maskormenacelogs | (wasted on fixing all the problems)

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(wasted on fixing all the problems)

WHO: Doctor Chilton and these poor, unfortunate souls.
WHERE: Chilton's office at the Second Chances Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center.
WHEN: March 20th - April 20th.
WHAT: Chilton, stealthily seeking potential personality disorders for his personal projects, offers psychiatric therapy to interested imPorts.
WARNINGS: Potential unethical practice, depending on the way the sessions log out.

Doctor Chilton's office was significantly smaller than that which he normally inhabited: the corners felt cut, the walls tightened with thinner plaster, his decor boasted only limited paraphernalia (a couple of framed maps of Heropa and the Chesapeake Bay area, a selection of gold plated pens). Such spatial reasoning resonated with the fact that, here, he was not the Chief of Staff (as he had been at both the Norman Osborn Hospital of Psychiatric Evaluation, as well as the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane). The power and prestige he had once wielded now slipped through his fingers, and every privileged lost was like a windblown grain of sand. Chilton had felt the pressure of time, in conjunction with his stifled space; he needed to flex his gnawing ambition.

And offering his degree of discipline to psychologically burdened imPorts cut the most logical angle, he figured.

He had managed to situate a couch (though slimmer than the descriptor would hole, as it was more like a sedan), in his office. Light blue upholstery buttoned down to silver legs and a backing -- the look proved suitably Fifties, and moreover atmospherically aligned with his own tastes. It rested parallel to the soft chair offered, and was thus adjacent to his own desk. He preferred patient to assume the couch, if only because it completed a power imagery that he favored: the doctor, spine upright, in his chair across from the patient, exposed and engaged, resting down.

His efforts to accumulate a library were more triumphant than his knickknack collection: leatherbound psychiatric reference books -- a matching series in black and gilded gold, the sharply printed DSM-V, a worn copy of "Organized Behavior in Disaster", and cleanly leafed journals waiting to be scribbled upon with notes born from the twisted minds of his patients. His walls would eventually be lined with books, halfway for the sake of an impressive interior.

Perception had always been key to practice, Chilton rationalized.

Gold and black ballpoint pens lined neatly along his desk, awaiting the chance to manifest fates into ink. Chilton pulled at one to twirl between his quick fingers as he turned his attention to his pineApple laptop, checking the day's itinerary.

He was most impatient for his patients.

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Chilton maintained cautious intrigue, concerning his newly acquired patient Billy Kaplan. The preliminary session had gone easily enough -- the basics were mostly guarded details, and Chilton knew that Billy was capable of controlling their therapeutic conversation. Such was likely a defense fortress built from his psychologically educated mother; that in itself was a conversation worth having, though not one that Chilton was willing to engage so soon. While he wasn't about to accuse Billy of something Oedipal (god, no, Chilton had suspicions that his patient's preference lurked on quite a different spectrum), he had detected something interesting about the maternal influence. There weren't yet enough details, and he knew that he needed to tread with precision.

After all, Billy had only come to him reluctantly. That implied a couple of things: one, he had something to mask and two, that thing was concerning enough for him to seek professional help.

Chilton smiled at his patient, smoothly offering a bottle of water. Sparkling or still. He made no indication if Billy ought to take the chair or the couch.

"I was hoping we could continue on your moods, Billy. Specifically, though I caution an explicit diagnosis, but specifically what appears to be how your depression manifests."

Chilton leaned back in his chair, his fingers threaded behind his head, posing a relaxed posture. He watched the good Doctor Curt Connors with a particular anticipation gleaming in his eyes -- this was quite the special case, after all, and Chilton was highly captivated in continuing their conversations. Here, before him, was a veritable Dr. Jekyll complete with a reptilian Mr. Hyde; not only had Connors suffered wound trauma and loss of limb (PTSD), but he had thrown himself into a particularly unorthodox discipline of genetics in order to regrow the part of him that was stolen away (nascent god complex -- potentially). And that had severely disrupted his neurochemical and frontal cortex structure, rendering him susceptible to a literal, brutal transformation.

It was almost Kafkaesque in its horror.

"How are you feeling, today?"

As innocuous as the question might be, the implication resonated with multiple angles. Connors's transformation appeared to suffer a direct correlation to his emotional states. The anxiety and near-phobic fret that Connors endured, daily, because of what he could do when he unleashed his Hyde created a vicious cycle (as Chilton noted), and it was harshly apparent that mood stabilizers would be emergent.

"I've discussed your circumstance with another psychiatrist, as requested, Curt."

Connors doesn't answer the question for a moment, hand at his side, trying his hardest to seem perfectly fine, perfectly calm at the idea of talking to a psychologist when he couldn't stand the fact that here he was, talking with a shrink about a problem that he could manage on his own--that he had managed on his own perfectly fine before and who was he kidding, it was hard from perfectly fine. But it worked, and that was what mattered.

Still...he couldn't help but think about what-ifs. What if Billy showed up? What if, God forbid, Martha showed up? He needed to prove to them that he had his scaly little problem under control. Connors would do anything for his family, including putting aside his And, as much as he didn't want to admit it, Chilton could help.

Hopefully. The man always seemed a bit too eager for Connors's tastes. Part of the reason why he wanted a different opinion, as a matter of fact. That and the fact that really, it couldn't hurt.

"You did? Well, what did they say?" Did he seem a little too eager? Probably.

Billy still isn't sure this is the best idea. He hasn't talked it over with Kate but honestly, he can't really discuss this kind of thing with Kate, either. Not because she wouldn't get it, but because it just started feeling like piling his problems on her, and she doesn't need that, and because, well.

It's hard for Billy to talk about those things when Cassie was Kate's best friend, and it's hard for him to talk about what happened last year with anyone, even with Teddy. He was in retirement. Therapists are different. They are neutral. They care inasmuch as they care about his mental health but they don't have investments into the team or biases or-

Or maybe Billy just needs to have a therapist to feel like he's functioning again.

"Oh?" he pauses from fiddling with his shirt. He's sitting in a chair, curled up a bit, and he looks at Chilton. "Yeah, so...for a while, a few months, I basically didn't do anything. My grades tanked, I barely left my room or anything. I couldn't sleep, but I didn't have any energy for anything, either."

Like shaving. He didn't have any energy for grooming.

It had taken some hard negotiation, but Chilton had persuaded a contact to petition (on his behalf) for use of a MRI scan for the investigation of one Kanaya Maryam. He hadn't acquired access before their preliminary session, and assured the Alternian that he was in fact working on the matter -- these things, he had said, sometimes take a little bit of political footwork. Chilton was, after all, still merely a probationary psychiatrist, and he had only but a few months to flesh his networking muscles.

This was a gilded victory, that he had acquired access in time for their first authentic session.

Chilton wasn't going to open with the invitation for their short field-trip; he wanted to converse with Kanaya, first. She had seemed so reluctant to delve into self-reflective topics, and he had little doubt it was because she wasn't interested in therapeutic salves. Her focus appeared to be primarily concerned with the physiological variance that her natural body might pose contrast to her human body -- and, admittedly, it was the sort of comparison that could garner grand attention. Even in Heropa was Chilton eager to attract the psychiatric elite.

His ambition outstripped his caution.

"This session will be a bit different," he eased in, careful not to illuminate why, not yet. "So I hope you'll forgive me if we extend a bit over the allotted time, Kanaya -- I've already pushed back my following appointment. I don't think she'll mind, however, or cause much of a fuss, so I would persuade you from feeling any guilt."

Chilton gave her a look, as if to indicate that he suspected she would have. Guilt was often intertwined with control issues.

"She'll understand -- you might know her, anyway. Renee Montoya?"

He wasn't about to uphold strict confidentiality when it came to his rather nuanced animosity with dear Renee.

The notes on Nelson Gardner were organized and cumulative; Chilton had his file, like all of his patients files, in hardcopy as well as documented within his laptop. The physical copies he kept under lock and key (who knows what scheming local could reveal themselves as a rival psychiatrist), but he was much too confident in his pineApple MacBook Pro password to bother encrypting those files with deeper security. Overconfidence was, perhaps, a habit of his.

But the technological copy was not something he was ever discuss with Nelson Gardner, a man who was born closer to the turn of the century and ought to (if chronological time were obeyed) be very dead by now. But such was the mercy (or curse?) of imPorts: time was ever so relative. That disregard to charter cellular decay did not, however, infuse its specimens with an immunity to technophobia. And that was one of the fewer anxieties that Nelson Gardner embodied.

There was nothing psychotic or anti-social about Gardner, much to Chilton's disappointment. The man was, if anything, the ideal prey to many types of psychopaths: he was codependent, he was mutable, he respected authority, he defined stability by his relationships, he was prone to being manipulated. Chilton wasn't even psychopathic and he felt a frequent impulse to control Gardner -- if only for his own peace of mind.

Chilton wasn't the sort of psychiatrist who found treated this type of anxiety easy. But he saw deeper value in Gardner's psyche.

"Have you been keeping a journal? Of your moods," he clarified, smiling at Nelson Gardner. Two bottles of water sat on the corner of his desk, a silent offering. "Have you noticed any trends of self-destruction? Any thought processes circling that anxiety."

He knew this was against her will.

Truth be told, any other scenario would have made him suspicious; Renee Montoya was a detective, after all, her instinct was presumably to detect -- and Chilton was not keen on being investigated. But, which the administrator had pulled him aside a week before and explained to his this request, Chilton found both relief and wry pleasure in the circumstance.

Renee Montoya needed a psychiatric evaluation, because of her involvement with local law enforcement. And her superiors wanted an imPort psychiatrist to perform the duty.

And there was only. One. ImPort psychiatrist.

His shoulders pinched upwards, as he adjusted his tie. There was no masking the smug smirk on his face.

"Hello, Renee," he said. "Please. Take a seat."

Knock Out was one of the few individuals who had seemingly sought to make Chilton feel uneasy. It was an aggressive development, and Chilton found himself addicted to firing back as cutting as possible; after all, if this was a dominance ploy, shouldn't the psychiatrist win? Such was his reasoning as he prepared Knock Out's psychological profile, and organized his papers superfluously, right in front of his patient.

It was a transparent powerplay, but it was one that forced Knock Out to wait on him, if even for forty-three seconds.

What Chilton found frustrating (and fascinating) was how his patient expressed disregard; for much of the time, Knock Out proved graceful and polite in conversation. But if Chilton dared to suggest a mention of delusion? Bitter sarcasm reigned. If Chilton drove outside the parameters of their dialogue? Then Knock Out diverted the conversation, undermining any focused direction.

This one wasn't without challenge.

"I was hoping we could continue with your experience in your society's civil war," said Chilton. "And discuss the fallout that had for you, personally."

He would play a PTSD angle, for now.

She eyed her watch impatiently at first, hoping the appointment wouldn't run long enough to make her late for work. Having to explain that she was with her therapist isn't something she'd like to go through, if they come to think her crazy then she'd be seen as less reliable, and that wasn't a level of scrutiny she wanted to risk.

But she didn't have a chance to voice any protest. At Renee's name, she tensed visibly, straightening her back as her jaw set. After Friday, his animosity would be shared. Was this why Renee tried to push her away from him?

"I do," she answered, terse and irritated. She was tempted to leave it at that, but also tempted to press further. The way she spoke of him, Kanaya wouldn't have imagined they'd have any kind of professional relationship. Finally, curiosity got the better of her. "Has she been your patient long?"

Amorality manifested in different symptoms, in accordance to difference stimuli, but Chilton clued into Niall's particular moral deficit by way of the exhibited apathy. One could phrase a hypothetical and make the angle seem obvious, when the truer intent was to lure the answer to a different query; though, as it was quite notable, Niall didn't seem too concerned about masking that apathy. For all the sarcasm and the attempts at a bland facade, this aspect had shone brightly during their preliminary session.

The psychiatrist held his cards closely to his chest, his conceit far too unwilling to drop the word that could easily become a time bomb -- not so much in the way of suggesting that Niall would react aggressively to any assertive diagnosis, but quite the opposite: Chilton feared that his patient would veer away from the direction that the doctor sought. This would have to be coaxed out, he would have to weave it gingerly. It was most undesirable, to lose this thread to Niall's more serious personality disorders.

He thought it would be best to appeal to Niall's narcissism.

"I know you've been quite busy," said Chilton, his smile more a grin than the usual smirk. "Have you any engaging projects in the works, at the moment?"

Edited 2014-04-10 05:28 (UTC)

"Violet, Violet, Violet."

Chilton smiled along with the name, as he leaned back deeply in his seat, his fingers tented and thus somewhat reminiscent of a supervillain in repose. If the reflective image occurred to him, the man didn't seem to dwell on the connotations. He was enjoying the glowing gloating that this moment allowed him; while it was true the preliminary session was limited, mostly because Violet herself did not want to be present. She was, in fact, one of those rarer cases who was forced into his office, thanks to the oversight that her employers maintained.

So that's how he had her: Violet Harmon, ensnared by a psychiatric evaluation. There was something satisfying born within the context, truly so.

"So good to see you once more," he said, his smile more like a baring of teeth. He was teasing, of course, haunting his authority over her unwillingness.

"I was hoping we could get into what exactly your imPort powers can afford you, in this world. You know -- lest one suspect misuse."

This was what mandatory psychiatric evaluations allowed him to do.

Edited 2014-04-10 05:56 (UTC)

"And how does this make you feel?"

Chilton had insisted that she sit on the sedan couch, its light blue upholstery complementing her accents nicely. He sat across from her, in the opposing chair, and smirked in her direction as he glided one leg to cross over the other. He didn't carry a notepad this time round; Chilton had set up two devices (one hidden, under his desk) to record their session.

Two. Just in case Danger thought it appropriate to destroy the more obvious one.

"An official session, I mean, how does that make you feel? We don't have to meet in the shadows after hours, or -- in your own home." He quirked an eyebrow at that, tilting upwards his chin. "You're just like a real patient now."

He said it to be cruel. She was his first imPort patient in Heropa, and that meant more to him than Chilton would let on.

Admittedly, Chilton had been surprised to learn of Gideon's interest, in perusing psychiatric treatment. And that surprise survived precisely two seconds, before it was consumed by the all-encompassing stain of suspicion: what had Gideon to gain, by succumbing once more to Chilton's medical power? That question lingered in his mind, taunting his neural pathways for days -- aghast by the agony his curiosity caused, Chilton had returned the call to schedule a session.

A preliminary was unnecessary, given their mutual history. He was eager to leap right on in.

"You have a bit of explaining to do," said Chilton, baring his teeth to sink into that answer he salivated for. "Given how convinced you appeared to be, about bucking the continuation of your treatment."

Chilton nodded, his expression carved into a very practiced perk of soft lips and a slightly knitted brow -- it was artfully nonjudgmental, the sort of mask he always donned for fresh patients. Granted, most of his patient history had been something more aggressive than Billy seemed to be, but they were nevertheless perceptive (and in some cases, quite paranoid), so it wasn't a tactic wasted.

"Am I wrong to think this is a particularly notable episode of depression, what you've just described?" He asked it calmly, his tone as practiced as his face. Given how Billy fidgeted, given his vulnerable posture, Chilton knew that depressive episode was symptom to something bigger. After all, it evidently took a lot for Billy to even begin to discuss this.

Chilton smiled, warmly.

"I should clarify: was this onset of depression notable because it was so severe? And would that suggest a circumstantial stimulus?"

Chilton arched a brow, noting how quick Connors was to jump on his double questions -- all the more reason to savor his long beat, before answering his patient. It was subtle, and momentary, but it exhibited a kind of control that reminded them both who controlled the pacing of this therapy session.

"While recognizing that your specific case is both unique and unprecedented, I recommended initiating with a medication that could prove to be a trifecta treatment. Your symptoms, what triggers your monstrous state specifically, are instigated by more than merely moods," said Chilton. "In fact, I suspect there is something involved with your neurochemical thought processes that set into motion a domino effect. You spiral into a process, it affects you emotionally, and then you begin to lose control."

Chilton sat up straighter in his chair, leaning over his desk while still seated. His posture, while casual, still commanded authority.

"How your emotions manifest, and the triggers that enact them, all suggest symptoms from three different disorders: depression, bipolar, and schizophrenia. Doctor Lagarto agrees with my prognosis of the most ideal medication.

We're beginning you on Lithium at 300 milligrams. You'll take two weeks to work your way up to 900 milligrams, which is the ideal therapeutic range for the average male."

Taking note of Kanaya's body language -- the tension, the streamlined spine, the clench of her jaw -- Chilton paused, carefully calculating this dynamic. He hadn't much information at all about Kanaya's relationship with Renee, and he wasn't privy to Montoya's address to the rest of the Network. It was simply an assumed default, that most individuals enjoyed Renee's company.

So this was really quite interesting.

"Not long, no," he said. While it would have been more prudent to leave it at that, Chilton shared a similar impulse with Kanaya; he pressed onward. "And frankly, I'm very much relieved that she is attending some form of therapy. Renee is, without a doubt, highly adaptable -- but I suspect that the stress of, well, everything could be affecting her. And I don't think she's the type to admit it."

What was doctor-patient confidentiality when technically Renee's first real session with him was only after Kanaya's? Besides, Chilton could do nothing to repress his gossipy tendencies, even if he tried.

That only made it more interesting. If she had started seeing him after Kanaya told her she had been considering it, then it only made her more hypocritical. Not that she cared to be explicit with everything she knew about Renee. Her own reticence aside, Renee's trust was hard-won, and even if she was mad at her, betraying it now, to him, would be unforgivable.

"I find it unlikely she will admit it to you," she replied. But if she turned out to be wrong, then all that fighting Kanaya had to do to even know Renee as well as she did now would just be more indicative of her problems. "She doesn't seem to like you much."

"My friend Cassie died. She was an Avenger-" he pauses, then. That's no secret - a lot of people knew that Cassie died, but around here? Tony Stark loved Cassie, she called him Uncle Tony, it was a thing. He definitely doesn't know yet, does he? But maybe Chilton doesn't know what an Avenger is.

Weird.

"You know, a superhero. Official and everything. Registered. She was the youngest of us, so...I don't know. It's hard to come back from that sort of thing." He sighs a bit. "And Jonas. But Jonas was an android and that's less sad because they'll probably rebuild him and-"

Billy pauses. God, that's morbid. He's said it before but it never sounded so morbid and horrible, so utterly heartless. "Not that it didn't mean something."

That honestly made sense. Connors was hardly a chemist, but phrases like 'neurochemical thought processes' helped to reassure him. That made it seem that his condition was something he could work with, something he could physically change, not just a condition that drove his family away and crippled any attempt at trying to have a stable life.

Connors smiled weakly, obviously relieved, obviously happy about this outcome. He was getting medication to help calm him, to help stop that thing that kept making his life a living hell. One step closer to containing it was one step closer to getting rid of it.

"You don't know how happy I am," Connors remarked, with a small little smile. "Thank you so much, Doctor Chilton."

It was observed, how Billy thought to contextualize terms and groupings. Chilton saw it as a want to be understood -- ironically, that was usually quite rare to come across, even in the usual kind of therapy. Most people feared what they might discover, and even worse to discover it with another human being.

Perhaps Billy already knew what they would find.

"Ah," he said, quick to take notes on that. One might presume that fatality rates within a super-empowered vigilante populace would be reasonably high, but Chilton had yet to discuss with any hero (Avenger or otherwise) about what that felt like. How that grief manifested, how it could have brought the survivors together. Or how it wasted that potential.

"Oh, no, of course. Loss, and thus death, routinely has meaning -- though I wouldn't accuse you of being anything other than practical, Billy, thinking of it in those terms." He inclined his head, as if the motion itself offered mitigating ointment. The Jonas tangent was also written down, once he continued to speak: Can instinctively view death in contexts other than those emotional.

"How did you confront your grief, immediately after Cassie's death?"

Chilton offered a small smile back, though his was cut more sharply, carved into its shape by a quiet sense of smugness. How lovely it was, to hear those words, thank you so much, Doctor Chilton. It was not a phrase often uttered in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

"You will have to see Doctor Lagarto, independently of me -- but don't worry, she won't psychoanalyze you. That's my job," he said. "It's just for the sake of medical technicalities; she can't write you a prescription without having seen you, sans a proxy."

He tilted his chin closed to his chest, indicating himself.

"It might take five minutes, maximum. And you won't be charged, either, she's agreed pro bono."

An agreement that manifested mostly because both Chilton and Connors were imPorts. Chilton wasn't the only man who recognized the immense potential in these unique minds.

"The pharmacy should take to to three days, and you'll have your initial dosage. You'll continue talking to me about how it affects you, and I will continue to confer with Doctor Lagarto about what is the most appropriate dosage for you -- in the event that 900 milligrams isn't working. While the likelihood of that is statistically insignificant, I would be remiss to not discuss with you a Plan B."

He leaned forward, concluding the pharmaceutical pinpoints of their business. That smile on his face deepened.

"So why don't we begin with the other kind of medicine? Let's talk about your motivation," he glanced at Connors's arm, indicating what kind of motivation he intended to discuss.

"Well, I know that --" he looked up at her, sharply, his brow knitted. "But how do you know that? While Renee and I have had public dispute on the Network, it's nevertheless been limited and contained in the general hostility."

Unless. Unless.

"Has she been discussing me with other people?" His own spine straightened at the idea, indignation darting up the vertebrae. "I really should hope not."

He cleared his throat and glanced down at his notes to obscure any heat on his cheeks, having just stopped himself short of further interrogation -- this wasn't about him, this was about Kanaya, and she had successfully deflected his attention (even if only for a few moments). Whether that was an intentional tactic or not still stood for scrutiny, but it was suddenly apparent to him that his patient might be quite talented at obscuring her own needs and desires. Accurate deflection technique implied that the user understood how to work egos against their owners, though if one could define it as a form of manipulation then this had to be the least malignant, most passive form possible.

Defense, rather than offense.

"I'm afraid I was not aware of an interpersonal relationship between you and Renee, I mean," he continued. "How would you describe it?"

Edited 2014-04-11 16:13 (UTC)

The worst part was trying to get over the well everyone else comes back from the dead, but not Cassie issue, if Cassie ever does come back from the dead. But Billy doesn't know if he thinks it'll happen. It took ten years for Scott Lang to manage it, and in ten years, will Billy have moved on?

There's a lot of strange issues at work.

"Well, I quit the team and locked myself in my room. My mom sent me to therapy-" he gestures broadly, see, here he is, "-and I guess I 'dealt with it' by trying to talk it out."

He pauses.

"Mostly I quit this superhero gig. It wasn't...worth it anymore. You know I've been held prisoner, arrested, been a liability to 'take care of,' had friends die. So I don't know if I would say I'm kind of upset that I'm here and sort of just...expected to take on the cape again." He frowns. "And I really like my cape, by the way."

She wouldn't, if she had the choice. But she was here to talk, and she was supposed to talk, so talking is what she should do. She took a deep breath, measuring out her words before answering. "She's a friend, or at least is supposed to be. We talk about things every now and again, and I told her about the sessions we'd set up."

Renee's response shed rather leave out, though it would serve her right. It was too telling, and indicative of exactly the sort of relationship she didn't want with Renee Montoya. If she did that, they might spend the whole session talking about her, a conversation that may extend into Renee's own session. If she did that, she'd never hear the end of it.

"That she disapproved is something we can take for granted," she added. "But other than doubting your professional credibility, she had little to offer in terms of actual grievances to share. One wonders just what you must have done to earn her ire." Not that it isn't an ire freely given, but all the same.

Connors was still smiling, still on a mental high from the fact that he was getting the medicine he needed, he was getting the help he needed. He could get his life back together. So that when...no, if, he couldn't think of it as 'when.' If his family ever arrived here or if he ever went back home, then he could show them. They could be together again.

And yet it just took Chilton's words and glance to bring Connors crashing back off of his cloud. His arm. Did they really have to bring it up?

"I really don't know what else to say about it," Connors responded, pausing before he spoke, choosing his words carefully. "I tried to fix myself and I made a mistake. That's about it." A drastic oversimplification. But one that he felt helped to serve the situation.

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Page 1 of 6

(wasted on fixing all the problems)

BILLY KAPLAN (april the second)

DR. CURT CONNORS (april the fourth)

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KANAYA MARYAM (march the twenty-fourth)

NELSON GARDNER (march the thirty-first)

RENEE MONTOYA (march the twenty-fourth)

KNOCK OUT (april the third)

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NIALL WILDER (april the ninth)

VIOLET HARMON (april the fifteenth)

DANGER (april the fourteenth)

DR. ABEL GIDEON (april the twelfth)

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