maskormenacelogs | what have you got to lose --

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what have you got to lose --

WHO: Chilton and OPEN!
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.

The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...

There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.

The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.

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Something that might pass for a laugh escaped from the Lizard's throat as Chilton dropped the syringe. He saw the terror in the man's eyes, he saw the reaction that he so desperately wanted. Chilton was afraid. And that was good. The man needed to be afraid, he needed to know the fear that the Lizard could bring. No longer would that human underestimate him.

However, Chilton's disorientation tactics worked. As he ran around the cage, the Lizard spun around, eyes following Chilton's movements, avoiding the fact that the man had picked the syringe up and had thrust it blindly in the cage.

Thankfully the needle hit its mark, sliding between some of the scales on the Lizard's back. The spot was nothing but inopportune, as shown by the Lizard's tail thrashing, trying to knock the syringe away from his body. But it was too late. As the sedative slowly started to swim through his veins, it was the Lizard's turn to fall to his knees, hitting the floor with a worrying thud. Lucky. That was the Lizard's main justification: the human was lucky. The reptile looked over at Chilton with a glance that was nothing but pure hatred before he fell to the floor in a slump, knocked out by the sedative.

Chilton shivered, his legs stammering with the aftershocks of traumatic experience -- he pressed himself against the still-standing plexiglass capsule, clutching against it, as the syringe drooped in one hand. Its needle, having been pulled from the Lizard's body amidst his thrashing, now whispered against the tiled floor.

It was done. With that last venomous look he had shot Chilton's way, the Lizard lost consciousness. Chilton glanced down at his own fingertips, submerged in a quiet awe. This was a substance unlike what he had previously worked with, to soporific effect.

The syringe had been all but drained. Chilton didn't know how long he had, until the Lizard woke up once more -- or, as Chilton hoped, when until the Lizard would transform back into Connors. Given the nature of his work (the secretive, suspicious nature), he couldn't afford to bribe any arbitrary orderly to assist in chaining the Lizard; Chilton would have to do that himself.

The Lizard's breathing pattern, observable as it was, proved consistent with deep sleep.

He swallowed, hard, took a deep breath --

-- and unlatched the cage, thrusting inside to hook heavy iron latches to the Lizard's wrists, to his throat. He bolted and tightened, every second of the total thirty-nine spent was a frenzy, an agony. Quick as he could, he leaped back out of the cage and re-locked it.

He was prepared to wait, until Connors returned. Or until whatever else came to pass.

Thankfully, the Lizard didn't stir as Chilton shackled him, and remained unconscious for at least an hour more. And fortunately for Chilton, as the reptile made the first few noises of waking up, that was enough for Connors's groggy mind to reassert himself over the Lizard's groggy mind. This was enough. He knew that if he didn't take this opportunity now, it would be ages until he could do it again, so Connors put all of his mental energy towards thinking about Billy, thinking about Martha, thinking about everybody who cared about him and how he needed to be himself again.

It worked. Thank God, it worked. Just as quick as the transformation started, the scales receded, back into Connors's body, as his body shrunk and contorted from a massive lizardbeast back to the human scientist he was. The shackle that held the Lizard's right hand now lay on the floor as his right arm essentially withered away back to it's previous length, while Connors's throat and left hand still remain bolted--though, with plenty more wiggle room thanks to his decreasing mass. He looked absolutely pathetic, sitting on the floor of the cage, half naked, shackled, only wearing a pair of tattered pants.

The first thing that Connors realized when coming to full consciousness was the weight of the shackle around his neck, pulling him down to a hunched position whether he wanted to be or not. The memories of what happened during his transformation were hazy, slowly sorting themselves out as Connors tried to force himself into attention. He turned to look at Chilton, concerned expression on his face. "Are you alright? I didn't hurt you...did I?"

"I wasn't harmed, no," replied Chilton. He took careful note of Connors upon wakening, committing every nuanced motion and word uttered to memory. The immediacy of the question struck Chilton as curious, the context suggesting that Connors often struggled with the suffocation of his guilt. While the Lizard, this manifested aspect of Connors, something torn and tormented and unleashed, was immune to guilt, Connors thus got the lion's share.

Chilton considered Dissociative Identity Disorder, now that he had seen the transformation in action. Connors was, of course, a far more literal iteration -- and the Lizard, so sophisticated a separation, was more than merely another identity. This was not the same brand of DID as, say Harvey Dent had suffered. Or even Abel Gideon.

"How are you feeling?" Chilton adjusted his own tie, which had become quite rumpled in the brief scuffle. He walked around the cage, unlocking it for Connors. Not once within that hour had Chilton left the room -- his attention had been rapt on his patient, his mind whiling the minutes with theories.

"Do you need anything, immediately?" The psychiatrist walked into the cage, bending down to unlatch Connors. "An IV? Water? Oh, Curt, you did so, so well."

The look he spared was one subtly paternal.

"I'm exhausted," Connors couldn't help but admit. And he looked absolutely wrecked. It was not a good day to be Connors. At the moment, he just wanted to lay down and sleep for a billion years. However, he knew that couldn't happen just yet. So, he remained still as Chilton started the unlatching process, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

"I would like some water, though." Maybe cold water in his system would help him try to get back that energy that he so desperately wanted.

"Of course," replied Chilton. "Here -- I'll help you up."

Help was a negligible word to engage; it was more like carry, for the sake of his action. He gripped Connors soundly around the shoulders, holding him close, walking him out of the containment center. Chilton found a chair for the man to sit, as he walked over to the miniature refrigeration device (intended for his own use, mind, and a relic of the past few weeks, when he had been working alone down here).

"You responded well to the sedative," said the psychiatrist. "Or -- the Lizard did."

Chilton cleared his throat, as he offered Connors a chilled water bottle. Sparkling.

"He doesn't think well of you."

Connors didn't realize that it was sparkling water until he had already drunk some. A confused expression plastered itself across his face, like a cat who just now realized you swapped out the cat food, before it was replaced with resigned tiredness as he continued to drink the water.

"The feeling's mutual," he managed to say, though it was obvious that the words were requiring some effort. "Especially considering we both want the other permanently gone." He made no bones about it: the Lizard wanted Connors out of the way just as much as Connors wanted a cure for his condition. Their arrangement was tentative at best, constantly combative at worst.

"It's only going to get worse, as I imagine you've realized," said the psychiatrist. He watched Connors work his water bottle, as if drinking in every detail himself. Suffice to say, Chilton had always considered Connors to be one of his more interesting patients.

But now he was positively enthralled.

As he allowed his patient a moment of rest, Chilton took out a notepad and scribed down his thoughts. Pages had already been filled with notes, observations, and theories -- and all about Doctor Curt Connors.

"Have you ever considered yourself to be dissociative?"

He shook his head. Dissociative? Connors didn't know that much about psychiatry, but he wouldn't call himself dissociative. Unlucky, maybe, but dissociative? That brought up all sorts of connotations that Connors wasn't sure he wanted to embrace.

"I was fine before I tried to cure myself," he remarked, with a frown. After all, he was in the army. Surely they wouldn't let someone obviously dissociative in the army, would they? "It's that serum that I used, the one I used to try and fix myself, that's the cause of all of this." A deliberate, if unconscious choice of words on Connors's part. Fix myself. Cure myself. A sign that even though it had been so long after he injected himself with that reptilian DNA serum, a part of him still saw himself as broken and hopeless.

"Sometimes, individuals who are predisposed for Dissociative Identity Disorder never manifest any symptoms until a particular traumatic event triggers them."

Chilton explained, with unusual patients. Normally he wouldn't spare such genteel constructs towards just anyone, but Connors had officially become A Very Special Patient. He extended a hand to his company's shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. Chilton considered this a comforting motion.

"That serum could have been traumatic, though you may have repressed the entirety -- it could have exaggerated your brain chemistry, provoking what were previously quieter elements of your personality." Chilton watched Connors, keeping eye contact just above the brow. It was as if he was eying the brain itself. Another smile was offered.

Edited 2014-09-07 03:48 (UTC)

Connors was still tense, confused expression still on his face. He didn't even try to fight against the fact that Chilton gave his shoulder a squeeze--something that, where he less rattled, he would certainly have more of a reaction to. That didn't make any sense. He was fine. He was just someone who made a bad decision and continued to pay the price.

"If there's anything that's traumatic, it wasn't the serum," Connors quietly responded. After all, that was a chance for hope. That was him trying to heal himself. "I told you how I lost my arm, right? I was an army doctor--I lost it in the war. Surely that would be more traumatic."

"That could have set the foundation," he said. His eyes were still on the brain of his patient, as if Chilton had possessed some x-ray insight into the man's literal tissue and synapses. "The mind is a marvelous thing -- sometimes there's a slow reaction to agony. Sometimes the brain only bends when it cannot adapt, and that could take years."

He wanted to explore these possibilities. Chilton did not remove his hand.

"Harvey Dent, for example -- he's a prior patient of mine. His DID manifested a little differently, but -- well. The trauma he was suffering had built itself from childhood and that, along with his genetics, well he sure became a textbook case."

It was natural for individuals to fight, to deny. Very few people wanted to be saddled with mental disorders. And Chilton craved pushing the point, he wanted to explore every possibility, every counterargument, to really dig himself into his patient's mind.

But he maintained his restraint again. Connors was exhausted, and he appreciated that.

"We can continue this discussion later, of course. When you're feeling better."

Harvey Dent...he wouldn't lie, Connors kind of wanted to meet the man, if only just to see what a successful patient was like. Because obviously that was what he wanted to be: a successful patient himself. Connors filed that away to ask about later. The idea of continuing the discussion later sounded great. All he wanted to do right now was sleep or relax or something.

"Thank you," Connors responded, with a small smile. He reached over towards his shoes and shirt and started to get himself redressed, slowly but surely. "Although...do you mind giving me a ride? I took public transportation to get here and, well, I don't know how they'll react if I take the bus with pants this tattered." Indeed, his pants now looked more like somebody's attempt at a zombie costume and less like actual pants.

Chilton nodded, reassuring Connors of a ride.

"I'll arrange for your transportation," he said, and so formally. He wanted to extend his authority, to ensure comfort to his patient. Curt was in that fragile state, just upon the precipice of a thesis. And Chilton would offer Connors nearly whatever he wanted.

He moved to get Connors another bottle of water. Still sparkling.

"We'll make quick work out of here, and I'll get you home," he promised. "Let's go."

He still remained close to the floor, putting on his socks and shoes before doing anything else. As he finished tying his shoes, Connors looked up, to Chilton offering him a bottle of water. Almost instantly, Connors grabbed it, grateful expression on his face, as he unscrewed it and started to drink. He smiled warily at Chilton, setting the bottle of water down to work on his shirt.

"Give me just a moment-" As he slipped the shirt over his head, Connors quickly grabbed the rest of his belongings (wallet, house keys, communicator) from a neat little pile he had made, quickly putting them back in his pockets. "All right, I'm ready."

Standing up, he picked up the bottle of water and waited, expectantly, for Chilton to make his move.

Chilton tended to the machinery, unplugging it, as his patient readied himself. It was another way of buying Connors some semblance of privacy, as well, considering how exposed the other man might already be feeling -- these sort of aggressive, unconventional sessions could easily yield complicated emotions. But much to Chilton's pleasure, Connors appeared to have adapted to the circumstantial event; he looked tired, for sure, and was clearly worn, but nevertheless polite and as academic as per usual.

It was fascinating.

"Here, now," said Chilton, offering his arm to Connors. "We'll have to walk up the stairs, of course, but I can take you to the back. I'll be a car around to the backway loading docks, and take you home from there."

A car. Not necessarily his car -- Chilton was still scheming for a Porsche. But in the meanwhile? His psychic vehicular driving ability came in quite handily.

As Chilton offered his arm, Connors gladly took it. He was exhausted. Any sort of support that he could get, he would gladly take. Blissfully unaware of Chilton's ~~car stealing~~ psychic driving ability, they started to make their way up the stairs. Connors was taking them slightly slow, but he still had a small smile on his face all the while. After all, he didn't want to seem too exhausted in front of Chilton.

"Again, thank you so much."

"Not at all," replied Chilton. He was willing to play the savior, finding the role rather palatable. After all, was Doctor Connors not his patient? Did he owe it to the man, to provide security and protection? Did Connors not deserve answers about his own mind?

Chilton was more than willing to provide; that is how he justified his actions.

The car he summoned was Porsche 911 Club Coupe in black. He had always maintained a soft spot for Porsche cars, and they were in statistical surplus at the hospital. After all, it was a hospital not limited to psychiatric care.

Gently, carefully, he tucked Connors into the passenger seat. It was easy to psychically engage the sound of an unlocked car, easy to push the engine into roaring. The return itself took no longer than half an hour, traffic baring.

Connors was trying his hardest to muster up energy, to keep himself going. He wanted to simply sleep but no, he needed to get back home, he needed to get to his bed, then he could sleep. He briefly noticed how fancy the car was (good for Chilton for being able to afford it), before he got into the passenger's seat.

And...then Connors pretty much just straight up fell asleep for the car ride home. A+ job there buddy.

When the car pulled up to the residence, Connors finally stirred with unintentionally perfect timing. "Good God," he said, through a yawn. "I'm more tired than I thought."

"You've had such a busy day," he said, somewhat aware of how patronizing that sounded. It wasn't Chilton's intention -- and rare was such an occasion, when he didn't pointedly poke at other people's psyches. But Connors had cemented himself as special to Chilton. Invaluable.

"I'll have your new prescription ready, the next time we meet," he promised. Now that he knew what he needed to improve upon, with regards to the containment center, Chilton needed Connors in control and healthy.

Until the next time he could lure his patient into the basement, of course.

Connors managed a sleepy smile as he nodded at Chilton. The idea of a new prescription...oh, that sounded wonderful. He staggered out of the car and, after a brief check to make sure that he had everything, gave Chilton a sleepy wave.

"Thank you again. For everything."

And, small smile back on his face, Connors started his slow walk back to his room.

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