by Stevie Barry
"Good. If you will not drink your coffee, I will ask you to unbraid your hair."
Now that was interesting. For the barest trace of an instant, panic joined the coldness in her eyes. He ought to have been glad something could unnerve her, yet for some reason it unnerved him. "No," she said. "I know why you do that, Doctor, and it's hardly necessary, is it? I know you're a control freak, but sure God, aren't there limits? You got as positive an answer as you're ever likely to get from me." The panic was gone, having morphed into her more familiar state of barely-controlled anger. That he could deal with.
"Has it not occurred to you that I simply enjoy brushing your hair?" he asked.
Lorna quirked an eyebrow. "No," she said bluntly. "It's a power-trip and I know it. A person'd have to be thicker than pig shit not to grasp that."
"Perhaps it is, as you say, a power-trip," he said, rising to fetch the brush, "however, I do also enjoy it. You do have lovely hair, Lorna. Also, I would not try to throw that mug at me, if I were you. It would do nothing save make a mess, and I just had this carpet replaced."
When he turned back, she did indeed have a hand hovering over her coffee-cup. She didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "You're the one that put it next to me," she said, unrepentant.
"That gives you no right to fling it at me. I am not letting you out until you let me brush your hair."
Now fight and flight were warring in her eyes, though her expression was almost composed. How he wished he could read her mind at that moment.
To his surprise, a kind of steely resolution took over her face, and she threw the long braid over the back of the couch. What was she playing at now?
He said nothing, but unfastened the rubber band at the end of her hair and unwove it. He wasn't kidding; he did enjoy this, and not just because he liked studying her reaction. Lorna's hair was fine and quite glossless, tending toward wispy flyaways, but it was very soft, and he was a tactile man. DaVries was the one with shampoo-commercial hair, but Lorna's was so very long. It was still damp when he unbraided it, and he was careful not to pull as he worked it loose.
"Does it ever bother you, that you're so creepy?" she asked, when it seemed she could bear silence no longer.
"It is not my fault you find me so," he said, letting a silver-threaded strand coil around his fingers.
"Bullshit. If you ever ran into someone you didn't give the creeps, you'd prob'ly throw a righ' strop."
He didn't dignify that with a response. Instead he said, "Your accent gets thicker when you are distressed. If you truly intend to try to pretend equanimity in my presence, you will have to work on that."
"Marbhfháisc ort."
"Back to Irish, I see. You've gone so very cold, Lorna. Did what I do upset you so much?"
She tensed visibly. "Do I even need to bother answering that?" It was obvious she wanted to go off on a complete tirade, but somehow she stopped herself, and Von Ratched wasn't sure he liked that. A Lorna with proper self-control could be a dangerous thing, and not one he wanted to deal with. Still not one he knew how to deal with.
"I truly am sorry, Lorna. I know you think me a monster, and in most ways you are right, but I do not make a habit of things like that." Not on the unwilling, anyway. DaVries had certainly enjoyed it.
"Why not?" she asked, curiosity tingeing her revulsion. The fact that she found even his proximity repulsive was going to be a major problem. "I wouldn't think you'd care."
Von Ratched sighed, his hands stilling for a moment. She had every right to have so low an opinion of him, but it was still irksome. "The pain I cause is in the name of research. When I hurt you people outside of an experiment, it is because I must teach you obedience in a fashion you will remember. That was my intent for what I did to you, but I dislike using such a method as punishment. Believe me or not, some things are beneath me. Even if I could do such a thing to you again, I would not."
He didn't expect her to buy a word of it, but it was the truth. She sat quiet a very long while as he resumed brushing her hair, and he wondered what was going on in that head of hers. At least she was giving his words some thought. "I didn't think you thought’v us as people," she said at last.
I don't, he thought, but he knew better than to say it aloud. Lorna was a person, and by extent he was forced to regard Duncan as one as well -- and to be honest, it bothered him in both cases. He didn't want to want her, but it seemed he couldn't help it. And that bothered him, too. "I am capable of making exceptions," he said. "On occasion. There. I will summon you and Duncan tomorrow."
She tried not to be obvious about hurrying out, and he shook his head, wondering why he did this to himself. All he was doing was alienating her further, yet for once in his life he couldn't help himself. And he didn't like that at all.
Chapter Twelve
Somehow, Lorna managed to avoid being sick on her way back to her room. Ratiri was out, probably with Doctor Hansen, which was just as well. Some alone-time was definitely needed.
She went into the bathroom and stared at her reflection. Her hair was mostly dry, and she ran her fingers along a section of it, wondering if she should get her hands on something sharp and hack it all off. The only time she'd ever had a significant amount of it cut was in prison, and at the time she'd sworn she'd never do it again, but now…well, it was tempting.
It wouldn't make him leave you alone. He'd just find some other way to freak you out.
Probably true, but it was still tempting. The bastard was making her hate her own hair, and it was likely only going to get worse.
She grabbed a handful of it and held it out. The grey had advanced noticeably in the weeks since she'd come here, threaded among the black. It was the only really pretty feature she had, and she was starting to loathe it. Damn Von Ratched.
Her eyes went back to her reflection. Objectification was a brand-new thing to her, because she just wasn't the kind of woman any normal man objectified. Too short, no figure, with a face that was almost childlike -- it was only the grey in her hair that indicated she was past her early twenties -- but with a smattering of thread-fine broken capillaries across her cheeks. Skin that had seen a lot of weather and not a lot of sunscreen. Nobody had ever called her pretty, though Liam had often told her she was adorable in a slightly scary way.
What did Von Ratched see in her? Aside from their shared curse, they had nothing at all in common -- everything one was, the other was not. At the time, she hadn't believed Hansen when he said Von Ratched might develop a real fixation on her, but she was very much afraid he had. Terrible though it was, she wished he'd find another telepath, preferably one who didn't find him as horrifying as she did.
It’s because you’re a bitch, she thought. It’s because you’ve got nothing in common. It’s all just another game. He’s just another bully that pushes and pushes until he gets a reaction. All you have to do is wait, and give him one that will make him regret the day he was ever born.
She shuddered, wove her hair back into a braid, and tied it in a knot behind her head. There had to be someone she could confide in, but Ratiri would wind up furious on her behalf, and Katje probably wouldn't understand. Now there was a woman who had turned objectification into a highly lucrative art form, but Lorna would shoot herself before sinking to that level. Yet Katje didn't consider it sinking at all.
Christ, she didn't know how much longer she could handle this. Ratiri had to be kept safe no matter what he said, but how much longer could she manage it? How much longer until her mind gave up and snapped?
She didn't know, but unless she killed Von Ratched in a hurry, she was afraid she was going to find out.
----
That evening, the heavy clouds started shedding fine, tiny flakes of snow.
The windows in the newly-renovated Activities Hall were much smaller than the old ones, and the inmates had to crowd around to see the outside.
"Is summer," Katje said, shivering. "How can there be snow?"
"It's Alaska," G
eezer said. "Can't count on the weather this far north. August now -- we might wind up snowed in by September."
Several of the staff had drifted over, and even they looked worried. Geezer would bet Von Ratched hadn't said much to them about the coming winter, and most of them were probably city people. If they'd seen real weather, it had been from the safety of houses and apartments, not some building in the middle of nowhere. The implications of that were probably just now sinking in. Good. Let them worry for a change.
"Place was designed all wrong," he mused, making sure they could hear him. "These big rooms'll be impossible to heat when it hits forty below. Sure hope Von Ratched's got a backup plan."
Yep, there was some genuine concern. The more people who doubted the doctor, the better. If he was dealing with the worries of his staff, maybe he'd have less time to devote to torturing the inmates.
Though for now the Activities Hall was warm enough. It still smelled faintly of new paint, which was already getting scrawled on again by the inmates. The ceiling was too high, though, and come deep cold it would be a heat sink. The repaired outer wall was wood, too, not concrete, and probably wasn't as well-insulated as it should be. The staff were hardly going to care if it caused the inmates discomfort, but he was pretty sure they'd pitch a fit if anything fooled with their own quality of life. The thought gave him grim satisfaction.
He looked over at the scrawl-wall. Lorna was there now, ignoring the consternation at the windows. She had a palette next to her, and it looked like she was trying to paint a scene in Ireland, but she wasn't much of an artist. She'd gone even weirder in the last week, and he was uneasy -- of her, and for her. Half the time she managed to act normal -- or normal for her, anyway -- but she couldn't maintain it. A coldness far back in her eyes betrayed her, flaring into something outright murderous whenever Von Ratched's name was mentioned. Nobody had actually seen the bastard since the escape attempt, and Geezer wondered what she'd done to him. What they'd done to each other, since she wouldn't be this way without cause. Whatever had happened, it was something he hadn't foreseen. It meant that she at least didn't seem to care about the weather or its consequences.
He ambled over to her, but she was so intent on her work that he didn't think she even registered his presence. "That home?" he asked.
"It is. Or it's supposed to be. Are we ever to escape this place?"
He was momentarily thrown by her abrupt change of subject, and wondered if he ought to tell her what he'd seen. "Yes," he said quietly. "Dunno when, but…look, don't do anything dumb, okay? I know you wanna kill Von Ratched, but if you try too hard he'll lock you up and never let you out. I know patience isn't your thing, but try."
Now she looked at him, and her eyes made him shiver. "You don't know what you're asking've me. I am being patient, but if I see a chance to off the bastard, I'm taking it. He wants to do more nasty things to Ratiri, and he said he'd let me be there. If he's distracted long enough, he's a dead man."
"And then what?" he asked. "You gonna kill all the staff, too? 'Cause you'd have to. Without him, they've got no reason to stay here. They'd bail and leave us to freeze, if they didn't try to do us in outright. And even with Von Ratched dead, we'd still be stuck here 'til spring."
She went quiet, a dreadful, thoughtful silence. "Maybe I would," she said softly. "God knows plenty'v them deserve it."
Geezer went cold. She meant every word of it. "Lorna…don't turn into him," he said, just as quietly. "He's already changed you. He's made you…I dunno, wrong. Don't let him change what you are."
Out of everything he could have said, that startled her. Her eyes went wide, and she set aside her paintbrush. "Is it really that obvious?"
He nodded. "Say you kill him. Say you off him and we all get outta here -- are you really gonna be able to live with yourself, if we have to kill more people to get out? You're not a murderer, Lorna. It'd destroy you."
"So what," she whispered, "I just let him keep on? I just stand aside and let him keep torturing everybody? You want to talk about things I couldn't live with -- I'll not be a coward, Geezer."
"I'm not asking you to be. Fight him all you like, but don't do anything worse, you hear me? Not until we've got a real chance to escape."
She looked deeply unhappy, as he'd known she would. "And you're willing to let him torment you until then?"
"Been through worse," he said grimly, holding up his ruined hands.
"Well, most'v the people here haven't. Not even me." She shuddered.
He wasn't getting through to her, but he had to try. "Lorna, I can't tell you the future," he said. "Learned that the hard way. Just…don't try to kill him. If you do, it ends bad."
You had another fit-thing, didn't you? she asked, even more startled.
I did. Von Bastard's been so busy with you and Ratiri and God knows what else that he missed it. Don't go gunning for him. You're fine as long as he doesn't see you as a legitimate threat, but if he does -- well. You don't want that.
Can you not tell me why? She was anxious now, and he hated having to do this to her.
No. Learned a long time ago that trying to directly change the future almost always backfires. All I can do is advise you, and that's my advice. Listen to it. Please.
She scowled. You really don't know what you're asking'v me.
Yes, he said, grave. I do. Believe me.
Fine, she said, after a very long pause. But if he hurts me, I'm hurting him back.
That she could probably get away with. Von Ratched was used to it, after all. He'd probably find it suspicious if she didn't.
Lorna followed him back to the window, poking people out of the way until she could see out. The snow wasn't sticking, but it was coming down like anything, a whirling dance of white so thick it was impossible to see more than two feet ahead. If they hadn't been caught after their escape, they'd have frozen to death for sure. Geezer still wasn't grateful, though.
----
The snow had stopped by nightfall, but a howling wind took its place.
Normally Lorna didn't mind the cold, but even with her scrubs on over her pajamas, she was freezing. The room was poorly heated, the few blankets on the bed not nearly enough, and when she crawled in with Ratiri he hugged her like she was a living hot-water bottle. Which, if she was honest, she still wasn’t that thrilled by; no, she didn't mind the proximity, but the fact that it was that or freeze was less than pleasant.
"Wish Von Ratched had invested in some space heaters," she grumbled. "I don't want to imagine what it'll be like, come winter."
"Hate to say it, but he'll probably move everyone underground." He was sniffing her hair, but she'd long since ceased finding that odd. It was so instinctual she didn't think he was even aware he was doing it.
"Bloody brilliant. Packed in like that, we'll go mad within a week. Granted," she added, brightening a little, "he might, too. Serve him right."
Ratiri laughed so quietly she felt rather than heard it. "He might wind up scrawling on the walls with the rest of us."
Lorna snickered, but sobered fast. "He told me he wants to do more tests on you, and that he'd let me be there." She shivered, and this time not from the cold. "I want to try something."
"What?" he asked, pulling back enough to try to look at her. It was too dark for them to see each other properly, but maybe his odd senses could perceive her better than she could him.
"I know he'll not give you any painkillers. I want to see if I can take care'v that with my telepathy, but you've got to trust me." She didn't need to see him to sense his confusion.
"How?"
"He can make people hurt with his telepathy, right?" she said, burrowing closer to him under the blankets. "That's got to work both ways. I want to see if I can…shut off your ability to feel it, sort'v thing, but I won't do it if you don't want me to." She'd be mucking about in his brain, after all; that kind of thing could make a person beyond nervous.
"You wouldn't be taking it on yourself, would you?"
/> "No." Not unless she had to, but she wasn't about to tell him that, or he might not want her doing this at all. Men could be so pigheaded.
Pot, this is kettle, she thought. We need to have a discussion about your hue value.
"All right," he said, somewhat reluctantly. "We'll try this, if only because I know you'll give me no peace until we do."
She grinned in the dark. "See? We do understand each other."
He laughed again, and she went to sleep with his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her ear.
----
She dreamt of the Garden. This time she was alone here, wandering this vast lawn in the warmth of a summer sunset. This was a place she hadn't seen before: a mountain loomed not far ahead, taller than anything she'd ever seen. Not that that was saying much; Ireland had nothing like real mountains. This one was forested in what she thought were fir trees, huge, ancient things that had to have stood for centuries.
She approached it with a strange, inexplicable sense of joy -- of homecoming. Though the ground grew rocky beneath her bare feet, the stones didn't hurt, and the smell of wood and clean sweet earth wrapped around her like a blanket. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever known, so lovely it hurt.
The Lady, she found, was waiting for her under one of the massive trees. Standing, she was even taller than she'd looked the first time Lorna met her, but unlike most tall people, this inhuman woman didn't make her feel small. Though seeing the Lady one-on-one was very different than meeting her in a group -- the aura of power around her was so strong it almost made the air crackle. Her shifting green robe glowed faintly of its own accord, and the light of the sunset sparked red highlights in her dark hair.
Lorna hesitated, almost afraid to draw close to such power.
"It is all right, child," the Lady said, her voice still like music. "I will not hurt you."
There was something deeply maternal about her, in spite of how very alien she was. Lorna's own mother had been a broken woman long before she died, so none of her children had received much in the way of maternal nurturing. It was, Lorna found, a bittersweet thing.