A/N: Yeah…this idea came slightly out of the blue. It's my first AU story, and I rather liked the idea…plus I really got this song stuck in my head. Anyway, I know I shouldn't be starting on other stuff while U and A is still in progress…but…I couldn't help it. Gosh, I sound like a drug addict. Anyway, remember, criticism and reviews are always welcome!

Skin head, dead head,

Everybody gone bad.

Situation, aggravation,

Everybody allegation.

In the suite, on the news,

Everybody dog food.

Bang, bang, shot dead,

Everybody gone mad.

Max's eyes were closed, the slight shake of the car slowly lulling her to sleep. Her pale forehead was pressed against the cold car window, and she opened her eyes slightly to watch the rain trickle down the other side of the window. She rubbed some of the fog awake, trying to keep herself away by focusing on her surroundings. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be seeing anything, though; they were in Death Valley's Badwater Basin, after all.

Huh. Such ironic names, for someone like her. Death. Badwater.

And they had decided to put a mental institution in a place with a name so cheery?

All I wanna say is that,

They don't really care about us.

All I wanna say is that,

They don't really care about us.

She let her mind sink into the world or her Mp3, taking comfort in MJ's outraged voice. It always made her feel better that she wasn't the only one going crazy with indignation. Or just plain going crazy.

Beat me, hate me,

You can never break me.

Will me, thrill me,

You can never kill me…

Her temporary solace in the song ended as that voice spoke into the back of her mind again. She closed her eyes again, no longer hearing the song. She pushed herself upright, ignoring the dull ache in her neck and shoulders as her hands raised to her temples. She began to massage them, willing the sudden throbbing and that unnatural presence to go away. As her fingers began to spin in circles, she wondered if anyone could tell that just beneath her fingers were damaged goods.

According to the psycho-whateveryoucallit, that was all her mind was, after all. Max bit her bottom lip, struggling to repress the memories. Despite it, she couldn't shake the image of the doctor's office out of her mind. There was the brown, leather couch with a cracked surface that she had been sitting on, anxiously picking at. There were the walls, half hazel wood, half off-white wallpaper. There were the dim, yellow lights coming from the lamps that lined the walls.

And there was that look on the doctor's face as he spoke to her mother in the corner of the room. That apathetic revulsion in those mud-brown orbs as he glanced at her through the corner of his eyes, the light glinting off his glasses. It was a look that told her what she had been fearing.

Hate to break it to you, kid, but you've gone bonkers.

Max remembered the only words she had heard of the conversation. He had told Valencia, "I'm sorry," though his voice only said, "I'm a busy man, so get the hell out of my office and take your moping somewhere else. I've done what you paid me for. What else do you want from me?" And then, as Max expected he would do, he turned and left the room without a glance back.

Her mother had been silent the entire car ride home, and when they had finally walked into their living room, Max's younger sister had been waiting for them. Ella had sprung up from the couch, a worried look on her face. "So how did it go?" she asked Max, running up to her and taking her hands.

Max only stared at her.

Ella's eyes widened.

Their mother had ordered her to go up to her room. She tried to protested, but their mother cut in, "Now!" Ella had hesitated, a helpless look on her face, then turned and trudged up the steps. Max expected that she would turn the corner and stop, straining her ears to listen to what was being said. Valencia must have thought this, too, because after they sat on the couch, she took Max's hands and spoke in a hushed voice.

"Max, I'm not going to beat around the bush with you. The psychotherapist told me that you're schizophrenic."

And only a few hours after that landmine, she had finally gotten off the phone and told Max, "That was your father. He has agreed that it's best that we get you some professional help. You know that he's one of the directors at the Itex Mental Institution in California-"

"You're sending me to a nut house?"

This was something that Max knew she would never forgive her parents for. She had become estranged from her father and hadn't exactly been on good terms with him ever since the divorce back when she had been twelve, so he didn't have much more room to drop on her I-Love-You meter. But Valencia…her own mother! Even Ella had thrown a fit when she had found out about this, screaming, "How could you?" repeatedly.

And now, here Max was, stuck in the backseat of a car with two duffel bags filled with changes of clothes and all of her favorite personal items, with her father driving.

And guess where you're going.

Max tried to block out the voice, but it never worked. She refused to have anymore conversations with it, like she used to do. Instead, she chanted in her head, It is a figment of my imagination. It is not real. It is a figment of my imagination. It is not real.

See if that's gonna work, hon.

Max opened her eyes, her hands dropping to her lap in defeat. She was helpless in this battle, so she needed comfort. She closed her eyes again, forcing herself to listen to the music. It had arrived at the end of the song.

Skin head, dead head,

Everybody gone bad.

Situation, segregation,

Everybody allegation.

In the suite, on the news,

Everybody dog food.

Kick me, strike me,

Don't you wrong or right me.

All I want to say is that,

They don't really care about us.

All I want to say is that,

They don't really care about us.

There was something about this song that really spoke to her, and she knew exactly what it was. She was about to be stuck in a place full of people exactly like that psycho-whateveryouwannacallhim. They wouldn't give a damn about anything more than getting paid.

All I want to say is that,

They don't really care about us.

All I want to say is that,

They don't really care about us.

The car rumbled to a stop. Just as Michael Jackson screamed, indicating the end of the song, her father turned to face her. Jeb Batchelder looked amazing well for a man in his early forties, without a single gray hair and not looking a day over thirty - physically, anyway. His sharp look and thick glasses gave him the gravity of an old wise man.

He watched her for a long moment, his eyes scanning her as if trying to memorize every detail, from her ordinary, brown eyes to her blondish-brown hair. It wasn't exactly as if he'd seen much of her in the past two years, but it also wasn't as if he had seemed to care that much. Max stared back levelly, not willing to let a single emotion out.

Jeb watched her for a few moments longer, then closed his eyes and sighed.

"We're here," he announced as he turned back around and turned the car off.