Just the prologue for now, I'm afraid. So, yeah. This totally came to be on a whim. But I know it will be amazing. At least I hope it will be.

Patient 1, retrieved from London, England. Mitchell Quintana was admitted by his college roommate to the Thames Psychiatric Hospital on the eve of June fourth. Diagnosis: delusional.

"He's been talking like this for a while now…" His roommate said, scratching the back of his neck and looking sideways. He was a young brown-haired boy with glasses and brown eyes. "He keeps telling me to call him by these weird names… and sometimes he pretends to do magic, except I can't see anything, usually just a hat or something."

"Well. I see." The nurse attending the front desk tapped her pen against her chin. "Does he act a lot different?"

"Yeah. It's almost like a he has a split personality. Sometimes he can be really quiet, and then other times he's a lot louder and kind of harsh." The boy says, before adding, "Oh, and he can dance a lot better now. I don't know why, but he kept doing all these leaps and jumps and it really freaked me out because he'd never been able to do that before."

"Well, Mitchell certainly seems to fit the case. We'll be keeping him for now, to see if he can be treated." The nurse said, smiling with too many teeth and made a shooing motion with her hand. The boy thanked her and walked out of the building, brows furrowed.

X

"Mitchell?" The head nurse of the hospital, Nurse Graves, asked, silently opening the door to his room. The room had another bed, but no patients were currently using it.

Mitchell looked up from his bed, scowled and said, "Don't call me that."

Nurse Graves smiled and sat down on the bed opposite his, pen poised above her notepad. "I was merely going to ask you a few questions, so I could make a… chart, if you will."

"Ask away." He answered. Mitchell was sitting, legs folded up against his chest and arms wrapped around them, facing away from Graves.

"Just let me write down the basics…" She muttered, before saying, "What would you like to be called?"

"Right now?" Mitchell asked. "Right now I'm Mistoffelees."

"Yes, how do you spell that?"

"M-I-S-T-O-F-F-E-L-E-E-S."

"Alright, and how about what you would like to be called at all other times?" Nurse Graves said, confused as to how she would be able to tell what she should call him.

"At all other times I'm Quaxo." Mitchell said, using her formal language, almost mocking her.

"How do you spell that?" Graves said, feeling much like a nuisance for not being able to spell his name.

"Q-U-A-X-O."

"Well, at least it's not as long as your other name."

This was met with silence, until Mitchell said. "Quaxo isn't my name." He sighed, before adding. "It's his name. We both hate each other, we're both wildly different, but we're still trapped inside this stupid body. Together."

"R-really?" Graves didn't believe him the slightest bit, but she still felt a bit sorry for him. After all, she'd hate being trapped with someone who hated her.

Mitchell didn't say anything, only looked away.

Along with the information she had gotten when Mitchell had first been admitted an hour ago, Nurse Graves had filled out a nice chart for her own disposal.

Mitchell Quintana "Mistoffelees", "Quaxo"

Gender: Male

Age: 19

Birthday: April 1st

Height: 5' 2"

Hair: Black

Eyes: Blue

She sighed and got up, tucking the notepad under her arm, and walking towards the door.

"Wait." Mitchell said, standing up.

"Yes?" She turned and raised her eyebrows.

"Just one question… when are the others coming?"

Others?