Asylum—Chapter One
Author's Note: This story isn't recommended for the faint of heart or the under-18 due to violence and language. I seem to like Scott-whumps, so I've written another one but I promise not to kill anybody except maybe a bad guy. Regarding reviews—PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review. That's what I write for.
Title: Asylum
Rating: FRT, for violence. Scott Whump with angst for flavor.
Teaser: A mental patient discovers that the asylum is not a safe place.
Disclaimer: The Tracys aren't mine, they (and all the other characters originally in Thunderbirds) belong to Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and whoever they have assigned the rights to. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author'sNote: This will be posted as a work in progress, translation: a WIP. Be assured I always finish my stories, and quickly.
Feedback: Yes, please. I write for feedback!
Okay to Archive: Yes!
He saw the open sky, filled with clouds, and was master of them. He flew faster and faster, then banked and saw the ocean shimmering below him. He knew that he'd soon be home and that there would be apple pie waiting and his family. He could almost see the faces and reached for the names in the back of his memory….
"Hey, you! Time to get up!" A loud voice cut through the sweet haven of sleep. Scott opened his eyes and saw the big orderly with the buzz cut standing next to his bed; it was the surly one, the one who disliked him. He started to sit up slowly and found his arm grabbed by Surly and he was pulled roughly upright.
"Time to get you cleaned and dressed, jerkwad," Surly growled as Scott shuffled to his feet. He was pushed roughly into the shower room and into a spray of cold water. Surly never heated the water before he pushed him into the shower, just like he never heated the water for Scott to shave with. Scott supposed that Surly had a name but he didn't remember it, like he didn't remember most things.
"C'mon, I gotta get you dressed and fed, asswipe," Surly grumbled and handed Scott his clothing without bothering to towel him off first. Scott slowly and carefully dressed himself in the pajama pants and loose shirt that were the uniform in the facility. "Speed it up, Ace!" Surly gave him a hard slap to emphasize his point. Scott, used to it by now, meticulously adjusted his clothes so that they would look less wrinkled. Somehow, it was important that he look neat. Finally, Surly lost his temper, as he did most mornings and gave Scott a hard push to the middle of his back, propelling him to the floor.
Scott methodically picked himself up, brushed himself off and replaced the slippers on his feet. He disliked Surly as much as Surly hated him, but this was the only way he could rebel without getting beaten. And Surly was a master of punishment without leaving any bruises. At Surly's frown, Scott began the slow march to the dining room. The attendant seated him at his usual table and handed him the rounded plastic spoon, which was all he was allowed to handle, then a bowl with watery oatmeal was set before him. Scott wasn't very hungry these days. He thought that maybe the drugs were doing that, but wasn't sure. He couldn't recall a time when he hadn't been getting the injections. Still, if he didn't get them he could get violent and hurt someone, so he supposed it was necessary.
The meal finished and Scott pushed away the half-eaten bowl and followed the other patients into the recreation room. He sensed dimly that other people had living rooms that were more comfortable than this big, barren, linoleum tiled place. Somehow he imagined comfortable couches, beautiful artworks, the scent of tropical flowers. He shook his head to clear it. What was it Dr. Gleason had said? That the delusions were a bad sign, that he was relapsing and might hurt somebody else.
He settled on one of the hard couches facing the big television set. The staff liked to watch soap operas. Scott liked the news when it came on; sometimes they showed jets and rockets and he loved those. He could almost imagine how it must feel to fly so fast and feel free….
"Hey, asswipe!" Surly was back again. Scott looked up and saw a nurse accompanying him with a tray. "Time for your meds," Surly said. The nurse, a hard-eyed bleached blonde with chipped nail polish, pulled a hypodermic off the tray and held it ready. Scott obediently rolled up his right sleeve and offered his arm. She briskly rubbed an alcohol wipe and stabbed him with the needle, pushing the chemical into his arm. Scott blinked as the drug sent a rush of fire running into his veins and held still until the pain faded. When he opened his eyes again, the two had disappeared.
Scott watched the screen blankly, feeling his thought processes slow down even more. The afternoon passed as they always did, with Scott staring at the screen, trying to force thoughts through a fuzzy mind. Dr. Gleason said that this was part of his therapy, that his homicidal impulses were being calmed by the drugs.
Gleason had explained why Scott was here. One day he'd gone crazy and killed his brother. They'd found him in the house, covered with blood, standing over his brother. His father had decided to put him here, in the mental hospital place. If he didn't take the drugs, he might hurt someone else. Scott knew he didn't want to hurt anybody, not even Surly. So he tried to control the outside thoughts, the delusions, and keep his mind clear, blank, safe.
Resigned, he turned his attention back to the television. No rockets today. A dull-looking announcer said, "And in other news, International Rescue continues in its shutdown of operations, stating that until its missing operative is found they will not risk the safety of their personnel…"
He dozed off, then woke when Surly shook him hard. Surly was smiling this time, a malicious grin. "Okay, asswipe, it's time for your treatment." The way he said it made Scott afraid. He didn't remember what happened in the Treatment Room, but it frightened him. A lot. He went there every day but never recalled what went on there. Surly did, but wasn't telling. All Scott knew was that when he got back to his room after a treatment, his body hurt all over and his mind felt fuzzier than ever. He stood up reluctantly, knowing that Surly was enjoying this.
Surly grabbed his shoulder and propelled him down the hallway. The closer he got to the Treatment Room, the more fear Scott felt. He could feel the sweat breaking out all over his body and his breath get faster. He looked over his shoulder at Surly and was unnerved by the man's grin. "Oh, you're gonna sing like a canary today, flyboy," Surly muttered, just in Scott's ear. "We got something new for you."
Scott could see the room ahead, at the end of a long doorless corridor. It was at the far end of the building, all by itself. Dr. Gleason had told him that sometimes treatments got noisy and that way it wouldn't disturb the other patients.
The door was opened at Surly's knock and Scott was pushed in. Dr. Gleason, wearing a white jacket, smiled warmly and motioned Scott to sit down. Surly fastened the restraints that bound his arms and legs to the chair and memory began to stir.
Scott looked wildly around at his surroundings. The room was brightly lit by fluorescent lights overhead, linoleum floor and metal furniture. He saw the can of water next to his chair and began to shiver. He looked up fearfully as Gleason approached him with a hypodermic and carefully swabbed his arm, then jabbed the needle in. Scott felt the fire again but it seemed to be clearing the cobwebs out. He could feel his thoughts speeding up, his memory returning swiftly.
Gleason bent over to catch Scott's eyes and smiled into them. "I see you're waking up again, Scott. I hope you plan to be more helpful than you've been these past days."
Scott shook his head, reality blossoming into a horrible realization. He pulled at the restraints, trying to loosen them as Gleason stood over him and Surly waited patiently.
Gleason backed away and pulled a chart off a nearby table. It showed an incomplete diagram of a jet plane. "I thought we could discuss the propulsion system for Thunderbird One today," Gleason said, showing Scott the chart. "You must know that if your organization hasn't found you by now, they never will."
Scott spat at Gleason's chart and said in a voice gone rusty, "You know what my answer is. The same as it was yesterday and the day before."
Gleason plucked a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the chart. "You do know that the information you hold is quite valuable to us. We're going to quite a bit of trouble to obtain your cooperation. We'll just have to work a bit harder to persuade you, then, Mister International Rescue." Gleason waved his hand at Surly. "Try the waterboarding again, step three please…"
Scott's chair was tipped back and plastic wrap held over his face with an opening for his mouth. He panted while Surly shoved a washcloth in his mouth and began pouring water onto it, making Scott gag and choke. He closed his eyes and set himself to endure.