Chapter 35 – Ward

I woke up to the smell of disinfectant and a plain white ceiling above me. When my mind caught up with my consciousness, I realised that I was not in the sickbay at port control. Nonetheless, I wasn't surprised to see myself in a medical facility, given that my last memory involved me throwing up in the shower and fainting right next to a pool of my own vomit.

What did surprise me was finding out just several seconds later that I had been strapped to the bed.

"What the..." I croaked, my throat feeling as dry as sandpaper. Just as I was about to start struggling against my bonds, a familiar voice spoke up from somewhere nearby.

"Trainer, you're awake!"

Startled, I tried to get up, only to end up throwing myself against the leather straps that bound me to the bed. With a frustrated groan, I turned my head to the side, and saw Silas peeking over the edge of a water-filled basin on the table next to my bed.

"Oh, hello, Silas..." I called out to him, trying to move myself into a more comfortable position on the bed; I gave up about three seconds later. "Where are we?"

"The big hospital down at Old Canalave," he replied, flicking his tongue about and narrowing his eyes at me. "Dr. Esther decided she wasn't in the mood to handle a wannabe bulimic, so she sent you over here to be treated."

"And these?" I asked him drily, as I tried to raise my immobilised arms.

He let out a low whistle. "General Harding had them put you on suicide watch. He wouldn't put it past you, apparently."

I sighed, and leaned back a little on my pillow. "How flattering."

"Well, you were pretty idiotic back there at the dormitory," Silas grumbled. "You should have heard the medics complaining when they brought you in."

"Oi!" a distinctly female – and irritated – voice exclaimed. "You were supposed to call me when he woke up!"

Silas squeaked a little. "Not that it'll make a difference, would it? He seems fine."

A nurse walked up to my bed, and gave me a stern look. Not one to be intimidated, I stared back at her, feeling noticeably more cheerful when she flinched a little.

"So, how are we feeling today?" she asked me, as she began to inspect a plastic bottle of saline that was hung up on a stand next to the bed – it was only then that I noticed the intravenous drip running into the crook of my right arm. "You've been out for a decent bit."

"Wait, how long have I been unconscious?" I asked her with raised eyebrows. "And I'm fine, thanks."

She shrugged, and picked up a clipboard that had been placed near the foot of my bed. "It says here you've been out for two days. Oh, and that you're on suicide watch, which explains the straps..."

"Can't you let me go?" I said, feeling the beginnings of a headache stirring about somewhere in my head. "My shellder's probably going to stop me from killing myself, right?"

"And I'll kill him if he tries!" Silas added cheerfully.

"See?" I turned to the nurse, offering her the widest smile I could manage without looking too much like I was lying to her.

"Very funny," she muttered, as she turned about and left my bedside. "I'll notify the doctor in charge, and your commanding officer. Good day."

"Wait!" I called out at her retreating back, only for her to ignore me and walk right out of the ward. "Cunt."

Silas blew a raspberry at that. "Now, now, she's just doing her job. No need to be an asshole about it."

"You're one to talk," I growled, reflexively trying to swat him across the shell, only to find my arm being held back by the straps attached to the bed. "Aw, fuck."

"Language, Trainer!"

"Stuff it, would you?"

xxx

When I happily skipped into his office the day after I got discharged from the psychiatric ward, General Harding and Adrienne both stopped drinking their coffee and turned as one to stare at me.

"Are you alright, rookie?" he asked me slowly, putting his mug down. "You seem… energetic this morning."

"Never been better!" I replied, giving him and Adrienne a big grin. "I tell you, those doctors must have worked a miracle on me, because I haven't felt this dandy since I was in school!"

A thought crossed my mind right about then. "Well, either that, or throwing up my guts in the shower somehow did me a power of good. But really, who's counting?"

Adrienne placed her mug next to her trainer's on the table, and yawned. "Did they give you any medication?"

I smiled at her, and fished the little packet of tablets out of my pocket. "Of course!"

For a few moments, we just looked at each other in silence, before my head caught up to the fact that they were both trying to make out what the packet's label read. "What, they're just antidepressants!"

"Clearly, someone doesn't need them, or needs a lower dose," General Harding said, his expression changing from concern to one of amusement. "Who would've known that you'd be such a hyperactive little bastard on those?"

Those words of his certainly made me stop and think for a while. "But I feel great!"

"Hand over the pills," he said, holding out his hand and smirking at me. "Really, I'd hate to see what kind of damage a chipper you would inflict around these parts, given… what you did to that poor bastard in the toilet."

"No," I said defiantly, frowning at him. "These are good things."

"You nearly electrocuted that man while he was taking a dump," Adrienne reminded me. "And blew out the fuses in that corridor, to boot."

I snorted disdainfully. "He was a prick anyway. He deserved it."

General Harding smiled briefly, but quickly covered it up. "The drugs, kid."

Hesitantly and not without a few choice curses sent in his direction, I handed over my medication. "Phooey, you aren't any fun. Bastard."

"Now, that's much better!" he said, letting out a relieved sigh. "So, what were we supposed to do today, again?"

I merely stared at him, and shrugged. "Beats me. Work, maybe?"

He turned to Adrienne, and frowned. "Remind me to file a complaint with the shrinks later, would you?"

xxx

They picked me up at my dorm room three days later, when they came for me. It was all very dramatic, really – they even had a straightjacket, an ambulance, and two orderlies who looked like they could snap me like a twig if they wanted to. But of course, I went along willingly, since there was no point arguing with crazy people. Might as well indulge them, right?

Surprisingly enough, they thought I wasn't sane enough to be let out into the world! And they were rude enough to leave Silas in my room, too. The little bugger didn't even have hands to open the door with if he needed to leave the room, really!

Utter bollocks, really. I was as sane as a newly-divorced drunkard, and I knew what those bastards wanted to do with me. Clearly, they were all a bunch of depressed bastards and a certain water-attuned trainer being so cheerful all the time just didn't fit into their sinister agenda of sorts.

Assholes.

When we got to the psychiatric ward at Canalave General and I voiced my opinions to them – loudly, proudly, and repeatedly, to boot – they decided to strap me to a bed yet again. They also gave me a shot of something with made everything seem to turn blurry.

"You motherfuckers-" was all I managed to say to them before the sedatives kicked in.

xxx

The psychiatrist sitting across the desk from me was trying to intimidate me. And yet, he was the one who was sweating, despite the air conditioning in the room. We had been there for over an hour, and I wasn't any closer to getting discharged or having Silas returned to me.

Really, those morons seemed to think Silas and I were having a sort of mutual bad influence on each other. Preposterous, that's what it was – all the abuse we hurled at each other was done purely out of the goodness of our hearts, really. Or at least, we thought it was.

"As I was saying," he deadpanned, "you are not fit for even a desk job at port control, given how little improvement you've shown over the last few days. It is my professional opinion that you need intervention before you could return to work."

I gave him a bored look. "No improvement? Have you considered the fact that maybe I am, I don't know, normal?"

"You have severe gastritis, and deliberately starved yourself," he recited. "Such behaviour is unacceptable for members of the armed forces."

"Ben did his thing with my head already, like I said-"

"A gardevoir is hardly adequate-"

"He's certainly more competent than the overstuffed suit I'm talking to. As I recall, you were the ones who zapped the bejesus out of my brain with your shock therapy."

"Now, now, no need to be rude-"

"Suck my cock," I sang, rolling my eyes.

"Excuse me?" the psychiatrist at long last snapped. "What did you say?"

I shrugged. "You're not letting me go, anyway, so fuck you and that hideous suit of yours."

"Guard!" he barked into the intercom on his desk. "Escort this patient to Doctor Geber immediately!"

"Cheerio, Doc - I hope you get a persistent crotch itch," I said, saluting him as I got out of my chair and walked towards the guard that had just entered the room. "Don't worry, I'm coming. No need to cream your jeans like a virgin."

Seriously, was every doctor in this place an idiot?

xxx

"… but did you have to pee on his desk?" the orderly asked, not angrily, as he strapped me to my bed… again. "He's a bitter old man, and you just had to do that."

I snickered, and shrugged as best I could with the restraints in place. "Like I said, they're just wasting their time keeping me here. They could just call in a psychic, couldn't they? That would solve this whole problem in the blink of an eye, it would."

He shook his head. "You know they don't do that – it's a violation of privacy and all that."

"Aww, fuck that shite," I muttered, as he walked off. "Goodnight!"

Was that a 'crazy bugger' I heard as he left the ward? Hmm, maybe it was just one of the sedated people saying gibberish again.

xxx

If there was one thing I learned quickly while they had me locked up with the crazy people, it was that group therapy could actually be a rather amusing place to be. That is, provided you were actually the sane one among the loony crowd. And that the doctor in charge remained oblivious to the fact that I was happily yanking her chain.

Hey, they wanted to keep me in that smelly old ward. Blame them.

On the third day of therapy, we were going through a discussion on our hobbies, of all things, which turned out to be pretty boring initially. So what if that murderer they strapped into a wheelchair was actually a big fan of ice sculptures? Naturally, this meant that I ended up making the session a little livelier.

"- stop that this instant!" the doctor cried out, as I did a merry little jig while standing on my chair.

"Why?" I asked her, as the mad folks all cheered me on and applauded. "They seem to like it!"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Nonetheless, this is not a strip club, and you aren't a stripper! You work for the army!"

"That's what I told them, but you know how they are," I sighed loudly, hopping off my chair and getting right up in her face before she could even blink. "I also told them that I was sane, really, but alas!"

"Clearly, young man, you need help," she said, sounding a little panicky. "Could you at least put your shirt on?"

I held up my shirt. "What, this thing? It's scratchy, and smells funny."

Turning around, I threw my arms wide, and grinned at my supposed comrades in insanity. "Plus, I don't think the view's any worse without it on. What do you guys think?"

They started cheering again, and the nymphomaniac in the straightjacket even offered me a saucy-looking wink. Meanwhile, the good doctor must have buzzed for security, since the door slide open to admit two orderlies, both of which didn't look too happy to see that their favourite patient was acting up again.

"You guys know what to do with him," the doctor said, rolling her eyes. "And for goodness sakes, get Geber to check his medication!"

I held up my hands in mock surrender. "Jeez, no need to get your knickers in a twist, woman. I'll go peacefully and all that."

"Come on, kid," said the burlier of the two hospital goons. "Put your shirt on, and it's off to Geber's office."

"You guys suck," I grumbled, as they led me out of the therapy room, waving to the doctor as I left, and wondering just what I'd do to that annoying bugger they'd put in charge of my medication.

xxx

Life in the ward got dull after the first week or so, really. The only thing that seemed to change on a daily basis was the medication they gave me, which really didn't seem to be working at all. I was happy as a grimer in garbage, and even when General Harding visited to tell me that I had been suspended from active duty, I wasn't too fussed.

Why get so worked up over something that wouldn't matter in a few years, anyway? Hell, I could die just as soon as I walked out of the place, for all anyone knew.

Silas did tag along during the visits – apparently, my lovely commanding officer was taking care of him while I did some loop-de-loops in the fun house – and he was really too concerned about whether I'd recover.

Duh, I'd recover. What else did that silly little clam expect?

When General Harding brought Ben in on his next visit, I was of course cheered by the thought of everyone's favourite horndog psychic being around for a chat. Perverted and vulgar as he might have been, Ben was a nice guy at heart, I was sure.

"Hullo, Benedict!" I chirped, as I drummed my fingers on the table and flashed a big grin in his direction. "Gotten laid with that medicham down the road yet?"

"Alas, no," he sighed melodramatically, placing a claw over his forehead. "So, how are you? They tell me that you're giving the late George Carlin a run for his money on being a profane bastard."

I leaned back in my seat, and shrugged. "Not my fault they unbanned those seven words on television. Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. It's no big deal, really. Much ado over nothing, just like the gigolo who had the body of a Roman god and a micropenis."

Ben's eyes went wide – such a lovely shade of red, really – and he sat down opposite me. "Zachary was right. Something is wrong with you. Since when did you develop a sense of humour?"

"Aww, you flatter me. I'm sure that people are hearing things," I moved forward leaned onto the table, looking him in the eyes. "Maybe the doctors are the crazy ones here, has the thought occurred to you?"

He sighed and shook his head, causing his fringe to flop about like that ridiculous singer everyone used to be crazy about nearly a century ago. "They must really need a lot of patience when dealing with you, I think."

I giggled at that. "Everyone's been so nice, really! All so worried about me, and all that, but I'll be fine!"

"Your mother's still in the ICU," he reminded me, crossing his arms over his chest. "And Silas is so worried about you that he has actually stopped swearing."

"God bless his black-hearted soul," I said with a wistful smile. "Do pass my regards to that vulgar little twat, would you? And I'm sure Mom will be fine – the ICU's just the place for her."

Ben narrowed his eyes at me. "Oh, this won't do at all."

In the blink of an eye, he had reached out across the table and grabbed my right hand. Before I could even say anything, his eyes started to glow, and for one short moment, I knew what was about to happen before it did. Seriously, what was it with psychics and playing around with my head? Did I have a 'Please probe here' sign on my forehead or something?

"You fucking-" was all I got out before he took a plunge into my head, churning up a veritable torrent of images and memories like a film projector going berserk.

I didn't know how long we sat there with him rooting through my head looking for… whatever the fuck he was looking for, but by the time he stopped, I realised four things.

Firstly, I was back in the psychiatric ward again.

Secondly, I was holding hands with Ben of all people or pokemon.

Thirdly, the clock on the wall read three in the afternoon, so why wasn't I at work?

And speaking of work, where was that rude mollusc I lived with?

"Ben, I'm all for bromance and that good stuff, but could we not act all mushy?" I asked the gardevoir across the table, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you have a medicham to screw, or something?"

He sniffed, and relinquished his grip on my hand. "Typical of you, really. I undo all the damage those amateurs did with their little candy tablets and the first thing you tell me is still about having sex with that medicham. Does your mind ever wander far from sex?"

"Oh, stow it, Ben," I groaned, as I stood up and stretched, feeling a wave of relief washing over me as my vertebrae all popped one after the other. "Damn, that's one good stretch. And yes, I'm a horny bastard who thinks of sex nearly all the time."

"Zachary!" Ben called out, rolling his eyes. "Get in here and deal with your assistant, would you?"

xxx

"- and what do you see here?" the psychiatrist asked me, holding up yet another card with an inkblot on it.

I gave the card a cursory glance, and offered him a sweet smile. "Pretty flowers."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Are you sure of that?"

"Would you rather I say it looked like a vagina?" I asked him cheerfully, causing the security officer behind him to send a dirty look in my direction. For lack of anything better to do, I waggled my eyebrows at him, and offered him a wink. "Love you too, sweets."

The psychiatrist sighed, and placed the card back into the box with those which he had shown to me previously. "Alright, that's it. Good day."

"Am I going to be discharged, then?" I cocked my head to one side and looked him in the eye. "Contrary to what most might think, I do enjoy my job, and I would like to get back to it."

He stopped halfway to the door, and nodded with a sigh. "You are either well enough to be sarcastic or a complete psychopath. Given who your immediate superior is… well, I'd say I could discharge you without any sleepless nights."

I threw my hands in the air, causing the goon at the door to place a hand on his truncheon's handle. "How does everyone know that I work with General Harding, really? Is it on file, is he just that insane, or are you guys stalking me?"

"Keep it down, buddy," snapped the guard, earning himself a glare from yours truly.

"Oh, could you just can it, Smokey?" I narrowed my eyes at him, drawing some pleasure in watching him back away slightly. "I'm not cuffed now, and I could beat you into tomorrow's obituaries if I wanted to."

The guard looked for a moment as if he was contemplating giving me a beating there and then with his truncheon, but settled on trying to fry me with a death-glare instead when the doctor gestured for him to stand down.

My psychiatrist placed his face in his hands, and groaned. "Just go, will you? Back to the ward, and you'll be out of here by tonight."

I jumped out of my seat, making them both flinch a little, and beamed at them. "Glad to have done business with you, doctor!"

"Fuck off," muttered the guard, as he stepped aside to let my poor, abused psychiatrist out of the room.

Really, those dudes needed to work on their bedside manner. Healthcare must have really gone down the drain since the Revolution.

xxx

While the doctors did eventually certify me to be sane and fit for duty, some problems did arise within about a month of me being discharged from the psychiatric unit. General Harding noticed it before I did, and as usual, he raised his concerns loudly and repeatedly. By repeatedly, of course, I meant that he bugged me about it for nearly a week.

"You're squinting again," he said, shaking his head. "Shouldn't you get your eyes checked out?"

"I'm fine," I replied, despite the fact that the documents I was supposed to be sorting out were almost unreadable thanks to the fact that the words were all a blur. "It's probably just not enough sleep again, so don't worry about it."

He shook his head, and got up, walking over to his bookshelf. "Crazy bugger, you are. For all we know, you'll be losing your sight due to too much jerking off just like that old wives' tale says."

"If you say so, sir," I frowned at the blurry letters on the page I was initialling, and tried to figure out whether the dock workers were asking for ten cranes or a few wines, while General Harding busied himself with whatever it was he was getting from the shelf. "Do we allow alcohol on the docks? Or do they really need ten cranes?"

"Not officially, at least. For the alcohol," General Harding replied from behind me. Briefly, I wondered why he was standing that close to me, but I brushed it off as being my paranoia acting up again.

And then he beat me across the head, knocking me out.

Ten hours later, when I finally returned to consciousness, we were back in my dorm room, and he passed me the sheet of paper which confirmed the diagnosis. Ben might have managed to treat the temporary insanity the drugs had induced in my mind, but the damage had been done. No one, not even the doctors, could say for sure when everything would fall apart in there.

One thing they all agreed on, though, was that it was only a matter of time before I would be blind.