The sun was unusually scorching for March. But then again, all the snow was already gone. The sun was too hot however. Especially when you stand directly under it for three hours straight just because your friend desperately needed to buy some shit. At least, that's how Heath thought, impatiently waiting when Winnifred would finally choose between the two identical necklaces for her aunt.
"Heath," she called him to her side for the millionth time. "Which one do you think is uglier - the one with the red opals, or the one with the blue?"
"They both look horrifying to me," Heath confessed.
"Blue looks horrid on her," Winnifred muttered to herself. She took one more look at the necklaces in her hands and finally handed over the red one.
"Alright, I'll take the red one. How much does it cost?" Heath took the moment to look around. The open market was flooded with people, all pushing and shoving each other with their elbows and endless amounts of bags and baskets. Shit, Heath thought and turned back to Winnifred. She finished paying the seller and was now counting cash.
"Ten, fifteen, seventeen, twenty, twenty five." Winnifred sighed and shoved the change into her pocket.
"Okay, where do you want to go next?"
"I don't know..." Heath trailed off, noticing that Winnifred was already touching the silk shawls at the next stand.
"Hey, do you mind if I go around a bit?" Winnifred nodded, wrapping a tender pink shawl around her shoulders.
"How do I look?"
"Gorgeous," Heath smiled. Winnifred's lips slightly curled, yet she ripped the shawl off and began examining more of the sort. Heath smirked and went on, examining different stands while dodging from the current of people. He stopped at the stand which displayed various forms of guns. Glancing sideways at the owner, Heath picked up a handgun and traced its surface with his thumb. With a sigh, he placed it down and walked away, hands in the pockets. The market was huge, almost the size of an entire village. There was an uncountable amount of stands exhibiting almost everything which the mind could think of, starting with food and ending in various technological gadgets and instruments. Heath had no idea how Winnifred would find him now, but nonetheless continued on his way. Next to one stand, by the way it sold musical instruments, Heath thought he heard something strange. Glancing behind the stand, he noticed Johnathan and another man, very much looking like some street scum.
"Your money, sir?" The scum expectantly held out his hand. Johnathan silently reached into his pocket and handed him a wad of money. The scum quickly flipped through the dollars with his sticky fingers and broadly grinned.
"Your medicine, sir." Johnathan took the tube with liquid in it and carefully brought it to his eyes.
"This is for sure dopamine?" He asked, rotating the tube with his fingers.
"Yes sir." The scum grinned with his toothless mouth. "Took me a while to get it, all right." Johnathan quickly glanced at him and dropped the tube into his breast pocket. The scum quickly bowed and disappeared among other stands. Johnathan followed him with his eyes, before taking out the tube again and observing it in the light.
"Speculating, aren't we?" Johnathan quickly glanced upwards to see Heath, leaning on the stand and chuckling in amusement.
"I need it for my experiments," Johnathan calmly replied. He stepped out of the shadows and stopped beside Heath.
"You can't even get a simple drug in this goddamn village." Heath smirked and turned away to look at the flow of people passing by. The current seemed even more chaotic from the small alley that was between the stands. Heath turned back to Johnathan.
"When does your internship end?" He asked. Johnathan vaguely jerked his shoulder, watching the people.
"Around autumn. It has not been a full year yet."
"And then?" Johnathan took off his glasses and began wiping them with his shirt.
"Probably work at Gotham. Why do you ask?" Heath smirked and heavily sighed.
"Your plans make me more aware of how hopeless my situation is right now."
"Guys! Hey!" The men turned around. Winnifred was waving to them at the other side of the river of people. She dodged right into the middle of the current, knocking and getting knocked, squeezed between a fat, old lady and a racing cart, and stumbled at Heath and Johnathan's feet.
"Holy shit..." She grasped Johnathan's hand, trying to catch her breath, then jerked her head, fixing her messy hair.
"Thanks," she fixed the multiple bags she had on her hand and broadly smiled to guys.
"So? How are ya?" Heath exchanged glances with Johnathan, quietly laughing under their breath.
"We're fine. How did you find us in this hellfire?" Heath smiled. Winnifred swatted his question with her hand, intently scrambling through her bags.
"I know this place by heart, I drag here every single year..." She took out a pink shawl, the same rosy shawl that she tried in front of Heath, and tied it around her neck.
"So this one won after all?" Heath joked. Winnifred teasingly pushed him and turned to Johnathan.
"Well?" She expectantly asked.
"You look lovely," Johnathan smiled. Winnifred brightened up and took both guys by the arms.
"So? I've went through everything. Let's go?"
The sun hid behind the clouds when they walked back home from the market. The dusty road sighed beneath their feet, it was getting cold, but they didn't care. Teasing and joking around, they did not seem to be tired by the five mile distance between their little town and the bazaar. The wind trifled with the rosy shawl on Winnifred's neck, Heath was constantly making dumb jokes, and even Johnathan was smiling. Suddenly, Winnifred lifted up her finger.
"Listen," she said. They quieted. Heath unsuccessfully tried to catch anything in the atmosphere, however he heard nothing except the wind and the ruffling plains around them.
"Honestly, I don't..." he started.
"Hush," Johnathan crossly shushed him. "Someone's coming this way." Heath pressed his hearing and he did hear something, much like a wagon, moving along the road. But he also heard something else. Screams. They turned around and watched the horizon. Soon, a black silhouette appeared, rapidly coming their way. The trio stepped aside. Past them drove an old wagon with a faded red cross painted on its side. Inside, there were five men holding a tied, bulky teenager. The latter was screaming and kicking his captives, his red face horridly distorted with hatred and madness. The men could hardly keep him pinned down to the wagon's bottom, sweat profusely streaking down their hard, red from effort faces. Winnifred, Heath, and Johnathan silently watched the wagon pass by, following in with their eyes.
"What do you think happened with...him?" Winnifred quietly asked, still looking after the wagon. Heath shrugged.
"Probably got rejected."
"That was a bad joke, Heath," Winnifred sadly smirked and turned around.
"He's probably heading to the hospital," Johnathan added, wrinkling his brows as he traced the wagon with his eyes.
"He may be even put into a ward."
Winnifred shivered and looked one last time the way the wagon headed to. The screams still echoed in the distance.
Johnathan quickly walked in the white corridors. Dr. Collin ordered him to attend to the madman who they saw yesterday. Johnathan was extremely interested to see the cause of the man's madness, as well as its extents; as he predicted, the man was indeed placed into a psychiatric ward. Crane opened the door leading through the reception and walked in. Stopping at the reception desk, he roughly tossed Clarke a permission slip.
"I need the keys to the psychiatric ward number three," he sharply ordered her.
"Preferably right now." Clarke looked at him with wide, frightened eyes and mumbling some excuses, starting searching through drawers and papers. Johnathan meanwhile glanced behind him; the room today was completely filled. Johnathan thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the countertop, then turned back around to Clarke.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but Lewis is getting the keys right now," Clarke stuttered, helplessly reddening and lowering her eyes. Johnathan felt a twinge of irritation. Of course. Drunk Lewis forgot to return the keys to the desk. Like usual. Damn it.
"You can sit right now and wait for him to come," the girl's voice barely made it over a whisper. Johnathan tusked in annoyance and dropped his hand on the desk, making the girl jumped.
"Very well." He took his place at the only free seat available, crossing one foot over another. The old man beside him glanced sideways at the intern, but held back his comment. Johnathan lowered his gaze at his hands, occasionally examining the patients around him. The woman in the farthest seat in the left was definitely to the otolaryngologist, she kept on constantly coughing and rubbing her nose. The decrepit old man next to her was probably going to an orthodontist; his foot was in a cast. Other patients were impossible to tell; they could as well be going to a pediatrician or a cardiologist. The front doors slammed, and everyone's heads involuntarily turned to the sound. Johnathan glanced at the person who just entered. Winnifred shook off her drenched coat and umbrella from raindrops and marched to the receptionist. Johnathan curiously watched her as she filled out some form and discussed something with Clarke. After a moment, she thanked the girl and headed towards the doors.
"Freddie," Johnathan quietly called her. Winnifred whirled around and saw him. Her wet face lit up in a smile.
"Hello," she merrily greeted him as she walked up. Johnathan answered her with a smile.
"Didn't expect the doctor to be the patient."
"No, no, I'm just waiting for my keys." Winnifred nodded her head.
"What are you doing here?" In his part, Johnathan asked.
"Oh, I just..." Winnifred waved her hand, then gestured toward the receptionist and the doors, "I just..." she stumbled to find the right words.
"My aunt just wanted me to make an appointment with the gastroenterologist. Since our telephone is broken. By the way, how's our madman?" The man next to Johnathan glanced at them. Stifling a laugh, Johnathan tilted his head to take a closer look at Winnifred.
"To speak the truth, I was just heading to him..."
"Mr. Crane?" Winnifred whirled around in surprise. Johnathan sighed and stood up.
"I have to go. My regards to Heath."
"Of course, Mr. Crane," Winnifred bit her tongue to keep herself from laughing. Johnathan quickly closed his eyes to maintain his composure, then walked up to the receptionist. A big man with a swollen face and eyes stood by the desk.
"Crane?" He croaked. Johnathan silently stretched out his hand. Lewis dropped the keys into his hand, glaring daggers at the young intern through squinted eyes. Johnathan clenched the keys and straightened his pose.
"I wouldn't suggest you drinking any further, Lewis," he coldly remarked. The beetle eyes filled with fury and hidden fear.
"You're no authority to command me, Crane," Lewis angrily grumbled, clenching his fists. Clarke nervously glanced between the two men. Johnathan wearily sighed.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But that still doesn't stop me from commanding you. Good day, Miss Clarke." He turned around and left Lewis standing there, too dumbfounded by the intern's insolence to answer. Insolence was always a good tool to use. It worked in most cases.
Johnathan quickly walked to the division in the hospital which he found the most interesting. Wards. For the mentally unstable. People whose mind took control over body in the most abhorrent and yet remarkable ways. Johnathan would've loved to spend more time here, but of course the authorities decided otherwise. Ward number three was the farthest one. Quite interesting who its patient was. Johnathan quickly unlocked the door and entered.
His patient was broad shouldered, square jawed, and muscular, despite him being a teenager. His angry dark eyes jerked to Johnathan when he entered the dimmed room. Johnathan slowed down before fully closing the door, taking the moment to examine the patient. The latter defiantly glared at him, nothing left of his previous wild composure. Johnathan sat down opposite of the patient, the smooth surface of the desk separating them. Crane carefully traced the patient's hard features with his eyes; they revealed deep contempt and loathness, deliberately hidden well under the surface. Johnathan slightly tilted his head, never averting his eyes from the patient.
"Your name?"
The patient squinted, disdainfully scanning the intern head to foot.
"They sent an intern to interrogate me?" Johnathan quenched down a pulse of anger.
"I'm afraid so," he softly returned. "So your name?"
"Elliot, Thomas Elliot," the teenager smirked, perfectly copying the pompous tone of sophisticated individuals. Johnathan sucked on his cheek, deciding from where to set the attack.
"Why were you sent here, Mr. Elliot?" He softly inquired, at the same time placing his folded hands on the table. Elliot's stare instinctually fell on Crane's hands, before transferring back to his face.
"I'll tell that to the doctor, Mr. Intern," he spit. Johnathan shrugged.
"The doctor will most likely be concerned with your so-called rehabilitation, management on temperamental issues, and psychological well being, while I am interested in the causes of the mind's disruption, so you might as well tell me why you ended up here," he tiredly notified Elliot. That one seemed confused at these words, befuddled by the intern's obvious scorn to the authority.
"I refuse to," he finally shook his head, for the first time avoiding Crane's direct stare. Johnathan lifted his brows in bored amusement.
"Why?"
"There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing," Elliot crookedly smiled. Johnathan smirked. Aristotle, then. Very well. He was risking, of course, but it was worth it. Pretending to look tired, Johnathan sighed and took off his glasses, then bore his stare into Elliot.
"Are you afraid of being called outright mad, Mr. Elliot? What if I tell you that I murdered my grandmother, as well as indirectly killed and paralyzed two classmates? As you can see, I'm not in a psychological ward or jail...rather I am interrogating you. If this acts as some form of encouragement, do speak..." Thomas's eyes widely opened, looking at Crane in disbelief. His features became suspicious, and he slowly pulled his hand, so far resting on the table, back until it dropped beside his chair.
"You're lying," he finally said, slicing Crane with his eyes in an attempt to find a ruse. Johnathan indifferently shrugged and slightly jerked his head.
"No," he calmly retorted, leaning back on the chair and folding his hand in front of him. "No, I'm not."
"Why did you tell me? Not afraid that I might tell the cops?" Elliot fiercely slashed, skepticism still hovering in his voice. Crane smirked.
"A little, but not very, considering that it will be quite difficult," Johnathan sarcastically looked around the room with his eyes.
"Considering your current position and assumption."
"Assumption?" Thomas bristled.
"You're presumably mentally unstable and thus untrustworthy."
Elliot defeatedly slouched back in his seat, occasionally throwing Crane curious glances. Johnathan partially closed his eyes and crossed his arms, calmly waiting for Thomas to crack. The main blow was delivered, and it was just a matter of time when Elliot would tell him everything. Johnathan intently watched from halfway closed eye lids how the young man's face melts into uncertainty, fighting with the intuitive feeling to tell someone his troubles and the desire to keep everything to himself. Johnathan decided not to interrupt the process, and closed his eyes.
"Sir?" Elliot's voice was hesitant. Johnathan abruptly opened his eyes and expectantly looked at Thomas. That one seemed uncomfortable and reluctant, however tried to hide it under the mien of proud defeat.
"I've...attacked a boy at the summer camp," he admitted. "He did something...I don't remember what now which made me lose my temper." This time it was Johnathan's turn to stare in disbelief.
"That's it?" He skeptically raised his brows. Thomas grimaced.
"Not exactly. That wimp is in the hospital right now, with broken ribs, arm, and face." Johnathan couldn't hold his lips from crooking. Raw strength. How casual. The case suddenly became boring.
"The teachers found my outburst mad," Elliot continued. Suddenly, his face twisted in fury and hatred.
"But I am not mad," he gritted through his teeth, hands involuntarily curling into fists. "No more mad than the people who made me so."
Johnathan glanced over Elliot's wild expression, apathy melting away into distorted interest.
"People, Mr. Elliot?" He quietly asked. Thomas transferred his scorching gaze onto the intern. All of a sudden, the silence was cut by a slicing knock in the door. Johnathan silently swore under his breath.
"Excuse me," he said to Elliot and walked over to the door, putting on his glasses again. Thomas silently followed him with his eyes. The wrinkles on his forehead revealed his contemplation of his interrogator, as well as the sudden tournament of events. Crane sharply jolted the door open, barely holding back his irritation.
"What is it, Miss Clarke?" He coldly slashed, not even trying to hide the anger in his voice.
"I...I-I...the doctor will be here soon," she frightened whispered. Johnathan heavily exhaled, trying not to let his frustration take over the best of him.
"Thank you, Miss," he thanked her through his teeth and partly closed the door. When Crane walked over, Thomas stood up from his seat, sensing the upcoming shift of interrogators. Johnathan slightly halted, taking in the teenager's around five inch advantage in height.
"So, Mr. Elliot," he indifferently stated. "I advise to carry out your further interrogations with calmness and confidence. Possibly regret. It's the best you can do for yourself right now. " Johnathan though for a second, then crookedly smiled.
"By the way, I am too fond of Aristotle. I find his quote that there is no great genius without a mixture of madness truly suitable." Thomas Elliot just nodded. Johnathan turned around and walked out of the ward. The doctor was already waiting for him outside.
"Well?" He immediately asked Johnathan when that one came out of the room.
"How is he?"
Johnathan shrugged, fiddling with his keys.
"A typical case of teenage awkward age..." He lifted his head up and looked directly into the doctor's old face.
"...With a few irregularities." He handed over the keys to the doctor and walked down the corridor.