Despite his reputation, Simon Blackquill had never harbored any intentions of harming, let alone murdering, another soul.

This, however, was before he'd been subjected to the torture he'd been made to bear over the past few hours: cleaning up the aftermath of an all-night horror movie marathon.

Ill-bred reprobates who plastered any available surface with every sort of candy at their disposal deserved to be personally punished, starting but not ending with having their teeth individually plucked from their mouths by Taka's talons, that they may never enjoy their sweets again.

Simon scrubbed the plastic baggie filled with ice into the blue patch of gum on the seat in front of him. This was final section, this back row of the balcony he was locked into.

After some minutes of vigorous sawing and digging with the fifth plastic knife of the day, most of the gum had flaked away, and the decades-old seat was left looking – well, much like it had before. Still ugly and musty, but in a different way.

Simon stood and stepped down to the row below him, peering over to survey the main auditorium. He couldn't see Fool Bright, but then, half the auditorium was beneath the balcony. But he also couldn't hear the drone of the vacuum or the sputtering of the carpet deep-cleaner. So...

Was this it? Was it over, done with? Now he could return to prison, throw himself down onto his stiff cot with nothing to show for his work except the lingering scent of orange cleaner that had long since saturated his skin. Oh, of course, and a sense of having "done the right thing" or whatever balderdash Fool Bright had jabbered on about, for this half-rate version of community service.

Simon's hand tightened around his knife, and a thought descended upon him.

This balcony was small, private. Secluded. And not in the same way his cell was. He could sit comfortably if he so wished, or move about. Or even - his sights locked on the fire extinguisher encased on the wall opposite him - polish skills that had dulled, the time and means with which to hone them rendered inaccessible.

A deep breath and a few seconds contemplation later, he began his assault.

In a series of finely executed movements, Simon crossed, spun along the stretch of the aisle. His makeshift sword was wielded flawlessly with each step, a perfect combination of defense and attack as his final footfall brought him down in front of the fire extinguisher.

"Hyah!" With an expert slash through where its belly would have been, Simon earned the title of victor. For this battle, at least.

"Excellent form, Sir!"

Simon whirled around, raising his knife back up against this new, unforeseen opponent. He searched Fool Bright's expression for anything other than sincerity, but could not find it.

"What...?! Why are you...?!" A rare occurrence, Simon's reply was barely coherent, too scrambled by the embarrassment burning his face. Unable to sheath his knife, he maintained his defensive stance, lest Fool Bright seek to close in on him and challenge what words came next. "I was merely practicing for when I kill you and make my escape."

Fool Bright laughed, a laugh that bounced around the whole of the compact theatre. A shield against Simon, in its own right. "Oh, well, you wouldn't be able to kill me on an empty stomach. Come on, let's go down to the lobby and pick up some snacks."

"Snacks? We needn't snacks from the lobby. Why not stop somewhere on the way back to the prison?"

It felt odd ordering Fool Bright around today, mostly because it was almost as if it wasn't Fool Bright he was addressing at all. This Fool Bright was not the one always so sharply put together in his uniform, as if he were torn directly from a catalog. No, he wore weathered jeans instead of crisply-pressed white slacks, and those impractical brown loafers were replaced by cherry-red athletic sneakers, although Simon doubted there were any socks lining them either.

"The movie starts in a half-hour. We finished just in time." Fool Bright glanced about the balcony, his smile growing. "You did a great job!"

"That's not what I asked. I care not of the quality of my work nor when the movie begins. I've no desire to watch a movie..." More acerbically, he added, "Especially with you."

At last, Fool Bright's smile straightened, replaced with a determination. He took a step towards Simon, reaching to grab him by the arm. "Come on, Sir!"

Simon dodged and took another step backwards, knife still brandished. Now close-up, Simon could see Fool Bright's navy zip-up hoodie bore the LAPD's badge on the upper left chest, a screenprint complete with B. Fulbright across its center.

Well, perhaps he'd assumed too much. You could take the Fool Bright out of the precinct but you couldn't take the precinct out of the Fool Bright.

"We are not staying for a movie." Simon shortened his stance, dropping the knife partway but still holding it in front of him. "The owners wouldn't allow it anyway, and-"

"Yes they will! I told you when we arrived, I know them from coming here so much. As long as you're supervised, they've no issue with you staying here; they are thankful for us being able to help them on such short notice."

For as expressive as Fool Bright always was, Simon had never really noted that his eyes were much the same, because they were so often obscured by those bloody aviators. He'd left them in the cruiser, and it was because of that Simon was being currently subjected to such a wide-eyed, expectant stare.

Of course, it wasn't as if he paid attention to Fool Bright's characteristics. But it was hard not to when they were so outstandingly different than what he was used to.

"I don't want to watch a movie, Fool Bright!" How incapable of listening could one empty-headed blighter possibly be?!

"Okay! That's all well and good, Sir, but I'm staying to watch the movie, so you have to, too. You don't have to watch it; you could always try to rest a bit if you'd like."

With a frustrated growl, Simon lunged at Fool Bright, knife gripped solidly in underhand fashion. A swift, angled uppercut, and the knife met its target, right under Fool Bright's ribcage.

And snapped in half.

The knife couldn't even pierce the fabric of the seat cushions. There was no chance it would penetrate Fool Bright's clothing and his sturdy, muscled torso.

Simon had known that. What he also knew now, with Fool Bright's incredulous blinking silence, was that he was in unspeakably deep trouble.

His mouth hung open, explanation caught in his throat and then being forced out as a "umfh!" as he was trapped in Fool Bright's arms. The two of them hurtled against the wall, Simon's shoulder slamming against the case of the fire extinguisher.

Simon struggled in vain, grunts of effort with the occasional whimper. He abhorred this unbidden spike of fear, driven into him much like he was the one who'd been stabbed. This was utterly unacceptable. Fool Bright should be the one trembling, afraid. Not him. "Unhand me! It is your fault for lowering your defenses, and – nnyaggh! Dammit!"

Slicing pain circled Simon's wrists, the sleek modern handcuffs Fool Bright always carried with him should justice need to capture anyone who dare challenge it. The iron manacles he typically was chained in were resting in the cruiser, a freedom granted to him that morning solely for efficiency's sake.

Then there was the horrible, unwelcome knot tightening in his stomach, at the contact of their bodies. His back pressed to Fool Bright's chest as Fool Bright's hands frisked over the waistband of prison-issue slacks. Where Simon might have thought to store a back-up knife.

"You wait here." Satisfied with his search, he spun Simon to face him, and none-too-lightly pushed him into the closest seat. "I'll go get our snacks."

Simon refused to show any shame at the reckless immaturity he'd displayed, staring Fool Bright straight in the eye. "Fine then. I don't like too much butter on -"

"You don't get to pick." Fool Bright cut him off with a terseness that should have surprised Simon, but only unsettled him.

After gathering up the cleaning supplies, Fool Bright made a rapid exit from the balcony. No vow to return quickly, or instruction for Simon to behave himself. Almost as if he didn't know Simon at all, that they were just two strangers who happened to both be in this theatre today.

For as much as Simon constantly wished for Fool Bright to cease his ramblings about justice or most everything else, it wasn't near as fulfilling as he'd envisioned it to be.


All Simon could do was wait in silence, accompanied solely by the far-off shuffling and murmurs of the incoming patrons. He tried to adjust his hands so his wrists were more comfortable, but nothing eased the raw sting inflicted by how abruptly and thoughtlessly the cuffs had been secured.

He knew Fool Bright hadn't meant to to be physically aggressive with him – and truthfully, he hadn't been, certainly no more than Simon was used to being handled. His wound was inevitable collateral damage, nothing Fool Bright intended. And what had he expected? For Fool Bright to just stand there and laugh it off, like he did nearly everything else?

To be honest, most days that was precisely what Simon expected from Fool Bright. He was no less than an automaton at times, chirping about justice and conducting himself however the officers' handbook outlined he do so. Simon would not have been surprised if, beneath that hoodie of his, there was some type of wind-up key that kept him whirring along and then he was stored away until the next morning, when he was wound up again for another day of pursuing justice – and irritating Simon.

But today was not one of those days. Fool Bright had been acting strangely, even for him, the entire morning. It was asking quite a lot for him to accept that Bobby Fulbright actually had emotions that weren't tied directly to this insipid commitment to justice, but that was all Simon could deduce.

Of course, he certainly did not care if Fool Bright had some sort of pressing issue to cause such a shift in his disposition. He was curious insomuch as it was in his innate nature to notice problems when they arose, and solve them just as ably.

Why either of them were here was a different story altogether – or not exactly, since Fool Bright hadn't supplied him with anything resembling an explanation. There was no reasoning behind why he'd been roused at daybreak, and not forty-five minutes later been shoved off with an assortment of cleaning supplies and hasty instructions of how he was to complete the chore set out before him.

Simon didn't believe for a second that this assignment of "community service", as Fool Bright had adamantly told the young warden who made the rounds on Sunday mornings, was legitimate. And when he'd pressed Fool Bright for more thorough information, all he'd been provided with was a dearth of trifling falderal.

Oh, how Fool Bright had gone on and on about this theatre. How it was over eighty years old, a staple in its community, and a place Fool Bright himself frequented. How they screened everything from B-movies to foreign gems, to marathons of various actors, directors or themes. How he'd even gone to the horror movie marathon the night prior, but left after two films because, of course, he had realized what a disaster the place would be in the morning and he had to be up early to ensure he arrived on time to help clean it!

"Fool Bright!" Simon finally interrupted when he couldn't bear another second of this twaddle. "This all reminds me very much of when I met a taxidermist in the prison cafeteria several months ago – apparently he never was notified you can not practice on live specimens, human at that. Anyway, do you know what I told him after he blathered on for a good fifteen minutes about his former occupation?"

"No, Sir, what did-"

Simon's eyes narrowed as he hunched forward to snarl, "Stuff it."


Fool Bright returned with a massive bucket of popcorn and two soft drinks. Simon perked up, eyeing the popcorn that was promptly set out of his reach, steadied on the seat on Fool Bright's opposite side.

"That's for me. But I got you these, Sir." Fool Bright placed one of the sodas in the armrest cupholder, then pulled a small yellow carton out of his hoodie's pouch pocket and handed it to Simon.

Dots. Simon didn't know that these were even still being manufactured. They were naught but multi-colored globs of sugar, their whole novelty being in how they were all adhered in exact rows on a long sheet of waxpaper.

"Dammit," he grumbled, trying to tear open the box with such limited use of his hands, and eventually succeeding. He could hear the infernal crunching of Fool Bright eating popcorn, and refused to glance over, to gain indication of how entertaining his struggle may be.

The first dot refused to stick to his fingertip, and fell into the the crevice between the seat and the armrest. "Dammit!" Simon repeated. "How in the world am I supposed to eat these!"

"You'll figure it out." Fool Bright slurped on his soda. "You're very clever, Sir!"

Simon growled out a few choice curses and proceeded to peel off a few dots successfully (and drop quite a few more). He didn't like them terribly much, but he wasn't about to show any signs of surrender.

Ahead of them, a few patrons had scattered into the balcony area. But from what Simon could see, nearly everyone was sitting in the main auditorium. He approximated perhaps fifty, and there were likely just as many beneath the balcony, out of his sightline. Fool Bright hadn't been exaggerating when he'd mentioned this place was popular.

"What movie is airing, anyway?" Simon asked as he took to biting the dots straight off their sheet. "You said they screen old films, at their own discretion, correct?"

"Yup! Today they're showing One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It's from the seventies, and won a whole bunch of awards."

It sounded familiar to Simon, the title. Intriguing, as well. But he couldn't place it beyond that. "I've not seen it."

"It's pretty good. I had to read the book and watch the movie back in high school, and I remember liking it, at least a lot more than most of the stuff we were assigned. I think you'll like it too, Sir."

High school? Well, yes, Fool Bright would have some form of education. But it was such a peculiar thought, Fool Bright with a life outside of the police force, a life before the police force. A life, in general. Simon often forgot such a thing existed, for anyone, considering how much he himself lacked.

"And what leads you to such unfounded assumptions? Who are you to presume what I would and would not enjoy, when it comes to varying media? Just because the title includes the name of a bird does not automatically -"

"It takes place in a mental institution. It deals a lot with... well, psychology, in a sense. Therapy. Those things you're interested in."

"Hmph." Simon chewed off the last pink dot, folding the sheet that he might save the rest for when the movie began. "Be that as it may, I still don't understand why you think it imperative that I watch it, with you. This does nothing for my well-being; for my rehabilitation, as you label it. The only thing I can fathom is that you've, sadly, no other option. No one else who wished to accompany you this morning either to perform such a thankless task, or to waste two hours beside you in this derelict theatre. So you dragged me into it."

There was a cold silence – unpleasant and almost causing Simon to regret the phrasing he'd used, implying that Fool Bright, in all his feckless good-naturedness, was as off-putting to others as he was to Simon.

He had to be, correct? A creeping unease spread over Simon at the thought that Fool Bright's demeanor might actually appeal to others who weren'this fellow officers. Why, for how purposefully cruel his remark had been, did he feel a twisted sort of gratitude that Fool Bright had selected his company to keep?

When Fool Bright did speak, his voice was toneless and matter-of-fact and for Fool Bright, just off. Like he was reading from a script, hiding what he really meant. "You're giving yourself an awful lot of credit, Sir."

"What in blazes is that supposed to mean? You have been nothing if not inexplicably vague with me all day, Fool Bright. Though my intelligence is vastly superior to yours, that does not mean I am game to decipher all these riddles you create by your inability to articulate your motivations."

"I never once told you this has anything to do with your rehabilitation." Again, a pause, just long enough for Simon to pick up the disconnect filtering through. "I told the warden that, to get you here, yeah, but not you."

"Then why, Fool Bright? Why bring me here, if it's not meant to benefit me in any sense?!"

The theatre lights dimmed as Simon finished his question. The last thing he saw before being pitched into darkness was Fool Bright's stern, almostoffended stare.

Then, his answer, low and firm and sticking itself to Simon like one of those accursed Dots.

"Not everything's about you, Sir."


Loathe as Simon was to admit it, Fool Bright was correct when he'd predicted Simon would like the movie. Although, while the subject matter hardly was anything truly likable, it was incredibly fascinating to Simon, the glimpse into the daily life of a mental institution some sixty years ago.

The portrayals of the various patients touched something within Simon. All of them, while clearly disturbed in one way or another, were in their own ways sympathetic, or at least relatable in their many drawbacks. They were distinguishably human, even with all the sentiments from the staff inferring that they were not, at least not without the assistance the staff believed they were administering.

Simon had to wonder, was this what Fool Bright saw? Not just in him, but in all the inmates. That there was a separation between them because of their respective labels. It was most certainly how the wardens, how those who'd handled Simon previously had viewed him.

He watched as the lead character of Randle McMurphy strove to teach the deaf and dumb Native American man known simply as Chief to play the game of basketball. The orderlies and even other patients seemed perplexed by this – this bald ignorance but also, in a way, kindness. Up until now, it'd been made apparent that everyone else saw Mac as crazy – but did they mean he was unstable, or crazy like a kitsune? In a way that he was almost too smart for his – or anyone else's – own good.

Much like Simon himself often wondered about Fool Bright.

Simon flicked a side-long glance at Fool Bright, who was sipping on his soda with a thin smile framing the straw.

Well, it mattered not. Let Fool Bright view him however he wished, and he would do the same in return. In the end, it wouldn't make any difference.


About ninety minutes through the movie, McMurphy was involved in an altercation with a number of the orderlies. The following scene stirred a sense of dread in Simon the moment McMurphy had conductant smeared upon his temples.

His head dipped, but he could still hear scathing buzz of the ECT device, and the screams of pain plugged back by the mouthguard that had been shoved in Mac's mouth. So he wouldn't bite his tongue off.

"Sir...?" came Fool Bright's concerned whisper.

"I'm fine." Simon dug out the box of Dots from where he'd placed them between his thighs, and set to eating the remaining pieces. The Dots, now half-melted, were gritty, almost sickeningly so. But Simon pried them off, one after the other, for nothing but mindless activity as he tried to shake free the image he'd witnessed.

Fool Bright's breath was hot on his ear, and Simon wouldn't have believed Fool Bright could speak so softly. "Would you like a drink?"

In front of him appeared the soda Fool Bright had purchased, which Simon had forgotten about. He took it with both shaking hands, and drank in a long sip. The carbonation was soothing – not much, but at least the crisp citrus taste washed away the mix of nausea and sugary residue coating his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I forgot about that scene." Fool Bright's hushed apology came along with his hand gently pulling the soda out of Simon's grip.

"It's just a movie," Simon murmured in response, settling back into the seat and peeking up to watch as McMurphy tried to bribe the overnight orderly into welcoming two prostitutes to the institution.

Except, he knew that it was still a very real punishment used in the prison. Not often, primarily with the inmates who were unruly to the point that solitary and work detail weren't enough to curb their outbursts.

Like Simon in his first full year on death row, after elbowing a warden off him hard enough to break his nose. For what reason, Simon couldn't even remember at this juncture. He needn't any provocation back then – just the whole prospect of still being alive when Cykes-sama was not was enough to launch him into a violent rage.

He didn't fear death at this point, and even welcomed the daily brutalities he may face in prison, but the idea that he could just be zapped with a bolt of electricity – reset, tinkered with, like one of Aura's toys – terrified him. Made him think too long and hard about how Athena thought she could fix her mother in much the same way.

Then it dawned on him: he'd never spoken a word about this to Fool Bright. His detective must have done his own research, questioning. But...?

Simon flattened the empty Dots box with his palms, and in doing so quashed his meandering memories, as well as the new questions that had blossomed. The movie was still unfolding before him, and he would watch it.

The movie. That's all it was. Just a movie.