Story Two: The Good Shepherd
"So, what was it, you used to do?" Dashiell asked Walter one day, as they sat, staring down into their unappetizing lunches.
Walter frowned, attempting to sneak his butterscotch pudding onto Dashiell's tray, "…I used to test soap," he answered.
A smile touched Dashiell's face, as he tipped the carton of pudding back to his friend, "Really? And how did you manage to end up in a place like this, doing something so charming as testing soap?"
"It was excellent soap, really. Go on, have my pudding- you need calcium to grow big and strong."
"I don't want your damn pudding. And stop trying to steal my spork, you do that every time. Crayons, too."
"Sorry," Walter said, his shoulders slouching in dismay as he returned the plastic spork to the table, "it's a bit of a habit, I fear."
"Okay, so you won't tell me why you're here," Dashiell said, starting in on his bland macaroni and cheese, "so I'll let it pass. Here's the deal- you don't ask about me, I won't ask about you."
"That sounds fair," Walter admitted, fiddling with his own string beans, beginning to sort them into rows of longest to shortest. He ate an odd one, "But we won't get to be very good friends, if I don't know if you're a Bee Gees fan or not."
Dashiell laughed, "Who the hell are the Bee Gees?"
Walter's eyes rounded in horror, "You… oh, dear god, my poor fellow, you're worse of than I first thought."
Dasheill laughed again. It was strange, how if felt as if he hadn't laughed in decades, and it seemed foreign to his ears. Walter was such a strange individual. For the first few days after he had met him, he found him nearly unbearable, uncertain if Walter's strange sense of humor was in jest or if he were openly mocking him. He had almost started to hate him, but the smiling fools' persistence had won him over, in the end. He had a friend, and was not alone, as he had first thought. Perhaps Walter thought the same thing. Nights alone with his thoughts and numbers were hell… but in the daylight, sitting with Walter and talking about nothing in particular, it wasn't so bad.
"I'm not like you, old man," Dashiell grinned, reaching over to disrupt Walters nearly perfect rows with his spork, "cramming cassettes into CD players."
It was Walter's turn to look confused, "What the hell is a CD player? Don't fiddle with my beans, you angry little ninja."
Dashiell sighed, rubbing his own forehead, "Oh, boy."
They both looked up as an orderly arrived, standing beside the table silently. Dashiell assumed it was to tell them to quiet down again, and exclaimed slightly as he dropped a fresh grey jumpsuit onto the table beside his tray, "Change and turn in your old uniform," he said gruffly, and walked away.
Dashiell looked confused as Walter frowned, reaching past him to gather the article, pulling it to himself and pull up the lapel of the garment, "Shit," he hissed under his breath, and pushed it away, glancing around darkly as he sipped his milk.
"What?" Dashiell questioned, examining it himself, "What's going on?"
"Do you see this?" Walter plucked at his own collar, and Dashiell noted the two, parallel, blue bars on both sides, stacked horizontally on his lapels. His new coverall had matching markings.
Walter did not look up from glaring down at his tray, "You're an elite, now. You've been added to Sumner's damn 'collection'."
"…I don't understand."
"I was hoping he'd miss you, he'd leave you alone…" Walter sighed, stabbing his potatoes glumly, "but the man's like a boarhound, rooting us out."
"Walter, what are you talking about? Rooting who out?"
Walter looked up at him, "The brilliant ones, Dashiell. He wants to crack one of us open and get famous."
xXx
Don't think of me as 'Big Brother'. Think of me as the 'Good Shepherd' , keeping an eye on my flock.
"And this new fellow- Dashiell Kim. What is it that he does?"
"He was an astrophysicist, before he bludgeoned his wife to death with a tire iron."
"You're starting to get quite a collection, here, aren't you, Bruce? Ha ha."
"They are not possessions. They are people, and I have only the best interests of my patients in mind. I want to help them."
"By keeping them completely isolated? From each other, even?"
"Isolation is vital, for recovery. If any of my elites were to encounter something that might stimulate their thought process, it may cause a lapse, and revive their psychotic tendencies."
"And keeping them numb with drugs, vegetating in lawn chairs? Sounds more like hell to me. To be blessed with such brilliance, and then be unable to use your mind… you're torturing them."
"A hellish blessing. They have been damned for their minds- this relieves them from their curse of thought."
"You're a twisted man, Bruce. But I suppose that's what we pay you for. How is your favorite, then? Walter Bishop?"
"He's well. The night nurses reported him whimpering and sobbing in his sleep again. I don't know if he's gone back to stealing things, yet. I'm hoping that exposing him to Dashiell Kim will help them both into settling in. He's due for another review, soon."
"Will you let him go, this time?"
"No. He doesn't know about them, he won't miss them."
xXx
"What do you see, on this slide, Walter?" Dr. Sumner questioned, motioning to the projection screen. The optical illusion of the rabbit/duck shown in blurry focus.
Walter sat at the table, his hands folded as he obeyed Dr. Sumner calmly. Obligingly, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward and squinting. He blinked a few times, then tilted his head from side to side. "…A clothespin," he answered at last. He sat back, nodding in self-accomplishment, "Yes, a homosexual clothespin."
Dr. Sumner frowned at him, "You don't see a duck? Or a rabbit?" he asked quietly.
Walter brightened, "Rabbit? Where? Oh, on the slide. You see, I can't be very helpful to you without my glasses; I'm a bit nearsighted. I'm sure it's a wonderful dabbit. Or ruck. Or whatever."
Sumner swallowed back his anger, "You're toying with me again, aren't you?"
"Yes, Dr. Sumner. I daresay you should expect it, after so many years." Walter smiled at him briefly, before returning to fiddling with his hard rubber restraints.
Sumner folded his papers into the manila folder once more, "Ah, I see, not in the mood today, are we, Walter?"
"You're about as precise as a drunk teen on prom night," Walter replied.
Sumner smiled bitterly, "Yet still sarcastic. Very well," He tossed the file onto the table, leaning back on the surface with a sigh, "No more tests. How's that?"
"Uncharacteristically merciful, for you. Since you're feeling so charitable, would you complete your sainted acts by ending me with a shovel?"
"I'm not your enemy, Walter. I've been trying to tell you that for the past eight years. Yet, still, you seem intent with casting me into the role of villain," Sumner placed a hand on Walter's shoulder, "You bring much of this on yourself, you know."
"Gah, I'm such a masochist," Walter grinned bitterly.
"You condescend to everyone. It's not very nice."
"Not everyone. Just you."
"And what makes you say that, Walter?" Sumner questioned calmly.
"I'm a mean, old bastard. Can you get pissy and send me back to my cell, now?"
"We'll stay here for as long as it takes, Walter. And I'll keep you awake, like the other times. Sleep deprivation does strange things to people- you saw your father last time, didn't you? Robert? I remember how you were crying, trying to get away from something that wasn't there… I'll admit, the security tapes still make me laugh, sometimes." Sumner leaned forward, speaking softly into his ear, "How did he hurt you, Walter?"
Walter looked up at him with a dark smile, "Look at me," he laughed softly, "I'm crazy."
Dr. Sumner let out a cry as Walter stood suddenly, breaking his nose with a head butt. Sumner stumbled away, clutching his face in pain, and Walter calmly sat, a thin trial of foreign blood slowly oozing down his forehead. He did not struggle, as the orderlies entered, hauling him to his feet and crushing his arms to his sides, "Take him back to his cell!" Sumner spat, covering his gushing nostrils and glaring through tears of pain, "Keep testing me, Bishop! I know exactly what it takes to break you down, and you know it!"
Sumner stopped a nurse as she passed, "Twenty extra cc's of Narcimine- I don't even want him to remember his own name." The nurse nodded, hurrying out after the orderlies that pulled Walter off down the hall.
xXx
"Hey, old man," Dashiell sat down next to Walter on the cold, uncomfortable, cement bench, looking out over the compound, "How are you doing?"
"I have no idea," Walter mumbled absently. His eyes were slow to turn to his friend, "…am I…well?"
Dashiell frowned in concern, "Walter, are you alright? Is something wrong?"
"I…I don't know," Walter blinked slowly, raising his sleeve to rub a spot of saliva from the corner of his mouth, "Did… something happen? I'm tired, really…"
Dashiell felt alarm growing in his mind, and carefully placed his hand on Walter's shoulder, to steady his swaying, "Hey…"
"Don't be alarmed," someone said, and Dashiell looked up at the smiling man in the lab coat before them, with two black eyes and a bandage across the bridge of his nose, "Walter will be fine. He's just having a minor reaction to his new medication regiment."
Dashiell looked back at the nearly catatonic Walter, who had returned to staring unblinkingly out across the compound. He returned his gaze the doctor, "Will he be alright?"
"Oh, he'll be fine. Walter's stubborn- aren't you, Walter?"
No response.
"You're Mr. Kim, aren't you? I'm Dr. Bruce Sumner, your psychiatrist." he held out his hand, and Dashiell rose, shaking it.
"Psychiatrist? But, why would…?"
Sumner laughed, "Mr. Kim, this is not a prison, it is a place of healing. I'm only here to help you."
"What happened to your face?" Dashiell questioned. Did someone pop you for lying?
"Ah, this," Sumner touched the bandage carefully, "some of the guests here are a little beyond help… so we do what we can to ease their pain, and let them be more at peace."
"Peace… like him?" Dashiell looked back at Walter, who had slumped over in the seat and rested his chin against his chest. Alarm grew in Dashiells' mind- to loose control like that… the possibility existed that perhaps he would not be able to keep fighting his mind back, and keeping the numbers that haunted him at bay… what kind of hell was Walter experiencing now, inside of himself?
"Alas, Walter is, as I said, stubborn. He simply refuses to let me treat him," Sumner sighed, "but, I'm certain we will not experience the same difficulties with you, will we, Mr. Kim?"
Swallowing on the threat, Dashiell only nodded quickly, shuttering at the thoughts of chemical lobotomy.
"Good." Sumner bid him farewell, and disappeared down the walkway.
Dashiell returned to his seat, sighing as he patted Walter gently on the shoulders, "Don't worry, old man. It'll be over soon, I promise."
xXx
