Disclaimer: I don't own The Hills Have Eyes.

Summary: "You think you know what I've gone through...you have no idea, Bukowski." The survivors of the mutant attacks meet in a government-mandated therapy program, and Doug and Missy find each other in the process. DougMissy, NapoleonAmber, DelmarBrenda, and others, post-movie, AU

Well, this idea has been a long time coming. I don't know why, but this idea just won't leave me. And I have finally started it, which is more than I can say for other projects. Okay, so, this was supposed to be a oneshot, but then I found that I kind of wanted to try something different. I'm going to do short chapters, kind of like segments in some of my really long oneshots - except those segments would be slightly longer (in some cases), of course. I just found that, when I was writing, it didn't feel like a oneshot since each segment was so long and it didn't feel right to cut them so short because there was so much to say. So I've gotten this idea. Short little chapters with relatively quick updates, at least compared to my other fics, and at least until school starts back. I figure it would be an interesting change from how I usually write. The chapters will vary in length, but none will be epic-length or anything like that. Kind of like a...flash-fic? I think I've heard that term used before. So, after that ridiculously long AN, I do hope that y'all enjoy this fic of mine!

To Fix This Mind
Chapter One: 3:00 Group Session Here

Doug Bukowski gave a sigh as he stood in front of the door that would lead to - he was sure with great certainty - something completely and utterly unnecessary.

The place itself had a very government feel to it. From the outside, the building had looked as if it had been made by someone with a very utilitarian sense of style. He wouldn't have expected anything less, but still. It was kind of unnerving to see something like that in an otherwise cheery area, albeit a bit secluded.

Now that he thought about it, it kind of looked like a bunker.

Fighting a shudder, he continued to stare at the door in front of him. There was nothing overt that would distinguish it from any other door in this particular hallway, except the piece of paper taped to it that read, simply, "3:00 Group Session Here."

Doug wasn't sure of the purpose of the sign. The people who had tried to call him - and when he ignored their calls because they sounded very official when he first answered the phone, actually showed up at his doorstep and demanded him to go to this stupid therapy session - had specified which room number, the address, etc. He wondered if anyone was completely stupid as to not know where the room numbers were located, above the door -

"Where's the fucking room?"

If Doug wasn't so put out by the whole situation, he would have laughed. Instead, he turned his head to the voice and saw two men walking side-by-side - one complaining about where the room was and the other shaking his head slightly in exasperation. Just by looking at the two of them, Doug deemed them close friends.

They were about to walk past him, and Doug figured it would make him look like a dick later if he didn't at least say something, so he found himself calling out, "You here for the three o'clock session?"

He realized too late that there could have been other "three o'clock" sessions here, but he honestly wasn't sure how to finish that sentence without sounding three kinds of insane.

One of the men looked at him strangely, his eyebrows knitting together as he stepped toward him. "About Sector 16?"

The question, while innocent and called for, caused a shiver to crawl down Doug's spine, like it did every time someone even hinted at the incident.

"Yeah," he replied, trying not to sound like he was drowning.

"Yeah, we're here for that," the other, more volatile-seeming man spoke up. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone who has experience in that area," Doug replied, unconcerned with keeping the edge out of his voice. He was tired - damn tired, if he was honest with himself - and unconcerned with pleasantries.

Doug ran a hand through his hair as he moved out of the way for the two men to get past him. The more outspoken of the two stopped in front of him, gave him a glare, and said, "Are you the therapist?"

He found himself laughing in response. "Why would you ask that?"

"You look like the type of jackass that would be a shrink," he said. "But you're not?"

Doug chuckled louder - the sound felt weird as it rumbled through is wiry frame. "I'm not."

The man nodded curtly and then disappeared into the room.

Without further preamble, Doug followed.

End Chapter One.