?"
He did not take a step closer.
no subject
Chipper, she kicked her shoes off, wiggling toes to accompany the pep in her step as she ignored the other question and any sign that Frederick Chilton wasn't quite as down to fuck around in this manner. If he looked at the door again, he'd find that the knob was a bit different because it was gone. Just a thick door with no way out, not now, but only if he dared to look.
"He's good at that. Finding things. Finding things in people they don't wanna think about." She moved to her wardrobe, pulling open the top drawer. A few pairs of lacy panties came first, lazily tossed near perfumes and lotions. Then, without pretense, came a gun, a slim knife, a length of rope, and a meat hook. She nodded, hummed her pleasure, and shut the drawer. "He's just gotten so loud at night I can't sleep. Time to put him down and I didn't wanna do it all by myself."
A few blinks made those eyes bigger. Made the pleading seem innocent, like desire for a smooch rather than desire for murder pals.
"Which do you like best?"
She gestured to the tools, as if she really needed to. The thing in the corner pushed its bowl around but showed no sign it understood the words being bandied about.
no subject
Chilton pressed his back against it, his left palm rubbing over where the handle once was. He felt dizzy, unbalanced, a warm and buzzing feeling rose from his stomach pit like a swarm of locusts -- dark and indefatigable. Short, choppy breaths. The gun, the knife. Rope. Meat hook.
"No, no. No."
Frederick Chilton was no murderer. Well -- not directly when intentionally, and not intentionally when directly. And maybe it was that caveat that haunted his shadow, maybe that was why he could step into this horror show room.
The thing was half dead already.
"Just release him back into the wild," said Chilton, certain that it wouldn't survive on its own. "Just -- let it destroy itself."
His methodology revealed: let it destroy itself.
no subject
Her tone was condescending, her look pitying. He thought he had a choice? He thought she'd brought him all this way to be denied? Either he was quite a ballsy fellow, or quite a naive one. She could see March being drawn to both those sorts in all their varieties.
"Better start you off with this."
The knife. Right to the heart of the matter, that was her goal. Well. That was James March's design, more accurately. She grabbed it up and walked Chilton's way, slow and steady, the handle extended to him. The blade pointed toward her. Sharp against soft skin, soft skin against a sharp smile, her voice an encouraging purr more at home between silk sheets than this.
"This is the wild. Go ahead. You can do it. Take it."
If Chilton protested, he'd find that knife ever so helpfully shoved into his hands. Perhaps near his stomach. How could she know?
no subject
He felt the blade all too close to his stomach, even cutting against the fine threads of his crisp button-up shirt. It frightened him, as of course it would. Chilton trembled with the knife in hand, looking from her to the thing and back to her.
"I don't want this."
It was almost a plea, the words that crawled from his mouth. He was almost imploring her, all while knowing that she was adamant. She would not cede. She would not waver.
"Why are you doing this?" He swallowed, looking down at his hands -- one set of fingers holding tightly to the knife. "Why did you do this to him?"
Why, why, why. Chilton wouldn't make eye contact with either of them.
no subject
There was nothing in the corner. Then there was, again, with horns and spikes, then without, then not at all. A horrible wheel of monstrous images played behind her, now turned the knife and curling his fingers around its handle. Her stomach was closer to the blade this way. Just a few inches would get her off, have her stuck. Just a nudge from behind could have her impaled. So many possibilities...
"Don't you?" Her voice was different, harsher, almost like she spoke from a different throat than she had been using all along. "Don't you want it? Don't you get tired of lying to yourself, Frederick? You can't have the fame without the effort. You can't come clean without blood on your hands."
Her voice warped further, demonic, matching the view in the background. Her hands were no longer soft. Her nails felt like claws. And then they were; by God, her very skin became gray and scaled.
"Do it."
what about exactly a month later
Because he didn't know, right now, paralysis seized his body and throat -- he could barely speak, hardly breathe. And even then, in this ghoulish haze, even at that moment he knew he had asked the wrong question.
Not who are you, no. What are you.
"What the! Fuck!"
Pricks of salted water stung at his eyes, he could have sobbed if not for the icy hell that seized his rib cage. Gray skin, scales, claws. The urge to vomit. The shiver of the scene behind her -- it? -- behind, where walls used to be. When a bed once was, he couldn't see, he only knew blinding darkness and the freezing, hellish emptiness in his stomach, and --
It thrust forward. Chilton had thrust it forward. The knife. Into her stomach.
To the hilt.
He screamed. He writhed, he slithered out from against her body, he fled like a coward. Fingers grasping the brass door knob, vocal chords burning with hellfire, he threw himself against the door again and again. Something in his shoulder cracked, and then the door cracked, and then.
Blackness.
time is an illusion
Then there was March. He'd been there all along, of course, but he was quick to appear when he heard the final thud, to pull back on the ghastly sights and sounds. Poor fellow, overwhelmed and scared so much. Poor dear. Hands came from the blackness, bearing a wedding band and a tacky ring elsewhere, to pull Chilton close and collect him with the greatest of care. That dark pool vanished as all the horror disappeared back to where it came from. The mind it came from.
The darkness held warmth, and that warmth held Chilton. A sleeping bag of slightly unsettling acceptance settled around him. Nary a light could be seen, yet there was nothing to really fear. No laughter or Hannibal Lecters to be heard, no odd sensation of being watched. Just cozy, too-comfortable void.
Chilton would have some time alone, to call out or to move around, to wonder where he might be. Nothing would answer. No sounds could be heard in response. His voice wouldn't even echo. Until, suddenly, a light shone nearby, the scene playing out a grisly one. A woman's body was carried by clown and bellhop alike down the hallway, March following behind. He puffed his pipe, face one of deepest concentration.
"Tell me again."
"That doctor friend of yours, what fucks brains," came the answer. Chilton could move to the scene, could wave his hands and scream and shout and kick, but he'd realize soon he wasn't being seen. That he was here only to see. "Went up to this pretty thing's room and had some sorta breakdown. Gutted her. She didn't stand a chance. What you reckon somebody's fucked his brains, boss? You recognize that shit better than anybody else."
Puff. Puff. Puff. A low, gurgled sort of hrrmmm rumbled about March's throat as he continued to follow them into a room marked 64. Yet the door would shut on Chilton and he'd find himself unable to open it, or anything else for that matter. The blackness closed in again, cold this time, unwelcoming and filled with horrors. This was a pitch black of isolation and despair.
Until his face grew warm, visited with a few gentle smacks, then his neck cradled by a hand.
"Frederick! Frederick, darling, can you hear me? The racket you're making — wake up!"
The scent of tobacco. Jazz music lightly playing in the next room. March dressed down to an undershirt, suspenders, and pants, sitting on the edge of a bed, bearing eyes filled with concern and fondness. His other shirts were crumpled on the wardrobe across from the bed.
March's room. March's bed. The master of the house was at hand, quite literally, for Frederick Chilton in his hour of need.
THIS IS JUST FOR CLOSURE
His face ached with a fading sting, and the culprit hand belonged to James Patrick March. He didn't remember sleeping, yet all evidence pointed to the assertion that he must have. That waking dream, that had been nothing more than a --
"Phantasm," he sputtered. "I had the most terrible..."
He opened his eyes now, fully. Tobacco had replaced the faint smell of copper and brine, a memory he no longer considered to be blood. Chilton had been feeling ill, that much he would admit to; something terrible had been ingested, perhaps. Some agony suffered in his subconscious. But now he was with his good friend March, his kindly and empathetic companion.
Now he was safe.
"I must apologize," he said, quickly, struggling to sit up fully. March's room, he thought. Something must have happened in his own -- a faint? Had he hit his head? Was he concussed? "I really, I don't know what came over me."
Wasn't I in another room? The question lingered on his lips, but he wouldn't ask it. Chilton couldn't be sure of that now, of anything leading up to this precise moment.
"James," he said, the hint of a plea in his voice. "I hate to make a sudden departure -- but I really think I need to get to a hospital."
On his feet, looking for his blue sports coat. How had March found him, he wondered. Passed out? Had someone else reported his circumstance to the man? Chilton measured his breathing, closing his eyes.
He would be at a hospital, sneaking into an ER by the grace of imPort privilege, with no detectable damage to his head. No tests were run on the blood he found staining his shirt.