Sam Fisher found himself on standard sized, metal frame cot. His mouth was dry and his head was spinning. He looked around in the dark, but couldn't see anything without his night vision goggles. Reaching his hand up to switch them on, he realized his hand wouldn't move. He felt a little relief when he noticed that his hands were tied down to the bed and not paralyzed, but that quickly faded. Not being able to see his legs, he tried moving them and knew that they were fastly secured as well. He could be out of this situation if he could find something to pick the restraints with, but how had he come to be here tied to the bed and in pajamas! The fact that Sam only remembered what he had been doing yesterday to prepare for this mission, gave him great cause for concern. Here was Sam Fisher the Splinter Cell of the Third Echelon, strapped to a bed, by what looked like leather padded restraints. Where was his OPSAT and uniform that he had been wearing just before today? They had obviously taken it off and moved them into another room. He would just have to find them once he unlocked the simple lock on the cuffs around his hands and legs. Searching in vain for some sort of temporary lock pick, Sam began to get frustrated.

Before he could come up with a good plan of escape, the overhead lights flicked on and blinded him with their brightness. Someone in a white uniform came through the door and watched him struggle against his confinement. Sam urged his breathing to still and his mind to clear, but he only became confused and disoriented. The rush of blood had gone straight to his head. They had to have been keeping him sedated with some pretty messed up shit for him to feel this ill now.

The guy in the white uniform was dressed like a character out of some movie. His hair was short, almost military short, but he was a big guy, to be dressed like an orderly. He didn't say a word, but stared at Fisher for about a minute and walked back out into the hall.

A few minutes later a woman, dressed in the doctor-like white uniform and over coat, waltzed in with her pen tapping on a clipboard and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her blonde hair was pulled tight into a bun on the back of her head; in the classic fashion of a TV doctor on a soap opera...not that Fisher had actually watched the soaps. She was slender and damn sexy in that uniform, but Sam was used to depressing his urges, even when they came in the shape of a leggy blonde with curves that could derail a train.

"So, Mr. Fisher..." She consulted her clipboard again and looked up at him over the rim of her glasses. "How are we feeling today?" She sat in a chair intimately close to Fisher's cot and took his pulse. At least that was what Sam figured she was doing. "You're pulse is very fast. Were you just struggling to get up again?"

"Again?" His voice felt rough and un-used.

"You know Mr. Fisher, we're here to help you, but we can't do that if you try to escape every day." She checked his cuffs briefly. "They're not too tight are they?"

"A little." Sam thought if they were a little looser he might be able to finagle his way out of them, but that would hurt a whole hell of a lot no matter what. He was sure the bands would force him to break a bone or two in his hands, just to get them through the leather. Maybe he could escape while they loosened them up? "Look Doc, could you loosen them up a bit?"

"You know what happened last time...I'll send in the orderly to loosen them up after we have our session. Our little chat, as I like to call it."

Sam decided that she was a hardened bitch, under all that pretty make up and mannerly ways. She acted nice on the outside, but was really very condescending. "I don't remember anything."

"You don't?" That damn voice made him want to punch her in the mouth that was so neatly painted in dark pink lipstick. "You don't recall anything from our visits?" She scribbled something down on her clipboard. "Tell me what you do remember."

Sam kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to spill the beans about his upcoming mission or the NSA. She could torture him all she wanted. She wouldn't get a peep out of him. Sam couldn't remember anything beyond packing his "work clothes" and dressing in his uniform for the nights "business." He wasn't about to tell her that.

The doctor folded her arms over her chest and reclined a bit in the chair. "You've had another episode haven't you? I keep telling you Mr. Fisher, that you can't keep living in this imaginary world. You need to get past these dreams and move on to real life. We want you to become a prominent member of society and how can we accomplish that if you insist that you're some sort of spy?"

"What?" His head whipped around so fast, that he thought he might be sick all over the doctor's lovely white uniform.

"We've been over this a million times, Mr. Fisher." Her eyes were icy shards of blue. "There is no NSA, or at least no Third Echelon, and if there was...you're not in it."

"You know who I am?" This time Sam felt more than a little angry and a whole lot sick. He threw up some clear liquid on the floor. She merely moved her feet out of the way, so her shoes wouldn't get spoiled. "Get me out of here, you dumb-ass bitch!" He shouted, dribbling clear gunk slowly from his bottom lip like a slow pouring oil lamp.

Her lips curled into a sort of half smile, as she tried to calm him down. "We know all about you Mr. Fisher. Please be calm. I don't want to have to sedate you again." She placed a hand on his chest as if acknowledging his anger. "You've been here for quite some time. We just want to help you." Sam gave up trying to break the constraints on his arms and legs. "There, isn't that better? Just relax and we'll get through this one step at a time." He was still very pissed off at the situation he woke up to, but he figured that it would only be a matter of time... "Tell me about your latest dream. Last time you mentioned a voice inside your head..."

Sam refused to acknowledge her and kept his mouth shut. He didn't know what was going on, or what sick, twisted game she was playing, but he wasn't going to fall for it. She began to write something down again and got up to leave.

"Well Mr. Fisher, it's clear to me that in your delusional state, you're not going to help me help you get better...nothing more for me today, so I'll be going." She turned her back on him, but only for a moment. It was as though she was anticipating his response.

"Wait!" She turned around. Sam decided it was a good idea to play along with her, until he could get a clear idea on who was doing this and how they had captured him. Besides, once he got out he was going to break her pretty, white neck.

Session one went all right, but Sam was starting to think maybe she was right and that he was insane. Coming from a man in hospital pajamas, the things he was saying sounded like utter nonsense. Only a lunatic could think up most of the Third Echelon. He was given a sedative at the end of their "little chat" and he fell into a dreamless sleep. She had grilled him on the supposed voices that were in his head.

"What's your name, Doctor?"

The doctor looked at him critically and then agreed to tell him her name. "Jerika Zithers. You may call me Dr. Zithers."

Sam was still strapped tightly to the cot and the doctor wasn't about to let him loose. "I promise not to hurt you, if you let me sit up."

"HA! Mr. Fisher, we can't trust you since last time you said that." She chuckled. "You say the same thing every day. Every day you wake up as if nothing happened the day before. You don't remember our conversations or me. You don't remember busting up two orderlies last week. You don't remember trying to stab me in the neck with my own pen. You don't remember anything of your life here at the institute. All you remember is this silly story about being a NSA spy." She was calm through the whole account, but Sam chalked that up to her profession. She must be quite good at getting information. "Tell me something about your daughter."

"You said you know everything about me already, so you must know everything about my daughter." Sam wasn't about to let them get his daughter again.

She didn't want to push him into another delusional fit so she changed the subject. "OK, then tell me again about the voice in your head. Is it many voices, or just the one?"

He could tell her that it's the devil playing in his head and telling him to kill her, but that kind of psycho stuff never set well with Fisher. He was a straightforward kind of man. "Just the one."

"I see." She wrote something else down and looked back up at him. "What does this person say to you? Does he ever tell you to do stuff?"

"Like what?" He sighed and rolled his eyes. If this was going where he thought it was going, then he was going to have to be very careful on what he said next.

"Like does he ever tell you to do bad things? Does he want you to...I don't know...kill people?" Her eyes were watching him like a true psychiatric doctor. "Sam...May I call you Sam?" She continued to ask him questions using his given name. "Sam, are you hearing him right now?"

"No."

This answer evidently disappointed the doctor. She called in the orderly, after Sam's sustained silence. The orderly came in and gave Sam an injection that made things slide out of focus and a high-pitched hum floods his ears. Sam would have struggled, but what was the point? He was too secure to get away from the injection and they would have just kneeled on his chest to jab the needle in his arm.

After a few minutes, the doctor sat back down with her clipboard. The drugs had taken full effect and he was feeling somewhat less grumpy old Sam. Her hands were cold as her fingers gripped his chin, so she could steady his head and look directly in his eyes. He actually wanted to laugh, but held it in.

"You're not bad lookin' doc." His head came off the pillow a few inches, as if he were trying to kiss her, while she was bent over him. She pushed his head back and straightened. "I have seen a lot of women in my life."

She smiled almost pleasantly. "Is that sexually, or in your mind Sam?"

He grunted, but didn't answer her. It was only a passing giddiness that made him admit that he thought she was attractive at all. Sam was by nature, a tight-lipped man, who didn't like to speak more than necessary. Even drugged up, Sam was a quiet guy. He needed prompting.

"Sam, I want to tell me the name of the person who talks to you in your head." She leaned in to hear him better.

"Danny Glover." Sam shook his head, his eyes rolled around as he tried to maintain focus.

"Danny Glover is in your head?" Dr. Zithers frowned. She thought he was trying to be funny. The drugs were more powerful than she figured, but she waited a second longer.

"No. Not Danny Glover. He just looks like him...Lambert." His eyes closed and she considered, that maybe he had fallen asleep. He began humming a song she didn't recognize. "Lambert the sheepish lion." He smiled something soft and dreamlike about that smile, almost a child quality played over his normally stern lips.

The drugs were making him sleepy and disoriented, so she tried to speed things along. "Does Lambert speak to you all the time?"

"No."

"Do you talk to him?" She looked quite interested.

"No." His monosyllable answers made her purse her lips.

"Why don't you talk to him?"

"I can't." His finger twitched as if he was hearing something in his head.

"Is Lambert speaking to you now? Why don't you answer him?" She watched, as Sam struggled again to get his hand loose. "Would you like me to let your hand loose so you can talk to Lambert?" She was only suggesting it, to test his reaction, but she had no intentions of letting him loose. "Are you listening to me, Sam? I can let you talk to Lambert, if you want. How do you contact him?"

"I can't." He said again and yawned. "Are you going to kill me yet?"

His words make her stop writing and look at him intently. "What made you say that?"

"It's what you do, when I don't answer the questions you want me to answer." His eyes popped open again and they looked cold and hard now. The drugs were wearing off already, but he was still gazing around the room, his vision blurred. "I'm Third Echelon, Splinter Cell. You can't leave me alive, unless you want to keep me tied to this bed for the rest of my life...eventually I'll manage to escape, or die trying."

She switched her mood again. "Mr. Fisher, pay attention to me now." His eyes locked on her face once more and she felt an odd chill run up her spine, before she spoke. "We're not here to harm you. We're here to help you."

Dr. Zithers stood up and stretched her back. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and scanned her papers before leaving. The orderly switched off the lights and Sam was left alone bathed in darkness. He heard keys rattle and the door being locked. All his life he hadn't felt as alone as he did now.

"Why?" His heart asked him. "I've been alone most of my life, with only my work to keep my loneliness at bay...my daughter..." He whispered to the dark.


The next morning, Sam woke to the sound of keys jingling in the lock. At least, he thought it was morning, since he had neither a clock nor a window in his room to tell him the time. Again, his head felt woozy, like it was shoved full of cotton balls and his stomach pitched, when he moved his head to see who was entering his cell. That's how he thought of his room now, fore surely he was in a prison. The walls were entirely gray brick, the ceiling was gray brick, the floor was concrete, and his bed was a completely uncomfortable, thin foam mat over a hard steel frame. The orderly entered first, switching on the lights as he went.

Dr. Zithers came in next, holding a pen and her ever-present clipboard, for taking notes. Today she was dressed the same as yesterday, but her hair was in a short ponytail, rather than a bun. That hairstyle made her look a bit younger than her thirty-five years, Sam estimated her to be. She came over to Sam and glanced over his body, before sitting in the only chair in the room.

"Do you recognize me today, Sam?" She peered into his eyes with a penlight. He nodded, but said nothing. "Would you like to use the restroom before we begin today?" She asked the orderly to give him a mild sedative, when he nodded again. "It's only a precaution. We don't need any more injuries."

The orderly injected Sam in the arm and pulled out a separate key, one that wasn't on the big key ring on his belt, from his shirt pocket. The doctor gave him a nod of her own, when he looked to her for assurance.

"Mr. Fisher is going to be good today. Aren't you Sam?" Sam raised an eyebrow at her tone of voice, but gave her his word not to harm anyone for now. "I'm sure Mr. Fisher would enjoy some time in the sunshine, but after the last time...I think we'll stick to the indoors for now."

The orderly slipped some standard issue, hard sole, non-slip slippers on to his feet and unlocked the cuffs on his ankles and wrists. If they only knew how easily, it would be for him to wrap his legs around the orderly's thick neck and crush the breath out of him, while knocking the doctor to the floor... He had no clue of how many guards, locked doors, and doctors with tranquilizer guns he would have to go through. The sedative was nowhere as strong as the one they had used on him yesterday and he wondered why. He was actually able to get up today, so why had they used such a heavy dose on him when he had been restrained compared to now, when he could actually get away, or at least attempt to escape.

He was taken to a small, enclosed room that held a toilet and a sink, which didn't even have a mirror over it. It was just a little wider than the toilet and the orderly stood in the doorway watching.

"Want my measurements?" Sam grumbled about people spying on people in the john. "Look buddy, I can't go with you staring at me like that."

"That ain't my problem, buddy." The orderly put an emphasis on the last word. "Either you go now, or not at all."

"So you can talk?" Sam dropped his pajama bottoms and took a leak, relieving the pressure in his bladder. He'd been holding it in for over two hours, not wanting to be subject to the humiliation of a bedpan. Even an NSA spy had to urinate. "What now?" He washed his hands and dried them.

"That's up to the doctor." The orderly rumbled. To Sam, he sounded a lot like a bear.

The doctor arrived, as if she had been cued from somewhere off stage. "Mr. Fisher lets go in to the common room. Today is Wednesday and on every Wednesday, we have group sessions." Sam shrugged and followed her like a docile puppy. The orderly took up rear guard and reminded Sam that a large dose of sedative was coming his way, if he misbehaved. "I would like to get you on a set schedule. Up until now, you've been very unresponsive and hard to handle...shall we say un-predictable."

"I wonder why that is." Sam wasn't wondering any such thing. He was wondering how that doctor fit into such a tight dress and still made it look professional enough to be respectable. "Hey doc, what brought you to a facility like this?"

She paused only long enough to give Sam a quick glance. "That's none of your business."

They turned a corner and ended up in a large black and white common room. It had some windows lining one wall, but they were all thick, protective glass and as if that wasn't enough to deter an escapee, then they had massive iron bars over them embedded into the white brick walls. This room was full of chairs and tables, but they were in the center of the room where everyone was gathered.

"Do we get to eat at this place, or what?" Sam's stomach protested at being empty.

The orderly sat a chair in the ring of other patients and had Sam sit down with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Sam looked up at him, as if he was about to break his hand off if he manhandled him again, but thanked him instead. Sandwiches were passed out and small drinks of water in paper cups were handed to each patient. All the "guests" of the institute were given a separate smaller cup of pills and even Sam received a rainbow mix.

Many of the patients chugged the water and popped the pills without a seconds thought. Sam stared into the paper cup and sat it aside. "I don't need any, thanks." The doctor looked at him sharply, but told the orderly to back off.

"Sam, those pills are just vitamin compounds that suppress hallucinations and emotional outbursts, but we won't press the subject at the moment." She made a note and looked to the others in the room. "Who wants to start today?"

A girl with short dark hair that hung in her face raised her hand shakily. Her feet were pulled up on the chair she was sitting in and her chin was resting on her knees. She was also in the standard issue pajamas, but she lacked the slippers and her small feet looked cold.

"Yes Carly?" The doctor acknowledged her hand, which Carly lowered and brushed the hair out of her face with a quick, nervous motion.

Sam almost choked on the tuna fish sandwich that tasted like stale bread. "Carly?" He drained the paper cup of water and looked to the orderly for more. The girl in front of him looked an awful lot like Carly St. John, now that he got a better look at her.

She darted him a suspicious look, but addressed the doctor. "Dr. Zithers, we have to introduce the new member of the group. It's how things are done." She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Her eyes looked so blank, like she hadn't slept in days.

Carly wasn't anything like what Sam remembered her to be. Her face was gaunt and she had dark circles under her eyes. She was fidgety and nervous, looking from Sam to the others in the room. She reminded him of a little girl, at her first funeral.

Another person stood up and pointed his finger at Sam. "Yes! Tell us your name stranger." He shouted accusingly, with a wild look in his eyes.

"Paul, please sit down." Dr. Zithers was standing now. "Paul, sit." Paul flinched, looked at the doctor, and sat down in a hurry. "Why the outburst, Paul?" Paul was still glaring at Sam. "Paul?"

Paul broke eye contact and looked at the floor, where he had been looking before Carly spoke up. "He didn't introduce himself." Paul explained. He was much more humble now. He knew that the orderlies were watching him closely and that another outburst could get him tackled and injected with another sedative.

"Stand up and tell them who you are." Dr. Zithers directed her voice to Sam, but kept her eyes on the emotional Paul.

Sam stood up and all eyes fell on him. "I'm Sam Fisher." He sat back down.

Orderlies around the room sighed and relaxed against whatever door jam or wall they were standing by. Sam wasn't sure if they're worried about Paul or him.

The doctor switched topics. "Sam, do you have anything to add to that?" She picked up her clipboard and was poised to write down anything of interest.

He shook his head, but changed his mind. "Yeah, I want to know where the other doctors are."

His question gave her pause, yet she recovered quickly. "Dr. Martin and Dr. Keith are in their offices, but Varesoli is on vacation." She kept her head down, apparently very engrossed in the scratches on the notepad. "Do you have any more questions or comments?" He didn't speak up, so she moved on. "Anyone else has any concerns about anything, or does anyone just want to talk? Any new problems?" With the last query, she addressed the group as a whole, glancing from face to face.

Carly raised her hand again. She got a nod from the doctor. Her hand went down. "Can I get my baseball cap back?" She was trembling. "I really need my hat."

Dr. Zithers leaned towards the girl. "Carly, I think you know the answer to that." Carly began rocking back and forth. "You use that hat like a security blanket. It was also a reminder of your old life of drug abuse and prostitution."

Sam jumped to Carly's defense, outraged. "She never used drugs in her life!" Orderlies rushed him. They knew his reputation as a dangerous and unstable character. "Carly. Tell these idiots..." Carly was now crying with her face buried in her knees. "I know you." Sam hip checked an orderly and nearly got loose, but there were three burly men holding him now. "She's not a prostitute either. Her parents sent her to college and she's a crack expert at code breaking."

"Crack whore maybe." Someone snickered.

Paul put in his two cents. "Did you meet her as a dealer or as a customer?"

A third person coughed, which was meant to cover up the word "slut."

Sam used the orderlies to his advantage and leverage, kicking off the floor, his foot connected with Paul's nose, breaking it with a satisfactory crunch. He felt somewhat vindicated, but the orderlies took him down, with a group effort. One of them removed the protective cap of a syringe, with his teeth and plunged it into his arm. Immediately, he slid into a stupor and was carried back to his seat. His head slumped forward his breathing became ragged.

Carly was crying hysterically, but Dr. Zithers was trying to comfort her. She stroked her back soothingly. "Take them to their rooms." She told the orderlies. "I don't think Mr. Fisher can be trusted to take his own medication. I need to get him stabilized and on meds. One of you can crumble them up and put them in his food. I don't want anyone talking to him, but me." Carly was carried out of the main room, kicking and screaming. "The rest of you, go back your rooms. We'll finish our chat next time."

Everyone shambled off, their feet shuffling listlessly on the tile. Paul was taken to the medical wing.