The World Can't Compare...
Paranoid Delusions

It had been one of the slow days. In part the reason for the expedition. The other part had something to do with a cure for depression… or something like that. Neil hadn't paid much attention until he found himself inexplicably carried out the door.

A fearful experience, notably because he was under the perpetual paranoia that Ryan was out for his blood.

Not that there was any evidence for that, but Neil wouldn't blame the sergeant; he'd been there first, after all. Regardless, The technician had no plans of 'disappearing,' or having any kind of 'accident' any time soon, and for that he felt the need to keep on his feet.

Though, as it was, Ryan was occupied. So was Jane. Which left Neil watching absently from the other side of the little table.

So instead of relaxing in a brief reprieve, his mind wandered back to the day his eyes had opened to meet another's, also slightly startled, but not in the same manner as his…

"Good morning," she'd said, confused, but with a still-sleepy hint of amusement in the drawl.

His startled eyes widened, and a fearful whimper passed his throat. This woman, presumably the same one whose hip his hand was resting on, he knew… not well but in a professional fashion; he knew well enough that she was currently involved, deeply as he'd imagined it, with the master sergeant in charge of their unit.

"What are you doing here?"

Jane ignored the fear of his utterance, instead resolved to untangle the mystery in a more thoughtful way than gawking at it senselessly.

"I think the better question is: what are you doing on my rack?"

Neil wasn't sure if he was supposed to ask, or if it was rhetorical. He decided, in the ensuing silence, and as her hand came to rest over his, that it would be better to say something.

"What are you doing on my rack?" he managed to choke, not daring to look away as her fingers found their way up his arm.

"My rack, Fleming," Jane corrected, not vehemently, but adamantly, "What are you doing; on my rack?"

Neil fought himself over whether to look or not. He won, and stole a dangerous glance around the room. Fear redoubled its efforts against him – this wasn't his room, and this wasn't familiar. His heart sank as he rolled backward and he fell out from under the blankets and off the bed entirely. And the tiled floor was cold.

And his clothes were missing. Jane watched his frantic plight, not without sympathy, and she smirked, "Try under the frame, a lot of shit winds up under there."

He followed her advice, although trying to pretend she wasn't there as he lifted the bedclothes back onto the rack, and found, to his relief, the slate BDUs that somehow managed to get pushed under there. Somehow wasn't accurate – this insinuated that he didn't know. For all practical purposes, he wouldn't allow himself to know in case a certain, normally easy-going sergeant found out about his indiscretion and decided to take his head off as a result… or worse.

That she was petting him over the edge of the bed wasn't helping his already confused moral mindset. He inched backward, mumbling a, thank you and retreating to stand and dress himself on the other side of the room. He didn't get to the latter, as the door opened behind him, and he blindly fled past the man standing on the other side of it.

So he didn't hear Ryan chuckle. Nor did he see Jane's half a smile.

"Aww, Ryan…" she accused, "You scared him away!"

Which had caused the terrible paradox. Sure, if the others had forced him into some bizarre occultic rituals without his consent, he would have had a reason to want to leave… at least under most circumstances he could imagine in that realm.

But no, they had to actually care. Or Jane did at least. He was pretty sure that Ryan was simply pretending.

And it wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't seemed unnatural… or something…

The baseline fact was that he hadn't figured it out yet. A scientist he knew had marked it as a blatant wrong, before they'd stopped talking to one another. That little tiff hadn't really helped his theological reasoning of the problem. And there was still Ryan to worry about.

Neil glanced up from the near static cup of coffee that had slowly come under center of his focus in his contemplation.

Ryan was examining the fingernails of one hand, brutally tearing apart certain offenders with a brutal combination of tooth and nail. Alarmed, Neil whimpered, desperately looking around as he realized Jane was nowhere; she wasn't on the little terrace, or the walkway nearby, nowhere to his view.

Ryan stopped, eyebrows raised, and stared at the pallid younger man with an indecisive combination of, do you need help, and do I pretend not to know you? creeping across his face.

The technician ignored the response, and visualized killing the nerves that refused to ease off when he needed them to do so. Well it's hard to act casual around your own potential murderer, he told himself, forcefully redirecting his attention to the coffee. Because coffee was good…

…unless it'd been poisoned.

Staring into the cup with a new horror, Neil desperately tried to remember what had happened while he was zoned out. Failing miserably, and unable to concentrate on just that, he resigned it to fate; if he'd been poisoned, then at least his last meal had been significantly better than any of the base-side food.

So, he came to a point where he nearly had relaxed, but for a moment of a circumstantial, unexpected catalyst.

He half leapt from the chair, falling heavy against the table. The inoffensive, inanimate white metal molded object might have flipped over him, had Ryan not jumped to hold it down.

"Jumpy today." Jane observed, but whether she was angry, disappointed, happy… happy? Neil couldn't tell. He could only squirm, somehow managing to fall completely in the process and land heavier on the ground than he had on the table.

But she did offer him a hand up… two, actually, along with an accompanying smile.