Authors' Notes: We do not own anything by F/X or EL. We're just borrowing and hopefully the crew at F/X is amused by the fan stories too. We do own all the other characters though and an idea or two. This is fiction, so excuse any lapses from reality, intended or unintended, any accidental using of real people's names, any grammar gaffs, intended or unintended. Reviews are chocolate, not necessary for survival but a nice treat; PMs are absolutely welcome through this pen name or our other ones; criticism is welcome too, at least the constructive kind.

Now, please extinguish all smoking materials and ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened...

An Insane World – Chapter One

RPG!

RPG? Where?

At your eleven. Eleven!

He searches building by building, window by window, feels the sweat dripping down and off his jaw, through his shirt. He's swimming in it and the sun is heavy on him, so heavy. Even the air is weighing him down. His vision is limited to a spot through his scope and he wants to look right or left but he's afraid to take his eye away and miss something; he's afraid to look in case his spotter is dead beside him. Then he can't see anything and he fights through the blackness, fights to see, and then he's inside, inside the building and there are voices, people talking. He wanders the hallway searching for them. He knows it. It's a school.

The walls in the school are blue like the sky, blue and covered in kids' drawings pinned up and on display. He's looking for someone and there, there he is in the back corner. Shit, he's skinny. His sneakers are untied, the lace broken, and there's a hole in the sleeve of his hoodie. He's carving his name into the desk with a knife – T-i-m. He's not supposed to have a knife; he'll get expelled if they find it. He tries to say something, mouth open for words to come out, for a warning – keep your head down, kiddo – but the smell is wrong and it distracts him. It's thick, dust and concrete and blood, and someone's screaming. They shouldn't be screaming like that. It's not allowed inside.

Six years old and here in his school with the blue walls and he's looking up like he's been caught. It feels like he's been caught.

But this is what dreaming feels like too, so he must be asleep, and it feels like a nightmare because he can't move and he needs to. They're counting on him. He can't move anything, not his arms or his legs; his whole body is weighed down and he can't help. He can't get away. He knows it all too well, this nightmare, the one where he's running but something's holding him and nothing's holding him. He fights against it, something.

His dad's in the room with him. He's wearing white, face distorted in the sunlight broken up by the blinds on the window. He's writing notes on a clipboard like he's important. Like he knows anything at all. He hates dreaming of his dad unless it ends with him putting a bullet between his eyes, the son-of-a-bitch. A hand reaches out from the clipboard.

"Don't touch me!"

"It's okay. Relax. It'll be okay."

His dad's a fucking liar.

"You fucking liar!"

His dad moves back, not so brave now.

"And nothing's showing in the tox screen?"

All the kids get their drawings put up on the wall because everyone matters, everyone is unique and perfect in their own way, and all their mommies and daddies come to look and see how special and wonderful they are. They look at the distorted and bright pastel rainbows and stars and kittens and ponies and they know.

His picture is there too, on the blue wall, but he doesn't want to look at it. He wants to wake up. He's so sick of this dream. His lungs are wheezing and his heart hurts and he struggles against it, pulling and twisting because giving up isn't in him, and sooner or later something has to break.

His dad turns away, the silhouette of his back blocking the light.

Coward.

"What, you can't look at me now, huh? Can't even fucking look at me!?" He fights. He fights. He could take him, no problem.

"Nurse, lorazepam, 4mg. And somebody call upstairs."

He'll get expelled for bringing a knife to school and daddy will knock his two front teeth out for it but that's alright – they're baby teeth and he can spare them. The drawings are out on display and he doesn't have to look, he knows what he's done, a self portrait, little Timmy lying in the dirt with his limbs warped and broken and his face mangled and now everyone's going to see it, his very own contribution to the wall of special and wonderful. Oh Jesus, what's that on the floor? He can't look away.

"Fuck."

What is that? Is that…?

There's a hand on his arm, on the skin between his shirt sleeve and the strap around his wrist, sudden and clammy, controlling, and he can't escape it. It makes him sick.

"Fuck you," he says, screams it out, says it like he means it.

"Easy now, just try to breathe. Everything'll be alright."

There's a sharp sting on the inside of his elbow and then he's waking up, or maybe not because the room is getting darker and he can feel his eyes sliding shut and his muscles loosening and he's melting, spreading out onto the earth like blood from a wound. He doesn't want to move anymore, can't remember why he was trying so hard to begin with. His dad's gone, dead like he should be. He sees him in the casket briefly, eyes closed. The blue wall is fading; he's fading.

Alex is hurrying through the hospital hallway. It's been one of those days.

"Dr. Alex Sullivan." A voice calls him back.

He turns, sees a familiar face, bright eyes, bright grin on a gray day.

"Hey Bridget," he says, grins back. He can't help it – her moods come out strong and slap you. "Why so formal?"

She takes his arm, falls into step with him, keeps pace effortlessly. "I heard your name called a while ago." She points up to the system. "It always gives me pause trying to reconcile the two – this beautiful baby face with the title, 'Doctor.'" She reaches over and runs her hand against the lay of his hair, messing it, flicks his cheek.

He swats her away, mildly annoyed. Normally he's just amused by her, but today it's all getting the better of him.

"So what was the call?" she asks.

"New patient. They wanted me down in Emergency. They'd already sedated him...delusional."

"You've got a full dance card," she says. "How are you holding up?"

"Uh…okay, I guess. Sophia's taking a lot of my time."

"And your new guy?" She's all business now. "What's it look like? Drugs?"

"I don't know. No. The tox screen came back clean. Some kind of psychosis?" He shrugs. "There's no history of…but…"

"But what?"

Alex shows her his clipboard, the Veterans ID card pinned at the top.

"Oh." She smiles support, waves and veers off into a doorway on to her own errands.

"Bridget, wait."

She stops, looks over her shoulder at him.

"I'd like your advice on this one."

"It's time to cut the umbilical chord, Junior." She smiles. "I'll stop by when I can."

It's fear, a feeling he knows well, so familiar it's bitter and dry on his tongue. It's holding him down and screaming at him to move. What can he do? He can't do both. He's waiting for orders and there's nothing but a buzzing – fucking comm's not working again. He growls to fight off the helplessness. It's so bright, the sun, and it seems to be coming from everywhere, reflecting from every surface and he can't open his eyes into it and when he does he only sees blurred shapes and he thinks he catches movement. The fear's there too. It's out there – he knows it – in that shadow, even in the bright light slicing at his eyes. The growl becomes a groan. He needs to find his team but he's afraid to call out because the fear is out there, and a threat, and they're listening.

What if the enemy hears you?

"Fuck off. Go away." It's a whisper from a little boy. Can't they leave him alone?

His hand is groping for his rifle, his helmet; he can't move it more than an inch or two. He tries the other hand but fear has a hold on it too; it has him good, holds him down hard like it did that fresh-faced private who wouldn't move even to save himself with the bullets hitting close. There aren't any bullets but the threat is a taste and a smell and it's crawling over him, over his chest and his legs and his arms and holding him down and he can hear it laughing at him. This is how you die, it says. He has to move. If he stays in one spot, he's dead.

He tries to open his eyes again but the brightness pierces and he squeezes them shut.

The laughing becomes another voice but he can't make out the words. Pashto, maybe? Where's it coming from?

He needs to move.

Fear has a woman's voice. "I think you should go with the obvious, Alex. Trust your instincts until you get this under control. I understand why you started with it but don't continue the Lorazepam. It's too addictive – not recommended for PTSD-induced psychosis and it's a good guess that's what this is."

"I already switched it out. It's weird. He had another outburst after he was started on the sedative, fought against the restraints, so I opted for a 'Z' alternative. I'm wondering about paradoxical effects."

"Possible. How much has he had?"

"Hard to say. They gave him a dose downstairs, an injection, when he was brought in and I started an IV with it when we moved him up here...then interrupted it. I added a low-dose anti-psychotic at that point too."

"I think that's an excellent idea given his background. You're doing it all right as far as I can tell."

They're speaking English. A word or two slips through the buzzing. He tries to call out to them but his words are stuck in a dry mouth. What if they don't see him? What if he gets left behind? He has to move. But it's too late. They're gone and it's only he and the fear and a threat left. He tries to move again but he can't. Tears drain down his face from his eyes squeezed tight, frustration, hopeless, and he can't even move his arms to wipe them away and he's sure fear can see them.

Alex thanks Bridget who waves it away as she strides off down the hallway. He writes a note on his clipboard and stops to see the head nurse on the ward. He's discussing a drug regimen and putting the new patient on watch when an orderly appears at the door.

"Dr. Sullivan? The main desk is calling for you. They said if you have a minute they could sure use your help with something."

It's well past quitting time but some work days get stretched long and thin. Alex thinks about the rounds he still has to make, one last visit to Sophia's room before he packs up, another stop back with the new patient to see how he's responding to the added drug.

"I'll be fine with things here," the nurse says, reading the strain on the doctor's face. "I'll put someone in Mr. Gutterson's room for a bit. The folks out front wouldn't call for you if it wasn't important. Go on." She treats him like a kid, shoos him out the door.

Alex, distracted, lets her and walks quickly to the main floor. One of the administrators gets to him before he gets to the public area. She's clasping and unclasping her hands, flustered and agitated.

"I'm sorry," she says, breathless. "I know you're busy, but there's a man here, a US Marshal." Her eyes go wide. "He's asking about the young fellow we just admitted onto your ward. He's his boss, he says. He wants to see him. He's not taking no for an answer. Could you please just speak to him a minute? Try to calm him down at least. I don't know what to do with him."

Alex pauses before he pushes the door open, gathering up his courage. He can hear the voice before he sees the man, big, used to being in control and frustrated by his lack of it here, his authority useless. He's yelling.

"What d'you mean I can't see him? I'm his 'next of kin' or whatever you call it. I'm demanding to see him and I hate demanding."

Reading the name of the primary contact from the chart Alex steps into the waiting area. He tries to make himself larger than he is, tries to project a professionalism he isn't feeling today. He's expecting belligerent from someone with the title 'Chief Deputy' and so is surprised when he sees only desperation on the man's face, and worry. Alex drops his defenses and holds out a hand. "Chief Deputy Mullen? I'm Dr. Sullivan. I think I can help you. Can we, uh, talk in my office?" He gestures with the clipboard through the doors and down the hall.

Art Mullen turns hearing his name, ignores the hand and runs his eyes head to toe over the young man in the white coat, says angrily, "Great – a kid with a clipboard! What the hell is going on here? I've been waiting almost six hours for somebody to tell me something."

Shit. Alex swallows hard. "Sir, it would be best if you'd follow me so we can talk somewhere…in private."

Art glares then visibly wrestles with his anger, reins it in to serve his purpose. He allows himself to be led down the hallway. When the door shuts on the crowded waiting area he says, "Sorry for the scene back there but, dammit, I can't get any information from anybody about…" He waves his arms madly. "…about what the hell happened. And I'd like to see Tim – now."

"I understand your concern and I promise you that Deputy Gutterson is being well looked after." Alex spouts the lines, hating that he has to.

"But… I feel a huge 'but' coming. I should give you fair warning – 'buts' just piss me off."

Alex stops and faces the man who has twenty-some years and at least fifty pounds on him and he takes in the gun in the holster and the star on the belt and everything that the picture suggests about the man's career and his capabilities, and everything it suggests too about his new patient. He swallows hard again before he says the other thing that he has to say.

"But I'm afraid you can't see him – not now."

The belligerent is surfacing and it's intimidating. Art speaks in a low voice, threatening disguised as reasonable. He leans in and Alex takes a step back.

"Wrong answer. Maybe we could try this again. Where's Tim? That kid is my responsibility and I'm not leaving until I see him."

"It'll probably be more than twenty-four hours before you can see him. At least. We've put him in a high-risk ward until we can assess what's affecting him. No visitors. I'm sorry."

"High risk? High risk of what? Has he got a virus or something?"

"No, uh, not a virus. He's not…aware. He's been violent and…"

"Violent? He was unconscious when I brought him in."

"Not unconscious, catatonic."

There are answers to some of Alex's questions in the confusion on Art's face. "Are we even talking about the same patient?"

There's a teetering pause. Alex has no idea how to explain this without stomping all over his patient-doctor confidentiality; he's unsure about what he can say. He pulls Tim's Veterans ID card from the clipboard and holds it out for Art to see, to confirm, then he states what's already public record, "Chief Deputy Mullen, it might help if I clarify something. Uh…I'm a psychiatrist."

The man's face falls as the implication hits. He closes his eyes. "Aw, shit."

"Can we please take this to my office?"

Art nods, all the fight gone, and follows.

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