His Special Ones by Orin Drake
It's... something, alright.

        Chapter 1

        The Good Doctor loved all his patients.  In the same way a young boy loves the fly he slowly tears the wings off of.
        He knew them all by name (sometimes only by the ones he assigned to them), by room number, and by affliction.  He could list off every detail about their treatments or their surgeries, because he had a hand in them all.  He was very adamant about that--no one else was to touch his patients but himself and his assistant.  Only he loved them, only he knew them, and only he hand-selected his associates.
        Unfortunately, the patient he loved the most had, for some reason, decided to break himself out.  Perhaps he just didn't fully appreciate the Good Doctor's care.  Or, perhaps his psychological problems had finally gone beyond what could be helped.  It was a terrible thing, really.
        As luck would have it, however, he had managed to find a second favorite patient.  She had been a troubled girl from a number of foster homes, finally having run away and wound up rather close to the hospital.  The poor thing was half starved and freezing by the time he'd found her, hanging onto life with little more than a thoughtless biological drive.  It was exactly the sort of thing he had been seeking.


        There was nothing exceptional planned for that morning.  A bit of a dull admission, really--but rounds were to be made, and perhaps the Good Doctor could assist one of his patients and make the day that much more worthwhile.  Up and down the main halls, he checked clipboards, peeked inside the doors with windows, making certain everyone was behaving exactly as he had intended.
        And then he typed his digital code into the panel of the sealed-off area, the three solid steel doors slowly sliding back one by one.  The first thing he heard, aside from the hiss of the doors as they sealed right behind him, was his assistant's overly loud curse even through the door of the locked room a ways down the hall.  The vulgarity, really--what on earth was he yelling at?  The sound was coming from--oh.  Yes.  Not a surprise.
        No rush, of course.  It was always nice to see her wear herself out on his assistant first.  Quite amusing, really.  Though this time, by the cries, was a little more harsh than the usual faire.
        "Why the fuck did you have to do it twice, goddammit?!" he heard his assistant, Mr. Taylor, shouting in a shrill pitch.
        "Because you're that much of a prick, Robbie!" Number One-Thirty-One spewed angrily.
        Keycard swiped and accepted, the Good Doctor entered the fray with a decidedly smug look on his face... which melted away at the realization that his treasured assistant was curled within himself, grasping at his left hand and holding it to his chest.
        "She broke two fingers!" Taylor cried, hardly hearing the sound of the shut door over the blood rushing in his ears and his own pain-filled moaning.
        The girl stood in the corner as if nothing had happened, as casual as any teenager.  But yes, there was that self-satisfied expression that she didn't bother hiding after she'd done something that was not sanctioned nor in any way approved of.
        And that, the Good Doctor would not allow to get by so easily.  No, he hadn't planned on beginning her procedures so soon... but it seemed she was simply getting out of hand.  "You're just a little bit too spirited."  He spat, trying to keep his temper under control.  "I think I'll have to remove a small part of your brain to make this process easier."
        The look of fear ran like a lightning bolt through her eyes--she knew he wasn't threatening.  He was already planning to do it.  She could take him, easy.  She'd already wounded his beloved assistant... but she'd seen the other patients fight.  The fucking armies that had come running--she darted for the door, knowing full well that she likely wouldn't make it past her room, but there was no way she couldn't fight it.  There could be a chance, just a chance...
        The blare of the alarm was instantaneous as she kicked with all her might at the panel just next to the knob.  Worse yet, she had to kick twice more before the damn lock gave way--and that definitely made it too late for her.  She'd barely made it into the hallway before around two dozen guards swarmed her, using not entirely gentle "non-violent techniques" to render her completely helpless.
        And walking ever so casually to stand right in front of her was that goddamn self-righteous prick of a "doctor"... only smiling.  Full of himself, absolutely confident in his decision, getting ready to cut a piece of her fucking brain out--
        It was all she could do, but it was definitely enough.  They hadn't thought she'd be fighting anymore, and certainly not with her arms so snug and painful behind her back.  She felt the crack of his knee as certain as she heard it with a mild flinch.  He fell, alright--but not all the way down.  One kick, one single, strong, reassuring kick...
        Some of the guards not immediately associated with holding her back rushed to the doctor's side, helping him to stand.  He waved them off, stumbling.  Nothing too severe, but enough to hurt for a long while.  "Just for that, we'll make sure you get the slow acting sedatives." 


        It was one hell of a parade trying to get her to the operating room.  The Good Doctor hobbled angrily well ahead of the rest, consisting of a mob of guards--some armed with tazers, others with full-on guns--and one very pissed off girl in the middle.
        Not that any of that mattered when they finally did get her through the door.  Seeing the operating table for the first time pretty much knocked the rest of the fight right out of her.  Not all the fetish catalogs in all the world could have prepared her for the sheer horror of the restraints lining almost every inch of the steel making up the bulk of the table, not even to mention the literal warehouse of cabinets containing millions of tools that she only then discovered that she was not ready to know about.  Hell had nothing on the doctor's playground.
        Taking their opportunity, the guards lifted then slammed her against the table, holding her limbs with practiced precision.  When the full scope of what was going to happen finally hit her, she thrashed around like a trapped animal... but it was for nothing.  She fought until she felt like her heart may actually give out, her chest heaving to the point of pain--before that, too, was strapped tightly against the table's surface.
        Satisfied with their work, the Good Doctor dismissed the guards to their regular posts.  He didn't even bother gloating over his glorious victory over his new favorite project, electing instead to immediately prepare the sedative.  So much pride he held in his expertise to mix the drugs to utter perfection.  He took her weight, height, blood type, eating and drinking habits into account to make the perfect combination; it would paralyze her before all else, only allowing her to slip into total unconsciousness well after she was already into the process.  Oh yes.  She may not consciously remember these things, but he'd make sure to remind her of what would happen were she to ever be so rude again.  Not that he had any plans to allow that to happen.
        No prep and not bothering with an alcohol pad, he thrust the needle into her arm and delighted at her ear-splitting string of curses.  A simple thrust of the plunger, and he pulled the bloody contraption aside into the waste bin.  Turning to his main cabinet, he felt the warm buzz of pride and satisfaction rise once again.  "Now, I had warned you about doing things like that.  Mr. Taylor was only coming in to take some blood."
        She had meant to counter that statement with a scathing comment, but found her tongue unable.  In fact, her eyes weren't quite widening in shock, either...  No, fuck no...
        The maniac kept talking as he snapped his surgical gloves into place.  "And now I'm going to have to dull someone that could have been incredibly smart and sensible.  That does make me sad."  He turned then, walking toward her.
        Her body had turned to clay, limbs heavier and heavier until there was literally no struggle left in her.  Her eyelids were leaded, but unfortunately they would not close all the way.  As he moved in front of her to adjust the lights, she clearly identified the skull saw in his other hand, heard it's shrill scream as he powered it up for show.
        Lights perfect and drugs having taken their toll, he leaned over the motionless body and decided he'd just give her a little cut to suffer through.  After all, he had to shave and cleanse the area first... but he did want her to feel pain, fear beyond her wildest dreams.  Bringing the blade in close enough for her to feel the subtle fanning of air from the spinning blade--
        Noise.  Definitely some loud clattering going on outside.  The Good Doctor cursed in his mind, grumbling distastefully.  It was certainly no time for the guards to be fooling around, let alone...
        In her drugged state of mind, there was only a sound... some light, some darkness, some... motion from a place where there shouldn't have been any, somehow.  Heavily lidded as her eyes were, as totally as the drugs had begun to take over... still, there was... it was... another form, definitely.  Movement, a human... tall, skinny, but... and then something said... more noises... a screeching sound of some kind... her vision blurred quickly, falling into fuzzy shards of light.  Then darkness. 


        A scream boiled up in her throat, her mouth opened, her body sat suddenly and ridgid--but there was hardly a sound.  Sweat covered her skin... but so did a blanket.  An honest to god blanket.  Cotton, by the feel.  Cotton--it was a word that she repeated over and over again in her mind to keep her sane.  That dream had been... more than a dream.  She knew that for certain.  But how much had been real, and how much a drug-induced nightmare was unclear.
        Her stomach was weighted with... something unfamiliar.  Not anything... natural, by the feel of it.  It wasn't sickness, wasn't alcohol... but just as bad and unfortunately more powerful.  She should lay back down--but she couldn't.  This place was utterly unfamiliar, and those nightmares...
        A sound.  Outside the door.  Almost silent, but... no, she knew she'd heard something.  And again.  Quiet, soft... footsteps?  Coming closer.  Glancing around hurriedly, she couldn't find a damn thing that resembled a weapon--wait.  Lamp.  She reached for the lamp at her bedside, but instantly found that doing so was not a good idea.  The room spun and her arm fell back to her side as if it were a lifeless object, the very act of moving it too quickly causing an almost numbing effect.  Not good.  Not good at all.
        It had been enough to distract her from the footsteps, already having reached the door by the time she was able to think about defending herself again.  There was nothing she could do, the idea of even darting out of the bed completely out of the question.  She only watched, meticulously, as the door slowly creaked open, flooding the barest hint of light into the room.  Gazing through squinted eyes, she made note that the figure paused, no doubt looking back at her--making note that the shadowed form was far from the short, squat figure of the doctor's.  At least there was that much...
        Still in the doorway, the silhouette held its hands up as if to show her that it was unarmed.  From that angle, it was easily male... or at least, so it would appear to her.  She tilted her head, watching... at least he didn't know her limbs were totally useless.  She hoped.  Every motion was studied carefully, the light pouring in just enough to confirm a shadowed male face.
        Slowly walking into the bedroom, he picked up the pad of paper and pencil on the dresser by the door and wrote something.  Satisfied it was legible, he slowly approached the bed, then tossed the pad the few feet left between them.  No need to make her feel any more afraid and uncomfortable than she undoubtedly did already.
        Glancing between the paper and the man, she held the page close enough to make out the letters in the dark, reading in a very simple but business elegant script, "Hello.  Long story short, you'll be safe here to recover."
        She took a moment to stare at the guy now that she was able to take a closer look.  He kinda reminded her of an English gardener for no apparent reason at all... wait, must be the sweater.  It was a light rust color now that her eyes were beginning to adjust (kind of showing off his shaggy ear-length brown hair), just a little too big, ragged, with a collared shirt showing slightly underneath.  The black khakis kind of added to the image--but the fuzzy tiger striped slippers seemed distinctly American somehow.  It was just... funny.  She could only have assumed that he heard her earlier, and that was his reason for looking in, but...  "Are you deaf?"
        He shook his head, a little relieved that she seemed... more or less at ease.  At least she still had the mental functions to carry on a conversation.  That meant the Good Doctor hadn't gotten far in her "progression".
        "Mute?" she inquired, curious.
        That was a little harder to answer.  He motioned for the paper, glad to see her chuck it accurately at him.  Motor skills were also in check.  He'd gotten her out just in time.  Flipping to the next page, he wrote again, then tossed it back.
        This was an odd way to communicate, for her.  But that was okay.  "For all intents and purposes.  It's too much to explain at 2:30 in the morning."
        "Then you wouldn't mind explaining later?" she felt the need to clarify.
        He gave her a thumbs-up with a bit of a smile.  She was the only other patient of the Good Doctor's that he'd discovered still "whole".
        She nodded.  "Well... good-night."
        It was a little odd, granted... but he gave a wave in return.  Satisfied that she was going to be alright, he pulled the door closed on his way out... and went to bed himself.

Content copyright Orin Drake 2011.
Use without linking back to the source makes you a dick.