"You look cold, Dr. Phillips."

Victor's comment pierces the hum of the cooler, and the scratching of pencil on paper. A brief glance up at the patient—sitting as still as death on the cot, glasses frosted around the edges. Same position he was in when the session first began.

It's almost disorienting, hearing him speak. Phillips has only recently been assigned to the man, and much of his experience with the audio quality of his voice had been the droning intonations of his suit played over on the news. Loud. Cold. Vibrating with hostility. His real voice—the one that isn't aided by speakers—is much softer. …Almost creepier, in that respect. Just as emotionless, but in place of a robot you got the speaking quality of…Hannibal Lecter.

Hell, Hannibal Lecter would have been cozier.

The doctor lets a bit of steaming breath out of his mouth before taking up his notes. "Are you concerned about whether or not I'm cold, Victor?"

"There are measures you could take to not be cold, Dr. Phillips."

He taps the pencil against his lip, considering his words a bit more carefully. "What measures are you thinking of, Victor?"

"Move the meeting to someplace warmer. Allow me my suit. That was my arrangement with my previous therapist."

"You put your previous therapist in the hospital."

A small pause, the barest twitch of Victor's head as he stared blankly onward. "…Did I?"

"I know your memory is better than that, Victor."

The man almost seems to smile at the thought, although whether it genuinely happened or just something Phillips imagined in the absence of anything in his patient's body language to take notes on is difficult to ascertain.

"Was there something you didn't like about Dr. Blackwater, Victor?"

There's just the buzz of the electric cooler and faint breathing. Phillips shakes his head a little, sighs, and begins scribbling once more, the continuous scratch of his pencil making him long for a pen that would run well in a subzero repurposed meatlocker. He doesn't quite look up as he begins speaking again, finishing off a filler sentence. "If you cooperate a bit more with Arkham staff you might able to get some of your privileges back."

When that still doesn't prompt a response, he shifts in the hard metal chair, setting his clipboard down on his knees to actually talk with the man again. He's vaguely shocked by the fact that Victor is standing now, hands behind his back and angling to look over at Phillips' notes as well as the glass partition would allow. In response, he holds them close to his chest, slipping the pencil into the clip.

The cold has long since dried his throat, and he swallows hard, making the mistake of glancing at his watch. "I think it's terrible you have to be without your snowglobe, Victor. You get so few possessions in here. Can't imagine how it must feel to be punished by losing one that meant so much to you."

At first he thinks it's another conversational dead end, filled with more empty staring from ice blue—almost white-eyes. Then Victor blinks a little more rapidly, emitting a soft, "I do not need it."

"No?" The doctor frowns. Fries' obsession with the snowglobe was well remarked upon. "Why not?"

"It is just a snowglobe, Dr. Phillips. I do not need it." Puzzling. "But you…you look cold."

"I have a question for you."

She stopped her insipid little dance, the beat in her headphones barely audible as she pulled the buds out of her ears, blinking over at him. "Uh?"

"I have a question for you." Same inflection, same tone, same volume.

"I don't think I'm allowed to talk to the patients."

"I am not a patient." He said this while in his custom straightjacket, bound to the wall so she could work in her overly fancy parka.

"I'm not allowed to talk to inmates either."

The smallest tilt of his head was the only indication of his displeasure, going quiet and watching her. She put the headphones back in her ears, continuing to take apart the back panel of his cooler. It was already starting to get too warm. His mood went sour like the meat that would have been stored in here had he not been captured on his last outing.

"How often does this room break down?"

"Uh?" He would like to feed her those earbuds, cords and all.

"How often does this room break down?"

A moment of thought, a quick shrug, and she started rifling through her tool box. "I 'unno. Not too often. Often, I mean. Uh…" She pulled out a screwdriver that was not adequate for the screw she wanted to loosen, got ready to use it, and realized her mistake. "Problem is they don't give me the right parts to use and don't pay me enough to pay for things I can use, I guess. So the thing works for a bit and then they gotta call me in." She gave him a bit of a look, fuzzed over by the growing fog and frost on his glasses. "Why?"

"You are not allowed to talk to inmates."

"Very funny."

He was not joking. After a small pause, he cleared his throat to speak up softly once more, "Do you mind having to come in and work here so often?"

"Uh?" No, no, he was mistaken. He wanted to strangle her with the earbuds. Then feed them to her when the cords snapped.

"Do you mind having to—"

"Oh oh. That? Nah. I mean uh—" She stopped to scratch her head, the hood falling off for a moment to reveal short brown hair before she yanked it back up over her. "I mean yeah I have other jobs around the place I don't have as much time for when I'm doing this. So yeah I guess it does bother me a little." For a moment that appeared to be the end of it, with no follow ups on his end, and she finished up with the screws. Then she turned again. "You're not really the chatty type. What gives?"

"Do you wish me to stop speaking?"

"I'm just suspicious."

"Suspicious?" He thought on that for a moment. That was something of a problem.

There was another aching silence where she worked on the room before it started to make him perspire. He felt terrible for this. There was really no excuse for it, save for one. "—I suppose you may remind me of my wife."

Her reaction was precisely as anticipated, and to some degree that disgusted him. A slow turn back in his direction, lips parted. Some blushing to a face already flushed from the cold, a quick transition to embarrassment and looking away. "…Can't see why."

A mild lie, a feign at modesty. -As if this child could possibly hold a candle to his frozen rose.

But his voice was ever calm. No sincerity to read into. "Have I offended you?"

"—Nah. I'm sure you miss her."

"More than my stunted ability to speak can convey." That at least was not a lie.

To her credit she didn't put the earbuds back in, turning off her music completely and trying to work faster to make up for the distractions. And perhaps to leave faster. He watched for a little while longer, unable to make out everything she had to fix. "I am very good with keeping things cold."

She glanced back his way, an unguarded scoff before his earlier words lashed down her tongue. "…You ain't just whistlin' dixie."

"I would not want you to be continually inconvenienced by this faulty machinery. I am quite adept at working with less than adequate materials. If you would allow me to assist you I am sure I can arrive at a more permanent solution."

The suggestion seemed to startle her, and he watched her stammer through several responses before arriving at what she may have believed to be an appeasing one. "I'm really not supposed to let the inmates and patients go poking around in the machinery. …Especially the ones that know what they're doing."

"I suppose it is just as well. …This way I get to see you more often."

She bit her lip. It was clear the prospect made her uncomfortable, which was good. It should. "…Promise you're just going to fix the cooler? You're not gonna do anything else?"

"I promise."

"My being cold is not the issue." Phillips sighs. This is getting him nowhere. "You seem agitated today, Victor."

The lengthy amount of time for the response appears to be a spiteful refutation of that statement, Victor going to return to his cot. "I am not agitated."

"You've been asking the orderlies about the weather again. Are you trying to find out what month it is?"

"I already know what month it is."

Phillips glances up, mistakenly raising an eyebrow in surprise. Victor had had his calendar privileges revoked after his last escape attempt last Christmas. No one was allowed to tell him the date. It had seemed to be working for the most part. "How do you know what month it is? Has someone told you?"

Victor does not reply. He is capable of counting. That is the only ability that he requires. Phillips can guess this too. He just shakes his head and goes back to writing. "You can be uncooperative if you want, Victor. These sessions are meant to be for your benefit, not mine. You may end up feeling better if you would just talk about how you are feeling."

"I do not feel."

"I don't believe that's true, Victor."

"I do not feel now."

"I don't believe that's true, either."

The silence stretches on into another ten minutes, and finally Phillips decides that he's not going to get a response from that. He shakes his head a little and continues to write, deciding that a bit of pestering wouldn't hurt too much with such an uncooperative patient.

"If you end up curing your wife, do you think she'll appreciate having a husband who claims he's devoid of all emotion?"

Victor stands and walks over to the glass again, eyes narrowing slightly and brow lowering just enough to recognize that his expression had changed. Phillips wonders briefly if this is evidence of anger before the soft voice speaks up.

"Are you married, Dr. Phillips?"

He is currently in a relationship. But he shakes his head, tapping the pencil on his cheek. "I can't tell you any details of my personal life."

"You do have someone. I can see it on your face."

"Are you threatening me, Victor?"

There is a pause. Phillips imagines that Fries is weighing the consequences of continuing this line of inquiry. Considering his punishments in the wake of the incident with Blackwater.

"I would like to be let outside."

As Phillips scribbles down the sudden change in topic he sees Victor frown down at him before the expression returns to its normal blankness, moving a cold hand up to stiffly adjust his glasses. Eventually the doctor has to respond. "I'll see if I can negotiate some outdoors time for you next month."

"I would like to be let outside now."

There's a soft click from somewhere in the room, and the therapist looks up in alarm. Victor has his hand on a panel near the back. The glass partition that separates them has begun to slide away.

Phillips yelped and started to scream for the guards.

Victor was faster.