The Common Room Showing 1,151-1,200 of 1,208

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

As fond of Jason as Morgan was, she didn't like the darkness in his voice, or the way he called her "little girl", much how she used to hate Raven calling her "sweetheart". Jason knew something, or at least, thought he knew something, and he was practically glowing with his ability to gloat and hold it over her head. And Morgan certainly did not like his laugh, almost full of contempt. The little girl was blissfully unaware of the tempestuous relationship between her father figure and Jason, but even without knowing anything Jason's reaction gave her a pretty good hint. And yet Morgan didn't think about that, because she had decided a long time ago that keeping her smiles and her curiosity and her innocence was a lot better than knowing things. Morgan knit her brows, confused in honesty, and she frowned just a little. She could practically feel the eagerness rolling off of Jason, the eagerness to tell her some secret about her father figure that she didn't know. "What do you mean, "what's really going on"? It's nothing bad, is it?" And Morgan allowed her voice to develop a worried tone, a genuinely worried tone. The last time "something bad" and "Raven" were put into the same sentence, her little family had fallen apart, and her father figure had ended up in the infirmary with bandages on his wrists. Rosemarie always told her that it was for the IVs to enter his bloodstream, but Morgan wasn't dim, and she knew that Raven had done something bad. "Tell me," she all but demanded, not in a stern voice but in a worriedly confused one.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jason was more than happy to oblige. "Your daddy's a bit fucked up in the head right now, is all," he told her, lacing his hands together behind his head and reclining back against the couch. He knew it was lost on Morgan, but all the same, he wanted the casualness of this situation to register: if not with her personally, then at least with the surrounding patients and nurses, or the guards by the door. Surety was not often a luxury he allowed himself to indulge in--people always noticed when their fellows had egos, and the last thing he wanted was to be under everyone's attention--but here and now, he thought it acceptable if not fitting. He was, after all, quite well-versed in the matter they were discussing, and if there was one thing he liked to do it was utilize the extent of his knowledge in ways that would maybe, just maybe, provoke the recipients. Because reactions were analyzable things, analyzable and telling, and he had always thought himself to be a scientist at heart; and besides, there was always the possibility that he was orchestrating something big here today. He liked that thought, too. He liked the power it gave him, and a power-trip was another thing he didn't allow himself very often. He figured he might as well enjoy it.

"Truth be told, Morgan," Jason went on, with that thought in mind, "your daddy's a bit more than fucked in the head right now. In fact, I'd say--and I think I know pretty fucking well--that he's about to go absolutely loco. The signs are all there, and he knows it, but he doesn't like that. So you know what he's doing?" A pause, for dramatic effect, and a grin flashed across Jason's face over the span of the silence. It was gone just as quickly, but it had been there--the only telltale sign of his pleasure in this. "Hiding. He's hiding from you, he's hiding from Rosemarie, he's hiding from his goddamn sister. He's trying to get away from everyone he cares about so he can't hurt them any more than he already has." Again the pause, and this time the silence was filled with laughter: not much, just a quiet chuckle, but there all the same. "Truth is, Morgan, your daddy's scared. Your daddy's very, very scared."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

But Morgan simply didn't get it. Jason was acting as if this was a bad thing. Sure, it wasn't good that he was not doing well (it seemed Jason and just about everyone was a fan of foul language, and Morgan refused to repeat it, even in her own head), and in fact, it was quite worrisome, but it was a good thing that he was trying to protect her, protect Rosemarie, and protect Anna. Jason may have used a word with a negative connotation, but Morgan didn't so much see this as Raven hiding as she did him trying to keep those he cared about safe. And sure, it may have been the same thing, and it may have been her childish naivety putting a positive spin on the situation, but Morgan knew her father (or thought she did, at least), and knew that after he had hurt her once he said he wouldn't do it again, and she wasn't worried about it. And so, with Jason's ambiguous words, and his laughs, and his casual tone, and his smugness, Morgan knit her brows over her eyes, eerily focusing them on Jason, now, and cocked her head to the side. "But why are you laughing? Isn't that a good thing? He's protecting us." And Morgan spoke genuinely. She didn't understand why Jason found this funny, why he seemed absolutely eager to tell her this, to create some sort of volatile reaction, and the more and more she thought about it, the more confused her expression became. "It's a good thing. Why are you acting like this is such a big deal?"

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Because it is a big deal," Jason replied, grinning, and for once he did not have to force enthusiasm into his expression; it was all there, in the wideness of his smile and the brightness of his eyes. "And it's gonna get bigger, little girl. Bombs explode when you put them under pressure. And the longer you hold 'em, the bigger the boom--that's basic science! And that's what's happening to your daddy right now. He's holding it all in, so when he finally cracks--and he will fucking crack, don't you think for a second he won't--it's gonna be huge. That's why I'm acting like this is such a big deal. That, and Powhatan's acting like a goddamn coward over the whole thing. That's part of it too. That's fucking funny as hell." And it was, particularly if you were him and you held a grudge against the Indian in question. Particularly when said Indian walked around like he owned the place. Indeed, Jason was quite smug--and yes, even excited--over the whole thing, Morgan had been quite right about that. He enjoyed the shows much more than he enjoyed the buildup, and from the way Raven was acting (had been acting for weeks, for months) this was going to be a massive show indeed. By now, he just couldn't help his glee at the thought. What was not to love?

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Morgan's frown deepened; she seemed perturbed, almost, and a little unsettled. Jason's words rang true; she wasn't stupid. She knew that the longer something like this was put off, the worse it would be. That was almost a general rule of thumb. But what Morgan didn't agree with was the use of the word "coward". Raven wasn't being a coward, no, not in the slightest. That word was so mean, and cruel, and a harsher way to say he was playing it safe. Perhaps Jason couldn't recognize the fact that Raven had people he carded about that he wanted to keep safe, but Morgan knew he did, and she knew (at least, she hoped) that she was one of them. And so Morgan's brow wrinkled further over her cloudy blue gaze, and yet she very calmly linked her fingers and placed her hands in her lap. "That's not good," she said quietly, almost distractedly, as if she were talking to herself. "It can't get that bad again; bad things will happen." Morgan let out a little sigh, almost a frustrated one, and then returned her attention to Jason. "Why are you so excited to tell me this? I can hear it in your voice." It was true, the blonde sadist was practically jumping up and down with eagerness, like a little puppy that wanted attention. Morgan pursed her lips a little. "What do you want me to do about it?"

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"You?" Jason grinned and shook his head. "I'm not saying you should do anything at all, little girl. It's just--okay, look, here's the thing." He paused a moment, to collect his thoughts, and set his hands on his knees as he sat up, forward, not regarding Morgan but giving her his full attention. How to put this so that she could understand? "Your daddy and I are not on good terms, Morgan," he told her. "He doesn't like me, and I definitely don't like him. He struts around here like he owns this fucking place and thinks he can get away with whatever the hell he wants to. He also happens to think it's fun to torture my girlfriend. So you know what, I don't want you to do anything about it at all. Personally, I'd like to go and beat the living Christ out of the son of a bitch myself." He opened his hands and raised them, palms out, placating. "But I can't do that. I'm short on time and, quite honestly, none of my little toys are up to doing what I'd like to do to him." He shrugged, pursed his lips. He was not at all worried about Morgan taking what he said to heart and freaking out over it--he was a big boy. He could take care of seven-year-olds throwing temper tantrums. Besides, he'd clarified that no matter how much he wanted to he could not--unfortunately--beat the living Christ out of the son of a bitch himself. "So this is my backup plan: watching the little fuck lose his mind. It's not torture, but it's the closest I can get under the circumstances. All I'm saying is that if you want to do something stupid and throw yourself into the warpath, I'm totally okay with it." He chuckled dryly. "And I know Powhatan would be. By now, I'd even say the poor idiot needs it."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

And Morgan frowned a little, though not as if she were agitated at Jason's words. No, she saw the truth in them. She knew that he acted as if the asylum were his, and she knew that he didn't make many friends, and brought mistrustful glares with him wherever he went. And, honestly, Morgan wouldn't have put it past him to home true to what Jason was saying, and for him to torture this girlfriend of the blonde sadist. And that was what perturbed Morgan the most, the fact that she wouldn't put it past her father to do such a vile thing. Even as Jason spoke, Morgan seemed to not exactly be listening, though oftentimes it was hard to tell with her. Off in her head, the little blind girl thought, and wondered, and tried to put together the pieces of Jason's saying he didn't want her to do anything, but he'd be happy to see her do something. What did that mean? He wanted something bad to happen, to her or her father or both? Brows knit over her cloudy blue gaze, and Morgan ran a hand through her curls as she let out a deep sigh and sat up straight, kicking her legs out in front of her. "Thanks for telling me, Jason." Morgan knew she didn't have to thank the sadist; he hasn't tried to hide how eager he had been to tell her that her father had lost his marbles, but it was still the polite thing to do. Morgan even offered a little smile.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Not a problem, little girl." Dark green eyes flicked over Morgan's small form, took note of her knitted brows and pursed lips. A chuckle slipped from between his own, and then a smile shaped them: small, crooked, even dark, and a sure sign that his thoughts were darker. "But then, you knew that, didn't you?" he murmured. "You know a lot of things girls your age don't know. You're a smart cookie, little girl. If you ask me, a bit too smart for your own good." And then he stood, gave the blind child a goodbye pat on the head, and left her to mull over his words. She was a bright child, after all. Bright, but naïve. Innocent. Perhaps she would honor his wishes and do something to prove it.

((Fade?))

[Audie Murphy]

After being shown her room and the cafeteria Loryn was lead to the Common Room as it was apparently free time. She looked around at the people who were spread out in chairs and on the floor. They were all talking and laughing. Loryn felt like the new kid starting school in the middle of the year, she basically was. All these people knew each other, Loryn felt like an outsider.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Felicity, too, was alone here, and seemed out of place, though she herself did not exactly have a reason to be so; well, that in itself is a controversial topic. Felicity wasn't new, and Felicity knew some of the patients in the populated room, which only made it harder for her to sit in this room, full of people she knew that knew her that knew who and what and why she was. Today, Felicity sat in a three-quarter length white shirt, with her typical bandanas tied around her wrists, accompanied by jeans and slippers. Her striking gaze found itself drawn to this strange girl who sat near her, just as alone, just as awkward-seeming, and Felicity realized she had never seen this girl before. She studied the girl for a few moments, deciding that she had definitely never seen this girl before.

[Audie Murphy]

Loryn pulled her long sleeves over her hands. She studied the people around her. They all seemed pretty normal. She noticed a lot of the people were her age. It made her feel better even if they were different than her. Loryn's eyes were drawn to a girl who had bandanas tied around her wrist. She looked alone. Loryn didn't want to go over to her though, she'd seen how the new kids at school were treated and this place wasn't much different from there.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Felicity was not one to start conversations, ever, but the nurses were watching. And with nurses watching you had to do what they wanted to see, so that they thought you were getting better, so that you could go home (although Felicity was convinced "going home" was a myth; she had never seen anyone leave the walls of St. Peter's for good). And so, with a great effort and a glance in the direction of the nurses, who were watching her, Felicity stood, and made her way over towards this new girl. As Felicity neared the girl, she felt a familiar anxiety bubble up in her stomach, and her mouth grew dry, but she bent down anyways, and even managed to utter the words: "Mind if I sit with you?"

[Audie Murphy]

Loryn watched the girl with the bandanas walk over, the girl looked very nervous so there must have been a reason. So instead of refusing her as she might have Loryn instead said, "Go ahead." Loryn's voice was a bit strained from not having used it in the last few days. She had been giving the doctors and her mother the silent treatment. It felt good to speak again, but Loryn didn't really know what to say, so the resorted to a simple, "Hi."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Felicity timidly offered a hand to the girl, habitually tightening and stretching out her bandanas before doing so. She even attempted to offer a small smile. "Hi, I'm Felicity." And that would have been just enough for Felicity, and once the girl had introduced herself she would have left, but again, the nurses. They had watched her walk over, they had seen her smile and initiate conversation, and they themselves had smiles in place and one of them was writing something down on a clipboard. This sort of attitude brought her one step closer to "good behavior", and so Felicity continued: " What's yours? I don't think I've seen you around before."

[Audie Murphy]

Loryn saw the nurses watching, taking notes, and smiling, apparently it was a good thing to talk to other people. She shook the girl's hand, "I'm Loryn, I just arrived today so you wouldn't have seen me before." Loryn replied, she was still wondering about the asylum and how people were treated. They have to be treated pretty well Loryn thought so she decided to ask Felicity, "How's life like here?" It wasn't like Loryn was going to be leaving anytime soon, so she'd better get comfortable.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

I wouldn't know, its not like I ever find myself dying to experience the hell that walks these halls. Felicity thought these things, but didn't say them, because there was no point in ruining what she already had going here. These nurses seemed very pleased already with her minimal conversation, and this Loryn didn't need to know the terrible aspects of St. Peter's. Felicity was sure Loryn would learn these things in due time; who would it hurt to let her enjoy it while she still could? And so, Felicity shrugged. "Its alright, I guess. About as good as a mental institution can get, y'know?" The girl lifted up a hand, carefully keeping an eye on her arm as was habit, and ran that hand through her short brown hair. She even offered a small smile, quick and fleeting. "It has its ups and downs, I guess. Things you should go see. Things you should stay clear of. But I'm sure you'll be fine; most people don't mess with new kids for a while."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

((I'm gonna put a temporary pause on this RP.))

The boy with hair the color of straw and mossy eyes was hardly ever seen out nowadays-- an accident with his pill dosage had landed him in the doctor's office nearly three times a day for the past week, all because he had had one silly dream from a silly mistake from a silly nurse. One less pill than usual, and Weiss woke in a cold sweat, with the stench of dream-blood fresh in his nose. Dream-blood smelled different than real blood, he had learned; real blood was tangy, acrid, and like metal, and belonged on the wrists of sad patients and in the hearts and wishes of scary patients. Dream-blood was like candy, and admitting this made Weiss sound a little more dangerous than he should have been given credit for. Dream-blood smelled sweet, almost sickeningly so, and made shivers run down his spine. And Weiss knew that this dream-blood would always find a way to become real blood. But the doctor had been nice when Weiss admitted this, and simply added yet another pill to the heavy dosage Weiss took daily, though he claimed this one was temporary, and told Weiss to check in for the next few weeks, just to be sure. The doctors always looked at him as if he were some sort of specimen under a piece of glass, an interesting one, a different one. And Weiss didn't like it.

The little boy sat with his eyes closed, and his left hand up in the air on an imaginary fingerboard. The nurses liked it when he ventured from the music room, and so venture he did, but he couldn't exactly bring his cello with him wherever he went, and so airing it had to do. A simple gray long-sleeved shirt and jeans adorned the snowy skin of the boy, and though it was cold outside, the fireplace provided enough warmth. In his head, Weiss heard Bach's cello suites, ones he had played over and over (there really only were so many to play, and there was so much spare time in the asylum), and his hands moved methodically.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jacob had woken up in a hospital bed, and the first thing he had noticed (which had clued him in to his actual surroundings) had been how white everything was. Walls, floors, sheets, shelves, his clothes. There had not been a single spot of color in the room, and the first several minutes of his consciousness had been occupied by the fact that this was odd, and probably shouldn't be. The second thing he had noticed was that he did not remember who he was, and that that probably shouldn't be. And then he had discovered the most frightening "shouldn't be" of all: that he did not know where he was, or how he had gotten there. It had been that thought which made him get up and start moving. The last time he'd woken up in a strange place with no memory of arriving or a personal identity to cling to, he'd found himself in the bare bunker of a concentration camp. Now, the stark white room did not look like the bare bunker of a concentration camp (especially considering the bars on the bed and the curtain which had been pulled around it on all sides, as if to make a private space) but Jacob had learned long ago not to take chances, and so he had sat up slowly, clenched his hands together and tried his best to think.

My name is Jacob, he had remembered (curiously, he could not come up with a surname despite almost a full minute of trying). I think I am twelve years old. I don't know where I am. It might be a hospital. I don't think I'm hurt so I shouldn't be in a hospital. In a few minutes I'm going to look around. If I see anybody I'm going to hide. I won't try to talk to them. And so on and so forth until he had made a concrete plan in his head, and felt calm enough to act on it. He had lowered the bars of the bed with the control near his pillow, swung his legs over the side, and stood. When they supported him, he'd walked to the curtain, pulled it slightly back, and peeked out. He had seen no one, proceeded to one of the bare shelves by the bed, and found a book and a pen there, along with a gold Star of David on a long chain. A quick cursory glance in the cover of the book had confirmed that it was not only his (at least, it had the signature of a Jacob in it) but apparently a journal, and he had spent a minute or two skimming the pages to see if he recognized any of the writing.

He had. Vaguely. There were numerous accounts of a time the writer (himself?) had called Before, comforting and familiar stories about a boy who'd lived in Berlin, German during the 1930's and subsequently met his end in Auschwitz, along with his sister Ellen and parents. That, at least, had made good sense. He knew that life, and after reading a bit of the journal he'd confirmed that yes, it had been his life. That was something. What the journal didn't tell him was where he was, or why he was there, and so Jacob had gone with his original plan and walked (very quietly) around to the door, checking for signs of other people--soldiers, doctors, people in white gowns like him.

He had found nothing. No sign of a single soul. And so, journal and pen tucked under his arm and necklace now on, he had cautiously wandered the halls (as white as the room he'd just left) to see if anything looked familiar or brought up memories. Nothing did, but eventually he had come to a set of double doors leading into what looked to be a warm, cozy sort of living room. There was a little plaque on the wall which probably specified just what kind of room it was, but he'd found himself unable to read it; but, seeing as the room was empty, he thought there was no harm and entering and had tucked himself into a corner behind the couches, so he could read the rest of the journal without having to worry about being spotted and questioned.

He hadn't gotten very far or learned anything new, but that was all right. Until somebody found him, he reasoned, everything would be all right. He had not heard nor seen young Weiss when he walked in the room and took his seat.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

In his head, Suite One was complete, and as Weiss took a moment to search through his brain to find Suite Two, he took account of his surroundings. He realized he had not exactly looked around when he entered the room (he could very easily blame this on the odd new pill the doctor had given him), and instead had migrated almost instantly towards the fire, because it was incredibly cold outside and incredibly warm near the fire. Methodically, his mind ruffled through filing cabinets, and played snippets of various pieces he knew were not Suite Two, all while Weiss scanned the room with his mossy eyes. An empty couch across from him. The metal bars that blocked off the fire in the fireplace. The flickering flames in the candles on the wall. The snow falling outside, seen through the foggy glass windows. A small boy, crouched behind a couch, with his eyes buried into a small book of sorts. Weiss' brain instantly stopped what it had been doing, losing all sorts of progress on finding this cello suite, and instead provided him with curiosity, as well as caution. Weiss wasn't one to start conversations, but, then again, he was just a child, and curiosity was his enemy. Weiss did not get up, but instead lowered his hands slowly, and called out to the boy. "Hello?" he asked, almost hesitantly. He didn't have a good sight of the boy. He didn't know what he looked like, and so he didn't know who he was, and so he didn't know what he could do. Caution was best, he thought, in a situation such as this.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Hallo?" Jacob returned, almost automatically. There, then, was the voice he had been expecting--or perhaps not. It was a young voice, male, like a child's; he had not thought there to be children in this place. He looked up, gray eyes gleaming wary rather than curious, to meet the moss-green gaze of a boy who, indeed, didn't look much older than he. He had a face as unfamiliar as his accent, a crease between his brows, a head of hair yellow and fine as straw. Jacob did not recognize him, no, certainly not. Was he another patient of some kind? He didn't wear a white gown. A solider? A lookout? If so, where was his uniform? He was wearing plain clothes, now that he thought about it. Civilian clothes. So what did that mean? What on earth was going on? Where was he? He still didn't know. The book had not told him. The writing on the plaque outside the door had been in familiar letters, but the language had not been one he had understood. Nothing made any sense; he was so confused! And confusion, of course, was the enemy. A clouded head meant unawareness, and if his resurfacing memories were anything to go by, the last thing he wanted to be was unaware. There was a boy--Peter, he remembered now, his best friend and neighbor Peter Werner--who had taught him that. And so Jacob said nothing more, lest he muddy his own thoughts further. He simply closed the book slowly, set it aside, and watched Weiss with rapt attention: the way small creatures studied potential predators before making the decision to fight or flee.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Weiss was often happy that he took the time to categorize patients in his head. He saw someone, and he learned of them. And that filed somewhere in his filing cabinets, to be pulled out at a different time, and it often served him useful. In this case, Weiss was indeed glad he did this, odd as it may be. By doing this, he recognized the boy, and knew that this young boy with the book and the gray eyes was Jacob Fox. Jacob Fox was Jewish, but that wasn't the interesting part-- the interesting part was that Jacob believed he was dead, and had lived in the time of the Holocaust. And, judging by the current looks of the boy, Jacob did not look quite right in his head. Weiss had seen him once or twice before, but had never really spoken with the boy, except for possibly in passing. And Weiss sort of pursed his lips, and gave another, almost cautious, "Hey." Weiss leaned forward a little bit, his mind almost entirely forgetting the hunt for the cello music. "You're Jacob, right? My name is Weiss." And the blonde boy extended a hand, hesitantly, because this boy seemed a little more than jumpy.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

A confused, almost startled expression flashed over Jacob's face as the boy in the civilian's clothing said his name and stretched out a hand. How on earth did he know it, if he was a stranger? More importantly, what language was he speaking? Why did it sound so terribly familiar to him, like he'd known it long ago and had forgotten, over the years, how to shape the words? Where was he? Where was he? Where was he? The words pounded like a drumbeat in his head, over and over and over. He didn't know. He had absolutely no idea. And what was more? No matter how hard he wracked his brain for the words to the language this Weiss clearly spoke--he knew they were there, he knew they were, he could feel them!--none would come to his tongue. When he opened his mouth, only German came out. "Ich weiß nicht wo ich bin," he said softly. "Aber ich kann Sie verstehen. Können Sie mir helfen?" And he knew with crushing, despairing certainty that even if this Weiss could help him, he would not understand. Something--he didn't know what, but something--told him that the towheaded boy on the couch did not know German. Jacob felt a weight drop into his stomach, heavy as lead, and a sickening sense of helplessness came over him. He was going to have a very, very hard time here if he couldn't remember at least something. And who knew? This place was unfalteringly, life-threateningly dangerous as far as he was aware. If he couldn't dredge something up soon...he did not want to think about what could happen to him.

(("I don't know where I am. But I can understand you. Can you help me?"))

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Weiss definitely did not speak German, and everything he knew about Jacob and the people of the asylum was not enough to inform him that this kid spoke German. His mind flashed towards Phoenix, whom he had spoken to once, and who also spoke German, he had thought, but the two sounded so different, and it wasn't as if he had learned anything from Phoenix in their short conversation. Weiss' eyes went wide, a little, and he returned his hand to his lap, and almost nervously his fingers began fingering through some concerto that he knew he would remember if he stopped to think about it. But he didn't want to stop and think about it, no, as scared as he was that he couldn't understand Jacob, he was just as curious as to why this kid was in New England speaking German. Almost everyone in the asylum spoke some form of English, and Weiss couldn't believe that this kid didn't. He knit his brows together, and leaned forward, not yet getting off of the couch but seating himself a little closer to the the boy. "Okay... so clearly, there's some kind of language barrier going on here." Weiss spoke slowly, because this boy, this Jacob, seemed terrified, out of his element, helpless, almost. "So I don't... really... know how this is going to work, but you seem kind of scared. Is everything okay?" Weiss didn't know why he was asking a question, because he knew that Jacob wouldn't answer in a language he understood, let alone even understand what he had said, but Weiss didn't really know what else to do. His fingers moved nervously, completely out of habit.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Ich weiß nicht wo ich bin," Jacob repeated. "Es tut mir leid, es ist nur--ich weiß nicht--" He shook his head helplessly, raising both hands as though he were afraid Weiss would be angry with him and he wanted to ward off a blow. "Es tut mir leid," he said again. "Ich weiß dass ich weiß seine Sprache, aber ich kann mich nicht erinnern." Again the shake of the head, and Jacob shot the boy a pleading glance. "Bitte," he said, almost a whisper. "Weißt du wo wir sind? Können Sie mir sagen? Sie können es in Ihrer Sprache zu sagen. Ich werde es verstehen. Vielleicht wird es mir helfen zu erinnern." But though his mouth pleaded, and his eyes pleaded, he could see just as easily that Weiss did not understand. He could see the concern and the fear in his eyes--he knew what to do just as much as he himself did. Yes, yes indeed, they had a problem. They had a very big problem. Jacob tried his best not to let fear creep back into his mind. Fear, after all, was the mind-killer. He would figure something out. Eventually this boy, understanding or not, would let something slip, and that would clue him in. He would get some idea, some spark to bring the memories. It would happen. Wouldn't it?

(("I don't know where I am. I'm sorry, it's just--I don't know--"/"I'm sorry. I know that I know your language, but I can't remember."/"Please. Do you know where we are? Can you tell me? You can say it in your language. I'll understand. Maybe it will help me to remember."))

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

"Woah, woah, woah." And Weiss held his hands up, because his mind was reeling, because there were so many sounds strung together to make words that this boy understood but that Weiss himself didn't. And Weiss shook his head. "Talk a little less," he said, almost pleading, but then realized he himself had been doing a lot of talking, and that was a very hypocritical thing for him to say. And so Weiss wracked his brain for something, anything, any way at all to converse with this boy. And as he knit his brows, he thought an idea, a curious idea, that he didn't know would work. "Can you write in English?" Weiss moved his right hand (right because his left was still tapping anxiously notes and music and rhythms) gestured in the air as if he were writing, and then pointed to his own lips, hoping that this Jacob understood his gestures, because he had no idea Jacob could understand what he was saying. "What am I doing, if you can't speak English you sure as hell can't write in it." Weiss sighed, and shook his head. "I don't know, Jacob. I don't know what's wrong with you, and I don't know how to even ask what's wrong with you, or how to help you."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

English. As soon as he heard the word Jacob felt a memory surfacing, felt something click into place: English. That was the language this Weiss was speaking, and he understood it perfectly well, which meant...he wasn't in Berlin, Germany, was he? Or even a complex of Auschwitz. The writer of the journal (and he still could not shake the idea that it was he himself) had made sure to specify early on that its subject, the Jacob of Before, did not know any other language besides German. As if he had anticipated a loss of memory, somehow. Almost as if it had happened before. Unconsciously Jacob began to pinch and rub the Star of David between his thumb and forefinger, blond brows knitting together. If this had happened before--if it had been anticipated--surely there had to be something around that would help him remember properly, right? Someone who knew, who could help him? He glanced down at the journal in his lap, back at Weiss. He was comfortable here, not frightened or panicked. He wore civilian clothes like this was a completely normal place to be. As though there was in fact nothing to be scared of. As though knowing this might have been a hospital, but it was not a bad hospital. The young boy took a moment to collect his thoughts. He reminded himself that he knew how to speak English perfectly well, as well as he knew German. And eventually, the words came. In starts and stops, but they came. "I...I'm confused. I need...help...a little. Do you know...where we are?"

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

And Weiss' eyes grew wide, because this boy who had previously seemed to have understood absolutely nothing about the English language now spoke to him with words that finally made sense, words that were English, unless Weiss himself had suddenly undergone some miraculous transition so he now spoke German, which Weiss found just about as likely as you would expect it to be. And it took Weiss a few moments to comprehend that this boy (this strange, strange boy) was speaking English now, but then Weiss realized he had been asked a question. "Oh, where are we? That's easy. This is St. Peter's." When those words received little recognition at first, Weiss added on: "Its an insane asylum, essentially." Odd. As many people as Weiss had spoken to, and as many files as he had read through, he didn't recall any of these patients not knowing where they were, or having a form of dementia of any kind. And he knew Jacob wasn't knew (which would have been his first question to follow), because he remembered seeing him in the halls before, in passing. And so the boy with hair the color of straw and eyes like moss knit pale brows over those very eyes, and cocked his head to the side. "Do you not know where you are, Jacob?"

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

An insane asylum? What on earth was he doing in an insane asylum? He wasn't crazy, just confused! Surely they didn't lock people up for being confused nowadays...did they? Again, Jacob hit a mental wall, a blank space in his memory. He just didn't know. He still didn't know what country they were in, or even what time period. He just knew that it wasn't Germany and it probably wasn't the 1930's or 40's, and that wasn't saying much. "I'm confused," he repeated, more confidently. Those were definitely the words he wanted, that conveyed what he was feeling. Ich bin verwirrt were the German, and I'm confused were the English. "Don't know what...happened." He stumbled a little over the past tense, gray eyes going dark with concentration as he fought to bring English words back to the forefront of his mind. "I...woke up...in a bed. Hospital bed...everything was white." He looked at Weiss, picked at his gown with his free hand for emphasis. "Not my clothes," he told him. "And I don't know what happened. Not hurt." Though Jacob knew something about his speech was off (and not just the pauses in between words as he tried to remember translations in his mind) he couldn't quite put his finger on it. In German, after all, personal pronouns could be used at will. The conjugation of the verb took care of identifying the subject on its own; they weren't necessary. At the moment, he hadn't quite made the distinction between that and English, were they were. He only knew something was missing--and, at a thought, resolved not to worry about it too much. He shifted his gaze back to Weiss. "Do you know?" he asked. "Why? What happened?"

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Well, this was far too much for Weiss to handle. Weiss wasn't the all-knowing seer of St. Peter's, he didn't know everything about every patient; as much as he liked to think he did, he didn't. Weiss was just a little boy, in here for about as good of reasons as everybody else was, and he could consider himself just as confused as this Jacob sitting across from him. He didn't exactly understand the boy's question. What happened? Did Jacob not know why he was in here? Or perhaps he did, and he was playing some sick game? Or perhaps he was having some kind of fit? God, Weiss didn't know, and the boy with the pale hair and the dark eyes shook his head slightly, and then offered Jacob a shrug. "Look, I don't know what you mean. As long as I've been here, you've been here, I think. Longer, probably, since you were here before I was. I know your name is Jacob Fox. I know you're... Jewish, I think. You're in here for some kind of delusion... again, I think." Weiss shrugged, looking a little out of place, a little lost, a little worried, maybe even a little upset. "Um, what else can I tell you... I'm pretty sure we're in New England? I don't know, nobody ever seems to talk about it. It's, like, January. That's all I know. Honestly."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jacob took a moment to record these facts in the journal, on a fresh page, sounding them out carefully to make sure he spelled everything right before putting German translations off to the side. Just in case he found himself lost again. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all, and he wanted to be anything but sorry. Sorry and confused. Still, he seemed to realize that enough was enough (the helpless concern and confusion on Weiss's own face were fantastic indicators) and so he closed the book, pulled his knees up to his chest, and did his best to think about something else to say to make both of them feel better. When a minute or two of thought brought nothing, he sighed and shook his head a little. "Sorry," he said, giving Weiss a truly apologetic look. "Didn't mean to...bother you. Sorry." And, further assuming that his presence would continue to make things worse rather than better, Jacob stood, picked up his notebook, and slid out from behind the couch. He glanced back at Weiss as he made for the door, a split-second hesitation as he wondered if he really ought to leave the safe confines of this warm room, but just that little look back into Weiss's darkened eyes told him yes. Perhaps he would be able to find help elsewhere. If this really was an asylum, maybe he would run into a nurse who could fill in the gaps and tell him just what was going on. He didn't want to trouble this poor boy anymore. Before he left, he murmured a quiet "thank you" and gave a little smile, to show that he did appreciate his fellow's attempts to help, and then he headed carefully out the door.

((Fade?))

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

St. Peter’s was not a place known for violent arrivals, but Yvonne Dubois was never really one to follow the norms and expectations.

“Lâchez-moi! Je ne appartiens pas ici, vous les bâtards! Vous savez que!” she shrieked, her words flowing fast and almost unintelligible, and yet nonetheless easily heard from outside the doors of the asylum. Her screaming, her impossible French was accompanied by the slamming of a car door, and then the muffled voices of some men were heard. Footsteps joined the cacophony of chaos.

Yvonne Aimée Dubois could indeed be considered a beautiful woman, but that was rather hard to decipher at this current moment in time, as the sliding glass doors from the asylum’s exterior opened and she was all but dragged in, hair a rat’s nest, eyes narrowed into slits, and full lips wide with shrieks, and screams, and expletives. With a man on either arm, she looked truly feral, and when one of the men said, “Just calm down, Miss Dubois,” in a rather gruff voice, Yvonne physically bared her teeth and looked like little more than a rabid animal.

“ Je me calme? Vous voulez que je me calme?! Comment putain stupide êtes-vous? Je ne vais pas très clairement de se calmer! Vous idiots!” And Yvonne began thrashing again, kicking out, shaking her arms to try and thrust off the men, and actually managed to kick one of them, who then doubled over and yet didn’t seem to loosen his grip on her upper arm. The guards shared a look, and then the one who hadn’t been kicked reached over to take hold of both of Yvonne’s arms, standing behind her, and the other guard went further inside the asylum. Yvonne began to kick again, and so the one remaining guard lifted her up off of the ground and carried her over to the couch.

“Now, Miss Dubois,” the guard began to say, “He’s going to go get your things, and then we’re going to move you—“

“ Taisez-vous! Juste taire l'enfer! Je ne veux pas entendre tout ce qui merde sage, vous pensez que vous avez à me dire, d'accord?” Yvonne yelled, but she stopped kicking, and rolled her eyes as she continued. “ Laisse-moi tranquille. Je sais que vous allez rester ici de toute façon, mais juste de me lâcher et ne me dérange pas? Pouvez-vous faire un type chose pour moi?”

The guard, who clearly didn’t understand the language in which Yvonne was berating him, arched a single eyebrow and didn’t move as she had requested, and so Yvonne once again rolled her eyes and let out a sigh filled with absolutely the most sarcasm possible. “Will you let go of me? I probably have some fucking nasty bruises on my arms because of you two. I’ll sit here, and I’ll behave,” she added on when she saw the skepticism in the guard’s expression, “But only if you let me just sit here. Even Yvonne’s English was fairly hard to understand, because of how thick her accent was, but the guard did understand this, and as he slowly let go of Yvonne, he took a moment to go lock the doors that led to outside the asylum, and then returned to stand behind her.

Finally released, Yvonne reached a hand up to her upper arm, which she was honestly convinced would be black and blue by morning, and let out a rather agitated sigh before running her hands through her hair. Her sea-green eyes then landed on the man sitting across from her, who was indeed watching, and she herself arched an eyebrow. She cocked her head to the side, narrowed her eyes into little tiny slits, and almost cooed, “What are you looking at, enfoiré?”

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

And when the girl, blonde hair in disarray and anger rampant in her eyes, turned her gaze to him and gave a look fit to kill, Raven cocked his own head to one side and returned with a smile. "Why hello there," he said softly, air-light and pleasant as could be. "That was quite an entrance you made. May I say I'm impressed?" The girl--he christened her Wildeye in his head--pulled her lips back from her teeth and glowered at him, looking as though she couldn't decide whether to say something else or just growl. He went on before she could make up her mind, smile and tone just barely enough to draw attention from the glint in his eyes. "They bring most of them in dazed and limp as dolls, you know. We haven't had a screecher since my sister was enrolled, and that was...oh, six months ago? More? Do you remember that, Stefan?" Bright eyes turned to the guard at Yvonne's back to hide the mocking sarcasm that so desperately wanted to escape. Dear Stefan only gave him an impassive stare, of course, but it was enough so that Raven could turn back to the new patient without ruining his game. Crazy little kit, he thought at her, so his amusement wouldn't show. I saw the way you kicked that guard. That's a big no-no on the first day, haven't you heard? You're going straight to the watch lists, and I don't even know your name. Raven is mine, not that you care...but you'd do well to remember. It's an honor, sweetheart. An honor indeed.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

This boy (she couldn’t call him a kid, because he seemed to be about the same age as her, but boy, did she want to think of him as a petty little kid already) spoke so smugly, and had this sickening little smile on his face that instantly rubbed Yvonne the wrong way, and she was already irritated, as it was. “Non, désolé, vous ne pouvez pas dire cela. En fait, la bonne réponse à ma question aurait été pas du tout. Mais, de toute évidence, vous êtes beaucoup trop plein de vous-même pour permettre que cela se produise, je ai raison, baiseur?” Yvonne’s voice began quiet, a little controlled, and as she spoke it elevated in volume until it was harsh, and clearly uninviting by the curse at the end of her little speech. She kicked one leg over the other, which brought a small reaction initially out of the guard behind her, who this boy sitting across from her seemed to know as Stefan, and crossed her arms over her chest before once again arching an eyebrow towards the Indian boy who sat across from her, this soul who had happened upon her at the wrong time indeed, and spoke again, once again retaining the quiet control in her voice. “Maintenant, ma question à vous, trou du cul, ce est combien de mon langage savez-vous? Puis-je vous réprimander encore et encore sans vous connaître, ou devrais-je être un peu plus prudent avec mes mots de choix?” And she laughed, a little chuckle, and a smirk came across her expression, and she leaned forwards, elbows on thighs and chin upon her hands, arched brows, and an expression that simply read, I’m waiting.

[They're a little off because I put them back into google translate but it's basically the same thing.

No, sorry, you can not say that. In fact, the answer to my question was not at all. But, obviously, you're much too full of yourself to allow that to happen, am I right, fucker?

Now my question to you, asshole, is how much of my language do you know? Can I rebuke you again and again without you knowing, or should I be a little more careful with my words ?]of choice?

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Honey. Sweetheart." Raven tipped himself forward, mirroring Yvonne as he put his elbows on his knees and set his head in his hands. His smile was back, sweet as saccharine and just as sickening. "We're in Maine. United States, yeah? Northeast? If you're going to speak another language, at least humor geographical normality and make it Germanic, won't you? We have a German or two running around here. I could at least get a translator." And then he chuckled, a smooth, rolling sound that betrayed nothing but derisive amusement. She was a fiery one, wasn't she? Angry and sharp and full to bursting with self-righteous ire. Well, that was all right with him. He had a little catching up to do after the months and months he had spent wrapped in depression's tight gray shroud, and there was no reason he couldn't make a saucy little French girl into his appetizer. Just a look at Stefan showed that he wouldn't mind--he was tense and coiled like a spring, face passive, but he'd been on the Indian's watch so often he was as easy to read as an open book--and Wildeye certainly would. That primed the playing field in his favor. Even if he did have to spend the whole game in a stilted, dual-language conversation with a girl who was, for all he knew, just spewing insults at him and everything he cared about, it would still be a nice little refresher. A primer, even, for all the work to be done now that he was getting settled back in his own skin. New patients were always good for that.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

"Excusez-moi?" Sharp, quick, and agitated. In an instant, Yvonne sat up, back in near perfect posture, yet another quick motion that brought a reaction out of this Stefan who sat behind her. But Yvonne didn't move to lunge at this boy, this pompous bastard who sat before her, at least not yet. No, instead her gaze narrowed into little slits once again, and yet she sat back with her hands folded in her lap (tightly folded, and she could feel nails digging into the tops of her hands, but folded nonetheless). But when she spoke, she was anything but calm. "Who do you think you are, salaud écœurante, that you think its okay to call me honey and sweetheart?" Her accent was so thick that it was hard enough to understand, but the low dynamic of her voice and the sheer irritation that ruled her tone made it harder and harder to understand her by the second. "I am none of those things to you, connard, and you should be thanking the lucky stars that Stefan here isn't going to allow me to go after you. Isn't that right, Stefan?" And Yvonne turned where she sat, to give a smile just as sickeningly saccharine as Raven's to the guard who stood behind her, who gave no reaction

(my, he was a good one, wasn't he? how difficult it must have been to remain so emotionless with this screaming French woman but maybe this screaming French woman wasn't so intimidating after all?)

before she turned around to meet Raven's eyes again. "If you call me either of those things again you will live to regret it, mon ami."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Nihi uha tla untsida hawinaditlá nihi ugeyudi usdi asgoli, tsunadadatlutugi," Raven said pleasantly. Two could play the langauge game. "Hnadága nihi? Ayá tlayeli golisdi nihi, tsunagi wesági. Ayá tlasgo kanegá gawonihisdi. Yinigádána, nihi tlasgo kanegá akuatseli, nasgi igánisisgi igáwadelegi agataháa atsinukowisgá osani. Gotláhisodi?" And Wildeye's look of pure irritation was the most gratifying thing he'd seen all day. It takes two to tango, sweetheart, the Indian thought smugly, and then he gave Yvonne a charmed smile. "Now," he said, not once losing the soft amiability with which he had spoken before, "I appreciate the little show you're putting on for me, really I do, but I have to tell you it's getting very stale very fast. I stopped being afraid of little girls with big mouths a long time ago, sweetheart, and believe me when I say it doesn't help that you're too much of a coward to insult me on an even field." He grinned, as though sharing some private joke, and then extended one hand. "I think it would behoove both of us to start over, hmmm? This is no way to have a conversation. My name is Raven. I've been here for a little while, both watching you and not. Who are you, pray tell me, and why on earth are you making such a fuss?"

(("You have no brain in your lovely little head, sweetheart. Do you? I can't understand you, as I have said before. I don't know your language. However, you don't know mine, therefore everything turns out fine. Right?"))

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Yvonne frowned, and her eyes narrowed once again into little slits, and she eyed Raven's hand, stretched out before her like some form of a mock peace offering. She hated it, she hated this boy across from her, and she hated this damn asylum she was "lucky enough to find herself in", to quote her mother, whom she had spoken to on the phone before she left the hospital. Her mother didn't know, her mother didn't get it, and that made her angry too. And maybe a little sad, but mostly angry.

Yvonne let out a loud stream of air, the key sound of agitation, and extended her own hand, taking Raven's in hers, giving it a delicate shake, and then dropping it just as quickly. She raised her eyes to his, not afraid as so many are when they look into those black pits, no, not afraid at all. " My name is Yvonne," she said, her accent thick and her words a little quieter than before. "And I'd really rather not get into why I'm "making such a fuss", as you so delicately put it."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Ahh." Raven made the sound a low gasp, as if Yvonne's words had physically hurt him. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm wounded. You spent ten minutes spewing French curses at me, calm down just enough to tell me your name, and then cut the talk there? What kind of reward is that? I've been a patient man. I don't take well to fruitless labors." Those glaring sea-green eyes narrowed further when he said that, but Raven couldn't help all the rotten honey dripping from his words; he simply couldn't. This Yvonne Dubois was a regular catch, a very fine catch, if he did say so himself. There was a bite to her that wasn't present in many of the other patients here, and if there was one thing Raven had missed over the past seasons, it was showing the biters that he bit hardest. He liked the challenge of it, the rush that came from the dash-block-parry of mind games, how elated the wins used to make him feel. He hadn't felt true happiness--true pleasure--in a very long time, and he had to admit, he missed it. He missed it very much. And so now he smiled at the calming French girl, smiled amiably and with his teeth as if there was nothing at all on his mind, as though he was simply reminiscing a little about the language duel which had just occurred. For now, there was nothing inherently threatening about his gaze or grin or posture. No; now, the Indian was simply waiting.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Agitation became very apparent once again, and while Yvonne was indeed visibly calming she still seemed rather angry, rather irritated, and certainly there was no sort of warmth directed towards Raven. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, and when she spoke again, she spoke calmly: "Voulez-vous que je continuer à parler français à vous, hein? Parce que je peut certainement, et il peut certainement être beaucoup plus méchant." And Yvonne leaned back in her seat, turning at the same time so as to kick one leg up over the other, and she then finally looked at Raven. Dark skinned, dark haired, dark eyed, dark souled. All of these were very true, and very clear, and Yvonne instantly became aware of the type of person she was dealing with, most definitely not one she would have liked to deal with, per se. One who thought very highly of himself, one who believed he was the center of the world, the ruler, one who saw sheer bullying as some little game. Yvonne had known these types of men before-- hell, she had fended them off of her brother for years. She knew how to handle them; she had bested them in the past and she would happily do so again. And so it was with an arched brow that Yvonne spoke again, not suspicious, but amused, a similar expression to Raven's. "Isn't a girl allowed her privacy? Tsk tsk," she said, a little smile growing, her mood shifting rapidly from the defensive anger to a playful one, a shift which should have alerted Stefan but indeed did not.

Yvonne rolled her eyes, and flipped her hair over her shoulder, and then shook her head with a little grin. "But nonetheless, I can sense you are the type of person who will not be happy unless I tell you, non? And so I will, then, if it will quiet you. Essentially, I have a medical brain issue. I could bore you with the medical jargon I've heard for the past few weeks, but in short, my brain is swelling and I could die any day because of it." With a little smirk, Yvonne once again held out her hand. "Hello, then, Raven, my name is Yvonne Dubois, and now you know my story."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"And it's a lovely little story indeed," the Indian purred, ever the gentleman, reaching out and clasping Yvonne's hand firmly in his own. Hers was a slim hand, slight and pale; he had the thought that it wouldn't take much to crush it. Was she as fierce as she first appeared, this mercurial Frenchwoman? What would she do if he decided to up the ante, take her up on her threats and barbed smiles? He could not help but wonder. Still, Raven was a cautious man, a careful man; and he was by no means a slave to impulse. He could play this little game a while longer, just to see where this Yvonne truly stood. Perhaps later he could test his curiosity.

Perhaps now it was time to adjust his tone.

He smiled for her: a pretty smile for a pretty girl, said his eyes. The expression on his face was one of wry amusement. "You're going to want a little tit-for-tat, aren't you, sweetheart? I can see it in your eyes. And I'm feeling generous today, so you know what? I'll play along. My name is Raven, as you already know--and my story is just a little bit...ah, juicier, shall we say. You see, Yvonne, I'm one famous little birdie around here. There isn't a soul in this place who doesn't know my name"--and not a soul in this place who doesn't fear it--"and I am, to be a bit cliché, well-known for all the wrong reasons." He offered her a gleaming grin, teeth flashing in tandem with some unnamable emotion in his eyes; jaunty, yes, but perhaps a little too much given the situation. Indeed, there was just a hint of danger hiding behind the sadist's teeth, and if Yvonne was as sharp as she seemed, she would see it. It was not a threat; it was a test. "I'm easily bored and easier entertained," Raven explained, voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial pitch. His eyes were glittering, not entirely in show, black and bright and avid. "And this lovely little madhouse...well. Let's just say I've made the best of what I have, hmm? You see, Mademoiselle Dubois..." A pause, for effect, for the thrill of the thing. "I like nothing more than to turn prison into playground. I haven't been here three years and I have a bigger legend than those that have been here for ten. Ask Stefan--ask anyone. They'll tell you." Nothing soothes the savage beast.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

A look of sheer disgust crossed Yvonne's features; while the ferocity and fire remained in her eyes and upon her pointed tongue, she seemed a little more relaxed; perhaps conversation had calmed her, perhaps she had calmed herself, or more likely, perhaps the sedatives given to her not too long ago finally began to set in. But the anger from a minute before became skepticism, irritation, wryness, and Yvonne very nearly rolled her eyes. "So, Monsieur Big-Shot, you must be pretty hot shit around here, then." Every word was dripping with that same wryness, that same sarcasm, that same sort of humor. "But let me tell you something, mon ami," Yvonne continued, and when she did, she leaned forward, so that her elbows rested upon her knees and her chin upon her hands, and her pale gaze looked directly into Raven's without a second thought or hesitation. "You don't, and will not, intimidate me. You don't scare me, okay? So cut the horror stories and talk to me like a civil human being, or I can have Stefan here give me a few more pills and take me to my room. But I'm not going to sit here and be bullied by vous."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Bullied?" Raven's dark brows shot up, and he gave Yvonne a look that was almost hurt, almost offended. "You think I'm trying to bully you? Spirits, no, sweetheart! I'm just trying to lighten the mood. What, is this not funny anymore? Hmm?" And in an instant his voice dropped low, to something all too close to a growl, as though Yvonne had indeed crossed a line or two--as if she had indeed upset him. "Have I failed to entertain you?" He gave her a look that could have curdled milk, a fierce, almost savage thing: eyes gleaming darkly, lips pulling ever-so-slightly back to show the tips of his teeth. Then he snapped his mouth shut irritably and gave his head an agitated shake, stirring dark hair and sweeping it impatiently out of the way with one hand. "That's a shame," he said, in a moment amiable and quiet again. He sat back comfortably in his chair, all the aggravation that had been in his expression melting away to the caricature of tranquility. He smiled: easy, light, and wide. The sure smile of a confident man who knew just when to fold 'em, when to pull another card and a different trick. "I do my best, you know. To make people's lives around here a bit more...entertaining. If I don't do it, who else is going to?" He raised his eyebrows at her in question, then his hands, then his shoulders in a shrug. "No one, that's who. So then you get me. And I'm still trying to perfect my technique, if you know what I mean. Forgive me."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Yvonne's expression didn't change; if anything it grew more skeptical, more... concerned wasn't the right word, exactly, but it was close enough. This man is crazy, she thought to herself as she looked at him, really looked at him, this feral man across from her. He's crazy and he seems to scare the shit out of everyone here. I'm in a house full of crazy people. I'm not crazy. I don't belong here. The words she had screamed to Stefan and his little friend for the entire ride to the asylum ran like a broken record in her mind: I'm not crazy. I don't belong here. Although now, after meeting the notorious Raven Adair, Yvonne began to think this not for her own sanity, but for her own safety. There was no way on earth she could be safe here, none at all.

But she could play along, that was for sure.

"I'm not quite sure if I can forgive you, Monsieur, you see, where I come from this type of thing is handled very differently than it seems to be in here. And so pardone-moi if I'm not feeling very apt to forgiving a man who is one minute snarling at me like a rabid dog and the next smiling with the sweetest smile." Yvonne reached up a hand, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and shook her head. "Sorry, mon cheri, the sedatives have kicked in and I am suddenly much less fun than I was a few moments ago."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Ohoho, Quicksilver doesn't like the taste of her own medicine!" Raven chuckled, a low, genuinely amused sound, flashing his teeth in a grin. "Oh, is that so. Is that so. Well then, dear Miss Dubois. I'm sorry to say

(not so sorry at all, you stupid cocksure bitch)

you're going to have one hell of a time adapting to this place. Pun just maybe intended." He raised one eyebrow, lips twitching at the corners as though he could barely resist grinning again at the words, could barely resist keeping a permanent, toothy smile glued to his face. In all honesty, that wasn't too far off. The Indian was having a rather hard time not smiling, keeping his expression light enough to mold at the flick of a finger. He liked this Yvonne Dubois, that was the thing, that was the simple thing; and when he liked things he smiled. The more fun he was having, the more teeth he showed, and he was certainly enjoying himself now--yes, even with two guards posted nearby, even with Stefan shooting him occasional glances out of the corner of eyes the color of stardust. Wildeye was proving to be very worth his time. He was getting just the effects he wanted. To smile was almost instinct.

In the end, it took effort to control himself...but control himself Raven did. He did not smile again. He just looked at the young blonde Frenchwoman from beneath wryly arched brows, and he said, "You're going to have to get used to swallowing, sweetheart. You just are. That's how things work around here. Some of us patients aren't very happy fellows"--don't I know it--"and sometimes, when we get to ticking, we force spoons down each other's throats. For a bit of relief, you see. For just a little bit of gratification. Take your medicine, that's what the nurses say around here, and sometimes we say it too." He looked at her. His eyes were dark with knowing and some obscure, long-sheltered promise. "We have to, you know. For the audience. For the game."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Yvonne felt the effects of the sedatives; she felt her heartbeat slowing, she found it easier to breathe, tension released from her muscles, and the pressure in her head subsided a little bit. Yvonne took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, and all at once felt more relaxed. Which did her absolutely no good in this situation. When talking to Raven Adair, one did not want to be relaxed, one wanted to be alert, and wary, and yet what did Yvonne know? She was just some poor French girl with a medical disorder that could cause an aneurysm and end her life at any moment, who was set into this unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar people and inhumane morals. And now that she was calmed down, Yvonne realized how difficult it truly would be for her to be here and not get her head kicked in. She had hardly made it through Raven's little game here, she thought, and how many worse things laid inside the asylum's doors?

And then it hit Yvonne, it hit her hard, and she thought she found a way to keep herself safe. To bide her time. To not end up dead in a closet thanks to psychopaths like this Indian in front of her. "It would seem as if I have a lot to learn about this place then, non?" Her voice grew low, soft, and saccharine, and she even allowed a little smile to grace her features. "I clearly don't know what I'm doing in here, and I'd rather like to keep myself out of harms way. What do you say we strike a little deal?" Yvonne leaned back where she sat on the couch, and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "I'll play this little game with you. I'll let you have your fun, in exchange for you teaching me how things work around here, keeping me safe, and all that jazz. How does that sound to you, mon cheri?"

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Raven laughed. Not his usual brief, barking laugh, nor the loud and mocking sound so very reminiscent of broken church bells, a choir of velvet-voiced demons; nor even the satisfied chuckle that frequented his lips when he was pleased, the smooth and rolling thing that often served to scare, amuse, and reassure all at once. No, this was not any of those. This was a howl, a full-blown belly laugh that made its way up from deep inside his lungs and pealed out from his lips in a great burst of sound. He saw Stefan shoot him a wary look, a warning look, out of the corner of his eye, but paid him no mind; he saw the expression on the second guard's face deepen, darken, become grim like a brewing storm, and paid him no mind, either. No, in that moment, Raven had eyes only for Yvonne. Only for dark-eyed, lithe, little-dancer Yvonne, the girl whose muscles were lax with sedatives and whose voice was low and sweet with promise. She had smiled for him. Good God, the empty-headed little doll had smiled for him! It took all of Raven's will not to smack her on the wrist right then and there, not to smirk and chide her for being such a stupid, stupid child, thinking that it all would turn out all right if she only coddled and purred and offered up pretty words like they could sway him, because pretty boys needed pretty things.

It took all of his will--but Raven did it.

He looked at her, smile flickering at the edges of his lips like a dancing candle flame. The white of his teeth flashed here and there like little stars, and the look in his eyes was one of guile. "How does that sound to me?" he repeated, voice just as soft and innocuous as hers. "How does that sound to me, Yvonne? Well. I guess that would depend on just what you're offering, wouldn't it?" He paused and leaned forward, eyes bright, to look at her. He might not have intimidated this newest addition to their ranks--he might not have frightened her, even--but if there was one thing that he did do, without doubt, it was concern her. Just a little. He could see it in her eyes.

And he played it up for all it was worth.

"Please, tell me, sweetheart. You've made me so dreadfully curious. You want a bodyguard. Better, you want an outright mentor. And your prospective employee wants to know: what's my pay?"

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Yvonne sighed, a loud, rather exasperated sigh, and though the bottled serenity ran through her veins she felt herself growing irritated once again, and took a couple of shallow breaths, and then brought her pale eyes to Raven's with a look that mimicked disgust. She stuck her hands up in the air and offered a shrug, a look of helplessness. "God, I don't know? I don't know how these things work, I don't know what you psychopaths are into." And she didn't want to, she thought to herself, as she looked at this man across from her, this sad, empty man, with the booming laughter juxtaposed against this strange look of... emptiness. He didn't seem happy-- well, that's not true, he seemed pretty fucking entertained right about now, and pretty pleased with himself, but something about him, about their conversation, told her that he wasn't always like that, that he had his moments of down, as everyone did. But that wasn't the situation at hand, that wasn't the current issue here, and it could wait for a later day.

"Clearly," she said, allowing a small, coy smile to take place, "You're prepared to do this, as long as I set the right price. So allow me to ask you, mon chéri, what would I have to offer up to gain this kind of protection? Help a poor new girl out, would you?" And she gave him the sweetest look, the softest smile, and placed her elbows upon her knees and her chin on her palms, looking at the Indian across from her, almost endearingly.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Raven was annoyed. He was not interested in giving up the game and he was much too good at playing to show that he was annoyed, but in that moment, it was definitely true. Yvonne's look was like an itch; the forced sugar in her smile and the faux softness in her eyes made him want to curl his lip. To think, she thought she could play him! She thought he was easy, she thought he was shallow, she thought he was as simply bought as the bottle of pills that had been forced on her when she'd come in. She thought--

Oh, dear.

Little-dancer Yvonne thought he was stupid.

And Raven, oh, Raven did not like that. He did not like being thought a fool. He did not like being thought a merchant, a vapid, arrogant pretty boy with a prettier smirk who was willing to give up anything the buyer wanted as long as they set the right price. And that was just what Yvonne thought of him. She'd said the words herself: you're prepared to do this. Like she knew, like she could read him. Like she had something to gain, and by making it seem like he did, too, she could just part her lips and bat her lashes and have him in her lap. That was exactly what she thought--worse, she expected nothing less.

And now Raven was not annoyed. He was angry. No, he was downright furious. "You think," he began, with his voice gone low, dangerous low, purring-low, low enough so that Stefan, his friend, and even Yvonne had to lean forward slightly just to hear him, "that you can buy me. Not pay me. Buy me. Like a gift. A service. A weapon upgrade in a video game." He tilted his head slightly to one side, as though he couldn't quite understand the words coming out of his own mouth; like the thought of it was just a bit too much for him to comprehend. His left hand began to tap softly on his knee, and the corners of his mouth twisted up in an expression that was anything but pleased, anything but amused. "You think I'm an object, don't you, sweetheart?" he said softly. Softly and sweetly. His eyes burned. If the brainless little doll had the gall to lie to him now...well. He couldn't say just what he would do.

Sometimes, accidents happened.

"Don't you?"

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Despite the seratonin, or dopamine, or whatever it was that they had pumped into her before they took her from the hospital (Yvonne had never been very good at chemistry, and she had never cared much to ask the nurses what they were putting into her, but seratonin may have sounded right), Yvonne fed off of the anger that radiated from this boy across from her, this child she reminded herself, although the more she looked at him the more they seemed to be about the same age. Yvonne was not stupid, however, and despite how her blood boiled inside, despite every urge telling her to once again begin screaming in a French hysteria, to launch herself at this smug little child, something deeper within Yvonne told her that doing so would not end well for her. And so instead, Yvonne leaned back from where she had moved to hear this jaguar's purr, and calmly reset herself to a neutral position: she crossed her right leg over her left, she folded her hands upon her knee, and she shook her hair out of her eyes. And then Yvonne smiled.

"Mon cher, non!" She exclaimed, eyes latching onto his and not showing any sign of the fear he expected from her. "Do not get me wrong, I would not be surprised if the right people were able to buy you, but why should I be expected to be able to do so just yet? I am but a little newt in your eyes." Yvonne dragged out the last sentence, holding her hands in front of her to demonstrate just how tiny of a newt she was. She then placed one hand over her heart, and glued on the most sincere look of regret. "I did not mean to offend, monsieur, please do believe that. I merely thought this was all part of the game!"

Did Yvonne really believe what she was saying? No, of course not. But Yvonne was not stupid, and if this boy was as important around here as he acted, she did not want to be on his bad side; no, quite the opposite. And Yvonne liked to think she was quite the talented actress, or at least talented enough to call off his defenses.

"Games are to be played in places such as these, non? I simply want to be on the winning end of these games, and I am willing to make a deal to guarantee my own part in success. That is all." And Yvonne smiled again, sweet, genuine, reassuring, while on the inside her heart pounded and her stomach clenched and her hands were oh so tempted to form into fists and pound the saccharine sound out of this boy's words.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Oh, is that all." Raven's tone was sharp but his voice was flat; Yvonne had succeeded insofar as he no longer felt the immediate urge to reach over and ring her pretty swanlike neck with bruises. Still, it was clear the Indian was not happy--the Frenchwoman had done well, played herself down and offered smooth explanations for her outburst, but it by no means put her entirely in the clear. In his head, the storm was not roaring or whipping into frenzy, but it was rumbling, low; still on the horizon, still dangerous, still poised to break.

Dark brows formed sharp angles above Raven's eyes, which themselves were glittering black and sharp like shards of obsidian. "If I were you," he said in a low voice (not the purr, nor the murmur, but a softened version of his signature growl with the corners cut), "I would be watching where I put my dancer's feet, little newt." His lips drew back slightly from his teeth, baring the canines in a burning flare of white. "Hmmm? Be very careful. You've started to walk on mighty thin ice, and I'd just hate to see you fall in." The light in his eyes changed, brightened to something mocking: You were showing such promise. Raven gave her a moment, to register that sentiment, and then he allowed his tense shoulders to relax and eased back into the chair, in the same movement easing all the displeasure and dislike away from his features. He did not like Yvonne, no, and he certainly didn't believe her little sainted-patient act, but pretending that he did was better for him than the alternative. It was better for his sanity, for his carefully-crafted mask of neutrality, for his notoriety, even; Stephan didn't look at him quite so shrewdly when he wasn't sitting up prepared to strike.

And so Raven pretended. He didn't smile--the time for smiles was past--but he folded his hands in his lap and crossed his ankles, tilting his head just slightly to one side and eyeing the Frenchwoman with a steady, no-nonsense stare: no less imposing than the ones that had come before it, but not so mad and threatening. "Now...back to business. A deal I'll make with you, Yvonne. A deal I'm not quite so inclined to snarl at." He raised one finger, a silent reminder that his mercurial friend had better watch her words the next time she spoke of it. "You laid your terms, now I'll lay mine." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "Are you listening?"