Wait, where am I again? (Sam/Open!)

[Anonymous]

Artificial light tumbled through the upper tier's lattice, slicing through the thin plate-glass windows of her apartment. Damien had woken up before her, still holding her in his arms. Warm and half-asleep, she remembered staying there, curled up on the mattress until he went into the apartment's small kitchen to make tea.

And that was when she first saw his fingers, in the other room, as they peeled open the green tea packet. She watched as the loose leaves spilled into the empty pot, felt the heat as his hand picked up the kettle, steam clouding his vision.

When he returned to the room, Molly saw her own sleeping form, through his eyes. Heard him speak to her, or heard herself speak, or something. It was a dream, anyway.

"Wake up..."

Molly presses her eyelids shut and reopens them. She's slept again, and this time it's too bright to be the apartment. Unnerved, she glances around the room, taking in her surroundings just like she did the morning before. Her eyes dart from one polished wall to the next. The cell. She never knows where she's going to wake up; the lines between the dream and reality have blurred so much by now. Her cheeks are still wet, accompanied now by a splitting headache that sounds like blood rushing through temples.

"Block 246, please note that subject forty-seven in cell one-eight-seven-three is now responsive."

The voice isn't directed at her; it has the distant, tinny crackle of a loudspeaker, probably from further down the hall. Molly ignores it and wishes the dream would come back. While she can normally force it to, she's having trouble this time. It's the headache, which makes her notice that her pills are gone. No, everything's gone.

Wait, where am I again?

That gets her attention. Abruptly, she's up and on her feet, catlike, her hands pressed against the hardened, translucent plastic of the cell door. There's nobody on the other side, but she can't see very far through the frosted material. Normally, she'll dream and then wake up in a reasonably familiar location. Her house, maybe, or Damien's or one of her friends. Even at the hospital, which at the moment is the closest memory she's ever had to this. But this can't be the hospital... a prison, maybe?

Her heart sinks, and more memories flood in to fill the gaps in her story. The Pilots had pressed her for information, asked her if she knew any psychics, whether she'd been instructed by someone who'd betrayed them.

And she'd picked that convenient time to go under.

[Anonymous]

Doctor Macario.

The syllables are half-there, not-there, inchoate, buzzing, conjectural; but they are there.  Neel comes back to the specificity of self with reluctance and straightens shoulders hunched over his terminal screen.  

Yes.

2460187347 initial appraisal up.

It doesn't work perfectly.  Of course nothing does.  Does it.  Neel detaches the sticky backs of his legs from his chair and stands, a tottering and unsteady tower.  For a moment his inner ear bobs up; down; in; out; seasickness and vertigo.  They vanish quickly, they always do, force of mind, of course.  Force of mind, despite it all.  Brain plasticity.  It works in practice.  He can pick up signals from terminal now with relative ease, the next step is so close.  Mind in matter, all rolled together.  He does a quick scan, pulling up preliminary readings, measurements of the environment in 47's cell.  Standard procedure--they've measured atmosphere and metabolism.  He's requested this one for the same reason he requested his last; psychics with the potential for an undamaged, integrated neurology are rare.  Good sense forbid Tetra get his claws into them.  

Ponderously and without much thinking about it, Neel makes his way down the hall.  He's not unaware of his bearish gait.  The cell door shimmers silver, as usual, and he runs his hand over it quickly to gain access.  He is still only half-awake and feels convalescent.  Sometimes he thinks, with little passion, that he is only able to love life when he's convalescent.  Images and information filter through a pleasant penumbra.  He can, as always, reason with perfect clarity.  The fog only blocks the sunspot's glare of all the useless stuff.

"Hello."

Behind him, the door echoes its own closing with a rush of trapped air.  

"I'm Dr. Macario, Neel if you like."  Because he is Neel so infrequently and won't get close to subjects in any case.  Objects, really, one might say.  Carefully, he takes a seat on the hard chair opposite her bed and looks away so she can perform the motions of reveille without intrusion.  "This is TRIM."  Amazing how little they prepare them sometimes.  "Do you have any questions?"  Methodically, he leans forward to set up one of his many innovations on the EEG, an unobtrusive black metal structure on a tripod, then sits back.  He'll get readings from her ambient state easily, and will soon progress to electrodes.