Walk With Me Through the Black House (IC/Semi-Open)

[Fanaglia]

(Link to the OOC/Sign-Up Thread)

In the early winter of 1868, the weather was quite pleasant, as it often is at this time of year in southern Cynfelyn in the southwest of the Kingdom of Fanaglia. In the sleepy little town of Mezieu, children could be seen flying kites in the park, or floating model sail boats in that park's reflecting pool. The cheery breeze may have brought a friendly relief from the oppressive humidity of the hot Fanaglian summer, but these were not the only blowing winds, for a storm was brewing on the horizon: Libre Fanaglia, the underground movement of rebels against the King, DiMarco, had just hit another railway depot, capturing weapons, munitions, and gold belonging to His Majesty.

The aforementioned scene in the park may have appeared idyllic, but most of those children would return to empty homes, their parents and older siblings working long and dangerous hours in the factories and textile mills. Supper would be a meager meal of bread, or, if they were lucky, some wild-grown oranges they had happened to pick while they were out -- if there was any food at all. Many were not even so lucky -- much of the local population laid their heads to rest in a makeshift tent city at the edge of town, beside the stinking River Roussir. Not every town in Fanaglia was like Mezieu, but it was hardly unique. King DiMarco had united the duchies of Fanaglia in the face of certain destruction by their Mendean neighbors, but it had become apparent that the prosperity he had promised would come from unity and industrial revolution was but a lie -- a lie the people had grown sour on. DiMarco's time would come, but the people had to make the best of what they had until then.

On the edge of town opposite the tent city, situated on the riverbank and tucked into the bend of the River Roussier, was l'Hôpital Mezieu. Often regarded as one of the preferable places of employment in Mezieu (at least compared to the textile mills or the slaughterhouse), it nevertheless cast a shadow over the grounds upon which it stood, for it was no regular hospital. L'Hôpital Mezieu was a lunatic asylum. And not any lunatic asylum, either -- Mezieu was a royal institution, housing the criminally insane from all across Fanaglia. It also happened to be the place where the Secret du Roi, DiMarco's secret police, had a tendency to lock away rebels, dissenters, and other "undesirables" to be forgotten about.

Of course, in a time in which modern psychology was still in its infancy, the life of a patient (whether she be a wife or daughter locked away by a husband or father for being too independently-minded, a rebel or rebel sympathizer, or someone with legitimate, if poorly-understood mental problems) in l'Hôpital Mezieu was, more often than not, a bleak one, even for those patients housed in the first-class wards. Those in the third-class wards shuffled through such a cramped, filthy, and outright dangerous purgatory that the real thing would seem a relief.

There was one thing in l'Hôpital Mezieu that could brighten a select few patients' days, however, and that was psycho-drama therapy. The program was the brainchild of Mezieu's resident alienist¹, Dr. Remy Bouchard. Despite criticisms from other alienists and Sébastien Coulmiers (the warden of l'Hôpital Mezieu) for wasting time and resources on so-called "lost causes," Dr. Bouchard's reasoning behind this sort of therapy (as opposed to the more inhumane treatments employed by his contemporaries) was that alternative forms of expression could help his patients better work through their mental ailments and live something approaching a more normal and productive life, or at least a happier one. Warden Coulmiers, despite his objections, allowed Dr. Bouchard to continue his work, however, on one condition: that the hospital be allowed to sell tickets for the patients' dramas to the general public to make up for all of the time the good doctor "wasted" in his "little experiment." And time was money, after all. In the end, the warden easily made up for any money perceived to be wasted, for no matter the quality of the performance, those among the locals who could afford the modest fee were often eager to "see the crazies" perform for them at the hospital.

Dr. Bouchard's were not the only experiments taking place at l'Hôpital Mezieu, however. There were darker things afoot, just out of sight, spoken of in whispers (or sometimes maddened ravings). But few were keen to heed the words of one saddled with the label of "lunatic."

¹Alienist: an archaic term for a psychologist

Lena Nowak

"Halo! Gimme that!" snapped Lena Nowak as she snatched a bar of soap from Hannah. A sickly light filtered through the tiny, grimy window of the cramped little hole in the wall Lena had come to call home these days. It was a room of drab, grey walls measuring only three meters by four, with two bunk beds on opposite walls; she and three other grown women, each of whom with her own...eccentricities, even without the heavy doses of medication they were all forced to take.

Carla was truly a gibbering lunatic and likely the one among them whose institutionalization was the most appropriate, but she was harmless -- all she ever did was rock back and forth, staring towards the window, babbling nonsense that barely resembled words. Lena found her quite annoying when she first arrived at Mezieu, but, after seeing some of the other patients, she quickly realized how much worse she could have had it. And Antonella, the Pisianese girl, was Carla's polar opposite. She was completely mute, spending her days with her nose stuck in a book; Lena was unsure of whether or not she was actually reading, for she rarely observed her turning a page, but her brow was always furrowed as if deeply contemplating every passage, every word, every letter, and every space and character on every page. She often sat so still and so quietly that people often never even noticed her. More than once since Lena arrived at Mezieu, she had been accidentally left in the mess hall, simply because nobody noticed her sitting along a wall with her book. She was literate, however; Antonella would often pass notes to her with hastily-scrawled messages about where she'd seen things. Or what certain other people around these claustrophobic halls were up to. There were plenty of secrets within these walls, both among the patients and the staff. It was Antonella who told her about Hannah's soap.

Hannah Margaret Kelly was Lena Nowak's fourth cellmate. She had a gimpy hand and was a paranoid mess of neuroses. And she was obsessive, obsessive, obsessive. The hospital staff kept a close eye on her because of her tendency to self-harm and her own obsessive fear of hurting others would have made Lena uneasy even if she hadn't known why she'd checked into this lovely establishment on the stinking River Roussier. But when she learned what she had done to be sent to Mezieu in the first place...there was nothing worse than someone like her, as far as she was concerned. "No amount of soap can wash away what you did, traitor," she spat. "Where'd you get this, anyway?" She threw the soap to Antonella, who caught it without looking up from her book, quickly stowing it away someplace out of sight. Lena understood that she had been institutionalized at Mezieu as a means of punishment and as an attempt to extract intel on Libre Fanaglia through torture; she couldn't help but wonder if having this murderer and traitor as a cellmate was part of that torture. It certainly felt like it most days.

"Oh, leave her alone, Lena!" came a disembodied voice. No, this was not Lena Nowak hallucinating (although it was a wonder she had them as rarely as she did, with all the drugs she was forced to take), but the tender call of the sweet girl in the cell next door, Giulia Bianchi-Ricci. Giulia was lucky enough to live in the second-class ward, where the cells were slightly smaller but where patients only had to share them with one other person; Lena's and Giulia's cells were the last and first, respectively, along the hall for each of their wards, and they'd grown to become quite fond of each other, meeting in the common areas whenever the two wards were allowed to intermingle, passing notes between their cells when the orderlies weren't around to catch them, and simply shouting to one another when they were. The others said that Giulia was there because she was a murderer, but Lena didn't think of it that way. After all, Lena Nowak was a soldier for Libre Fanaglia and she'd killed many of the King's men; Giulia only killed one man who refused to take "no" for an answer, for which she could hardly blame her.

"There's four of us in here, Giules! Ain't nobody being left alone in here, no matter how hard we try!"

"You don't have to be so mean to her all the time, though."

"Oh, yes I do. Yes I do." Lena glared at Hannah. She truly hated her. She hated her even more than she hated DiMarco.

Before any of them could make another remark, there came a harsh clattering sound from up the hall. It was that weaselly orderly, Martin, raking his baton across the bars of the second- and third-class wards as he walked, whistling before calling out, "'Psychopath' Therapy! Casting call for 'Psychopath' Therapy! Who's on the list?" Of course, the dupek meant "Psychodrama Therapy," Doc Bouchard's idea of extracurriculars to keep the crazies occupied and maybe even rehabilitate them.

Another orderly came along with the keys and a couple of friends to let prospective actresses out of their cells, one at a time. They began with the first-class ward far off down the hall, then made their way to the second- and third-class wards. When the group of women (some of whom looked excited while others looked quite lost) passed in front of Lena's cell, Giulia was among them and Hannah got up to join them. "Aren't you coming?" Giulia asked Lena.

"No. As much as I'd like to watch ol' Macbeth's downfall, this play is for crazy people, and I ain't crazy."

"Neither am I, but this could be fun!"

Lena eyed Hannah standing beside her friend. "I think I'll stay here. Uh, sic semper tyrannus and all that."

"Wrong Shakespeare, but I appreciate that you know it," Giulia smiled.

"Billy Boy had some good ideas."

"All right, you all," Martin barked. "Let's keep moving!"

---

Remy Bouchard

At the center of l'Hôpital Mezieu, flanked on all sides by the looming facades of the administrative wings of the six pentagons that served as the individual blocks of the facility, was the round, domed chapel, capped with a great crucifix, with Christ judging the sins of all of those around him. Doctor Remy Bouchard, however, saw it differently (as he did many things about Mezieu); he saw instead the Lord guiding his flock. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

Excited to begin his latest session of psychodrama therapy with one of The Bard's greatest tragedies, he sat down on a step at the front of the sanctuary, greeting the ladies with a smile and bidding them to take a seat in anywhere in one of the pews as they slowly filtered in, escorted by orderlies and nurses from their respective wards.

When they all seemed to have arrived, he rubbed his hands together, rose to his feet, and cleared his throat. When that failed to catch everyone's attention, he did so again, somewhat louder. "Well! Welcome, welcome, welcome! I believe I have met most of you here at least once before, but I do see some new faces around here and those whom I do know, I fear I do not know as well as I'd wish. Let me begin then by introducing myself. I am Doctor Remy Bouchard. You may call me Dr. Bouchard, Dr. Remy, or just Remy -- please, whatever makes you feel comfortable."

"Asshole!" Somebody called from the small crowd.

Some of the orderlies tensed up, reaching towards their batons. Remy raised his hands towards the orderlies. "Well, I'd certainly not say that would be what I would prefer you call me, but to each her own."

"I would like to thank you all for coming here today to audition for a part in the Scottish Play," he continued.

"Oi, I thought this was supposed to be Macbeth!" The same voice shouted from the crowd.

Remy chuckled nervously. "Well, 'The Scottish Play' is a euphemism. It's supposed to be bad luck to use the name of the play while in a theatre."

"Ain't this a church, though?"

"Ah, yes, but we shall be using it as a theatre."

"Right then," said the woman, who seemed to be content for a moment. That is, until she stood up on her pew and began shouting, "Macbeeeeeeth! Macbeeeeeeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MacbethMacbethMacbethMacbeth!"

Remy gave a defeated sigh, shaking his head. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb to indicate that the poor woman would have to be removed from the auditions. With but a glance, he made it clear to the orderlies that she was to be removed as gently and as kindly as possible. They could be real brutes, but they knew better than to cross the doctor; his dramas brought in far too much money for the Warden and he would tolerate no disrespect towards Remy Bouchard, at least to his face.

"Wait! No! I'll stop, I promise," the woman begged as the orderlies approached.

"What's your name, love?" Remy called out to her.

"Maggie, sir. Maggie DeFleur."

"Well, Maggie, I direct these plays to try to help my patients. That means we need to take them seriously."

"Aye, sir. I can be serious."

"There'll be plenty of time for fun later, but we've got auditions to do first, to see if you even have a part in our show."

"Aye, sir. You've got me word. No more outbursts from me. Unless you wants 'em. You know, for the show."

"Of course, Maggie." Remy gestured for the orderlies to return to their posts. "Well, there's my introduction out of the way, and Miss DeFleur's, as well. Let's go around the room and get to know one another, one at a time. Tell us whatever you may be comfortable with. Your name, where you're from, what kind of experience you may have in theatre, or your familiarities with the Scottish Play or any of William Shakespeare's other works. Let's begin with you, Miss."

[Junkyland]

OOC: Quick disclaimer. Virgil is a figment of Eve's mind. So no one can hear any of his dialogue, or acknowledge anything he does. To you all, Eve is talking to herself.

Eve: “I’m cold, Virgil.”

Virgil: “Well, it is winter.”

Eve: “No it’s not. It’s autumn. I refuse to acknowledge the changing of the seasons. Nope, nope, nope. Not happening.”

Virgil: “Let me know if that ignorance helps you stay any warmer.”

I hop down from my bunk and land on the stone floor. Bitter frost jabs each bare toe and spreads into my leg. My muscles tense.

Virgil sits far off on his own bunk. He stares off into the ceiling while throwing a crumbled up piece of paper into the air. It lands back into his hand, destined to repeat the same motion until boredom casts it aside.

He doesn’t look at me. I want him to look at me.

Eve: “Besides, seasons aren’t changing. Nothing is changing. Everything constant. These dreams just give an illusion of the passage of time. But nope. When I awake, no seasons will have changed.”

The paper is cast aside. He looks at me. I like that.

Virgil: “Well, be as that may, that doesn’t change the fact that this dream is making the seasons change and you sure as Hell will be getting colder. Now a nice fire. That would be a lovely turn of events. Some smoldering logs in the corner. Those toesies wouldn’t be frosies then.”

There’s a whistle in his step as he strides to the door. He rattles his knuckles against the bars. It plays a pleasant tune.

Eve: “We can always start our own.”

Virgil smiles. The coldness leaves my toes just by thinking about fire. But they’ve been watching me closely since I tried to warm myself up last year. These dreams are persistent. They don’t forget. Every time I make a move, they course correct. I need to be smarter if I’m going to get back home.

Martin: “‘Psychopath’ Therapy! Casting call for ‘Psychopath’ Therapy! Who’s on the list!”

Orderlies rush past with mundane faces. Each look the same to me. Yeah, they’re the same person. These dreams are getting lazy.

One stops in front of my cell. He must have heard Virgil rattling the bars. Virgil steps aside as the orderly glances over a paper.

Eve: “Am I on the list?”

The orderly grunts. I wasn’t talking to him.

Virgil: “Of course you are! Everything in here revolves around you. It’s your dreams, after all. Why would things happen that don’t involve you? Waste of brain power, if you ask me.”

Eve: “Well he’s taking his sweet time at reading that paper.”

The orderly glares daggers at me.

Orderly: “Evelyn Dina Madison?”

Virgil: “It’s Eve, actually.”

Orderly: “You’re on the list. Now get moving.”

Virgil: “See? Told ya so.”

Eve: “Oh, shut up.”

The orderly slams a baton against the bars. It’s not a pleasant tune.

Orderly: “What did you say?”

Eve: “Clearly I wasn’t talking to you.”

I try to walk past the guard, but he shoves me to the front of a newly forming line. More women shuffle out of their cells behind me. They have different faces, though. My mind took time creating these drones. No idea why they’re so old. No other little girls like me.

Virgil walks beside me as we are led deep inside a church. It looks like a happy place. Or, well, like a happy place used to be here. Maybe it’s always been like this. Do places age in dreams? I’ll ask Virgil later.

There’s a boring speech from some voice. I don’t bother looking up. All I do is sit in a pew and gaze down at my feet. They’re still cold. I’m cold. I wish there was fire.

Dr. Bouchard: “. . . Let’s begin with you, Miss.”

Silence.

Virgil: “Psst, Eve.”

My head shoots up.

Eve: “Yes?”

Virgil sits to my right at the edge of the pew.

Virgil: “He’s talking to you.”

Eve: “Of course he is. Why does it matter?”

Virgil: “Just play along, okay? I want to see where this dream is going. Something seems different.”

Eve: “Well, okay.”

More silence. There’s murmuring from the crowd. A few chuckles. I must be funny.

Eve: “Oh, so, my name’s Eve. Well, it’s Evelyn. But no. Those aren’t words you should use. Okay? I’m from the real world. I remember going to the theatre before. That was a fun time. I don’t know any William’s. Well, I do. But none with that last name. Nope. You all run together in here.”

I smack my feet against the ground and look back to my toes. They’re cold.

[Sammuramat]

Hannah had realised that her nails were growing too long and could easily gouge out someone's eye. The sensible thing to do would be to wait until she could ask an orderly to cut them for her (she wouldn't want to cut them herself, they used scissors which of course had sharp edges). She tried to wait. But it was late, and the orderlies weren't coming, and she was trapped here with her cellmates, trying desperately not to gouge out any eyes.

Antonella was easy to ignore. She didn't find herself thinking about hurting Antonella very much. She tended to forget she existed. The woman was so quiet and docile. Carla was more of an issue. Even when Hannah wasn't looking at her face, she could always hear her, hear her inane babbling, hear her hands flap against each other, hear the creaking of her bed as she rocked. And then her face floated into Hannah's mind, no matter how tight closed she screwed her eyes, and images of hurting her floated up, too. She didn't even dislike Carla. Hannah was just a bad person.

The hardest one to ignore, though, was Lena. Hannah could ignore her just fine most of the time. She was quieter than Carla, at least. But when she made her presence known... she liked to try and hurt Hannah. She was so cruel. She called Hannah a traitor every chance she got, and it seemed that just seeing Hannah was a good opportunity. The guilt ate at her every day, no matter what. Lena didn't need to help that.

Or maybe this was her punishment from God. Not even a punishment, maybe. Consequence? A traitor like her deserved it.

But she was trying to be a better person. So while her mind filled up with white hot anger at Lena - and then at Antonella - and the images came, images of raking her nails across their faces, and the blood, and the jelly of the eyes - she chewed at her fingernails. She had been chewing at them for a while. She focused entirely on this. She wore her nails down to small pink strips, until there were little dots of redness forming at the tips. Even when they stole her soap. She accepted this as punishment and moved on quickly. She would hurt them if she thought about it too much. If she focused entirely on nullifying the threat that she posed, the images didn't come. Or at least they came and she knew they wouldn't happen. She felt safe, then.

So she smiled graciously when they took her soap, and stayed quiet, and behaved well. The orderlies often said she behaved well. She was proud every time. She felt validated, like all her attempts to be good were finally being noticed. She was very excited for the auditions today.

Finally they came, and she could leave Lena behind and stop thinking of hurting her. It was a relief to leave. And when she left, Giulia was there. Giulia seemed kind. Hannah smiled to her gratefully as they left the cell, left Lena's earshot. "Thank you," she whispered to her. "Lena, she - she doesn't understand how hard I try..."

A guard told her to be quiet, and Hannah sheepishly obeyed.

She liked being in the chapel, too. She loved going to Mass. Especially the parts about forgiving sinners, and the parts about cleansing, even though she wasn't sure God would actually forgive her when he knew. Whenever she was in the chapel, every other thought was an apology. Often she went to confess, and told every dark thought she had had, unloading a thousand murders or maulings she had committed in her mind, confessing them as if she had actually done them. At first, when she came to the confession box and told them about ripping people apart with forks, they had gotten suspicious, searched her for weapons, and checked everyone for whatever kind of wound she had admitted inflicting. She supposed the other women here might commit crimes and only confess them here, so it made sense. Eventually, though, they seemed to realise that as realistic as the crimes seemed to her, she hadn't actually done them. Most of the time, she couldn't have done them. A lot of them needed two hands. Still, she needed to confess them. It was a compulsion. If she didn't tell a priest, then they bubbled up through her teeth at other times, and she'd end up telling some poor other patient that she was thinking about breaking their fingers.

She sat quietly in her pew - the one she usually sat in - and listened. She decided she wouldn't even think the name of the play. It made her flinch when Maggie kept repeating it. Why is it bad luck? she wanted to ask. What's going to happen to us? And again, the same images as earlier came into her head. She got some relief from holding her hands together. It kept one hand occupied and reassured her that the other hand was incapable of any harm.

The girl Eve was sat at the same pew as her, so half of the time she spoke, Hannah was somewhat pre-occupied, thinking of what she would say. The girl didn't seem to be talking to the rest of the room, anyway, for most of that time... she didn't seem to think anyone real was here. Oh, she could show her something real... Hannah clutched her hand tightly.

She cleared her throat. "I'm Hannah." She tensed, imagining Lena yelling out, calling her a traitor. Most people would know her as a traitor. She glanced around, seeking out the familiar form of Giulia. "I'm from Cadwal. I used to read some Shakespeare when I was very young. And I went to a theatre, but it was only once and I didn't stay very long. I don't remember what play," but she did remember it had been very violent and she had left crying.

[The Biosyn]

The Infirmary

Perfectionist, polished and pristine were the first few words to come to one's mind when they entered the Infirmary of l'Hôpital Mezieu. Orderly often came fourth. The nurses attending the columns and rows of neatly quartered off beds were uniformed and regimented. Their blanched white uniforms would inspire many of the images of the ethereal, divine angelic beings tending to the wounds, wants and worries of the patients that they cared for. More machine than man, many operated dutifully to the wishes of their superior here: Estelle Fléchier. None could question that her military style approach to hierarchy had streamlined the profession and quality of life here for the nurses at the hospital, but mutterings and concerns often spoke of a 'generalisation' of treatment and medicine. Many did not speak openly to their superior, who often took it upon herself to treat the most sickly individual she chose.

"Everyone can be healed with a firm hand reassuring them that they will be fine." The smile was almost unnatural. It creased the skin in all the wrong places. Drew shadows that shouldn't have been formed. In truth it looked more like a frown that had been plastered upside down than any genuine smile. "And you, sir, are an obedient one. Have you taken your medicine today?"

Sprawled on the bed with little more than a tray on their lap, dotted with an assortment of specialist foods prescribed to keep up their strength, the patient gave little more than a half-convincing nod.

"Have you taken your medicine today?"

"Have you taken your medicine today?" Fléchier asked once again. There came no reply. Her face did not respond to this insubordination. It remained blank and emotionless as she removed the tray from the patient's lap revealing the black belt-like restraint wrapped around their waist that she began to tighten. "It would appear that you have not." Her hands, content with the tightness, moved over to her clip-board as she began reading out his illness aloud. Feet kicked beneath the bed-sheets every-so-often, but they got no further than a few inches into the air.

"A tendency for self-inflicted violence is interesting. Are you suicidal? Is this also why you have an eating disorder?" The inhalation of breath was sharp. "His pills, Nathalie. Please fetch them for me."

The nurse on hand, Nathalie Travers, looked up from the small work station where she was grounding up some herbs, put her work aside, and under lock and key, and quickly retrieved the medicine Estelle had indicated. Bringing the pills and an additional small stopped bottle, she quickly crossed the room to Estelle's side, though she nearly tripped on a bedpost on the way and only just barely didn't knock another nurse's load out of her hands.

"Whoops! Sorry, Elodie, I seem to be losing track of my own feet today. There now," she said cheerily and apologetic as she straightened herself and helped the other nurse ensure she wouldn't drop anything, "nothing broken or spilt."

A moment later, she appeared at Estelle's side.

"The pills, Nurse Fléchier. And here is a tincture I've made. I think it might help with his appetite. I've heard this particular mix of herbs is more effective than the last one I tried." Nathalie offered the pills and the small bottle to Estelle.

"You have initiative", she replied as she took the tincture under a scrutinous eye. Uncorking this tincture, she gave it a good whiff for quality and seemed satisfied. "Where do you come up with these home remedies? Are they native to your home, old hand-me-downs?" As she spoke she began pouring some out into a spoon, forcibly pushing the silver piece into his mouth. This was followed quickly by a thick, black, syrupy concotion that had been simply referred to as 'the medicine'. Its taste was non-existent and it merely exhumed a bitter odour. The patient's resistance faltered after the spoon and they quietly accepted the rest of the medicine, though was able to roll up their sleeves for a short moment to reveal an assortment of scars, primarily around the forearm and wrist area. Estelle paid them no mind.

Nathalie quietly released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Even though she's worked with Estelle for the past 4 years, the head nurse's words still could cut as easily as when they had first met, and that she'd seemingly chosen to ignore Nathalie's momentary and periodic clumsiness today was a blessing in and of itself.

"A little bit of both. I was raised in an apothecary, and then experimentation became necessary when supplies in the war became limited."

Sealing both medicines, she turned to face her subordinate. Her face was angular and sharp, her dress almost impeccable. Her features were pleasant enough. Warmly brown eyes, with auburn hair that had small streaks of greying-white within the. Most of it was tucked away into her cap. She stood up, now content with how the treatment was going with the patient.

"I shall return at the same time tomorrow, sir. I hope you will take your medicine without my assistance then."

Nathalie's faltering had caused a momentary firing of a synapse in the nurse's head. She had decided to not comment on it today. Nathalie was not in need of the 'tough love' that cured individuals. "Being raised in an apothecary almost seems like this path was pre-ordained for you." Estelle began walking out of the small obscured bed, pushing past the white curtains that sealed it away, as she advanced further through the infirmary. "And I've always got the respect of individuals who fought in 'the war'. I did myself, but I'm sure you are aware of that."

Nathalie followed shortly behind Estelle. "It certainly seems that way sometimes!"

She slightly frowned at Estelle's back briefly, thinking of the unfortunate rumors surrounding the head nurse's time in the war, but knew better than to pay them any mind when the situation didn't call for it. She replaced the frown with her customary smile so that it wouldn't color her voice. She moved to catch up and walk almost abreast with Estelle, a small effort given that she was a bit shorter than most of the nurses at Mezieu.

"Oh yes! I did know. I think the companies we were with nearly crossed paths towards the end, but then, thank heaven, it ended before too much more bloodshed."

She waited a beat before changing subjects. "Today is when Doctor Bouchard is holding the auditions for "The Scottish Play", isn't it?" Her voice uncertain at the non-title of the play. The Doctor had been quite clear about the superstition about calling it by name at certain times and in certain places, and not all the nurses had quite figured out the whens and wheres to be careful as he had requested.

Indeed, Estelle had heard that their attached companies were nearly made to reinforce the same portions of the frontline. "Indeed, thankfully it ended before more of our services were required." Estelle, whilst not an individual who would confess to 'liking' anyone, had a certain degree of respect for the nurse Nathalie. She was obedient, dutiful, free-thinking but conformist.

"The Alienist is a quack. This 'Macbeth' is..." the expression of disgust that sprawled across her face resembled someone suppressing sick. She also coughed, uncomfortably and then sighed. " 'The Scottish Play', my apologies, - where even is Scotland?- is not medicine. I don't understand how he expects these people to get better by accentuating their difficulties and abnormalities on the stage. However, it is not my business to treat the alienist -- merely his projects. I think it is a bit sick, actually."

"I don't know what to think about this current project of his," Nathalie responded. "It seems like some prominent minds might think it the way forward, but it seems... I hope it doesn't distract those researching new medicines."

The two of them came upon a nurse putting some bottles and medicines on a cart. "Oh!" Nathalie exclaimed. "That's right, I need to load a cart and take medicines to that ward before the auditions. Please excuse me, Nurse Fléchier. I should hurry so I'm not late."

Estelle nodded. "Godspeed."

[Fanaglia]

The Chapel

"Um, my name is Giulia Bianchi." She spied Hannah, whom she recognized from the cell neighboring hers, sitting in the pew directly in front of her, looking around for something. She placed her hand gently on her shoulder as she spoke, both to reassure Hannah that she had a friend nearby, and to reassure herself of the same. "I'm from Ticciano and, uh, I've been to the theatre several times with...with my husband." The word seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth as she spoke. "But he never took me to see any Shakespeare. I...I do quite like reading, though, and I have read several of his plays, including this one."

"Thank you, Giulia," Dr. Bouchard said as the last of the introductions finished. "And thank you all!" Apart from a few brief outbursts from Ms. DeFleur (he had learned in his earlier sessions of psychodrama therapy to simply ignore minor disruptions or risk losing momentum), the introductions went as smoothly as they could. But, Lord have mercy, did he seem to have his work cut out for him this session. It would be a difficult journey, for sure, but he would see to it that these women had an opportunity to grow through his therapy, no matter how much he would likely want to pull his hair out.

"Well, ladies, it really is very nice to have you all join me in enjoying one of my favorite pieces of drama. For those of you who do not know, this play is one of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies. It is the story of a man whose ambition reaches far beyond his right and, with some encouragement from his equally-ambitious wife, commits a horrible sin to achieve his goal: to become king."

"Sounds like you killed the wrong bloke, eh? Coulda been king!" Maggie jabbed Giulia jokingly in the ribs.

"Maggie, final warning," the young doctor said sternly.

"What!?" Maggie cried out; Giulia, meanwhile, stared silently at her shoes. "Fine."

"Moving on," Dr. Bouchard continued, "But his lies begin to catch up to him. He finds himself telling more lies to cover up his earlier murder, then finds himself having to kill again to keep the secret. But his past -- and fate, as foretold by a trio of strange witches -- catches up to him and Lady MacB in the end, with the former killed in battle and the latter driven to madness and suicide." A few gasps rose up from those in attendance and murmurs continue throughout the group. Dr. Bouchard was shifting uncomfortably on the stage when he spied a dark shape looming near one of the exits from the chapel. "Uh, let's...take a minute to familiarize ourselves with some of the characters and start thinking about which role you might wish to play. Miss Bianchi, you said you've read the Scottish Play, yes? Could you please pass these out?" Although he spoke to Giulia, his eyes remained on the dark figure.

"Me? Yes, of course, Dr. Bouchard." Giulia rose to her feet and took the stack of papers from the doctor, which almost seemed to startle him.

"Yes, yes, thank you, Miss Bianchi." He blinked his eyes a few times and cleared his throat, addressing the whole group once more: "We unfortunately do not have enough books for everyone to have her own copy of the play, but you may partner up with whomever is sitting in front or behind you if you would like to flip to a page and begin practicing a few lines. I...shall return in just a moment. Have fun!" His words rang hollow, for there was no fun in his voice as he walked down the aisle towards the dark shape of the warden, Father Coulmiers.

"Interesting flock you've gathered here today, Remy," the elder gentleman said with a smirk.

"Yes, they're all a bit green, but aren't they all?" When the warden didn't reply, Remy shifted uncomfortably. "I...er...I still have...reservations about your choice of drama for this session of psychodrama therapy, Father."

"Why, Remy, I'm shocked. I thought you and I shared a similar passion for...Macbeth," he said condescendingly, emphasizing the title of the play mockingly.

"It's not that I dislike the play, Father. In fact, it's one of my favorites. But you know that, from the beginning, I've questioned the...appropriateness of the subject matter for a group such as this."

"Remy, you must remember -- these women are not just any patients. Many of them are here because of terrible crimes they've committed on the outside. They need to be reminded that those sins shall follow them for the rest of their miserable lives."

"I thought atonement was part of rehabilitation."

Father Coulmiers scoffed. "One of these days, you'll learn that, while there may be a few success stories here and there, there is no hope for rehabilitation for the vast majority of these women."

"In any case, I still find the matters of madness and suicide to be quite inappropriate subjects for the mentally ill, and, if I dare say so, offensive."

"What's offensive is the sense of false hope you insist on giving to the hopeless. Nearly as offensive as your insolence, in fact. In any case, Macbeth is a popular piece that will sell tickets -- and who better to portray the mad on stage than those who are truly mad? Remember, Remy, without the revenue from those ticket sales, this little...project of yours," the warden gestured dismissively, "would only be a drain on this hospital's resources that we simply couldn't allow. Good day to you, Doctor, and good luck."

---

Fourth Pentagon, Third-Class Ward D

With a heavy sigh, Nathalie Travers pushed her medicine cart past another empty second-class cell. She was too late -- even if they didn't have the slightest interest in acting, most of the patients had jumped at the chance to get out of their cells for the afternoon, just to have something to do. But that meant that most of them would be missing their scheduled medications. Perhaps she could catch them when they came back? It was a shame to have to deviate from their carefully planned medication schedules, but it would be better than nothing. Estelle would not be happy, though...

"Oh! Lena! What are you still doing here?" About half of the third-class patients had still been in their cells when she passed by (most of which were considered too dangerous or unstable for such privileges as psychodrama therapy), but Lena Nowak was alone in her cell and had no such restriction in her file. "I would have thought you'd be over at the chapel with your friend, Giulia!"

Lena scoffed. "That therapy's for crazy people, Miss Nathalie. I ain't crazy."

"Crazy is as crazy does," the nurse replied chipperly.

"Yeah, yeah. Whaddya got for me today, Nats?"

"Just your regular medication. Are you going to actually take it today?"

"I dunno. Are you gonna make me?"

"Oh come on, now, Lena. Just take your pills. It'll make things go easier."

Lena rolled her eyes. "Easier for that psychopath, Father Coulmiers, you mean. You ask me, he's madder than anybody else in this shithole."

"How are things going with you and your sessions with Father Coulmiers? You've definitely got his attention somehow."

"Ah, I don't pay that old fool too much mind. He keeps tryin' to get me to talk about Libre Fanaglia. I just tell him I don't know nothin' and that I'm just crazy."

"But you just said you weren't crazy."

"Ah, but that's just what a crazy person would say, ain't it?" Lena replied with a wink. "Besides, even if I did know anything, which I don't, I wouldn't tell that świnia a damn thing."

"Therapy only works if you're honest, Lena."

"Yeah, yeah. Just give me the damn pills. At least they help me sleep."

[Junkyland]

The alienist is gone. I wonder why he left me. I enjoy his company. Well, for the most part. He has a calming voice that reminds me of someone I knew back home. I don’t remember who, but they always made me feel safe. Was it the servant who worked the stable? Or what about that older boy who brought the fresh bread from the market? Maybe this one is an amalgamation of both. Yeah, that makes sense. Dreams do that a lot.

Virgil: Right! And he keeps showing up. So that must mean something. You need to start paying more attention. I don’t like the vibes I’ve been getting as of late.

Virgil drums his hands across the pew and looks out across the shuffling inmates. Murmurs fill the room. A white noise growing with each tick of the clock. His words almost fall on deaf ears. I don’t like noise. It doesn’t make me feel safe. I like feeling safe.

Eve: Stop reading my mind. If I want a response, I’ll speak the words.

I look deep into his eyes. There’s a twinkle across his sparkling oceans. I feel safe again.

Virgil tips an imaginary cap and stands up to bow.

Virgil: As you wish, m’lady. Consider that overworked little brain of yours off limits from the likes of me. No more snarky comments or unwanted little tidbits!

Eve: You’re still going to listen to my thoughts, aren’t you?

I stand, too, with my hands on my hips. Virgil’s tall. My neck cranes to keep peering into those eyes. I do feel safe with him by my side.

Virgil: Of course! Got to keep myself entertained somehow!

Something breaks into my line of sight and eclipses Virgil from my eyes. A woman holds an item out towards me, offering it up like a gift. I take it, if only to see Virgil again. There’s big words at the top. It reads ‘Macbeth’. What is this?

Virgil: A book! 'Macbeth', by the looks of it.

Eve: Don’t treat me like an idiot, please.

I look up towards the woman. She looks familiar. Like someone I knew from the real world. Someone who made me feel safe.

[Yasuragi]

Only two things in the entire universe were true, so far as Jacqueline could ascertain. The first, of course, was that God was real. Naturally. She had been a devout Christian for her entire life, raised by her mother, who would hum little snippets of hymns or psalms while she wove in the little two-bedroom rundown that her family called a 'home'. Little Jacqueline had learned both skills at a very early age - so early, in fact, that her family often joked that Jacqueline's first words were the opening lines of a 'Hail Mary'. (They were not; her mother had told her that her first word was actually "boot," upon hearing her father enter the house -- lying, even in jest, was a sin. She had learned the punishment for that particular sin shortly after.) As she grew, from a lively and cherubic girl into a ganglier youth, her hands chapped from the harsh lye and harsher lifestyle of a peasant, her faith had only deepened. And when economic crises and depression had come, with war and conflict following shortly after, it had deepened further still.

Every bit of her energy that was not dedicated to her chores and responsibilities had been spend in pursuit of good Christian values. She had woven for the poor, stitching together small scraps and pieces to create some modicum of warmth, sewing and tacking together what even her family could not use, and then passing it out when the winter months came. So too did she spend her valuable time scrubbing and cleaning the village church when the Father had asked, working on her hands and knees alongside the other village girls until her hands had cracked and bled in the cold winter air. Her faith was unshakable, and each and every problem was met with a small crease of her forehead, a warm smile, and a quiet "God preserves." Jacqueline was a peasant, from a peasant family; she knew God would not provide, nor could her family hope to receive sustenance from upon high. God, to her, cared for the spirit, the soul -- and as the Father said, what else were the body's needs but a constant reminder of the sinful nature of man?

She had not even complained when her mother had sent her to the nearest town to seek employment at the mills there, even though the very noise and smell had nearly driven her to tears. The great thundering inside the mills, the hissing steam, the loud shouting and chattering crowds, all of it was too much. Even the very air was impossible to breathe, choked as it was with chaff and soot, and all manner of particulates rising into the air on great columns of venting steam and smoke. How she had cried, for the first night, for hours and hours, choking her sobs with a handkerchief lest she annoy the other women in their dormitory - for the walls were so thin, and they were three a room. She longed for relief, for an angel to appear and whisk her away from this -- if not hell, then at least hell-adjacent. But days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and slowly, Jacqueline's tears had dried away. The thudding of the looms no longer caused her to flinch, and the chaff-filled air only created the slightest cough, rather than the heaving that had first racked her small frame.

And then, one fateful day: he had appeared.

In the cold cell, Jacqueline's expression tensed, her forehead creasing even as her eyes remained shut. A slight tic made her nose twitch slightly, as if she were smelling a foul stench. It wasn't too far from the truth, after all; despite the best efforts of the L'Mezieu inhabitants and staff, the smell of dozens of people living in close confinement with limited plumbing was not easily rid. There was nothing out of the ordinary today, however. Jacqueline's reactions were self-inflicted, not an unfortunate by-product of the perhaps over-full chamberpot nearby.

Ah - the second truth. Yes. God was real. That meant that the devil, too, existed. Or devils. Jacqueline was not certain of the details, for there was so much wickedness, and every priest she met seemed to tell her one thing or another. Surely all this sin and evil could not be the work of merely one tormented soul, no matter how angelic its original nature was. No, Lucifer could not be blamed, and after all, he was not responsible for implanting the evil into people's hearts. He merely fanned the flames, like a blacksmith, whispering evil nothings into their ears, letting his lies and deceit worm their way into people's hearts, poisoning their souls, and driving them to do evil, awful, wicked, cruel, vicious things. Jacqueline shook slightly, and a tinge of pain caused her to open her eyes and look down at her hand. A small ring of half-moon cuts lined her palm, bleeding oh-so-slightly from where she had pressed her nails too tightly into her palm. She waited for a few heartbeats, as if expecting something else, perhaps a tear or two, but nothing happened. It had been so long since she had last cried, years, even. And now, she could not even imagine wasting her tears on herself. Her pain was nothing, after all. A mere scratch, and a minor one at that.

---

"Doctor Bouchard," Jacqueline said, dipping her head with a bob of respect, as if she were greeting him on the street. "I am Mrs. Jacqueline Bisset, from Grelliers. A few days down the Roussir from Mezieu. It is a small village, with little there to interest a learned man like yourself," she bobbed again, "but we did have the fortune of the occasional traveling troupe, which often performed. And the priest of our village, Father Bescond, once had the children perform a Shakespeare play -- Julius Caesar," she said, mispronouncing the name. "It was the talk of the village for months, although Father Bescond had some issue getting the children to say the Rothian bits and bobs correctly. Begging your pardon, sir." She bobbed a third time, a thrill of nervous energy running through her. This was the most she had talked in some time, especially to the Doctor. It felt... good. A warm feeling in her stomach.

---

OOC: Uncertain who to actually begin practicing with - would anyone be interested in adding in that section? Otherwise, assume Jacqueline is quietly muttering to herself in a side section, repeating basic sentences with differing emphasis on words, as if she's uncertain what to emphasize in the various lines. And, of course, her projection and acting skills are hideous.

[The Biosyn]

Nathalie sorted through the medecines on the cart she had been pushing around, finding the small collection of bottles that held Lena's medications. She walked to the door to hand them to her when a memory hit her.

It was a few months before the end of the war. A young man at the Nurses' station in the camp. She had mixed up some medicines for him now and again, but this time he came for a specific tincture of hers. She gave him a small vial of the tincture for later, hopefully never. They talked some, forcing their laughter, before he left never to be seen again.

She swayed on her feet, nearly overwhelmed by the unbidden remembrance, steadying herself on the cart. "Lena, dear," Nathalie said, recovering her balance and stepping to the door, though remaining the mandated distance away from patients when orderlies aren't about. "Lena, do you, or rather did you, have a relative that fought in the war? Perhaps a cousin or brother? I apologize, but I was just struck by your striking resemblance to someone I once treated during the war."

[Fanaglia]

Fourth Pentagon, Third-Class Ward D

After delivering Lena's pills, the nurse lingered in her cell for a few extra moments and Lena, who had lain back down on her lumpy mattress with the intent to fall asleep after Nathalie left, could not help but notice the nurse's unsteadiness on her own feet, as well as the thousand-yard stare she had witnessed so many times before on the faces of comrades who had seen too much of the horrors of war, whether in the Great Coup, the revolution in Menid, or in Lena's own revolution. "Lena, dear...Lena, do you, or rather did you, have a relative that fought in the war? Perhaps a cousin or brother? I apologize, but I was just struck by your striking resemblance to someone I once treated during the war."

Lena sat back up in her bed, genuinely concerned for Nathalie in that moment. "Well, my Tata fought against the Mendeans in the Coup in '42, but I don't really remember much about him -- I was five years old when he took a bayonet in the gut. I wish we'd have had more family, though -- it was always just me, Mama, and my sisters after that, and it was hard. Coulda used a bit of help from family. Or somethin'." She eyed the nurse, scanning her countenance for a reaction before continuing, "Tata did have a younger brother. Never met him, though. Mama said he was a bit of a black sheep and was always Tom-cattin' around. Maybe you came across him, or maybe he had a kid who joined the fight. What was he like?" Lena knew that the odds that her nurse had treated a long-lost relative of hers in a foreign revolution were quite slim, but she liked Nathalie. She was one of the only people in that God-forsaken place whom she felt actually respected her. Or at least was really good at faking it. The least she could do would be to comfort a comrade who had fought for the rights of the oppressed, even if they had fought different fights. Besides, making friends with the nurse could have its perks.

---

The Chapel

"Say, Gimpy, looks like we're partners, eh?" Maggie DeFleur curled her dirty fingers over the back of the pew where Hannah Kelly was sitting and leaned over so that her face was beside hers, probably uncomfortably close, so she could get a better look at the book Hannah had been given. "Well, we gonna take a look at what this, uh," she stopped and looked around in an over-exaggerated fashion, a look of feigned concern on her face, before saying the title in a ragged whisper, "Macbeeeeeeth has to offer, or not?" Barely having waited for a response, she reached over Hannah's shoulder to turn the page herself. "Oooooooohhhh! We're right at it with the wit-ches! I like that. But they're three of 'em. Oi! Blondie!" She called out sharply, gesturing with her hand to Jacqueline Bisset, who was off and away from the crowd, struggling through lines awkwardly by herself. "Care to join me an' my new friend over here? We be needin' a third witch!"

Meanwhile, Giulia had finished passing out the rest of the books and returned to her partner, the girl called Eve who had been staring at the floor and muttering to herself for much of the time since they had arrived. She looked up when Giulia handed her their shared copy of Macbeth. "I'd never dream of it. To treat you like an idiot, that is." She sat down on the pew next to her partner and continued, "I want to let you know that there are some moments in this story that might be...difficult for some people. Honestly, I can't believe why the alienist chose this piece for mental patients to perform, but...well, at least it's a fascinating story and it's something to do. So please, let me know if any of these scenes make you uncomfortable." She turned randomly to a page, which happened to be during the scene from Act III in which Macbeth encounters Banquo's ghost at a dinner banquet, his guests finding him to be acting quite madly when he confronts the ghost that none of them can see. She looked up from her page at Eve's face, recalling how much she had observed her talking to herself. "Hmm, let's find another scene, shall we?" Flipping to another page, she smiled and, without explanation or context, began reading from the book:

Ay, sir, all this is so. But why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights.
I’ll charm th' air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round.
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.

"Come and dance with me!" Giulia exclaimed, taking Eve by the hands and pulling her to her feet, intentionally ignoring the irony of her attempt to make the mocking end of such a grim prophecy into a lighthearted celebration. She was just there to have some fun, and, by the look on Eve's face, she could use some fun, as well.

[Junkyland]

It’s her eyes, I think. Yeah, it has to be her eyes. Those look familiar. Ones that slow your heart and warm your cheeks, if only you can steal a peek.

Virgil: Hey, your brain made a rhyme!

I don’t answer. I’m lost in my subtle reflection within her delicate eyes. Words keep spinning out of her mouth, but I don’t answer those either. She’s uncomfortable, that has to be what’s wrong. Everyone is always uncomfortable around me. No one ever stays near me for long. Not even figments of my own mind wish to speak to me. That hurts. I don’t like that pain. Pain no good. It’s no fun being alone.

Virgil: Eve?

His voice tickles my ears. I look up. He towers high above us both.

Virgil: You’re not alone.

Virgil’s hand comforts my shoulder. His touch is delicate. I lean my head against the back of his hand. The tiny hairs prick my cheek, yet warms my skin. I nod and look back to the woman. She speaks good words now. Calming words. They sound like a song. I like songs. My mother used to sing to me. A simple lullaby before bed. Oh, how I wish I remembered those long forgotten words. I miss them.

Giulia: Come and dance with me!

The woman takes me to my feet and we spin and spin. My body shakes as my whole vision swims. The world around me becomes a blur, but the woman remains in focus. Her smile dances across her face. It makes me feel safe. I like it.

She stops our spinning, but her body remains moving to mute music. Both of my hands clasp together across my chest and each shoulder hunches over. Yet, I still let my body sway to lost sounds. Virgil leans against the pew with a smirk on his face. His dimples sink into his cheeks. He likes when I find fun in these dreams. Sometimes they feel so empty.

But not right now.

Eve: I don’t have a lot of fun in here. It’s a dark place. You’re a good dream. I like good dreams.

The grip on my fingers loosen and I lean forward to hide my mouth behind my hands. A few strands of my bangs fall from my ear and block my vision. But through the darkness, I still see those eyes. They look familiar.

[Sammuramat]

Hannah was struggling to open her book, which was slightly embarrassing. She couldn't hold it properly and open it at the same time, and if she just balanced it on her lap, the pages just fluttered shut, or the whole book toppled over onto its side. A hand over Hannah's shoulder, and she flinched. It was only the shouting girl. Didn't she know it was dangerous to get hands anywhere near Hannah? Hannah might... do things to them.

"Don't say that," she hissed, the moment she heard Maggie say Mac - no, no, she shouldn't even think it, that wouldn't be safe. "All kinds of things could happen. We need to be careful." Though for some reason she doubted that Maggie was familiar of the concept of carefulness. Maggie opened her book for her, which was a relief, to be frank, and then called someone else over - Hannah looked round to see Jacqueline. She knew the woman, somewhat. She had seen her in the chapel before. She was godly, like Hannah tried to be. Hannah got jealous of her sometimes.

Hannah remembered this bit, now that she looked at it. She remembered finding the witches amusing as a child. Not any more, not now that she knew what a stray cruel thought could do. Was she a witch? She had hurt enough people to count, surely.... She began to speak. Her voice trembled like an aspen on a mountain She had never acted before. Well. Except when she had sent Jonathan away. She tried not to think, and stared right into Jacqueline's eyes. "Where hast thou been, sister?..."