by Stevie Barry
Ratiri glanced at Lorna. Disgusted though she was, she seemed in much better shape than she'd been before they went outside. He knew he was, too, and wasn't that odd -- he wouldn’t have thought his mood could be lifted by a cheerfully unrepentant prostitute who seemed to genuinely see nothing wrong with sleeping with a total monster for chocolate and conditioner. There was no desperation in Katje, something Ratiri had hitherto associated with prostitutes; she didn't even seem put out that she'd had to put out, and Ratiri suspected it might be impossible to make that woman feel used. From what it appeared, in her mind she was the one doing all the using. Which made a twisted kind of sense, even if Ratiri would never understand it in a million years. Maybe she could start her own business, trading for amenities, as long as she didn't make anyone else work for it.
Lorna must have caught the thought, for she choked on her water, and that was how Von Ratched found her, wheezing and coughing with a tinfoil hat on her head. The situation was so ridiculous she probably couldn't be as afraid as she should be.
"Donovan, do I want to ask?"
"Probably not," Katje said.
He looked from Lorna to Katje, and back again. "Oh," he sighed. "Come along, Donovan. I believe I can remedy your…problem."
And there was the fear. Ratiri felt it as clearly as though it were his own. Oh God, she'd been hoping she'd seen the last of him for a while. She cast a slightly helpless glance at Ratiri, who half-rose to follow them, but Von Ratched said, "I will return her in one piece, Duncan. Sit down."
Ratiri did, very slowly, and Von Ratched led Lorna off.
----
Lorna had to practically jog to keep up with Von Ratched -- oh, she hated tall people, especially ones who hadn't the grace to make allowances for her short self. Annoyance was good, though; if she was annoyed, she wasn't afraid. And maybe Ratiri was right -- maybe he wouldn't do worse than he'd already done, so long as the pair of them were linked at the brain.
They wound up in his office, and she tried to ignore the automatic discomfort the place instilled in her. Given how their last meeting in here had gone, it wasn't easy.
"Sit," he ordered, pointing not to the chair, but to a low tan couch. "And take that thing off your head. You don't need it here." She did, combating the urge to make a face at him. After all he'd done to her, how could she still have the urge to needle him? Had she somehow gone suicidal without noticing? Something in her simply wouldn't let her roll over and give in, however safer that might be, and she wondered if that trait might get her killed soon. Though if Ratiri was right, they were all going to die here eventually.
The thought was weirdly…freeing, at least for now. In some twisted way the idea of her impending death, however distant, actually calmed her. Maybe she really was losing her mind.
Von Ratched looked at her curiously, and drew the armchair around so he could sit facing her. The sunlight filtered through the blinds made his eyes glint in a way that was wholly disturbing. "Do you think I am going to kill you, Donovan?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "I'm pretty damn sure you will. What else'd you do with us, when you're done here?"
He sat back and crossed his arms. "What makes you think I will ever be done with you?"
That gave her pause. She automatically shifted to sit cross-legged, as she always did on furniture that was too tall, and gave the question due consideration. "This place can't be cheap to run," she said at last. "And there's only so much you can do to any one'v us before we cop it." Honestly, she found the idea that he might not kill them far worse. The thought of a long lifetime in this hellhole just wasn't to be borne.
"Do you want to die, Donovan?" he asked, more curiously still. He was looking at her so intently she could almost feel it.
"Not particularly," she said. "Much more shite like what you did to Ratiri and I, though -- well, I'm not sure the idea'd be so unappealing then. Tell me something," she added. "How often d'you hurt us in ways you don't have to?"
He was quiet for some time, and she wondered how badly she'd pissed him off. "Nobody else has ever dared ask me that," he said at last.
"Aye, well, my sister always said I was a bit'v an idiot. If we're all going to die here, how much have I really got to lose?" Now she was getting pissed off. 'Nobody has ever dared'…who did this asshole think he was?
A sociopath who'll probably cut your tongue out if you don't shut up, her mind supplied.
"I would never do that," he said. "You are far too entertaining with it. To answer your question: rarely. I subdue people if I must, but the pain I inflict has reason. Even if not reason you can appreciate."
Lorna scowled at him, hating how easily he read her mind. He arched an eyebrow, pulling off his gloves.
"If you hate that, you are really going to hate this. There is no way for me to simply instruct you to build your own defense -- I'm going to have to do it for you."
She paled, eying his white, spider-like hands. "Why the gloves?" she asked, a little desperately, trying to stall.
"People do not like me touching them," he said, a little sardonically. "In your case, it is necessary. This will not hurt, though it will likely feel rather strange."
She looked back up at his face, and realized there was no getting out of this. Shit. "You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"
Von Ratched arched an eyebrow. "You would truly rather be at the mercy of your uncontrolled telepathy?"
"Uh, yeah," she retorted. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're not the most reassuring person in the world. I think I'd rather have Katje in my head, and she's a right pervert."
"You have no idea," he said dryly.
Lorna grimaced. "Will you just shut it?" She had to fight the urge to clap her hands over her ears like a child, and then had to try not to kick him when he laughed.
"You would really like to hit me right now, wouldn't you?" he asked, and though he'd stopped laughing it still showed in his eyes.
"It's tempting," she groused. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
He laid a hand on either side of her face, his palms just below her wounded temples, and Lorna tried not to flinch. She didn't wonder why people hated him touching them -- his hands were dry and fever-hot, like a snake that had lain in the sun all day. How on Earth had Katje -- ugh. No. Not going anywhere near there. She shut her eyes, and tried to pretend she was anywhere else.
A moment later, her distaste was overridden by surprise. Threads of light began to shimmer behind her eyes, fine as spider silk and vaguely opalescent. They wove together like a spider web, too, joining one another in places that at first seemed random. This wasn't so bad after all. He was right -- it did feel a little strange, tingling like a limb that had fallen asleep, but it didn't hurt.
It did feel rather violating, though, a sensation that grew with every passing minute. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering how much longer this was going to take. The web seemed to be finished, for after a while it sat unchanged, but still Von Ratched lingered. Her mind started to feel like it was itching, of all things, and she realized with horror that he was simply exploring it now.
"Get off!" she cried, and now she did hit him, punching him in the chest with what force she could muster at such an odd angle. The web…stretched, springing like an elastic band, and when Lorna opened her eyes she found him laughing at her. Again.
"You are such a twat," she snapped, scrambling to her feet in the sofa. "Does it say in your contract you've got to be an utter bastard, or does that just come naturally?" She was good and furious now -- not just because she felt so violated, but because she hated, hated being laughed at.
He stood, and she was irritated to find that even on the couch, he was still taller than her. "You are completely incapable of keeping your thoughts to yourself, aren't you?" Bastard was still smirking at her, looking at her like she was some particularly amusing toddler. Rage drove all her common sense out the window, and her hand shot out and grabbed his collar.
"Least I'm high enough now to
do this right," she retorted, and slammed her forehead into his nose.
It hurt. Headbutting always did, but the point was to cause the other person more pain. It didn't knock him over as she'd hoped, but it surprised him enough for her to jam her hand against his solar plexus. That should have felled him like a tree, but no such luck -- he seized a handful of her hair and used it to drag her off the couch, kicking all the way. Somehow she got a hand at his throat, but her hands were too small to be any good at strangling a grown adult.
He grabbed her wrist and twisted, and through some acrobatic feat she'd never be able to fathom flipped her around so he'd pinned her arms against her sides, her back to his chest. Asshole didn't even sound out of breath when he said, "I'm curious, Donovan. Why do you begin fights you know you cannot win?"
"Go hifreann leat," she snarled, more because it would annoy him than anything else. "Snaidhm bundúin ort." She drove the heel of her foot into his ankle, but he had her trapped and they both knew it.
"In English, please."
Lorna blew a wisp of fury-frizzed hair out of her eyes. "Trust me, you don't want that translated," she growled. "You've made your point -- let me go."
"Not until you tell me what that meant," he said.
He was going to hurt her for this. His arm was already so tight around her ribs she could hardly draw breath; it wouldn't take much to crush them entirely. How could he be so strong? Her skin was prickling with rage, made all the worse by the fact that it now had no outlet. "It means 'may your arsehole be knotted'," she said, and tried to snap her head back into his throat. Goddammit, she was just too short to deal with someone like him. "There, I told you. Now let. Bloody. Go."
"What a fascinating language." He gave her hair a slight tug, just enough to hurt. "If I let you go, will you behave?"
"What are you, five?" she snapped. "This isn't primary school, you twat, so stop pulling my bloody hair!" She tried to kick him again, with as little result as before, but two seconds later his new desk lamp exploded.
That's turning into tradition, she thought wildly, as shattered glass went whizzing past her face, followed by, Wait, I did that on purpose.
An overwhelming feeling of lassitude hit her like a brick, and when Von Ratched put her back on the couch she couldn't even try to move.
"You did, didn't you?" he said, kneeling in front of her. "You wanted it to break and it did. And yet you have no training at all."
Something in his tone filled her with dread. She was certainly in for more testing now, more pain and more needles, and what if he dragged Ratiri into it, too? Oh God, she hoped not. This was all her doing, not his.
"Not my fault you drove me to it," she said. "You've no one but yourself to blame." Let him get pissed off at her and only her.
"Attempted irony doesn't suit you, Donovan," Von Ratched said, desert-dry, and when he rose she tried valiantly to get up. It felt like he'd drugged her, yet there had been no needle -- had he done this to her just by getting in her head?
"I think you would rather not know what else I am capable of doing to your mind," he said, returning with that damn hairbrush. "Keep pushing me and you may one day find out."
"Gobshite," Lorna ground out, and couldn't help but cringe when he grabbed her hair and pulled it over the back of the couch.
"English again. More or less." He sounded so pleased she wished she could spit on him.
She pointedly said nothing when he started brushing her hair, though her skin crawled so much she thought she might be sick. Instead she mentally ran through every Irish invective she knew, wishing like hell she could make his head explode.
He laughed again, but it was so quiet she could barely hear it. "I do like you, Donovan, although I'm puzzled as to why. For your own sake, I suggest you remain entertaining."
She wondered what he'd do if she committed suicide. It wasn’t something she planned on, but it would probably infuriate him to no end. The thought was enough of a distraction to keep her from screaming, if only just. Bugger him -- if it was entertainment he wanted, she'd be as silent and sullen as a bump on a log.
"Oh Donovan," he sighed. "Sooner or later you will learn you cannot win. Off you go. Do not wander on your way."
She just barely managed not to glare at him as she left, and when she shut the door behind her she finally dared draw a real breath. Honestly, she wasn't sure which was worse, Von Ratched the scientist or Von Ratched the…whatever the hell he'd been in there. If that passed for his sense of humor, she definitely didn't want to amuse him anymore.
The hallway was actually warm as she headed back to the Activities Hall, the sun dying a bloody death through the western windows. The faint smell of floor-wax and bitter disinfectant wasn't pleasant, but she was already getting used to it. That disturbed her a little; she didn't want to get acclimated to this place. To do so would be to accept she wasn't getting out.
Now that she was away from Von Ratched, she was seriously considering trying. She had some very basic survival skills, and with her telekinesis it wouldn't be hard to get out of the Institute itself. The trick would be doing it when nobody would notice, to give her enough of a head start on her pursuers, and that was the part that for now seemed impossible.
You could probably just kill them all.
The thought made her stop dead. It was right: if she could properly harness her telekinesis, she might be able to destroy half the Institute. But how many innocent people would die if she did? She still didn’t know how many inmates were in here, and Hansen was all right -- maybe there were more staff like him. Lorna had done some nasty things in her life, but she wasn't a murderer, and didn't think she ever could be. She did have morals, however warped they might be.
She started onward again, shaking her head. There had to be other options, but she couldn't see them yet. Anything she might even think of would require dropping off Von Ratched's radar; she had to wait until he got bored with her and Ratiri and moved onto some other poor bastard.
Dinner had been served by the time she got to the Activities Hall -- thick stew with dumplings, and chilled apple cider. She had to admit, the food here was a lot better than anything she'd had in prison or normal hospitals. Carefully balancing her tray, she went to join Ratiri, Katje, and the old man, silently testing her new telepathic block. At least that seemed to work; it felt like it had been ages since she'd been able to be alone in her head in a crowded room. Von Ratched had actually given her something good, however unpleasant the experience had been.
"You're all right," Ratiri said, and it was half a question. Lorna wondered just what he saw in her aura.
"I am," she said. More or less. The trick would be remaining that way for more than a day at a time.
----
That evening Von Ratched watched the news, wanting to know what was going on in the world outside his little kingdom. It was about what he had expected.
Unsurprisingly, things around the world had destabilized. Rapidly. A pretty anchorwoman in a red suit tried to remain chipper as she spoke of lynch mobs and mass shootings, but there was an anxiety in her brown eyes that even the tasteful lighting couldn't hide.
The cursed were fighting back. In Germany a group had taken over the Königsbank Tower: footage showed most of the windows broken, the morning sun glittering on the bits of ruined glass that remained. The military had tried to launch a Scud missile at it, but someone had exploded it before it reached halfway, killing most of the soldiers.
Electropath, he thought, sipping his drink. The tonic water made the ice cubes fizz, softening the bitterness of the gin, and he smiled grimly as the camera carefully panned high enough to avoid the bodies. He'd really like to get his hands on one of them, but they would probably be even harder to manage than Donovan.
In Moscow, a rogue weather-manipulator caused a thunderstorm that lit half the city on fire. Distant footage showed a column of greasy black smoke that rose almost to the stratosphere. That, he thought, was likely an accident; people with t
he ability almost certainly couldn't control it well enough to do something so drastic on purpose. Long lines of panicked refugees fled with whatever they could carry, cars pressed bumper-to-bumper on smoke-screened highways. The cacophony of horns almost drowned out the anchor's narration.
In America a massive earthquake had leveled much of San Francisco, but that had to be purely natural. No terrakinetic could create something that destructive. It didn't stop the media blaming it on the cursed, and Von Ratched thought sardonically that every disaster from here on out would be laid at their feet. Ironically, his inmates were safer here than they would be outside, though nobody would ever convince them of it.
The phone rang, and with a sigh he rose to answer it, knowing already who it would be.
"What is it now, Andrew?" he asked, foregoing any actual greeting. "You had better have a new complaint for me."
The man who styled himself as Von Ratched's superior swallowed. He'd learned already that badgering the doctor would get him nowhere, but someone above him had to be insisting. "I've been told to get a progress report," he said, neatly passing the blame to someone else.
"And I told you I would give you one when I had anything to report," Von Ratched retorted, sipping his drink. "Even I cannot work miracles. We have been here less than a month, and I told you all at the outset this might take years. It's not my fault you cannot hold things together until I am through."
"Doctor, they're already talking about cutting your funding," Andrew said, a little desperately. He clearly didn't want to be the bearer of such news, because he knew Von Ratched -- what he was capable of, and what he was willing to do.
"I hope you told them what a terrible idea that would be. Do not make me come down there, Andrew. None of you would like the results. I elevated many of your employers, and I can destroy them just as easily. No one is going to take what I have here."
"Nobody knows that, Doctor," Andrew said, sounding more desperate than ever. "Even I don't know how many fingers you've got in this pie."
