A/N: Okay, ignoring DP. Bully. I was looking through all the new fics, and then I had the craziest idea. Hey, I'm going to make an OC who's not a girl! -gasp-

So, yeah. This OC is a male, his name's Martin Waters. Enjoy his weird way of thinking. Oh, uh, also, there could...maybe...possibly...be some pairings in the future. Maybe. -shrug-

This story is in Martin's PoV.

Enjoy.

It wasn't like I had done anything wrong. Or that I had stolen from anyone, or set anything on fire. Some of the patients in there with me had just been sent there because their families were worried about them. Pathetic excuses; they were taking up space that could have been used to house the real insane people.

But then again, I suppose the things I had done could have been viewed as 'brutal' or 'horrendous'. All I did was rid the world of a few people who didn't matter; they wouldn't be missed for very long. Just ordinary, boring, normal civilians. Time could go on without them, they weren't special. In my eyes, there were six categories in which to organize humans, almost like social groups, but not quite. The bottom level; crawlers. Stupid criminals who robbed and stabbed and scurried like mice when confronted, people who were like leaves in a gutter; not needed, not cared for. Second level; masks. Citizens who had things to hide, who were leading double lives as petty thieves or using prostitutes on the corners of streets. They were almost as filthy as crawlers; sneaky bastards, slipping money in and out in the dark of night, dealing and betting with stolen cash and precious objects. Disgusting. Third level; the norms. Average people who lived average lives, office cubicles, lawyers, and the perfect family life. Really, very boring. Once in a while I would see one with a slightly higher standing in the social ring, but not very much variety in this species. Any one of them could die within a second, and the only people that would care would be their families and friends. Simply dominoes to be knocked over, nothing more. Fourth level; clouds. Those who floated a bit higher than most people; nice houses, expensive furniture, the works. They were somewhat valuable, but just like the norms, they could be gotten rid of easily, without much work. Add on some more dominoes. Fifth level; kings. Civilians who stood towering over their peers; lavish lifestyles and managing big corporations. Unlike the lower standers, squishing them would take effort and planning; half the time, it wasn't worth the wait. Cops would be on your trail, and most likely, you wouldn't get away. Waste of time, really. Then, last, the sixth level; stars. Shining when viewed at. Those who had talents, who took their sweet time doing what they loved, and being good at it. Artists, musicians, poets, people the world could actually use. Being an artist myself, I knew that I wasn't like the other nameless cards filling the Earth with clutter. I respected those souls who were gifted; they deserved to be treated kindly and with more care than any others. And so far, I had only myself in that sixth level. Until, of course, that new patient was transferred there. I could feel his energy pulsing out, even before he came inside. He was a star; finally, another to join me at number six.

It had been early in the morning, before breakfast, when the sun was just peeking out of its confines behind a wall of dusty pink clouds. It was a rare occasion that I was able to view the sky through the bars of my window; but when I could, it was glorious. The sun could be a six, if it wanted to, I suppose.

But it wasn't the beautiful scenery that had woken me.

"Ugh..."

I groaned as a dull, constant pulse sent pain through my head. My pale hand reached to the back of my skull, trying to will the hurt away, but to no avail. Most of the time, I woke up like this. It's not like we got soft, white mattresses; they were about as hard as rocks, and the thin, wood-like pillows didn't help the situation. My back cracked as I stood up and went to the window, my mouth spitting out profanities. I kept asking for my stuffed dog, Walter, who I had brought with me on my initial trip the asylum, but none of the nurses, nor the staff answered my calls. How very rude of them. Didn't they know that the plane trip from Great Britain to New England was a very lengthy, annoying occurrence? It wasn't like I was asking for much, just some kind of companion. But no luck.

My hands fell from the window frame, dropping to my sides. There were no sounds, for a while at least, so I wasn't exactly sure what had awoken me. Sure enough, the pain in my head continued, growing in intensity every second. I gritted my teeth, sitting back on my mattress. Something big was coming, I could feel it. The doctors told me I was imagining things that weren't there, that my mind was clouded with illusions and sounds that only I could hear. They were wrong; I knew things, I knew lots of things. Nothing at the asylum escaped my notice. My brain had filed away the different nurses, patients, staff, and visitors that walked into the facility, along with information on each and every one of them. Sometimes I pictured my mind as a giant file cabinet; stuffed full of facts and research. I suppose that this was true, since we weren't allowed to have computers. I remembered a younger patient that had entered a few months earlier, who had gotten a hold of a doctor's phone. It was perfectly usable, and I almost strangled the lad after he simply smashed his head against the tiny screen and broke the only communication I had with the outside world. Luckily, the boy was released after the doctors found that he had a special mental condition that could easily be dealt with.

But my mind was much better than any bit of technology.

I was broken out of my thoughts when I heard the heavy double doors that led to the common room creak open. My headache jumped off the scales as I tried hard to not hiss in pain. Dear God, this was torture. It was a six; a six was coming. I knew. Not a four, or a three, or a two or a one. This one was on my level. A loud, blaring voice made me jump in surprise.

"You fucking dipshits, you can't just shove me in here! I'll cut open your balls and shove hot coals in them! I'll stab your eyes 'till they're soup, LET GO!" A smile crawled onto my face.

A feisty number six. I had next to nothing to entertain me in this dull asylum, except for Ronald, who was probably the patient who was the closest to sane around there. And thankfully, from the sound of it, I had found another source of amusement. My feet stood me up and carried me quickly to the small glass pane on my cell door. I peeked out, trying to see the newcomer. All I caught was a messy patch of brown hair, along with Doctor Mishra, who seemed to be struggling to keep his balance. Oh ho, this six seemed to be putting up quite a fight. Since Doctor Mishra was a two, I had no trouble determining that he was having troubles with this new patient.

"Doctor, do you need assistance?" I called through the door, letting sarcasm drip heavily from my words. I heard a grunt, then the sound of shuffling feet carried on past my cell. Soon, I got my answer.

"Shut up, Martin; This isn't the time for your crazy sayings."

I smiled, though the doctor couldn't see me. I had proved my hypothesis; this six was tough, no doubt, but not to the point of hindering his captor from speaking properly. So, in theory, the patient was tough on the outside, and soft on the inside, like a fried doughnut. Or something of that nature.

I could hear the new patient's cursing coming from the cell beside mine.

"Get your hands OFF me, you fucking man-handler!"

The voice shouted, echoing across the bleach white halls. He must have been pretty cross with whoever sent him here. I hoped Ronald didn't hear the new arrival; I knew from experience that when Ronald saw something, or someone, that he didn't know, he freaked out. It wasn't very fun to be around him when he started acting crazy. It was good that most of the time, the nurses heard the uproar and managed to give him a few shots to calm him down.

The sound of a slamming metal door rung in my ears, along with keys clinking together, most likely on a chain. The pounding of fists against the door sent happy chills down my spine. The six wanted to escape. I'm sure if I could talk him into it, I could convince him to help us both get out of that hell-hole.

I saw Doctor Mishra walking away from the soon-to-be-damaged cell. I made up my mind not to taunt him; if I decided to be a smart ass, he might not let me out during our constructive time. It was one of the only times of day that allowed us to get out and socialize with each other (not like I felt I needed to talk to any of the other gits in there). And I desperately wanted to meet this six, face-to-face.

Soon, maybe over the course of about ten or fifteen minutes, the fists against the door stopped their violent assault. He must have run out of energy. This gave me another valuable piece of information. The patient was hot-headed and had a flaring temper, yet most of the threats he made were pure lies. Therefore, it would take a little coaxing to get him to trust me, but I'm sure it would be worth it.

I said nothing, wanting to save my voice for when our constructive time came around. Now all that was left to do was wait for that time to come. Normally, breakfast (consisting of some kind of mushy, gloppy gray substance) would have been brought to us by now, but I supposed that the six had slowed down the staff a bit. That was a good thing. Not only did this prove to me that the newcomer would be a precious tool in escaping the asylum, he would also become a rather close friend to me.

Yes, I knew that usually, you don't always become friends with the people you want to. But I refused to let this chance to be close to one on the sixth level pass me by. Whether he liked it or not, the loud-mouthed patient was coming with me, and he would follow me and my demands, however far-fetched. Because it wasn't often that one met another like them. After all, there were only so many people in the world.

No sounds were uttered for about two hours, except for the occasional slam against the six's door. He hadn't entirely let go of the idea that he could get out on his own. How sad.

Nerves inside me send volts of pleasure through my body as I thought about meeting my new six. My new six. No one else's. None of the other patients would be allowed to touch him with their dirty, grubby little hands. He deserved better than them.

And my hands were perfectly clean.