...

"Welcome aboard, Violet," Monsignor Howard smiled. "I'm so glad you've chosen to donate your time to our organization. Your family is an asset to our staff. I'm sure you'll do well here."

Violet beamed. She wore a demure black, long-sleeved tunic dress and her hair pushed back under a black headband. It was a style more square than she normally preferred but she wanted to make a good impression. "Thank you, Father. So who is it I'll report to and when?"

"You start tomorrow, if like," the priest said. "Seven AM. I'll introduce you to Sister Mary Eunice. She'll be your immediate supervisor."

..

"We don't have many candy-stripers," Sister Mary Eunice admitted the next morning as she watched Violet don the apron and hat. Contrary to the job title, the uniform was plain white like the rest of the non-Catholic staff; not striped at all.

"How many do you have?" asked Violet, making sure the hat was bobby-pinned down correctly. Her long hair was tucked back in a netted bun, per Sister Mary's request.

"Just you." The nun paused, then brightened. "Oh and there's that bald fellow who does custodial work. But technically he's not a candy-striper. Just a volunteer. Briarcliff being a tuberculosis hospital and a mental ward..." She spread her hands in a 'what can you do?' gesture. "We just don't have a lot of interest from volunteers."

Violet was surprised. She was the only candy striper in the whole hospital? "Oh. Wow. Okay."

"Don't worry," Sister Mary hastily reassured, misreading her reaction. "We have plenty for you to do. Have you ever washed bedpans?"

...

The next morning, Tate was woken at 7:00, with the rest of the patients, and led with them to the bathroom. After the closely-guarded pit stop the group was herded through an underground tunnel that connected the ward, to the small cafeteria that sat behind the main building. There they had to stand outside the serving line door for several minutes while the kitchen got ready for them.

Tate was positioned in line between an old black guy who kept cursing under his breath, and Shelley. The elderly man's Tourette behavior fascinated him but it was difficult to stare too much because Shelley kept pinching Tate's butt. Though mostly healed, his backside was still tender and each time she did it, it made him jump.

"Hey!" he said, rubbing the latest pinched spot.

"I miss your hospital gown," she grinned.

"I don't," Tate said honestly. He threw in a glower to let her know he didn't appreciate the attention but it just made her smile bigger.

Just then a young nun accompanied by a girl about Tate's age passed by. Both were carrying armloads of folded towels from the laundry facility down the hall. He made eye contact with the younger girl felt a thrill. She was cute and big-eyed; unafraid. She was real, he could tell.

Tate smiled at her. She smiled back. He wondered who she was.

"She's not so hot," Shelley said defensively. She'd noticed his attention wander and was trying to get reclaim it.

When the nun and candy striper disappeared around a corner, he looked back to the blonde girl. He gave her a solid once-over but it was impossible to tell what her figure looked like in the shapeless institution dress.

"She dresses better than you," he grinned.

Shelley gave him a shove, light and quick. "Screw you! I never dressed like this when I was out." Then she softened and tried to press up against him. "Want to meet me in the hydrotherapy room after breakfast? I'll show you what I look like under these rags."

"Hands to yourself, Shelley," Carl, the orderly on duty, interrupted. "You know the rules."

She pouted at the man but he ignored her. He had a whole herd of unstable people to watch. He didn't have time for her nonsense.

The line began to move and Tate experienced his very first cafeteria meal at Briarcliff. It was a lot like being in grade school. There were long tables with attached benches bolted to the ground. The food was identical to what he'd been getting served in his room.

Watching the other inmates eat was as bizarre as watching them sit around the common room. The developmentally disabled inmates were understandably messy in their earnest attempts to feed themselves but some of the patients were too high, too crazy, or too zoned out to eat. Some played with their food. Some just ignored it. People who ignored their food often got it stolen from them while the orderlies weren't looking.

After breakfast came the pill line. Tate made sure to get in line behind John. He wanted to see-or not see-how the guy avoided taking them. Watching discreetly, Tate found it impossible to detect whether John took the pills or not. When he stepped away from the nurse's counter, Tate stepped up and gave her his name. The dumpy old woman behind the desk handed him a plastic dish of pills. He looked at them and then at the small cup of water she offered him to wash them down with.

As smoothly as he could , he popped all of them into his mouth at once and quickly tucked them into his cheeks near his back teeth. He sipped the water, doing his best not to actually get it on the pills he'd stowed as he hurried away from the window. He noticed John hadn't left for the bathroom yet so he hesitated to ask for release. Would it look suspicious to the staff if he went immediately from the pill line to the bathroom? But would the pills start to melt if he didn't?

He sat down at a table and pretended to cough, using the motion to spit the pills into his hand. A little while later the patients were gathered up and herded to the common room where Tate noticed John leave almost immediately. The teen waited a minute or two then approached one of the orderlies near the door.

"Hey. I gotta piss," he told the guy.

"Make it quick," the man said with a slight nod to the doors that led out into the hall.

Tate ducked out and headed for the bathroom. He passed John on the way, who winked knowingly at him. Tate flashed a smile in return.

In the bathroom, he quickly disposed of the handful of sticky pills, flushing them away before washing his hands thoroughly. It was a shame to lose the painkiller but he didn't trust the other pills one bit.

He left the bathroom then and was intending to go back to the common room, but he was intercepted when he passed the doorway to the hydrotherapy room. Shelley stepped out and pulled him in. He thought about resisting-what if they got caught?-but things had been so awful since he'd gotten put into the asylum, the promise of positive physical contact was alluring. So he let her tug him over to a spot near the open shower in the back of the room. She stuffed her tongue in his mouth and petted his chest.

Shelley broke the kiss then, just enough to whisper to him: "You want me to blow you?"

That was something Tate had never been asked before. A smile tugged one corner of his mouth. "Sure."

Amazingly the blonde girl dropped and tugged down his hospital-issued pants. She went to work with expert care and precision. It was his first time having a girl go down on him and while he wasn't particularly attracted to Shelley, she was available and obliging-and she was very good at what she did. She got him off with surprising ease; he noticed vaguely in the afterglow that she even swallowed his cum.

"Someone's coming," Shelley whispered, jumping up.

She hastily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while he tugged his pants up and his shirt straight. Max poked his head in then and he didn't look happy to see them there.

"You aren't allowed in here," he said disapprovingly. "Go back to the commons."

Tate headed quickly for the door while Shelley strolled a little more casually. She flirted a little with Max, who neither encouraged nor discouraged it.

Back in the common room, Tate sank into an arm chair. Shelley plunked herself in another one nearby. When he glanced over she was looking at him.

"You don't seem so scary," she observed.

He peered at her curiously. "What?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I heard you were the clock tower shooter. That you're some kind of maniac. But you don't seem that dangerous to me." She leaned a little closer and he got that sexy vibe off her again. "Why'd you do it?"

Tate gave her closer consideration, finding her mannerism curious. He wasn't sure if she was one of the hollow masses or a person of interest. He didn't think she'd understand but he figured he give her something to chew on anyway. There wasn't anything else to do.

"I got sick of watching all the pressed-shirt Toms, Dicks and Harrys getting ahead. Watching the corporate meat grinder spew out homogenized, brainless assholes day after day. The school... it generated these... Mickey Mouse ear-wearing zombies that would just as soon spit on you as let you cross their paths."

He remembered a flash from that day: Looking out through the scope, sighting the next target. He felt nothing. At all. He didn't know why he felt nothing, then or in reflection now. When he searched for some sort of feeling there was just a big blank. Like it hadn't even happened.

"That's heavy," Shelley remarked, impressed. "Are you anti-War too?"

"Depends on the war," Tate shrugged. "I'm not big on what's happening right now, but I would've been glad to fight in World War II or I. That's some serious shit right there."

"Did you shoot any cops? At the school?"

Tate wrinkled his nose. He hadn't thought much about who he'd gunned down. The targets he remembered best were the twin boys on the stairs and even they were just a brief snapshot in his mind's eye: Mirrored looks of terrified surprise then just a bloody smear on the wall.

"I think one, maybe," he said, vaguely recalling a uniformed man hiding behind a white car. "I don't think he died."

"You better hope not," said Shelley. "People who kill cops don't survive very long in places like this."

"So do you fuck just about everybody?" Tate asked, not liking the direction the conversation was taking.

The blonde girl shifted a little, not sure whether she should be defensive or proud. "Just the guys I like."

"You ever have sex with a doctor?"

"Not here," she said. Then a sly smile crossed her features. "The last place I was at, though, I screwed my shrink. He said he'd let me go if I did but the bastard just transferred me here."

"That sucks," Tate said without real sympathy. " I can't blame you for trying though. Hey. Do you know Harvey?"

"Yeah. Sort of. Why?"

"I haven't seen him in a while." He looked around the commons but still couldn't find the guy in the crowd.

"They're probably shocking him," Shelley suggested. "Maybe they got tired of him always saying how it's a government conspiracy that he's here."

"Maybe he's right," Tate grinned, unable to resist. "Maybe they are trying to shut him up."

"Funny."

Tate's smile dissolved to a grimace. His headache was coming back full-force and with it this time were various other aches and pains which he slowly associated to areas where he'd been shot. The exterior wounds were healed with new, pink scar tissue but deep inside they were still knitting. Without the pain pill, he was beginning to realize just how messed up he still was.

"You okay?" asked Shelley.

"Yeah," he lied. "Just a headache."

He decided he wouldn't flush the next painkiller he got.

...

After the lunch pill line Tate felt better. Not completely improved, but better than he had felt during the morning hours. But the painkiller left him feeling tired so he ended up spending an hour after the meal just laying on his cot in the ward. He didn't like that.

At the end of the hour an orderly came and got Tate to escort him to another meeting with Dr. Thredson. Grudgingly, he went along. He would've been happier to be left napping. He didn't like being tired but he liked seeing a therapist even less just then. After Max dumped him in a chair and left, Tate looked glumly across the desk at the psychiatrist.

"How are you feeling, Tate?" the man smiled a friendly smile.

"Tired," the teen said honestly. "The painkiller helps my head some but I still kind of hurt all over. Mostly I just want to sleep."

Given everything Tate was supposed to be taking, Oliver would've been surprised if his patient wasn't sleepy. The statement actually gave him some hope.

"When we saw each other last, you were rather upset," prompted the doctor.

"Yeah," Tate smiled ruefully. "Can you blame me? After the night I had?"

Thredson thought he had a point but he didn't highlight that fact. "What about now? Are you still upset about your situation?"

"Well, I'm not thrilled with it," said Tate. "But it is what it is, right?"

"Very pragmatic of you."

A nice attitude indeed. Beneath it Tate was considering ways to escape the hospital and where he might go if he managed to get out. "Thanks. Oh. Doc?"

"Yes, Tate?"

"There's this other shrink who asked me if it'd be okay if I started talking to him too."

"Oh?" Dr. Thredson was sure he already knew who it was.

"Yeah," Tate went on, watching the doctor like a hawk. "Dr. Harmon. He said he's done a lot of work with, um. Teenage fuck-ups like me."

"Did he?"

"Well, not in those exact words," the boy admitted. He smiled in a self-conscious manner, dimples showing. "But close enough. So. What do you think?"

"I think you should do what you feel is in your best interest," said Oliver carefully, to clear the legal hurdle. Then: "But I feel that right now it might be better if you didn't overburden your schedule with new doctors and treatments."

"You think I should just see you?"

"I see nothing wrong with the present dynamic," the doctor verified. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Speaking as your court-appointed liaison, I think you should avoid talking to too many people at once about the case. You never know who will say what to whom."

"Now who's the paranoid one, doc?" Tate grinned.

"I wish it were paranoia," said Oliver regretfully. "But it's true. Some people are only in this business so they can get published. Yours is a very high-profile case. There will be... vultures who want to attach themselves to you simply because they know they'll get in the history books."

Tate found the warning amusing and somewhat amazing. He'd done something worthy of history books.

There's your immortality right there, mother.

"What about you?" he asked the doctor brightly. "Is that why you're treating me? So you can be famous?" There was no accusation in the words.

Dr. Thredson smiled. He'd anticipated that question. "When I was first assigned to your case I had no idea who you were. I was randomly selected by the state. Despite the random assignment, I really do believe I can help you. Perhaps Doctor Harmon does too, but I believe you should consider that choice later."

"What if I go to trial instead?" said Tate. "Can't we tell them I just went a little nuts for a while but I'm feeling better now?"

The doctor gazed at him steadily through the thick lenses of his glasses. "Are you feeling better?"

He was, thanks to the painkiller; at least he felt better than he had without it. "I think so. Don't I seem better?"

"You seem calmer."

Tate smiled. "See?"

"That's a far cry from being fit to stand trial," Thredson cautioned his patient. "What are you going to tell a jury about what you did?" He paused poignantly. When Tate didn't say anything-as the doctor expected would be the case-he went on. "We need to establish what your therapy goals are and what treatment options there are for you."

"Options?" scoffed Tate, folding his arms. "What options? I don't even have the choice whether I can go to trial."

"There are choices," said Dr. Thredson with gentle patience. "I'll make sure you understand your choices before you make them."

"Doctor and babysitter," muttered Tate. "Now I know why they call this a paternalist group."

"What?"

"Paternalist group," Tate said, more distinctly. His dark eyes met those of the doctor, alight with sudden mischief. "The whole medical profession is. I used to think it was just one branch because that's the only one we ever had to deal with. On account of my brother being sick. But I've seen a lot since then and the whole thing's like one Big Daddy conglomerate of people telling you when to do things and what's best for you. "

"That's a... very interesting idea, Tate," said Oliver carefully. He jotted that down on his notepad then glanced through his previous notes for what he'd written about the older brother.

"Beauregard," he said when he found what he was looking for. "He was in and out of the hospital a lot, wasn't he?"

"Yeah." Tate shifted in his seat. It didn't hurt to sit any longer but the chair was far from comfortable regardless. "He had, uh." He patted his chest at the middle. "Upper respiratory problems."

"Right," said the doctor. "I'm sorry to hear that he passed so young."

"Yeah," Tate repeated. His expression had glazed over in a blank mask but his dark eyes held unshed tears that broke the illusion of impenetrable stoicism. "Me too. He was pretty cool." He forced a smile that threatened to dislodge a tear. "You would've liked him. Everybody liked Beau. What's not to like, you know? He loved Star Trek. He liked Dr. McCoy the best. Maybe because he saw so many doctors."

He fell silent then, using a knuckle to crush the tear before it could sneak out.

"What about you, Tate?" Oliver prompted. "Which character is your favorite in the series?"

"I don't know," the teen mused. He'd never really cared for the show. It was his brother's enthusiasm that mattered. "Maybe Captain Kirk. He kind of reminds me of swashbucklers, you know? From the black and white films. Always leading the charge and getting the girl. What about you? I bet you like Doctor Spock."

"Mister Spock," Thredson corrected. "Doctor Spock's the fellow who tells the world how to raise babies."

"Oh." Tate blinked then grinned. "I guess you know Star Trek."

"I've been known to watch an episode now and then."

"Have you seen it lately?" asked Tate, perking up. "What's happened?" He might not be a huge fan of the show like his brother but it would be nice to hear something of the outside world. Something that wasn't serious.

The doctor gave him a moment's regard, then relented with a small smile "Last time, Spock, Kirk, and McCoy beamed down to investigate an asteroid's surface and got waylaid by space-babes."

"Huh. When you put it that way, it sounds like about a half dozen other episodes." Tate shifted again. "Can I have a cigarette?"

"Certainly."

This time the therapist just left the pack and lighter on the desk. Tate got up to grab one, lit it, and sat back down.

"Now in regards to your therapy and treatment," said Dr. Thredson once he'd settled. "Briarcliff has a lot of opportunities for assistance. They have a wonderful Occupational Therapy program in the bakery. If you work there, you will draw a small salary you can spend at the Commissary when you've earned that privilege."

"You think I could get a job in the bug house bakery?"

"Well," hedged the doctor. "Not yet. But it's something to work toward. Right now, I would like to continue to see you three times a week in personal sessions. I also want you to attend Art Therapy when it's available."

"Why?"

"Call it an exercise of imagination" said the doctor. "I'd like to see what you create."

...

That evening Tate ditched all of his pills except the painkiller, stuffing the others into his mattress. Another routine night-till it wasn't.

Just before lights out, Sister Jude came by with an orderly and a couple of security guards. All of the men's ward inmates had to stand out in the hall while their rooms were systematically 'tossed' for contraband.

If it weren't for the codeine in his system, Tate would have been on edge about the pills he had stowed in his bed. He was able to maintain a mellow act with the help of the drug. His room came up clean, which he didn't dare look relieved about while Sister Jude's critical eye was on him. He didn't even risk making eye contact with her when she and her goons left his room.

Another of the inmates wasn't so lucky. After everyone was locked up in his cell again, Tate lay on his bed trying not to hear the sound of that unfortunate man being battered by Sister Jude's cane. It was strange hearing it; being forced to intrude on such a humiliating moment. It was also somewhat disturbing knowing it easily could have been him instead.

He pressed his hands over his ears and tried to think of something else.

He thought he should really do something about the pills. Only there was nothing he could do about them at the moment so he thought of something else. He thought back to the day in the clock tower.

He hadn't slept in over 48 hours that day, partly because of the pounding headache. When he had tried to sleep, he kept thinking he heard people shouting or bells ringing or the television, even though it wasn't even on. So he'd given up trying to sleep. He hoped eventually that being tired would overwhelm the pain and noise so he could sleep through the night.

Sleeplessness, the headache, the drugs... they made the shooting and the memory of it feel like a weird, distorted dream. It hadn't felt 'real' even when he shot the first people upstairs. He hadn't felt an emotional reaction to their injuries at all. They were obstacles that had been taken down.

All of them were like that: the victims. One moment they were blank people templates, up and walking and living. A few bullets later, they were sprawled on the ground. No names. No faces. They were barely men or women. They were unwitting cogs in the government machine. Future recruits and flesh puppets for experiments and hollow nobodies that would keep the capitalist war machine churning.

He had no recollection of falling asleep yet he must have because he woke, disoriented and confused, to the sound of someone in the ward screaming.

"What's the matter, Mort?" one of the other inmates called.

Nobody answered; the man just kept screaming. It didn't sound like he was in pain. There were no words, not even gibberish. It just sounded like he was yelling. The noise went on for several minutes before some of the other inmates started to complain and tell Mort to stop it. But he didn't stop. He kept right on screaming. Eventually a couple of orderlies came along and put a stop to the noise with their Billy clubs.

On the one hand, Tate felt for Mort. If the guy was taking the drugs Briarcliff was doling out, it was no wonder he'd snapped. On the other hand, the silence that came after the orderlies finally shut Mort up was nice.

Tate eventually fell back into a light sleep, but he kept twitching awake every time he would start to dream. The dreams were jarring because they began with people yelling at him or Sister Jude telling him what to do and getting angry when he didn't do it fast enough. At times there wasn't even a dream to go with the noise. During those bouts of fitful waking he was uncomfortable as well. He was too hot underneath the blanket but too cold to be without it.

The whole experience left him grumpy and introverted the next morning but a codeine pill and some orange juice helped mellow him out by the time he got to the common room. He sought out John and bummed a cigarette. He didn't see Mort around anywhere.

He was about to remark on that fact when he saw an unfamiliar young woman escorted in by an orderly. She was in her mid-twenties and had short blond hair that still held a stylish flip that wouldn't last long in the sanitarium. She offered a timid smile to the man in the white uniform who left her standing there on the fringe of the big, busy room. Billie Dean Howard looked uncertain and overwhelmed by her surroundings.

In the background, the nun on the record continued to sing.

xxx

Author's Note:

End Episode 1. Roll credits. Etc.

A 'Big Daddy' is a thing from the Bioshock video game series. In Rapture, the city where the game takes place, 'Big Daddies' are partnered with 'Little Sisters'. Little Sisters are waif-like children who run around jamming needles into people to suck out their Essence. If you capture a Little Sister, you can do the same thing to her. Big Daddies look basically like giant, old-timey diving suits, and they thump around with the little sisters, guarding them while the girls harvest from bodies. It's a very different kind of horror game.

Re: Star Trek. Zachary Quinto, Chad's actor, also played Spock in the recent Star Trek reboot movies. Star Trek was very popular when it first aired so I couldn't resist a little in-joke or two with Thredson. And though Tate's maintaining his non-fan status, I'm beginning to doubt it.

Someone asked me not too long ago whether I was planning to do anything supernatural with this season. With the intro of Billie Dean, the psychic from Season 1, you now have your answer. Yes! There will be some supernatural stuff here and there.

Next episode: Let's explore The System, shall we? The twisted, corrupted, broken system.