Title – Pick Your Poison
Author – kamanchee
Rating – T
Summary – Shawn wakes up in the Psych office one morning without any recollection of the night before.
Warning(s) – None for this chapter.
Pairing(s) – There's some background Shawn/Juliet.
Author's Note – Hello! This is my first Psych fic, and my first multi-chaptered piece. I'm kind of nervous about this, mostly because I am new to the fandom and I'm hoping that this will turn out nicely. Unfortunately, I do not have a beta reader, so all errors are my own. Also, while I do as much research as possible, I am definitely not an expert in any field. I am a bit of a history buff, but other than that, all that is scientific/medical within this should be taken with a grain of salt. One last thing: this is the prologue, so it's going to be a wee bit short.
Disclaimer – I do not own Psych or any of its characters.
LOS ANGELES – TWO WEEKS AGO
The man (he was just a man and he was, by all means, not a killer) slid a cursory glance over the vial. Nearly half of the intricately decorated flacon was filled with a tussock substance, rich in colour and fatality. Clucking his tongue, he drew away from the display that held the vial and offered a contemplative look to the young woman in the lab coat.
It was difficult to distinguish whether the suspicion that the doctor openly displayed on her face was nothing more than her usual expression, or she had a good idea as to why he was actually here (and not here because he was a herpetologist). He had a feeling that it was the former, and if that were true, she was smart enough to keep it to herself. No one else could be involved. That just complicated things.
"We call it 'efa peschanaya'," the doctor explained, revealing that she was, in fact, not British as her impeccable accent would lead one to believe. Russian, he figured. With a name like Orlov, how could she not be? Odd, considering she had told him earlier that she was from India. The doctor surely did not look Indian – not with her ivory skin and light blue eyes.
He nodded, pretending that he understood. She saw through that. "Five milligrams is enough to be fatal for any adult. I suggest that you do not use it liberally."
At this, the man returned his attention to the vial, picking up the plastic container with a cautious grip. "Bring me a case for this and we will discuss cost."
Dr. Orlov nodded, tucking both hands into the pockets of her lab coat, and strode over to the counter. She returned with a small, black case adorned in leather; and she opened it, revealing two slots. "One for the venom, the other for the antiserum," she explained, taking the container from the man's hand and placed it neatly. "Now, we talk money."
A self-assured smirk tugged at his lips. "Name your price."
SANTA BARBARA – PRESENT DAY
Shawn Spencer rose to the cawing of seagulls. The sound itself was not exactly an odd one; it was more the fact that it was one that he had not woken up to in a long time. For a moment, with his eyes squeezed shut, he thought he'd awoken in a memory: one that involved a long night of drinking (that would explain the killer headache) and fallen asleep (passed out) on a park bench.
Opening his eyes revealed that he wasn't in a memory, but rather, lying on his desk at his office. Casting a glance at the window, he saw that it was open. That was weird. In the past six years, neither Shawn nor Gus was capable of opening that window after an incident that involved fifty bucks and dangerous amounts of crazy glue.
The next thing that registered was the dull ache in his arm. "Son of a..." He faltered when he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. Instead of his own skin revealing possibly a cut or a bruise, his forearm was wrapped in tight gauze, the bandage extending from his wrist to his elbow. Prodding his inner arm, he hissed as the wound responded with a fiery twinge.
Mind flashing back only drew blanks, which added to confusion that he was feeling. The last that he recalled was... well, Jules telling him to go home, to go meet her back at their place and they'll have something to eat. She had hoped that he would prepare dinner for the two of them. Had he even done that? Did he even make it home? His breath quickened in panic.
"What the hell," he said out loud, despite there being no one to listen. He took note of the dryness in his mouth. Eyes ghosting over the room, he swallowed his disappointment as the office revealed nothing to explain how the hell he'd gotten there, along with what happened to his arm and why did he feel like he'd been drugged. Maybe he had been drugged. Sitting up, he felt something cold slide down his chest, to which he immediately slapped a hand at the miniscule object and let out a gasp in pain as his arm released radiating rays of heat through the entire limb.
Reaching into his shirt, he felt his hand enclosed around the thing suspended around his neck. It was not a necklace that was for sure. As it turned out, it was a USB stick – one that you could easily buy at an office supplies store for ten bucks or so. On the body, inscribed in permanent marker, were two words: WATCH ME.
"Alright, then," he muttered, sliding off the desk with a hop. Without warning, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he couldn't help falling on the floor, panting heavily and breathing a slur of curses as his injured arm hit the hardwood.
Once the waves of agony diminished to a dull pulsation, Shawn struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the computer, jiggling the mouse as he collapsed into the chair. The screen blinked to the desktop, and the monitor thrummed to life. On the third attempt of inserting the USB into its port (it always took him several tries to get it right), a folder popped up. Only one file was to be found, and like the memory stick, it was labelled 'watch me'. Swallowing hard, he double clicked the icon and sat back as it loaded.
A video appeared and automatically began to play. Shawn's eyebrows shot up as his own unconscious form came into focus. The camera filming steadied as a voice from the speaker filled the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Spencer."