WPaRG Intermission: Forensic Kits

by chelonianmobile, MultiFanGirlWickedPony

Summary:

Examinations, after the event.

Chapter 1: Marian King

Patient is young adult, British, and just visiting.

Marian King is not a child. She does not resemble one… but she is still so young. Too young.

Female… Caucasian… 21… AB-…

Red hair… blue eyes… sharp features…

And there are traces of dark saliva around her neck and mouth.

“Did he chew tobacco?”

“Not in front of me, but when he kissed me… I’ve never tried it, I wouldn’t know.”

A bite wound here, teeth marks there, bruised and swollen lips.

“I’d like to see your hands please. I am going to need to scrape your nails.”

“I didn’t fight back,” says Miss King, reluctantly, “but you might try anyway.”

And, trembling, she holds out a quivering hand and Maxwell does what he has been trained to.

“Would you like a moment to compose yourself?”

Sobbing. The woman clutches her friend’s hand. “Please just get it over with. Please.”

“Are you comfortable telling me what happened or would you rather wait for the police statement?”

She shakes her head. “I-I’d rather wait. I mean, what happened is quite obvious, isn’t it? I’d rather not go into specifics until I must.”

“Quite understandable. I shall not push.”

A swab is held out and administered. It comes up rust-red and off-white. The woman cries harder, her knuckles going pale around the hand of the large man beside her.

“Do you need a moment to compose yourself?” Maxwell asks again, but she only shakes her head.

“Just get it over with,” she tells him. “Please.”

He does.

Chapter 2: Korra Pamuy

Patient is Korra suffering from injured spine.

Katara Achoda is familiar with the girl on her examination table. This is a girl she has watched grow up, one she has known since early childhood. The one who filled the gap in her life after her husband’s death…

And now she lies before her, with streaks of red between her legs.

Female… Inuit… 17… O+…

“Katara?” she asks, sounding tearful.

“Korra, I…” Katara’s voice breaks.

She doesn’t know what to say. What can she say?

“They… they kept me there for days,” Korra tells her. “Can you do the mouth swab quick so I can drink something? They didn’t let me…” Her voice cracks. “I think they were just gonna let me die.”

Katara does. Quickly. Rust-red and off-white.

“Do you want me to get you some emergency contraception as well as water?”

“Yes. Please. Do a pregnancy test, too, while you’re at it. Just in case.”

“Of course,” she says gently. “And, um, if you are…?” The question hangs in the air.

“It’s only… it was only for a few days,” Korra says. “I don’t… It’s not illegal if I…”

“You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to,” Katara says firmly. “You can, but nobody’s going to make you have a baby if you aren’t-”

“I don’t want it!” Korra speaks quickly. “I can’t be a mom. I never wanted kids and I’ve got this whole thing with boxing and Asami… and…” She cuts herself off and looks down at her legs. “… I’m not going to do sports anymore, am I?”

“I’ll have someone go and get you a glass of water…” She knows that recovery’s unlikely. She doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Do… Can you tell me how many… attackers you had? And how recently you were attacked?”

Korra takes a deep breath. “There were forty of them,” she whispers. “They brought me out to this… this warehouse, and they… they all… all of them went in one go the first time, and they kept me afterwards for a while and they’d come in off and on.” She grimaces. “A few of them got me earlier tonight. I had to wait for them to leave, and I dragged myself away.”

“Okay… Well, silver lining, we’ll have plenty of… DNA to work with.”

“Don’t tell Asami, okay?” Korra says, her eyes suggesting that her mind is only half there. “She’ll feel bad. It’s not her fault, they… they were crazy…”

“What do you mean?”

“They kept calling me a sapphist.” The girl folds her arms over her chest. “They kept yelling at me about God… They said… that… they were gonna fix me.”

“… Bastards.”

“Yeah, they sure as hell didn’t fix me. If anything, I’ll probably just date even less men now. Kinda backfired on them, didn’t it?”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

A door opens and a nurse peers in, holding out a punch-packet of pills and a plastic thermos of water from the tap.

“Oh thank God!” Korra holds out her arm. “Can you hand that to me?!” She begins to chug.

“Korra?” Katara asks once the nurse has departed. “Would you be alright with having a blood test done? To check for diseases and things like that?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” She holds out her arm. “Could you also do that pregnancy test? You know… just to be sure.”

“Sure, we can do that. I think you should come in for a followup appointment later though. With multiple… incidents, well… Just in case.” Katara snaps on a new pair of gloves. “This is the hard part. I’m going to need you to spread your legs…”

Korra does, using her hands to push her legs apart. “Hey,” she says, if only to have something to say. “Um… thanks, for doing this. I know it’s probably kinda… weird.”

“Well… yes, but I’ve been a doctor for over thirty years. Trust me. I’ve done weirder.”

More rust-red and off-white.

“Tenzin asked you to do this, didn’t he?” Korra says.

He hadn’t asked so much as demanded. Katara really cannot blame him for that. “He’s worried about you…”

“Is he okay?” she asks. “I’ve never seen him that mad before. I didn’t know Tenzin could get mad.”

“He’s… not taking it very well, but that is to be expected.”

“He called Chief Beifong. I could hear them yelling from the back of the car, I think he thought I was passed out…” She pauses for a moment and takes another swig of water. “When this is over… can I see him?”

Katara pats her hand. “Of course.”

“How much longer is this going to take?”

They will be there well into the night.

Chapter 3: Shang Li

Chapter by chelonianmobile

Patient is covered in debris; dirt, twigs and dead leaves.

Shang Li is… out of it. Half conscious at best and beside himself on top of that.

Male… East Asian… 18… O-…

“You’ve filled out the paperwork?” Dr. Kekata directs this question at the young man’s father, who stands near the table, clenching his son’s hand.

“Yeah,” Fan Li tells him. “I’ve got it all right here, you can… you can do whatever you need.”

Kekata reaches out and scrapes up the rust-red and off-white. Shang groans but says nothing.

A small comb is gently brushed along Shang’s pubic hair. Various brown, blond, and red hairs fall out. A moan, but no speech. Evidence is collected carefully, and without a word.

“Mr. Li?” Kekata says at last. “Do you have any idea how many assailants your son may have had? Did he tell you anything?”

“Y-yes… eight… he said there were eight men.”

Kekata reaches for another swab, and stops dead when something else comes up with the rust-red and off-white.

Fan Li likewise squints. “Is that… bark?”

It certainly seems to be. “I, ah, I actually recommend having these injuries specifically looked at during a followup. Just to make sure everything is healing and no other issues come up. I trust you’ll agree to that?”

“Yes, of course. And… and a blood test to see if he’s sick or not. Just focus on their DNA for now.”

“You…” Kekata bites his lip. “You will be pressing charges, I take it?”

“Of course.” Fan Li’s eyes burn with rage. “Whoever did this to my son has to be punished. They better pray the police find them before I do.”

“Well, despite their claims, I doubt God will have much mercy on them.” Kekata reaches for a set of nail clippers.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s the possibility that some of their skin or blood may have been stored underneath his nails.”

There is. And long, nail-like gashes down the backs of his hands, and bruises shaped like shoe soles. It appears that Shang Li struggled.

“Mr. Li, how much did your son tell you about what happened?” Kekata asks. “You said you found him? Was he bound at the time? How long was he gone for?”

“He’s been gone since this morning, but that was at school. It’s not unusual for him to come home late. Teenage student athlete, you know? So I can’t give you an estimate for how long this was, but yes, he was bound when I found him.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have held on to whatever it was they used, would you? There could be evidence left on it. Fingerprints, DNA, things like that…”

Fan Li pales. “N-no, I didn’t think to hold onto it. I needed to get my son and his friends to the hospital.”

“That’s understandable.” Ketata tries to sound reassuring. “You’ll have to give the police a location, anyway. They may be able to locate whatever you left behind.”

The man sighs in audible relief.

Chapter 4: Mitch Downe

Patient is cooperative but difficult.

Mitch Downe is… confused, though fully conscious.

“Are you willing to consent to a forensic exam?” Sweet asks him.

The young man cocks his head. “What… what are forensics?”

Male… 18… Caucasian… A+…

“Uh… a rape kit. Would you consent to us doing a rape kit?”

“Oh…” Mitch pauses and nods. “Yeah. Okay… that’s where you look for DNA and stuff, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. Yeah, then.”

“How many attackers would you say there were? Do you know?” With this much damage, it was hard to say for sure.

“Uh… eight? Yeah, there was eight of them. Nine if you count Shang, but he had a gun pointed to his head and he wouldn’t have done it without the gun, so I don’t count it. Um… also one of them had a… a stick,” Mitch speaks up. “They used it on Mulan first and then on me… and Shang after that.”

“I… I see.” Sweet writes that down. “Alright, can I have you open your mouth?”

Mitch does without much question. Another swab of rust-red and off-white.

“Is Mulan gonna be okay?” He asks. “Like, I mean not okay-okay, but she’s not gonna die, right? She wasn’t waking up before…”

Sweet does not know what to say to him. “I’m afraid Ms. Fa is with another doctor. I don’t know much about her condition.”

“… Oh.”

“Did they tie you up, Mr. Downe?”

“Yeah, they used tape and stuff to keep us from running away and punching them and stuff.”

“I see.” A moment’s hesitation. “How are you with needles?”

“Uh… you’re gonna need to tell me when to look away, or else I scream. Why?”

“I’m going to need to get a blood sample, to see if they gave you anything.”

“Like what?”

Dear God, what were they teaching at the highschool? “Diseases. STIs, and things of that nature. Are you alright with me checking for those.”

“Oh! Yeah, sure, but… I don’t like blood.”

“I’ll tell you when to look away.” He does and Mitch tenses, but he doesn’t try to shove him off. “Will you be pressing charges?” Sweet asks. “I need to know if I should contact the police right away. If you need time, however-”

“No!” Mitch speaks up. “No, I want… I wanna press charges. I know the guys who… I know who did it.”

“What?”

“Well,” he backtracks. “I don’t know them, but I’m pretty sure they’re from that cult thing… the one on the news?”

“God’s Will First?”

“Yeah, that, I think it’s the eight guys that weren’t caught. But they gotta be caught. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else. These guys… they killed that Prenderghast kid, right?”

“That’s what I’ve heard, yes.”

“My brother, Neil, he’s friends with her nephew. I always thought that the story was crazy…”

So had Sweet, not that he’ll admit it here and now.

Chapter 5: Mulan Fa

Patient is unconscious. Family member is disruptive.

Mushu Fa is causing a disturbance. Katara cannot really blame him.

“I’m gonna kill ‘em! I’m gonna kill ‘em all! I’m gonna kill ‘em and dance across their goddamn graves!”

“Mr. Fa, if you don’t calm down I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Go ahead! I got eight fucking bodies to bury in the salt mines! Or, hell, just leave them in the forest! Feed the birds! It’d be the most useful thing these fuckers ever did!”

For a moment Katara worries that she’ll have to call security, but then Mulan Fa groans in her sleep, and she watches his demeanor change.

Female… East Asian… 16… O-…

“Mulan?!” He rushes to her. “Mulan, baby?! Can you hear me?!”

“Mr. Fa,” Katara begins. “She’s unconscious…”

“But she just said something! I heard her! You heard her, too!”

“I’m afraid that was not her attempting to speak, Mr. Fa. It was just a groan.”

“Of pain! Oh, my poor baby girl…” he squeezes her hand tightly. “Go ahead and do what you have to, Doc. Whatever you have to do to get whoever did this behind bars!”

Katara reaches for a swab and lifts it to the girl’s mouth. Rust-red and off-white. Mushu goes pale.

“Is… is that…?!”

“It appears to be… discharge, Mr. Fa. I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! This isn’t your fault! Just wrap this up so I know who I need to kill!”

One swab goes into a vial. Katara reaches for another. “I’m going to need to swab… between her legs now, Mr. Fa. If this makes you uncomfortable, you are free to step out of the room at any time.”

“What?! Are you CRAZY?! I’m not leaving her! She needs me!”

“You can stay if you want to!” Katara says quickly. “I just thought I’d give you the opportunity - this is going to be hard for you to see.”

“It’s been even worse for her. I can handle it.”

“Alright, that’s good to hear.”

There is rust-red and off-white between Mulan’s legs. So much red and white. Mushu flinches. Katara begins to swab. Mulan groans again.

Katara falters when bits of twig turn up with the off-white and rust-red.

“Is that tree bark?!”

“It appears to be…”

“Who the hell shoved a branch inside my little girl?!”

“Well, I was wondering if you could tell me…” Katara takes a deep breath. “Mr. Fa, is there anyone you know of that might have wanted to hurt your daughter?”

“Cousin,” he tells her. “She’s my baby cousin. And who the hell would want to do this?! She’s sixteen! She’s a little girl!”

“Is there anything at all that you-”

He pales. “Fan told me he thought it was that group from the news! ‘God’s Will First’ or some shit. He said they hurt the kids!”

“The… the cult?”

“Yeah. Mulan wanted to join the football team, so she pulled a Twelfth Night and pretended to be a boy for a while.” Mushu’s eyes darken. “Guess the fuckers had some issues with that. Fan said he got a phone call warning them, but…” He trailed off. “In the car, Pretty Bo- her boyfriend said there were eight of ‘em. That’s how many are running around, right? Nobody else would wanna hurt her…”

“Oh…” Katara trails off. Don’t think about Korra. “I’m so sorry.”

Mulan makes a noise. This time it sounds like more than just a groan.

“…us…hu?”

“Miss Fa?” she calls out. “Miss Fa, can you hear me?”

“Huh? … Mushu?”

“Oh, thank God!” He throws his arms around her. “Thank God! She lives!”

“Mushu… where am I?”

“You… Mulan, you’re in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” She groans again, and reaches to rub her head. “What… why am I…?” Her eyes go wide. “Shang! Mitch! Are they okay?! Are they… are they dead?!”

“They’re okay, baby girl, they’re okay. You’re the only one they found unconscious.”

“Oh… oh!” She grabs at Katara in desperation. “Emergency contraceptive! I need an emergency contraceptive! Now! I have to give these motherfuckers the middle finger!”

“What?”

“They… they kept saying they were going to remind me what I was created to be… They said they would keep me alive, with another life… I can’t be a mom! I’m sixteen! You have to do something!”

“Alright,” Katara says. “Okay, I can do that. I’ll send the nurse to go bring you some. Do you want any water with that?”

Mulan nods quickly. “Yeah. I… I need to get the taste out of my mouth.”

“Okay.” Katara tries to sound soothing. “Okay. We have most of the procedure taken care of. You’re almost done, there’s just a few more things I need and then we’ll see about getting you cleaned up, alright?”

“I don’t know that I’m ever gonna feel clean again after this.”

“Mulan…” Mushu looks heartbroken.

Katara swallows. “Miss Fa, I know this is… hard, but it does get easier. I promise.” Mulan doesn’t look at her. “I’m going to need to see your hands…”

Chapter 6: Kuzco Capac

Patient does not speak English; translator is present to assist.

“May I please have your full name?”

The boy nods. “Kuzco Inti Manco Capac.”

So he does at least understand English. Katara breathes. She can work with this.

Male… South American… 18… AB+…

“Where - on your body - did the assaults occur?” she asks, because she has to. “Your mouth or…?”

“He says both,” the man, Pacha Martin, tells her. “You’ll have to swab both.”

Rust-red comes up first, followed quickly by off-white. Both in great amounts. “Can you tell me when your last attack was?”

“He says it happened earlier today.”

“Oh,” Katara’s eyes soften. She thinks of her own sons, of her daughter and grandchildren. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

The boy mumbles something in Spanish that the man does not translate.

“Um…” She moves a swap to his lips. “How long has it been since his last oral attack?”

“A few hours at most. Why?”

“Well, you see, there’s normally traces of… DNA, but I can hardly see anything at all. I don’t suppose that you’ve had anything to drink since then, have you?”

Kuzco glances at Pacha, his eyes cast down.

“Uh… yeah, actually,” the man admits. “He drank some water when we came in here. I didn’t think…”

“Sorry,” Kuzco says, in heavily accented English. “Sorry. I not… I not know…”

“It’s okay. I’m sure there’s still something in there, I can still see injuries… and I’m sure you were thirsty.”

“Thirsty… yes, yes, very thirsty…”

“Are you hungry as well?”

The boy nods quickly. She’ll have to see what she can do.

Katara takes the swabs as best as she can. “Did any of your attackers… force you to penetrate them?”

“Y-yes… yes, girls…”

“Any recently?”

“F-four… four days…”

“That’s still within the time frame to find some DNA evidence. Would you like us to collect evidence from there, too?”

He nods. Emphatically.

“And you’ll want to press charges?”

The boy says something in Spanish and the man speaks back.

“He says yes. He wants these people to be caught.”

“In that case I’d like to perform a blood test, if you’re alright with that,” Katara says gently. “To check for diseases. Do you have any issue with blood or needles?” She reaches for a syringe. “Any at all?”

More Spanish.

“Uh,” Pacha begins. “He says they used to inject him, before… doing that to him. He’s a little… nervous.”

Kuzco looks terrified.

“Well, here.” Katara shows him the needle and vial. “I can’t inject anything with this, see? It’s only to collect blood. Is that okay?”

Spanish. A nod.

“He says okay,” Pacha tells her.

There is still a wince as the needle goes inside his arm. Not that Katara can blame him.

“Dr. Achoda? The police are here to interview the victim about what happened.”

“Here.” Katara hands him a hospital gown. “The police want to ask you a few questions, okay?”

The boy on the table nods shakily. More Spanish. A question. Pacha squeezes his shoulder. More Spanish; an answer.

Katara opens the door and the police come in. She thinks again of her own sons.

Chapter 7: Julien Andriana

Patient is pregnant.

“I said I need to get rid of it!”

“Miss-”

“Mister, it’s Mister, hasn’t my file had the changing yet?!”

Female DFAB male… 14… African… B+…

“Oh, damn, I’m very sorry! I guess it hasn’t come through yet… Have you chosen a different first name?”

“Julien. Traditional family name on Maman’s side. So, about this…?”

“Mr. Andriana, as I said before, I’m afraid you’ve gone past the point where I can legally perform an abortion.”

“You want money? I’ll give you the money!” The fourteen-year-old sounds desperate and Dr. Sweet understands why.

“I’m sorry, I understand and I sympathise, but I could lose my medical license if I went through with it.”

“PLEASE!” The boy’s voice climbs an octave. “S'il vous plaît! S'il vous plaît! Vous devez m'aider!”

“Sir, I… I don’t speak French.”

Julien Andriana falters, blinks, and promptly bursts into tears. “Les enculés, c'est pourquoi ils m'ont gardé! C’est pourquoi!”

“Sir,” Sweet begins. “I can’t understand you. I know you’re very upset right now, but what I need is for you to talk to me so I can help.”

But Andriana carries on. And on. And on.

“Is Lefou on staff?” Sweet whispers to a nurse. “Isn’t he from Conques, or somewhere like that? Send him here. Quickly.”

Charles Lefou runs in soon after. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t speak French.”

The man looks confused for a second. “Um, what?”

Sweet gestures to the boy on the examination table.

“Ces bâtards! Ils… ils voulaient ça! Ils l'ont fait exprès!”

“Oh…”

“He can understand us, but we have no idea what he’s saying. We need you to translate.”

“Well, she - sorry, did you say he? Sorry. He’s not saying anything about his condition, but he is saying that whoever did this impregnated him on purpose, and intentionally kept him beyond the point of legal abortion.”

“But… why?”

“Prouver que j'étais une femme! Bâtards! J'espère qu'ils brûlent tous en enfer!”

“It was a hate crime.” Something in the man’s face darkens. “Sounds like they did it because he’s transgender. He says they wanted to prove he was a girl.”

“Oh.” Sweet’s face softens. “I’m so sorry.”

“S'il vous plaît!” Julien shouts at him. “Vous devez m’aider! Je ne peux pas avoir de bébé! Je ne peux pas! Il faut s'en débarrasser! Asafady!”

“What’s he saying now?” Sweet asks.

The nurse grimaces. “He’s begging you to get rid of… it.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“I know… poor thing.”

A bout of hysterical French, intermingled with something unfamiliar - going by the file, it’s Malagasy. Sweet suspects that most of it is profanity.

“He, um, he’s not taking it well.”

“I’m not surprised.” Sweet reaches for a needle, then thinks better of it and sets the syringe back down. “Mr. Andriana?” he says softly. “Is it alright if I proceed with the examination.”

“Oui. Oui. Finir avec afin que je puisse tuer ces bâtards putain!”

“… He gives his consent.”

“Did they clean you off at any point, Mr. Andriana?” Sweet asks. “There isn’t… much DNA visible.”

More French.

“He says they douched him at some point.”

There’s likely not much DNA to be found then. He just hopes that there’s still a little. He just hopes that’ll be enough. “How many men were there?” A pause. “Were you assaulted on more than one occasion?”

A pause. “Thirty-seven.” The patient himself. He has calmed. “There were thirty-seven. And yes… yes, there were more than one… times.”

“How many times would you say this occurred?”

“They came by every day.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “They only went all together once, but…” He tries and fails to muffle a sob with his hands. “… they just kept coming back.”

“Oh… oh, I’m so sorry…”

“They… um, my mouth…” he says. “They never did cleanings of my mouth. Not all of them will be… there… but…” It’s better than nothing. Another swab. This time the rust-red is accompanied by off-white. “Does that help?” Julien asks. “Is that meaning anything? Can you find them off of that?”

Sweet can promise nothing but to try.

Chapter 8: Peter Pan

Patient is distrustful.

“Mister… Pan, was it?”

“Peter. Call me Peter.”

“Of course.”

The boy on the table is afraid of the doctor in front of it. Dawson knows this, but there is very little he can do.

Male… Caucasian… 10… O-…

“Would you feel more comfortable with a female doctor?” he asks. “We have one on shift.”

“Do you have any kid doctors?”

Dawson blinks. “Er… no. Children can’t become doctors.”

“Then there’s no way I’ll be comfortable. Grown-ups are all the same.”

“Peter, I’m not going to hurt you-”

“That’s what you’d say if you were going to hurt me!”

“I… Is there anything that would make you more comfortable about this? Anyone you might want in the room with you?”

“I want Wendy! I want Wendy, but they won’t let her in here. Said she was too young.” Peter’s face scrunches up. “I’m younger by two months! How come I have to be in here and she can’t be?!”

“Peter, you’ve been hurt-”

“No shit! But Dad’s done this before! No one cared then! Not even Mr. Smee!”

“Peter, no one kne- wait, who’s Mr. Smee? Did you try to tell someone about this before? Did they not believe you?”

“Oh, he believed me! He just didn’t do anything! He didn’t care!”

Peter looks like he is about to cry. Not that Dawson supposes he can blame him.

“Well… I care.”

“You’re just saying that to get me to go along with whatever gross stuff you want me to do. Well, it’s not gonna work! Don’t trick me! If you wanna do gross stuff, just do it! I dare you!”

“Peter, I don’t want to hurt you. Do… do you know what I’m going to do? Did the police tell you what I’m going to help you with?”

“They said that you need to look for evidence. That’s it. It’s supposed to help them put my dad in jail…”

“That’s right. I need to collect evidence to prove what he did to you, but to do that, I need to see where he hurt you. Did they tell you that? I’m going to need to see the places he hurt you and I’m going to take this swab,” he picks one up in a rubber-gloved hand, “and use it to mop up a little of the stuff around the area. Do you think you’ll be okay with that?”

Peter squirmed, pressing his legs together. “Can’t they just put my dad in jail?”

“Peter, are you familiar with the term ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“Uh-uh.”

“It means your father won’t go to jail unless there’s enough evidence that he did something to hurt you. That’s what we’re here for.”

Peter looked the doctor straight in the eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“Peter-”

“I don’t trust you… but I hate my dad more than I don’t trust you. I wanna make sure I never see him again. Never ever ever! So if there’s even the slightest chance you’re telling the truth… then I’ll do what you say.”

Dawson nodded. “Can you start by telling me what he did to you?”

“Dad or his friends?”

“Was there more than one man that hurt you?”

“Yeah! There were a whole bunch of them! Dad would invite these guys over and all of them would do the same stuff that he did!”

“What kind of stuff was this?”

“Sex! Are you stupid?! They had sex with me!”

“What kind of sex? That’s what I need to know.”

Peter squirms. “Depended on the guy. Some of them would just make me sit on their lap and touch me. Other times they’d make me open my mouth… and sometimes they’d use my butt.”

“Was there anything else?”

Peter’s eyes hardened. “Yeah. A belt.”

Dawson halted. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dad’s friends liked it when he spanked me. So he’d use a bunch of different things! Spoons, hairbrushes, canes… he used a belt tonight.”

Oh…

“How many men were there tonight?” Dawson asks. “Where did they hurt you?”

“I dunno. I’m not good with numbers. A lot? It was my mouth and my butt, same as every night.”

“And did they… hurt your… butt… before or after you were… spanked?”

“Both…”

“And was there a reason that you were-”

“It’s ‘cause I bit one of them. Made him bleed.” Peter looks proud of that.

Dawson feels proud of that. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. And did any of these men use any sort of protection?”

“What’s protection?”

“Like a condom.”

“… Condom…?”

“It’s something you put over the… genitals, it stops girls from getting pregnant and anyone from spreading diseases. It’s like a rubber bag, did any of them use anything like that?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, they never did. Am I… am I gonna get sick from this?!”

“You might not!” Dawson is quick to jump in. “You might not get anything, and even if you do, there are ways we can deal with it. Before we worry about any of that, I need to see if you are sick. I’m going to need to take a little of your blood. Is that okay?”

“How?”

“Pardon?”

“How are you gonna get the blood?”

“With a… with a needle.”

Peter tenses. “I don’t like needles. They make me all sleepy when I try to fight.”

“Not this needle. See?” Dawson shows him the syringe in its wrapping.

Peter frowns. “What’s it say?”

“What’s what say?”

“Everything. I can’t read it. The letters won’t stay still.”

“It’s not what it says, Peter, look at it. See how there’s nothing inside? I can’t inject you with anything if there isn’t anything there. I’m just going to use it to suck out a little bit of your blood, okay?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “Fine.”

The syringe is unwrapped. Blood fills the vial. Peter winces but does not cry out.

“All done,” Dawson says. “You’ll get the results of the test back in a few days, and we’ll go from there.” A deep breath. “I’m going to need for you to take your clothes off now.”

“I knew it! I knew you wanted to do something gross!”

“Peter, calm down. I’m not going to do anything-”

“Then why do you want me to take my clothes off?! Huh?!”

“Peter, your clothes are evidence, we can use them to find more men who hurt you.”

“So you need my hoodie?!”

“And the rest of your clothes.”

“I’m not wearing any other clothes. It’s just this!”

“I… I see.” Dawson makes a note to tell the police to pick up any child-sized clothing at the scene.

“Why do you need it?!”

“You know how I said I had to swab the area where they hurt you? That’s because some of their… bodily fluids may have gotten on you. I’m looking for hair and skin and blood, and other things they may have left behind. They touched you, and you touched the hoodie, so you may have gotten some of them on it. That’s why I need to give it to the police. And you won’t be naked, I’ll give you a hospital gown to wear, alright?”

“Give me the gown first.”

“Wha-”

“I’ll give you my hoodie, but you have to give me the gown first so I know you’re not lying!”

Dawson nods. “Alright. I’ll get you a gown.”

A drawer is opened and he rifles through it. Peter Pan is small. The gown he pulls out is meant for a child years younger than the one seated before him. “Will this do?” he asks, offering the green gown.

Peter examines it. “Sure,” he says.

“Okay. So if you could stand on that piece of paper so it’ll catch anything that falls off, we can get started.”

Peter nods, and hops off the table, taking off his hoodie. Dawson looks away, but he still sees the bruises. The bites. The welts. Peter is quick to put on his hospital gown. The one that still seems too big. He looks little older than Olivia…

“Alright, Peter, I’m going to start by swabbing the places where they bit you, okay? Then I’m going to patch them up. How does that sound?”

“Just do it. I don’t want you touching me for longer than you have to!”

Neither does Dawson; that’s evident by how quickly he goes through the procedure. “Alright. Can you open your mouth?”

Peter does. He trembles and shakes the moment it opens, his hands clenching onto the table and his eyes shining with tears he refuses to shed. Red and white coats the swabs.

“Okay… now this is going to be the hardest part, alright? I need you to lie back on the table and open your legs.”

Peter squeezes his legs even tighter than he did before, looking an odd combination of angry and scared. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to swab down there like I did with your mouth.”

“And you’re only gonna swab me down there, right? You’re not gonna stick your dick inside me or anything?”

“Of course not. I’m not here to hurt you, Peter.”

The boy doesn’t look as though he believes him, but his legs open and Dawson is able to see. Off-white and rust-red on the swab and in the vial, and still so much of it on Peter’s legs.

“Are we done now?!”

“Just about. All I need is one more thing from you.”

“What?”

“I need to see your hands. Is that alright with you?”

“My… hands?” Peter’s eyes fly to the doctor's groin. “I’m not touching that.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I need your fingernails, to test for anything you might have scratched off.”

“Oh.” Peter holds his hands out. “Sure. Here… What’s gonna happen to me now?” he asks softly as Dawson carefully clips.

“What do you mean?”

“Where am I gonna go? Dad said if I told the police, they’d drop me off with someone who’d beat me worse.”

Dawson’s hands clench into fists. “Your father lied. That isn’t going to happen to you.”

“But he said-”

“He said that because he didn’t want them to take you away. He didn’t want to get into trouble. It’s illegal for people to do what he did, he knew that he’d go to jail.”

“But where am I going?”

Dawson doesn’t know.

Chapter 9: Miguel

Patient is John Doe. Has sold cocaine to literally everyone I know.

“Miguel, was it?” Kekata asks.

The man on the table is thin and blond with haunted green eyes. He looks as if he could disappear at any moment. He looks as though he wants to. “Yeah. Just Miguel.”

Male… Caucasian… mid 20s to early 30s, exact age unknown… blood type unknown…

“Alright, then, Miguel. Do you have any requests before we begin?”

“Yeah. Hey, you guys!” Miguel appears to be addressing the two FBI agents in the room. “Can you at least turn around or something?!”

One of the men - Agent Kowalski - does so without a word. The other - ASAC Snow - gives a curt nod and moves to face the wall.

“Okay!” Miguel smiles wearily. “Now that that’s settled, I’m ready to go. Do whatever you need, Doctor…”

“Kekata.”

“Oh, I like that!”

“Thank you.”

“Okay. So, how are we starting this?”

“Well, first, you’ll need to remove your clothing on that piece of paper right there.”

“Okay…” Miguel walks onto the paper and halts. “Oh, hey, Doc? Before we go any further, you’re gonna see a lot of old scars and stuff. Most of the scars have nothing to do with this, so you can just ignore them, okay?”

“Alright… May I ask where-”

“Oh, you know… work-related injuries, street brawls,” he coughs something that sounds like “Catholic nun”. “Things like that.”

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Miguel hadn’t been kidding. His back is a mass of scar tissue. As are his arms, as are the backs of his legs. It is ugly… but Kekata is the one they call in for ugly. It is nothing he cannot handle.

“Alright, Miguel, here’s a hospital gown-”

“Thanks.” It seems he can’t put it on quickly enough. He shakes his head as it pops out, and he hops onto the examination table. “Okay. So. What do you need to know?”

“When was your last assault?”

“Yesterday. We were on a boat. I… I, um, tried to jump. Didn’t end up working, and they gave me to a group of… I wanna say about twenty guards? It was their reward… and my punishment.”

“Ah. Were these attacks oral or anal in nature?”

“Both… they did just about everything you can think of.”

A sharp breath from one of the agents. No words are spoken.

“Were all of your attackers male? Were there any women? In the latest one, I mean?”

“Yeah, no, they don’t hire chicks as guards. Some of my… clients were female, but I doubt you’re gonna find anything there. That was weeks ago.”

“Alright then.” Kekata nods. “Can you please give me your hands? I’m going to need some of your fingernail clippings.”

“Yeah, sure, here.” Miguel gives him his hands. “Go ahead.” When it's done, Miguel looks at his hands, staring at the place where much longer fingernails used to be.

“Something wrong?”

“Is it… weird that I feel kind of defenseless now?”

“Not at all. That’s perfectly natural if you’ve only been able to defend yourself with them, but that feeling should go away in time.” Kekata sighs. “Now I need you to open your mouth for me.”

Rust-red and off-white cover one swab and then another.

“Alright, now I need you to lie down. I’m going to swab between your legs.”

“Oh, great… Um, you might wanna tie my legs down or something.”

“Why?”

“Kinda developed a habit of kicking people in the face or balls when I’m like this. Got me in a bit of trouble… but you understand, right? Can you request restraint for stuff like this? I know it’s usually only given to the crazies, but can you make an exception?”

“I can. Are you sure you’d be comfortable with that?”

“I’m going to be uncomfortable no matter what, but I want this to happen, and it can’t happen if I’m freaking out, so something needs to keep me from kicking you in the face.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A restraint is brought. Miguel’s legs are secured to the table. Rust-red. Off-white. In flakes. In streaks. In sticky rivers of still drying fluid. True to his word, Miguel’s legs do flail, but not enough to injure anyone, least of all Kekata. Even when the swabs are taken, Miguel’s legs do not stop flailing for a solid minute or two before he finally relaxes.

“Told you,” he says simply. “Sorry. Glad you listened about the restraints.” A pause. “You can let me out now.”

He does. “Alright. Now, I’m going to have to ask for a blood sample.”

“Here.” He holds out an arm. It’s covered in track marks. It takes a moment before Miguel notices Kekata’s staring. “Oh! Oh, um, I’m not a user.” A raised eyebrow. “I’m not! They shot us up with drugs while I was at the warehouse. Don’t worry, none of it’s left in my system. Like I said, weeks ago.”

“Alright.” He sells cocaine…

A needle plunges in. A vial fills with blood.

And then it is over. It is over, for Kekata at least… but not for Miguel.

Chapter 10: Tulio

Patient is John Doe. Also has sold cocaine to everyone I know.

“So, Mister…?”

“Tulio.”

A raised eyebrow. “No last name?”

“None worth using.”

Male… Caucasian… mid 20s to early 30s, exact age unknown… blood type unknown…

“Why can’t I have Miguel in here?”

“Miguel?” The name sounds familiar.

“His boyfriend,” says an agent at the door.

“I see.”

“I want him in here,” Tulio says. “I haven’t seen him in months.”

“Fine,” the agent sighs, picking up a walkie-talkie and speaking into it. “Kowalski, can you send Blondie in here? He’s asking for him.”

After a few minutes the door opens and a face Kekata knows peeks in. “Oh, hey! It’s you, Mr. Doctor Guy!” The other coke dealer. The one from the ring.

“Okay! Break it up! We aren’t doing this here!”

Kekata looks up to see that his current patient has begun to kiss and to paw at his former one.

“What did I say?” The agent glares. “Knock it off!”

“But Skiiiippeeerrrr-”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Kekata sighs. “What I need to do requires a physical examination. So, if you’d like to proceed, I’m going to need your partner to step back.” The men groan, but separate. “Ahem. Now.” Kekata lifts pen to paper. “Can you tell me what happened to you and when it last occurred so I know what to look for and what I can expect?”

“Well, if it’s a sex thing that can happen, doctor, it has probably happened to me.”

“Can you tell me where on your body?”

“Uh… mouth, dick, and… you know, ass.”

“I see. And were your attackers-”

“Men mostly. Women too, but there were less of them.”

“When was the last time you-”

“I escaped a while ago. These kids and I…” He covers his face for a moment. “It’s been a while… days or weeks…”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Kekata doesn’t bother with combs or swabs. He goes for his gloves instead. “The bad news is that I probably won’t find anything incriminating short of physical damage, but the good news is that it shouldn’t take as long.”

“Fantastic,” Tulio grumbles, almost beneath his breath. “Where do we start?”

“That’s up to you. I’d like to take a look at the places you mentioned earlier, if that’s alright. I can start with taking a blood sample if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Check… downstairs first, I guess. Get the worst of it over with.”

“Alright. Would you mind opening- yes, thank you.”

Faded bruising that isn’t too bad. Scarring that really is… Tulio doesn’t make eye contact with him. Only stares ahead, chewing at his inner cheek. Something small and white and… Extreme case of pubic lice. He’ll have to comb through this patient’s hair after all.

“So…” Tulio says, dragging out the word. “What’s the damage?” He’s trying so hard not to sound afraid.

“It… could be better,” Kekata sighs. “I think I’ll have to stitch you up.”

Tulio winces. “Oh.”

“I can give you a local anesthetic,” he offers. “for the pain…? Unless you have some kind of issue with…”

“Drugs?”

“He already did me,” Miguel said. “And they did… shoot me up there, so he knows. Did they do that with you?”

The question is merely a formality. The man is (was?) a drug dealer and he can clearly see the track marks.

“Um, can we maybe finish the exam before I answer the drug question? I… have to think about it.”

“Of course.”

Kekata continues on. Finds another set of gloves. “Your mouth, now, I think.” He prods him gently. “Is that-”

Wordlessly, Tulio opens up. Teeth in bad condition. Bruising on lips and gums. A few minor injuries. Healing appears to be slowed. That sometimes happens in cases like these.

“It’s not… as bad,” Kekata says, “but I highly recommend that you have someone else take a look at these teeth. A few might need to come out.”

“Great…” More grumbling. Some of it in Spanish. Something tells Kekata that he doesn’t want to know.

“Are you alright to keep going…?”

A syringe in his hand…

“What’s that for, I thought you said you wouldn’t-”

“Tulio,” Miguel says gently. “It’s empty. He wants your blood.”

“What is he, a vampire?”

“Skipper, shut up!”

Chapter 11: Ariel Galanis

Patient is unwilling to speak, possibly in shock.

“Can you state your name?” The patient makes a noise in the back of her throat, then closes her mouth and shakes her head. Her hair is still damp, and strands stick to her face. Dawson offers a pen and paper. “Okay, then, can you write it down?” Ariel Galanis, her name turns out to be, and he notes that in the file. “Are you willing to undergo a forensic examination?”

Ariel thinks and looks up at him, undecided. She writes a little more. I would, but I don’t think it will be much help. It was a woman who did it, and I was in the bathtub. There won’t be any evidence to find, will there?

“Do you want to press charges?” he asks. “There may not be any DNA, but your physical injuries may still be useful to the police.”

Oh. I didn’t think of that.

“Are you willing to proceed with the exam? You are, of course, free to back out at any time.”

OK. You can do what you need.

“Do you need help getting onto the table?” he asks. Ariel examines the table, grabs hold of it, and pulls herself onto her feet. Before her knees give out she is able to sit on the edge; she wobbles briefly and Dawson extends a hand. She takes it and smiles a little, and swivels around to lie down.

Female… Caucasian… 16… B-…

“Excellent. Alright, Miss Galanis, can you tell me where it was your assault occurred? On your body, that is? Were you forced to perform oral sex or was it vaginal penetration?” There is no way to say this delicately.

Ariel’s lip trembles and she points to her groin. Fingers, she mouths.

When Dawson looks, it’s confirmed immediately; he winces internally, though he keeps up his professional demeanour. The woman’s nails must be like scythes… Ariel shows very little pain, though.

“May I ask if your, ah, condition limits your sensation in your lower body?”

She nods, and flinches at a particularly painful spot.

Rust-red, and not one drop of white. “Come to think of it, there might be some of your DNA under her fingernails… I don’t have the authority to test that myself but I can speak to the arresting officers. On that topic, may I take clippings of your nails? If you scratched her, the water might not have washed all of it away. Of course it might have, but we can try.” Ariel holds out her hands, and the procedure continues. When it’s done, Dawson lets her lean on his arm as she climbs off the table and back into her chair. “You’ve done very well, Miss Galanis.”

She takes the pen and paper and writes again. Thank you. Actually, this wasn’t the worst part of it.

“Eh, in what sense?”

She pushed my head underwater. I’m dreading getting in the bath again.

Dawson wants to say that he is sorry, but he doesn’t suppose that it will help.

Chapter 12: Zimri Norman

Patient is incredibly belligerent.

Zimri Norman is… the strangest child Kekata has ever seen. Not that he doesn’t have a reason to be, but…

“UNHAND ME! UNHAND ME YOU BASTARD! YOU WILL FACE MY WRATH! I’LL MAKE YOU PAY!”

“Alright! Alright, I’m not touching you,” Kekata says, and steps back, hands held up and empty. He glances helplessly to the social worker who stands in the corner. Cobra Bubbles nods in acknowledgement. “Okay, Zim, was it? Let’s just take a moment. I promise I won’t try to touch you. Can you just talk to me, please?”

Male… Caucasian… 12… A-…

“WHY must you RUIN my SCHEME FOR REVENGE?!”

“Scheme?”

“All I had to do was WAIT!” the boy spits. “I’m getting BIGGER! IT WON’T BE LONG BEFORE I’M BIGGER THAN THEM AND YOU HAD TO TAKE ME AWAY BEFORE I WAS!”

“Isn’t it better that we took you away sooner?”

“NO, you SIMPLETON! HOW can they FACE MY WRATH if I AM NOT THERE TO SHOW IT?!”

Kekata glances over at the social worker once again. Is there any way to properly respond to this?

“Zim,” he tries, “the police are going to take away the men that hurt you. They’re going to lock them up for-”

“I WANT THEM TO SUFFER! I WANT TO MAKE THEM SUFFER!”

“Well… you can,” Bubbles says. “In a way.”

The boy turns wild red eyes on him. “I’m listening.”

“People don’t like adults who hurt children - even other bad people. Anyone who goes to jail for hurting kids usually end up being beaten by other convicts just about every day. The men who hurt you will either die from that, or be put in solitary, where they’ll slowly lose their minds. You’re only one person. There are hundreds in prison.”

“Um… are you sure you should be-”

“They’ll suffer?” Zim asks.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Bubbles tells him. “That can happen, but only if you help us out with putting those guys behind bars.”

“What do I have to do?”

A sigh. “First I want you to tell us what happened, all of it, and then the doctor here is going to look you over-”

“Look me over how?”

“I’ll have to examine the areas where you were hurt.”

“Why?”

“There might be some evidence left behind, or injured areas that could be used to prove what they did to you.”

“You mean like blood and cum and stuff? Like in crime shows? That stuff’s for real?! I thought it was fake, like mouthwash and the tooth fairy!”

“Mouthwash isn’t fake…”

“HA! Next you’ll be telling me DENTISTS are real!”

Kekata writes in his notes Schedule patient to see dentist. IMMEDIATELY.

“Well, it is very much real. We can use any DNA they left behind to prove it was your… what exactly were they to you?”

“My uncles,” the boy tells him. “I was staying with them after MY PARENTS WERE RAVAGED BY BEARS!”

Another glance at the social worker.

“They died in a car accident.”

“THAT’S JUST WHAT THE BEARS WANT YOU TO THINK!”

“Right. Were they your biological-”

“What does that mean?”

“Were they blood-related to you?”

“Only one. The other one was his FUCK BUDDY!”

A glance.

“Husband.”

“Ah.” He didn’t know if it was better or worse that they weren’t both biologically related to his patient. “So, Zim. Can you tell me what they did to you?”

“They FUCKED me!”

“I… I know, but what happened specifically? Where did they hurt you? In what ways?”

“I do not see why you need to know this, but,” the boy stood on the table and struck a pose, “FOR THE SAKE OF ENACTING MY REVENGE, I WILL TELL YOU, PUNY HUMAN! They FUCKED me in the ASS! And sometimes in the MOUTH! EVERY GODDAMN DAY!”

“How long did they do this? When did it start?” A breath. “How old were you?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

“Can you give me an estimate?”

Zim took off his backpack and produced a folded, filthy drawing. “I created THIS shortly after they began. I have kept it safe on my person ever since!”

The drawing was scribbly, but identifiable as a dog attacking one or more people. The “GIR” sound in the speech bubble was probably supposed to be “grr”, and the ability level of the drawing and handwriting suggested a much younger child than Zim’s current age. Possibly around five, but perhaps as young as three.

“That’s a nice drawing,” Kekata says, just to say something.

“It isn’t NICE, it’s TERRIFYING! IT DEPICTS THE DOWNFALL OF MY ENEMIES! THEIR CARNAGE! CARNAGE, I TELL YOU! CARNAGE!”

“Well, it’s… very… well-drawn, then. So, ah, are you comfortable with letting me do the examination?”

“I SHALL FACE IT WITH THE BRAVERY OF A TRUE WARRIOR!”

“Is that a yes? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“Fine, it’s a yes!”

“Okay, then just stand on that paper, and change into this and give me your clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because there may be DNA evidence in your clothing that we can use to throw them in jail.”

“Where they will SUFFER?!”

“Yes.”

Zim removes his clothes and Kekata clenches his jaw at what he sees. Signs of malnutrition. Finger-shaped bruising.

“Alright, put your clothes in these bags, put on this gown, and hold still. Tell me if I hurt you…” He combs out the boy’s hair, and the upward spike flops over Zim’s eye. “This is to see if any of their hair got caught in yours. Now, can you give me your hands so I can take nail clippings? If you scratched them there might be skin cells there.” Zim’s nails look like they haven’t been cut in a while, and the ends look chewed.

“Is it GOOD if I scratched them? Will it ensure that they SUFFER?!”

“Um… yes?”

“EXCELLENT!”

Kekata doesn’t disagree. “Did they do anything to your mouth recently? Have you eaten or drunk anything between now and when they last did?”

“I BIT the AGENT! Does THAT count?!”

Kekata isn’t sure, to be honest. “Okay, well, just to be sure, can you open up so I can look in your mouth?” Zim does. His teeth are in horrible condition, as expected, rotted down to stubs, and his incisors are still tinted pink with blood smears. The second Kekata moves the swab to prod the area inside, the boy’s jaw clamps down and Kekata hisses in pain as gnarled and rotten teeth close around his fingers.

“Zim!” Bubbles snaps, moving to pry open his mouth. “You can’t do that! Let him go!”

To the surprise of them both, Zim does. His mouth opens and Kekata’s hand is yanked away, and the boy on the table looks more confused than anything else. “I… I didn’t mean to do that…”

Kekata examines his fingers and reaches for the antiseptic. “Quite alright. Is that what you… usually do when someone tries to touch your mouth?” Zim nods. “I can understand why. Alright, well, can we try again, and this time keep your mouth open? Would it help if you put your own finger in your mouth? You might not bite down then.”

Zim waits for a moment, glances to the door, and then nods. “Very well, HUMAN! I ACCEPT your CONDITIONS and I shall COMPLY with your DEMANDS!”

Rust-red, and slight traces of pink. Zim winces when the swab touches a rotten tooth. Kekata nods sympathetically and says, “That looks really painful. We’ll have to get that looked at as soon as possible.” No wonder the boy’s always in such a temper if he’s in constant pain. It looks like he’ll need full dentures, sadly; it’s probably too late to save his original teeth. “Alright, that’s done, now comes the difficult part. Could you lie back and keep your legs apart?”

“What? WHY?!”

“It’s like I told you before, I need to take samples of the area where those men hurt you.”

It seems to be going well, until Zim kicks him in the face.

“Zim!” Bubbles snaps again, as the boy cackles. Kekata pulls back, hand on his nose. “Are you okay, doctor?” Kekata’s hand comes away bloody, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken.

“YOU HAVE FELT THE WRATH OF ZIIIIMMM!”

Kekata sighs. No wonder Dawson hadn’t wanted this one. “Zim,” he begins. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You need to show me where they hurt you, so I can swab the area for evidence. You want them to go to jail, right? We can’t send them away unless we can prove that they hurt you, and to do that I need to see between your legs. Believe me, I don’t want to do this any more than you do.”

“I FIND THAT EXTREMELY HARD TO BELIEVE!”

“Besides, if you’re hurt there, I need to be able to see it to make it better. Wounds… there are quite vulnerable to infection.”

“I HAVE BATTLED DISEASE ON MY OWN BEFORE!”

It looks like they’ll have to do this the hard way. “Mr. Bubbles, could you hold onto him, please?”

“NO! NO! UNHAND ME! UNHAND ME AT ONCE! PUNY HUMANS! I’LL SEE YOU BURN FOR THIS! BUUUUURN!”

The man in the dark suit and glasses is gentle, but unflinching and he holds the boy down. Predictably, Zim squirms and flails and shrieks, but he’s only a child, and a small one at that. Kekata reaches for a swab and squares his jaw.

Off-white, a little less rust-red. Toughened scar tissue… Something else is white, and it’s moving. Oh.

“I hope you BURN in HELL! LET GO OF ME THIS INSTANT!”

“It’s okay.” Kekata swallows. “We’re almost done, I just need a few more samples-”

“RELEASE ME! RELEASE MEEE!”

More off-white. Another sample. Kekata tries not to wince. “We’re going to have to do some follow-up treatments after this is all over,” he tells the man in the suit. “Worms.” He makes a note about Mebendazole.

“What was that?” asks Zim suspiciously.

“Well, have you noticed itching down there? You have what are called threadworms. They’re little bugs that live in your insides, you probably picked them up from eating something that wasn’t clean. They’re quite common, I’ll prescribe something to get rid of them.”

Zim looks proud. “I am a HABITAT FOR PARASITES. Could THEY have caught them from me?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s not impossible.”

“EXCELLENT!”

“Zim,” the social worker starts, “the worms aren’t a good thing, they’re bad for you-”

“THEY ARE AGENTS of my REVENGE!” He breaks off into raspy cackles.

“Right,” Kekata says. “Well, we’ll get you on something and that should clear you right up.” A pause. “Mr. Bubbles? You can let go of him now.”

The boy scrambles to sit up and glares at the men from atop the table like some sort of just-pubescent gargoyle. “I knew you could not HOLD BACK THE WRATH OF ZIM!”

“Of course not,” Kekata says, deciding it’s not worth provoking the boy. “Now, one last thing, would you be comfortable with letting me take a blood sample? It would help if we could test it to see if you have any other health problems and what they are if you do. And can you tell me if you’ve noticed any symptoms?”

“I am RIFE with DISEASE!”

“Anything specific you can tell me about?”

“It HURTS when I PISS!”

Well, that could be any number of things. “Could you provide a sample of that as well?” Zim starts to lift up his hospital gown. “Not now! I’ll get you a sample jar first!”

The urine sample is tinted orange-pink with blood. The blood sample is not as deep a red as it should be. Kekata looks over the boy’s green skin again. Hypochromic anaemia; likely iron deficiency from poor diet and blood loss.

“Alright, I’ll add vitamin supplements to the list, and I’ll write up a diet sheet for your new caregivers.”

“I am UNABLE to DIGEST MEAT PRODUCTS.”

“I see.” That certainly won’t be helping. “I’ll make sure they know that.”

Zim looks up at Bubbles and demands, “WHO will these NEW caregivers BE?”

“We don’t know exactly who yet, but we can safely say they’ll be better than the last ones.”

“If they are not THEY WILL FACE THE WRATH OF ZIM!”

Kekata makes more notes. Anger management problems. Delusions of grandeur.

“Looks like we’re just about done.” Kekata tries for a smile. “You’ve been very brave.”

“Your COMPLIMENT is APPRECIATED… BUT IT WILL NOT SPARE YOU FROM MY WRATH!” Zim flails at him and is lifted right off his feet by Bubbles.

“Sorry, doctor.”

“It’s quite alright. I understand that this is probably difficult for him-”

“SILENCE, you fool! FIGHT me like a MAN!”

“You’re in no condition to be fighting anybody,” the social worker admonishes. “Calm down.”

Kekata pities whichever psychiatrist gets this one.

Chapter 13: (Mercury) Black

Patient has substantial (irreparable?) damage to both legs.

The boy on the table, though his condition has stabilised now and antibiotics are pumping through him already, looks worse than most men Maxwell has seen before. His face is bruised, his eyes are black and his teeth are chipped in ways that cannot be accidental. He’s been knocked unconscious. His hair is singed, as is his skin. And, really, that is the least of it.

His legs are swollen messes of pus and sores and putrid decaying flesh. They’re beyond saving. Maxwell is sure of that.

“Do you know what his name is?” He directs this question at the bulge-eyed man by the door, the one with the sooty uniform and the flashing badge. He looks strange, in a way that Maxwell can’t put his finger on.

“O-oh. I’m not sure. Not about his first name anyway. Last might be Black. That’s the name of the guy who owned the place where we found him, and they kinda look alike if you ask me.”

“It isn’t possible to ask him?”

The officer shakes his head. “Nah. He, uh, he’s kinda… dead.”

Male… East Asian… Age unknown; estimated between 16 and 18… Blood type unknown…

“What happened, Officer…?”

“Call me Rango.” The officer shakes and shudders and swallows. Maxwell has practised picking up social cues all his life, and this man is radiating nervousness even he noticed as soon as he saw him. “Fire. Whole place went up. Or down, possibly. The other guy didn’t get out.”

“I see.” Maxwell eyes Black’s unconscious form. With his legs like that it was a wonder he’d managed to get out of the place at all. “That’s a shame.”

“Might have to disagree with you there,” Rango grumbles.

“Oh?”

“The fella who didn’t make it… well, none of us knew he had a kid. No birth records, no school, no nothing. And, I mean, look at him. Not like the fire would’ve done that.”

“What are you saying?”

“Look, Black has a record, alright? You name it, he’s probably been arrested for it. I’m talkin’ some real sick stuff here. He’s probably done worse too and we just never booked him for it. The department needs to see whether or not, erm, incest was one of the things he’s been getting away with.”

“I see…” Judging from the way this Black looks, Maxwell is almost certain the man is right. But it doesn’t pay to make assumptions and what he says is, “I think we’ll have to wait for him to confirm that.”

“Of course. Of course.” The officer still seems afraid.

“However, in the meantime, we can take swabs to check if someone did something to him. Do I have permission to…?”

“Yes! Yes, better take a look at him. If there’s evidence, we don’t want to lose it, right?”

“Indeed.”

The boy’s mouth seems clear, albeit in terrible condition. Chipped teeth, swollen gums. Maxwell takes swabs anyway. The swab comes away with a little red on it and not much else.

“After he’s been settled, his new guardian should have his teeth looked at.”

“Right. Right. That’s a good idea.”

Maxwell looks back over the boy again. There’s no way that he can get his clothes off of him the usual way, not without taking most of his skin along with it. He reaches for a pair of scissors.

“What are those for?” the officer asks, still distracted. Still flighty.

“His legs are swollen, and blood and pus have stuck his clothing to his flesh. It’s too severe for me to get his pants off any other way. Not without hurting him in the process.” If he could even feel anything there anymore. The nerve endings might be long dead for all Maxwell knows. With a snip the cloth comes open and Rango covers his mouth.

“… Oh my God.”

Maxwell doesn’t know that this is the most blood he’s ever seen in that particular region… but it doesn’t look promising. Not at all.

He peels the cloth away further, exposing lower down the boy’s legs, and the stench fills the room like toxic gas. As far as Maxwell can see, the boy’s legs suffered compound fractures which were given the bare minimum of treatment to keep him alive. The flesh has outright rotted on the bone. Rango gags, and Maxwell practically runs to get face masks and the peppermint oil they put on them for cases like this. With the scent partly blocked, he’s able to take a closer look. Traces of white intermingle with the flood of red and brown and greenish-yellow pus. He makes a note about liquid diet and possible colostomy.

For some reason, though teary-eyed with revulsion and gagging behind his mask, Rango looks a little less… afraid. Perhaps this is only an illusion, the fear hidden behind a smoke screen of fury.

Maxwell reaches for a swab. It comes back coated in clumps of rusty-white and off-red. He’ll have to see how far the damage goes.

“Is… is he going to live?” Rango stares at him, his goggle eyes wide.

Maxwell really isn’t sure. “It doesn’t look good,” he admits, “but it could go either way.”

While he’s here, he might as well note down the burn injuries. There are noticeably worse burns on the boy’s hands, almost as if… he either tried to put out the fire, or…

There’s a little rectangular bulge in the lawman’s pocket. He notices Maxwell noticing it, and his dark-skinned face goes grey.

Maxwell nods to him briefly and turns back to his job.

The skin below his kneecaps is singed too, but that’s hardly worth making note of. Not when it will be cut away before long. It’ll have to be, just to give Black a fighting chance.

“The burns on his hands are rather serious, but they’re the worst of it. He should be able to use them again.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

“His knees aren’t as bad, but it looks as though he burned them, likely while dragging himself out. Second degree. Not as bad as they could be, but… painful.”

“They can take care of that in surgery, right?”

“To an extent. It doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to save his legs.”

“My God, you mean, like, amputate? Both of them?”

“Yes.” Maxwell looks down and blinks slowly. His friends would recognise his way of showing regret. “I’d better get him into surgery now.”

“Do you need me there for that?”

“I shouldn’t think so. We’ll call you if we need to.”

“Alright, just… do what you can.”

“I will.”

He always does.

Chapter 14: Dakota Orson

Patient is small.

Maxwell looks at the boy his acquaintance has asked him to treat with a mixture of concern and pity, both of which go unseen.

“What does that badge mean, mister?” the child asks.

“This badge is to represent that I am asexual, meaning I have no interest in engaging in sexual relations, and aromantic, meaning I do not wish to date or marry anyone. While I do not normally wear it, I thought it might assure you that I have no inappropriate intentions as we complete this examination.”

“Oh, okay.” The boy nods. “I thought it might be some kind of weird nametag. What is your name?”

“My name is Bailey Maxwell. You may call me Dr. Maxwell if you wish.”

“Okay. I’m Koda.” He pauses. “It’s short for Dakota, but not even my mom called me that.”

“Alright then, Koda. Can you start by opening your mouth?”

He does.

Male… Inuit… 8… blood type unknown…

Maxwell takes a swab. Off-white with some rust-red mixed into it. “When was the last time you were assaulted?”

“What do you mean, assaulted? I dunno that word.”

“When was the last time someone did anything sex-related with you?”

“Ohhhh… uh, it was a few hours before Chel shoved me into his car.”

“His” - Glomgold. Chel…?

“Who is Chel?”

“Oh, she’s my friend,” Koda says. “She was in the warehouse with me and… Kenai.” His eyes widen. “Oh no! We left Kenai back there!”

“Please calm down, I will have an easier time helping you if you are calm.”

Koda sucks in a deep breath. “Me and Chel and Kenai were all there together. We were gonna run away, but something happened and we couldn’t take him with us.”

“And where is Chel now?” She is definitely in need of medical attention.

“She ran away before you got here. She didn’t wanna talk to the cops.”

“Do you know why?”

“She said it was ‘cause she was an unlicensed pharmacist.”

Drug cooker. “Alright. Now, please hold out your hands so I can take clippings from your nails.”

“What d’you need my fingernails for?”

“It’s possible that some of your attackers' DNA has been caught underneath them.”

“Oh.” Koda does not look as though he truly knows what has been said, but he nods. “Okay.”

Maxwell reaches for a syringe. “I’m afraid that I’ll need to take some blood. Are you alright with that?”

“Why?”

“To test for diseases.”

Koda looks suspicious. “You’re not gonna put anything weird inside me, are you? Nothing that makes me really sleepy or wired up, right?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Okay! But you better give me a sucker after this. That’s how it works.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

They’ll have to do more of these tests later, but he isn’t sure how the boy will react to hearing that at the moment; so he doesn’t say anything at all until it’s done.

Now comes the hard part.

“Koda?” Maxwell says. “I will need for you to open your legs for me, alright? I need to check for evidence and injuries.”

“Oh… okay.” Koda does as he’s asked. “But only ‘cause I know you won’t try anything yucky. If you do, I’m gonna kick you in the face.”

“That seems fair.”

More swabs of rust-red and off-white. More vials.

“You’re doing great, Koda, thank you for holding still for me.”

“Thanks! I’m trying to play Lizzy’s game.”

“Lizzy?”

“Yeah! She’s my friend, or she was… I got chained up with her for a while before I met Kenai. She likes to pretend that we all died of con-somethin’ or other.”

Consumption? “Well, thank you for being so brave about this.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “Are we done?”

“Actually, I need to know a few more things. Were you ever… attacked by any women? Did they ever touch you on your private parts?”

“No women, but-” Koda’s jaw clicks shut, and he goes very, very quiet.

“But…?”

“But… but Kenai and me… They made us…” Quiet again. Then, “Kenai is a boy! I swear he is, but he’s got… he’s got girl bits.”

“I see…”

“It’s not his fault!” Koda looks desperate. “It… it isn’t! You won’t get him in trouble, right? I don’t wanna do this if you’re gonna get him in trouble!”

“No, Koda, he won’t get in trouble. I believe you.”

“You… you do?”

“Yes, I do.” Heaven knows this wouldn’t be the first time.

“Oh.” Koda calms. “Okay! You can do what you need to then.”

Maxwell does. He hates every second of it.

Chapter 15: Todd Tweed

Patient is suffering from broken nose.

Todd Tweed looks very little like any of his relations. Sweet is in no position to question this. He isn’t in much of a position to question Todd either.

“Sir,” he begins. “I’m going to need you to tell me what happened…”

“I’m sorry,” says the round black woman he came here with. His aunt. “He’s kind of… out of it.”

“He’s drunk,” says a cousin. The shorter of the two young men who stand off to the side. “He’s really drunk.”

“Ah… Well, if he can’t give his consent for an exam, I’ll need someone to consent on his behalf. Which one of you has power of attorney?”

“His grandmother, technically - she can’t be here right now, but I can call her up if you need verbal permission. She wants him to go through with this.”

“It would probably be best if you could contact her before I proceed with anything.”

Male… Caucasian/Romani… 18… A-…

A call is made; a call is ended. The man on the table groans.

“Gran?” He says nothing else.

Sweet snaps on a new pair of gloves. “You say he was only attacked anally?”

“Y-yeah, he kept blubbering about… some kinda cult person… Kept saying he was punishing him for being gay. But he’s not completely gay! He’s only half gay. Or bi or pan or whatever they’re calling it.”

“It doesn’t matter whether he’s gay or not!” The other young man speaks up now. “Some guy hurt Todd!” He looks at Sweet. “You gotta find him!”

“I’ll certainly try my best.” Sweet heaves a sigh and reaches for a swab. Red, rusty and fresh. White, in drying flakes and gooey strings. Todd Tweed stares up at him with blank brown eyes.

“I want to go home…” he mutters.

“Soon… very soon, I promise. Can I see your hands?”

He lifts them slowly, and clippings and swabs are soon done with.

“Now, I just need a blood sample, okay?”

“Uh-oh…” the taller cousin says. “Todd’s not good with needles.”

“He’s drunk as hell, he probably doesn’t know where he is right now!” the short cousin snaps. “Just do it so we know he doesn’t have AIDS or something!”

“Ugh,” the man on the table groans. “Not so loud.”

“Sorry, kid.”

Todd says nothing; his eyes slide shut.

“Mr. Tweed?” Sweet begins, cautiously. “Will you be alright if I take some blood to check for infections? I will need to use a syringe…”

“I’m not drunk, officer, no need to test my blood…”

“Todd,” his aunt says quietly, “he’s not a police officer. He just wants to check you for diseases. You aren’t going to get in any trouble here.”

“I’m not drunk…” Todd’s eyes open briefly and, after a moment, close once again.

“Just take the fucking sample,” the smaller cousin says. “He’s too out of it to know what you’re doing anyway…”

The redhead seems to think that this is a very bad idea, but says nothing. Sweet reaches for the syringe.

Todd’s eyes open. “No… no needles! No needles!” He starts to thrash about. “Please don’t put that stuff in me! I’m already drunk!”

Sweet starts back, jerking away. The woman moves like lighting, and kneels at the young man’s side.

“Todd?” she begins. “Todd, he’s not gonna hurt you… Sweetheart, he’s not gonna put anything in you, okay? He just needs to take a little blood, just to make sure you aren’t sick…”

“Huh?” Todd blinks. “A-Auntie?”

“Yes?”

“…” Todd says nothing, merely holds out his arm. The vial is filled.

“Are… are you alright, Mr. Tweed?”

Todd has gone very pale. “… Don’t like needles.”

“Told you,” the redhead says.

Somehow, Sweet still doubts this will be what Todd remembers from this day.

Chapter 16: Macky Ragetti

Patient has had significant damage done to eye socket.

Kekata isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to write there. Kekata isn’t sure why he of all people got dragged into this. Why does he always get the weird ones?

To be entirely fair, this goes past weird. Far past.

“Um…” He swallows, looking at the man on the bed. “Can you tell me… what happened?”

“What’s it look like happened?” Ragetti says, pointing at his face.

“I can see what it looks like, but it would help for the report if I could hear it from you.”

“Don’t push him, he’s pretty wrecked right now,” says the older man on the chair in the corner. “I’m not exactly feelin’ one hundred percent either, come to think of it. Who would be?”

Kekata isn’t sure how to answer that. He keeps his focus on Ragetti. “Sir,” he begins carefully, “I need to know what happened so I know where to check for injuries.”

The man on the bed doesn’t even look at him.

Male… Caucasian… 28… A-…

“Mr. Ragetti-”

“Please.” A pleading look at the man in the corner. “You tell him.”

“Is that okay?” asks the other man.

“It’s acceptable, yes,” says Kekata. “You were a direct witness, is that correct, Mister…?”

“Pintel. And yeah, I saw it.”

“Then it’s fine. That’s been done before.” He doesn’t add that it’s mostly a parent speaking for a young child; that wouldn’t help. “So, can you describe the incident, please?”

Pintel sighs. “Awright. So, we end up in the cell together - him, me, Twigg, Koehler, Barbossa, and, uh, we call him Bo’sun, I don’t remember his name.” He checks them off on his fingers. “And some officers come in, and we think they’re gonna take us out for questioning, but nope.”

“So you’re saying the police did this to him?”

“Whole bunch o’ them, yeah.”

“How many exactly?”

“Five guys, I think it was.”

“Alright, so then what happened?”

“They grabbed him. Two of ‘em. Shoved him up against the door. I tried to stop it, but then three of ‘em grabbed me. Stopped me from interferin’. I couldn’t do nothin’ to help him, an’ all five… you know.”

Kekata assumes his reticence to speak it out loud has more to do with Ragetti’s presence there than the word itself.

“And his… eye?”

“Uh, that wasn’t them.” Pintel chews his lip briefly. “See, the reason we were there in the first place is because…” He looks to Ragetti. “There was a… slight problem with our ransom job.”

“Just say I messed it up, okay?” Ragetti mumbles. “ ‘S my fault an’ that’s why they did it.”

“… Kinda. So the other blokes are pretty pissed off at him. So when the cops left, they held me back, and… Well, one of the cops said durin’ it that if he didn’t stop strugglin’…” Pintel really doesn’t want to say it, but Kekata urges him on.

“Sir, I have to know.”

“They said if he didn’t stop… then they’d… they’d pop out his eye and… yeah.”

“I see… But they-”

“They didn’t do that. He stopped, and they finished up and left. But our… friends had been payin’ attention, and they were pissed so they grabbed him and they…”

Kekata, for the first time in his long life, writes in the notes Five men anal penetration. Four men penetration of eye socket. He's not a Christian but he still thinks, Jesus.

Pintel is still trying to say the unspeakable, and he’s clearly relieved when Kekata holds up a hand. “I get the picture. Is there anything else I need to know about?”

“Think they broke his face.”

“Me cheekbone…”

“I see.” Kekata snaps on a pair of gloves. “And you’re willing to consent to a forensic exam?”

“I s’pose.”

“If you’re not certain, you don’t have to.”

Ragetti coughs, winces, and speaks a little more clearly. “Okay, yes. I’ll do it. Ya gotta dig around in there anyway to clean it, right?”

“Very well.” Kekata picks up a comb. “Are you able to stand up? Good… stand here and change into this?” He hands over a hospital gown.

Ragetti does so, wincing as his body bends.

“Now what?”

Kekata points to the examination table. “Sit over there, please.”

A nod and a grunt.

“Alright.” Kekata exhales. “I’m going to start by looking to see if any of their hair’s gotten tangled up in yours-”

“Oh, just do it.”

Kekata does. “Now I’ll need to take fingernail clippings, can you give me your hands?” He does so. The next part is the hard part. “Okay, would you rather I start with the eye or with… the other?”

“My…” Ragetti motions to the place between his legs. “Save best for last, shall we?”

Pintel snorts wryly.

Kekata nods. “Alright, if you’ll just lie back for me…”

Ragetti complies and they get to work. Off-white and rust-red come up in clumps.

“You can sit up now.” The patient does. Carefully. Kekata changes his gloves. “Okay, keep your hands away from your face and hold still.”

Ragetti whimpers, but does so, clutching hard to the edge of the table. The loose-lying eyelids spill pink over his broken cheek, which sags. More red and white and blended pink. Ragetti cringes at the disinfectant. “Stings!” he hisses.

“Sorry.” Kekata picks up the needle and thread. “It looks like your cheekbone’s been broken in multiple places. I suggest surgery to put everything back in place. It’s a minor operation, it won’t even leave a scar.”

Ragetti makes some kind of grunting noise and looks away.

“I’m sorry?”

“Whatever. Not like I’m worried about ‘nother scar anyway.”

Fair point. “Well, it’s an easy surgery.”

A soft hmph of air is the only response he receives. Somehow Kekata is not surprised.

Chapter 17: Mabel Pines

Patient was raped 24 hours ago by five unidentified assailants.

“Um, hey, Mr. Doctor Guy, is it alright if my cousin’s nurse comes in?” the child on the examination table asks, kicking her legs. “She just knows how to talk about all this medical stuff with me.”

“You are allowed to have anyone you like in this room.”

Female… Caucasian… 12… AB-…

“Okay!” Mabel rushes to the door. “Hey, Elphie, he said it’s okay if you come in!”

A woman with dark skin and green-glossed lips enters the room with a speed that suggests she has run to the door; or has been waiting only inches away from it. “Elphaba Diggs,” she says by way of introduction. “He went and got himself kicked out, didn’t he.”

Maxwell does not know who "he" is supposed to be referring to. Mabel does. “Nah, Uncle Stan hasn’t shown up yet. Dad said he’d let me know when he did, though!”

“I give him until the reception desk,” the woman predicts, closing the door behind her. “Alright, up you go.” She lifts Mabel onto the table with ease.

“How do you do that?” Mabel asks with wonder.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Try transferring Isaac to the car,” she says, standing over by her side.

“Alright. To begin with, Miss Pines, I’d like you to tell me what happened. In your own words.”

Mabel deflates. “Oh… I already told the cops some of it. One of those police guys kept looking at me…” The girl’s voice becomes a mumble. “I think he was mad… at me.”

“Why would he be mad at you?”

“I dunno… maybe because I was dumb? I dunno…”

“You weren’t dumb. He was just being a piece of shit.”

“Miss Pines, I am going to need to hear your version of events, please.”

Mabel nods. “I went to go meet this… this boy I knew from online. I thought I knew him anyway. He said he was thirteen and he liked me, and we’d been chatting for a while. I thought it’d be okay!” Her eyes well up. “Dipper… Dipper told me it was a bad idea. He tried to stop me and we fought… and… and I ran out of the house anyway.”

“Alright. What happened after that?”

“Well, I ran to the place we agreed to meet - me and the boy - only there wasn’t a boy, there were five men. And… and then… then they…” She trailed off and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Then they all… you know.”

“That must have been quite upsetting.”

Mabel nods. “I’m… I’m not super smart like my brother or uncle or anything, but I… I remember where I met them. My clothes are probably still there and my… my cell phone. The police might wanna see those things, right? Can you tell them I know where it was?”

“Of course.” A pause. “I take it that they moved you to a secondary location, given that you were not able to collect your things.”

“Y-yeah. They picked me up and threw me in the back of a car. It was super dark and scary… and they taped up my wrists so I couldn’t move or do anything…”

“How did you get out?”

“Um, chewed through the tape and popped the trunk open. The car was parked at a convenience store, so I ran inside, and someone called 911.”

“Were the perpetrators caught?”

Mabel nods her head. “They were all inside, the other people stopped them from leaving until the cops showed up… Dad’s worried that they might let them out though, on bail. The police are acting kinda weird around me.”

“Could you please explain what you mean?”

“It’s like… they were nice at first, but they got all… annoyed when they found out I went to meet them… I’m pretty sure they think it’s my own fault!”

“Translation,” Elphaba says, “they were being a bunch of victim-blaming assholes to a fucking child.”

“Hey! I’m a woman! I invited you to my bat mitzvah!”

“You are legally a minor and also younger than me, therefore, child,” Elphaba explains.

“Miss Pines,” Maxwell says, “I wish to assure you that this is not your fault, however the police may have acted.”

Mabel looks up at him, blinking tearful brown eyes. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Now,” he says, “there are a few things that I will need to do. I’ll need to take a blood sample, as well as your fingernail clippings, and I will need to perform a swab of the vaginal area. For your own comfort, I will allow you to pick the order.”

“Um… vaginal swab, blood sample, then fingernail clipping. I may as well get the worst out of the way first.”

“Alright.” He nods. “In that case, will you please lie back on the table?”

She complies, but holds out her hand. “Elphie?” she asks. “Can you, um…?”

“Yeah, of course.” She grabs onto the child’s hand tightly. “You ready?”

“Just do it,” she tells the doctor.

Off-white and rust-red come off in great clumps. Maxwell puts them into vials. “There we go.”

“Phew. Glad that part’s over.” Mabel sits back up. “Soo… blood sample, huh? What for?”

“He needs to check for diseases,” Elphaba says.

“What, like… like AIDS and stuff?”

“Yeah…”

Mabel’s eyes go wide, and her grip goes white around the woman’s hand. “I can’t have that, can I?! I can’t! Uncle Stan says… Uncle Stan says that getting that stuff will kill you! I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!”

“Mabel!” Elphaba grabs her shoulders. “Mabel, calm down! HIV isn’t a death sentence.” A pause. “Anymore. It was when your uncle was younger, but now we have medicine so that people can live long, healthy lives! But we need to know if you have it, so we can get you that medication in the first place. And if you don’t need it, then you don’t need it. So just relax.”

Mabel takes a deep breath and exhales. “R-right… sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.”

“Alright,” Maxwell speaks up. “I am going to take your blood now. Is that alright? It will require a needle.”

“I’m okay with that,” she says and holds out her arm. “Do I get a Band-Aid after this? Can I get one with unicorns on it?”

“Of course.” He opens a cabinet, revealing a variety of Band-Aids boxes, before selecting one and holding it up for the girl to inspect.

“Alright! Pink unicorns!”

A syringe is quickly filled, and Mabel grins at the bright plastic adhesive on her arm.

“Can I see your hands?”

“Oh, yeah, here!”

The clipping goes smoothly.

“Alright, now, Miss Pines, I’m also going to write a prescription for emergency contraception.”

“Emergency what?”

“It’s like birth control, but stronger,” Elphaba tells her.

Mabel goes still. “You… Birth control?! I… but I… I only got my first period a couple months ago! I can’t have a baby!”

“Don’t worry,” Elphaba soothes. “This is gonna make it so you won’t. You aren’t even going to get pregnant, okay? That’s what the medicine is for.”

“O-okay, give me the medicine! I can’t have a baby!”

The medicine is brought and Mabel gulps it down quickly. “Um… thanks, Dr. Maxwell.” The girl tries for a smile. “Are we done now?”

“Yes, Miss Pines, we’re all done. You’re free to clean up now.”

“Elphie? You’ll help me out, right? I… don’t wanna be alone, and I can’t take Dipper into the bathroom with me…”

“Of course. Don’t worry, I am a trained professional.” She takes Mabel down and walks her out. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

If only her mind could be cleaned as well…

Chapter 18: Merida Dunbroch

Patient was drugged within the last 24 hours.

“Before we begin, Miss Dunbroch, could you please tell me what happened in your own words?”

The girl on the observation table squints at him, as if only half listening. “How long ‘till the bastard’s drugs wear off?” she asks. “Ya already pumped mah stomach, can’ ya’ give me a bit o’ Tylenol or beer or somethin’? Mah heid is killin’ me!”

The word around the hospital was that she’d been complaining ever since she regained consciousness; but before he had knocked on the door, Dawson had heard her sobbing.

He couldn’t help being reminded of Basil. Anger hiding pain; impatience masking fear.

Female… Caucasian… 16… B+…

“My apologies, Miss Dunbroch, but it will be another few hours at least before it will be safe for Tylenol. Now, about what happened-”

“Wot happened was that Ah was drugged with God knows wot an’ raped while Ah was out cold! C’n we please move on now?”

“Miss Dunbroch, I need to know a little more about what happened in order for you to file a police report-”

“Ah don’ fuckin’ know wha’ happened! I was out with this friend of mah mum’s one minute an’ he an’ Ah were at a burger place an’ he… he put somethin’ in my fuckin’ milkshake!”

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“Nothin’ t’ tell. Ah passed out after tha’, next thing Ah knew, Ah was here.” A pause. “Why don’ ya’ jus’ get started on tha’ kit thing, now? Then Ah can stare at the wall, and you can see about gettin’ me some goddamn aspirin.”

“Alright, Miss Dunbroch, let’s start with an oral swab and go from there.”

“Ya’ ain’t gonna find anythin’,” she grumbles as he sets about his task. “The doctors have been scrubbin’ vomit out o’ there all night long, an’ Ah never heard o’ a guy wot gets a blowjob from an unconscious girl.”

Sure enough the swab comes up damp, but clear. No rust-red, no off-white.

“Told you,” she tells him. “Wouldn’t bother with mah fingernails neither. Ah didn’t scratch him. Tha’ was kind o’ the point in him druggin’ me.”

“Alright… then if you could just sit back for me-”

“Ah know, Ah know, jus’ shove the swab up mah cunt and be done wit’ it!”

“M-Miss Dun-”

“Ah swear ta’ fuck if you have somethin’ t’ say about mah language…”

He shakes his head, and reaches for another swab. Off-white, still no rust-red.

“We done?” she asks.

“I’m afraid not. We’re almost there, but not quite… I’m going to need to ask you for a blood sample.”

“Sure. Here.”

He draws the blood. She doesn’t flinch. “Just one more thing, Miss Dunbroch. I’ll be writing you a prescription for emergency contraceptive.”

“Good.” She nods. “Ah’d make a horrible mother.”

He isn’t quite sure how to respond.

Chapter 19: Isaac Dillamond

Patient is mute.

Mute, but crying. Sobbing with no sound, hugging himself, mouthing the name of his brother like a prayer. As though begging God to let this entire night be some sort of horrible dream. Not, Katara supposes, that she could blame him.

“Dr. Dillamond? Sir? Are you sure you want to go forward with the examination?”

More crying.

“Sir…” Don’t think of Aang. Don’t think of Sokka. “I need your permission to go forward. Do you still wish to proceed with the kit?”

More crying. A shaky nod.

Male… Caucasian… 26… B+…

“Okay…” A breath. “I need to know where you were assaulted. Did they use your mouth or-”

A shaken head. More crying.

“Down… there, then?”

Another nod.

“How many? Can you hold up your hands?”

More crying. One hand is raised, a single finger extending up from it. His pointer finger.

“One, then?”

Another nod. More crying.

Another breath. “Alright. Can I start by seeing your fingers, please? I need to clip your nails.”

He practically shoves his hands to her, caked in red as they are. Katara gets out her nails clippers. He gives her a shaky smile. A thin, watery smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Alright, now I’m going to need for you to lie down. Will you need any help with that?”

Another nod. Katara takes hold of the man, helping him to lie back on the table. Carefully she spreads his legs.

Rust-red, crusting on his skin. Off-white, coming off in flakes. He was lying motionless for some time.

“Alright, doctor, let’s sit you back up.” Again, she assists. “Now, I will need you to give me a blood sample. I need to test for diseases.”

The patient trembles. The unspoken threat of AIDS carries throughout the room.

A syringe fills with blood. Katara sets it down. “I’ll have the results back for you in a few days, okay?”

He nods.

“You…” You’re free to go.

She wants to say it-

-but not to a man that cannot walk away.

Chapter 20: Mary Boggs

Patient is the youngest I’ve ever seen for this.

“Boo!” The child abruptly uncovers her face, and her guardian mouths Pretend to be scared! over her shoulder.

“Eek! Oh my goodness, what a shock!” Dawson says, miming cartoonish fright.

The little girl giggles. “Scared walrus man!” she says, pointing at his face.

“Yeah, Boo,” her guardian - Mr. Sullivan - says. “You sure did.” He looks as disturbed as Dawson feels by the fact that this test is needed. “So, uh, Dr. Dawson, was it? We’re… me and the cops are all pretty sure there’s not much DNA left to find, but we need to check for injuries.”

Female… Caucasian… approx. 3… blood type unknown…

“Of course, of course.” Dawson’s hands tremble slightly as he lays out the kit. “Are these the clothes you found her in?”

“No, but I’ve got those in a bag - here.” Sullivan holds up a plastic carrier.

The girl struggles to remove her clothes and put on the hospital gown, and so it is her guardian that does most of the work for her. She’s even younger than Olivia. Even smaller.

“Okay, Miss Boo, how about you hop up on that table for me?” This request is purely a formality. Sullivan is the one who lifts her up. “Now, can you open your mouth so I can have a look at your teeth?”

“Rawr!” Boo mock-growls and snaps her teeth together a couple of times.

“Yes, very sharp teeth you have indeed!” Then he lowers his voice. “These are in bad condition,” he says to Sullivan. “They haven’t been brushed, and a few are missing. I recommend you take her to a dentist at some point. I can’t tell from here if more than just her baby teeth have been affected.”

“Will do,” Sullivan says. When Dawson withdraws his finger from Boo’s mouth, the girl playfully bites at the air. Dawson pretends to jump again, and Sullivan chuckles. “Yeah, Boo, y’hear that? Another new person to scare with your big sharp fangs!”

“Scary teeth!” Boo babbles.

“Aside from her teeth, however, there isn’t anything I can see. If he injured her it’s long gone now. And none of her adult teeth have come in yet, so there should be no permanent damage… to her mouth, at least…”

“Right…”

Dawson takes a deep breath. “I’m going to need for you to lay her down.”

“Right. This part.” Sullivan looks like he’s looking forward to it even less than if it was him on that table. “Okay, Boo-girl, could you lie down now? Good girl.”

Boo lies on her back and gazes placidly at him. “Not time-a sleep!”

“No, no, it’s not bedtime, it’s just so the doctor can… um.” Sullivan takes a deep breath and says, “Could you move your feet apart and hold your knees up, Boo? No, further… further… yeah.”

“Alright, Miss Boo, I’m going to look between your legs, okay? If I make you at all uncomfortable let me know, okay? Let me know and I’ll stop.”

She stays quiet. Little mercies.

“Alright,” Dawson backs off quickly. “We’re all done. I don’t need to see anymore. You can sit her back up, now.”

Sullivan sighs in audible relief. “What’s the damage?”

“There’s some… scarring. A little bruising. Nothing too severe…”

But that doesn’t mean a whole lot. Nor should it.

Chapter 21: Gary Oak

Patient is-

Katara pauses. She isn’t quite sure what to put down.

Physically fit?

Healthy?

Has hit on me three times in fifteen minutes.

She crosses off what she has and simply writes: Appears to be lacking severe physical injuries.

“Okay, can you tell me about why you’re here?”

“Grandpa said we had to come here when I told him about my monsters!” Gary Oak says, nodding towards his grandfather. “He said I might have been hurt or caught something.”

Male… East Asian… 10… B+…

Monsters? Well, kids interpret the unknown in all kinds of ways… She’ll have to ask if he was being taken to a psychiatrist as well. “He’s right, you could have, though I hope not. We’ll give you a good checkup and see, okay? Now, can you tell me when it happened?”

“Oh, they’ve been coming ‘round forever,” he says, in a casual tone which breaks her heart. “I don’t really remember the first time, but the last time was the night before I went to stay at Grandpa’s. Guess they knew I’d be leaving soon. That was… four nights ago?”

“Okay, Gary, and did your monsters hurt you in any way? Did they ever leave bruises or make you bleed or anything like that?”

“A couple of times. Usually only when I made them mad though. I don’t do that anymore so they don’t have a whole lot of reason to hurt me super bad. They still leave scratch marks though, one of them has big claws. And a lot of the time there are bruises.”

Behind his grandson’s back, Samuel Oak clenches his jaw. He looks a combination of sick and angry. Katara really doesn’t blame him.

“Okay, where do they touch you? Where do they leave injuries?”

“They poke around in my mouth a lot, and under my PJ bottoms. I looked it up, animals go for the soft parts to eat first. I think that’s what they’re doing, but they haven’t ever actually bitten into me yet. I guess they’re waiting till I’m dead.” He sounds far too fascinated by that. “And they sometimes squeeze my arms really hard.”

“Okay, that sounds about what I expected. Could I see if you have any bruises now?”

“Okay.” He nods. “Where do you want me to…?”

“Wherever your marks are I need to see all of them, just to make sure you aren’t hurt too badly. Is that alright with you?”

Gary nods and starts to roll up his sleeves. “Sounds good.”

Finger shaped bruising on his forearms. Greenish gray and yellow-green. Half-moon marks in a darker color. Faded. Hard to see if you aren’t looking carefully. Katara is.

“Right, now can you open your mouth? Stick out your tongue… that’s it.”

No visible oral injuries. She hadn’t really expected any.

“Now, here’s the difficult part. Are you okay with letting me see anywhere else they might have hurt you? You mentioned they sometimes hurt underneath your clothes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think I could look there?”

Gary shrugs. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

“Would you lie back on the table, please?”

He does so without complaint.

Minor bruising on his inner thighs. More gray and green and yellow. More half-moon marks. No red. No off-white.

“Do they only touch you? I mean, with their hands?”

“No, they lick me a lot. Like I said, they’re test-tasting me. I don’t think they’re gonna start eating until I actually die though.”

Lovely. “But they don’t, for example, put anything else… inside you?”

“Huh? No, not except for poking their claws around there. Why?”

“Just making sure. Could you move your legs apart so I can check there?”

Some small scratches, which will probably fade in time.

“Why’d you ask? Is that what other people’s monsters do?”

“… Some of them.”

“Huh.” He thinks for a moment. “Is it like how they taste around inside my mouth? I’ve heard some birds with go up there with dead animals.”

Katara glances over at Oak, her eyes asking a question her lips cannot. He shakes his head slightly. She understands. “It’s sort of like that, yes.” If his grandfather needs time, that’s what she’ll give him.

Gary nods. “Oh, that makes sense then…” His brow creases. “… but I don’t think the monsters are small enough to fit their heads inside of… anyone. Are some of them smaller than mine or something?”

“Possibly,” she says, hoping he doesn’t pursue the issue. “Or they might… reach in with an object?”

“Oh! Yeah, they have hands, they could use tools, that would make sense. Like how monkeys dig in ant hills with sticks. I don’t know how smart they are, but… I’ve gotta get a notebook.”

Unfortunately, smart enough to not have been caught yet, Katara reflects. She doesn’t like lying to him, but it’s not precisely a lie, and it’s better his grandfather and a psychiatrist deal with it than she press the issue and upset everyone.

“Okay, that’s everything, you can put your clothes back on now,” she says, and turns to Professor Oak. “I’ll type up these notes for you, you’ll be able to take them to the station.”

“Thank you.”

“Station?” Gary asks. “But Mom and Dad aren’t due back yet.”

“Uh, she means the police station, Gary,” says his grandfather. “We… have to go there to make sure you’re not in any more danger.”

“How can they help?” Gary asks, frowning.

“They… they’re going to find the monsters, to catch them.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna help. They can pick locks and stuff. Even if the police get them, then the monsters will probably just break out and come looking for me again.”

The man’s hands clench and unclench. Katara sees them shake, ever so slightly. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this one,” he says at last. “Can you do that for me?”

Gary looks unconvinced. “I guess…”

“Police cells have much better locks than your house doors probably do,” Katara says, hoping it’ll help. “And the station doors have card scanners - even if they get out of their cells they can’t pick those.”

Gary still looks suspicious, but nods. “Okay, I guess that could work.”

Oak gives her a brief look of intense gratitude. She’s glad. They both have enough to worry about.

Chapter 22: Ginger Fowler

Patient is accompanied by Scrooge McDuck.

Dawson has questions - questions unrelated to the examination. So much time with a detective makes it very hard not to want to ask them, but it really is none of his business at all.

“Okay, Miss…?”

“Ginger Fowler,” she says. “Um, I should probably point out I’m not exactly going to be listed on any systems in the States. I came here… unexpectedly. Can you transfer the information to my doctor in England? I can give you their details.”

What? “Are you here… legally?”

She actually laughs at that. “No.”

One thing at a time.

“Just…” He gathers himself. “Alright. Miss Fowler, if you could give me your information that would be much appreciated.”

She supplies it readily enough.

Female… Caucasian… 15… O+…

She’s from the UK. Was abducted several months ago and only recently escaped. Dawson makes a note to expect signs of long term captivity. And whatever that entails.

“Were these the clothes you were assaulted in?”

“No, sorry,” she says. “They didn’t let me keep my clothes. Mr. McDuck found me these. Or, well, his housekeeper did, I mean.”

“Can I ask when it happened?”

“Uh, the last time was a few days ago? I don’t think there’ll be any DNA left, they did hose me down before they shipped me out.”

Pity. “Don’t worry, we can check for any lasting injuries, those will count for evidence.”

“Will this, too?” she asks, and puts a hand to her belly. “It’s at least one person’s DNA.”

Dear God. “How far along do you think you are?”

“Too far.”

It does look from here like more than twenty-four weeks, though he'd have to examine more closely to be sure. “We can certainly perform a paternity test.” He nods.

“Good… that’s good… I guess.”

It’s not good, but it’s better than nothing.

“Alright, then, you said they hosed you down? Do you mean that literally? If they didn’t let you wash properly there might still be hairs caught in yours. It’s unlikely, but it could be worth a try.”

“Yes, and yeah, we can try.” Ginger stands over the paper and lets him comb. Scrooge McDuck, in a plastic chair in the corner, watches with the mild concern of a parent for someone else’s child.

“So…” Dawson says. “Can I ask what relation you are to Mr. McDuck?”

She glances over at the man in the corner, and back at Dawson. “Um… I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Warning bells. Dawson glances over at McDuck now. He doesn’t see anything… Nothing suspect, at least. Would Basil?

“Mr. McDuck, would you mind stepping out for a minute? I’d like to have a word with the young lady…”

“He can stay,” Ginger cuts in. “I know what you’re thinking. He isn’t trying to do anything to me. If he was, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have let me come here.”

She has a point. “Still, I think I have to put something in the notes about why you’re here. What am I going to tell your usual doctor?”

“Um…” Ginger thinks. “I’m his… tax deduction?”

“Nice try.”

“He’s a good Samaritan?”

“I need something a little more specific, Miss Fowler.” Besides, no one’s going to believe that - he’s Scrooge McDuck.

“Just say he found me and I came here, okay?”

Dawson sighs. It’ll do for now. “Fine, I can say that. Can you tell me anything about the circumstances in which you were assaulted?”

“Er, I’m not sure,” Ginger says. “I mean, I want to say, but we’re kind of planning to take a lot of information to the authorities at once and if small parts get leaked it might ruin the whole thing.”

“Please tell me you’re not planning a vigilante operation. I could understand why, but I can’t condone something illegal and incredibly unsafe.”

“No! No, we’re not going to do anything violent.”

“She’s right,” adds McDuck. “I’m not letting her back into harm’s way. But it’s… complicated.”

“Well, is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”

“Well… I need you to get this kit thing over and done with,” she says. “That’s about all I can give you.”

It isn’t enough.

Dawson snaps on his gloves.

You aren’t a detective, he reminds himself. Just do your job.

The window for DNA collection has likely passed. All he can do is document injuries.

“Where exactly were you attacked,” he asks, “and how often?”

“Everywhere - mouth, both, er, other places, and one guy used my hair. I’m a bit fuzzy on the timing. The days blurred into each other a bit. Can I think about it for a moment?”

“Of course. Don’t worry, it’s completely understandable that you’d lose track of time. Can you open your mouth please?” She does, and he checks. “You might need some fillings, but I don’t see any other damage. Mouths heal quite fast… I see some chipping here?”

“I bit someone, so they jammed this metal thing in to keep my mouth open.”

“What did they use? Do you have any idea?”

“Not really, but I think they did that with a lot of people, so maybe it was specially made? My guess is they knew what they were doing. I’m lucky it wasn’t anything worse.” A shudder.

“Worse?”

“Just… keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I think we’re done with your mouth, are you happy to let me see elsewhere?”

“Happy? No. Willing, yes.”

“Good point. Could you lie down and keep your legs apart? Thank you.”

No visible DNA evidence left, which he expected. Some wounds, closed up but visible. Sores, implying possible infection.

“Okay, I can prescribe some antiseptic cream and some painkillers, that should help,” he says, making a note. “There’s no foreign DNA visibly present but it looks like you have an infection here, so shall I take a swab of that to be tested? Or would you rather give a blood sample? You don’t have to do either but it would help with treatment.”

“Which works better?”

“I’d like to take a blood sample to test for any other infections so if you’d like this done as quickly as possible, I’d recommend we do that.”

“Okay. Do it then.” A pause. “Should I sit up, or…?”

“Go right ahead.” She does, and he retrieves the needle. “Now, Miss Fowler, if you’d just give me your arm, please…”

She offers it without protest. “Stick it in me, Doc.”

In the corner, McDuck exhales in a way that might be half a laugh.

Dawson plunges the syringe in. Ginger doesn’t cry out. He didn’t really expect her to.

“I think that’s everything for the kit, then, Miss Fowler. Would you like me to make another appointment for…” He glances at her stomach. “… a pre-natal checkup?”

“Please,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll keep it once it’s out, but the least I can do is make sure it’s healthy.”

Dawson makes a note of the appointment. “Speaking of which, I can provide some information on how to get yourself back to optimal health. You’re a bit underweight and it looks like you might have some vitamin deficiencies. Only to be expected, after… well.”

She nods, and looks to McDuck.

“I’ll make sure she gets well,” he says. “Don’t fret, doctor, I’ve raised younguns before.”

For now Dawson will have to take him at his word. There’s nothing else to go on here.

Chapter 23: Frederick Bryant

Patient has blood on his hands.

Literally. She means that literally. Katara studies those rust-colored fingers and filthy broken nails. He catches her looking.

“Uh… you guys are probably gonna want some of this, huh? It’s hi- um, it’s not mine.”

“I see.”

Male… Caucasian… 20… B-…

“Yeah,” he rambles. “I… I, uh, hit him on the head. With a rock. Hey, have you talked to the police? Is he gonna live?”

No. No he is not.

“I… I don’t have all the information.” And she doesn’t. And he doesn’t need to hear it right now anyway.

“Oh…”

“Do you think you could tell me what happened, Mister…?”

“Bryant. Frederick Bryant, but you can call me Flik. Everyone else does.”

“Alright. Flik it is, then. Would you mind telling me what happened tonight?”

“Um…” He looks down at his hands, and lower; at the blood between his thighs. “I called the cops on this guy,” he says. “He’d been bothering us-”

“Us?”

“My whole town. He’d been showing up with his gang and stealing stuff and scaring the crap out of everyone. We got sick of it and, well, long story short I called the police, but they couldn’t be there when I needed them to be and… stuff happened.” He nods again to the blood. On his legs. On his hands. “I used the radio in my friends’ car to make it sound like a siren. I thought I could scare him away, but he realized what was going on and… yeah…”

“Ah.”

“I grabbed a piece of pavement or something and beaned him in the head while… it was going down. I think I cracked his skull open. I’m not… He can’t sue me or anything, right? I can’t be arrested for that, can I?”

“Arrested, maybe. But I doubt you’d face jail time if you argued self-defense.” It wasn’t as if the other man could protest that now, anyway.

“Oh… y-yeah, I, um, I guess I could…”

Alright, now to start him off… “Can I have you hold out your hands, please? We’ll need to take fingernail clippings.”

“Oh… R-right!”

He holds both out to her and she takes them, still sticky with blood, with her own gloved hands. His palms are calloused in a way that reminds her of her brother. Sokka the inventor and the soldier and the scientist. A certain softness takes hold of her as, gently, very gently, she clips the bloody nails away and bags them carefully as she can.

“It was only one man, correct?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Now I’m going to ask that you open your legs.” He does, and she reaches for a comb.

“What’s that for?”

“Well, it’s possible that some of his hair might have gotten tangled up with yours - is it alright with you if I-”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s fine.”

“Are you cert-”

“Yeah. Yeah. Go ahead. You’re the doctor. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“That I do.” She tries for a smile. More out of reassurance than joviality. He doesn’t smile back, not that she’d expect him to. The comb moves quickly, carefully. Blond hair separating from dark. “Okay, how are you doing?”

“Fine. Fine,” he says, a little shakily. “I mean, it’s no worse than what he did.”

“That’s not reassuring, sir. If I’m distressing you, I’d like you to tell me.”

“No, I mean it, it’s okay. Keep going.”

“Very well.” She picks up a swab. “I’m going to use this now, if you’re okay with that? Lean back please.”

Rust-red and off-white. She takes the swab away and drops it into a waiting vial.

“Sir?” she calls out to him. Bryant’s face looks pale and clammy (and she cannot blame him), his eyes lacking focus and breath a bit too fast.

“Huh?”

“You can sit up now.”

“Is it over?”

“Almost,” she promises. “He didn’t do anything to your mouth, did-”

“No!” He speaks quickly, but not in a way that suggests denial. “No, he only…” He looks down. There is blood on the table.

“Well, there’s that at least. We’ll be done sooner then. I just need you to hold out your arm, please.”

He does so, but blinks dazedly. “Why?”

“I’m just going to take a blood sample.” She readies the needle. “It’s a good idea to check that he didn’t give you anything. Is that okay?”

A wordless gesture to get it on with. A shaky nod.

She moves quickly.

And then they’re done.

Chapter 24: Courtney Shaw-Scholz

Patient is famous.

She is. Dawson feels bad for noticing. For feeling a little star-struck when the poor girl’s so clearly been through enough as it is.

It might be easier to ignore were there not two other celebrities in the room with her.

Sapphire Shaw. Ada Scholz. Their daughter Courtney between them. It’s a little… much. But it’s worse for them. He’s sure of that.

“Miss… Shaw-Scholz?” That’s a mouthful. “Would you mind telling me-”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve already made a report to the police. I’ve already gone over all that stuff. I’m just here because someone needs to collect the evidence and I’m not qualified.”

“A-”

“Just do your job,” she snaps. “Just get this over with, alright? Then we can both go home.”

“A-alright.” Is he really letting himself be intimidated by a teenager?

“Good. Now get to it!” She falters for a moment. “Uh… you know, please.”

Female… South American… 16… O-…

One of her mothers - Sapphire - leans in close and whispers into his ear. “I’m sorry, she’s not usually like this.”

Dawson has seen a few episodes of that Total Drama Island show; he has to disagree. Still, Courtney is only sixteen, barely more than a child, and hurt on top of that.

“I understand completely.” And he does.

“Thank you.”

He never thought he’d pity someone like her, but he does now, with every fiber of his being. Focus on the girl… focus on the girl… focus on the girl… “Miss,” once again he addresses Courtney, “you don’t have to go into detail, but I do need you to tell me a little about the way you were hurt. Did they use your mouth at all?”

“Not… exactly. It was pretty straightforward sex except for, well, you know. They didn’t do anything like that there… but I think you should take a swab anyway.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Most of them kissed me. You can get DNA from saliva too, right?”

“We can. How long has it been since-”

“About an hour. Maybe two.”

“And have you eaten or-”

“No! I’m not stupid.”

“R-right…”

No visible damage or residue in her mouth. He makes a note to test the saliva samples.

“There we go… Now, can you stand on that sheet of paper and change into this hospital gown, and then I can comb your hair out? Some of theirs might be caught in it.”

She does so. Her hair is long and straight and tangled from the struggle. Ms. Scholz’s severe bob is tousled. Ms. Shaw’s blue-dyed curls are a little limp. They left their home in a hurry for once in their lives.

“Would you like some water, now I’ve swabbed your mouth?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to delay this any longer. Should I-?” She gestures to the table without being asked, and when Dawson nods, she hops on up.

Another comb. Some of the hair comes up lighter, some darker, none of it quite that same shade of brown. And now for the worst of it. His hand goes for a swab and her's balls into a fist.

“Do you need a moment?”

She shakes her head. “No. I can do this.”

And she can. He has no doubt of that. That look in her eyes is flinty and cold and unbreakable. And furious beyond what words can say. He’s seen that look somewhere before.

Rust-red. Off-white.

“And we’re done,” he says, bagging the swabs. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Well…” Courtney says. “I think I will have that water now.”

“Not a problem at all.” He turns to get it, and Ms. Shaw takes his hand and shakes it.

“Thank you so much, doctor,” she says, her usually boisterous nature dimmed. She releases him, and goes to hug her daughter.

“Yeah.” Courtney nods shakily. “Thanks.”

There really isn’t a need.

Chapter 25: Alejandro Burromuerto

Alejandro Burromuerto speaks English fluently. This is something Maxwell has been told. Still, he has yet to hear a word of it.

He barely speaks at all.

“Are you sure it is alright to do this?” He directs this question not at the boy, but at the officer he came here with.

“Parents say they’re fine with it as long as he can have a cop in the room, didn’t ask for the reasoning behind that, but…” She looks over at Maxwell as if trying to say something more than words will allow.

“And how do you feel about it?”

Burromuerto manages to nod through gritted teeth, mumbling something in half-delirious Spanish through a drugged out sense of delirium.

“He’s agreed,” Detective Cabrera explains. “He’s just kind of… out of it at the moment. They have him on quite a few meds.”

That this doesn’t bode well for Mr. Burromuerto is something all three of them know.

Male… Hispanic… 17… O+

“Alright. I can see he is not going to be able to move on his own. I may need some assistance during the examine. I am certainly strong enough to move him but it is unwise to lift an injured person without aid to keep them steady.”

Cabrera nods. “No problem. You okay with that, Burromuerto?” He nods. “Okay, what do we need to do first?”

“First, I will comb through your hair. Is that alright, Mr. Burromuerto? It is the least invasive part of the procedure.” More nodding.

Grease and dirt clogs up the comb. A few hairs. Far too light to be his own.

“Am I right to assume he was held for an extended period of time?”

Cabrera nods. “Yeah. Coast Guard found him and some other kids earlier today. Some human trafficking thing… we’re still scraping for details.”

“Ah.” Maxwell nods to himself and glances over the boy. “Do you know if there was an oral component in what happened to him? If so, it might be easier to get that taken care of now.”

Burromuerto mumbles something and jerks his head. Up and down. A confirmation.

“Alright, can you open your mouth?”

Burromuerto’s teeth are chattering violently, but he does. Rust-red and off-white. Maxwell takes two swabs.

“Before we move on, can I get you anything to drink?” It can’t be pleasant to have a mess like that swishing around in there.

But Burromuerto shakes his head. More Spanish.

“He wants you to finish first.”

Maxwell takes in as deep a breath as he can. “Very well. That brings about the matter of moving him. I’m going to call a nurse to help me pick him up, just to prevent any further damage. Will that be an issue at all?”

Spanish that not even Cabrera seems to understand. Burromuerto shakes his head. Maxwell makes the call.

Kya Achoda-Feng is there within minutes. When she sees Burromuerto her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Whoa. What the hell happened here?” Professionalism has never been one of her strong suits.

“That is not important. Please help me to move the patient to the operating table and turn him over.”

She does, half as easily as one twice her size, but she manages with only a little effort. There is blood along the base of the teenager’s spine. Blood and bruising. An imprint like the toe of a boot.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me what happened to cause this?”

Cabrera shrugs. “He and the other kids were on a boat. From what we’ve gathered there was some kind of struggle over control of it. Poor kid ended up getting trapped in a room with some of the bastards.”

Kicked then. He’s probably made the right assumption. He squeezes the boy’s foot. No reflexive movement. Definitely spinal damage.

“Mr. Burromuerto, I’m going to have to move your legs apart now. If you require me to stop at any moment, please alert me or Detective Cabrera.”

Burromuerto nods, and says nothing.

There’s so much blood. Off-white. Rust-red. Purple bruising that has not yet been given the time to heal. Maxwell reaches for a swab. Burromuerto doesn’t even flinch. The wounds look infected; with what remains to be seen…

“Terminamos?” Burromuerto asks when Maxwell moves away.

“Almost.” Maxwell picks up the second, smaller comb. More hairs. More red. More white. “Now we are.”

Burromuerto sags in visible relief. Still, he remains there on the table. It would do more harm than good to pick him up again. Which reminds Maxwell that they’ll need an X-Ray; he makes a note of it.

“We’ll be done soon, but I need just a few more things. First, I must ask, did you attempt to fight them off? I am not asking to cast judgment, but to learn if you have any defensive wounds on your hands.”

Burromuerto nods, flexing them open. Sure enough his fingernails are the half-brown color of drying blood.

“Is all of that your own?” A slowly shaken head. “May I clip your nails?” More nodding. “Excellent. I shall be careful.” He is. Almost done. Maxwell reaches for a syringe. “Can you hold out your arm for me? I would like to run a blood sample to check for any signs of disease.”

Burromuerto nods again and the vial fills with blood that doesn’t quite look the way it should. Nothing that can’t be chalked up to malnutrition.

“I believe I am finished here.” Maxwell looks to Cabrera, nodding. “I’ll have a specialist come in to look at his spine.”

“Do you think it will be permanent?” Burromuerto speaks in English for the first time.

It is Maxwell’s turn to have nothing to say.

Chapter 26: Panchito Gonzales

Patient is hesitant to show hands.

“Sir, do you want to skip this step? You can withdraw consent at any time.”

“Uh, no, I’m just…” Panchito Romero Miguel Junipero Francisco Quintero Gonzales coughs. He’s still in the hospital bed. “The surgeon said I need to keep the gauze glove on, so should we stick with the left hand?”

“Of course.” Katara lifts the hand in question, takes up the clippers, and asks gently: ”How many?”

Male… Mestizo… 33… B+…

“Fifty-three. It was fifty-three men. The police have already caught forty-five of them…”

“And…” Nail clippings done, Katara reaches for a swab. “Where did these attacks occur?”

“Um… a warehouse?”

“I mean, on your body. Were you… penetrated… orally or anally?”

“Both.” He sounds unbelievably miserable. “Mostly… mostly they used my mouth, but a few…” He grimaces and shakes his head. “One of them used his gun on me.”

Katara sets down one swab, colored by off-white and rust-red and powder-burn-black. She reaches for a pristine one.

“Would you spread your legs, please?” He does. “You’re doing great,” she says.

“Please don’t.” His voice is very small.

“Don’t what?”

“You’re talking to me like I’m a child.”

“Oh… uh, sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

It isn’t, and he won’t be; not for a very long time.

Chapter 27: Noah Tamboli

Patient has recently taken epinephrine.

It shows. Noah Tamboli’s skin is swollen and nearing red, and his eyes jerk every which way. His hands are shaking. His breathing is shallow. Still, he is coherent enough to understand.

“What was the allergic reaction to?” Dawson checks the patient’s info. “It says here you have that reaction to red meat, was that it?”

“I-I guess it must have been, but I don’t know what from… I think the guy tampered with my takeout food, but I don’t know exactly what he put in it. I didn’t taste anything off, as far as I remember.”

Male… Desi… 16… A-…

“Do you still have the packaging?”

“No, it was in his car last I saw it.”

“Pity - oh, no, not your fault at all. You couldn’t have known, and we’ll do what we can.”

“Okay.” The kid blinks to clear his vision. “Uh… how exactly does this work…?”

“The examination? Well, first I’m going to ask you to change on that paper over there. It’ll catch whatever he may have gotten on your clothes.”

“You mean like hair and stuff?”

“Exactly. Can you stand?”

Tamboli nods and does so, albeit shakily. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He’s not, but no one will say it. Not Dawson. Not Tamboli. Not his parents, standing like sentries at the door.

His clothes are quickly bagged up, and Dawson gets the comb. Nothing obvious stands out.

“Was he dark-haired?”

“Yeah, dark and all slicked up with some oily stuff. Is it gonna be a problem finding his hairs?”

“Not under a microscope, I hope. If he used a lot of product that’ll be visible.” Dawson shivers, almost imperceptibly. Of course, it was a coincidence. Dark-haired men are ten a penny and surely plenty of them use hair oil.

“Yeah… it was a lot…” Tamboli pauses for a moment. “Hey… you know how… how they make, like, teachers and cops take DNA tests every couple years? To make sure they haven’t been involved in a bank robbery or murder or… whatever…?”

“… Yes?”

“Do you know if they do the same thing with college professors? His DNA might be on file.”

A professor… “You knew him?”

“Yeah. He gave me a lift home from a class I was sitting in on. I’m looking for scholarships for next year or maybe the year after, and he said it was okay if I came along to his class in case it helped. I met him at the college fair a while back.”

Dawson’s hands go still. “Out of curiosity, what does he teach?”

“Criminology. Why?”

So that wasn’t an isolated incident… Of course not. Cases like that almost never are.

“Just thinking of something. And you say you believe he tampered with your food?”

Tamboli nods. “Now I think about it, he was a little late to class today and when I left my tires were slashed. Could… could that have been him?”

“It sounds quite possible. Oh, but I’m rambling…” He isn’t, really, but he wants to change the subject. He’ll have to think about this. “Was there an oral component to the assault?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“He kissed me on the lips, but… the rest of it was all, uh down there.”

“I see. How badly did he injure you? Damage to that area can be-”

Bloody sheets.

“Not… it wasn’t bad. He didn’t make me bleed or anything, and I think he used a condom. Still, there’s probably a lot of bruising.”

He’s correct. Bruising, no blood, no residue. Dawson takes a swab anyway, just in case, and combs out the hair there. More indistinguishable dark hairs. Still, DNA testing should help.

“You can sit back up now.”

Tamboli nods. “I guess he was being careful. Probably thought that whatever he slipped in my food would take care of me and then… well, who the hell would check?”

He’s chillingly correct.

Chapter 28: Wilbur Robinson

Patient is a Robinson.

Dawson knows that name comes with a flashing red sign. Rocky road ahead. Proceed with caution. It doesn’t help that THE Robinson (as far as the media is concerned) is pacing around the room, with his hair in disarray and lightning in his eyes.

“How long ago did you say it happened?”

“Weeks. He’s been keeping this secret for weeks!” Mr. Robinson says, undirected anger and pain in his voice.

“I’m afraid there’ll be no DNA evidence, then.”

“That’s fine. Just make sure he’s not sick or injured, we can worry about the rest later.”

Male… Caucasian… 13… B-…

“Dad, stop talking about me like I’m not in the room!” the boy protests.

“Wilbur…” The man looks helplessly at his son. “The-”

“If you say ‘the grownups are talking’, I’m never speaking to you again.”

Mr. Robinson sighs and turns back to Dawson, looking no less angry. “Just do what you can.”

“Alright.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes when he catches Dawson’s. A mouthed Can you believe this guy? Humor covering for anxiety. “Soooo… what have I gotta do…?”

“Well, could you start by telling me exactly how they hurt you? Did they cause you any injuries?”

“Um, I bled. That stopped after a few minutes then started again on and off for a couple days.”

“Sounds normal, tears in that area are easily re-opened. Anything else?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “The big guy dragged me into place by my hair, but they didn’t hit me or anything.”

“I see. Is there anything else?”

“Well…” He glances over at his father and back down again. “One of those guys sorta… pushed down on my arm. Not hard, but it was already kinda busted and… a few days later it started to swell.” His arm seems fine now - well, as fine as anything can seem in a sling. Wilbur sees Dawson looking. “Yeah. Dad saw that. My regular doctor fixed it up. I said that I must have slept on it wrong…”

Cornelius Robinson covers his face with one hand. “Wilbur…”

“Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now,” Dawson says hastily. “Let’s focus on what we can do, alright? Now, are you comfortable with me taking a blood sample?”

“No problem.” Wilbur holds out his uninjured arm. Mr. Robinson watches the blood flow into the syringe with bated breath, as if he could simply see any diseases in it.

“I’ll get you something to patch that up and then… we’ll get on with the exam.”

Wilbur groans but doesn’t protest. Mr. Robinson stares at the vial and the wall and then down at the floor. His eyes are still there by the time Dawson retrieves the Band-Aid.

“Have you noticed anything strange since it happened?” he asks Wilbur. “You mentioned bleeding, does anything still hurt? Have you felt sick at all?”

“No. Is that good?”

“It could be. Some illnesses don’t show obvious symptoms, or at least not this soon.”

“Oh…”

“I would like to check for any injuries that might have occurred. If that’s alright with you…?”

It is Mr. Robinson to whom this question is addressed.

“If it’s alright with my son, yes,” he says. “I’d rather not make things worse for him. Wilbur?”

“If the doctor thinks he should, I’m okay with it,” Wilbur says, a bit shakily but determined.

“Okay.” Dawson’s always hated this part of his job. This awful, necessary task. Then again, if he enjoyed it, he might want to have his head examined. “I’m going to have to ask that you take some of your clothes off… and then hop back up on the table.” Wilbur does so awkwardly; it is fortunate he doesn’t need to remove his shirt. Expectedly, there is scarring. “It’s left a mark, but… well, no one’s going to see it.”

Mr. Robinson clenches his fists harder. “That, I think, was part of the problem.”

Chapter 29: Lola Loud

Patient is accompanied by both parents.

“Do I gotta do this?” she mumbles, shuffling away from Dawson. It always pulls at his heartstrings when he has to do this, and he looks up at the parents.

“I’m sorry, Lola, but yes. This is very serious and we need to find out if you’re badly hurt.” Rita Loud speaks firmly, though her expression is shaken.

“O-okay,” Lola says, hands twisting together in her skirt. “What do I do here?”

“Well, can you tell Dr. Dawson what happened, or do you want us to?”

“Um, well…” She’s looking down, pale and shaking.

She appears very frightened. Dawson intends to be gentle.

Female… Caucasian… 6… O-…

“… Lori… that’s my biggest sister, she’s seventeen… Lori put her fingers in my special places.” It sounds rehearsed, but Dawson thinks nothing of that. A child this young would have to rehearse saying something like that. “ ‘Cause she was mad at me. And, um, Mom and Dad say you’ve gotta do tests to show she did?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Lola. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.”

“But why can’t you just listen to me?”

“She might have hurt you, I need to check. She could have scratched you inside, and if that got infected you’d get sick, and that’d be even worse, wouldn’t it?”

“Um, I guess…”

Dawson holds out a hospital gown. A pink one; he spotted the dress and childish makeup job when she came in. “Now, everyone can turn away while you change into this, or would you like your mummy to help? We want this to be as easy on you as we can make it, so just say the word.”

“I'm six. I can do it by myself.”

“Don’t you need her to stand on paper or something?” asks Mr. Loud.

Dawson shakes his head as Lola begins to change. “That’s for collecting physical evidence, but hairs and fibres won’t help when they live in the same house, I’m afraid. And most of the time hair follicles end up damaged so we have to match mitochondrial DNA, which, in biological sisters, would be identical to yours, Mrs. Loud. We’re going to have to skip right to direct observation.”

“It’s okay, Lola,” her father says as he lifts her up onto the paper-covered table. “It’ll be over soon.”

“What… what do I gotta do?” she asks, eyeing Dawson suspiciously.

“First, I need to look at your arms and legs, so I can see if she bruised you or bit you.”

“Oh, um, I don’t think so?” Lola says, eyes darting back and forth.

Basil could have differentiated between the different types of nervousness. But Basil isn’t here.

There's no visible damage to her limbs. She didn’t struggle?

“Did you try to get away from her?”

“I tried,” says Lola, “but I was scared and it happened so fast…” Mrs. Loud puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Quite alright. Freezing up is quite normal. I just ask because there aren’t any marks where she might have held your arms or anything, so she must not have squeezed you too hard. I don’t mean to imply anything about it being your fault if you didn’t fight.”

“Hehe… yeah, I know.” Lola rubs her arm. “So, now what?”

“Now, I need to look at your… your special place.” It helps the patients if he uses their terminology. “I need to see where she hurt you.”

Lola’s eyebrows shoot up and she curls up on the table. “Wh-what? No… no, I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!”

If she was an adult, she would be right. But she is not. Legally speaking, they can, and for her own health they must.

“I’m sorry,” he says and means it, “but she could have injured you when she did what she did. That’s… that sort of thing is very dangerous.”

“She… she didn’t,” Lola stutters, scooting back a ways until she’s up against the wall. “So… so you don’t have to-”

“Lola, honey,” her mother says gently, “this is for your own good, okay? We need you to be a big girl.”

“No!” Her eyes are wide now, her pink-painted nails digging into the palms of her tiny hands. “No! I don’t wanna!” Her father puts a hand on her arm and she jerks away.

“If she keeps struggling like that…” Dawson grimaces. “I’d rather not, but I may need someone to hold her still. I could get a nurse to do it or…”

Mr. Loud steps forward without a word and nods at his wife. Lola begins to scream outright.

“I’m sorry,” Dawson tells her again as he snaps a pair of fresh gloves on and leans over. “I have to.”

“Don’t!”

“No!”

It’s a little too close for comfort.

“Lola, please, it’s-”

“NONONONO!” She kicks and flails, but isn’t quite strong or big enough to break away. “NO! Stop it! Help! Lori!”

“No, your sister isn’t here, dear,” Dawson says. “She-”

“LORI, HELP ME!”

Dawson goes very still. So do the parents, though they maintain their grip.

Slowly, carefully, he looks.

Not a mark. Not a trace.

That should be a good thing.

As soon as he steps back, the child’s legs slam shut and she curls up in a tight ball, sobbing into her arms.

“Lola…?”

Dawson can make out the wailed words.

“I-I thought she w-was just g-gonna get grounde-e-ed!”

“I… I don’t think I understand.”

“I didn’t know,” Lola sniffles. “I j-j-just thought she was gonna be in trouble like… like normal! N-nobody told me we’d have to do icky stuff! Nobody told me about t-the p-policemen!”

“Lola…” Her father’s voice is cautious. “Are you saying Lori didn’t… Did you make all this up?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I want Lori! I didn’t know it’d be like this!”

A child not having been abused ought to be a happy thing. Dawson stands helplessly by as the storm of anger and fear and pain rages through the family members, and is terribly ashamed of thinking briefly that it might have been an easier situation if she had been.

Chapter 30: Huan Beifong

Patient is probably going to require stitches.

After Korra, Katara had hoped that she would never again find a familiar face on her examination table. Not with tears in their eyes or blood between their legs… and yet Huan Beifong sits here now. He will not look her in the face.

Male… East Asian… 20… B-…

“Sugar Queen,” Toph says dryly. There is no humor in her voice, nor life to her eyes. “Uh… thanks for agreeing to do this.”

“It’s no problem, Toph.” She looks at Huan. “Now, then, can you tell me what happened? In your own words?”

“I got arrested.” He shrinks under her gaze. “There was a protest… it didn’t go well. Baatar called the cops and… the police… they…”

“It’s okay,” Katara’s voice is soft. “Take your time.”

“… they raped me,” he whispers. “There were a bunch of them and they all…” Another shaky breath. “One of them used a baton.”

“Can you tell me how many there were?”

“I dunno… six or seven?”

“And where on your body did they attack you?”

“Um… my mouth and… lower.”

Katara swallows. “Alright. I… I can help you. Let's start with your mouth, okay?” She allows herself to slip into a tone she once used on him when he was years younger. She reaches for a swab. Huan unhinges his jaw. Rust-red, off-white, both not yet fully dried.

“How did you get here anyway?” Katara asks. “Did Lin give you a ride?”

If it were Su, she’d be here. Huan is in no condition to drive. Toph hasn’t got a license, though in a case like this that might not stop her…

“Baatar,” her friend explains. “His father, I mean, not Junior.”

“I see.” Katara turns back to Huan. “Alright, I’m going to need you to lie back now, and for you to spread your legs. Wide.”

“Do I… do I have to?”

“No, you don’t have to. You are free to withdraw consent at any time, for any reason.”

Huan waited. “But?”

“But… there’s a lot of forensic evidence in your anal cavity, and there’s likely quite a bit of… internal damage that I will need to inspect there, as well.”

“… Okay.” Huan sits back. “Okay. Okay. But, um, could you hold my legs down or something? I’m a little scared I might kick you in the face when you, um, swab me.”

Katara glances at Toph. “I can have a nurse brought in to do it, but…”

“I got it,” the woman says, moving over to her grandson. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to press charges, then?” she asks, holding up more red and white in her gloved hand.

“Yeah.” Huan’s eyes burn. “I want to make sure this won’t happen again. Not to anybody.”

“Alright, Huan, one last question… are you still afraid of needles? I’ll need to take a blood sample to test for STDs.”

“Really?” Huan points to his eyebrow. “I couldn’t have gotten this if I was as bad as I was when I was six.”

“Huan…” Katara says slowly.

His fingers brush against the scabbed-over wound, the place where his ring has been ripped out of him. “Right. Point still stands. I’m not going to punch anyone now. I promise.”

“Oh, you weren’t that bad.”

“I kicked a nurse in the balls.”

“I always thought she put you up to that.” Katara nods to Toph.

“Hey! I have some respect for the medical profession.”

“No you don’t.”

“… Nerd.”

“Toph, for the love of… Aren’t we a little old for this?”

Huan snickers. Katara feels her irritation drain away.

“Can I see your hands, please?” she asks. “I need to clip them.”

“You mean just my nails, right?”

“Of course.” Huan shows them. The clipping goes quickly. “Alright, time for the blood sample.” Huan holds out his arm. “Alright…” Now comes the hard part. “Huan, it looks like you’re going to need a few… stitches.”

He pales. “Oh.”

“I can give you something for the pain but… I am going to need to sew you up. Down there. Do you think you’ll be okay for that?”

“Um… actually, is there any chance you could… knock me out or something? I know you need to, and I know you’d never try anything, but I just…” He rubs his arm. “I don’t trust myself not to freak out, you know?”

“Oh… I understand, we normally don’t fully sedate people for things like this, but…” It’s him… “I’ll see what I can do.”

And she will.

Chapter 31: Tai Lung Liu

Patient is dangerous.

Tai Lung Liu is… quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes from fear or misery, nor is it the kind of quiet that comes from shame. It is the quiet of wordless fury. This man is seething, and that makes Kekata afraid.

“Ahem. Mr. Liu, is it? I’m going to have to ask you what happened. In your own words, if you will.”

Male… East Asian… 30… O+…

“It was some of those bastards.” He jerks his head over to one of two uniformed officers standing by the door. He gestures to the blue of the man’s clothes. “Police. They raped me.”

“How many?”

“Bunch of cops and guards, it varied and a lot of those didn’t know about each other, far as I know, but the ones who did it most? Sheriff Grey’s little club. Six guys, two girls. They raped half the damn prison. Everyone knew it, no one did anything. But then one precious rich kid nephew gets hurt, and suddenly everyone says they’re monsters. No goddamn kidding.”

“And… where…?”

“In the mouth, mostly. Offered you favors.”

“I see. What do you mean by favors?”

“Better food. Better jobs. Less infractions. Looking the other way. Or, hell, just goddamn staying out of solitary. You name it, they offered it. And if you gave them your ass… sky’s the limit.”

“Did you?”

Tai Lung actually falters at that. “I…”

“Mr. Liu, I need to know.”

“Once, when I first got in. I was young and stupid. Never made that mistake again, but…”

“But what?”

“These really seem like the kind of people who listen to ‘no’?”

“I see. Did they force oral attacks as well?

“A few,” Tai Lung admits. His fingers clench the table beneath him. “I was a… favorite little hobby of theirs. I mostly just offered my services so that the rest of the time they’d leave me the fuck alone.”

“How many times would you say this happened? When was the time of your first attack? When did it start?”

“Every week since I’ve first been arrested. It started on the first goddamn day.”

“I’m-”

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry.”

Kekata sighs. “Alright. When were you first incarcerated?” He does not ask what for.

“Ten years ago.”

“How many times would you say it was forced?” Kekata asks slowly. “I need to know how many, how recently and where, in order to check for injuries…”

The reply is almost robotic. “First happened ten years ago. I was nineteen. Last happened… well, that’s why I’m here. Right after that thing happened with the rich kid. I guess they knew their days were numbered, decided they might as well have some fun on their way out.”

“And where did this latest attack occur?”

“Both. Ass and mouth. Two at a time, usually.”

“I see… Mr. Liu, I’m going to need a specific time.”

“Yesterday, it happened yesterday. The last of those fuckers was arrested this morning - last night was their ‘going-away party’, I guess.”

“Was that when you decided to report them?”

“At this point, I just wanna make sure these fuckers are in prison for as long as possible.” He grins maliciously. “And trust me, I know a lot of others who’d make their stay quite… memorable.”

The officers glance at each other and then at Kekata himself, but say nothing.

“Alright,” the doctor says. “I’m going to start by taking an oral swab, are you alright with that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Rust-red. Off-white. Deposited into vials.

“Alright… now, for fingernail clippings-”

“No need. I didn’t fight them.”

Kekata blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s been ten. Goddamn. Years. You get used to it after awhile.”

Kekata winces. It sounds so harsh on paper. “If I don’t need to take clippings then I’ll skip to the next part of the procedure. Would you please spread your legs for me, Mr. Liu?”

“Sheesh. At least the other guys offered me dinner.” Still, he complies.

The officers at the door have averted their gaze. One, a small woman with violet eyes, glares at the floor. Her partner’s hand creeps toward hers.

“How many would you say assaulted you there?” Kekata asks.

“Last night? All of them - the girls wore gloves and, yeah.”

“And how many used your mouth?”

“All of them.” Tai Lung shrugs. “I know, it’s weird… I think they must’ve taken Viagra or something. My cellmate has some ideas…” His eyes darken. “All eight of them. They all went more than once.”

Kekata wants to say I’m sorry, but he also does not want to anger Tai Lung. Instead, he takes his samples and does not say a word. He clears his throat. “So, Mr. Liu, if I could get a blood sample-”

“No need. I’m already on antiretrovirals. One of those fuckers got me infected with HIV.”

“Oh… I-”

“I swear to God if you apologize-”

“Liu!” The policewoman at the door cuts him off. “That’s enough!”

“Go to hell, Hopps.”

“I was going to say that if you’re already on antivirals, then we can finish with the examination. How… how long have you been infected?”

“God, haven’t you been listening?! I’ve been HIV-positive for ten goddamn years.”

“T-ten years?”

“It happened after the first time.” Tai Lung glares at the officers. “Police wouldn’t do shit. They had an infection and my injuries and they didn’t do fucking anything.”

It was silent after that.

It would remain so when Tai Lung left the room.

Chapter 32: Elsa Aren

Patient is suffering from hypothermia.

Elsa Aren’s skin is cold to touch and tinted blue, but she doesn’t shiver very hard. It’s eerie. Calisota’s winters are usually quite mild, but that’s down by sea level. Up in the mountains… How long has she been outside? She’s wearing only a sodden T-shirt, and it looks like she didn’t have that for long. It isn’t hers.

“No, this isn’t what I was assaulted in,” she says, without being asked. “Um, once we’re done here, can I go back and return it? I stole it.”

Female… Caucasian… 18… AB-…

“I… It might have evidence left on it, dear.” Katara tries for gentleness. “Where did you take it from? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“I’m not really sure. Someone’s washing was out, I needed to cover up, so…” The poor girl shivers. “I feel like I ought to bring it back.”

“I’m sure that whoever it was would understand,” Katara says again. “Now… what exactly happened that left you…?”

“I was kidnapped. The people who did it… they took my clothes.”

“And you escaped from them…?”

She shakes her head. “No. They let me go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they said something about how I’d die of exposure. There was a storm…”

“Oh yes, it was pretty rough down here too. I see.”

“I guess whoever this belonged to didn’t get the chance to take their stuff in before the rain started,” Elsa says, plucking at the hem. “Lucky for me.”

“Lucky we’re in California. You really could have frozen to death out there if it was even a little colder.” Katara assembles the swabs. “Okay, usually we’d ask you to stand on the paper sheet, but if you do that now it’ll get shredded - can you squeeze some of the water out of your hair and shirt first? I hope it won’t wash too much evidence away.”

“You and me both,” Elsa says and does so as carefully as she can manage, leaving an icy puddle on the floor.

“Okay. Now, lets have you step over on to the sheet, alright?” The girl says nothing, but moves to do as she’s been told. Katara combs through sodden hair and over soaked-through fabric. She finds… more than she expected to.

“How many were there?” she asks.

“Oh… I’m not sure. More than thirty, I think. A lot.”

Lord.

Katara hurries for a towel and a thermal blanket. “Okay, now you can use these. Sorry for the delay. Oh, try not to rub around the, ah, areas where the damage was done.”

“It’s okay.” Elsa gets down to business, drying her upper body off.

“How are you… feeling? Obviously not good, but are you seriously hurt? Angry, sad, what?”

“I… don’t know. I feel numb.” Elsa shakes her head. “Not like cold-numb. Empty.”

Katara checks the patient records. She glances back, and sees the cuts and burns on the patient’s arms. Old ones, far older than a day. “It says here that-”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Elsa interrupts.

“I just need to make sure…”

“I know. I get that you’re just doing your job, but really, I’m not.”

“Miss Aren-”

“I can’t! I can’t die… I… I have a sister. She needs me. If I die she’ll… I don’t know. Blame herself or freak out or… something.”

“Oh, you have a sister?” Katara brightens.

Good. This is good. She won’t be left alone after this, then. There will be someone to keep an eye out.

“Yeah. Anna… she’s fifteen.”

“Do you want to call her? You can use my phone-”

“No!”

“No…?”

“No, she can’t know about this!” Elsa hugs herself, wrapped up in the blanket. “We… we argued before I went out. That happens sometimes. I just have to get out of the house to decompress, and these guys found me. If she finds out, she’ll blame herself, and then I won’t be the one you have to worry about. And it’ll scare her.”

“I can see your point, but… don’t you think she ought to know for her own safety? If there’s a gang kidnapping young women…”

“I’ll make an anonymous report to the news, to the cops, anything! Just don’t… don’t ask me to tell her.”

“Okay. Okay, I can’t make you. Would you like to call someone else for a lift home when we’re done, then?”

“Probably a good idea. I was going to call a cab but I don’t feel like letting a stranger control my direction right now.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. I can give you my phone after all this and you can call-”

“A friend.”

“Alright.” Katara nods. “Alright, that’s settled then. Now do you think you can tell me where you were assaulted?”

“Where as in location or where as in…” Elsa looks down.

“Ah, the second.”

“One of them went down there, and the rest of them… the rest of them used my mouth.”

“Okay, I’m going to have to swab both places, then. Would you like me to do your mouth first, or…?”

Elsa sits on the table and parts her legs. “No, let’s get this one over with. The mouth might take longer, do you need to take more than one swab if there’s a lot?”

“Possibly. Alright, hold still, and if you want me to stop, tell me so.”

Elsa lies still as an ice statue throughout the process. Off-white. Rust-red. Plenty of the former. More of the latter.

“Are we done…?”

“Yes. You can sit up now.”

Elsa does, blinking dull blue eyes at Katara’s tired ones.

“Now the mouth?”

“Yes. If you would…”

She will. Some red from her lips. They appear bitten. Katara can assume, but has to ask.

“There’s a little blood in here. Could any of it be theirs?”

“No. I didn’t fight them. If I did they would have hurt me worse.”

“I understand. Okay, we’re done here. Would you like some water now?”

Elsa nods. “Is there anywhere I can spit? I really don’t want that… stuff in my body anymore.”

Katara points to the sink she uses for hand-washing. “Be my guest.”

Elsa rinses and spits five times before she’s satisfied, then refills the cup and takes a long drink.

“Feel any better?”

“Not much. Maybe a bit.”

That has to be something…

“Do you… do you think I could see your phone now? I-I’d like to make a call.”

“Of course!”

Katara readily passes it over. Elsa takes it with shaking hands.

Chapter 33: Penelope Webster

Patient is sobering up.

“Miss Webster? Miss Webster, can you keep listening to my voice?” Dr. Weisberg says.

“Mmmrgh.” Penelope Webster’s face is covered in running mascara and smeared lip gloss, and alcohol still taints her breath. She smells like cigarettes even though she’s clearly never smoked, too strongly for it just to be club atmosphere. She’s been waiting outside Planned Parenthood all night, as far as he can tell, and entered the minute the door opened.

“Good. Good, now do you think you can tell me what happened?”

She says nothing, but gestures to the place between her legs.

“I see… Anywhere else?”

“No.” Her voice is strained and choked and broken, clear as a bell long-rusting.

Female… Caucasian… 21… A+…

“Would you like me to get a female doctor?” Weisberg asks. She’s clearly uncomfortable.

“N-no, it’s okay. I’ve seen you before, I’d rather it was someone I know.”

“No problem. Now, are you okay to change into this? I’ll look away.” He hands over a paper gown, and keeps his word as she changes.

“Thank you,” she mumbles when she’s done.

He takes the bagged clothes and gets a comb. Most of what comes from her head is black, like her own hair. One or two white strands can be picked out. “Did your assailant have white hair?”

She shrugs. “Some. Salt and pepper, they call it, I think?”

“Okay, looks like these are his. Good.”

“I think that’s probably all you’ll get from…” Her eyes open slightly. “Wait, I… he kissed me a few times. Sloppily - some of his saliva might… I don’t know if you’ll find anything… down there, but do you think you could do a swab of my mouth?”

“If you want me to, then I can certainly try.”

“Do it then,” she tells him.

“Before or after I check your… lower area?”

She seems to shrink. “A-after, please. I’d like to get that bit out of the way…”

“Okay, lie back on the table, and tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Another one or two white hairs. Not much else. Bruising. No visible residue or bleeding.

“Did you struggle?” he asks, and quickly amends himself. “Not that I’m implying that means anything, it’s just there’s very little damage.”

“Ah, no, I didn’t. I froze.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The swab comes away mostly clean.

“Do you think… Um, I think he might have used a condom, but since I don’t know if he did or not… do you think I could get one of those morning after pills when we’re done with this? There won’t be any weird side effects if I take it while I’m not pregnant, will there?”

“There shouldn’t be.”

Webster relaxes slightly. “Good.”

“Now, as for your mouth…”

She opens wide. This swab is as clear as the first.

“Sorry there isn’t more,” she says, as if it’s her fault.

“Oh, no, it’s fine, there should be enough.”

Webster and Weisberg look at the tiny sprinkling of hair.

They hope he’s right.

Chapter 34: Philip Haddock

Patient's foot will likely require amputation.

Philip Haddock is covered with blood, leaves, dirt and… dog hair? And worse. He looks as though he’s been crying and even now is still close to tears. His father looms behind him, a mountain of a man, and looks like he wants to hit something or strangle someone. Sweet sincerely hopes he doesn’t do either here.

“I’m going to have to cut your clothes away, I’m afraid,” says Dr. Sweet. “There’s no way we can get them off over that foot. Since they probably won’t be repairable, I’m guessing you don’t mind them being taken for evidence?”

Philip Haddock is drifting on a haze of painkillers, but is aware enough to nod. “I don’t think I’d ever have wanted to wear them again anyway. Take ‘em.”

Mr. Haddock’s fists clench, but he says nothing.

Male… Caucasian… 16… A+

Dr. Sweet cuts the clothes away and covers Philip back up with a hospital gown. “Now, I’ll comb your hair in case any of theirs got caught in it, okay?” Philip nods and leans over the paper sheet he isn’t able to stand on. Twigs and blood flakes fall like snow. “How many assailants were there, Mr. Haddock?”

Philip blinks slowly and then shrugs. “I dunno… wasn’t really counting. Probably more than fifty. They didn’t all… you know… but most of them did.”

“And where exactly did they attack you?”

The boy’s lips are bruised and puffy, with flakes of drying off-white clustered around them. Still, Sweet would be blind if he couldn’t see more of the same on his clothes, and covering the younger Haddock’s legs.

“They did my mouth at first, then I tried to run so they busted up my foot, and they switched to… Um, they switched when they couldn’t get me to use my mouth for them anymore.”

“Okay, do you want me to swab your mouth first, or…?”

“Mouth first, I really want some water and you have to do this first, right?”

“Did you bite any of them, or is all of the blood here yours?”

“Um, I didn’t try to, I was too scared,” Philip says, and licks his chipped incisor, “but they hit me and wrecked my teeth, so that might have scratched one or two?” Sweet reaches out to take another cotton swab and runs it along the inside of Philip’s mouth. Rust-red and off-white. “Why’d you take two?”

“If there were that many perpetrators, it’s probably a good idea to take more than one sample. Just so nothing is missed.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“I’ll have a nurse bring you something to drink, alright?”

Philip nods. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem, now…” He glances over at Mr. Haddock, that mountain at the door. “I’d like for you to lie back a little bit and open your legs so I can swab and comb there.”

“Um…” Philip says and doesn’t move. “Fine by me, but…”

That foot. “… Will you need any help with that?”

“Probably?”

“Okay.” Sweet moves to the side of the bed. “I’m going to have to get hold of your thigh, is that okay? Good.” Gently but firmly, he pulls. Philip groans through gritted teeth, and his father takes his hand. “You okay?”

“Hurts,” Philip hisses. “But yeah, keep going.” He lies back, and shifts his other leg.

Sweet nods and quickly takes a swab. Rust-red. Enough that the white closest to… the wound has been carried away. But there is still off-white caking his lower thighs. The comb yields more results. More hair. White, blond, red, brown… and more.

Philip clamps down on his lower lip with broken teeth. “You… you don’t think I’ll get AIDs or something from this, do you?”

“It’s… possible that they could have infected you with HIV but, since you got here right away, antivirals might be able to take care of that before you actually contract the disease. Not to mention that they may not have had it in the first place, and if that’s the case then they certainly won’t be passing it to you.”

“Even if they did,” his father assures him, “they have treatments for that stuff, right? You’ll be okay.”

“It’s better to be negative than positive, but being positive is no longer a death sentence, yes,” Dr. Sweet says. “People can live quite healthy lives with HIV for decades these days.”

Philip relaxes a little. “Okay.” He glances down at the comb. “That’s a lot.”

“That’s good! Well, it’s not good that it happened, but it’s good there’s a lot of evidence. It means we have a better chance of finding who it belongs to.” Sweet bags up the results of his work. “Okay, you’re going to need stitches. Would you like me to take care of that now?”

“Y-yeah. Get it done as soon as possible, right?”

“Of course.” The needle is sharp and clean. Philip winces when it pierces him. Ten stitches. Ten. More than half of Philip's age. “Okay. We’re done with this. You can sit up now.” Carefully, he helps the boy until he’s mostly upright on the table.

“Am I good to go?”

“Almost. There’s just one last thing,” Sweet says. “I need to take a blood sample, if that’s okay with you.”

Philip tenses, and glances to his father. Mr. Haddock doesn’t see. “S-sure,” he says, biting his lip again. Both adults catch his hesitation.

“Philip, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can stop the examination at any time,” Dr. Sweet says. “Do you have a problem with needles?”

“Little bit, but… these guys did this because they said I didn’t act like a man. I wanna start facing my fears-”

“Oh, Hiccup,” says his father. Sweet blinks in confusion; childhood nickname? “Please don’t listen to them. Or me. I was wrong.”

“I know it doesn’t make what they did okay, but I still want to. I wanna make sure they don’t think they have to come back.”

“Would it make you feel better to look away?”

Philip stares at the ground. “I already am.”

The sample is taken. The Haddock boy flinches, but doesn’t move. Sweet can hear his hitching breath.

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Right. Stupid question, sorry.”

“No, it… it’s fine. Are we done?”

“Yes. Yes, we’re done here, but…” Dr. Sweet looks at the boy’s foot. “Now it’s time to get something done about that.”

“Oh.” Philip’s face goes white, and he turns very quiet. “You… you mentioned you might have to amputate?”

“I’m afraid so. We’ll do what we can, but there’s not much hope.”

“It’s fine. I wanted to be an engineer anyway, I can probably make a good prosthetic myself.”

The boy’s braver than he’ll ever know, and Sweet can see his father’s recognises it.

Chapter 35: Roman Torchwick

Patient is here about screening for possible STDs.

Weissberg has several questions and this Roman Torchwick has gone about dodging every one of them.

“The girl…” He gestures to the child the man entered with. A gawky little thing, with massive eyes and dull brown hair. “She’s your…?”

“Daughter,” Torchwick replies back.

“And how old is she?”

“Nine.”

“And you are…?”

“Twenty-four.” He sees Weissberg’s expression. “What? Fifteen is well into puberty.”

“I was thinking more of the likelihood of custody.”

“Um…”

Weissberg isn’t paid enough to judge or to care.

Male… 24… Caucasian… blood type unknown…

“So you’re here about a… disease you may have picked up?”

“Several, actually.”

“… Right. So you want a screening done? Erm, are you sure you want to discuss this with your… child in the room?”

Torchwick shrugs. “She’s heard worse before.”

“I still don’t think it’s wise to-”

“Ugh.” He rolls his eyes. “Fiiiiine. Nia?”

She perks up, but doesn’t make a sound.

“Go wait for me in the hall, okay? Go bother the receptionist or something - and if anyone tries to grab you, kick ‘em in the balls and come right back here.”

The girl smiles happily and goes, ponytail bouncing. Weissberg raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“What?”

Sigh. “Never mind. So what exactly do you need to be tested for?” What he wants to ask is why.

“Um… everything?”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Well, excuse me for not being well-versed in weird sex-disease terminology!”

“The person you… slept with? She - or he - didn’t mention having anything?”

“Uh… they, actually. There was more than one… and, uh, no. It didn’t really come up…” Torchwick looks uncomfortable and pulls at his collar. “… not with… any of them.”

“And how many-”

“About eight.”

“Eight?!”

“Six fags.” He sneers. “Two stupid whores. So, yeah, eight of ‘em.” Then he pauses and his face falls. “Wait… th-there was one more bastard. Better make it nine.”

Possible hippie? Well, he’s seen the free-love type before.

“Are you from that commune?”

“What commune?”

Never mind. “Forget it. Alright, Mr. Torchwick, so out of these eight-”

“Nine.”

“-out of these nine people you were… with, were you given any reason to believe that one of them might be carrying some kind of disease?”

“One of them definitely had HIV.”

“You… you know this for sure…?”

“Yeah. He kinda gave it to… an acquaintance of mine.”

“Okay, was any form of protection used?”

“Yeah, he used a rubber so the others wouldn’t catch it through his sloppy seconds, y’know? I don’t think he gave a fuck about me.”

“What exactly were you doi-”

“That’s none of your business, now, is it?”

Weissberg sighs. “I apologize if I’ve overstepped. I’m just trying to get a feel for the situation. I take it this was a bit of a… spontaneous encounter?”

“Encounters. They fucked me wayyyy more than once. I don’t even know how many times…” Torchwick briefly looks as though he’s trying to do the math inside his head.

“Are you…” Weissberg gives him a once over. He’s skinny, not as much as the girl, but… skinny. He can see that now. Shadows that might be bruises, purpling the skin beneath his eyes. His nails are cracked. One tooth is broken, and… “What happened to your…?”

“My neck?” Torchwick adjusts his scarf, but it’s not enough to completely hide the raised area of raw flesh.

“Yes. Was that an unrelated incident, or…?” Weissberg hasn’t personally seen any cases of autoerotic asphyxiation, but they’re certainly well-known.

“Okay, no! No! Gross!” Torchwick catches his line of thought and makes a face. “I may be a gambling man, but even I know there are some bets you just don’t take!”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not stupid enough to masturbate with a rope around my neck!”

“That’s more than I can say for some people. I thought I should ask. And when you say that, it, ah, doesn’t technically rule out another person being involved, but I presume…?”

“No, that one wasn’t them. Exactly.”

“How do you mean?”

Half-shrug. No elaboration.

“Hold on, are those… fabric burns?”

“Probably. Used my pants - they didn’t really let us have anything else in there…”

Weissberg puts two and two together and reluctantly comes up with four. “This was a… an attempt at causing harm to yourself? Are-”

“No, I’m not fucking okay.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask. I meant, are you thinking of doing the same thing again?” If he is, Weissberg can’t legally let him leave. This could turn ugly.

“No. Not…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t… I can’t.” He looks over at the door. Weissburg briefly wonders if he’s going to bolt, but Torchwick doesn’t. Instead his shoulders sag. “The kid… I couldn’t do that to the kid.”

“You haven’t had custody for very long?”

“I just got out of the slammer.”

“You were incarcerated…?” Two plus two added again. “Your ‘encounters’ were not consensual, were they?” Torchwick doesn’t respond for a moment. “I promise this isn’t the first similar case. I’m not judging you. But… would you like me to collect forensic evidence?”

Torchwick laughs. “Like that’s gonna do anything.”

“What do you-”

“This isn’t some ‘don’t drop the soap’ thing. The guys that screwed me, they weren’t random cons with too much time on their hands. Well, one guy was, but I don’t think you’re gonna nail him for it. Mafia type, y’know? And I… kinda agreed to it, so I don’t know if that really counts.”

“Sir-”

“And the others were all cops. If you think this’ll go anywhere you’re not just blind, you’re deaf and dumb and stupid.”

He’s not going to get anywhere with this one. Weissberg can see that plain as day.

“Even so. I think you might want to let me have a look at your injuries. Just to make sure everything’s healing okay.” Torchwick looks hesitant and so he presses (because pressing is the sound thing to do). “Even if there isn’t any major damage, I know that area is prone to infection, and if they hurt you anywhere else…” He glances down, at the place where the patient is tugging on his jacket sleeve. “If you’re willing, I really think you should let me check.”

Torchwick is quiet, looking between Weissberg and the door and then he reluctantly goes to remove his coat. “Where do you want me?”

“Nowhere yet,” he says, looking through one of many drawers. “I’ll see about finding you a hospital gown.”

“What for?”

“I’d like to take full stock of your injuries, even if I won’t be performing a forensic exam. Obviously you can back out at any point, but I do ask, if we’re to continue, that you fully disro- my God!”

Jacket and hat have gone now, as has the scarf, revealing the absolute nightmare underneath. Partially healed (partially infected) restraint marks around his wrists. A scabbed-over and bloody patch at the back of his head where the hair has been torn out, along with much of the skin. There is a second scar on his neck. Another attempt written in.

And his arms… Twin messes of green-yellow pus over flesh that has gone raw and fire-engine red. That doesn’t even look like skin anymore.

“Yeah, I know.” Torchwick rolls his eyes. “Hurts like a bitch.”

“Looks like that’s an understatement. What happened?”

“Well, the neck’s obvious,” he says, pointing. “Hair got pulled out during one of the incidents. And they used my clothes to tie my wrists sometimes. Or handcuffed me to the bars. Kept punching ‘em.”

“I’m not sure a Planned Parenthood is well-equipped to treat infected wounds,” Weissberg muses. “I’ll do my best. I can’t just leave that, and you… wouldn’t go to a hospital if I let you out without treating them, would you?”

“Probably not. They’d ask too many questions… and anyway, I don’t have insurance.”

“Right…” The doctor stands still for a moment before turning back to his task from before. “Here,” he says, holding out to Torchwick the paper gown. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else…?” A pointed look at the younger man’s abdomen, and lower.

A dry laugh. “What do you think?”

“I see.”

“If it makes you feel better, old-timer,” he says, as he pulls off and down the remainder of his clothes, “it’s no worse - and anyway, if it was gonna kill me it probably would have by now.”

“You aren’t a doctor.”

“Maybe not.” Torchwick finishes re-dressing and looks Weissberg in the eye. “So… what now?”

“Just go sit down on the table. I’ll see what I can do about your arms.”

“Whatever.”

There must be some kind of antiseptic lying around here somewhere… and sure enough Weissberg finds it, along with the bandages and gauze. “This is probably going to sting,” he warns, dabbing rubbing alcohol onto a cloth. “Quite a bit.”

“Fucking obviously. Just get it done, okay?”

“Okay! Okay!”

The wounds haven’t been cleaned properly, but under the layers of crust and dead skin they aren’t quite as bad as Weissberg originally feared them to be. A bit warm. A few oozing… but he can make out a distinctive shape.

“These are cigarette burns.” It’s not a question.

“Excuse you. Some of them are Cuban cigars.”

“From the same time as…?”

“Yeah, that mob guy I mentioned. Gotta be classy while you fuck people up, right?”

“These are going to scar badly.”

“Whatever, s’long as they don’t kill me.”

“I…” Weissberg doesn’t finish, only dresses and bandages the damaged skin. “You’ll need to keep these clean.”

“No shit.”

The doctor shakes his head and sighs, moving to look over the partial scalping - he sees now that’s what it is - on the back of Torchwick’s head. He reaches for more of the ethyl alcohol and another rag. This wound too cleans easily enough, though bandaging it proves a bit of a chore. “Careful with this too, alright?”

“Sure, sure…”

The marks on his throat have been treated at least. One of them looks older; a long, pink scar. The other is still raw, but should heal in time. “These are going to stick around, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t I know it. S’ what the scarf’s for.”

He ventures lower. There are a few more dots. A few more scars. Finger shaped bruises on Torchwick’s inner thighs… and… “Are… a-are those burn marks?”

“Um, probably? Where?”

“On the… on the… inside?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Y-yeah. You’re right. Burn scars… but a lot of that’s… old.” He tugs on a lock of orange hair. “Mob guy again. Sometimes… when he was pissed off, he’d take a cigar and… yeah.”

“Are you saying he put out a lit cigar inside of you?!”

“Not often! Only when I… only when I got him mad… and I’m not stupid. I figured out not to… ah, after the first… few times.”

“How many exactly?”

“I don’t… Uh, see… thing is…”

“You don’t know.” Another not-question.

“Nope.”

Of course not. Weissberg sighs. “Okay, well how long ago did this… happen?”

“Months? A year? Two years? Time kinda blurs together and when I was with him…” Torchwick shivers. “He could get his hands on the really hard stuff. Liquor and drugs. I took advantage. Don’t judge. So would you.”

Probably, but Weissberg isn’t going to say it aloud. “With a lot of infections you would probably have noticed symptoms by now, but there are always…” He doesn’t mention HIV aloud. He clears his throat. “I’ll take a blood sample when we’re done here and run tests. We should have results in… call it a week to be sure.”

Torchwick nods. “I’ll be back then.”

Weissberg half-expects him not to return; but he does, girl in tow again.

Chapter 36: The Skellington children

3 patients, presenting concerning behavior.

“We haven’t been able to confirm anything,” says Mrs. Skellington, hands fluttering nervously, “but some things they’ve said and done made us very worried. They know words children that age haven’t usually picked up, and they seem very defensive around adults.” It’s true; the three children are trying to hide behind each other all at once and gazing up at Dr. Maxwell with big awed eyes.

“I see.” He blinks down at them. The girl whispers something to one of the boys. “What was that?”

More whispering and no response.

Mrs. Skellington sighs. “Kids, Dr. Maxwell is here to help you, okay? He’s just going to make sure that… everything’s… okay.” Not quite the truth, but not exactly a lie.

The children blink curiously. Maxwell leans back in his chair so he’s not looming over them too much. “Hello, children. I am Dr. Maxwell. Could you please tell me your names?”

“Locke.”

“Shockley.”

“Barry.”

A quick chorus, as if rehearsed.

2 male, 1 female… all Caucasian… 5, 6, & 7… blood types unknown…

“Now, your mother tells me she’s a little bit worried about you.”

“Worried about what?” Shockley cocks her head to the side.

“She’s worried that someone may have done something to hurt you in the past.”

They exchange glances.

“Hurt us how?”

“Like bruises?”

“Or black eyes?”

“Or broken bones?”

They seem almost excited to be saying the things they are. Maxwell is more than a little concerned. “Well, those things, yes. But also, has anyone ever touched you, or tried to touch you, in any way you didn’t like? Any way that felt strange? Or made you touch them?”

The kids pause, and glance at each other. “No,” Shockley mumbles, and the boys repeat it.

Now they’re getting somewhere. He’s not the best with non-literal interpretations, but that was a lie if ever he heard one. “Are you sure?”

Instead of more denial Barry looks up. “Why…? Why do you wanna know?”

There’s something… strange about his eyes. If only Maxwell could put a finger on just what it is. “I need to know the extent of what happened to you. To see whether your mother’s fears are justified.”

The children… don’t seem to believe him.

Locke’s eyes catch on his shirt. “Hey! What’s the deal with that pin?!”

“This one?” Maxwell tugs his coat. “This pin depicts the asexual and aromantic pride flags. In short, it declares that I am not interested in sexual interactions, and I do not wish to date or marry anyone. I wear the pin to put people who have been… harmed in a sexual manner at ease, and to encourage awareness of people like myself, since we are quite rare.”

“Oh.” Locke squints at it. “Huh. Didn’t know that was a thing.”

“So…” Barry says. “Does that mean you don’t want anyone to help you?” He puts an odd emphasis on the word “help”.

“Help in what way?”

“You know…” Shockley says in a tone that would sound downright seductive in anyone older. “… help. Like in the grown-up way. If you don’t like boys or girls… then does that mean you don’t need us?”

“Need you to do what?”

Locke puffs up in that way that children do when they feel they’re being made a fool of. “Help!”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that. Are you implying something sexual in nature?”

“What’s implying mean?”

“It’s when you say something without outright stating it.”

“Ohhhh.” Shockley smiles. “Um… do you want us to be?”

Not really. “I would prefer it if you would state outright what you mean.”

“You know.” Barry waddles stubby-legged right up to Maxwell’s chair and plonks a hand down in his lap. “Like this!”

When Maxwell learned his dearest friend Tadashi Hamada had been burned alive by a cult, he did not outwardly react more than a blink, despite his deep distress. Now, he jerks backwards, making the chair skid, and his eyes widen. Barry jumps away, cowering as if expecting a blow. Sally Skellington gasps and covers her mouth.

Ah. That explains it.

“No, I definitely do not want you to do that,” Maxwell states, emphasising the words as strongly as he can. “Thank you for telling me, but please don’t try to do it again.” His pulse is racing. He takes a deep breath. “Could you please tell me who taught you to do that?”

“Oh, Mr. Boogie showed us all that,” says Shockley, sounding distressingly casual.

“Mr. Boogie?”

“He’s the last guy that had us. Before New-Mom and Jack.”

Maxwell meets Mrs. Skellington’s eyes.

“They’re foster children. I don’t know much about the last ‘parent’ they had, but…” Her hands clench slightly. “… he’s dead. I can tell you that much.”

“I see.” Maxwell taps his fingers and looks at the children. “Do you know how he got custody of you? I mean, how he came to be caring for you?”

“Don’t know,” says Locke with a shrug. “The cops were surprised to find us at his place, I know that, so I guess he wasn’t s’posed to have us.”

At least the social care system hasn’t totally broken down.

“Well, he also wasn’t supposed to make you do things like that,” says Mrs. Skellington. “Why did you say no when Dr. Maxwell asked you? You didn’t seem to mind telling him…”

Shockley plays with her skirt hem. “Well, he said we had to say if anyone made us do something we didn’t like. We… we liked it.” She’s not meeting the adults’ eyes.

“Did Mr. Boogie tell you to say you liked it?” Maxwell asks, as gently as he can.

“Um…”

“Shockley, you need to tell us the truth, alright?”

“… Maybe. I… I mean… sometimes it didn’t feel… bad. He said…”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wanted to make us feel good… and sometimes he did.”

“Good on the inside or good on the outside?”

“Inside my head or inside-”

“Your head.”

“O-oh…”

“Did you really like it?”

She begins to mouth “Yes”, but one of the boys shakes his head and the other one follows. “It…” Barry bites his lip. “It felt… icky.” Locke nudges him, eyes wide, but Barry says, “Well, it did!” When no repercussions come from the adults, Locke’s eyes dart from side to side for a few seconds, and then he nods. Tension seems to leave their bodies with the admission, and Shockley, seeing this, nods as well.

“Thank you for telling us,” says Dr. Maxwell. “I know that must have been very difficult. Does it feel better to tell the truth?”

“Y-yes,” Shockley mumbles, her voice squeaking. “But… does that mean something’s wrong, if it felt bad?”

Maxwell’s heart hurts. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“In what way then?”

“Shockley, sweetheart,” Mrs. Skellington puts a hand on her arm. The girl does not recoil. “When you’re a child, things like… that aren’t supposed to feel good. At least, not the way it feels when you’re a grown-up. It’s like… it’s a way your body tries to protect you, because you’re still too small to do those things.” The woman sighs, and Maxwell can see that her eyes are watering. “We’re going to find another doctor who can help us all… talk about this.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Locke asks, pointing to Maxwell.

“Nothing, but we need to find a… a special doctor, who can talk to you about what happened. Someone to help you feel better.”

Shockley frowns. “But it doesn’t hurt now. I don’t have any bruises or anything!”

Mrs. Skellington takes another shaky breath. “When something bad happens to you it can hurt you on the inside for a really long time.”

“Inside my head?”

“Yes. Inside your head.”

“Though not only that way,” Maxwell adds. “Mr. Boogie may have hurt your body as well. I’d like to make sure nothing else is wrong.”

“You mean like those weird germs that make people sick?” Barry cocks his head. “I think somebody told me ‘bout that once. Some girl from school said something about how you can get sex germs that give you pimples on your thingy.”

“… When we’re done, I think I need to hear more about that girl. But yes, there are diseases you may have contracted. If you’re okay with it, I’d like to take samples of your blood.”

The children’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas.

“Really?”

“With a needle?”

“Like on TV?”

“Yes.” Maxwell’s a little unnerved, but at least the children aren’t scared.

“Me first!”

“No, me!”

“Children, please settle down,” he says, raising his hands. “There are other things I need to do first. For example, I need you to tell me exactly what kind of things Mr. Boogie did, so I know where to look to see if you’ve been hurt. Did he just make you touch him, or did he do something to your mouths, or…?”

“We did all kinds of things!”

Locke nods in agreement. “Sometimes we touched his thingy or did stuff with our mouths, a-and sometimes he did that stuff to us… and sometimes…” He looks over at Shockley.

“Shock, honey…?” Mrs. Skellington fixes her eyes on the girl.

“He did other stuff with her, ‘cause she’s the biggest.”

Maxwell tries very hard not to feel ill at that description; the girl isn’t even four feet tall. “Miss Shockley,” he says, “did Mr. Boogie ever-”

“He had sex with me.” She nods. “Because someone had to do it an’ the boys’re too little.”

“Oh, sweetie!” Mrs. Skellington takes Shockley’s hand. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything like that, none of you should!”

“Well, he said we did, and we did have to ‘cause if we didn’t he’d hurt us!” Barry bursts out. “Sometimes it got real bad, so we…” He clears his throat and looks to be thinking. “We found out that if we did stuff to him when he was asleep he wouldn’t want to later, and it was easier like that. He woke up a few times and saw us, and he’d just let us do it.”

Mrs. Skellington looks like she wants to throw up or faint or both.

“Did he make you bleed?” Maxwell asks. “In your mouths, or elsewhere?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shockley points at her skirt area. The boys shake their heads.

“Did it keep bleeding for a long time or hurt in a way which made you think it was infected?”

“How long’s it supposed to bleed?”

Maxwell isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Did it stop after a few minutes?” he asks. “Or did it go on for days afterwards?”

“Minutes.”

“Did you ever start bleeding out of nowhere?”

“Can that happen?!”

He’ll take that as a no then. “Not usually. Only if you were sick with something.”

“So it’s okay, then?”

“Well, I’d still like to take a blood sample from each of you. Did you ever find any sore spots or sticky discharge around there, or around your mouths?”

Locke points to his lip. “I got a big cold sore right there one time, and some little ones come back a lot. We all get ‘em but mine was biggest.”

Herpes. “That might have come from him. I’ll prescribe some cream for when they happen again, it should clear them up.”

“Good!” Shockley nods. “Those things hurt a lot!”

“So, Mr. Doctor?” Barry looks up at him. “Now that we’ve told you everything-”

“Can you do the stuff with the blood now?!”

“Not quite yet. There’s one more thing I’d like to get out of the way. Mrs. Skellington, if it’s alright with you, I think it might be best for you to have your daughter… examined. Just to ensure there are no lasting injuries.”

“Oh… of course.”

“It might be easiest to do that today, but seeing as there are two other children present and you’ll likely want to be in the room, I’d certainly understand if you wished to come in at a later date.”

Mrs. Skellington glances around the room and thinks. “Is it okay if the boys wait in the restroom? It’s one big one rather than cubicles and they can lock it, yes? I think they’ll be okay in there for a little while.”

“Why? We’ve seen it before-” Barry says, but Locke nudges him again.

“That’s not a problem at all.”

“Good. Boys, behave, alright?” Mrs. Skellington says, urging them out. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re done.” She watches them head across the corridor into the restroom, then closes the office door behind her. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s usually more comfortable for everyone involved if the child’s parents are here to supervise.”

“Of course.”

He turns his attention to Shockley. “I’d like for you to climb up onto the examination table. Will you need any assistance with that?”

She shakes her head and flings herself up with one bound. “Okay. What do you want me to do now?”

“I need to inspect the area where Mr. Boogie hurt you, in order to make sure that there’s no permanent infection or injury.”

“Oh.”

“Is this going to be a problem?”

“No. It’s fine,” she begins to pull at her dress. “You wanna do it now or what?”

“Now is fine - you don’t need to take your dress off all the way, just pull it up, and… that’s right. Now lie back, and keep your feet apart. Is that okay?” Shockley nods, lips squeezed shut, and does as asked. “There doesn’t seem to be any serious damage, but you will need some pills.”

“I’m gonna have a baby?!”

“Please don’t be alarmed, I am referring to antiviral pills. They’ll help get rid of those nasty sore spots. Okay, you can sit up now. Well done, you’ve been very good.”

“Thanks.” Shockley sits up and rearranges her clothes. “Um, was that where we got those little bugs too? We don’t have those anymore.”

Mrs. Skellington wipes her eyes. “They had lice when we brought them home. We thought it was just because their old home was dirty. We have some insecticide at home.”

Maxwell nods. “I’m glad to hear those cleared up. Can you call Locke and Barry back in?”

The boys return, eager to see the needles and once again fighting to be first.

“I wanna do it! I’m older!”

“I’m younger!”

“It should be me!” Shockley glares at them. “It should be me, because I had to do the other thing, and I’m the oldest.”

“No fair!”

She sticks out her tongue.

“Miss Shockley does have a point.” Maxwell readies his first syringe. “She’ll be first, but rest assured you’ll all have a… turn.”

The girl cheers and puts out her arm, marvelling as the vial fills with scarlet liquid. “Wowww…”

“Can I have another to take home?” Locke asks.

“I don’t think that would be safe.”

“Aw, no fair.”

Barry looks to be thinking again, and finally speaks up. “Um. If we have to do all these, does Mr. Van Dort need you to look at his blood too?”

Maxwell freezes. “Who?”

“Mr. Van Dort,” Locke speaks up. “He’s-”

“Their piano teacher…” Mrs. Skellington looks absolutely horrified.

He can’t blame her. “Did Mr. Van Dort do something to you?” Maxwell asks.

The boys look to Shockley, who makes a so-so motion with her hand. “Kinda…? I mean… we were trying to help him out like we did for Mr. Boogie.”

“Yeah! He’s not married so we figured he wasn’t getting to do any sex stuff!”

“We thought we were doing him a favor,” Barry looks nervous, “but now I think maybe he didn’t like it. He looked really freaked out.”

“What exactly happened?” Mrs. Skellington asks, a terrible mixture of hope and horror in her voice. “Did he ask you to do it?”

“No, he fell asleep while we were waiting for you, and he was saying some girl’s names and his thingy went weird. So we thought he’d feel better when he woke up if… if he didn’t need to ask us, you know?” Shockley shrugs. “But then he did wake up when it was done and he looked really scared when he saw.”

Mrs. Skellington clutches a hand to her heart. “Oh, kids, that’s… I… Okay, you’re not in trouble, but you still really shouldn’t do things like that.”

“But Mr. Boogie-”

“Mr. Boogie was wrong,” she says firmly. “Most grown-ups really don’t like it when people do things like that without asking first, especially not with children involved.” She looks helplessly at Maxwell. “What on earth am I going to say to him? We picked the children up and he didn’t mention anything like this - I can’t blame him! I mean, of course I’m glad he didn’t initiate anything with them, but…”

“I’m sure he knows that the children weren’t at fault… but I see your point, this is a complicated situation.”

“I’ll say…” She runs a hand across her face. “How am I going to explain this to my husband?”

Maxwell hasn’t met Mr. Skellington. He doesn’t know what to say.

Chapter 37: Edith and Agnes Gru

Patients are confused.

And confusing.

Edith and Agnes Gru are young, but not so much so that they wouldn’t know half the things they claim not to. On top of that their guardian is an art thief, or at least a suspected one. He knows that. Basil has mentioned his name in passing, and he’s been confronted with pictures of the man’s face.

He’s trying very hard not to stare.

Both female… Caucasian, 6… Caucasian, possibly Asian mixed race, 3… blood types unknown…

He can guess their guardian isn’t the one who put them in this condition, at least. If he had, he wouldn’t have brought them here.

“Okay, can you explain to me from the beginning what’s going on?”

“No,” says Gru bluntly. “But I can explain enough. I obtained the girls recently, and their previous home turned out to have been… not so good.”

“We lived in a warehouse owned by… what’d you call ‘em?” Agnes asks.

“Sex traffickers,” Edith says. “But Mr. Gru didn’t know that till we told him.”

“Oh.” Dawson tries to think of a response. “… What?”

“Look, I wanted them for… something else. I may not be a very… reputable man, but I am not a pedophile. I thought it was a legitimate adoption.”

“I see…”

“He’s been super nice to us,” Edith tells him.

“Yeah! He lets us eat yummy food ‘stead of just soup and oatmeal and stuff! And we get to go outside!”

“Yeah. He’s cool.”

“… Right.” Dawson looks at the man. “If you can’t give me all the information, then what-”

“I need you to check for injuries. Test for diseases. I want to make sure they’re clean.”

“Yeah! We don’t wanna have any weird germs!” Agnes looks up at him with giant brown eyes. “You gotta make sure we don’t have cholosteraphibia!”

Dawson glances over at Gru who promptly shrugs at him.

“She means claustrophobia," Edith says. "Margo mentioned that to her one time and now she thinks people can catch it. I dunno why… But yeah, you should probably make sure we don’t have, like, syphilis or something. I heard it can rot off your nose.”

“There probably won’t be any DNA, I’m afraid. How long is the window for that?”

“Ninety-six hours.”

“That’s… four days? Then no. Sorry. But check for everything else.”

“Alright, then, girls…” Dawson produces two small hospital gowns. Pink ones. “Hold onto these while I set up the papers. I’d like you to change into these while standing on the paper, one on each sheet, then give me your old clothes.”

They do so. Most of what falls from them is hair. Blonde and black and red. Hm… “Alright. I’d like to comb out your hair, just to see if there’s anything tangled with it. Have you showered since-” Gru nods before he can finish. “… I see.”

He tries anyway. More black, more blonde… some red. Dawson thinks back to what Edith had said. “You mentioned another girl earlier, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Margo. She’s with another doctor.”

“She’s big!”

“And is Margo an auburn by any chance?”

“What’s auburn?” Agnes blinks in confusion.

Gru, on the other hand, nods. “That’s probably her hair, if you find any.”

“Hair this colour,” Dawson says, and shows them a strand.

“Oh! Yeah, that looks about right…” Edith squints. “Yeah, I thought it might be… but no, his was darker.”

“ ‘His’?”

“One of the guys who…” She swallows.

Ah. “Well, we’ll have it tested just in case. Now, I’ll need to look in your mouths, if that’s okay?” They nod, and Edith opens up first. Her teeth are in pretty bad condition, though not unfixable.

“What was your… dental hygiene situation like, before you met Mr. Gru?” he asks delicately.

“Sometimes they’d let us clean ‘em, if we got someone who wanted that or if we’d been really good.”

Dawson swallows. It could be worse. It could be worse. “Have you lost any baby teeth yet?”

“I have,” Edith says. “Agnes hasn’t.”

“Well, in that case your permanent teeth are the main thing to worry about here. They aren’t in the best shape, but if you’re good about cleaning them, they should be alright.” He looks to Gru. “I’d see about taking her to a dentist. Some of them have cavities. Those will need filling.”

“On the list.”

Agnes now. She’s quick to copy Edith’s motions and opens her mouth wide. Her teeth are in about the same condition. At least these aren’t the permanent ones.

“Schedule her for a dental appointment too. Nothing will have to be pulled at this point, but they will need to be if you don’t have them taken care of.”

“Not a problem. Any injuries there?”

“Nothing lasting.” Dawson swallows. “Now, I’ll need to look at the… rest of you, girls. No, you can keep your gowns on, just show me any bruises or marks.”

There are a couple of fading ones on their arms and ankles. Not much left, but he notes down what’s there. Definite signs of malnutrition. Stunted growth. “I can prepare a diet recommendations sheet, Mr. Gru, if you’d like. What have you been feeding them so far?”

“Pretty much the same things I ate. It was easier than making separate meals.”

“Well, they’re probably going to need separate meals. They haven’t been getting the nutrients they should be.”

“Tell me what they need and I will get it.”

“I’ll write up a sheet for you. Iron, calcium, fiber, things like that… and I can prescribe vitamins. I’ll have to put something together before you leave.”

“That would be helpful. Yes.”

“Alright,” Dawson takes a breath. “Do either of you girls have any problem with needles?”

“Why?” Edith narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What are you gonna put in us?”

“What? Nothing. Nothing. I just need to take a sample of your blood - have you been given… shots before?”

“Mm-hm. Lots of times.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know she isn’t talking about any flu vaccine. Which reminds him. “Well, I will have to give you some shots like that with medicine. But this one is to take some blood out, so we can check it for diseases. Only a tiny bit, it won’t be dangerous.”

“Oh, blood’s okay, we’ve seen lots,” says Agnes. Dawson winces at the thought.

The blood samples look pale; iron deficiency. The diet sheet should take care of that. Now comes the worst part. “Alright, girls…” Dawson smiles tightly. “There’s one last thing I need to check before you leave.”

“What?”

“Well, you know how I needed to take a look at your mouths?”

“Yeah…?”

“Is there anywhere else that those people hurt you? Anything else that I might need to see?”

Agnes’ eyes widen. “Ohhhhh.”

Edith jerks her thumb at the younger girl. “Not her. I don’t think any of them went that far, but me? Yeah, a few times.”

“Uh, people poked around there,” says Agnes, twisting her fingers in her gown, “but I don’t think anyone did anything there with their… you know.”

“You don’t think they did?”

“Sometimes they’d knock us out.”

“Probably best I check, either way. Who’s first?”

The girls look at each other, and Edith hops up onto the table first. Dawson examines.

“It isn’t as bad as it could be,” he says, more to Gru than either of the girls. “There are a few scars, but no recent tearing. She should be… well, as alright as she can be in this situation.”

“So I’m good?”

“Yes. I’ll have to run tests for diseases, but otherwise you don’t appear to have any injuries that are too bad. Nothing permanently damaging anyway.”

Edith pumps her fist. “Yeah!”

Agnes fidgets nervously. “My turn?”

“Are you okay with that?”

She looks over at her… sister(?), and slowly nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Dawson has to lift her up. “Okay, if you want me to stop, say so and I will.”

Agnes sucks her thumb and shakes her head and mumbles, “ ‘M okay.” She squeaks in pain when he touches her lower belly. “Ow!”

“Sorry, Miss Agnes. Just a question, does it hurt when you go to the toilet?”

“Uh-huh, little bit.”

“Probably an infection from not being able to clean up properly before. Those can last a while, but I’ll prescribe some medicine for it.”

“And it’ll go away?”

“Eventually.”

“Okay!”

Dawson continues on, bracing himself for the worst when she pulls up the hem of her gown. Thankfully he finds nothing of note. No scars. No wounds. Thank God.

“Alright, miss,” he nearly sighs in relief. “You can get up now, okay? You’re all done.”

“Yay!” Agnes stands up and lets him lift her off the table. “Okay, can we get our clothes back?”

Dawson nods. “I don’t think there’s any DNA evidence to be found on them, so if you want them back you might as well have them.”

Edith is already pulling her socks back on. “Mr. Gru’s gonna take us to buy more tomorrow, he says.”

“And toys! I’ve never had toys of my own,” Agnes says, eyes alight. “I’ve posed for photos with toys before but we had to give ‘em back afterwards.” Dawson and Gru shudder in unison. Agnes continues, uncaring. “Can I have a unicorn one?”

Gru smiles sadly. “You can have any toys you want.”

She deserves them.

Chapter 38: Margo Gru

Patient is very cooperative.

Margo Gru is disturbingly rational. For anyone in this kind of situation, let alone an eleven-year-old girl. It makes Sweet’s job easier, but…

She doesn’t seem afraid at all.

“I don’t think you’re going to get anything worth finding on me,” she says. “Not like evidence-wise. I’ve showered since then and it’s been a few days. You might just want to check for injuries, those should still be there.” She squints up at him expectantly. And he stares back.

“… Right. Well, change into this gown anyway, okay, so I can get a better look?”

She does, and he notes almost-disappeared bruises and the bone-thin nature of her limbs.

Female… Caucasian… 11… blood type unknown…

“You look pretty malnourished. I could put together a diet sheet to help with that, if you want?”

“Sure - can you give it to my guardian?”

“No problem, miss.” He notes underarm hair and one or two pimples. Signs of puberty within normal parameters for a healthy child, slightly early considering her malnourished condition but nothing to worry seriously about.

“I’d like to start by taking a blood sample. Will that be a problem for you?”

She shakes her head. “As long as you aren’t pumping anything into me, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Is that something your attacker did? Were you injected with anything?”

“Knock-out drugs, yeah. And some stuff that felt like sugar or caffeine does, only… more so, I guess?”

“And how often was that?”

“Not very.”

Withdrawal symptoms are unlikely, then. He plunges the syringe into her arm. The blood is paler than it should be. Low iron. No surprise there, given the state of her. “You might want to take some iron and vitamin supplements. I can recommend a good brand.” She nods, and Sweet says, “Do you mind letting me look in your mouth?”

Her teeth are bad but not terrible. A couple might have to come out, several need filling, all need a good clean. Little white spots; vitamin deficiencies? He peers closer. “Do you get cold sores?”

“Yeah.”

“That might have come from sexual contact, or skin-to-skin some other way. There are antiviral creams you can use, but since you don’t have one now it’s not an immediate problem. There are also some little spots in your mouth which might just be from bad diet but might be an infection, possibly gonorrhea. The blood test’ll tell us which, but I’ll take a swab too if that’s okay.”

“Be my guest.”

The slightest bit of red comes off on the swab. Her gums are swollen; it probably comes from that. He shoves the thing into its vial and turns back to the girl.

“What now?” She blinks at him.

“Are you injured in any way that you can tell? I saw a few bruises before…”

“Oh. Yeah. Do you need to take a look at them?”

“Them and anything else that might be causing problems for you… That is, if you’re comfortable with that.”

She shows her wrists. “The last guy pinned my hands really hard. And I think there’s a couple on my legs.” The bruises are nearly gone; it’s been a few days since they were left. Sweet notes each one. Some scabbed-over scratches, too; fingernails, probably. A near-faded bite on her neck.

“Okay, that looks like everything there. Now… are you okay with me examining your, well, private parts? There might be damage there too.”

She shrugs and sits on the table. “I’m kinda used to guys looking at it.”

Sweet’s heart breaks at that. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “Don’t be. I’ll be fine.” She doesn’t sound confident, but he’d never dream of calling her on that.

“Alright, miss, if you would-” She’s already rolling up her gown.

Mostly healed, no stitching required. Some scarring. A few lumps that might be sores and might not be. Bites probably, from… something. Maybe lice.

“You can cover up now.”

She does, and sags a little in relief. “Are we done?”

“Yep. The blood test results’ll come back soon and tell us if there’s anything else. I think you might also need an insecticide, there are signs of lice. Best to be sure.”

“Okay.” Margo turns at a knock on the door.

“Hello? It’s me. Is Margo done?”

“Yeah, Mr. Gru, I’m just getting dressed!”

“I’ll wait, then.”

Margo sees Sweet looking at her questioningly. “I wasn’t comfortable having him here. I don’t think he’d do anything but I don’t know him that well yet.”

“Wise move,” says Dr. Sweet. “Even if you’re sure someone new is okay, it’s a good idea to do things like that as a sort of trust exercise.”

Margo smiles now, and says, “I think Mr. Gru passed, then.”

“I’m glad.” And he is. He wishes Margo Gru all the best.

Chapter 39: Holt Hyde

Patient is familiar.

Holt Hyde is one of Sydney Jekyll’s boys. The louder one (at least under usual circumstances, though he now sits huddled and quiet); the one who hasn’t inherited his mother’s name. The boy who has is waiting in the hall.

“Thanks for agreeing to do this,” Jekyll smiles tightly. Her hair is mussed and she looks tired, still dressed in her scrubs and coat from her shift earlier that day. “The only other one on staff right now who’s qualified is Dawson, and…” She grimaces.

Sweet raises an eyebrow. “It’s no problem, but…”

“I thought he’d be more comfortable with someone who looks… more like us.”

Holt is silent for a little longer and then mumbles, “It was a white guy.”

Sweet can’t say he’s surprised.

Male… Afro/Asian/Caucasian… 15… B-…

“I understand. Okay, are these the clothes you had on at the time, Holt? I’d like you to stand on that paper, change into this, and put your clothes in these bags, okay?”

“Okay. Uh, can you guys turn around? I’m a little old to take my clothes off in front of my mom.”

“No problem,” says Jekyll, and they turn.

Rustling cloth, then Holt says, “I’m done.” It’s so strange to hear him quiet. The gown is a little too big for him and rides down, exposing a track of collar-bone. He’s holding bright red headphones in his hands. “You don’t need these, right?” he asks. “They probably won’t have anything, and those guys took ‘em when we were booked anyways, so…” He swallows. “I don’t have to…”

“You can keep them,” Sweet says.

Holt nods, relieved. “Good. They were expensive…” Jekyll reaches out and he puts them in her hand, before turning back to Sweet. “So… how do we do this? You need to look for his… stuff or something? I couldn't really keep track when Mom tried to explain it in the car.”

“I’m going to look for traces of his DNA, whatever those traces might be, and for other things like injuries and bruises. Stuff that’ll show it was forced.” Sweet pauses. “Not that it’d be okay if he didn’t hit you, but it looks like he did.” The kid shrugs. “And I’ll try to patch you up a bit. Make sure he didn’t hurt you too bad. Okay?”

Holt nods. “What do I need to do first?”

“I’m gonna comb out your hair over this paper, and we’ll see if any of his hair got caught in yours.” Sweet holds up the comb, and Holt stands still.

The combing takes a while. Holt winces repeatedly, as the fragile, narrow-spaced teeth snag in his curls. Even forensic kit combs, Sweet reflects, are designed for Caucasian hair. Maybe he should bring that up with the directors. Still, he notices a couple of straighter hairs fall out… could belong to Jackson, though.

“What color was…” He trails off. Another hair stands out, lighter than the others he’s noticed. “Was he a brunet?”

“Uh, yeah. His hair was… brown, kind of? With gray coming up the sides. And a stupid fucking mustache…”

“Holt.”

“What? It was.” He clams up though, and stares back at the floor until Sweet finishes. It’s lucky that he has such short hair.

“Okay,” the doctor tells him, setting down the comb. “Can you hop up on that table or do you want help?”

“I can do it.” Holt goes and plants himself on the edge. “Uh…?”

“Can you hold out your hands for me?” Start with the easy parts… “You might have scratched him fighting back.”

“Actually I, uh, didn’t.”

“Eh?”

“I didn’t fight him.” Holt swallows. “He had a gun… Is that bad? Does that mean you can’t prove-”

“No! No, it’s okay. I know what you mean, I understand. Did he actually point the gun at you? There might be powder on-”

“No. I was just real scared he would.” Holt clenches his fists.

“It’s okay,” Jekyll says quickly. “You did the right thing.”

“I… Is that gonna make this worse?” he asks. “Harder, I mean. If I didn’t-”

“It looks like he still hurt you,” Sweet says cautiously, making note of a bruise that doesn’t quite stand out on dark skin. “Did he hit you at-”

“Yeah. He… Even though I didn’t…” Holt gulps. “I think he just wanted to knock me around.”

“Well, I can take pictures of the bruises from that,” Sweet tells him. “And if he left any of his… well… if he left anything behind then I might not even need that much. You’re fifteen, right? That’s three years below the age of consent.”

“He didn’t leave any of that either. Used a condom. I… He mentioned something about being sick… and…” The kid shudders. “He made me bleed though. If that helps.”

“It does.” It’s about the most encouraging thing Sweet can say. The camera flashes away, documenting bruise after bruise. “Okay, did he do anything to your mouth?” Holt shakes his head. “Then we’re gonna have to get right to the hard part, I’m afraid. Could you lie back on the table and keep your legs apart?”

The teenager hesitates… hesitates… hesitates…

“Holt…” Sweet has never heard Jekyll speak so softly to either of her sons. She’s never needed to. “Honey? I really need you to lie down, okay? He might have torn something and that could need stitches, or get infected if you don’t have it looked at…”

“I know… I know…” He sucks air in through his teeth. “Can you just… um, hold my hand?” He looks away, embarrassed in spite of everything. “And don’t tell Jackson I asked that.”

“Okay,” Jekyll soothes, moving towards him. “I won’t tell him, but I really don’t think he’s going to make fun of you.”

“Mm…” Holt looks unconvinced but stills, gripping his mother’s hand. Tightly. Jekyll motions for Sweet to continue while her son is distracted.

The kid’s right. The man has made him bleed more than a little. Rust-red and more bruises on the back of his legs and on both his inner thighs.

“This’s good, right?” Holt says. “I dunno what else coulda caused that.”

“Well,” Sweet says, hesitantly, “it proves someone assaulted you. Proving it was him specifically… Hopefully the hairs’ll be enough.”

“Can’tcha get his DNA offa those?”

“That’s not really how hair analysis works, I’m afraid. See, DNA is only present in the follicle - the root, I mean. If it’s pulled out or shed there’ll be DNA, but not if it broke off. With broken-off hairs, we study the structure of the hair, the colour, the scale pattern on the shaft, and see if that’s a match. It’s not as reliable, though.”

“Oh.”

“We will be able to demonstrate that it was Caucasian hair, the texture’s definitely not the same as yours. It’s something.”

“Sure it is,” Holt grumbles. “I thought…” He shakes his head. “That hair coulda come from anyone, though, right?”

“It’s… a possibility someone will say that, yes, but… given that you were in police custody at the time-”

“Then they’ll say it was someone in there, won’t they?”

“Honey,” Jekyll puts a hand on his back. “You’re being… irrational.”

“No I’m not! I…” He looks to Sweet. “Are you sure there aren’t any of those follicle-thingies?”

“I’ll have to examine them more closely to tell, but it’s possible there aren’t. I’m sorry,” the doctor says. “Look, this doesn’t mean they absolutely won’t listen to you. You can still make a case…”

“Bullshit!”

“Holt!” His mother reprimands him, but only half-heartedly. “Dr. Sweet is right. The police-”

“Etta Leroux got her face smashed halfway in and the cops didn’t believe her story!” His breath is quickening. “It’s only good if you have DNA, otherwise they can just… they can just…”

“Calm down,” Jekyll pats his shoulder. “Deep breaths. We can figure this out, okay?”

“The swabs might have picked up his skin cells,” Sweet says. “And there might be one or two follicles attached. I stress might, but there’s hope. I’ll personally make sure it gets checked.”

Holt relaxes a little. “Well… thanks. Even if it doesn’t pan out… thanks for trying.”

Sometimes it’s all they can do.

The results are inconclusive.

Chapter 40: Billy Joe Cobra

Patient has been legally presumed dead for seven years.

“Are you sure I can’t… get you anything for your-”

“What? Huh? Oh, yeah. I can barely feel ‘em anyway.”

Billy Joe Cobra on the examination table. Life-sized and so much smaller than every movie ever made about him. Small enough that if anyone looks away too long he might fall back into nothing. He almost looks like he’d welcome it.

Male… Ashkenazi… 34… O-…

“Sorry again about the whole not standing thing, but I guess I have a pretty good excuse, right?” He smiles like the Hollywood sign in August. It’s strange to see a “corpse” with such perfect teeth. “How’s this gonna… work, anyway?”

Dr. Paul “Doc” Hudson blinks, eyebrow wrinkling. “Sorry?”

“Um… y’know…” He tugs at his shirt collar. “BJC World Tour 2005.” “It wasn’t a dude this time,” Dear Lord that’s concerning, “can you even… find girl stuff?”

“Depends on how long ago it was - what do you mean ‘this time’? Have you had one of these exams before?”

“Ah, nope. My shrink thought I should have, though?”

“This-” Hudson waves vaguely, “-has happened before, then?”

“Oh yeah, bunch of times. It’s no biggie.” Cobra sounds like he’s trying to convince himself too. “I was way too high to care, most of the time. And yeah, Dr. A says that wasn’t good, but… eh.”

“I think we’re gonna have to get you back to see this doctor as soon as possible.”

“If she isn’t dead,” Cobra says, shrugging limply. “What? It’s been a while. De La Cruz is dead and a murderer. Bugs Bunny’s a pedophile now or something. Noodle’s disappeared and some creepy robot-looking chick’s taken her place. And… and Sarah Lynn is dead.”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that. “A doctor then.” He clears his throat. “So, you do want to consent to this exam?”

“Yeah, it’s whatever. Um, if there’s anything for you to find anyway. She didn’t have a dick so… there isn’t really… uh, I mean…”

“That’s actually not a problem,” Hudson cuts in. “Vaginal fluid-” He watches Cobra for a reaction and continues, pleased that he hasn’t flinched there. “-actually has pretty high DNA content. That still should be there if you haven’t showered since… the last time?” He waits for the popstar to shake his head. “Alright, that’s good then - for evidence. And there could still be other things of hers - hair or dandruff - on your clothes.” He looks down at Cobra’s broken legs again. “Can you undress on your own?”

“The shirt, I can do. The pants… maybe? It’ll probably hurt like a bitch though.”

“Okay, how comfortable would you be with me cutting them off?”

“You mean, like, with scissors? Uh, yeah. Do what you have to, I guess.” He shrugs again. “But she’s gonna be really mad…”

While Cobra pulls the T-shirt off Hudson goes to get two things - the scissors and a hospital gown (he’s guessing at the size). Apart from the legs, Cobra seems fairly physically unharmed… some bite marks on his neck, but not much else.

“Okay, how do you want to do this? Shall I start with your, ah, lower regions, or something else?”

“What else d’you need to do?”

“Well, did she kiss you? I can swab your mouth and face for saliva or makeup traces. And her hair might be caught in yours, so I’ll have to comb it out.”

“Aw, really?” Cobra tugs at his hair. “Okay, start with that, just brush it back into shape when you’re done, ‘kay?”

Hudson gets the comb. Cobra squirms, but lets him work.

“I have to say, everyone’s rather surprised to see you.”

“I’m pretty surprised to be out!” Cobra says. “I mean, that guy who found me, he disappeared for friggin’ months, why’d things start happening now?”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Oh, there was some guy who came in one time when she or that old guy left the door unlocked - or maybe he broke in. Don’t really know what he was doing there. Didn’t really care. He got into the basement and saw me and he said he’d go get help, but…” The plaster in his wall of composure cracks slightly and Hudson can feel it when he shudders. “But he didn’t. So I thought maybe she shot him too.”

“Too? Are you-”

“I mean my driver,” he says, “not… you know. That was years ago, but… not really something you forget, right? If I’m here now though… well, I guess that means he isn’t dead. Nobody else knew where I was except that lady and the guy who worked for her and I don’t think either of them would have said.”

“That is strange… If I had to guess, I’d say the police probably didn’t believe him. I mean, it is a pretty strange thing to have to explain.”

“I guess that’s fair.” Cobra huffs. “Sucks, though.”

“I agree.” Hudson finishes up with Cobra’s hair and tries to smooth it into place. “Best I can do for the moment, sorry.”

Next step; the swabs find purple lipstick at the corner of his mouth, and saliva-sweat mixed on his collarbone. No defensive wounds on his hands, though - “I didn’t fight her. What would be the point?”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Doc starts slowly, “does this have anything to do with…?”

“What? My legs?” Cobra looks down at them, wincing. “Yeah, kinda. I mean, I didn’t really fight back to begin with. She just decided to do it straight out… after the drugs stopped working. I don’t even think it was that she thought I would or anything. I just… I’m pretty sure she was mostly worried about me running away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s… I’ll be okay again soon, I think. Always am.”

Hudson has his doubts about that. “Alright, is there anything else I should look for? Anywhere else she might have-”

“Nah. She was sorta vanilla as far as sex went. You know, besides the whole side order of crazy fries and a milkshake. We mostly just… did it. Sometimes she’d use her mouth, but not usually. Man, she didn’t even want me to put it up her ass… just inside.” His eyebrows shoot up as if something nasty’s just occurred to him. “Shit. What happens if she’s pregnant?”

Hudson doesn’t know for sure. “I’m afraid I’m only qualified to comment on the medical aspect of that. Legally, I think you’d have to ask a lawyer. I… think there’s precedent for the father in cases like this obtaining custody, if you wanted it, but if not then it’d probably become a ward of the state.”

“Like, foster care? Aw, geez…”

“Of course that’s only if she is pregnant,” Hudson hastens to add. “She might not be… Am I to assume that protection was not used?”

“Condoms, definitely not. She might have one of those, you know, inside things, but I can’t really tell just by looking.”

“Considering how long you were there… it seems pretty likely that something would have already happened if it was likely to. I’m not promising anything,” he stresses when Cobra’s eyes catch the light and shine like pinball in Vegas, “but it does seem pretty unlikely for her to be pregnant now. This hasn’t been an issue before, has it?”

“Um, no. I don’t think so. That actually always seemed kinda weird to me, now that you mention it…”

“Weird how?”

“Like, she didn’t get knocked up or anything. I mean, I know not all chicks want kids and shit - I’m not a sexist - but… I don’t get why she wouldn’t want mine. She wanted a piece of everything else, right? So something might’ve just been… defunct or whatever. With me or with her.”

“Any family history of infertility? Sometimes it’s genetic.”

“Don’t know.” He looks like he wants to pull his knees to his chest, but flinches hard at his hand’s weight on the back of one knee. “Hafta ask my folks about that… Fffffuck, if I’m wrong - if she is pregnant - my ‘rents are gonna kill me.” Then he smiles, flashing a wan grin. “Heh. Uh, sorry, bad joke?”

Hudson realizes then just how much Cobra reminds him of Lightning.

“Are you alright to do the next part of the exam?”

“What’s the…” That sort-of-smile falters somewhat, then disappears altogether. “… oh. Y-yeah, Doc, sure thing. So what do you…?”

“I’d… You haven’t shaved down there, have you? Or she didn’t? I ask because, if not, then I’m gonna have to comb out that area too - if you’re okay with that, that is.”

“Yeah, sure, whatevs, man… I mean,” he smiles, but it doesn’t hit his eyes quite right, “s’ nothing the world hasn’t seen before, right?”

“When was the last time she did anything to-”

“You mean, when’s the last time we fucked?” That’s… one way of putting it. Hudson nods. “Couple hours ago.” Cobra shrugs. “Little more? Little less? She was pretty into… it, y’know? Into me. So it happened a lot.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Eh, it’s probably fine… I mean, not really, but no biggie.” He doesn’t look fine. “So what? You want me to just… pop ‘em open or… what?” He gestures anxiously to his legs. “Is this gonna… hurt?”

“I really can give you something-” Hudson tries to say again, but Cobra shakes his head.

“Nah. Won’t work. I told you that.”

“Do you mind if I ask-”

“Oh, she doped me up in the beginning, to keep me from wandering off. It wore off eventually, though, and she kept having to up the ante until… she had to stop. Um, I guess that’s one way to kick a bad habit?” He forces a laugh. “Heh. Uh, withdrawal’s a bitch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he shrugs, laying down. “Sooner you do your thing, the sooner I can catch some z’s - and fix my hair!”

“Let me know if I’m hurting you, and I’ll stop,” Hudson tells him, easing apart the pop-star’s legs.

It isn’t… Well, it is bad, but nothing physically noticeable. The swabs come up maybe a little more off-white than they did before. Cobra blinks. “Thought it’d be more like TV.”

“Well, presumably she didn’t bleed, and nor did you.”

“Not there, anyway.”

“Ah?”

“Sometimes there was clawing or whatever. Or from my legs when… yeah. Nothing you wouldn’t expect.”

“Anything that would still be noticeable?”

“Probably not. Don’t wanna damage the merchandise, right?” He laughs. “Maybe I should be flattered.”

“Is there anyone you want to call? I could ask a nurse to-”

“Jane’ll come,” Cobra mumbles. “That’s my cousin. I don’t know how to explain this, though. She’s got two little kids.”

“How little?”

“I ‘unno. They were pretty tiny when I last saw ‘em… don’t remember the numbers though.” Cobra smiles, wistfully. “I do remember Spencer, that’s the boy, he loved me. He wanted to be famous too.” The smile drops. “Wonder if he’ll change his mind now.”

Chapter 41: Banzai Onai

Summary:

The hyenas' backstory in our 'verse is complicated.

Patient has bite scars on ear.

“That? No, that was my girl before we ever got brought in.” Onai seems remarkably proud, considering a large chunk of his cartilage is missing. Kekata really doesn’t want to ever meet this girl.

“Right. Are there any other injuries that may have been caused-”

“Oh, sure!” Onai gestures to a few more tooth-shaped scars. On his neck and chest and lower.

“I think your nipple might be-”

“Oh yeah, been gone for years. That’s from Ed!”

“Ed?”

“Our brother.”

“Yours… and this girl’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You… share a brother.”

“We share more than that.”

Kekata stares into space in silence for a long time, ignoring Onai, who snaps his fingers and waves a hand in front of the doctor’s face.

Once. Just once. If I must perform examinations on people who have been wounded in the worst possible ways, why can’t it be a normal person being examined?

“Doc? Hey! Egghead! I’m still here! We doin’ this or not?”

“Oh! Excuse me, I was… thinking. Very well. Can you tell me which injuries were caused by the officers? It’ll probably take less time.”

Male… 28… African… O-…

“Uh, okay. Um, bruises here, here, and here, that was them.” He points to his wrists and a boot-shaped patch in his gut area. “I can’t exactly see my own ass but that’s probably them too.”

“And… what appears to be a fresh bite mark on your-”

“Corcoran got fighty.”

“Are you suggesting that you assaulted another inmate?”

“Who doesn’t at some point? ‘Sides, you ‘member him from the news?”

Kekata remembers him from more than that. He testified in that case. “I’m aware of him, yes.”

“So, he fucked a twelve-year-old kid for eight years straight… or not straight dependin’ on how you think about it. Can you really blame me?”

“It’s not about blame.” And Kekata doesn’t. Not after raising (and losing) a child of his own. “It’s about the law.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t here for walkin’ on the straight ‘n narrow. Can’t lock me up with a buncha other fuck-ups an’ expect me to start now.”

“Sir,” Kekata sighs. “If this man presses charges-”

“He won’t. Believe me.”

“If he does, you are aware that you’ve just made a confess-”

“Sure, sure. Whatever. Not like it matters. Don’t think nobody’ll blame me. Not on the jury… Do you?”

“It’s not about what I think.”

“Whatever. Who cares? Doubt he’ll be too chatty about it anyway.”

“Sti-”

“Why don’t you just take your head outta your ass and finish up with mine here?”

Kekata has to admit, he does want this man gone as soon as possible. “Very well. Was, well, that the only location, or…?”

“Oh. Nah, they got my mouth too.” He sounds defensive. “Were gonna fuck Ed up worse if I bit.”

“Then I’ll have to swab there as well. Open up?” He does. His teeth look pretty awful, yellowed and chipped. “Are you in any dental pain?”

“Eh, nothin’ big. You should see my sis.”

“Your sister?”

“Zi’s teeth are all… fucked. They knocked a bunch out… an’ then the boss’s old lady knocked out a bunch more.”

“I see…” Please don’t let her wind up on my table next. “I’d like to take a look at your…” He gestures illustratively. Onai seems to follow.

“Where you want me?”

“Just lie back on the table. That’s it. Just… lie down.” Onai does, kicking up one leg over the other knee as if lying casually on a bed, pretending the doctor isn’t there. Some fresh wounds. Some old scarring. “Do you have a history of sexual abuse other than in the prison?”

“Uh, not the kind that’d mark up there. That was prob’ly us not knowin’ what we were doin’. Or bein’ really drunk.”

“When you say ‘wouldn’t leave a mark’…?”

Onai gazes at the wall. “Stepmom.”

That would explain a lot. Still, not relevant right now. “I see. So, some of this-”

“Older stuff is probably from Ed. Shenz liked when we did it rough for her.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not gay if a girl wants you to fuck each other up, right?”

“I… don’t think that’s the issue, no.”

“Yeah, while I’m askin’, stepsibs don’t have mutant babies together, right? I’m pretty sure ya have to be blood related for that, but I wanna know for sure.”

“Biologically the child wouldn’t have any genetic defects as a result, no, but I don’t think having that kind of relationship with a stepsibling is-”

“Yeah, yeah. Well it’s not gonna matter now anyway.” He rolls his eyes. “Kid croaked. I was just makin’ sure so it won’t be, like, retarded when it gets to baby Heaven or whatever that shit is.”

“I’m going to take your blood now. And then you’re going to leave.”

“What’d I say?”

“I think it would take too long to explain. Just give me your arm.”

“Fiiiiiiiine. Just one, right? Or my arm’s gonna look like Ed’s does.”

Kekata makes a mental note to find aspirin for himself.

Chapter 42: Darnell Fetzervalve

Patient is accompanied by partner.

“Mister…?

“Thunderstruck.”

“Really?”

“Got it changed mahself.”

“Right. Well, I appreciate you’ve both had a terrible experience and want to be close, but you are going to have to put him down if I’m going to be able to treat his injuries.”

“Thunderstruck” doesn’t look happy, but eventually he does set the patient down. Darnell Fetzervalve whines when his legs touch the table, but soon quiets again, letting the back of his head rest against the wall. Nobody asks if he’s okay to stand.

Male… Caucasian… 26… O+…

“Can you tell me a little about what happened? You don’t need to go into detail, but I do need to know which areas were injured if I’m going to be much help.”

Fetzervalve chokes out a laugh. “Where isn’t injured ‘s more like it… Uh, lemme see if I can remember in order. He… he clocked me in the face, got me on the ground, face down. Unzipped my clothes… then, uh, went about it the usual way? The, um, you know, I mean.”

“You were penetrated anally?” Nodding from the patient. “Okay, did the other injuries happen during or after?”

“Bit a’ both. I think. Kind of a blur.”

There’s road gravel embedded in Fetzervalve’s knees and thighs, and caught in his pubic hair. It will take a while to remove it all. Not the most urgent of the injuries, though.

“Did he do anything to your mouth at all?” Stein asks, and when Fetzervalve starts to shake his head: “I don’t just mean oral intercourse. Things like kissing, or if you bit him anywhere…?”

“No, I… He had a gun so I didn’t try to fight him,” he sniffles. “And he wanted my mouth for something else…”

“Something else?”

The two men look at each other and then look away. Thunderstruck covers Fetzervalve’s palm with his hand.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. He bit me though, if that’s important. Can you get DNA from, like, teeth?”

“There could be some saliva and oral bacteria there. I’ll swab it, then I’ll clean it really well, okay? Human bites fester easily.”

“Oh, gross.”

It’s a pretty nasty bite, too. The guy must have meant business. The teeth marks look pointier than is usual for human teeth. Might just be the light or the angle, though. “What else did he do?”

“H-he smashed my hands with my wrench,” Fetzervalve says weakly, hopelessly. “I dunno how I’m gonna be able to work now, I’m a mechanic, I need my hands.”

“Mm. Hand bones are quite tricky to get back in place, but we’ve worked on similar cases before,” Stein says. He examines the damage. “You’re probably going to need surgery, and even in the best case they’ll likely be stiff in future, but I’m reasonably confident we can get them back to functioning.”

“O-oh…”

“I can give you something for the pain now. I’ll wait to clip your nails until after it sets in.” He lowers the damaged appendage. “You haven’t taken anything already, have you? No recreational drugs? No alcohol? What about allergies?”

“Uh, no, no and no. Shoot me up, or whatever… Buddy’s gonna drive me home.”

“Actually, I’m going to recommend you stay overnight for observation and we’ll see about getting you into surgery tomorrow - don’t worry, we’ll wrap those up in the meantime - tonight though, I’ll treat what I can.”

The damage is bad enough to warrant an impromptu sleepover, even without Fetzervalve’s hands.

“Can Buddy stay with me?” He glances at Thunderstruck again. “You will, right?”

“ ‘Course I will!” He eyes Stein warily. “Like they could make me leave.”

“I certainly won’t stop you.” Fetzervalve sags in relief, and Stein continues. “I’m going to ask you to lay back now, see if we can’t do something about the bleeding. Can you do that, or did he do anything to your back?”

“Just… It’s bruises mostly. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, and can you undress yourself? Or do you need help?”

“I can do it,” Thunderstruck says, already reaching, but Stein stops him.

“Better to veer on the side of caution. We don’t want to accidentally collect your DNA.”

“… Be careful.” But he does stand back.

Stein packs up the jumpsuit and picks up the swabs. Whoever did this must have been actually trying to cause injury. Fetzervalve’s ripped up pretty badly. “I’m gonna need to stitch this up, I think,” Stein says. “I’ll use a local anaesthetic. Do you want me to go ahead with that?”

“Okay.” Fetzervalve turns his head away. “I… I didn’t want it to hurt, Buddy, never did…”

“It’s okay, Darnell, it’s okay. I know.”

Stein wonders what he’s talking about. They don't choose to enlighten him.

It takes a minute for the drugs to take full effect. By that point Fetzervalve seems to have worked himself up into a nervous frenzy. He squirms when Stein gets between his legs.

“S-sorry, I just…”

“It’s alright, really. This happens all the time.” He turns his attention to Thunderstruck and motions him to stand at his partner’s side. “Block his view a little?”

“Uh… ‘kay?”

“Talk to him, distraction usually helps.”

“R-right, um… I tell you I ran into Nick’s kid ‘gain the other day?”

“The Girl Scout?”

“Yeah…”

It might be the drugs, but Fetzervalve doesn’t even notice when Stein finally stands back, swabs bagged, thread cut.

“The stitches should dissolve eventually,” he says, “I don’t want you to worry too much about that.”

“O-okay… Now get the match out.”

“I’m sorry?” He looks at Thunderstruck who looks just as confused.

“Uh… hon?” Fetzervalve just points - not as low as the stitches but low enough - and the other man trails off in shock.

“Holy- Can… can you do that?”

“He did.”

Stein looks down. “Are those… burns?”

“Y-yeah… coulda been a lot worse.”

He smells of gasoline. Stein had put it down to his career. Apparently not.

“Okay, this is going to be a delicate job.” He looks in the cupboard for the tiny forceps with the little spring-loaded tip, usually used for pulling blockages from ears. “I’ll try to get it out without splintering. If it does, I’m afraid you may be in for another surgery.”

“Eh, what’s another one?” Fetzervalve says, and shrugs. “And I’m not sure it could hurt any worse’n leaving it there does.”

Thunderstruck puts a hand on his shoulder. Stein gets out his forceps, changes his gloves. “Try not to move, alright?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

When the first bit of wood emerges (unsurprisingly blood-soaked and splattered with… worse) Fetzervalve only groans. The second time he lets out a little squeak. Thunderstruck starts rubbing his back.

“S’okay… you’re doin’ great…”

“… I’m sorry I said you were nothing without me.” Fetzervalve exhales shakily and there’s an aborted move to take Thunderstruck’s hand. “Buddy, I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t mean…”

“I know. I know… I’m sorry I said no one cares about you.”

“I-”

“It’s okay… It’s okay.” He holds onto Fetzervalve’s wrist for lack of a better option. “Hey, I love you.”

Stein stands back, setting aside his bloody forceps. Fetzervalve eyes him hopefully. “We done?”

“Er… not quite.” He changes his gloves again, taking up a bottle of peroxide and bandages. “With that at least, though I’d like to get you into an X-ray machine tomorrow, just to make sure.” He winces. “I should warn you that… the other damage is going to scar.”

“I figured. That’s what he was going for.” Fetzervalve looks at his partner helplessly. “Make it as hard to look at as possible… Make it all hard to look at. So you wouldn’t want to… touch me anymore.”

“Is that what happened to your face too?”

The patient nods. “Y-yeah. He pressed it against the engine while it was still hot. W-while he was still inside me.”

Thunderstruck’s face looks… well, thunderous. “When I get my hands on that guy…”

Stein coughs to draw back their attention. “Mr. Fetzervalve? I’d like to see about your hands.” It’s been long enough that they should be sufficiently numb by now.

Even so, it takes a minute. It isn’t that Fetzervalve hesitates; more that he doesn’t seem to understand. Then slowly, numbly, he complies with Stein’s request. Shock? It’s probably shock.

The blows don’t look like they were done by someone who really meant business - from what Stein’s picked up, the assailant was hoping Fetzervalve wouldn’t ever walk away from the scene, so there was no need - but hands are fragile, and it was more than enough. The bones are in pieces, and if Stein was cruel enough to squeeze them he suspects they’d feel more like bags of marbles than hands. The skin is torn in multiple places and the nails are cracked and split.

“Defensive wounds.” It’s not a question, not meant as one, but Fetzervalve shakes his head.

“I didn’t fight. I did everything he wanted and… so did he, I guess. Think he got off on it.”

“I can get these bandaged tonight,” Stein says lamely, “and put on ice to reduce the swelling, but…”

“It’s bad, right? Yeah… I figured.” He can hear the lump in Fetzervalve’s throat. “Ugh, I can’t believe I… I didn’t go to college… what are we gonna do without my hands?”

“I don’t think they’ll be completely out of commission forever,” Stein says hastily, “but I can’t say much more till the swelling’s gone down and, like I said, you’re looking at surgery to get everything back in place.”

Thunderstruck crouches down to get closer to Fetzervalve’s level, and puts his own hand on his partner’s forearm, well above the breakages. “Either way, I promise there’s still gonna be room for ya to ride with me.”

Chapter 43: Warren Worthington

Patient is severely malnourished.

The teenager lying on the table is… conscious, but only barely; not completely lucid either, but… lucid enough. He groans when Nurse Bonjour puts the IV in. She looks at Jekyll over her shoulder. “He says his name is Raphael. Like the angel?”

“Th’ angel…” he murmurs.

Male… Caucasian… exact age uncertain, estimated between 16-20… blood type unknown…

“Hi, Raphael,” Jekyll says, speaking gently. “Looks like you’ve had a pretty rough time. I’m a doctor, okay? I’m gonna help you, if that’s alright.”

The boy chuckles weakly. “Doctor? I should be protecting you, then.” He raises a hand in benediction. “May you heal this mortal body, and all others.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She smiles. “Can you tell me where you’ve come from?”

“Hell.”

“Erm, sorry?”

“Hell,” he enunciates. “Below the earth. There’s not much fire, just the wailing and gnashing of teeth. The Bible says that.”

“You mean… literal Hell?” she clarifies. “Capital H?”

“The same. You shouldn’t use the word in the other sense, you know. It’s immoral.” He groans. “My head…”

“And… how did you get-” She stops herself. Now isn’t the time to worry about that. “What happened there? Did someone hurt you? I need to know so I can help.”

“Oh, nothing too serious. Only the deeds of a mortal. The harm can’t last for long, I’m sure.”

O-kay… “Well, can you tell me what happened anyway? I can help you… help your body… better if I know.”

“Alright.” He breathes deeply. “Gunshot wound to the lower leg, certainly infected. Damage to my hands and wrists from being chained and trying to claw them off. My body is definitely malnourished and probably suffering from… from the… from whatever you get from consuming dirty water. Oh, why can’t I remember what that’s called? I’m the healer, I should know this…”

Jekyll hurries to reassure him. “I think having trouble remembering things is pretty normal in a state like yours. Anything else?”

“Food poisoning, probably. Whatever wasn’t processed junk was spoiled, I think they must have been scavengers. Shoplifting, dumpster-diving just to get by…”

“Who’s they?”

“Everyone else there. I don’t remember much about the other children though, just the girl - dark hair, my physical age - she was the one who brought me down in the first place. Sin…” He screws up his face in either pain or concentration. “I… Do you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah? What do you think would have happened if Lot wasn’t there?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“… You’d better check me for diseases.”

“Oh. Oh.” Jekyll winces. “Was it her, or the others too?”

“Just her. You know, everyone gets the story’s point wrong. Do they think God would find this gender combination acceptable?”

“I wouldn’t think He would, but… Okay, I have to ask, how old are you?”

He looks at her strangely. “Six thousand years. Well, more, but time becomes difficult to describe before-”

“I mean your… earthly shell. How long have you been on Earth as you are now?” Jekyll’s not a therapist. Her job is to patch up his body.

“Oh! I think seventeen years.”

“That might be a problem. Do you have a parent or adult guardian? We need to notify them.”

“I believe the family I was… living with is still in New York,” he says. “Before this I was meant to stay at the Xavier Institute - I think their information is publicly available.”

“Right…” Jekyll turns to Bonjour. “Can you take care of that? Or ask Glynda to do it.”

Raphael groans and slumps over, blond hair falling in his eyes. “Tell them it’s Warren Worthington. Everyone up here insists on calling me that.”

“The Xavier institute is…” Jekyll clears her throat and continues in a gentler tone. “Do you mind if I ask what you were there for? If you have any health complications-”

“My earthly shell was in excellent condition before I was taken. I was on some medication, for…” Raphael - Worthington? - furrows his brow. “… I think it made me forget. Made me think I really was human… I haven’t had access to it for a long while though. She took it from me along with my clothes and lost it.”

Sounds like a psychiatric medication. “The institute will probably list whatever it was, we can ask them.” Jekyll thinks. “Does Abilify sound familiar?” Worthington shakes his head. Jekyll tries again. “Risperdal? Zaponex? Latuda-”

“That one. The name sounds right,” Worthington says. He frowns harder. “Do you… see a lot of cases like this, if you know what it was called?”

“It… has effects we’re familiar with.”

“Oh.”

In the space of twenty minutes or so Bonjour is back, smiling tightly at Warren-Raphael and nodding at Jekyll. “That was Charles Xavier. We’re good to go.”

“He’s not coming, is he?” The boy shifts, agitated. “I don’t want a mortal man to see me like this.”

“He mentioned sending someone ahead - an Ororo Monroe? I can ask if they’d be alright waiting in the hall.”

“Please.” Worthington swallows. “Can we start now?”

“We got the go-ahead, so yes, we’re fine, but… you’re really sure you don’t want anyone in here with you?” He shakes his head and Jekyll nods. “Okay, put your legs further apart, I’m going to move the blanket.”

From his description of what happened, he doesn’t have to spread far or raise his knees. Jekyll just runs a comb and a swab over him and they’re (hopefully) done, though the swab comes away so black with grime it might be hard to find anything on it. Still, it could have been messier. Nothing happened to break the skin there.

“Okay, that’s the worst of it over with,” she says.

“That quickly?” He looks thoughtful. “If only what put me here was…”

“Mm. Now your mouth?”

Obediently, he pops it open. She scrubs the swab between his teeth. She gets plaque mostly - off-white and red where she pressed too far between.

“Could you get me some toothpaste after this? A-and a brush? I’d give anything to feel clean again.”

“Don’t worry.” She can’t help placing a hand on his shoulder, stroking the bone-line. “I’ll have someone take you to the showers after we’re done here.”

He nods. “I’ll pray to be cleansed in my heart, too.”

Chapter 44: Muunukhoi “Ace Yu” Yugur

Patient is not an actual detective.

Muunokhoi Yugur grimaces and eases himself down onto the table. “We can wait, right? The lady at the desk said we could wait until my brother-”

“That’s fine. That’ll be just fine.”

“He better get here soon,” the man by the door mutters.

“I’m sorry to ask again, but what did you say your relationship is to the patient?“

“I’m the dumbass who hired this dumbass. Just here to wait with him until his brother shows up, if that’s alright.”

“If Mr. Yugur’s alright with that…”

They stand there in awkward silence for… longer than Stein would like. He takes notes while they wait.

Male… East Asian… 30… A-…

Finally the door bursts open and a man with glasses and an argyle sweater barrels in, sweating like he’s never run a day in his life.

“Ace! Ace, I… He told me what happened…”

“Eliot…”

“And this is where I leave.” The man gives a brief nod to both of them, muttering something under his breath in Korean.

“I take it you’re the brother?”

Eliot, apparently, nods, running up to Yugur and reaching out to take his hand. “Ace, are you alright?”

His brother flinches away.

“… Ace?”

The patient doesn't reply, and looks over at Stein. “My… How do we do this? I’m guessin’ it’s not like how it is on TV…”

“Can you hold on for a bit?” He holds up a gown. “Change over here? On the paper. I’ll bag up your clothes.”

“… Okay.” Ace nods. “Eliot? Don’t look.” The other man averts his eyes. Ace struggles to stand, hobbling over to the paper. He takes his costume off. “Just gonna take a guess, you’re gonna need to hold onto that.”

“We will use the clothing as forensic evidence, yes.”

“Understood.” Then, under his breath, “Wardrobe’s gonna kill me.”

“Ace, I don’t think anyone’s going to care.”

“Mm.” He holds the gown in place, struggling to tie it. “Eliot? You can look now.”

“What? Okay, I…” He trails off as his eyes flick over Yugur. Once. Twice. “Oh. Oh, Ace… I-is that a bite mark?!”

“Huh?” He looks down. “Oh, yeah. That’s… bleeding. Is that bad?”

“A bite broke this skin?” Stein asks.

Ace nods.

“Then you may have to be admitted to the hospital. That can be very dangerous.”

“What? It’s not that bad-”

“We’ll clean it really well,” he says, “but I want you to be careful. Wounds like that are very prone to infection.”

“Oh, uh, geez… should ya get to that first then?”

“I will soon, but I’d like to comb your hair while you’re on the paper there. Take samples.” Yugur nods and Stein comes closer. “How many were there?”

“Honestly? Kinda lost count.”

Eliot winces. “You lost count?”

“Friday night. It was a full drunk tank.” He shrugs. “Maybe a dozen? But I don’t know if they all got to me or not.”

Stein stands back and motions for Yugur to follow. “Can you sit?” He nods. “Sit then. I’m going to take care of your neck now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Did this happen anywhere else?”

His patient runs a hand between his thighs. Blood’s already started to spot the paper. “My stomach too. One of them… I think it was all the same guy. Fuckin’ vampire wannabe…”

“I’m sorry to-”

“Yeah. We’re all sorry. Just do your job.”

Cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. Eliot hides his face again when Stein lifts up the gown.

“Do your ribs feel alright? Any trouble breathing?”

“Yes and no. In that order.”

“And may I ask where the attacks of a… sexual nature occured?”

Ace winced. “Uh, that was just my ass. None of them went for the mouth, thankfully. Like I said, though… don’t know how many there were.”

“Better get the worst of it over then - I’ll clip your nails once we’re done. Lay down for me? And hold your legs apart.”

He does and he does and Eliot comes up behind him.

“Do… do you want me to leave?”

“Don’t you dare.” They lock eyes for a moment. “B-but don’t look. Please, don’t look. I think it’s bad.”

“Ace, I mean this in the best way possible: I wouldn’t want to look down there even if it was good.”

Ace chuckles. “Fair point.”

Eliot offers his hand. After a time, Ace takes it. And squeezes it as a few cotton swabs come up Pepto Bismol pink. Eliot winces.

“Ace…”

“Hey, don’t get all sappy on me now.”

“I should have answered sooner.”

“You should have.” Ace shrugs “But I’m not so sure I would have. Were the roles reversed.”

“Still… I’m so sorry.” He stares at Stein for a while. “Are you sure he has to stay tonight? I think we’d both feel better-”

“It’s not a definite. I can just encourage you to be careful. If the wound goes septic…”

Eliot nods. Stein goes back to work.

“You’re going to need stitches.”

“Oh, yeah… any chance I can get a local anesthetic or anything?”

“I think I can arrange for that.”

It’s a simple shot. It’s a few stitches. It shouldn’t be any worse than everything else. Somehow it still makes Eliot flinch. “Ace, I…”

“Don’t. I’ll be fine…” He flinches as the needle goes in. “I’ll be fine.”

Stein’s on the third stitch when he feels the table shaking- No, not the table.

“Mr. Yugur? Am I hurting you? I can stop if you’d-”

“Ace, are you crying?”

“No?” He clearly is.

“Ace…”

“It’s fine.” He wipes his eyes. “It’s… the pain’s okay. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I said I’m-” But it comes out strangled.

Eliot’s other hand lands on his brother’s shoulder. “I… We can go home after this. I’ll take care of you.”

Yugur doesn’t say anything.

Stein finishes. “I’m going to prescribe something for the pain and something in case of infection. I’ve seen your file, but I’ll ask again about any allergies.”

Both men shake their heads.

“Some penicillin then, and some controlled medication. Be very careful.” He’s talking about narcotics.

“I will, I will. Don’t worry.”

Stein can tell that Ace, on the other hand, isn’t.

Chapter 45: Bing Ao

Patient is docile, possibly in shock.

“How old did you say you were?”

“Thirteen.” Bing Ao does not know Maxwell, but if he did he might recognize surprise. Maybe he does anyway because he amends: “I don’t really look it, I know.”

And he doesn’t. He’s very tall with a deep voice that doesn’t crack with adolescent awkwardness and a face that would better fit someone five years older. Well… The truth really is stranger than fiction.

Male… East Asian… 13… AB-…

“Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“I… I’m not quite sure. I did what I thought I was supposed to, but I must have done it wrong.” Bing casts a wary glance at his father in the doorway. There are police officers in the corridor beyond.

“Can you explain from the beginning?”

“Alright. That man who I was… found with, he was my disability support assistant. Father hired him because I had problems at school, because I am on the autistic spectrum.” Bing quirks his head and asks, “Is it acceptable to ask if you are too? You behave in a familiar manner.”

“As it happens, I am, and I do see what you mean,” Maxwell says, hoping it’ll help. “What exactly did this man do?”

“Do you mean what did his job involve, or what did he do to me?”

“Both.”

“Ah. Well theoretically, he was supposed to help me in my studies.” Bing shrugs smoothly. “Focusing in class, finding things, you know the type. I actually don’t have much trouble academically, but socially…” He glances at the door again. “I don’t have very many friends, or many classmates willing to put up with me, so… I imagine his main purpose was to act as a deterrent. For harassment. And other kinds of… It didn’t exactly work.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Logical connections within the realm of behaviour are hard to make for some people with autism, but not Maxwell, not in this situation. “Am I to understand that he perpetuated abuse upon you himself, as well?”

“He did.” Bing squirms. “He would take me into the disability-friendly restroom and make me take off my clothes, and… That is why I’m here.” His brow furrows, and his voice sounds a little choked now. “I did what I thought Father told me to do, but I was wrong and I’m not sure how.”

“What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

Maxwell isn’t very expressive, but a keen eye might notice the way his brows climb up by half an inch or more. “You killed him?”

“Yes.” Bing unfolds his hands in his lap. There’s blood on the underside.

“I think I might need more information.”

“Father took me aside a few days ago. I suppose something happened in the area, I don’t know what exactly, but Er Ge said…” He trails off. “He’d been doing this for some time, but I didn’t have much cause to believe it was all that unusual. I don’t know much about… such things, less than my peers might. But Father explained and he said… I know that adults are never meant to harm children, and I now understand that although his actions against me were not particularly painful, they were harmful. I thought I was meant to do whatever I could in order to prevent him from finishing or harming myself or anyone else. I guess that was… wrong?” He’s not asking Maxwell.

“Well… I think that’s for you to discuss with the officers,” he says diplomatically. “How do you feel about it?”

“I… I feel terrible. Aren’t I supposed to feel good? He was bad, he should have been killed. That’s what everyone says when… when this happens to other people… If people hurt children, they’re bad and people want to kill them, don’t they?”

This is one of those things that will be a problem to explain. Maxwell makes a note to find a psychiatrist who can do so better than him. “It’s complicated. Maybe it should be saved for when you’re less… upset.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever not be upset.” Bing wouldn’t sound upset to a layperson, but Maxwell knows that feeling and that behaviour. He sees it in neurotypical people in shock, too; the feeling’s so big it can’t possibly come out through Bing’s little body.

“It will get better. It often does.” He changes the topic. “May I touch your hands, please? I require your nail clippings for the kit.”

Bing nods silently, holding both out at the same time. There is so much blood, but nobody flinches. Not Maxwell. Not Bing. Not Mr. Ao by the door. “Couldn’t you just scrape them?” the man asks in a voice that sounds like gravel.

“Clippings take less time. Unless you’d prefer…?”

Bing shrugs. “This is fine. Really…”

“I’m glad. Now, I need to ask you where the assault occurred. On your person,” he amends before Bing can tell him the name of his school. “Did he do anything to your mouth?”

“Recently? No. But I bit him a few times… in the struggle. Does that help?” He looks at his father again. “Was that what you wanted me to do?”

“I…” Mr. Ao struggles for an answer. “It’s fine… Yes.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad I got that right.” Bing opens his mouth.

Maxwell silently swabs and gets the comb. He can’t tell the support worker’s hair from Bing’s without a microscope, but it might help.

“Alright. Now I’ll have to look at where he hurt you.”

The boy tenses, hands tightening around the bottom of his gown. It’s too short for him, but the others are too wide and he’d wind up chilly either way. “He didn’t finish this time. There won’t be the usual…”

“Ah.” Maxwell nods. “That isn’t as much of an issue as you might think. We know who he is already and that you are under the age of consent. If there is some amount of physical evidence, that may be enough.”

“Alright then. What should I…?”

“Lie down please,” he motions, “and hold your legs apart so I can look between them - and if you wouldn’t mind rolling up the gown.”

Bing moves smoothly to do as ordered. There is some evidence, some blood and bruising. A swab of rust-red.

“I have a question,” Bing says, while Maxwell works. “Obviously he is not going to go to trial. Why do we still need to do this?”

Bing’s father speaks. “I’m… I’m afraid it’s for your trial, son. If we show what he did, then… things will go better for you.”

“Oh.” Bing sounds very small.

Chapter 46: Ji Ma-choe

Patient has extensive and various injuries.

There’s a man lying - half-dead - on Du Do-yun’s examination table. Gray hair, dull eyes, muscles twitching from exhaustion and tension. It’s hard to tell the extent of Mr. Ji’s injuries. He’s wearing a soldier’s uniform and, tattered and stained as it is, it does keeps him covered.

Do-yun crosses the room, reaches out to help him sit, and-

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“Sir-”

“No! My… my brother’s late, but he’ll be here! So… so get the fuck away from me!”

“Alright, if you would prefer to wait…” The situation is bad, but Ji does not appear to be actively dying. There's a reason he’s not in emergency services. “But do you mind telling me what happened? That way I won’t have to ask later.”

“The. North. Happened.”

Ji Ma-choe doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. Du Do-yun has lent a hand at Hanawon often enough to know what they’re capable of, and he winces. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mr. Ji closes his eyes and turns his face away. He doesn’t stop shaking.

Male… South Korean native… 22… A+…

“Any pressing concerns-” Do-yun begins to ask, but stops when the door bursts open and a second gray-haired man pokes his head inside. His face isn’t particularly striking, but Do-yun knows him by his missing ear.

“Hyeong!”

Ji Ma-choe looks up, eyes full of… something. Then he scowls. Then he screams. “You… you fucking traitor! Look what you did to me!”

Ji Ma-gang’s eyes widen at the sight of his older brother. “W-what did they-”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t left me! Y-you traitor! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

Ma-gang looks at his brother, and hangs his head in shame. “I-I’m sorry, hyeong, I’m so, so sorry… I… I…”

“Oh I’m sure you’re so fucking sorry! Traitor!”

Ma-gang winces. “M-maybe I should go-”

“NO!” Suddenly Ma-choe is sitting, snatching for Ma-gang’s sleeve. He misses.“No! No! No! You can’t leave!”

“Choe…?”

He reaches out again, catches him by the shoulder this time, and drags Ma-gang against him. “Don’t you fucking leave me!”

“Okay! I… Okay. I won’t.”

Do-yun clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I truly am sorry… but time is of the essence. I think it’s in your best interest, Mr. Ji, if you let me treat you now.”

“Fffucking whatever,” he says, coughing into his sleeve. “Where do we…?”

“Let’s just start where we left off before, ah, the other Mr. Ji came in. Can you tell me a little about why you’re here?”

“I told you. I was in the fucking North. They. Tortured. Me.”

“Mr. Ji…”

“Do you need a fucking list? Fine. They beat me, caned me, waterboarded me, drowned me, cut off my fucking foot, pulled out my nails, raped me, and stuck things up my ass! Do you need anything else or can you do your fucking job now?!”

“I…” Do-yun swallowed. “I only meant to ask about your injuries.”

Ma-choe turns away again, refusing to look at the doctor. Or his brother.

“Choe…” Ma-gang puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hyeong. I… Do you want…” He can’t finish.

“I just want to lie down.”

“O-okay,” Do-yun nods. “Why don’t we have you do that? But first, can you undress yourself?” He holds up a paper hospital gown. “If not, I’d be more than happy to assist…”

Ma-choe shrinks away from him. “Gang.”

“What?”

“I want Ma-gang to do it.”

The doctor looks at the patient's brother. “Do you think you can-”

“Anything for hyeong.” Ma-gang helps him sit up. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you. Not again.”

“You’d better not… Fucking traitor…”

They end up having to cut Ma-choe’s shirt off of him. Do-yun knows it’s going to be bad when the scissors are handed back to him, edges red and wet and bloody. The patient grits his teeth as the fatigue pants are lowered to his ankles. The underwear is gone. A stream of blood covers the table, pooling between his legs. His swollen, infected legs.

“Choe…?”

“I want to lay down now.”

Do-yun nods and he turns on his stomach, keeping hold of Ma-gang’s hand. He knows it’s going to be worse than bad when he only sees red on the patient’s back. “I’m going to need to grab some disinfectant,” he tells the Jis. “This will probably also require some stitches on top of bandaging.”

“Of course it will,” Ma-choe mutters. Ma-gang squeezes his hand.

Do-yun walks over to the cabinet, taking out the peroxide. “I… feel I should warn you this may sting, Mr. Ji.”

“As if that’s gonna be the worst thing in the world.”

Do-yun counts back from ten. Ma-choe starts screaming. He doesn’t thrash at least. Somehow his brother ends up on the table, Choe’s head resting on his lap. Even Do-yun is shaking by the time he’s done.

“I’m going to move lower now,” he says. “To your legs.” It’s not as bad there, but there are the same telltale cane marks. And they carry on all the way down.

By the end the sounds coming from Ma-choe are less screaming and more sobbing. Curled as best he can be.

“Mr. Ji, are you… alright?”

“Everything fucking hurts. So no. I’m not alright.”

The other Mr. Ji looks up. “Can you maybe get him something for the pain?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Choe, it’s okay. We’re home. We’re not in the North anymore.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Get him something for the pain.”

“I can take it…”

“Sir, I seriously recommend-”

“Just do it,” says Ma-gang. “He’ll thank me later.”

“Fuck you.”

“Or maybe not. Help him anyways.”

If Mr. Ji feels anything when the needle goes in… well, it doesn’t show. After a few minutes, he relaxes. Do-yun takes that as his cue to go on.

“Spread your legs please? Can you do that?”

Mr. Ji groans, but complies. It’s about as bad as he feared; the anal cavity has been almost completely replaced with scar tissue. The other Mr. Ji winces.

“Who did this to you?”

Another groan. “I didn’t… didn’t fucking see ‘em… I don’t know who…”

The other Mr. Ji frowns, then eyes the doctor. A look that says I’ll ask when you're not in the room. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry…”

Ma-choe looks too drained to answer. He just lies there, letting Do-yun clean the area and stitch it up.

“Sit up again for a moment?” He hates to ask, he really does. “I’d like to check out that leg of yours. And your front.” And your chest. And your breathing. He’s almost certain his patient has pneumonia, if not hypothermia on top of that.

“Fine,” He sits up as requested. “Just… just get it done.”

Do-yun nods. He starts by subtlety looking at the patient’s chest, which isn’t even needed as Ma-choe starts coughing. “Have you been experiencing any pain with your breathing?”

“Why’s that matter?”

That's a yes. “Just checking.” He moves down to the leg. Which is all but black, with slick skin and a smell of rot. One thing is clear; there is no hope for it.

The other Mr. Ji frowns. “You don’t look too happy. What’s wrong?”

“I… don’t think this leg is going to improve.”

“What?”

“I’m going to schedule him for surgery - first thing tomorrow. It needs to be removed.”

“What?! All of it?”

Ji Ma-choe doesn’t look surprised. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “All your fucking fault…”

“You… you can’t do that! He needs his leg!”

“I’m very, very sorry, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. It’s too late.”

“Can’t you leave everything above the knee? Or, or-”

“I’m afraid I can’t. The leg has what we refer to as wet gangrene - essentially a bacterial infection that’s been contributing to, if not causing, the tissue death. This infection will only continue to spread if we don’t remove it at its source, and if it does…”

“Then… what…?”

“What do you think, moron? I fucking die.”

Ma-gang reaches for his brother. Ma-choe doesn’t complain.

“We won’t do anything big tonight,” Do-yun says, “but this is… urgent. I’ll pencil him in… ah, around eight tomorrow morning. As for tonight, I’ll wrap it up for you. Just to make things a bit easier.” He means more sanitary. “After that, I wonder if I could get a blood test, and a nasal swab?”

“Whatever.”

“And… I’m not a dentist, but I’d like to check your throat and mouth.”

“Do you have to? They didn’t exactly give us toothbrushes, we both know it’s bad.”

“That’s not what I need to check for. Or at least not all of it.”

“Whatever.”

“Let’s start with your leg, shall we?”

Three layers before the bandages stop seeping. Four before the smell is sufficiently contained. Do-yun is glad to be wearing gloves

“I’m going to prescribe a few rounds of antibiotics. Just in case the infection has begun to spread. And even if it hasn’t…”

“It’s a good idea anyway, I’m sure,” the other Mr. Ji says.

“Just be sure that you finish all the rounds I prescribe you. There’s a reason that a prescription lasts as long as it-”

“Whatever.” Mr. Ji looks a bit like a sulking teenager, though Do-yun supposes he can’t blame him.

“Now, let’s check your mouth, shall we?”

He opens and says “Ah” before Do-yun has come back with the tongue depressor.

“Hm.”

Ji Ma-gang is behind him in a moment. “Is something wrong? Is he dying?”

“He’s not dying,” Do-yun assures him. “This is about what I expected.”

White spots. Red spots. Bruised and abused flesh. Missing teeth - not broken, missing, like they’ve been pulled out at their roots.

“Mr. Ji? You mentioned sexual assault. I have to ask you, was there an oral component?”

“The fuck do you think?” Ji asks. “Of course there was.”

The other Ji looks confused. “How could they-”

“That fucker Hwang. I think it was him who helped, anyway. He put me in a headlock, plugged my nose.”

The other Ji blinked. “… Hwang did that?”

Ma-choe just nods.

“I thought… H-he usually went easier on us… I…”

“This was easier,” Mr. Ji mumbles. He coughs again.

“I’m going to take a swab from your throat, alright?” Do-yun asks gently.

“Are you fucking stupid? What good’ll that do? They’re all… gone.”

“This isn’t for a forensic kit, Mr. Ji. I need it to run some tests - tuberculosis, hepatitis, strep throat. Things of that nature.”

“Oh.” He opens his mouth again to allow Do-yun to get the swab.

“… Does he have any of that?”

“The only thing I’m just about certain of right now is pneumonia. Other than that…” Do-yun trails off. Just about nothing would surprise me is the answer he doesn’t have to give. “I’m going to go get the admissions paperwork.”

He leaves the room. Leaves the brothers alone. And prays one day they can put all of this behind them.

~

“Mr. Ji?”

It’s been twenty minutes. Twenty minutes.

Du Do-yun stares at the man on the table, shredded back shredded open. He’s wearing pajama pants now instead of a gown, and a bloody shirt lays crumpled on the floor. The other Mr. Ji is also back on the table, his brother’s head in his lap.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! I… I was helping him change and he just lost it…”

He picks up the bloody shirt. There is… nothing unusual about it, as far as he can tell. Just (what had been) a white pajama shirt. “Well… I’m going to have to redo the stitching, I’m afraid.” He goes over to get the suture needle and thread. That’s when he hears what Mr. Ji is muttering.

“Jo… Jo… I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”

Do-yun walks back over. “May I ask who Jo is?”

The other Mr. Ji looks away. “Our brother, Ma-jo. He… he didn’t make it.”

That explains it, somewhat, though it does not explain what brought on the sudden reaction.

“I’m sorry…”

“Shh, Choe, it’s not your fault…”

“They’re his clothes, you idiot. They smell like…” Suddenly lunging forward, Mr. Ji retches and vomits on the floor. “Jo…”

“Try to keep him still,” Do-yun tells his brother, stepping around the puddle. They can deal with that later. “The painkillers should still be in effect, but please let me know if I’m hurting you.”

Ma-choe doesn’t answer him. He’s looking at Ma-gang. One Mr. Ji wraps his arms around the other. “They made me… Don’t leave like they made him leave. Don’t leave me…”

“I’m going to schedule an appointment with a counselor,” Do-yun says softly. “Tomorrow or the day after. As soon as you’ve come back from surgery.”

He’s going to need rather extensive therapy for what Do-yun suspects will be a long, long time.

Chapter 47: Aldrin Pesky

Patient is vomiting copiously.

“Hello, are you Aldrin Pesky?”

“No, I’m rreeaaallly sick,” mumbles the kid. Obviously still drunk, but at least he’s semi-conscious.

“I can see that. Is your name Aldrin?”

“Think so…”

“Alright. Seto, can you go watch the little siblings? Lefou, get the stomach pump.”

Male… Caucasian… 16… B+…

Pesky’s little brother did an okay job rolling him into the recovery position, so he hasn’t suffocated yet; still, he’s throwing up hard enough for it to come out through his nose and backwash into his lungs. What the hell did he drink?

He groans when Sweet touches him, moving him into place. “Stop… it…” he mumbles. “I already… I’m not gay.”

They’re not going to be able to sedate him. Not without knowing what he’s on. Probably not even then, considering how poorly alcohol mixes with most medications… and he’s already had way too much alcohol. Sweet says as much when Lefou returns, and his nurse makes an odd face.

“Is… he gonna be okay if we don’t medicate him?”

“He’ll be worse off if we do.”

It’s almost miraculous, actually, that Pesky is still conscious - regardless of lucidity - and more so that he can talk. He had to be intubated in the ambulance and there’s still chunks of old food and bile gumming up his braces like Flagstaff sea foam. What he’s bringing up reeks - worse than usual - of ridiculously strong alcohol.

“Any idea what he drank?”

“As far as I can tell, everything. Still, I don’t think he should be reacting like this. He’d have a hard time drinking that much that fast. Check his record for allergies…” Sweet steps back, out of the line of fire as another volley of vomit comes sprays out, and his eye catches something on Pesky’s pants. “Wait. Is that blood?”

“He’s throwing up blood?” Even for a medical professional, Lefou sounds alarmed. “That’s not-”

“No,” Sweet holds up his hand, then points to Pesky and lets his finger trail down. “There.”

His nurse squints. “I… Maybe?” Now to the kid himself: “Are you hurt?”

“No…” he groans. “I keep… keep tellin y’guys… m’ sick…” His whole face changes as he gags. “An’ my name is Aldrin… I think.”

Sweet moves to see a little better, a little closer. It’s awkward, yes, but if he’s right… And if he’s wrong he can apologize later.

“Were you…” He stops. “Are you… in any pain? Somewhere that’s not your stomach or your head? Does it hurt between your legs?” he asks when Pesky can only groan. He looks over his shoulder at Lefou. “If he’s passing blood, that isn’t…” He doesn’t need to finish. A seasoned nurse already knows.

“Should I get the scissors?” Lefou offers, but Sweet shakes his head.

“Don’t think that we’ll need them.” He reaches out for Pesky’s waistband. “It’ll be uncomfortable, but…”

It’s for the kid’s own good. It’s nothing they haven’t done before.

It becomes clear rather quickly that Aldrin Pesky is not, in fact, passing blood. He’s bleeding.

“Shit,” says Lefou and if his discomfort did not sound so genuine - if Sweet didn’t know him as well as he does and for as long - then the doctor might have assumed he was making a tasteless joke. There isn’t just red in Pesky’s underwear; there’s plenty of brown too… and another sickly color that Sweet can distinguish by smell, even in this stinking room, even at a modest distance. Booze.

“You… you don’t think he was…?”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, right? Kids do dumb stuff all the time and-”

“It might not,” Sweet agrees, “but it might and either way this can’t be a good thing for him. Better to be safe than sorry. I… I think you’d better get a kit. Just in case.”

“You mean…” Lefou swallows, nods. “Okay.”

Normal circumstances might call for Pesky’s parents to be in the room, to give permission… but they have no idea where they are. The kid certainly doesn’t seem forthcoming. “Shhhtop idd,” he slurs when Sweet touches him, and stifles a groan. “… Ugh…”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Sweet says. “We’ll see if we can get your parents in. And it looks like we’re gonna have an awkward conversation once you sober up…” He starts arranging the hydration IV and the stomach pump.

Chapter 48: Lucky Luke

Patient suffering from what looks like road trauma.

L. Luke (they get the name off his belt) is mostly unconscious, with bloody worse-than-gashes going up and down all over him, and gravel filling those. It would look like road trauma… except he’s naked, except he’s still handcuffed, except he’s got a bullethole in his back. Any one on its own would be one thing, but-

Dawson exchanges a look with Maxwell and the policeman at the door. “Not an accident then.”

“I would be very surprised if it was.”

“I don’t suppose you know what happened?”

Officer Ping hesitates, then shakes his head. “Not really. We didn’t cuff him, at any rate. He was with these four other guys when we arrived on scene. Looks a lot like… well, nothing good.”

Male… Caucasian… late 30s to early 40s… blood type unknown…

“I should say so.” Dawson peers closer. “Is this the exit wound? Where did the bullet…?”

Maxwell snaps his gloves on and points with one white, latexed finger at the place where someone’s shoved gauze between the younger man’s legs. Evidently the EMTs got here first. Lucky him. Gently - very, very gently - he eases two fingers into… the obvious. The pad comes out completely drenched in blood… and something a little lighter…

“This was a sex crime then?”

The policeman averts his eyes. “Ulp… looks like it. Uh, does that mean the entry wound’s where I think it is?”

“It would seem so.” Dawson feels just as disturbed as Ping looks. He palpates Luke’s leg, and the muscle moves. “Seems like it missed at least almost all of the width of his spine, so I would guess it went in at an angle.”

“Lucky,” Ping mutters.

“As much as he could be here, I’m sad to say. We’re still looking at a lot of damage.” Dawson glances at the gauze in the tray. “At least we have a sample that didn’t wash away in all the blood.” The flow has slowed as it’s clotted, but there must have been a lot when the wound first occurred.

Maxwell speaks up. “I recommend we clean and patch this wound first, then keep any samples of gravel we remove from his back. Those might be needed for evidence. We cannot do a more in-depth forensic kit without permission from him or someone with power of attorney. Do you have contact details for anyone he knows?”

“I can check. Off the top of my head, only those four guys we brought in.”

“Was it them who-?”

“They say not, but they would say that anyway, right?” Ping frowns. “They did look legitimately freaked out, though, so maybe not.”

“Do you know who they-”

“Uh, apparently there was a warrant out. Dalton-somethings, but I’d never heard of them before tonight. Chances are they’re all from another part of the state, or maybe the country. Weird accents but it’s hard to tell.” He shudders. “Either he’s one of them or… not.”

Dawson guesses not, considering the state he’s in. “Well that’s… not fantastic, but it could be worse. We have the gauze and…” And he’s probably bled most of the evidence away anyhow.

“Even if it missed his spine, I’m afraid we have other concerns.” Maxwell stitches, he has the steadier hand. “There is still the risk of infection - which I would say is more likely than not at the moment. I don’t imagine the bullet or the gunbarrel was kept very clean.”

“And… if whoever did this was willing once…” Dawson swallows.

“I wouldn’t want to make any assumptions,” says Maxwell, on stitch number six. “Look over his mouth please, I’d like to see what the damage is. Typically this kind of pain prompts strong responses. I’m concerned he may have bitten through his tongue.”

Dawson nods and switches out his gloves. “A few missing teeth,” he notes. “That and… oh…”

“What?”

“He must have bitten down on something else instead,” Dawson holds a bloody scrap of fabric between his fingers. “This looks like a tag.”

“He was gagged with the belt we brought him in with,” Ping volunteers. “Would that…?”

“It might.” He holds the thing up to the light. “ ‘Made in Cripple Creek’… now, that’s in Colorado, and… ‘Lucky’.”

“Sorry? That can’t really be his name, can it?”

“Looks like it.” He points to a few Sharpie-marked squiggles on the tab. “My guess is he lives with other men or else doesn’t do his own washing. Most people his age don’t label their clothes.”

“So Baker did rub off on you.”

The doctor stiffens. “Would you just look into this case, please? See if you can find his name online or… or… something. Someone must be looking for him - or they will be.”

“Er… right. I’ll have to see if…” Ping trails off, and eventually ducks out.

Maxwell looks up for a moment. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” Dawson says shortly.

The back of Luke’s legs have a lot of the skin peeled off of them; what does remain is studded with gravel.

“Looks like a road rash,” Dawson says, partially to have something to say. “Bad road rash. But that doesn’t…”

“Hm?”

“Well, he wasn’t in an accident.”

“He could have attempted to escape by throwing himself out of the attacker’s car, or have been thrown.”

Dawson shudders. “In that case, you would think that there’d be head trauma.” He re-examines Luke, parting his bloody hair. A few lumps and bruises, but not enough, not even if this patient has the hardest head in the world.

“You’re right - wait.” Maxwell points. “I believe that is a rope burn… Yes, look.” With forceps, he peels out some strands of hemp caught in the scabbing. “Do you think he was not thrown, but dragged behind a car?”

“That… unfortunately seems very possible,” Dawson has to agree. “Still, as I said, less head trauma that way, though I’m not sure he’ll be grateful if his memory is intact.”

“Are you sure you don’t recognize him?” Maxwell asks. “You and Mr. Baker-”

“He’s not from the state.” Dawson shrugs. “And this isn’t…” He swallows. “We’re looking at a transfusion, then?”

“I would think so, yes. Skin-grafts as well, if Mr. Luke’s luck holds.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I think, perhaps, we should focus on removing the gravel,” Maxwell says, “and checking for broken bones.”

“I don’t like the look of his arm.”

“Fracture or dislocation?”

“Looks like both…”

They’re going to be here a long time.

Chapter 49: Sévère Chaton

Patient is the victim of a home invasion.

Sévère Chaton isn’t fully aware. They gave him some pain medication earlier, and he’s clearly still under the influence. Achoda isn’t sure she can proceed with definite consent in this state.

“I don’t suppose you have power of attorney?”

“Sadly, no. I’m just the unfortunate neighbor who came across him.” The one eared man shrugs. “His husband’s on his way. Or at least he’d better be.” He mutters the second part.

She doesn’t even want to know.

Male… Caucasian… 38… AB+…

He’s right though, the door slams open. A man steps in - a man with sloppily pushed-back hair and the smell of beer clinging to him. He’s holding a bouquet of slightly-wilted roses.

“Spiffy!”

Mr. Chaton groans and turns his face to the door. “Fremont…? ‘M sorry… ‘M sorry…”

“Okay, great, you got it from here.” The one-eared man pats Fremont on the shoulder. “I’m going home before my brother notices I was gone.” He looks at Achoda and mouths Good luck before he shuts the door. That is… not a good sign.

“I take it you’re the husband?”

“Yes!” He’s already at Mr. Chaton’s side. “Spiffy? Spiffy, are you okay?”

“I… didn’ mean to… to miss the dinner…”

“Forget about the dinner. That doesn’t matter right now. Are you okay?”

Chaton shakes his head. “H-he broke into the house. He… he…” Sniffling. “We shouldn’t have hidden the spare key under the mat. ‘S too obvious…”

“Ji said you were…” Fremont swallows. “You can tell me if he fucked ya, okay? I won’t get mad.”

“He… he made me- I’m sorry! I tried to get him away from me, but he wouldn’t… I-”

Fremont did get mad. “I’m gonna kill him!”

“Fremont, no!”

“Fremont, yes!”

Dr. Achoda clears her throat. “Excuse me, Mister… erm…”

“Chaton. I changed my name.”

“Mr. Chaton, then. Your husband is currently under the influence of a powerful narcotic, and… I understand you have power of attorney? If there’s going to be a forensic examination-”

“You need me to sign somethin’? I’ll sign it. Do whatever you need to so I can choke the bastard with my own two hands!”

“Thank you.”

She draws up the paperwork that had come in with the other man. He signs. The man on the table reaches out blindly.

“Fremont.”

“Spiff? Spiffy, I’m still here, it’s okay.”

“Don’t go home. He has a key, he could-”

“I’d like to see him try.” Fremont’s expression softens. “But… I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not with you like this.”

He’s still reaching out. Fremont grabs his hand.

“I-I… I can’t lose you… I can’t lose you…”

“Spiffy-”

“I thought I was blending in. I thought I wasn’t drawing attention…”

“Spiffy…”

“I did everything right. I thought I did everything right…”

“Hey. Hey.” Fremont cradles his husband's face. “This shithead just wanted someone to hurt. This isn’t on you. This isn’t on you.”

“Um, sir? I need to begin the examination.”

Fremont squeezes his husband’s hand. “Doctor’s just gonna check up on ya. Okay? I’m right here. I’m right here.”

Chaton hangs on tight.

“Can you stand?” Achoda asks him gently. She’s not exactly surprised when Chaton shakes his head. “Alright, I’m going to have you change where you are, then. Do you need any help with that?” He nods again. She goes for the scissors. “I need you to hold still and I’ll cut it all off.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

He does hold still, as the scissors do their work. Fremont squeezes his hand.

“Alright. There we are.” She places the cut clothes into the plastic bag. “Now as for the gown-”

“Fremont.”

Achoda blinks.

“I… I want Fremont to do it.”

“Alright. That’s fine. I… will have to touch you eventually, but we can work our way up to that, alright?”

His husband takes the gown from her hands. “L-lemme know if this hurts, okay?”

Chaton doesn’t say anything. Fremont laces up the back.

“All set?” Achoda asks. “Now, I need to comb your hair or clip your fingernails… You fought back, right? So there should be plenty of DNA evidence.”

“Nails first.”

Achoda nods, and gets the clippers. Rust-red nails come off one by one.

“Uh, sir? You’ll need to let go of your husband’s hand so I can clip those-”

“Oh, right.” Fremont moves his hand onto his husband’s head. Rubs his thumb against his forehead.

“Alright, that’s all of them…”

She’s hardly finished by the time they’re holding hands again.

“Now, do you want me to comb your hair? Or start collecting DNA?”

“Hair first.”

Achoda nods again, and gets the comb. Not much hair - not beside Chaton’s, anyway. She still combs it all out and bags what does come loose. It takes a while.

“Did he touch you anywhere else? Did he kiss you? Or… do anything to your mouth?” He shakes his head. “Did you bite him? I can take a swab of your teeth.” He nods, and Achoda does. “Alright. That just leaves one thing left.”

Fremont tightens his grip. “Ya ready, Spiff?”

“… Make it quick.”

She does. Three swabs of pink all go into their respective vials. Chaton looks at his husband.

“There’s… there’s a gift at the… house… That’s why I was running late…”

“I… Spiffy, baby, I… didn’t…”

“I couldn’t find it! I couldn’t- I wanted to make you happy!”

“You do make me happy.”

“Not happy enough. I thought I was doing the right thing. We were normal… we got married… we…” He presses a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to stifle the wail building up in his stomach. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Fremont leans down and kisses him. “I love you, Spiffy. I do.”

Of that, Achoda has no doubts.

Chapter 50: Kenai Copeland

Patient tried to punch me in the nose.

Maxwell supposes that Kenai Copeland probably hadn’t meant to hit him, but he isn’t certain.

“Mr. Copeland,” he begins. “I’m going to need you to open your mouth.”

Kenai does, though not for the reason his doctor has requested. “Are you sure you’re not mad?” A glance downward. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

Bailey Maxwell is a large man. Kenai Copeland is a small one. He is a victim. Maxwell had moved too fast.

“No harm was done,” he replies. “I have received no physical damage. I have no reason to be upset with you.”

“But I almost hit you.”

“I imagine it was a purely physical response, instinctual after what happened to you.”

AFAB male… Inuit… 16… O+…

“Yeah, two hours ago you’d have needed to punch someone like that in the nose!” Chel calls out.

Denahi frowned. “Please don’t encourage my brother to use violence.”

“Says the man who bought an assault rifle.”

“Um, what?”

“Nothing, Kenai. Don’t worry about it.”

Maxwell taps the boy on the arm. “I apologize for interrupting, but I do need to swab your mouth. Is that alright with you?”

Kenai’s eyes flit between Chel and his brother.

“It’s okay,” Denahi tries to smile.

“If he tries anything weird I’ll stab him with a fork,” the woman adds.

Kenai opens his mouth. It isn’t pretty. A swab of pure off-white is taken from the inside of the patient's mouth and placed inside the vial.

“Um… hey, can I… can I ask you something?” Kenai says with a shaking voice.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Will you, um… will you also be checking for, uh… pregnancy as part of this exam?”

“I most certainly can. I will also give you an emergency contraceptive. Standard procedure. Do you think you might be pregnant?”

“I dunno. I haven’t had my period in awhile, and I’ve been really sick, and I know it could be stress, but…” he trails off.

“I can get you a pregnancy test,” Maxwell tells him. “Once we have finished with the examination, I'll make sure to find one for you.”

“O-okay,” Kenai nods. “Thanks.”

Maxwell reaches for another swab. “Will you please lay back for me?” he request. “I need to take a few samples from your vaginal region.”

Kenai swallows, and does so with much hesitation.

“Denahi…?” he asks quietly. “Can… can you come here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Once he is there, Kenai holds his hand. Tightly. “Okay. Do whatever you have to. Just… just make it quick.”

“I will try my best.”

Rust-red and off white. Readily obtained. “Mr. Copeland, when would you say the last assault occurred?”

“A couple hours before that guy showed up.”

“And how many assailants were there?”

“There were two of them today, but it’s been kind of a busy week for me.”

“How many this week?”

“… A few dozen, counting my punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“For… trying to escape.”

“Kenai…” Chel says quietly. “How did they know about that? I never got you unchained…”

“Well… they asked where you guys were, and I… I had to tell them something… I said they wanted you for a job, and, um, they found out I was lying and decided to use my mouth for… something else.” He shifts a little so that he is leaning up and against his brother. “They brought me into one of their offices and… there were a bunch of guys… I don’t know how many… They kept going until I passed out…”

Chel’s eyes go wide. “Kenai…”

“And… and they didn’t even stop then!” He begins to cry, reminding Maxwell of what the Wiseman had said on the stage all those months ago. He’s only sixteen. “They waited for me to wake up and then they kept going!”

“I… Kenai, I…” Denahi’s throat closes up. Even Maxwell can tell he's thinking This is all my fault.

Kenai isn’t even looking at Maxwell now, just at his brother. “I miss Sitka,” he says. “Sitka would know what to do…”

“I know… If I ever see who did this to you, I swear, I’ll kick his ass.”

“Her. It was a woman who did this to me.”

“Then I’ll kick her ass and hang it on the wall as a trophy.”

Kenai laughs shakily. “Whatever happened to ‘violence is never the answer’? I thought you’d finally chugged the hippy love juice…”

Denahi rolls his eyes. “Nice to see that you’re as obnoxious as ever.”

“I’m your little brother, it’s my job.”

“Mr. Copeland?” Maxwell asks. “How are you with needles? Do you have any sort of phobia?”

“Phobia, no. But they did stick my arms up with drugs and stuff. Might try to hit you again.”

“Drugs?”

“Yeah, sedatives and stimulants.”

“I see. I am not going to drug you with anything,” Maxwell says. “I need to draw some blood. It would be beneficial to test you for possible sexually transmitted diseases. Pregnancy tests are also more reliable if done with the blood. I would, however, need to use a needle. Will you be alright with that?”

“Uh, yeah, I want the blood tests…” Kenai looks to his brother. “But, um, you’re probably gonna have to stop me from punching him again.”

Denahi holds both his brother’s arms down. “Alright, Doc, do it now!”

He did.

“Done!”

“Are we good then?” Kenai asks. “Do you need anything else?”

Maxwell nods. “Just one thing, and then I will see about getting you a pregnancy test.” He holds up a pair of nail clippers, and watches as they shine in the light. “May I please see your hands.”

It isn’t the worst thing that they’ve gone through today.

“All done?” the teenager asks again.

Maxwell nods, rooting through his bag. He comes up with a pregnancy test, still in its packaging.

“Do you just carry those around with you?” Chel asks.

“I am a doctor.”

Kenai doesn’t seem to care how Maxwell got the test or why he has it or where it came from. He reaches to snatch it with trembling hands.

“How… how do these things work anyway?” he asks. “I’ve never used one before.”

“It’s easy,” Chel speaks up. “Let me see… Yep, it’s a dollar store one. You pee in a cup, take the dropper, and you put a few drops of urine in the little hole. One line you can drink yourself silly, two and you need to schedule an abortion.”

“And you know this because…?”

“I have two boyfriends and often no access to birth control. Fill in the blanks.”

“Weren’t you a… ’pharmacist’? Couldn’t you have, like, gotten it illegally or something?”

“It doesn’t work that way!”

“Anyway,” Denahi speaks up. “Kenai, go take the pregnancy test. Chel, stop eyeing Mr. Glomgold’s valuables and help him out.”

“Yeah, whatever…” Chel grumbles.

She takes his arm and helps him from the room. Denahi and Maxwell watch them go. Wiseman looks to Doctor. “Is he going to be okay?”

Five minutes later he gets his answer.

“Let’s all go drinking!” Chel calls out cheerfully. “Only one line! Not pregnant!”

Doctor looks to Wiseman.

“I think he will be.”

Chapter 51: Tam Shellington

Patient requires painkillers immediately.

Kekata is the one who deals the best in the weird. But he’s not here today, so Dawson has to deal with Tam Shellington himself.

Shellington reeks - it’s the first thing Dawson notices as he steps in - traces of blood and diarrhoea and urine and vomit all covered up with seawater and… vinegar? He’s been mopped up somewhat, but there’s still salt crusted in his hair. He’s still raving and thrashing so hard that it’s difficult to get close to him. His companion, a chubby young man with very black hair and a very pale face, catches hold of his hands.

“It’s not real, Tam… It’s not real…”

“Hello, are you a relative of the patient?”

“Ah, no. Coworker, trained in first aid. He called me first and I don’t want to leave him.” The young man offers one hand. “Call me Peso.”

“Hello, I’m Dr. Dawson. What exactly happened? Says here a jellyfish sting? Was he at the beach?”

“No, he’s a marine biologist. I already doused the site with vinegar to kill the stinging cells, but there’s no proper antidote for these. He needs treatment of the symptoms.”

“Ah, I see.”

Male… Caucasian… 29… A+…

Shellington’s vitals show the signs of intense pain and a panic attack, and his heart’s racing like that of a rat in a trap. He’s risking cardiac arrest if not treated right now. Dawson sends Ling and Bonjour for painkillers, beta blockers, and magnesium sulphate immediately, and both of them have to restrain the patient for him to administer them. Peso offers, but legally he’s not allowed to help with this; Dawson can see it’s killing him that he can’t.

When Shellington’s heart is less likely to beat out of his chest (though he’s not recovered yet, not by a long shot, it’ll take hours before he’s coherent and possibly weeks before he’s well), Dawson takes a moment to ask what happened.

“I don’t know exactly,” says Peso, “but when I got there one of the tanks had been shattered.”

“Sounds like he reached in, got stung and lashed out…”

“That’s the funny thing, it can’t be that.” Peso’s brow furrows. “With these it can take half an hour or more for the symptoms to develop. Most people don’t even realise they’ve been stung at first.” Peso turns over Shellington’s hand, revealing an angry sore spot and dark veins. It looks like Shellington clawed at the skin in his throes of pain; exactly the wrong thing to do, but he clearly wasn’t rational at the time. “And look, tentacles ought to leave a much longer mark than that. It looks like he touched just a piece of it. I suppose he could have brushed against the end, but it still seems funny. And the broken tank had lots of other fish in it. We certainly wouldn’t keep dangerous jellyfish in with them, and I thought they were still in the quarantine tanks. He only just got them in.”

“You’re not suggesting some kind of sabotage?” Dawson doesn’t say aloud “attempted murder”.

“I don’t know…” Peso seems to recognise Dawson then. “But if it is, I have the best doctor to help, don’t I? I’ve read about all your cases with Mr. Baker!”

He goes a little still, a little quiet. The other men don’t seem to notice - and they wouldn’t, with everything else on their minds.

“I’m not entirely sure this is in my field of expertise…” he says slowly. “But I have treated jellyfish stings before. You said you treated the area? Are the tentacles still-”

“Removed,” Peso says, “and, well, I tried to clean the area… but I don’t exactly have prescription painkillers on hand and… and even if I did… I doubt I’d know much about them.”

“Really? I think you did very well under pressure. Aren’t you trained?”

“Only in basic first aid, and, um, veterinary medicine. Most of my job involves weighing and measuring washed-up seals and washing oil off gulls.”

“Well, you did better than most people would do.”

Peso blushes. “Um, there was another thing. W-when I found him…” He trails off.

“Yes?”

“He, um… he wasn’t dressed,” Peso almost whispers. “He might have just tried to take his clothes off himself, irrational behaviour is a pretty normal symptom with this, and he was throwing up all over them, but… I don’t know if it was just that. He wasn’t really in a fit state to tell me.”

Dawson feels his stomach drop. “I, ah, well… I’m probably going to need to remove them anyway. I can look?”

“Please,” Peso bites his lip. “I’d hate myself if… if there was something and…”

Dawson nods.

It’s actually not as hard getting Shellington’s clothes off as he thought it would be. For all his patient’s moaning and thrashing, he’s not in much of a state to fight him. Maybe he was never that strong to begin with. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s out of his mind. There’s blood on his legs and Peso winces, but he whispers, “It could just be the broken glass.”

It isn’t, though. Dawson can tell even before he looks closer, because Shellington screams, “Not again! Not again!”

“… Mr. Peso, do you know who has power of attorney over Mr. Shellington?”

“Um, Captain Barnacles probably does, but he’s out on patrol. Tam has a sister, but she’s on the East coast.”

“That’ll do, either will be fine as long as you can get them on the phone. I need permission to perform a forensic kit - though, I do have to advise you, it looks like there isn’t much to find.”

“I don’t think there will be. He was soaking wet when I found him, I suppose whoever… whoever did it might have smashed the tank over him to wash away the evidence.”

Shellington coughs up saltwater.

“He’s been doing that a lot,” Peso says worriedly. “He couldn’t possibly have swallowed so much just from having water dumped over him, could he?”

“I suspect not. It’s… possible his head was held underwater.”

From Peso’s expression, Dawson can tell he knows the risks. If Shellington’s particularly unlucky - and Dawson wouldn’t bet any other way at the moment - they could be looking at brain damage, permanent lung problems, and goodness knows what else, depending on how long he was held under.

“I think you’d better make that phone call - his sister or that friend? I’ll see if I can’t clear out his lungs.”

“R-right…”

Dawson uses another sort of needle this time.

Chapter 52: Oliver Foxworth

Patient appears healthy.

Of course, Sweet knows that might not mean anything.

“Okay, Oliver - was that your name?” he says, picking the boy out of the small crowd. (Five adults watching one child’s medical procedure is ridiculous, but none of his former guardians wanted to be left out - except for the one who literally couldn’t be here. Solomon Fagin is awaiting trial.) The child nods. “Did the grown-ups tell you why you’re here?”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, nodding again. “You gotta make sure my friends really didn’t hurt me.”

The exam won’t prove nothing happened - he could have been touched in a way that left no physical damage - but it’ll go some way towards supporting the story. “That’s right.”

“… Why can’t you just believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Sweet says, truthfully. The patchy-haired man is still gripping Oliver’s hand like a lifeline. The giant one looks near tears. The woman is watching him suspiciously. None of them look like they would ever hurt this child. “But you might have to go to court soon, and the people there don’t know your friends, do they? So they wouldn’t know whether they can trust them. This way we can show people they didn’t.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Oliver lets go of his friend’s hand and lets Sweet help him onto the table.

Male… Caucasian… approx 7… unknown…

Oliver looks uninjured externally, except for a scabby knee.

“Did you fall recently?”

“Oh, that? Yeah, I was playing tag and I slipped.”

It doesn’t sound at all rehearsed. That’s good. “Okay.”

“You believe me, right?”

“Yes. I believe you.”

It helps that the scraping is only on one side.

It goes without saying that there’s no trace of residue on the boy, wouldn’t be anything of use even if he were looking for it. It’s been too long. Still, there are no scars he can see. No visible bruises.

“Can you open your mouth? Wider… wider… perfect. Thanks. Looks okay… Oliver, have you ever been to a dentist?”

“Nuugh…” Sweet withdraws his hands and Oliver speaks properly. “No, we couldn’t afford it. But the guys make sure I brush and I don’t have any pain in my teeth or anything.”

Sweet asks the boy to hold up his hands and inspects them for what he knows won’t be found there. No shreds of skin or grains of dried blood. No cracked or broken nails. Even his fingers appear to be in reasonably good shape. No twisting. No swelling around the joints. It doesn’t seem that they’ve been twisted, broken or dislocated. Ever. All signs seem… good.

“Okay, now this bit might be hard. I need to look at your private parts to make sure they’re okay too. Do you want to stop, or are you happy to continue?”

“No, go ahead. I wanna have proof I’m fine.” Oliver lies back.

Again, everything looks fine. Normal development, no visible scarring. No signs of damage or lice or intestinal worms. Oliver is perfectly healthy, as far as can be seen.

“You can sit back up now,” Sweet says.

The boy does just that. “I told you,” he says. “Nobody did anything.”

To him, anyway. Sweet has to agree. “Normally I’d offer a blood test, but, all things considered, I’m not sure it’d be necessary.” Even if Oliver had been passed something at birth, it would have reared its ugly head by now. “You haven’t noticed anything strange, have you?”

Oliver shakes his head. The group he came with shake theirs.

“No,” the woman tells him. “None of us have… And if there was something to notice, well, we probably would have.”

She’s right, of course. Thankfully so.

Chapter 53: Amity Blight

Patient shows no obvious signs of injury.

Of course, Dawson knows from experience that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Miss Blight?” he asks gently. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

She didn’t ask to have her parents with her, which is… unusual given her age and his status as a strange man, however unimposing he tries to be around his patients. He makes a silent mental note to check for other kinds of bruises that might be hidden under her clothes. Amity is wearing a school uniform and berry pink leggings. She has gold-flecked eyes and nut brown hair dyed green everywhere but the roots. And there’s something about the keen, sharp way she looks at him…

“That’s… that’s okay, Doctor… Dawson,” she says, reading his nametag aloud. “Um… what do you want me to do?”

There’s a lot of Basil in her uncertainty, the parts of his friend he doesn’t want to see reflected back at him. Especially not from a teenage girl. But, of course, he doesn’t get to choose. If he did… well, they would probably still be where they are now but someone would be at home waiting for him.

Female… Caucasian… 14… B-…

“I’d like you to change into a hospital gown, while standing on that paper. Were those the clothes it, ah, happened in?”

Miss Blight selects a green one, to match her hair, and stands on the sheet. “Yeah, they were. Do you need to take them away?”

“It would help, but if you’d really like them back I’ll see what I can do.” She takes out her hairband and he combs out her hair, deep berry-brown separating from green. He holds up a couple of strands. “Was this her hair colour?” Miss Blight nods. “What exactly did she do, if you’re okay to tell me?”

“Um, she… she kissed me a lot,” Miss Blight says, twisting her fingers together.

“Right, then I should swab your mouth. If you’re happy to let me get on with that?”

She doesn’t look happy, but she nods. The swab comes away clear and damp. No red, no white; there wouldn’t be. Her lips are smeary, though, and a tissue comes away rosy-brown with tinted chapstick.

“Was this hers too?”

Nodding.

“Alright,” he says, even though it isn’t. “I’ll make sure to send it into the lab.”

Miss Blight isn’t looking at him too closely, but when Dawson motions her over to the table, she doesn’t have to be told anything in order for her to put both palms down on the surface and swing her way up. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” he says, nodding. “Now are you sure you’re not injured anywhere? Your hands or…?”

“No. She didn’t… She’s not a bad person, I don’t think she… She wanted it to feel good.”

“Ah.” He isn’t entirely sure that he believes that. “In that case, would you please lie back?” She does.

No visible bleeding. Some hymenal stretching, not torn. Odd.

“Was it her fingers, or her mouth, or…?”

“Fingers. She was super gentle, I just… I just froze up.”

“Ah.”

She leans her head back, eyes falling shut for a moment. “Is that bad?”

“It…” He hesitates. “It might make your case a little harder to prove.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding… relieved? “She didn’t mean to do it, you know. She… she’s my best friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry for…” She trails off. “Never mind. What happens if we can prove it? Um… this probably sounds weird, but I don’t want her to be in really huge trouble. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Miss Blight…” He thins his lips into a strict white line. “How old is your friend, exactly?”

“She’s fourteen, like me.”

Could be worse. Still… “I think that’s old enough to know better,” he says gently.

“Still, I… I don’t know if she noticed I was weirded out? That can happen, right?”

“I think that’s a job for the police. I can’t really help you there, I’ve never met her.”

“Oh…” She sits up and crosses her arms. “My parents are probably going to take this to court. But I… She’s not a bad person.”

“I understand.”

But he doesn’t. Not really.

Chapter 54: Dafydd Duck

Patient appears to be suffering from anterograde amnesia, probably dissociative in nature.

“Like I said, nothing happened! Why do I need to be here?”

“Mr. Duck, you don’t have to undergo the examination, but I highly recommend you do. I can tell something happened and I really think you need a checkup.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Dawson looks at him and says, deadpan, “Sir, your nose is still bleeding.”

“Huh…” Duck runs a hand over his face and blinks when it comes away bloody. “Must be dry in here or something.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s broken.”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“Yes.”

Duck gives him a once over. “… Right.”

“Sir, I need to know if you’re willing to consent to an exam. I highly recommend it, but the choice is yours.”

“Fine, just so I can show you nothing happened.” Duck sits huffily down on the exam table.

Male… mixed Afro-Caucasian… 28… B-…

“Alright, then. Could you tell me which police officers you encountered in there who might, hypothetically, have done something?”

“Uh, I don’t… don’t remember.” Duck looks confused. “Huh. I might recognise them if I saw them again, but… Nope, nothin’.”

“Alright… Now, Mr. Duck, if you could open your mouth for me? I’ll need to see inside and take a swab.”

“Whatever.”

The younger man complies. Dawson takes a swab of red and white and Duck eyes it strangely.

“That’s… I must have bitten my tongue or something.”

“Do you often bleed white? I’m quite sure that would be a serious health issue.”

“It’s… it’s nothing! Must have… I must have a cold or something.” Duck’s getting jittery, quite understandably. Dawson will have to be cautious.

“Very well, then, could you go and stand on that paper and change into this hospital gown? I have some bags to put your clothes in.”

“Do I have to give you all my clothes?” Duck whines, taking off his flatbrim. “This is my favourite hat.”

“Okay, you can keep anything of sentimental value, but it would be very helpful if you could give us some items… Or at least shake out your clothes over that paper roll. If anyone else’s hairs or clothing fibres are caught up in them, that’ll help us find them.”

“You aren’t going to find anyone,” Duck says, even as he slides his shirt off. “I told you that nothing happened.”

Dawson says nothing. The patient isn’t looking for answers.

Finally Duck’s clothing has been bagged and the gown slipped on. He climbs back onto the table. “What now?” he asks.

Dawson looks him over. He sees scraping. He sees bruises. Some rust-red. No off-white.

“Are you in any pain?” he asks. “Between your legs, I mean. Does it hurt down there?”

Duck blinks. “… No?”

Dawson is unconvinced. “May I take a look?”

Duck swallows hard, but affects a casual air. “Fine, just so I can prove I’m perfectly okay,” he says, nose in the air, and looks away as he parts his legs. Dawson sees his hands and lips trembling.

Of course Duck is wrong. He expected as much. Red and white and… clear.

“Do you remember if any of the officers who brought you in were female, by any chance?”

“Um… maybe? I think I remember a blonde chick.”

“Do you remember anything about anyone else?” A pause. “Do you know how many officers there were?”

A half-shrug. “Like… two or three maybe. I don’t know.”

“And do you remember anything about what they looked like? Anything at all?”

“Maybe…?” His face struggles with the memory. “… Broken nose.”

“What?”

“One… one lady had a messed up face. Her nose… it looked like someone had really fucked it up. A lot.”

“Okay, we can use that information, that’s good.” Dawson braces himself. This next part will be awkward for both of them. “Can you open your legs further so I can get a closer look and swab there?”

Duck jerks away from him. “What? Do I have to? I told you, you’re not gonna find anything!”

“You don’t have to, but wouldn’t it be better to confirm there’s nothing there?”

“Okay… I guess.” He does, keeping a wary eye on the doctor.

Dawson moves and the patient practically falls off the table, yelling, “No! Stop! Bugs, help!”

He stops. Immediately. Duck on the other hand…

“Sir?” He speaks cautiously. “Can you hear me?”

The other man only shakes on the table, teeth chattering and his mouth twisting into a grimace. “… help…”

“Sir…?”

Panic attack.

There’s blood on the examination table.

Dawson backs away, lets Duck have some space. He speaks soothingly. “It’s okay. No one’s going to touch you or hurt you, see, I’m over here. Just listen to my voice if you can hear me? Focus on something… that’s good.”

Duck’s breathing slows, and his body relaxes. He blinks up at the doctor. “Did somethin’ happen? Why am I here?”

“You’re, uh, you were in the middle of an examination and you had a panic attack. Does that happen a lot?”

“Panic attacks?” He blinks. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Duck, do you remember being arrested?”

“Huh? I get arrested a lot. It kinda blends together after a while. What did I do this time? Did I set something on fire again?”

“I, um, I’m not sure…”

“Oh.” Duck blinks. “Wait, why am I being examined? Why am I not in jail?”

“Sir…” Break it gently. “It appears you may have been… assaulted by a few of the guards there. I was performing an exam for… DNA evidence.”

Duck blinks at him. “No you weren’t.”

“Sir-”

“Shut up! That’s not… You aren’t… That isn’t what happened!”

Dawson wants to ask what did happen, then, but that isn’t going to help. “Alright,” he says instead, “but another prisoner was assaulted today, and we’re… confirming whether or not anyone else was. It helps if we can record whether or not there were any other…” He doesn’t want to use the word “victims”. It’ll only make things worse. “If you want to leave, you can.”

“Uh, um…” Duck clearly does want to leave, but some part of him might want justice, or realise he needs medical attention. He looks from the doctor to the door and back several times.

“The choice is yours.”

“… Just hurry up and do it.”

Dawson nods. “I’ll need you to open your-”

Duck’s legs spread automatically. “Just. Get. It. Done.”

Rust red and off white. Both are taken as quickly as Dawson can responsibly manage. Dawson straightens. Duck sits up. Both breathe a sigh of relief.

“So… we done here?”

“Yes. Yes, we are. Do you want me to call someone to take you home, or-?”

“Uh, I’m still not allowed to drive after the parade float thing. Can I call my roomie?” He tugs at the hospital gown. “And I’m really gonna need some clothes. Do hospitals keep spares?”

“I might be able to find something for you. Scrubs, probably. You might want to ask your roommate to bring you something to change into.”

“Okay, uh, can I borrow your phone?”

Dawson hands it over. “Be my guest.”

Duck presses the buttons slowly - Dawson remembers his file said something about autism; possibly his co-ordination isn’t good. The phone rings, and he holds it up to his ear. “Heyyy, Bugs! It’s Daffy, and I - yeah, I did get arrested again, but I’m at the hospital now… I…” He looks down at himself. “Uh, I… don’t know why I’m here.”

Dissociative amnesia works fast.

Chapter 55: Twila Marsh

Patient is suffering from broken pelvis and severe straddle injury.

Twila Marsh - “call me Tweak” - has been fading in and out of consciousness, obviously in tremendous pain that the sedatives are only just starting to work on. She looks Achoda in the eyes and says, “Look, if you wanna push on the breaks or somethin’ I totally understand. I screwed up.”

“In what way?”

“Didn’t ask questions I shoulda.”

“Are you saying you didn’t know… what was on the ship?”

Marsh nods. She looks miserable enough that Achoda is tempted to believe her. She withholds judgment either way.

“I think this is going to be painful enough anyway, Ms. Marsh.”

“Oh. Great.”

Female… 22… Creole… A+…

Achoda cuts the seams of Marsh’s overalls. The cloth is turning hard where the blood is drying. In the patient’s underwear she finds split and purpled flesh, more blood gluing the cloth to her skin and hair.

“Was any penetration involved?”

“No, no. Just got clocked one. Sounds funny, but it ain’t really.”

“I don’t think it’s funny. You’re obviously in a lot of pain.”

“Eh. Can’t say I didn’t have it comin’.”

“Which one of the…” She’s not sure what word to use. Kids? Victims? Other victims?

“Not tellin’,” Marsh says through gritted teeth. “Been through ‘nuff already. Don’t go botherin’ them about me.”

Achoda’s money is on the big, strong girl they brought in earlier - the one with the big, strong jaw.

“How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad, I’m afraid. I’m going to need to install a catheter. That can wait till you’re in surgery though. There’s some perineal tearing, but it doesn’t look like it’s gone right through. I don’t think there’s any faecal contamination of the vagina, but we’ll be washing and disinfecting anyway.”

“Huh, I figured their parents’d wanna tear me a new… heh.”

“The external injuries should heal, but I’m concerned about the internal ones. Your pelvis is broken and there might be nerve damage. And there’s definitely going to be scarring. All that may dull genital sensation or cause chronic pain later.”

Marsh doesn’t look surprised. She doesn’t even look all that put off. “Kind of expected that.”

“Any allergies I should know about?”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to get you started on a drip. I need to know if you’ll have a reaction to morphine.”

“Oh, uh, not as far as I know. Hook me up ‘n’ go help those kids, ‘kay? They need it more’n me.”

“There are other doctors with them now, I’m sure.” And nurses. And police officers, most probably.

“Still. Can’t say I’m worth all the trouble.” She shudders. “If you do see ‘em… tell them I’m sorry. I never wanted to be a part of somethin’ like this.”

Achoda believes her now. She reflects that this seems like a rather extreme punishment for having been misled.

Chapter 56: Pippa Star

Summary:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTidwW3iLHk In Japanese Bidoof is called Bippa, hence the name.

Patient doesn't respond to name being called.

“Pippa Star?”

It has to be repeated a few times before the girl in question looks up. “Huh? Oh, sorry! Sorry! My… my hearing’s not so good.” She’s a chubby little thing with a huge smile which exposes equally huge teeth, accompanied by two other kids in blue and black. She stands up and waddles over, feet splayed.

Dr. Stein forces a smile. “It’s no problem, really. Right this way, please.”

It takes another moment for his words to register.

“U-um… can my friends come with me?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Relatives only. Adult relatives.”

“You’re not g-gonna call my mom, are you?”

Glynda’s notes from the frantic call one of the other kids had made - probably the older one, he thinks he saw the younger one use sign language in the waiting room - mentioned it was an abuse case. “No, not if she’s the one who hurt you.” He makes sure she can see his lips move, and speaks slowly.

“Uh, y-yeah. Traynor and Luke saw her do it and brought me here.” She plays with the hem of her bobbly sweater.

“What exactly happened?”

“Um, she hit me a lot. With things, not just her hands. Stuff like a belt. She does that a lot but she doesn’t hit my brothers or sisters like that, ‘cause they’re smarter and skinnier and stuff. I tried to get away and we wound up in the front yard and people saw.”

It’s not uncommon for abusive families to pick either a favourite or a least favourite, Stein knows. “Where did she hit you? Do you mind me having a look?”

“Right here?!”

“Ah, no… Come with me.” She nods and follows him down the hall. “Your clothes might need to come off for a little bit, but- Don’t worry, I’m going to get you a gown to cover up with, okay? Do you want to pick it out?”

Pippa nods and spends a while digging through the selection. Whatever makes her happy. Stein studies her back, looking for any sign of blood or bleed-through. Nothing. She’s wearing a thick sweater and dark-colored pants.

“Okay, can you confirm your age for me?”

“I’m almost twelve.”

“And do you know your blood type?”

“Oh, yeah, my sisters and some of the kids at school are super into that.” She sees his curious look. “Oh yeah, um, it’s a Japanese thing, blood types are like horoscopes. The white and black kids never knew what we were talking about… I’m A pos. The only one in my family, everyone else is B or AB, so they say that means I’m the boring one. A bloods are s’posed to be kinda stodgy.”

“Well, I can definitely say there’s no medical basis for that.”

Female… East Asian… 11… A+…

“Maybe.” Pippa holds up one of the print gowns - cute little cartoon animals. Stein can already tell it’s too small for her. “This one?”

“I… Are you sure? That size is…”

“… Oh. Do you have one that’ll fit me?”

Stein has a look. There aren’t any with cartoon prints in her size, but he finds a nice floral one. “This one okay?”

“Yeah! Sorry, I know I’m kinda chubby…”

She is, a little, but not dangerously big for a kid her age. “No need to apologise - and you’ll probably grow into it. Lots of kids do.”

“My brothers and sisters are thin already,” she says, picking at the gown’s hem and pulling her clothes off underneath it.

“That’s a little more unusual. Do you eat differently from them?” Stein makes a note to check Pippa for thyroid problems or PCOS. He repeats the question when she tilts her head.

“Yeah. Mom doesn’t let me eat too much and she won’t let me have anything with fat in it.”

Of course he knew why she was at the hospital, but that stings to hear. “It’s not good to not have enough to eat at your age. It’s not healthy to get very fat, no, but you need some fat to fuel your growth.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ll write you a diet sheet.” He smiles gently. “Not eating enough healthy things can make you more chubby, did you know that? Your body thinks you’ll need it and starts packing everything you eat on as fat and not leaving any energy for anything else, and you don’t get the right vitamins either. Have you been tired or struggling to think clearly?”

“Is… is that why?” She blinks. “Yeah, kind of. I just thought I was dumb… Is that why I can’t hear right?”

“I don’t think so… Can you describe what the problem is with your hearing? Do you not hear things at all, do you hear them too quietly, or do you hear them and not understand them?”

“I hear them okay… most of the time. I can’t… It’s like I can hear the voice and stuff and maybe a couple of words, but not… It usually just sounds like noise to me. Is that bad?”

“No, no, it’s not bad. Have you ever been evaluated for ADHD?”

“Mm… I don’t think so. I don’t remember being told if I was, so if they ever did check me I was little at the time.”

“How about autism?”

“The same. I didn’t think those made you not hear right?”

“From what you’ve said it sounds like you’re hearing things fine, it’s processing them that’s the issue. There might be a problem with the part of your brain that understands things you hear, and that can be connected to autism and ADHD. Or it might be stress. Maybe if we get you feeling better it’ll improve.”

“Mom says I don’t know how good I have it.”

“And… what do you think about that?”

“… I dunno,” Pippa says, scuffing her toe.

“Does she say things like that a lot?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. Her and my teachers and my brothers and sisters. And… their friends.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s not your fault, okay? Whatever’s happening, you don’t control your hearing.”

Pippa nods hesitantly and smiles, just a little.

“Alright, now we have to do the difficult part, but I promise it’s going to be okay, alright? You can stop me any time you need to, but I think it’s a good idea if I can finish checking where you’re hurt. I don’t want to miss anything and have it get worse because it wasn’t treated right, so if you do need to stop me looking, you can just tell me where it hurts.”

“Right!” Pippa clenches her chubby fist and nods.

“Good. Where are you hurt worst?”

Pippa looks down, then at the pile of her clothes. She stumbles over and picks up her underwear. There’s blood in it. “Mom… Mom hit me there.”

Stein’s seen too much of this kind of thing to wince. “Only hitting, or did she put anything inside you?”

“Is it bad if she did?”

“It… Yes, it is, but it’s also bad that she hit you. It was wrong of her to do either. I just need to know certain specifics so I can treat your injuries.”

“Okay. Then no, just hitting. With her belt and stuff, like I said.”

“Thank you for telling me. Now, are you okay with me looking there? She could have hurt you really badly.”

Pippa struggles to get onto the table, but refuses when he offers to give her a boost, and eventually manages to get on. “Really? My brothers said I was making too much of a fuss ‘cause I’m a girl and my stuff’s on the inside.”

“Not all of it, and if she hit you hard enough she could have caused damage inside. It certainly must have hurt a lot.”

“It did,” Pippa says sadly. “I did think it wasn’t okay but lots of people hit kids and Mom said it was normal… I sorta thought I was being dumb again.”

Now that’s pretty heartbreaking, even for an experienced doctor like Stein. “It’s always good to ask someone else if you think something’s not right. I’ll check you over and then I’ll have to talk to your friends, okay? Do their parents know where they are?”

Shrug. “I… think I saw Traynor texting someone. Might be his- sorry, xir parents. I think xe said ‘xir’. Or, um, typed it. It’s not like my thing, Luke says xe can’t hear at all. Xe’s got this thing that says out loud what xe types.”

Sounds like supportive parents. Stein wonders if they might be able to fast-track finding a foster-home. From how the kids were around each other in the waiting room, that’d be good for them.

Chapter 57: Avery Gardener

Patient suffering from numerous physical traumas.

“Kiddo? Kid, look at me, okay? Can you tell me your name?”

Long blond hair, high-pitched keening, wearing a ruined hospital gown… Hudson isn’t sure if he’s looking at a boy or a girl.

“I-it’s Avery,” they whisper from behind their bangs. “Avery Gardener.”

“Okay, Avery. Can I ask your pronouns?”

“He/him.”

“Got it. Are you fit to answer some other questions?”

“I-I’ll try…”

Hudson goes through the list.

Male… 16… East Asian/Caucasian… AB-…

“Do you have a guardian I can call?”

“Please don’t. They won’t listen.”

“They aren’t the ones who hurt you?”

Hudson’s been at the job too long to be surprised… but, no, Avery shakes his head.

“No, er… not quite. Not like this.”

“Did they let whoever it was hurt you?”

Choking laughter. “No. They probably would have though, wouldn’t they? But no. This was all Bede.”

“Who’s Bede?”

“My twin. Mummy’s little genius. He may have been found elsewhere in the lab or they might have let him go, I don’t know. He’s the one who looks like walking candyfloss, have you seen him?”

“I can ask around.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t want to see him. Ever.”

“You blame him for what happened?”

“He’s to blame for what happened! He… he… he’s the reason I can’t go home, the reason I wound up here in the first place, the reason I wound up there… I wonder if he planned it.”

“What exactly happened?”

“I’m not psychic.”

“Sorry? Don’t think I caught that.”

“I… They wanted-… It's complicated. I don’t know if they hurt him too. Haven’t seen him since the experiment started and they split us up.”

“You and him?”

“No, I mean they split us all up. Everyone. His group went one way and mine… I don’t know if they hurt him too. I don’t even care. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Uh, well-”

The kid sighs. “Apologies. I know I’m being awful.”

“I think you have the right to be right now. Alright, first things first… let’s get you into a clean gown.” Hudson holds up the box. “Any preferences?”

Avery picks a purple one. and the ragged and stained white one he arrived in is quickly bagged up for evidence.

“Can you tell me where you’re experiencing the worst pain?”

Avery thinks. “Prrrobably my head and my… nether regions. They focused the damage on places that would hurt most.” He touches his forehead, where there’s a round scar that looks to be sagging inward. “I think they took a piece of my skull out. Does that bone grow back or do you have to patch it?”

“We’ll probably have to patch it. That’ll have to wait till surgery though. Are you comfortable with me looking at your other injuries?”

“Not really, but I’ll be less comfortable if they’re not treated.”

There are a lot of them, and a lot of types. Hudson sees cuts, bruises, broken fingers and toes, cannula marks, little single and double and triple punctures he recognises as bites from ticks and spiders and leeches, and more. Several are… inside. More in Avery’s mouth and throat. He’s rather glad he’s not the officer who’ll have to listen to Avery’s statement.

Avery gazes at the ceiling. “I should warn you, I’m one of the less injured ones.”

Don’t ask about that, don’t ask about that. Just do your job.

“How many others were there?”

“Maybe a dozen in the room with me. Another dozen with my brother.”

Hudson holds up a roll of paper. “Did they touch you directly?”

“What?”

“Is there any chance your attacker’s DNA might still be on you or your clothes?”

“Probably not. They had gloves and masks and goggles, stuck with using… implements, mostly. All very sterile. It was experimental, after all.” The wounds are indeed very clean, except for some ragged half-healed cuts on his arm, which Avery points out. “Here and here, the infection was intentional. They shot us up with different bacterial cultures at different times, among other things.”

“Are you allergic to any antibiotics that you know of?”

Avery shakes his head.

“Good. Were any of these bug bites recent, and do you know what kinds they were?” He’s going to need a lot of medications, and some of them might be contraindicated by antivenins.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember. My head… isn’t very clear. I don’t remember the last time I properly slept instead of passing out.”

“That’s okay, son,” Hudson says. “Might have to run a few blood tests. That okay with you?”

“Fine. It’s nothing new.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Avery pulls a face, and says nothing when Hudson draws the samples.

“Oh, I noticed some marks which look a lot older…?”

“The scars on my back are probably from my parents.”

Hudson tightens his lips. “Can you give me their address?” As soon as he’s done here, he’s calling the cops on them too.

Chapter 58: *spoiler* Nuka Abbas

Patient is unconscious.

Dawson looks down at Nuka Abbas and can’t help but think of the unfairness of it all. He is young. He is too young-

-and every fiber of his being, of his doctoral degree, knows that this boy is going to die.

“Are you certain I’m allowed to be doing this? Who has power of attorney?”

Nurse Lefou shakes his head. “We’ve managed to contact his foster parent and one blood relation, they said to just go ahead and do it. That’s as good as we’re going to get.”

Male… 12… African-American… O+…

“What about his parents?”

“Dr. Dawson, he’s an Abbas.”

Dawson has seen the news. “I see.”

“I was there when he came in last time,” Lefou adds. “Poor kid, he must have only just been up and about after that. Just one beating would be bad enough, and then another on top of it… well.”

Dawson reaches for a swab. Rust-red swamps the off-white. Dawson hopes the bleeding hasn’t washed all the evidence away. Close up, he sees bloating of the stomach. That means internal damage. Probable ruptured organs, possibly liver or intestine or both. Nuka Abbas doesn’t stir. Another swab. A little white. Still more red. He starts stitching and orders a transfusion. He suspects that it may already be too late.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the boy, though he knows that Nuka cannot hear him. He needs to say something. “I’m so sorry.”

He makes notes about antibiotics and liquid diet. Even writing that down feels foolishly optimistic. Another swab, this time one of the lips. More red, more white. And still, Nuka Abbas does not move a muscle.

Patient is likely beyond saving.

Chapter 59: Tulip and Lake Olsen

Summary:

(Note: Lake isn't a she here, co uses co/cos pronouns, but the doc didn't ask and doesn't know that.)

Patients refuse to be separated.

“I’m not leaving Tulip.”

“I’m not leaving Lake.”

They clasp hands and that’s the end of that. It’s easier to just let them stay.

“Okay,” Dr. Potterswheel says.

He’s already wishing he wasn’t here. But he’s the only doctor in Moralton. And he is here. They’re young girls…

“Who’s first?”

“You go,” Lake says and pushes her sister foreward.

“Whatever. Fine.” Tulip doesn’t let go.

Both female… 13… Caucasian… blood types unknown…

“You, uh, you’re gonna have to let go of each other to change clothes.” Potterswheel urges Tulip towards the paper sheet and hands over a hospital gown. “Change on this, then I’ll bag up your clothes, and I’ll have to comb out your hair.”

Tulip’s the only one of them with enough hair to comb - it looks like Lake’s head was shaved, clumsily. Self-inflicted, one of the other kids, the adults? Potterswheel doesn’t know and it’s the cops’ job to tell. Tulip’s wearing a nightshirt and a green hoodie, and folds them before bagging. Lake’s wearing boxers and a dirty undershirt made for an adult. It looks like they both grabbed the first things they could find.

“Do you need my glasses too? I sorta need them.”

“Hey, I manage without,” Lake says, but looks curiously at the doctor anyway, apparently trying to communicate “don’t take them” without speaking.

“All yours. I’m not going to pick up much DNA from that.”

“O-okay. Good.” She flinches when he comes at her with the comb.

“When was the last time you were assaulted?”

“Couple of months ago.”

“A couple of months?”

“Uh, yeah, maybe… Not a lot of ways to tell time there.”

“Then why-”

“Hey, don’t feel bad! There’ll still be scarring or whatever. And we were still around them so… Boom! Some of their hair might be tangled up in mine.”

There’s quite a bit of darker and paler hair coming out along with the red; it feels like it hasn’t been properly washed in a while, but there's still more foreign hair than would be expected from multiple months ago. Potterswheel wonders. “Alright. Do you want me to check your mouth now, or-” He turns to Lake. “-do you want to give me your clothes first?”

“Um…” Lake looks at Tulip.

“C-could you change now? We do this together. I-I know you don’t like spending all your time doing what I do but I need you here.”

Lake swallows. “No problem.” She helps Potterswheel pull out a fresh section of paper roll. He doesn’t bother with the comb, just hands her a gown and the bags for her clothes. She doesn’t fold them.

“Up here,” he says, patting the table. There’s enough room for both twins to clamber up, side by side. “Okay, mouths open…”

Their teeth are filthy, but in comparatively good shape underneath. No traces of white, but he didn’t expect any this long after… No, he tells a lie. White spots on the skin, worse in Lake’s. Could be infection or malnutrition or both.

“Have either of you experienced pain in your mouths?”

“Some. Kind of itchy and my teeth hurt sometimes,” Lake says, rubbing her jaw.

“I told you we still need to brush and eat vegetables.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t act like Mom.” She frowns at Potterswheel. “Think we can get something to eat after this?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he says. “I’m going to swab the insides of your cheeks, if that’s alright? They’ll test for infection.”

As it is, he’s going to have them put on a round of antibiotics. Maybe several rounds. Each.

“Do what you gotta do, I guess.”

Chapter 60: 2005

Patient must be scheduled to see dental surgeon ASAP.

Potterswheel really doesn’t like even looking at the strange man’s mess of a mouth. His teeth have been pulled out of place and rotted under wires for years; it’s amazing any are still in.

It’s a bit much. Even for him.

“When did this happen?” he asks, stepping back.

“They grew in when I was, oh, one or two years old. As I recall, it’s like that for everyone.”

“I mean the, ah, metal parts.”

“Oh, those. I… think I was ten? Thereabouts.”

“Before the… the mall?” The patient nods. “And no one ever removed them?”

“Should they have?”

“Yes. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not anymore!” He sounds quite cheerful. It is possible to get used to ignoring pain, but the police did mention having also found numerous drugs in that mall.

Male… Caucasian… age unknown, approx 30… blood type unknown…

“Any reason why that might be?”

“Candy helps. My friends are always bringing me candy.”

And there it is. “Of course they are. Is… is there anywhere else which would be in pain if not for the, er, candy? Are you injured?”

“Um, I think everything’s healed up now. It has been a while.”

“How long?”

“A few months since the last time. Can I have my null back once you’re done with him? The police won’t let us play anymore.”

“Your what?”

“My null. My zero. One of the guys without a number. Doesn’t matter which one.” He pauses. “Actually… I might have an ouchie from that. I kept fucking them and they kept trying to stop me.”

“Ah, I’ll have to… talk to the police about that.” No. No. Definitely not. No. But no need to tell the patient that. “May I ask where exactly you… ah… fucked them?”

“Does it matter?”

Potterswheel nods.

“The mall. Different parts of the mall. I used to live in the candy store! A lot of the time I’d help make videos for them. That wasn’t… enjoyable. The ones we made by ourselves were soooo much better!”

“A-and what exactly did you… do to them?”

“The same things they did to me.”

“Which were…?”

“Well, they fucked me.”

This is getting nowhere fast. Potterswheel takes in a deep breath. “And may I ask what… body parts were used?”

“Oh! Is that what you wanted to know? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I-”

“Dicks, of course!” The patient laughs. “They used their dicks!”

Potterswheel nods. “And am I safe to assume that you did as well?”

“What else would I fuck them with?”

“There was no, ah, oral component?”

“What do whales have to do with it?” He makes a face. “You’re a real sicko, aren’tcha?”

If only he knew.

“Oral, sir. Not orca.” He sighs. “Did anyone use their mouth?”

“Some of the girls did. Back before we ran the place. Talk to 1840 and 1865.”

“And they are…?”

“Some of my friends!”

He probably will be talking to them. Later. “Did you use your mouth?”

The man laughs.

“Sir?”

“Not to fuck them!”

Great. He’s too tired to play games.

“What did you use it for?”

“For eating, obviously. Don’t be stupid.”

“Eating what?”

2005 cackles.

He definitely bit their dicks off.

Potterswheel sighs. “I’m going to take a swab of your mouth to check for disease. Can you hold still for me?”

He nods. Mercifully he does stay still for a moment… and then he bites down on the cotton swab.

Potterswheel yelps, jerking his hand back, just barely pulling his fingers from harm's way. “What the hell was that for?!”

“I thought it would be funny,” 2005 says. “Was it funny?”

“No! You could have hurt me!”

“So? People get hurt all the time. Would you be mad if you broke your finger by slamming it in a door?”

“Yes.”

“You’re no fun.” 2005 pouts like a child.

Potterswheel wonders, and not for the first time today, just what the hell he has gotten himself into. He sighs heavily. “Well, I’m going to need to take another swab. Just hold still. And please don’t bite this time.”

“Ugh. Fiiiiine.”

It comes back tinted pink, covered in brownish saliva. Potterswheel puts it between two slides.

“Have you felt sick at all? Nausea? Cough? Anything?”

“I’m right as rain! No need to worry!”

“I’m going to prescribe antibiotics just in case.”

Even pretending this weirdo is a woman doesn’t make the job any more pleasant. He’s just so damn off-putting, and from a Moralton citizen, that means something.

Chapter 61: Colorado Jones

Patient is victim of long-term sexual abuse.

Jose Rey knows the Jones boys - everyone knows everyone on the Mesa. Has known them for a long, long time. Since before the kid’s parents died. Since before Dakota’s…

And he’s never seen them look like this.

“We woulda come here sooner,” Dakota says apologetically. “But seems the man tried his damndest to keep him quiet.”

“Men like that often do,” J.R. assures him. “That isn’t on you, Mr. Jones. I promise.” He means it. Dakota looks down guiltily regardless. He looks over to Colorado, and speaks up. Gently. “Can you tell me who it was?”

Colorado droops. “Do I gotta?”

J.R. turns to Dakota.

“… Mayor Baloney,” he grunts.

“The mayor?!”

“Mm.”

Colorado tenses up. “Y-you believe me, right?”

“Of course I believe you, it just… comes as a bit of a shock.”

“Mm,” Dakota hums again.

J.R. takes a deep breath. “Okay… hang tight for a minute.” He grabs for a roll of paper, then hesitates. “Wait, when was the last time it happened?”

The kid is silent.

“Uh…” He goes back to Dakota. “Mr. Jones?”

“I don’t know, he just told me this was happening. Apparently it’s been going on for years.”

He looks at the other Mr. Jones, and he mumbles out an answer.

“Cal, you ain’t in trouble, but the doc needs to know.”

“T-today. It happened today.”

Oh, jeez. J.R. stiffens a little. Dakota looks heartbroken.

“Can you say when?”

“Got to the rodeo early. He was there. Went off while they were settin’ things up. ‘Nuff people around that somebody mighta saw something,” he shrugs, “but they didn’t miss me or nothin.”

“Have you…” J.R. looks him over. “Can you tell me what happened? Briefly.”

“Huh?”

“Did he use your mouth or…” A downward gesture.

The kid crosses his legs.

“I see.”

“Y-you’re gonna have to look there?”

The doctor nods gently. “And we’ll have to take your clothing as well. Forensic testing.”

“Okay…” Cal walks with his head hung low. “Kota? Don’t-”

“Already looking away.”

“Can y’ text Marsh?” he asks, fidgeting with the buttons. “I mean if he’s keepin’ my duds then…”

“Mm.” Dakota nods. “Have ‘im bring y’ a change of clothes.”

J.R. bags his things, hands over a gown and… winces. “Combin’ out your hair is part of the procedure, but…”

Male… 15… African/Native American… O+…

The Mesa runs against Navajoland. J.R.’s patients come in white and several shades of brown… but Colorado’s mother was from the city, and he’s the only black kid around for miles. The teeth from the comb will snag in his hair.

“We can, uh, skip that part, I guess.” He nods back to the table. Cal sits. “Did you fight back at all?”

“Uh… ‘c-course.” He looks at Dakota, then back to J.R. “Yup.”

“In that case, why don’t we start with nail clippings? You might have scratched him.”

“O-oh. Right.”

The clippings come back clean. No blood at all. J.R. decides not to comment.

“Alright, and can you tell me exactly where the, ah, assault occurred?”

“I told you it was at the-”

“I meant where he attacked you on your body.”

Colorado squints at this. “Uh, my ass? Where else could he have done it? What, do people shove dicks in other’s mouths?“

“Cal!”

“It’s alright, that’s a perfectly valid question,” J.R. assures him. “And yes, actually. Some do. There have also been some cases of, ah, creative forced penetration, so I do have to ask.” He shudders to think of the doctor from Calisota who dealt with an eye socket.

“Creative how?”

“Well-”

Behind him, Dakota shakes his head. “He don’t need to hear about this stuff.”

“Aw, c’mon, Kota, I can handle it.”

“Hmph.”

J.R. doesn’t press the issue. “I’ll swab your anal cavity, then… in a minute. Is there a position you’d, uh, be more comfortable in?”

“Huh?”

“I can take the sample one of two ways, prone - that’s you lyin’ on your front - or supine - if you wanna settle on your back.”

“Oh. Supine then? Definitely wanna be on my back for this.”

“Alright. I’ll let you get settled.”

Dakota shuffled awkwardly. “Um… Cal? Do you, uh… want me to… hold your hand or something?”

The kid doesn’t blush, but he looks embarrassed. Doesn’t stop him from reaching out. Dakota’s not exactly light-skinned, but his knuckles turn white in his cousin’s death grip.

“This okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Cal gulps, turning his head to face J.R. “What now?”

“Can you pull your knees up - like that, perfect. Now separate ‘em so I can get between your legs.”

“… I feel like I’m given’ birth.”

Dakota suddenly looks quite grateful that his young cousin is not a cisgender female. “Just do what you have to, doc.”

He does. Vials of white and pink and red. A frown. “I hate to ask this, but were you physically attacked as well?”

“What kind a’ question is that?”

“I mean-”

“I already told you I fought back-”

“That’s not…” J.R. winces. “Did he hit you after he got you down?”

Because there’s no way around it. The back of Colorado’s legs are a mess of stripes. Red and purple. Some yellow where the bruises have started to heal. He can make out the shape of hand prints on his hips, a bite mark on his thigh… but the rest-

“What’s th’ matter?” Dakota asks. He looks worried. This must be awful for him.

“Looks like he got off another way too…”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Well, um…” Fuck. He looks at Dakota. “May I ask how much sex education you’ve given your cousin?”

“Keep it in your pants until you’ve got a ring.”

Not exactly surprising. That’s about as much as most kids here get. Still, as a medical professional, J.R. has to wince.

“There’s… a lot of bruising back here,” he says delicately. “The mayor-”

“Um… he used to grab me back there to keep me where he wanted,” Cal says. “Don’t see what makes that worse though. He had to do somethin’.”

“Did he hit you with anything? The lines here look a little too uniform.”

“Uh… What?”

“Well, sometimes… some people like to…” This would be easier to do if he didn’t know Colorado so well. If Dakota Jones wasn’t staring directly at him with narrowed eyes. “Having sex isn’t enough for them. They like to do something else. Like, er…” He looks again. Fabric burns. “Before he… attacked you… did he- It looks like he hit you over your clothes.”

Colorado says nothing.

Neither, J.R. suddenly notices, does Dakota.

“… You?”

“Don’t go all bleeding heart soft on me, doc. You tellin’ me you never got a whuppin’ as a kid?”

He hadn’t, actually. But that was beside the point.

J.R. sighs. “When?”

“Coupla days ago,” Colorado says. “Progress reports came out. No big deal or nothin’. I can take a lickin’… Wait, if that’s a sex thing…” He stares at his cousin, clearly perturbed. “People get off on this stuff?!”

“Some do,” the doctor says. “And others don’t. We’re not sure why, it’s just something that happens.”

“You don’t, right?!” Colorado looked at his cousin in a panic. “You don’t do anything like that with Kate or nothing?!”

“What?! No! Why would I?!” Dakota looks disgusted at the thought.

“Well, I dunno! J.R. jus’ said-”

“I meant it can happen with some people! I wasn’t trying to-” He touches Cal’s arm and eases him back down on the table. “I just asked because of what we have going on already. I didn’t mean to insinuate things.”

“Hm.”

“Really,” he said tightly. “But, you should know it complicates things.”

“How?”

“See these-” Dakota’s not looking, J.R. realizes. “There are bruises on top of bruises. Normally in cases like this, I can take pictures, but it’s going to be a lot harder to make out the outline of his hands.”

“… Oh.” That’s all Dakota says.

“S-so can you not take pictures?”

“I can try… but I hafta warn you, Mr. Jones?” He looks right at Dakota. “This might not look good in court.”

“What? Why?”

“Like I said, marks are hard to make out… and his lawyer might argue you put all of them there. Not a guarantee that’ll happen, but I wanna prepare you in case it does. This could get ugly.”

“We… we’ll still have his DNA right?” Cal asks. “You can prove it that way!”

“I can prove it happened once.”

“That’s all we need,” Cal says. “We just need to prove it once. He gets convicted for one time, he goes to jail and he don’t come back out.”

That is probably true, J.R. admits to himself. “Your mouth then?” He signals for the kid to open.

“What? He didn’t do anythin’-”

“He didn’t kiss you?”

“Um… No?”

“Or maybe you bit him? You mentioned you tried to fight him off…”

“O-oh! R-right.”

He scrapes his teeth. Same as before, there’s nothing on the swab.

“Did you break the skin at all?”

“Um… yeah. I was fightin’ pretty hard, so…”

“Colorado, is there something you’re not tellin’ me?” He eyes Dakota. “Do you want your cousin to step out of the room?”

“Nothing doing.” Dakota crosses his arms.

“Sir, I’m a medical professional-”

“An’ he got hurt by the mayor. What’s your point?”

“I just want to talk to Colorado-”

“I ain’t leavin’ him alone with you. With anyone right now.”

“Kota-” His cousin’s hand on his shoulder. The kid falls silent.

“Whatever you got to say, you can say it in front a’ me.” He glances down at Cal in a way J.R. thinks is meant to be reassuring. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

“… Colorado?” the doctor says quietly. “Can you… You haven’t washed your hands or brushed your teeth since this morning, have you?”

“Uh, nope.”

“Then, I need you to be honest. Sending this stuff in for testing - it’s expensive. ‘Specially for a clinic like this. And… and… if you tell me the mayor has defensive wounds and then we can’t find any on him… that’ll look bad in court.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe something happened-”

“The fuck’re you sayin?” Dakota towers over him. “That it was consensual?”

“It wasn’t! Kota, I swear! I didn’t! I… I tried to stop him!”

“If this wasn’t the first time this happened, and you’d given up, or you thought it wouldn’t matter… No one’s blaming you, Mr. Jones. For any of this.”

Cal doesn’t take his eyes off of Dakota. J.R. almost wants to shake him. Say something, you idiot! But that won’t help the situation.

“Right, Mr. Jones?”

The kid says nothing. Then sobs.

“Cal, I-” Dakota reaches out. Colorado flinches away from his touch, and his cousin looks devastated.

“I-I tried. I really did, Kota… the first few times. But he didn’t like it, not one bit, an’ he said he’d get Marsh fired and you arrested and… and…”

“Mr. Jones, maybe you shouldn’t-”

“Like hell, I shouldn’t!” Dakota snaps. “Kid-”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… to…” He takes a gulp of air, trying (and failing) to compose himself. “M’ I in trouble?”

“W-what?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t stand up for myself. An’ I lied to you. You said if I ever…” He chokes up again, hair falling in his eyes.

“No. No, Cal, this ain’t your fault, it’s…”

“But I didn’t fight,” he whimpers. “And I lied to you…”

“You were scared. That’s- I ain’t mad at you, okay?” Dakota says, awkwardly patting his cousin’s back. “Uh… s’ okay.”

“S-sorry…”

“What’d I just say?”

It takes a minute, but they get Cal settled eventually. Puffy-eyed, he sits up and stares at the wall.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Dakota is saying. “You’re not… you aren’t any trouble.”

“I always am.”

“… Kid…”

Dakota doesn’t know what else to say, clearly.

And to be fair, neither does J.R..

Chapter 62: *spoiler* Gromit Tweedy-Herbertson

Patient is mute.

Don’t get any closer. Not that Dawson can. Not with the patient scooted as far back on the table as he is. Not until my mum gets in here, got it?

“Mr. Herbertson-”

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll do it. I have to. But I can’t do it alone.

“I understand,” Dawson says. “We can wait. I’m sure one of the nurses will have contacted your parents by now.”

Mum.

“Sorry?”

My mum, he types. They’ve already contacted my my um.

“Single parent household?”

Dad’s been shot.

Well, that was unexpected. “I’m sorry to hear that-”

Bastards. Gromit’s eyes start to narrow. Bastards, all of them! I hope they die! I hope they rot! I hope they’re right about there being a Hell and I hope they go straight down there!

The poor boy is under so much stress. Dawson lets him yell, or “yell” as the case may be.

“Gromit?” The door opens, and a young woman steps inside. Too young to be his mother, long blonde hair tied up in a braid.

Rapunzel?

“I’m sorry,” Dawson says. “Are you… his sister?”

“Oh, um, something like that…” She says from a careful distance. “Gromit? I’m here, okay-”

Where’s Mum? Is she with Dad?

“Sssort of?”

Can you go get her?

Rapunzel hesitates.

What’s wrong? Did they get her too?

“Gromit… your mom had an… accident in the waiting room. She’ll be okay! Don’t worry, the doctors say she should be fine, but… she can’t be here right now.”

What happened?

“Um… don't freak out, okay?”

The patient is already hyperventilating.

“C-calm down. Deep breaths. She’s fine, okay? She’s going to be fine, but… um… she did have a heart attack.”

A heart attack?! The speech app’s tone doesn't change, but from facial expression alone, were his patient not so young, Dawson swears he’d join his mother. Is she okay?!

“She’s fine! She’s going to be fine! It’s just… It’s not your fault. It’s really, really not your fault. The doctors said it was just a lot of stress. She’ll be fine. She only needs to stay for a few days.”

Gromit swallows. Promise?

“I promise. A-and I’m here. I’m here, and you won’t be alone for this. Okay?”

Okay.

She nods at Dawson. “Y-you can get started now.”

“R-right! Erm, Gromit, was it? Can you stand alright?”

The boy nods.

“Good. Please step over to the paper on the floor. I’ll get you some bags to put your clothes in… and a hospital gown!” He holds up the box. “Let’s see what we’ve got in here, shall we-”

I’m not two. I don’t care what color it is.

“R-right, of course. My apologies.”

The young man walks over to the paper. Punzie?

“I’m not looking.” True to her word, she has her head turned away and her hands firmly over her eyes. He nods, and removes his clothes. He grabs the gown nearest to him. Simple and beige.

Male… 16… Caucasian… B-…

Okay, got it. He goes back to the exam table and sits on the edge. Tries (and fails) to look like he isn’t shaking. So now what?

“Can you tell me what parts of you they, ah… assaulted?”

Mouth. It was just one guy.

“Do you know who?”

Nodding. He wasn’t one of them, I don’t know what they were doing together. But he’d been watching me for a while. And he’d done the same thing to a friend of mine. And my, I guess, step-cousin. Something like that. He came in and dragged me upstairs while another guy stayed down in the living room with my dad. When he finished, he left and the other guy took me.

Strange.

“And you’re certain he didn’t work for them?”

Yeah. They didn’t like gay people and he was pretty camp so…

Another person to worry about. Fantastic. Dawson clears his throat. “Can you provide a description?”

I can give you his name.

“If you could.” Dawson puts pen to paper.

Padraic Ratigan.

Dawson immediately drops both onto the floor.

Gromit blinks. Rapunzel reaches out. “Doctor? Are you okay-”

“I’m fine,” he lies. “I’m just fine.”

He looks again at Gromit. Brown hair. Brown eyes. High achiever. Of course Ratigan had gone after him, of course he had, why wouldn’t he? And he’d used another party to get to him… It was so, so low.

Why was he surprised?

“My apologies,” he says.

The young man squints. You know him. Don’t you?

“I-I don’t-”

My step-cousin is a detective. I’ve learned a few things from him.

“Step-cousin… This is the one who-”

Yeah. He’s kind of famous. Used to be anyway.

“… Basil Baker.”

Guess you watch the news. Gromit scowls. He wasn’t part of the department coverup, you know. The only reason people think that is because Ratigan said so.

“I… I know he wasn’t.”

What makes someone do that?

“Do what?”

Ruin someone’s life like this. Ruin so many people’s lives.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know the answer.” Dawson has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something decidedly unprofessional. “Can I… Can you open your mouth for me? I’d like to take an oral swab.”

Gromit looks over at Rapunzel and reaches out his hand. Wordlessly she takes it in her own. He looks back over at the doctor, nods, and opens. Pepto pink comes up on the swab.

“Alright.” He puts them in a vial. “I realize you weren’t sexually assaulted elsewhere, but can you tell me if he hurt you anywhere else?”

He didn’t have to. Gromit lowers his eyes. He said if I didn’t open my mouth for him they were going to kill my dad. So I didn’t fight back.

Dawson’s eyes widen. “O-oh, my. Goodness, I’m so sorry. That sounds awful.”

It was awful. And then they shot Dad anyway.

Dawson clears his throat. “And… the others? Did they make you do anything?”

I think they were going to. Didn’t get very far, though. They were too busy with the kids, I guess.

“The kids?”

Wilbur Robinson. His dad works with my dad. And the Sire of Termites. Sorry, we go to the same support group. Everyone uses codenames. I don’t actually know his full name. His sister called him Nuka though. Or Nooka. Something that sounded like that. He rubs a bump on his temple. They beat me up, but at least I can tell you where it hurts. When they were done with those two, they stopped moving.

Nuka, Dawson’s seen. He doesn’t have the permission, or the heart, to tell this poor child what he already knows. “In that case, I think that completes the forensic exam. But I will be taking a look at your other injuries, if that’s alright.”

Do I have a choice? Gromit’s eyes look as flat as the machine that speaks for him sounds.

“Well, yes, but-”

Nevermind, let’s just get it over with.

They do. Gromit’s eyes remain flat throughout.

Chapter 63: Mason Wolf

Patient is clearly suffering.

Kekata sighs. He was called in to deal with a suicide attempt. It takes one look at Mason Wolf to deduce that something else is going on. Bloody lips; warts and skin tags; jaundiced and yellowed eyes… He’s seen worse, obviously, but that doesn’t make this good by any means.

“Have you taken anything in the last forty-eight hours?”

“Eight,” Wolf mumbles drunkenly.

“Eight what?”

The infirmary staff member just shrugs.

“Tell me you’ve run a drug test, at least.”

“Uh…”

This entire prison is run by a circuit of the most incompetent morons imaginable. Kekata doesn’t even need to look it up; this just has to be a private prison.

“Well, make yourself useful and- no,” he says. “Nevermind. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He approaches the bed. “Medical file?”

“Huh?”

“Get me his medical file!”

“Uh…”

The blood vessel beside his eye is this close to popping. “You do have one, don’t you?”

“O-of course!” The staff man rushes off and comes back with… a paper file. Not electronic.

Male… 31… Native/Caucasian… O+…

No history of substance abuse.

“Mr. Wolf?” he asks. “Do you know where you are right now?”

More delirious mumbling.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Few hours? We, uh, strapped him down after we found him like that.”

Wolf is lying on his back on the medical cot, arms and legs in restraints. He’s completely naked. And completely uncovered. And shivering from what Kekata guesses is more than just nerves.

“Is there any reason you haven’t given this man a gown? A blanket?”

The staff member shrugs. “He’s on suicide watch. Standard procedure.”

You wouldn’t know proper suicide watch procedures if they bit you in the dick, is what Kekata wants to say. He doesn’t say this.

“Get him a blanket before he goes into shock!” It’s probably too late for that, but at least it will help.

“But-”

“Now. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t completely shut down.”

The guard sighs. “Fine.”

Kekata is alone with the patient. “Mr. Wolf?” he tries again. “I need to ask you a few questions. Do you think you’re up to answering them? It’s alright to nod or shake your head.”

Wolf nods. Thank all that is good in the world.

“Okay. Good.” This’ll have to be a yes or no question and answer, but that's okay. This is fine. Kekata takes in a breath. First with the number… “You said eight. Yes?”

A nod.

“Did you mean eight substances?”

Wolf shakes his head.

“Eight hours?”

Another shake.

Kekata thinks for a moment. “We’ll get back to that. Have you taken any medicine in the past two days?”

A head shake.

“Any intoxicants?”

Another shake.

“I can see you tried to hang yourself.” It’s blunt, but there’s no getting around it. “Is this your first attempt?”

Wolf nods.

“And is that all you did to get here? You didn’t try anything else? No cutting? You didn’t swallow razor blades?”

Wolf stares at him.

“It’s happened before.”

Wolf slowly shakes his head.

“Have you been dealing with these thoughts for a few years?”

Wolf shakes his head.

“Months?”

A nod.

“Two? Three? Four-”

Wolf holds up a hand.

“Four months. Do you have depression?”

A shake.

“Paranoia?”

A shake.

“Any mental health issues that you know of?”

Shrug. Then a shake of the head.

“History of childhood trauma?”

Wolf stares at the wall.

“Right.” Kekata sighs, snapping on his gloves. “Does your throat hurt?”

Nod.

“Scale of one to-”

Ten fingers. Okay.

“I’m going to shine a light down there, see how bad the swelling is. Will you let me do that?” He really, really doesn’t want to fight with him on this. Thankfully, Wolf nods. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Red and swollen, as to be expected. Kekata winces on his patient’s behalf. That’s a lot of pain to be in, but there’s something else. “I’m seeing a few lesions in there.” He turns off the light. “Can you taste blood?”

A nod.

“Do you know how that happened?”

A nod.

Uh-oh… Kekata swallows. “Did… did someone put something into your throat? Something that wasn’t food?”

Wolf makes a circle with his hand and mimes a crude motion, bringing it away from his lips and back again.

“Oh.” It’s far from unexpected, given his condition, but it saddens Kekata to see any young man like this. “How long ago was this?”

One finger.

“One day? Ah. And… has this happened more than once?”

Nod.

“Did they attack you anywhere else?”

Nod.

“Anal cavity?”

Nod.

“In that case, would you consent to a forensic exam?”

The guard comes back with a blanket and dumps it - folded - on Wolf’s stomach.

“You could be a little more sympathetic,” Kekata snaps.

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time,” the guard says. “It’s not my job to make him comfortable.”

“Well, you’re making my job more difficult.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry.

Kekata goes back to Wolf. “I won’t force the issue, but I advise you at least let me-”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He was sexually assaulted less than twenty-four hours ago,” probably due to your fucking incompetence, “I’d say he’s well within his rights to be a little despondent.”

“Oh.” This is all the man says.

“That’s it? Just ‘oh’?”

“Hey, it’s prison. These things happen. Not my job to stop it.”

“I think you’ll find that the law disagrees.” Kekata can’t keep the poison out of his tone. “I think perhaps you should step out. Take a walk. Collect yourself.”

“But he needs guarding-”

“And you’ve done such a good job of that up until this point. He’s restrained. He’s not going anywhere.”

“But-”

Kekata gives him the look. The one he’d reserved for his own son as a child. The guard leaves the room then without another word. Finally. Kekata turns back to Wolf. “Now, then. Do you mind if I perform a forensic exam?”

Wolf shakes his head.

“Alright. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through the process. If you need a minute… tap my arm twice, okay? And I’ll stop.”

The patient relaxes slightly. Kekata breathes a sigh of relief.

“Alright, thank you.” He changes his gloves. “First I’m going to run a few swabs of your throat, understand? One for evidence, more to see what it is that you’re sick with. Then we can see about getting you treated. It may hurt a bit, please let me know if you need a break.”

A nod. Wolf opens his throat. The swabs come out red and brown. Rust red. Makes sense, it probably wasn’t a full twenty-four hours since the assault.

“Have you washed your hands since it happened?”

Nodding.

“I’ll hold off on clipping your nails then.” More gloves. More swabs. Kekata takes the blanket away. “Do you mind if I… I’m going to look between your legs now. Are you… prepared for that?”

Wolf takes in a deep breath. Another. Then another. Finally, a nod.

“Alright.” Kekata shifts so he’s between the patient’s legs. “I’ll only need one or two swabs. Was there more than one assailant?”

Wolf squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

“How many-”

Eight fingers.

Eight people.

Chapter 64: *spoiler* Riley Andersen

Patient is suffering from abdominal and genital injuries.

Riley Andersen was brought in already swinging in and out of consciousness. Concussion, extreme pain, and whatever they were shot up with by their assailants to keep them still. Maxwell is hesitant to drug them further but surgery is an immediate necessity. He settles for a local anaesthetic, and a partition to keep them from seeing their guts opened up.

“Wh-wh’t’re you…” They struggle. “Not again…”

“Please do not be alarmed, Mx. W-” He has to check the file to prevent himself calling them Wix. “Andersen. I promise no one here will touch you sexually. You are in need of emergency surgery and, should you choose, a forensic kit. Your guardians have made arrangements on the phone and will be here soon. If it would reassure you I can explain the process as I go.”

“Nnn… no. Just wanna sleep…”

“Then by all means do. Do not worry, it is now considered outdated practice to keep a head injury patient awake, and with the local anaesthetic you should feel nothing. You may sleep. I will be here to keep you safe.”

Riley doesn’t so much fall asleep as pass out again. Either way, it’s probably a mercy.

“Bonjour,” he says, motioning the nurse over. “Would you please prepare an IV drip while I prep the surgical site?”

“Y-yes, Dr. Maxwell.”

He snaps on the gloves and pours the rubbing alcohol. This would hurt if they were awake. Thankfully, Riley doesn’t stir.

DFAB nonbinary… 12… Caucasian… AB+…

Rust red where the blood has started to dry. Bright red where it hasn’t. There is a lot. Maxwell can’t see any white, or even pink, in this region (though he can see he’ll get plenty from their mouth when the emergency is over).

Their badly bruised abdomen is opened up, and the issue is immediately apparent. The vaginal canal and cervix are ripped right through, swollen and bruised, leaking blood into the abdominal cavity. There is damage to the bladder and bowel as well, but not as severe. Looks incidental to the main event. One ovary is obviously ruptured, the other at least badly battered.

Maxwell blinks slowly. “Prepare for an emergency hysterectomy.”

He examines more closely. The less damaged ovary may or may not be salvageable, and he will try. Removing all sources of estrogen is a risk factor for brittle bone disease. (Besides, while he knows Mx. Andersen has no desire to be pregnant, they may someday wish for their eggs to be used by a surrogate. Even if they don’t, Maxwell deeply wants to cheat GWF out of this attempt to take the choice from them.) The uterus itself is too damaged to leave in.

It’s a grisly procedure. Maxwell has come across anti-trans think pieces here and there - usually aimed at the services the hospitals provide. He’s seen the way some people describe the surgery. He wonders what they’d think of this.

He also wonders how long it’ll take not to think of this when Riley becomes the Wix again.

Chapter 65: Giulia Marcovaldo

Patient appears to be in good health.

Giulia Marcovaldo plays with the knit cap in her hands. She smiles nervously up at Stein. The underarms of her striped shirt are patched with sweat; he can see that when she squirms - which she does often - under the weight of her father’s single hand.

Massimo Marcovaldo looks like he wants to kill something. Looks like he could do it, too.

“How long ago was this?”

“Um…” She bites her lip. “Last month… I think? I… I was too upset to think about it, I don’t remember exactly.”

Not good, but not surprising. Kids especially can forget details. “We’ll skip the DNA gathering then, there won’t be anything left. I’d like to take a blood sample to check for infection, and it would be a good idea if I looked at the places he hurt you. Are you okay with that?” Stein asks the girl and glances at her father. Both nod. “Okay, can you tell me what he did?”

“Um…”

“It’s alright, Giulietta,” Mr. Marcovaldo says, accent heavy with emotion. He’s a beast of a man, but he speaks so gently. “He… he cannot hurt you now.”

“La bestia della baia,” she whispers. “There… there was a mons-”

“Giulietta… Please.” He looks at Stein, clearly trying to compose himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why she…”

“But there is! I… I swear! That’s why-” He hugs her, pulling her face into his chest until she stops arguing. “Papa.”

“Shh.” He nods at Stein. “She tells me it was some kind of sea monster, you know? She met him in Redfish Bay. Her and her little friend.”

“Luca,” Giulia supplies. “We were, um, training for the cup…”

“The cup?”

“The Little Italy triathlon.”

“Oh! Yes, I know which one you mean. Were you swimming?”

“Yuh-huh. So the stuff woulda washed off me anyway, right? I didn’t mess up?”

“Even if it hadn’t, you didn’t mess up by being scared, okay?” Stein tries to assure her. “It’s really hard to talk about this kind of thing. If you needed to wait, that’s okay.”

She shuffles. “I didn’t even tell Dad. I told some friends and he heard them talk about it.”

“Well, now he knows and we can get this dealt with, okay?”

“I guess…”

Female… 13… Caucasian… O+…

“Alright, Miss Marcovaldo,” Stein says and pulls out his box of gowns. “Pick one of these to change into - any color you like. And I’m going to have you hand your clothes to your father.”

“O-okay…”

“Do you want me to step out for a minute while you do that?”

“You can just turn your back. I’ll be fine.” She nudges her father. “Really, Papa.”

When he turns back around, Giulia is leaning on the wall, still clearly uncomfortable. Her shirt and pants have been exchanged for a blue gown, patterned with yellow stars. “H-how do I look?”

Stein fights the parental urge to compliment her. After what she’s been through, he doesn’t want to risk upsetting her. (He doesn’t want to risk upsetting her father either.) “Do you need any help getting up on the table?” he asks. “This shouldn’t take long.”

“No, I’m okay.” She jumps up and kicks her feet back and forth a couple of times. Stein tries not to think about how far off the floor they are. She tilts her head and asks, “So where do you need to look?”

“Well, where did he hurt you?”

She’s silent for a long time. Having to work up the courage, or having to think to remember it? She might need to be checked for traumagenic amnesia… “Um, he… touched me all over and put his thing in my mouth?” Her voice rises in pitch at the end, as if it’s a question. “I didn’t, like, get hurt hurt or anything. So this… this isn’t that big a deal, right?”

“It still counts. What he did to you was wrong, even if it didn’t hurt - even if it felt good. Adults shouldn’t do that kind of thing to kids.”

“Y-yeah… I know.”

“I’m going to take a blood sample,” he says. It’s about the only thing he can do. “And… Mr. Marcovaldo?”

“Hm?”

“I can check her throat if you like. It might be too late to prescribe any preventative medications, but-”

“Do what you think is best.”

Stein holds the needle up for Giulia to look at. He swabs the injection site. “Hold still.”

Bright red. Young, healthy blood. At least it looks healthy.

“I should hear back from the lab in a few weeks.”

Marcovaldo nods. Stein moves onto the little girl’s throat. (She’s even younger than Frankie…)

“Say ‘ah’.”

She does. And there’s nothing notable. Not that he expected there to be - mouth wounds heal fast.

Chapter 66: Luca Paguro

Patient also appears to be in good health.

Luca Paguro comes in, sandwiched between both parents. He doesn’t look happy about it. None of them look happy.

Daniela Paguro glares at her husband over their son’s head. “I told you we should have sent him to stay with Ugo!”

“But, Mom-”

“Silenzio, Luca. The grown-ups are talking.” She goes back to Lorenzo. “This is all my fault!”

“Honey, no-”

“Mom-”

“Shh,” she croons, pulling Luca against her. “It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be okay!”

Stein’s just finished with the Marcovaldos. He’s tired. He’s also the only doctor currently on site qualified to perform a forensic exam. “When was the last time it happened?”

Male… 12… Caucasian… A-…

Luca tenses. “Not for a while…”

“Can you give me an estimate?”

“Weeks?”

“I’ll just focus on harm-reduction then,” Stein says. “No DNA to look for.” He pulls out the box of gowns. There aren’t as many as there were in the other room. “Do you want me to step out so you can change?”

“Would you? Grazi.”

He’s sitting on the table when Stein comes in again.

“Can you tell me where he touched you? What did he do specifically?”

“Um…”

“I know it’s hard. But I need to know so I can treat you.”

“He just… touched me.”

“Down there?”

Luca nods.

“What about your mouth?”

“S-sicuro. I mean, yes! Yes, my mouth too…”

“Can I look there first?”

It tells the same story as Giulia’s - not much of one. Doesn’t rule anything out… but Luca’s gown rides down a little and Stein stares at the bite mark on his neck.

“When did this happen?”

“About a month-”

“It looks fresh.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Luca…”

His mouth stays shut. Stein sighs. It’s not his job to interrogate him. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

The imprint is irregular. Almost… unsure? Like a first time love-bite.

It’s also smaller than one would expect. And Stein says so.

“It’s… it’s a little beast.”

Maybe that’s why Stein can’t find anything else on him. No marks or bruises. There’s nothing at all.

Chapter 67: Alberto

Patient has large hook through left arm.

Massimo Marcovaldo is back, but not with his daughter. The boy thrown over his shoulder is kicking and screaming and in no condition to give up his name.

“Lasciami andare! Lasciami solo! Bastardo! Bastardo, non toccarmi!”

“Wh-what’s he saying?”

“This young man,” Massimo says, sounding angry, “is objecting to being brought here. Please pay him no mind. He’s a foundling. I’m currently the closest thing to a guardian he has, and I believe we’re legally obligated to get him treatment since it’s an emergency.”

It certainly is. The hook caught in his flesh is big and curved, and from the swelling and smell it looks like it’s been there for some time. Though the smell isn’t actually that bad. Stein went into the room after Maxwell treated Mercury Black, and even hours later it was worse than this. This wound is undeniably infected, but it could be much worse.

“Has he been receiving treatment already?”

“I’m not sure, but I suspect my daughter and her friend tried to apply first aid.”

Stein’s relieved they didn’t try to pull the hook out. It’s barbed - they’d have done a lot more harm than good. “Alright,” he says, and steps around Marcovaldo to speak to the boy. “Hey there, I’m Dr. Stein. Can you give me your name?”

“Alberto lo Scorfano,” he says, still struggling. “Don’t touch me!”

Male… Caucasian… unknown, approx 12-15… unknown…

“He wants to help you,” Marcovaldo says tightly.

Alberto kicks harder, trying to grab Stein’s hair. “I’m too old! I told you, stupido! I’m too old!”

“What’s he talking about?”

“I’m… not entirely sure, but I think…” The man presses his lips together - long and white beneath his bristled mustache. “The hook was attached to a cinder block in Redfish Bay.”

Oh. Oh. Stein was present when all those little boys came in… “Do you know how long he was there?” Marcovaldo shakes his head, but Stein already has a pretty good guess from the wounds on the boy. He’s had that arm injury for longer than Pinocchio Collodi’s been back in town. “Ah. No further questions, then.” He again turns to the boy. “Alberto, did you say? Okay, Alberto, that’s not what we’re going to do. I just want to look at that arm.”

“No!” The kid protests, but the fight’s draining from him. Maybe he’s calmed by Stein’s promise. More likely, he’s too tired to do much. In any case, it makes it easier to get him down and onto the table. He curls in on himself, closing his eyes.

“Give him something,” Marcovaldo says. It’s an order, not a request. “For the pain.”

“Alberto? This is important; do you have any allergies?”

No answer. Slow shake of the head.

“I’m going to use a local anesthetic for now,” Stein says. “We’ll have to be careful.”

Alberto curls up even further. By now he’s too exhausted to push either of them away and Stein goes ahead, putting the needle in his arm. As he does, Marcovaldo leans in close and murmurs Italian into the child’s ear. Quietly - almost silently - Alberto starts to cry.

“Shh, ragazzino, peace.”

His arm goes limp with the anaesthetic, and Stein examines the hook. Going to be tricky, but he can probably extract it here. It’s barbed, yes, but not going into or between bones… He calls for a nurse, and when Seto arrives he sends her for bolt-cutters. In theory he can cut the ends off and pull the hook through; an easier process than trying to cut the flesh away. He ends up having to do both, though, as the wound has healed around the metal, skin and scab and pus sticking to it. Still, soon enough he’s able to pull the hook out and disinfect and bandage the arm.

“There you go, Alberto,” he says. “Does that feel better? I’m afraid it’ll hurt again when the anaesthetic wears off, but it shouldn’t be as bad as before. I’ll prescribe you some pills for the pain and to prevent the infection getting worse…” He hopes it’s not too late. It was pretty bad already.

“I am thankful,” Massimo says.

Stein hums in acknowledgement as he surveys his handiwork. Alberto’s wearing a stained tank top that smells almost worse than the wound did. “Alberto? Buddy? I already said we’re not going to touch you, alright? But I do need to get you cleaned up and dried off. Part of that…” Deep breath. “I’ll get you something to change into, okay? But I’m going to need to take off your clothes.”

“Nooo…”

“What about his arm?” Massimo asks. “Surely removing the shirt will-”

Stein holds up a pair of fabric shears.

“Ah.”

“Can you hold him still?”

“Won’t that make things worse?”

“I don’t want to hurt him if he moves.”

There are scars between his shoulder blades and going down his spine. Jagged, almost fin-shaped, like the sails on a fish. While Stein works, disinfecting and bandaging, he speaks quietly to Massimo. “What did he say his surname was? Scorfano? Can we contact his family with that?”

“Ah… that’s almost certainly not his name,” Massimo says, and coughs.

“How do you know?”

“Literally it means ‘scorpionfish’. As a figure of speech, it means ‘ugly one’.”

“What?”

Massimo sucks on his teeth. “I think the family - his father - may have been involved. On the beach, when I found him, he said some things that… Hopefully, I misunderstood.”

“Things like?” Stein prompts.

Alberto’s pants are too big for him around the waist and too short at the leg area. He’s been holding them up with a piece of rope scavenged from who knows where. Stein gives up on the knot and cuts through it, wincing along with his young patient. He has to suppress another wince when he sees what’s under the fabric. That’s a lot of scarring.

“I told you I was too ugly,” Alberto mumbles.

Massimo nods. Stein understands. Things like that.

Chapter 68: Majer “Max” and David “Davie” Kettle

Patients are recent releases.

Normally Kekata gets the weird ones, but not this time. The Kettle twins come into the room, still clinging to their grandfather. He asked for a black doctor specifically - a black woman. And Jekyll is happy to assist.

“Hi, boys!”

They freeze up like deer in the headlights.

“Come on in, I won’t bite.”

It takes some nudging, but Mr. Kettle manages to push them through the door. “Sorry about that. They’re a little nervous.”

“I got you. It’s really no problem,” Jekyll says. “So just a regular checkup today?”

He nods and turns to the boys. “Who’s first?”

2 patients, non-identical twins, both male… African American… 11… A- and O-…

One of them - Davie - lifts a shaky hand. “S’it gonna hurt?”

“Does anything hurt right now?”

Davie shakes his head.

“Then I don’t think it will. I’d like you to change into a gown, and then we’ll get started, okay?”

Davie glances at his brother, whose eyes have gone wide. “Uh… do I hafta?”

Jekyll nods. “It’ll make the checkup easier, and…” … that jumpsuit is disgusting. “… and it’ll help make sure there are less germs in the room.”

Davie slowly nods and selects a blue gown. Jekyll turns away while he changes, and almost winces when she looks again. He looks so much thinner now, so much smaller.

“Do you wanna hop on the table for me and we can get started?”

He does, long legs dangling above the floor. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” She gets her penlight. “First I’m gonna check your mouth and nose and all that good stuff, okay, honey? Just like your regular doctor.”

All good so far. She moves onto his ears. No sign of infection there either.

“Almost done,” she says. “Let’s do your heart and blood pressure, then I’ll have to get you on the scale. Have you not been eating much?”

He looks… really underweight.

“O-oh, no, not really.”

“Did they not give you enough?“ She’d have thought that a prison cafeteria might give a child too much, not too little.

“I mean… I mostly felt really, really sick when I tried to eat.”

Anxiety. Understandable, given the circumstances.

“We’ll have to get you fattened up again.” She turns to his grandfather. “I’ll make some notes about how to do that - lots of protein.”

His heartbeat is fast, but not irregular. His blood pressure is normal. Jekyll motions Davie over to the scale. She frowns.

“Whatsa matter?”

Sixty pounds. For his height, he should weigh at least eighty. Maybe more.

“You’ve lost a little more weight than I was expecting,” she says carefully. “Nothing we can’t handle, but I want you to take it easy for a while - no extreme sports.”

That gets a smile. Finally. And the lollipop doesn’t hurt.

Jekyll turns to Max. “Your turn.”

His hands tighten on his waistband. “C-can I keep m’ duds on?”

“Max.”

He steps back, bumping into his brother. “Sorry, lady. Ya ain’t gettin’ my clothes off.”

“Max,” Davie says. “C’mon, it… it’s not so bad.”

“Fuck off!”

“Majer!” Kettle snaps. “We do not use those words, understand? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m not getting naked! I won’t I won’t I won’t!” Majer shakes his head.

“Majer!” Mr. Kettle says again.

The boy ducks behind his grandfather. “DON’T LET HER TOUCH ME!”

“Hey, what’s-”

“Max…?” Davie says, stepping forward. “I-it’s okay! Calm down, wouldja? She ain’t-”

His brother bursts into tears.

“Majer? Is… is something wrong?”

“I’m not gonna let her! No no no! Not again! Not again!”

“Majer, shhh, it’s alright. She’s a doctor. She’s not going to hurt you.”

Jekyll winces as he grabs his grandfather’s leg and hangs on.

“Majer- Max? Please, I don’t know what’s-”

“He… he don’t want you touchin’ him,” Davie whispers.

Jekyll’s heart sinks. “What happened to him in there?”

No answer. That’s all she needs.

“Mr. Kettle? Can you… Do you think you can hold him still long enough for me to get a sedative into him? I can call a nurse…”

“A sedative?” Elder lets out what could almost be described as a laugh. “The hell you need a sedative for?”

“It will act as a chemical restraint so I can perform a forensic examination.”

“What? Forensi- What?! Max doesn’t need-”

“Sir, this isn’t normal behavior. I can’t in good conscience let this go by unchecked.”

“But… but Davie’s fine, why would Max-”

“Popop?” The other twin is barely audible above his brother’s hysteria. “I… If forensic means lookin’ at his private parts than ya’d better let her do it.”

“NO!”

“Shhh, shhhh,” Elder pulls up his other grandson, cradling him in his arms.

It breaks Jekyll's heart to realize how small he is.

“Shhhh, easy, easy.” Elder turns to the doctor and nods once. Mouths Put him under as he rocks Majer back and forth.

Just a little bit of Midazolam. Just a little needle. Just a little pinprick in the boy’s right arm. And only a few minutes before he sags against Kettle’s shoulder. Jekyll motions him over to the table and he lays Max down, hand still resting on his head.

“Davie?” she asks. “Do you want to wait outside? There’s a TV in the waiting room.”

“Can I stay?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, hun.”

“Popop…?”

“Do as she says.”

“But-”

“David. Go.”

He does, dragging his feet. Jekyll swallows when the door closes. “W-would you mind removing his clothing?”

There isn’t much to remove - an oversized jumpsuit, stained underpants, socks and shoes. Jekyll takes all of them, bagging and folding in the heavy silence.

“I can give you something for him to change into,” she says.

“I have a change of clothes in the car. Just do what you can for him now.”

Max doesn’t stir as she starts the examination. Too drugged up to care, it seems.

“How bad is it?”

“Not… terrible.” It’s worse between his legs. Pepto-Bismol pink has already started to pool.

“What on earth…”

“Did he say anything to you?” she asks. “Not just about this, anything that might have…?”

“I don’t know,” Kettle says, clearly shaken, “I don’t know. I didn’t know this was- no! No.”

No wonder he was scared, poor kid. Jekyll stitches the wound. There’s scar tissue on top of scar tissue. “I think this happened more than once…”

“… He’s unconscious?”

Jekyll nods.

“Good.” Elder scowls, but not at his grandson. “Fuck.”

Jekyll can’t blame him. “There was also certainly more than one assailant.”

“Who would- The police, they weren’t…” He shakes his head. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

“It’s possible the other men he was locked up with…” Jekyll bites off the end of her sentence. “Many of them were there for a reason, right? And he might have been scared…” Don’t think about Holt right now. “Have you noticed any sudden change in his behavior? Er, anything since he was incarcerated?”

“I…” Elder trails off, tries to think. “He’s being clingy. Acting a little younger than he is. I… I thought it was just stress.”

It probably was, Jekyll thinks to herself. Albeit not in the way that Elder assumed. She swallows, taking in a deep breath. “It’s more likely that your grandson is experiencing age regression. It’s common in multiple forms of trauma and abuse, but… it’s especially common in-”

“Cases like this?” He motions to the pink.

“In young children. And… yes. Usually it’s as simple as some, uh, temporary backsliding. Kids don’t have sophisticated coping mechanisms yet, so they go back to the old ones - some of them start climbing in bed with their parents, sucking their thumbs, lotta the time they start having hygiene problems - you’ll have to watch for that.”

“Watch for what exactly?”

“Make sure he’s washing himself, brushing his teeth, keeping his hair tidy… and he might start having accidents. Too soon to tell, but…” She holds up the bag containing Max’s underwear. “It looks like he wet himself and waited for it to dry or didn’t change. Probably the prison’s fault - they might not have given him enough.”

“This whole damn thing is their fault!” Elder lets out, hitting the wall behind him. “They’re the ones who did this to him!”

“Sir-”

“Someone had to lock them up with a sick bastard! Someone had to insist they be tried as adults! Those… those bastards! Those fucking bastards! They hurt my boy!”

Jekyll can’t say she disagrees.

“I can make you a list of resources. You… you don’t have to go through this alone and neither does he.”

“He won’t be alone,” Kettle says. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Of course.” She moves to Max’s hands. The nails are cracked - a few are missing - and the skin is bruised where it isn’t broken. “It looks like he fought back.”

Kettle nods. “He would. Max has always been a fighter…” He trails off as she clips his nails. She can hear what he leaves unsaid.

That should have been enough.

That should have saved him.

But whoever the assailants were, they were bigger and stronger than a ten year old boy. That had been clear from the beginning. She swallows. “I’m afraid I’ll also need forensic swabs from… the…” Pepto pink between his legs. “And his mouth.”

Kettle steels himself. “Can I hold him?”

“In a moment.”

She cleaned the wound when she stitched it shut, but there is still some… residue left on his legs. Jekyll takes what she needs and scrubs away the rest, sighing in relief when she can cover him back up with the hospital gown. Kettle inches forward and she nods.

“Can you tilt his head up for me? Even if there’s nothing in his mouth, I’d like to get a look at his throat.”

“Of course.” Kettle does, and Jekyll gingerly opens his mouth, not expecting to see any off-white. She doesn’t, except in the very back. He involuntarily gags as she takes the swab. Other than that, it’s normal. Mostly normal. The throat is red and irritated. It could be from an infection (but she knows it’s not).

“I’ll schedule you for a followup next week,” she says. “To see how everything is healing up.”

Blood taken from the same arm she injected him in, wound covered up with a bandaid.

“I can recommend a few therapists…?”

“Will that… make him better?”

“It’s not that simple. But it might help.”

“Bastards,” Kettle mutters. Once again, Jekyll doesn’t disagree.

Chapter 69: Lizzy Tweedy

Patient is Jane Doe, prepubescent.

“Will you require the permission of my legal guardian?” Lizzy Tweedy kicks her legs on the exam table, plenty of room between her and the floor to do so.

Dr. Katara Achoda gives her a small smile. “Right now, no. Legally you’re considered a ward of the state.”

“I find this acceptable on a temporary basis.” She brushes a hand over the front of her dress. In actuality, it’s a long, striped shirt. Too wide and too big for such a little girl. “Oh, this?” Lizzy says when she catches Achoda looking. “One of my new friends let me borrow it. There’s nothing on underneath.”

“Erm…” Achoda wets her lips. “Do you think you can hop down for me? The children’s ward should have a few extra sets of pajamas… Let’s just get you into a hospital gown for now, though. That doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“Hm. And I suppose you’ll need it for forensic testing.”

“That too.”

“Pity. It’s covered in bloodstains. I like that.” She looks up at Katara. “Get me pajamas with bloodstains on them.”

“Erm-”

“Ah. Judging by the look on your face I presume this is both an unusual request and one you will be unable to fulfill. No matter. If you have red pajamas I may be able to pretend.” She hops off of the table. “Should I change here or elsewhere?”

Katara points to the paper on the floor. “If you could just stand here-”

“Understood.” Lizzy walks over and begins to undress. “Also, as you will likely require information for your files, I shall tell you what I know. My age is approximately one decade, or perhaps slightly younger. To my knowledge I am a full blooded Caucasian, as both Mother and the birthgiver are white. I believe myself at this time to be a cisgender female. And I am uncertain of my blood type. For reasons I am certain you understand.”

Female… Caucasian… approx 10… unknown…

Achoda struggles to keep up. “Okay, okay… got it. Think you can tell me when the last… assault happened?”

“Earlier today. Two men. Oral in nature.” Lizzy bares rust-red teeth. “They weren’t particularly happy, but I’m not quite sure what they expected. Even Minty isn’t that compliant anymore.”

“Who’s Minty?” Katara asks as starts combing the little girl’s hair.

“A friend of mine. We were kept together for a time.” She pauses. “Come to think of it, is there any chance you can get me in contact with a young man by the name of Kuzco Capac? He is a friend of hers. I would like to inform him she is alive and relatively unharmed.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Katara assures her. And she means it. “Would you mind opening your mouth for me?”

Lizzy does so, strings of off-white tainted with red still inside.

“I’m going to take a few swabs, alright?” Lizzy nods. “Once I get this done, do you want anything to drink?”

“Do you have tea? I have been informed of its merit as a hydrating liquid.”

“I’m sure I can get a nurse to make you a cup, but you might not like it. It isn’t very sweet.”

“I don’t like sweets.”

That is a little unusual for a girl so small; then again, Lizzy is unusual. Katara takes the swabs with no incident and puts them in vials.

“Now that you have gathered forensic evidence,” Lizzy speaks up, “I have been told my mother may be living in the city. May I give you her information? I’d like her to be contacted.”

“Of course.”

“Wilhelmina Tweedy - possibly still listed under the name ‘Willard’. From what I understand, she is engaged or married to a man named Herbertson.” Her lip curls slightly. “I do not intend to share.”

Katara isn’t sure she has much of a choice. She doesn’t say so. “I’ll make sure we find her for you.”

“Thank you. I would like to be held.”

“Erm-”

“By her. Nice as you have been, I would prefer not to hug you. Try and I will kick you.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see what we can do about contacting her.“

“Excellent.” Lizzy looks up. “One other thing. Can you tell me the condition of the gentlemen who escorted me into the hospital?”

“I’m… I’m not sure yet,” Katara says. “But I know at least one of them is still in surgery…”

And that it could go either way.

Chapter 70: Maxwell Schneider

Patient is a white man.

Nothing notable about that besides the fact that Max Schneider is the only white person in the group he came in with. Hell, he’s the only man - all the rest are barely fifteen, if that. Dawson has been informed why they’re here; he knows the drill by now and tactfully leaves the non-white members of the group to his non-white colleagues.

Male… Caucasian… 37… A-…

“Do you require a forensic examination?” Best to get it out of the way.

Schneider shakes his head. “No, they didn’t really do anything to me. Shoved me around a bit to stop me helping Vinnie, that was it… He does need a kit. Is it okay if I’m with him for it? It’ll take his parents hours to get here and I know they’ll fight if they’re in the same room, that’s the last thing he needs right now.”

“What’s your relationship to him?”

“I’m just his teacher. I don’t know if that’s allowed. Silly if it isn’t, considering where we’ve been.”

“I…” Dawson nods. “I’m sure we can arrange something. Have his parents been informed? Maybe if you got their permission…”

“I know his father’s number - he has primary custody. Should I call-”

“Do you mind waiting until we get you cleared?”

“Fine. Do whatever you need to do, as long as I can get back to the kids.”

“Of course, of course.” Dawson picks through his supplies; disinfectant, ointments, tweezers, bandages, lice comb, needle and thread. “I can’t say they’re lucky exactly, but they’re more fortunate to have had you around than they would’ve been otherwise. It sounds like you helped them a lot already.”

“Well, of course. They’re my students, they’re my responsibility.”

“Right now, they and you are the hospital’s responsibility, sir. Please, let me make sure you’re in reasonable condition first. I promise my colleagues will handle the children far more competently than they have been.”

“Hmf. Monkeys could handle them better than the cops did…” Schneider does sit quietly on the table now, though. He seems to be at the point of exhaustion; not surprising, after his body got used to confinement. He also looks terribly malnourished, when his once-orange and now-brownish jumpsuit is unzipped. Dawson doesn’t need to ask to know he went without so the kids could eat - for as long as they were still being fed at all.

“You said they didn’t hurt you badly,” he begins, “except when you tried to intervene with…?”

“With Vinnie, yeah. And Blanche, before that.” He shudders. “They just held me back, mostly. One of them - my eyes were shut - hit me in the ribs or the stomach for talking over them.”

“Does anything still hurt?”

“Bruises should have faded by now. Don’t think they broke anything, so… no.” He scratches his elbow. “Itches a lot.”

“Mm, there are a lot of things that could be, let me see,” Dawson says, and takes hold of that arm. He clicks his tongue when he sees the skin - it looks like the answer is everything. Scabies, lice bites, just plain irritation from dirt… “Are you planning to press charges?”

Schneider clenches his fist. “Definitely.”

“In that case, I’d like to take photos for evidence. The sooner we get that sorted the sooner you can get properly clean. Is that alright?”

Schneider only nods and holds still when the camera comes out. His scalp is riddled with lice and sores and ingrown hair. It’s the same with his chest and armpits and genital area. There isn’t much else besides that, aside from the aforementioned malnutrition, but as it is… Well, Dawson hopes there’s a substantial payout in store for all of them.

“I may have to shave the afflicted areas,” he says when he’s done with the photos. “Is that alright with you?”

“It’ll grow back,” he sighs. “Maybe it’ll make Belinda feel better.”

“Which one is Belinda?”

“The one with braids. They’re probably going to have to come off. Everyone’s hair was falling out anyway…”

Dawson is careful with the clipper, but every once in a while, he does brush over an open sore or scab and Schneider bites his inner cheek. Eventually they finish, and a pile of reddish brown hair covers the paper. Schneider changes into a gown while the table sheet is replaced.

“May I take samples of blood and the afflicted skin? If I know exactly what types of infections and parasites are present it will be easier to treat them.” Schneider holds out an arm and Dawson scrapes a sore patch with a scalpel, gathering whitish dead skin. “Sorry, I know this must hurt.”

“Not half as much as the kids are hurt,” Schneider says.

Dawson nods. He did see them come in. If he was Schneider, he’d stand much worse than a quick scraping for their sake.

Chapter 71: Reginald Luna

Patient is covered in lice-infested body hair.

Reginald Luna pulls his knees to his chest. “It’s all my fault,” he says.

“In what way do you think it’s your fault?” Dr. Sweet tries to speak reassuringly. “I’m sure your friends understand it isn’t.”

Luna shakes his hairy head. “That’s what they kept saying, sir, but I know they’re wrong. I was driving, I’m the one who hit the other car.”

“Other car?”

“W-we were arrested for dangerous driving…”

“All ten of you were arrested for dangerous driving? What the heck kind of car was that?” The joke falls rather flat.

“I told them it was just me.”

Male… 15… Native American… A-…

“The police?”

He nods, sniffling. “We were learning how to drive, but… but the last instructor quit - that was my fault too - and Mr. Schneider sir said he’d do it instead… so we took turns and it was mine and… and it’s all my fault.”

“H-hey now,” Sweet pats his back awkwardly. “Accidents happen.”

“Not these kinds of accidents.”

“Was the other driver hurt?”

“She said she was!”

“She was talking? Walking?”

Luna nods.

“Then it probably wasn’t all that bad, and even if it was-”

“But J.P.’s still talking and he is hurt that badly, sir! They nearly twisted his head off! And- and-” He breaks down into a howl.

“Hey. Hey, easy, Reggie - sorry, d’you mind being called Reggie? No? Okay. You sound like a smart kid. I bet you did a lot of research for your driving lessons, right? What’s the penalty for reckless driving in California?”

Sniffling. “Ninety days imprisonment or up to a thousand dollar fine for misdemeanour. If someone’s injured it’s felony reckless driving, so three years imprisonment or ten thousand dollars.”

“Do you think what happened to you and your friends might be just a little worse than that? I mean, it’s been less than three years, but the law requires certain health codes to be met…” Not that they often are. Sweet’s done work in the local prisons before.

“I know… but… but…” He takes a deep breath. “We only tapped her car, Mr. Schneider sir said they couldn’t charge us too bad… but we were getting arrested and the others tried to help and the p-policeman said…” He wheezes. “The rest of them got brought in too and they left us in the dark…”

“Okay, that’s definitely not allowed, understand?”

“I want my mom!”

Sweet lets him cry for a bit, then tries to reassure him again. “Your mom’s on her way. She’ll be here soon. Do you want to wait till she’s here to do the examination, or get it over with now?”

“It’ll take hours to drive from Santa Ynez,” he says. “I think my mother’s ex-husband lives in the city, and my half-brother, but… No. You’d better just go ahead. I don’t want to waste the time you could spend helping people who really need it.”

Sweet doesn’t argue further. Anything to get this poor kid treated faster. “Okay. Where are you injured? How badly?”

“I’m… not, really? Not like the others, doctor sir. They didn’t hurt me…” He plucks at his masses of chest hair. “I definitely have lice, though, and I think this is scabies? And skin irritation from not being able to clean myself properly. Not as bad as the others, but it is rather sore, sir.”

“We can get that sorted out no problem, don’t worry. I… might have to shave you, though, is that okay?”

“P-please,” he whispers. “I just want it over with.”

“Just one more thing, do you- What they did here was neglect. To you and your friends. I’m going to need to take some pictures.”

“Of… of me?”

“Will you be alright with that?”

“Will it make things easier for my friends? I need to make up for what I did, doctor sir.”

“I suppose it will, but if you’re not comfortable with it you don’t have to.”

Reggie sits up straighter, trembling. “No, no, sir, I will. It’s okay.”

Sweet gets the camera. “Just a question, was the excess hair a pre-existing condition? It seems like there’s more than would be expected at your age.”

“Um, some of it, yes, doctor sir, but it got more extreme during confinement. Is that normal?”

“I do know high stress hormone levels can cause increased hair growth. So can starvation - when you lose a lot of weight your body can’t stay warm so the hair grows to protect you. We can do a blood test to check if you want? I’ll probably have to take a sample anyway, so it’s no additional trouble.”

“Okay,” Reggie says. “Yessir.”

“Good. Now,” Sweet motions to his jumpsuit. “Can you remove your clothes? I’ll get you a gown to cover up as soon as we’re done.”

He stands up and does so, and doesn’t protest. The filthy jumpsuit falls into a pile on the floor. Sweet snaps a few pictures, trying to finish as quickly as possible so he can do something about the insects crawling over the poor kid. His bones are protruding and his joints are bruised from lying on the concrete floor. As soon as the photos are done he slumps back down on the table, his knees too weak to hold him up.

“While we’re here… You said they didn’t hurt you badly,” Sweet says gently. “But do you need a forensic examination? Did anyone do anything sexual to you?”

Reggie bursts into harsh sobs and buries his face in his hands. Sweet has to listen quite hard to pick out the muffled words - “Not to me!”

Chapter 72: Joaquin Pedro Gastly III

Patient is suffering from a broken neck.

Joaquin Pedro Gastly the Third stares up, shell-shocked, and mumbles “It’s not broken,” before his eyes roll back.

Kekata drops his pen when the kid’s hands move. “How the-?” He clears his throat. “Excuse me. Let me confirm…” He squeezes J.P.’s foot and watches the leg jerk, despite the fact that the boy’s head is literally on backwards. He’s heard how resilient teenagers’ bodies can be, but this is new. Extraordinary… Like Dawson, he can’t really say “lucky”. Instead, he asks, “Can you tell me how this happened?”

“They hurt my girlfriend. Tried to.”

Male… 14… Native American… A+…

“Girlfriend?”

“Blanche - she’s, uh… the one with the face. It used to be a beautiful face, you know. Million dollar looks.” He sighs. “When we get married, I’ll have to pay for a plastic surgeon.”

“What exactly-”

“The man with the mustache took her. I tried to stop him. The lady with the jaw and the man with the whiskers didn’t like that.”

Kekata’s seen the pictures. He knows who J.P. means. “So they…?” He avoids using leading words, lets the boy describe it himself. Same interviewing technique the police use.

“Tried to break my neck, I think. They were surprised when I was still talking anyway.”

“Has anyone tried to put it back into place since then?”

J.P. can’t shake his head. “Nuh-uh, no way. None of us knew how and I wouldn’t let them try. Tried to keep it still. Wasn’t much room to move anyway in there.”

“Very sensible. This is probably going to require surgery.”

“I figured as much. Whatever it is, my father can pay for it - he owns shares for the Chumash Casino Resort, you know.”

“Are you injured in any other way?”

“I don’t think so. Unless you count the lice. And whatever Gil gave everyone.”

“Was one of your classmates sick?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Can you describe his symptoms?”

“Big slimy scaly patches. Like these,” J.P. says, pointing to angry sore patches on his back.

Kekata looks closer. “Mm. Looks like crusted scabies. We’ll take samples, if that’s alright? And I’ll find some insecticides.”

“Go ahead. Hehe, ‘ahead’.” J.P. chuckles weakly. “Are the samples for picking treatment or for evidence? Because I’m pressing charges so hard.”

Kekata nods and says, “Both. Both reasons, if you want to.”

“Oh! Can we sue, do you think? The police department is overfunded, they’re bound to have lots of money.”

“I’ll… take note of that.” Kekata parts the boy’s hair. “How about I start on your scalp and move downwards? Do you need anything before we start? Anything to eat?”

“The men who found us gave us snack bars but none of us could really eat them. Mr. Schneider spat on his. The paramedics put us on IVs.”

“Painkillers then?”

“How many you got?”

“I’ll see what we have.” Kekata opens the cupboard, skips right over the aspirin to the opioids. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst you’ve ever felt, how much pain are you in?”

“Um… twenty-five, now I’m focusing on it?” J.P. wiggles his fingers in an attempt at a flippant hand-wave. “Could be worse though. You should see Vinnie.”

Chapter 73: Belinda Duzer

Patient’s head must be shaved. Immediately.

Belinda Duzer actually hisses when she sees the clippers in Dr. Maheswaran’s hand.

“I’m sorry, but it really has to be done.” It really does. The poor girl’s hair is green with filth and so full of fleas the locks are jumping about on their own.

“But it’s my hair!”

“I know how upsetting this must-”

“No you don’t!”

Female… 15… Native American… O+…

Dr. Maheswaran feels the urge to tug at her own long hair, but is able to refrain. Long years of strict hygiene procedures help. “No, I don’t suppose I do. I know how important hair is to a young lady, but it’s really not salvageable. Please just let me deal with it, it will grow back. It’s practically falling out already.”

“Nooo…” Duzer huddles into the corner and covers her head with her hands.

“I’m sorry. I know you have spent a long time with no control over your own body…”

“Not like some of my friends have, but yeah, I guess.”

“Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

“Can’t you at least try cleaning it? I just… It just grew back. I don’t want to wear a wig again.”

“Have you had your head shaved before?”

“When I was twelve,” she says. “Started turning blue from melanoma and my mom thought…”

“I see.”

“I’m not doing it again.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to, for your own health. There’s mold growing in it and I can see that your scalp’s inflamed from here. If I don’t shave it now, it’ll fall out on its own and it may never grow back.”

“WHAT?!”

“Miss- Miss. Belinda, please.”

“I can’t be bald! I can’t… It just grew back,” she sobs. “It took me years to get it this way!”

Dr. Maheswaran sits on the table next to the girl and holds her bony, filthy hand. “I promise you can grow it back again. In the meantime I’ll talk to the cancer department and bring some of their donated hair over. You can pick out some which looks just like your real hair.”

“Mm,” Belinda mumbles, too worn-out to fight further. “Bet it’s all white people hair, it’s probably all wrong.” She wipes some of the mold off a lock, revealing how dull and dirty the hair is underneath, and cries harder.

“I’m sure they’ll have some that looks right,” Dr. Maheswaran says, and digs in her pocket for a pack of tissues. “My daughter’s about your age, and she wore hair extensions while she grew hers out once. I promise no one knew the difference.”

Belinda clearly still wants to argue back, but she’s skin and bone and looks exhausted. She cries while Maheswaran shaves her bald, but she does stay still.

“Did anyone hurt you physically, other than through neglect?”

“W-we sorta hit each other sometimes in the first few weeks. We were all mad about being there and there was nothing to do… But no, the cops didn’t hurt me like that. J-just the others… Blanche and J.P. and Vinnie… Are they gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know yet, but the very second I’m done treating you I’ll go and find out. Is that okay?” Belinda nods and Maheswaran tries to smile encouragingly. “I do know they’re in good hands.”

Chapter 74: Zaria Saamant-begum

Chapter by chelonianmobile

Summary:

We'd just like to note this is not contradicting prior scenes showing Twilight in the Ark. Further info is forthcoming. Doctors are the two Doctor Horses: https://mlp.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Doctors

Patient has something wrong with her eyes.

Doctors Ashav and Loshadkin have worked under Selesta Khatun since they were young men, before she was khatun, before the Soviet Union fell. They were there when she brought her first child into the world, and the children that came after that. She has asked them to be there for the crown princess too, her fairytale favourite. The best and brightest candidate she could find, a backwater begum whose strongest connection to the royal family, before her own marriage to the khatun’s only son, was her brother’s engagement to one of the khatun’s many daughters. But the ruler’s choice matters more than birth in the tanistry system of Arizisiat (Equestria, as the Anglophones call it), and she has a brother - a healthy firstborn brother, even, tremendous luck. They checked her blood test. She’s fully fertile and scores very low on the assortment of genes common to Equestrians which render so many male offspring nonviable. Of course she’ll be the genuine ruler as Selesta Khatun is, but healthy sons will endear her to the populace and surrounding monarchs, if she can produce them.

She’s squinting again.

Female… 22… Central Asian/South Asian… A+…

“Your highness? Are you sure we can’t get you anything?”

Loshadkin has treated Zaria Saamant-begum before. When she and the prince caught mono after the wedding. She’d asked questions then - too hoarse to speak, she’d scribbled them out on a notepad, page after page of probing inquiries. She’s not asking questions now. And the prince isn’t here.

Loshadkin prays to the sun and moon that - this time around - the spoiled prince hasn’t given her something worse.

“Water?” Ashav prompts gently. “Tea?”

“Coffee, please. Black. No sugar.”

“What?” If memory serves, Zaria-begum favors raspberry leaf. With lots of honey. For her tastes to have changed so much and so soon… Oh. “Are you sure that’s wise, your highness?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps it should wait until… until the test results come back.”

“Eh- oh. Oh. Yes.” The princess clears her throat. “Do you have decaffeinated, then?”

They do, and Ashav takes care of that while Loshadkin examines Zaria-begum’s mouth. Bruised lip; no visible damage inside, but mouths heal fast. Looking for DNA won’t really help when the perpetrator is the man she’s supposed to be so close to. He takes a swab in case of infection, but there’s not a lot else to be done here.

The same can’t be said when she lifts her hospital gown. Her clothes are already bagged up for evidence; he saw the red-black ruin of what used to be her sensible cotton underwear. The damage looks like both tearing and scratching, though not as bad as Loshadkin had feared once he cleans the injured flesh.

“Are you feeling alright?” Ashav asks, coming back with the mug.

“Mm,” Zaria hums through gritted teeth. “It just… It hurts, you know?”

“If the pain is bad, I can prescribe-”

“I can manage! Er… thank you, but no thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you mind if we photograph the… damage?”

“Do you have to?” She blinks hard. Poor thing. “I-I mean… don’t you believe me?”

“Of course, princess,” Loshadkin says. “Everyone believes you.”

“Then… then why…”

“It’s standard procedure. I’m sorry, I know this must be difficult - but it really will help us, once Vladi-”

She flinches.

“-once he goes to trial.”

“… What happens if they find him guilty?”

“Well, normally it would be a prison sentence, but assault on the crown princess… That’s high treason, ma’am, even if he is the ruling queen’s son. It’ll likely be the firing squad for him.”

She goes very grey in the face, and swallows.

“It’s alright, princess,” Loshadkin says soothingly. “You’ll never have to see him again.”

Chapter 75: Franklin Van Dyke

Patient has attempted to remove itch mites on his own.

Franklin Van Dyke’s arms and forehead are a mass of scarring and bloody holes.

“Please refrain from picking at your wounds further,” Maxwell instructs.

“It itches, man!”

“I don’t doubt that it does, but I can remove the parasites and prevent the itching much more effectively with forceps and ointment. All you will be able to do with your fingers is make the wounds larger.”

“I knowww,” he whines. “Mr. Schneider said the same thing but he couldn’t see what I was doin’ in the dark to stop me.”

“Mr. Schneider?”

“The teacher, man! The nerdy white guy… I mean, no offense to nerdy white guys - my dad’s a nerdy white guy. But y’know…”

Male… 14… Caucasian/Native American… O+…

“I believe I know who you mean, I saw him come in. He is your teacher?”

“Yuh-huh, the others are in his special ed class with me. Class trip went sorta bad. Crazy old white lady said we dinged her car.”

Maxwell gives one of his rare surprised blinks. “That was all? Your whole class went through all of this over something so minor?”

“She went full Karen on us, man! Like, said we broke her collarbone and stuff! We didn’t even get a real trial! Reggie said they’d hafta, but they took us to jail an’ locked us in an’ left us there!”

“For… how long?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know - what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“What month? What year?”

Maxwell tells him. The kid explodes.

“Four months?! Four fuckin’ months?! We didn’t even scratch her fuckin’ paintwork!”

“I am… sorry-”

“Good! You should be! Everything’s all messed up!”

“I can see that. You and your friends must have been very brave.”

“Cut the crap, man.” Franklin rolls his eyes. “We were climbin’ the walls by day three. And that was before they started rapin’ people.”

“I was speaking genuinely,” Maxwell said. “I apologise if I sounded patronising.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Did you say you were sexually assaulted?”

“Not me.” Franklin looks more discomfited than angry at that. “They said stuff to the girls a bunch and they sorta lined us up to pick one out but they didn’t look twice at me. Guess the bugs were good for somethin’… Then again, we all had ‘em.”

“What did happen? And if you could give me your arm… Thank you,” Maxwell says, keeping Franklin talking as he readies the forceps.

“Well, some guy with a stupid pedo-lookin’ mustache lived up to it. Dragged Blanche out, she bit ‘im, didn’t even draw blood but he got mad an’ smashed her face into the bars. Wrecked her mouth, an’ I guess he was freaked out ‘cause he didn’t go through with it then… Ow!”

“Sorry. Please carry on, if you wish.”

“One of the other guys - or girls - snapped J.P.’s neck around when he tried to get in the way.”

“Did you see who killed him?”

“Nobody killed him,” Franklin says. “They turned his neck around, probably broke it, but he didn’t die.”

“… How? Can he still move?”

“Yeah, well… sorta. He can talk and stuff. He could still feel everything, but Schneider told him to stay where he was and told us we’d better not move him. So we didn’t.”

“Very sensible. It sounds like he will require surgery to put it back.”

“If you can put it back.”

Maxwell isn’t sure of that himself. It’s not a situation he’s encountered before. “If it helps, at least it sounds like you did not make it any worse. But you said ‘people’ earlier - did they assault someone else?”

“Uh, yeah. Vinnie. Pasty-lookin’ kid with dark hair, you mighta seen him come in. He was the least gross-lookin’ outta alla us ‘cept Schneider who’s white an’ old, so… yeah. Poor guy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Sure.” Franklin rolls over so Maxwell can pick the mites from his back, and he huffs. “I was lookin’ forward to comin’ up this way before everythin’, y’know? I wanted to go check out some places this kid I sorta know told me about.”

“Oh?”

“One a’ the schools in a town near here did a penpal thing a couple years back. I spent a few months writin’ to… Bert? No, Bart. He was called Bart.” Franklin gazes at the wall. “Hope he’s doin’ better than me.”

“Perhaps you can visit him before you leave,” Maxwell suggests. “Or have him visit you.”

“Nah, man. I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. It’s bad enough my dad has to.”

Chapter 76: Cleo Fitzpatrick

Patient is suffering from severe intertrigo.

Cleo Fitzpatrick must weigh two hundred pounds - and half of that is skin.

“Miss, please be careful,” Dr. McCubbins says, reaching out to support Cleo as she tries to squirm into a comfortable seated position on the table. “You’re very close to starvation, we don’t want you to faint.”

“What?” Cleo pats the small but still noticeable rounding of her stomach through the scarlet-splattered folds left over from a much bigger body. “That can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid so. The human body will start consuming other parts of itself before it finishes the fat. You may have suffered organ damage, particularly to the liver or brain.”

“My brain is fine.”

“I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just-”

“You’d better not.” She crosses her arms. “Whatever. Can you make me stop itching?”

Her skin is full of yeast and dead tissue and who knows what else.

“Is that tissue paper?”

“Yeah. I tried to wrap it. It worked for a while, but we ran out. Those cops made ‘redskin’ jokes.” She scowls until she sees McCubbins’ quizzical look. “We’re Samala - well, all of us except Mr. Schneider. It’s okay if you couldn’t tell,” she adds, tugging at her red hair. “Light hair’s not that uncommon for us but it’s not what people tend to picture, and, well, I’m kinda beyond being offended right now.”

“Ugh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Female… 14… Native American… A+…

The cheap toilet roll sticks to Cleo’s pus-speckled skin, has to be teased away with tweezers. She flinches with every pull.

“Just a few more…”

Cleaning is a long and arduous and messy process, though there’s some relief when McCubbins applies the cooling cream and antibiotic ointment.

“You keep squinting, is something wrong?”

“My eyes aren’t used to the light yet,” Cleo says. “They always had it dark in there… Plus I can’t really see you without my glasses and they got broken. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise, it’s not your fault.”

Cleo tugs at her loose skin, smearing ointment on her fingers. “I can’t afford to get all this removed. How long would it take me to put the weight back on? I’d rather at least look like a fat person than a fat collapsed balloon.”

“I can’t say I would recommend that,” McCubbins says. “No, being fat isn’t as unhealthy as tends to be claimed, as long as you’re physically active, but sudden loss and gain is really bad for you. It’s best to focus on getting yourself healthier first.”

“I guess…” Cleo doesn’t sound enthusiastic.

“The police department might be willing to pay for your surgery.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really. And if not… I’m sure something can be done.”

“It hurts,” she says. “My skin, even without the infection, it all hurts so fucking much I could just die.”

“Do you have any medication allergies? I can give you something for the pain.”

“None I know about, and if it turns out I do have one it can’t make things worse.”

McCubbins’ immediate urge is to tell her it could kill her, but she’s sure the poor girl will just repeat her sentiment, so she stays quiet and fetches morphine. “Did anyone harm you directly? Physically, or…?”

“Um… Not so much me. The others are… kind of a mess.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Cleo kicks her feet. “Belinda’s going to lose her hair again, I think - it’s so moldy, and her lice were really bad… and Blanche is rotting from the inside out. And I feel bad about it, but… I dunno, I guess we’re all freaks now. Is that horrible?” She scowls. “I used to get so sick of people saying I was the fat ugly friend, you know? But I didn’t want this to happen.”

“I think all thoughts are valid in such a stressful situation, even if you’re upset that you thought them, if that makes sense. When you’re having a bad time, it’s natural to be happy other people are suffering with you. I don’t think you’re freaks, though. We can fix you right up with a little time.”

“And a lot of money,” Cleo says darkly. “I mean, maybe we can sue, but we’re Native. Any lawyers gonna listen? Besides, I don’t think you can fix Vinnie.”

“Vinnie?”

“He was the only one they weren’t too grossed out by,” she says. “He wasn’t clean, but there weren’t huge infections or… whatever happened to Gil. So they went after him…”

“What does that mean, hon?”

“They raped him. I mean, it was all kinda blurry and hard to see because of the light, but we could still hear him crying and stuff. And Mr. Schneider trying to bargain with them… I think he might be better than Vinnie’s real dad.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you… Would it help to talk to anyone about it? Obviously he needs help, but so do the rest of you.”

“Mm.” Cleo hugs herself, arms disappearing in her folds. “They didn’t want me even before my skin did this. Great, the fat kid’s so gross even rapists don’t want me…” Her lip trembles and her eyes overflow. “Maybe I should put that weight back on.”

McCubbins has to restrain herself from hugging the poor girl. “Sweetheart, please, this isn’t on you.”

“I just wanna go home and forget this ever happened. I wanna eat something, but if I do… I’m worried I’ll make myself sick. Heh. Serves me right, huh? People have always told me I make them feel that way.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish they were sorry too.”

Chapter 77: Gil Waterman

Patient is afflicted with Norwegian scabies.

Gil Waterman has to be restrained from scratching.

“Please stop, you’re only making it worse.”

“J.P. says we should make it look worse, dude,” Gil says. “He says we should sue.”

“I wouldn’t mention that in front of the officers if I were you,” says Hudson. “Besides, I don’t think you need to make it look worse. It’s pretty bad already.”

“That old bag did the same thing to sue us, doctor man,” he says. “Totally bogus.”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“Reggie dinged her car with Mr. Schneider’s. She flipped out an’ was all like ‘I’m gonna sue’ but she looked fine to me. Besides, she cut us off. Something about it smells, dude, an’ it’s not me. Uh, not just me.”

He does indeed smell pretty ripe. From what Hudson’s been able to piece together, he’s been washing with only water for months, and not very effectively. All he’s managed to do is make the dirt moist, which isn’t helping either the smell or the skin irritation.

“Okay son, before I get you cleaned up, do you mind if I take a few pictures of the injuries?”

“Why?”

“For the police. You want to press charges, right-”

“Oh. Ohhh. Fuck yeah!” He strikes a pose. “Like this?”

“Er, think you can remove your clothes first?”

“Oh yeah.” He strips down, and Hudson winces. The scabies covers pretty much every inch of Gil; he’s constantly shifting position to take the pressure off his feet, and the irritation looks worse on his back, buttocks, and knees - the places his weight most often rests. Not that he has as much weight to rest there as it looks like he used to.

“Just a moment, hold on for just a moment.” Hudson fumbles with the camera, walking around Gil instead of forcing him to turn. The mites have burrowed everywhere - genitals, face, even inside his mouth (at least a little). “Do you think you can stay like that for a little longer?”

“Uh, I guess? Why?”

Hudson holds up a tube of Permethrin cream, squirting a liberal amount into his gloved hand.

“ ‘S this gonna hurt?”

“It may sting a little. But only a little.”

Gil jerks away and yelps when Hudson stands behind him and reaches out to touch his back.

“Whoa! Sorry, did I startle you?”

“Kinda,” Gil mumbles. “Just havin’ you come ‘round from the back… R-reminded me of what happened to Vinnie.”

“What did happen?”

“Was prison, man,” Gil says, shivering. “Y’know. Not sayin’ I think you would or nothin’, just… yeah.”

Shit. Not unexpected, but… shit. “I’m sorry. Did it happen to anyone else?”

“Nah. Nearly Blanche, but the guy beat her up instead. What she got mighta been worse. Her mouth’s all gross now, she couldn’t eat right even when they were feedin’ us an’ she can’t really talk right either. Hope she’s okay. J.P. too, he’s hurt bad.”

“Well, let’s worry about you right here and now and I’ll go find out when we’re done, alright? Would it help if I stood at your side instead of your back?”

Gil nods and Hudson carries on applying the ointment. The kid flinches or groans occasionally, but the procedure goes smoothly.

“Ohhh, that feels good now.”

“I should warn you,” Hudson says, “it’ll take a month or so to clear up - maybe more, this is a bad case - and the itching might get worse before it gets better.”

Gil scoffs. “Ain’t that always the way. Nevermind. S’long as it will get better, I’m still better off’n some of us.”

Chapter 78: Blanche Dumarais

Patient has contracted gangrene.

Blanche Dumarais covers her face with both hands.

“Miss, I can’t treat your injuries if I can’t see them,” Jekyll says gently. “I’m sure it must hurt a lot.”

Blanche’s voice is distorted, and Jekyll knows it’s because of mouth damage - probably the lips, judging by which sounds are slurred. “Ah’nn shorry, it does hurt, stho mush, d-d-dut Ah don’t uh-uh-uh-” She’s struggling on the W and settles for “-can’t sshow it.”

“Honey, I’m a doctor. I promise I’ve seen just as bad before. I’m not gonna be shocked.”

What she can see is pretty bad already. The poor girl’s bone-thin, had to sit down immediately because her legs couldn’t bear her paltry weight, and what is visible of her face is a sickly green pallor traced with blackened veins. The room smells pretty bad after only a minute or so, and Jekyll’s broken out the peppermint oil. Blanche refused the oil-anointed tissue she was offered, not wanting to move either hand away from her face to take it.

“Ah’nn noth preddy anynore…”

“H-honey…” Jekyll doesn’t know how to reassure her. “Whatever is wrong… you’re still alive. It can’t be too late to fix.”

“Promith?”

“Promise.”

Blanche’s hands fall to her sides. And Jekyll freezes where she stands.

Female… 14… African-American… B+…

“Ah dold ‘ou,” Blanche gurgles out through her ripped-off lip. She opens her mouth to show it more clearly. The exposed flesh is black and oozing, the rest of the inside of her mouth angry red and spotted with white and yellow, teeth dirty and loose in their sockets, and for one absurd moment Jekyll half-expects the girl to raise her hands into claws and demand brains. Her mouth looks like it belongs on something dead.

“Oh… I see.” Telling her it’s nonsense and she’s still pretty will make things worse, but Jekyll feels terrible about telling her it is as bad as she thinks. She flails for words and goes with the kindest truth she can offer. “At least I can stop it hurting, okay? I’m not able to do much else right now, but I can do that.”

Blanche sniffles. “Nn-kay…”

“Do you… I know this sounds bad, but if you want to press charges, it will help if I take pictures. Are you okay with that? You don’t have to, not at all.”

“Ah wanna,” Blanche’s eyes flash inside that mask of rotten meat. “Thath awful, awful nnan…”

Jekyll holds up the camera. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ah dold him Ah dinna wanth… wanna have-” She sniffs. “He d’ryed da forthe me.”

“Force you? Oh, sweetie… did he-”

Blanche shakes her head. “Did thisths instead. N’rly killed mah d-doyf’nd.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yuh.”

“Which one is he? What did they do?”

Blanche mimes grabbing hold of her head and twisting it around sharply. It’s enough; Jekyll saw the kid on the backboard being brought in.

“How did they…?”

“He dried to sthop them. They trieda… to dreak his… yeah.” She motions to her face again. “Sthlammed mah head ‘gains’ th’ dars.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She sniffs. “Ah wanna go home.”

“You will. We might have to keep you here long enough to make sure you can eat, but we’ll send you home as soon as we can.” Jekyll prepares an anaesthetic injection and a scalpel. “First, I’m gonna cut all that mess away, okay? Then we can work on curing the infection.”

“Nn-kay. Mah thassche ish ru’ned any’ay.”

Blanche holds still while Jekyll injects anaesthetic and cuts away what’s left of her lower lip, right down to where it joins the gum, and parts of her cheeks, and finally scrapes softened black patches off her tongue (at least most of that is salvageable, though her speech might be affected forever). She still looks like something out of a horror movie, but at least the damage is clean.

Blanche watches curiously as Jekyll disposes of the rotten skin. “Whad’ya gonna do wif idd?”

“It’s medical waste. There are special procedures. Those parts weren’t fixable, but after a course of antibiotics we - or whoever you see at home - can look into tissue grafts, okay? You probably won’t look exactly how you used to, but you’ll look much better than this. You don’t have to look like this forever, I promise.”

“G’d…” Blanche plays with her fingers and says, “ ‘Nn Ah jussht too th-thain… uftset adout it?”

“Vain? No! Of course not. This is a horrible thing to happen to anyone! It’s okay to be upset about your face. It doesn’t mean you think being pretty is the only thing that matters here, right? But it is okay to be upset about that too. It’s okay to like being pretty.”

Jekyll isn’t allowed to hug her patients. She figures it’s okay just this once if she doesn’t pull back when, instead, Blanche hugs her.

Chapter 79: Sid Griffin

Patient is experiencing depigmentation, possibly tinea versicolor. Not wearing pants.

Sidney Griffin pushes himself back against the wall, working himself into the corner.

“What happened to your clothes? Did someone take them away from you?”

Sid shakes his head. He’s wearing an undershirt and socks, both black with grime, and no jumpsuit or underwear. “I… I got ill. Made a mess of ‘em and there was no way to clean ‘em properly. No one could see me anyway.” His nearly transparent face lights up red.

“Quite normal in the circumstances, there’s no need to be embarrassed. We’d have to change your clothes anyway.”

“I guess…”

Male… 14… Native American… O-…

“Can you tell me what happened? Some of your friends are in pretty bad shape.”

“Lice and fleas mostly. And… this,” he points to one of the patches on his skin. “I think Gil gave everyone leprosy.”

“What?”

“This,” Sid repeats, holding out his arms. They’re covered in scaly, oozing sores. “None of our parts fell off, though. ‘Cept Blanche’s lip, but that wasn’t why.”

Stein looks closer. “I don’t think this is leprosy, son, it looks like scabies.”

“What?! Am I gonna froth at the mouth and stuff?”

“No, that’s rabies. Scabies are microscopic mites, they can be removed quite easily with insecticides.”

“Oh, phew.”

“I also notice you’ve got a lot of discoloration on your skin. Did it always look like this?”

“Don’t think so,” Sidney says. “Don’t know what it does look like, if I’m being honest. Hard enough to keep my eyes open.”

“White patches. Did you have white patches on your skin before?”

“No. I mean, I was always pale, but… Yeah, no. Is that leprosy?”

“It looks like a fungal infection. Don’t worry, we can run some tests. If I’m right, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, we already knew there’s a fungus among us,” Sid says, and giggles. “Think Cleo got a different type, though. She smelled sorta like beer and Mr. Schneider says that’s a yeast thing? I didn’t get a chance to see it properly till we got out but she went all red. Huh, there any funguses that turn people blue? We need the full set. We got Belinda’s mould, but that just makes the Irish flag - or is it Italian? Whichever.”

Despite the situation, Stein laughs. “I’ll look that up for you. Now, are you physically injured anywhere, aside from the skin conditions?”

“Not really. Bruised a lot,” he says. “We all are. Sleeping on concrete when you get this skinny… Don’t imagine it’s fun any time, but it got worse when they stopped feedin’ us, an’ we let J.P. take the bed ‘cause his neck was wrecked, so we all hadda take the floor. But none of the cops hit me or whatever. Not like… like Blanche ‘n’ J.P. ‘n’ Vinnie.”

“That’s… good to hear,” Stein says. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

“Me too, but… eh. I’m too tired to be really upset about it right now. I don’t wanna talk about it, at least not now, okay? I just wanna go get some food and sleep.”

“That’s completely understandable. I’ll try to finish quickly. Do you mind if I take a few pictures? If you want to press charges, they can be used as-”

“Oh, fuck yeah, I’m pressing charges! J.P. says we should sue everybody and use the money to invest in shares.”

“I’d advise using the money to pay for medical bills instead, personally. I saw your friends come in.”

“Bo-ring.” Sid rolls his eyes and flaps a hand. “Oh well. Do what you gotta do, doc.”

It takes quite a while to treat each of his different infections, but they’re still finished much sooner than some of the others.

Chapter 80: Vinnie Stoker

Patient is still bleeding.

Bleeding a lot. The file says he has Von Willebrand. Not a good combination with injuries this bad. Even the lice bites on his skin haven’t closed up properly. The nurses bring clotting factors and Proctor fills up the syringe.

“Are you still conscious, Vincent?”

“Eyy,” the kid says weakly, giving a double thumbs-up.

“Glad to hear it. This should stop the bleeding,” he says less to Vincent and more to the man breathing down his neck, just over his shoulder. “Might still need a transfusion. When did the, ah, injury occur?”

“Think it was a few days-”

“Weeks, maybe,” Max Schneider says. “He’s been in and out.”

“How long were you in there?”

“What day is it now?”

Proctor tells them.

“Then… almost four months. Geez…” Schneider looks like he wants to say more, but restrains himself for his student’s sake.

Proctor rubs his latex gloves with disinfectant wipes and opens up the forensic kit box. (Lots of little girls need those in Calisota, but he’s happy to do one for Vinnie too…)

Male… 14… Native American… O-…

“Okay then, Vincent. Are you sure you want to go ahead with this? You can back out any time. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“C-can you turn the lights off? They kinda hurt.”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t think I can perform a medical examination in the dark.”

“Is there anything we can cover his eyes with?” Schneider asks. “Sunglasses?”

“I don’t have sunglasses,” Proctor says. “Let’s see… How about this?” He takes two gowns from the drawer and folds one over and over, into a makeshift blindfold. The other he tosses to the teacher. “Here. Hold onto that.”

The folded gown works to block enough light. Stoker relaxes at least a little, and when asked if he’s okay to proceed, responds with “Yo.” Proctor takes that as a yes, and leads him over to the paper roll.

It’s been a while since the last incident; normally that’d eliminate any evidence left on the victim… but this is different. Vincent’s wounds are still open - though no longer bleeding - and there’s a fine crust around his buttocks and on his chin. Proctor uses a wipe and bags it for processing. Then he turns his attention to the kid’s hair.

“I’m going to start combing through it,” he says, waiting for Vincent to nod. “Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Sheesh, doc, it’s just hair.”

“I may have to shave it-”

“Ey, yo, what the fuck?! No!”

“Vinnie. Vinnie, please, it is just hair,” Schneider says soothingly. “It’ll grow back. They already had to shave me and everyone else, no one’s gonna care.”

Vincent’s still pulling a disgusted face, covering his head with his hands.

“There’s a wig back at school that looks just like your hair - the drama club did Grease once. After we get home you can borrow it for as long as you want.”

“Teach-”

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Vincent drops his hands and allows Proctor to come at him with the comb, flinching every time he hits an open scab - which is often.

“Do you mind telling me exactly what happened or would you rather save that for the police?”

Vinnie snarls at the word. “Was police did this to us, yo.”

“Vinnie, it was police who rescued us too,” Schneider says.

“Don’t care, man. Shit’s fucked up, I’m not tellin’ ‘em nothin’.”

Schneider doesn’t reprimand him. Proctor presumes he’s heard worse from the kids. “A lawyer, then? I think if you tell the lawyer that’ll work… Look, I’d like it if you told someone. If you don’t, we can’t get much done about this.”

“Ey, yeah, lemme just unload on Ma’s divorce attorney,” Vincent scoffs.

“Please? I… I can stay with you if you want,” Schneider says.

“… I’ll think ‘bout it.”

“In that case, can I take a few pictures of the injuries?”

“Do you gotta use a flash?”

“I can turn that off, it should be fine.”

Vinnie thinks. “And I don’t gotta use ‘em?”

“No, but if you do want to we’ll have them.”

“Ey, might as well then. Buncha guys already seen it…”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Schneider says.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Proctor takes some pictures, then leads Vincent over to the table and snaps a few more of the place between his thighs. The bruises haven’t healed yet. His body was probably too busy fighting to stay alive.

“What did they do exactly? Oral? Anal-”

“Hey!” Schneider snaps.

Maybe he thinks that’ll set Vincent off. It doesn’t.

“S’okay, teach. Yeah, uh… mouth an’ ass. Both. Not the other way though… Uh, the chicks didn’t want me inside a’ them, so…”

“Did the women penetrate you with anything?”

Vincent shudders violently. “Blonde chick put on like three pairs of rubber gloves and shoved most of her hand in me. After she scrubbed me up with some stuff that burned, mighta been bleach. Then she held me down when the other chick… She took the bullets outta her gun and used that.”

“Vinnie…”

“It is what it is,” he says shakily. “Thought I was gonna die for a while there.”

“Mm,” Proctor hums, examining his hands. “Did you fight them?”

“Didn't do much good.” He swipes at his eyes over the blindfold. “Just pissed ‘em off.”

“Tell him about your braces,” Schneider says gently.

Vincent Stoker doesn’t have braces.

“Vinnie?”

He buries his face in his hands and mumbles incoherently.

Schneider places a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

Vincent opens his bloody mouth, clearly struggling to speak, but all that comes out is a sad, mewling noise. He clamps his jaw shut again before either of the men can see him cry. He’s able to give a very small nod.

“Those…” Schneider clenches his bony fists. “Those… people… pulled his braces off with pliers. He’s had damaged teeth for months. I don’t know if they can even be fixed or…”

Proctor’s hands tighten on the camera. “It would help if we could get a photo of that, but you don’t have to, okay, Vinnie? Someone’s going to have to look at it anyway, though. Damaged teeth can get infected and if that doesn’t get treated it’s close enough to spread to the brain.”

“Vinnie…?”

“… Okay,” Vinnie whispers.

“Open for me?” He does and Proctor inspects the damage. Some teeth have gone back into their old positions, others haven’t. All are yellow, fixed with black and stained with blood. Pieces of enamel are broken off. It’s not a pretty picture. “He’s going to need to see a proper dentist sooner rather than later. I’ll see if I can have someone come in… Is something wrong?”

Schneider pulls him aside and speaks very quietly. “I’m concerned about paying for all this. There’s… there’s a lot of damage, on all of them. J.P.’s dad has his covered, and so does Vinnie’s dad, probably, but the others…”

“The doctors here will back you up if you want to sue the police department,” Proctor assures him. “You could probably also sue the judge and the woman who put you in there.”

“You think we have a chance?”

“I’ll be honest, the kids probably have a better chance with you to speak for them.” Proctor looks pointedly at Schneider’s white skin. “But you are here, so yes, I think it’s worth trying.”

“They’re going to jail anyway, teach,” Vinnie says. “They won’t really listen to a buncha losers over us… right?”

Schneider doesn’t look confident. He doesn’t say anything.

Vinnie doesn’t ask again.

Chapter 81: Amalthea Shofar

Summary:

"Schmendrick" is Yiddish for idiot, hence why we're changing his name.

Patient is potentially dangerous.

Amalthea Shofar looks Dawson dead in the eyes. She’s blonde and pretty and small. Her eyes are very blue. She’s still splattered with blood, even after her dip in the bay. Blood and brain matter. It isn’t hers, but it could have been. He can see the half-healed wound in her forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asks her.

“Physically, I feel quite a serious pain in my forehead where my skull was broken, and my genitals are still sore but not bleeding any longer. Mentally, I feel fine, but that is probably a warning sign in itself, is it not?”

Female… Caucasian… 22… AB-…

“Er, considering your medical records, that’s probably normal.” Nothing about this is normal. “Even a no- a neurotypical person might feel fine at first, probably due to shock.”

“Of course. I don’t think I’m showing any other signs. I am cold, but I have just come out of the sea.”

“Has anyone tried to contact your family?”

“No. I don’t require them here, but for Father’s and Uncle’s sake I would like to call them. Uncle would want to be here for me. Father won’t arrive in time but he at least ought to know.”

“Right, right…” Dawson swallows. “Who are they?”

“My father is Simeon Shofar, he’s a professor in Oregon. Uncle Seligmann lives here. They’re very nice.”

Generic description aside, the family members are both frantic on the phone. Sounds on the end of the line suggest Professor Shofar ran for his car immediately and had to run back to hang up the phone, and Seligmann Honigberg arrives quickly, panting and gasping from running up the stairs. He looks very young to be her uncle, but no one comments, and there is definitely a resemblance in the lanky limbs and long fingers.

“You needn’t concern yourself too much, Uncle,” Amalthea says with a gentle smile. “I’m certainly not.”

“Yes, that’s part of what worries me,” he says.

She sighs. “Dr. Dawson thinks it’s perfectly natural.”

“That’s not exactly-”

“Do you know if it’s possible to take anything in my current condition?” she asks Dawson, entirely unconcerned. “I tried not to eat the food he was giving us, but… sometimes it was unavoidable. All of it was drugged.” Her brow furrows. “People with Cluster B disorders are very prone to addiction. I hope I avoided consuming enough to become reliant on the drugs. I didn’t enjoy the feeling, but physical addiction doesn’t necessarily need that…”

“How much did you take and for how long?”

“The initial drink he gave me was drugged, and, when I woke up, he fed me something… Soup? Broth? That was drugged too. I started… drinking from the dog’s bowl when I could. Taking its food. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to get out of there.”

Dawson pushes back memories. “People have done worse things to get out of danger.”

Amalthea looks at her bloody hands. “I know. I don’t regret what I did, but I wish it hadn’t come to this. I so wanted not to become a stereotype.”

“Well… you saved all those other people. Does that help?”

“A little. I don’t get the same enjoyment from altruism most people do, but I didn’t want anyone to suffer, and I know they and their loved ones must be happy.” She smiles faintly. “Besides, all this is quite interesting. Dare I say, exciting. Most experiences are not intense enough to cause any reaction in me. Something to do with reduced serotonin transmission, I believe.”

She’s right. “I… suppose that’s good? I wouldn’t recommend repeating the experience, though.”

“Oh, of course not. I would prefer to be alive and I do try not to upset Father and Uncle.”

“Well… alright.” Dawson doesn’t know how to respond to her. So he tries to keep his responses to a minimum as he sets about treating her - stitching stitches, icing bruises, clipping fingernails… “Now, miss, about your hair-”

“You’ll have to comb it, won’t you? I suppose that will take a while.”

“You’ll let me?”

“Of course.” She blinks at him. “You’re… afraid, aren’t you?”

“What? I beg your-”

“You are. Of me. You’re afraid of getting too close. Is there anything I could do to put you more at ease?”

“N-not really, I’m afraid. It’s not exactly your fault…”

“Doctor, many Cluster B people are perfectly harmless. I did my own research and Dr. Haggard was wrong. I don’t like to hurt people.”

“I’m aware, miss, but, well, you did come in covered in someone else’s brain matter.”

“That is true. But surely in a city like this I wouldn’t be the first in a similar situation?”

“Well…” She does have a point. “Let’s get the examination finished, shall we?”

Chapter 82: Charlie Starr

Patient seems confused.

Charlie Starr blinks slowly, owlishly. “Um… When you’re done, can I go back to the sub? I don’t like it here.”

Stockholm syndrome. Poor thing. He’s had it worse than some of the others - the scar on his forehead is just the beginning. The one on his middle is jagged and only half-healed. The ones around his genitals are worse. He hasn’t bothered with a gown, even after they took his underwear. He just sits there, on the edge of the table, staring at the wall.

Kekata approaches cautiously. “Is it the hospital?”

Charlie shakes his head. “Just take me back. I was safe in there.”

“Safe from what?”

“Everything. It’s loud and bright in here and people suck. No one left in the sub hurt me and the doctor didn’t usually pick me.”

Male… Caucasian… 30… A-…

“Wait, what do you mean ‘no one left in the sub’?”

“Oh, he got people who really were violent once or twice. Either they kept fighting back after he did the thing and he stabbed ‘em again or we, uh, defended ourselves, sort of. Well, the ones of us who could move. Or be bothered to move.”

Kekata decides to leave that one to the police. There’s really only so much weird he can take. “He thought you and the others were violent when you aren’t?”

“Yeah. We’re his patients.”

“What were you seeing him for? Is it relevant?”

“Probably. Uh, lemme try to…” Charlie screws his face up in concentration. “Yeah, I think I’m a sociopath…? Or a… something?”

“You have antisocial personality disorder?”

“No, that doesn’t sound right. Think it started with an ‘n’? Sorry, ever since I got there, my brain’s been foggy.”

“Narcissistic personality disorder?”

“Ummm… might be. Think so.”

“Have you ever been violent, or did he just assume?”

“Nah. Sounds like too much effort. I told him that.”

“Do you know why he took you?”

“Nnnnot really? Think I did once. Back when I wanted to get outta there…”

“When was that?”

“Ugh, I don’t know. What year is it now? Definitely before Blond Phillip’s second kid was born.”

“Blond Phillip?”

“There were two guys named Phillip. No one talked a lot down there, but sometimes we still needed to tell ‘em apart, and he got mad if we brought up the other difference.”

“Why? What was it?”

“He gave birth,” Charlie says like an afterthought. “Uh, I don’t know how that worked either. I mean, I know about trans guys but he definitely has a dick. We were all pretty weirded out.”

Sounds like an intersex condition, but that is definitely not the biggest issue here. “… Who-”

“The doctor. Some of us did fuck in there, but… yeah. They’re not all his, the kids, but Blond Phillip’s first one probably is. Most of the older ones…”

“Sorry…” Kekata needs to process this. “Some of you had sex… with each other…?”

“What else was there to do in there? Didn’t exactly give us internet. Sometimes Molly brought the radio down when she was cleaning and stuff, but he made her take it back up. Don’t know why he bothered. No one could focus well enough to reverse the signal or whatever, even if any of us ever knew how. I didn’t… Maybe Saran did. Saran’s smart. Was, anyway.”

“Was everyone involved… alright with it?”

“Not with the doctor. Other than that, mostly, maybe not always. Like I said, sometimes he got an actually dangerous one. But I don’t think anyone who was in there now would push it.” He shrugs. “I didn’t really care if they did. My parents kinda had the worst sense of humour, I got used to ignoring stuff. At least Haggard only put me on Xanax or somethin’. You ever seen a two-year-old on LSD?”

A few times. Always when a child got into the family stash. He’d never heard of them being given the drugs before. “Your parents did that to you?”

Charlie nods. “That and a bunch of other stuff. Worse than what happened in the sub.”

“In a sexual way or…?”

“Among other things. I think Mom tried to outright pull my junk off one time, made some joke about putting it on a snowman. And not long before the Haggard stuff Dad sold my kidney online.” He shrugs. “I’m… aware most people react more to this stuff. That was why I talked to Haggard in the first place.”

“Did you ever try to report this?”

“What they did was way over the top. Who’d believe me?”

Kekata thinks of other bizarre cases and case studies; the first grader whose hair started falling out because her principal picked her up by her braids and threw her, the brothers in Texas whose cuts and broken arm came from their other brothers forcing them into “play fights” with sharpened replica swords on a rooftop, the boy in Scotland whose transphobic teacher made him carve lines into his own hand, the kid who’d been groomed for the active role in snuff films since they could hold a knife… “I’ve seen stranger. I would.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Where were your parents last time you saw them?”

“In the sub. They didn’t last that long.”

“What?!”

“I told you he sometimes got real dangerous people.”

Chapter 83: Lee Ping

Patient is injured severely.

Lee Ping is unconscious when they wheel him in, swollen black and blue, beat to hell, and with blood in his shaggy dark hair. Usually there would be parents in the hall or in the room, screaming or crying or… Lee Ping is alone.

Doctors Kekata and Achoda get the weird ones. The difficult ones. Nurses Seto, Bonjour, Lefou, and Morales all stand by for instruction.

“Do we know what exactly happened?”

“Only that he got beaten up,” Achoda says. “And I think a lot of the rib damage was from the principal performing CPR, the paramedics said.” The paramedics got Ping breathing again. That’s about the best news so far.

Kekata wonders why the beating happened, but doesn’t ask. Right now it doesn’t matter, and they can’t waste time.

Internal bleeding is more a suggestion than a question at this point. Kekata carefully avoids disturbing the breathing tube and stands with Achoda on the boy’s other side. “Work on stabilizing him first… Let’s see… plasma, platelets… Do we know what his blood type is?” Something about inconclusive paperwork. “We’ll use O-negative then.”

Male… East Asian… 16… unknown…

“We’ll have to do a scan later,” Achoda says quietly. “I’m worried about brain damage.”

She’s right to be. Ping’s face is almost entirely purple with rising bruises, his nose and jaw don’t look good, and clumps of his dyed hair have been ripped out. Bad bruising on his forearms suggests he used them to protect his head; how well remains to be seen.

Kekata looks at a strangely-shaped bruise. “What the…?” It’s long and sharply curved, like the edge of a wheel. “Was he beaten with implements?”

“Looks like it. Not sure with what. It looks like someone picked up a bike and hit him with it, but that can’t be right.”

“Good thing that one’s not on his head. Whatever inflicted it was heavy.”

“We’ll have to run X-rays once he’s stable. Bandage what you can for now, just in case.”

Seto gets the scissors and starts cutting through Lee’s clothes. They need them off and it’s too risky to try moving him. It’s not really surprising when they find blood on his legs - there’s blood everywhere.

Bonjour notices first. “I… That doesn’t look like just blood.”

Not another one… “Do we have permission from his guardians to collect evidence?”

“The police must have contacted them…” Achoda swallows, then turns to Seto. “Run and get an officer - we’ll treat what we can until you get back.”

Kekata nods. “Make it quick.”

Seto speed-walks off. She seems relieved to leave. Kekata and Achoda know about her son and daughter; it’s not surprising she’d want to take a moment.

Achoda looks closer. “Scar tissue. This has happened to him before, poor kid.”

Kekata eyes his lips. Nothing, or at least, nothing that couldn’t be something else. “Mm…”

“Do you think it was one of his classmates?”

“I don’t know who else it could have been.”

Bonjour bites the inside of her cheek. “Maybe more than just one…”

“God,” Lefou shudders. “They’re so young.”

“There’ve been younger,” Achoda comments sadly. “Still…”

“I’m not sure whether they’d have had the chance, if you’re suggesting it was during the attack,” Kekata muses as he swabs and stitches. “From what we were told, he was attacked with fists and feet and none of them stopped until law enforcement arrived. Anyone trying to… to get on top of him would have been injured badly too, and none of the others seemed to have more than bruises. Not impossible, I’m just wondering if it might have happened before the physical attack.”

Achoda frowns and nods. Not visibly wincing, but a less experienced doctor might have. “It’s not been his day at all, has it? Do we know why they did it?”

“I don’t like to speculate, and no one’s mentioned it. It might be relevant, but we can ask after we’re done here.”

“Right.”

Seto bursts back into the room then, accompanied by a string of incomprehensible and utterly-pissed-off sounding Korean coming through the phone, and- “ALFRED! ALFRED! WAKE UP! We going to airport NOW!”

Then the line clicks. And they all stare at her.

“… Sue Ping,” she says, “that’s his mother. She, er, gives her consent. Not that she was happy about… you know…”

They do know. No one would be happy about this.

They need to clean him up anyway; the gauze swabs are packaged in the forensic kit, while the combs stand by for when he’s out of danger. Achoda opens up Lee’s mouth. “Some dental damage. Not as bad as it could be, it looks like he did manage to protect his head somewhat… still not good.”

“Any signs of anything we need to swab for?”

“I can’t see anything, but he’s bleeding a lot, it might have washed it away if there was any. I’ll swab anyway.” She does. Rust-red and slight pink.

“We might have better luck with his fingernails?” Lefou says hesitantly. “If he was attacked by other kids…”

“Even if he wasn’t,” Kekata doesn’t sound particularly hopeful, “there may be some still under there… from whoever…”

“Well, who else could it be?”

“Like I said, I don’t want to speculate.”

Achoda bags the swab, changes gloves, takes up the nail-clippers and Lee Ping’s wrist. “This feels broken.” She moves her grip to his hand.

“I’d be surprised if anything isn’t broken.”

More rust red. No white. They didn’t expect to find any there. His nails are split and ripped; the blood might be his own (there’s enough of it around), but they clip them anyway.

Chapter 84: Maximilien Twahirwa

Patient is a Tutsi.

Yet another one.

Maximilien Twahirwa sobs into his uncle’s neck. “I’m sorry, Oncle Guillaume. I lost Irwin and… and…”

“It’s alright! Max, please. Everything is fine. Irwin is fine. We’re here to get you sorted out.”

Raphael Rafiki is an obstetrician. Before April, he was only an obstetrician. Rapidly, though, he’s become familiar with treating war wounds, disease, starvation… and sexual injury of children much younger than this boy. Tutsis and Hutus and Twas alike.

He puts on a smile and tries to lighten the mood.

“Hello there,” he says. “What do we have here?”

“Don’t!” Max cries, squeezing closer to his uncle. “Don’t touch me!”

Rafiki backs off, hands raised. “Alright. I’m going to have to, sooner or later, but I won’t until you’re ready, okay? I need to treat your wounds.”

“It’s alright,” Guillaume Uwimana whispers to the boy. “It’s alright, I’ll be here the whole time.”

Max glares at Rafiki. “You better not hurt me. Oncle’s got a gun! He really does!”

“I won’t,” Rafiki says. “Well, this might sting a little,” he adds, holding up the anaesthetic syringe, “but I won’t… I won’t do anything like what happened to you before.”

“You don’t know anything about what happened before!”

“You’d be surprised. I am a doctor.” His smile has not returned. “How old are… How old is he? Preventative treatment varies by age.”

“He… he’s six-”

“Seven!” Max puffs his cheeks. “My birthday’s in June, so Irwin an’ me are seven now.”

Supposedly a lucky number, in some cultures… Rafiki sighs. “Well, aren’t you a big boy now? Can you be brave like a big boy too?”

Male… 7… Tutsi… unknown…

Max doesn’t stop glaring, but he holds his arm out for blood to be taken. “What are you gonna do with it?”

“I need to check to see if it’s… clean or not.”

“Because I’m a Tutsi? Is my blood bad or something?”

“No, Max,” Uwimana says gently. “That’s not why.”

“Then-”

“Your uncle said that some of the men who hurt you used their private parts?”

“So?”

“You can get sick from that. We just need to make sure you didn’t.”

“If it makes them sick, then why did they do it?”

“They might have already been sick. Did you notice anything off about them?”

“They were scary.”

“I know, I know, but did they look like they weren’t well? Did they have spots or lumps, or look very thin?”

“Mm,” Max mumbles around his fingers, which he’s nervously sucking on. “Some of them.”

Uwimana’s fists clench in Max’s shirt and the boy cries out and squirms.

“Sorry! Sorry, Max… But that’s why the doctor needs to look at your blood.” He lays the child down on the table, and Max whimpers and clings to his hand. “It’ll only be a little scratch… Maybe two little scratches, if he needs to give you medicine.”

The blood is taken without much trouble. Now for the hard part… Max is wearing a shirt too big for him, and only that shirt. Rafiki guesses he was naked when they found him - a lot of victims came in like that. It does make getting to his legs a little easier, even as the boy tenses and tries to move away.

“Not there! Not there! Don’t touch me!”

“I’m just going to look,” Rafiki says. “I might have to touch you there eventually, but for now I just want to look, can we start with that?”

Eyes clenched shut, Max opens his legs… slowly, allowing Rafiki his first look at the damage. He continues to pout as Rafiki prepares the local anesthetic. “This will sting, but you’ll feel better afterwards and I can get that mess fixed, alright?” Fixed as much as he can, anyway.

Max doesn’t even flinch at the needle. With the tearing and infection he can’t even distinguish another little sting.

“I’m going to start stitching now,” he says. “It may feel a little strange, but it shouldn’t hurt. Please tell me if it does.” Not likely, anesthetics are always much more powerful on children.

Max sniffles a bit, but doesn’t cry. “Oncle Guillaume, I wanna go home…”

“We will, as soon as he’s done,” Guillaume assures him, holding his hands.

“D-did Irwin hafta…” He wipes his nose. “Are you gonna do this with him too?”

“Max-” Uwimana says helplessly. Then, to Rafiki: “Irwin is his brother. He wasn’t… He’s fine. At the Milles-Colline.”

“I understand.” But he’s not optimistic. “If you’d like to schedule a check up just in case…”

Some time later, when all is as over as it’s going to get, Uwimana brings Irwin in, and the second twin holds out his arm for the blood test with a determined look before Rafiki even introduces himself.

“He wasn’t hurt,” says Uwimana - wearily, relieved. “But he wants the full check-up anyway, so it’s more fair to Max.”

Chapter 85: Vladimir Tuparkhanov-beg

The prince is

“Get me another doctor!”

“Y-your highness, I…” Dr. Ashav swallows hard. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“Obviously. At the trial, they said ‘Zaria’ was examined by two doctors.”

“Yes… What does that-”

“If you could spare two for some lying imposter, then a real prince should get at least three!”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

Male… Central Asian… 25… AB-…

He’s been - sternly - instructed to ‘play nice’ with Vladimir. Kid gloves. Kid gloves. But this isn’t at all what he’d expected. The prince is… erratic. Pacing. Eye twitching. His hair hangs limp around his shoulders - clean, but unbrushed. He smells of blood and vomit and Ashav can’t imagine why. (He asked him to sit. He won’t sit.)

“Am I not good enough? Is that it? The prince consort isn’t good enough?!” Another step and he sways dangerously.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember,” he says. “Two days… three days, maybe four. It was bad enough that I’d be bleeding everywhere. The last thing I wanted was… was to… mess myself.” He smiles, but it's thin, bloodstained. “I figured at least I’d have that. One last shred of dignity.”

“Oh.” Ashav remembers Zaria… not-Zaria… whoever she was - is. He’d thought that was strange then. But Vladimir-beg’s behavior seems unlikely to be attributed to yet another imposter. “Well… I can get you something now?”

One of the cabinets is full of non-expirables. Sweet things. Juice boxes, candy, cookies wrapped in cellophane. (Many of Selesta’s daughters suffer from low blood sugar).

The prince sniffs. “Maybe I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are.” Ashav isn’t a father, Vladimir-beg is not his son. But it feels right when his hand comes down on the young man’s shoulder. And he puts on the sternest face he can. “You are. You need to eat something.”

“Or what?” Vladimir snarls. “Or what?”

“Well… you… you could di-”

“I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Of course not. That’s… that’s ridicu-” This approach is getting them nowhere. “At least drink something then.” Something with sugar. Ashav holds out two juice boxes. “Apple or grape?”

“I… I can’t.”

“Vladimir-beg,” he begins through gritted teeth. “I am trying to-”

“No, I mean, really. I can’t… You’re not supposed to drink anything… after… it happens. And I already brushed my teeth.”

“After what happens? The bullet didn’t hit you, you don’t need surgery-”

“No, not that. I… I saw on American television. They give men those examinations too sometimes. Not often, but…” His moon-white face turns pink, and he puts two fingers to his lips and makes an awkward gesture with them.

“You…” Ashav freezes. All his ire. All his frustration. Everything he’s ever thought about Vladimir-beg… It’s gone in a minute. He almost wishes he could grab it back. He says this instead: “Okay… We can-” Get ahold of yourself, damnit! “Just so we’re clear here… Something happened? Something happened and you want me to… to examine you?”

“The guards,” Vladimir says. “Some of the guards. I’m sure I could point them out if I saw them again.”

“Where did they- You didn’t want to sit before. How-” He stops himself from asking how bad it was. Unhelpful and terribly subjective. “Your highness. Help me. Please. What exactly are we dealing with here?”

“I,” he says slowly, haltingly, “… I’ve been bleeding. Off and on. For… a while now.”

“How long?”

“Since, um… not long after the arrest.”

Not good. “Was that when…?”

“The first time.” He rubs his forehead. “They also hit me a lot.”

Worse. “Alright. Alright, we can work with this, we can at least stop the bleeding. If you can’t sit, can you lie down? On your side, if it helps? Just… please don’t fall.”

Vladimir lounges on the table, posed like a European Renaissance painting even in his distress. Ashav gathers swabs and disinfectant while Loshadkin shines a tiny light into the prince’s eye to check for concussion.

“What’s your full name?”

“Vladimir Livius Konnitsa Tuparkhanov-beg.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“Where is Arisiziat located?”

“Um… next to Mongolia, I think? Mongolia is in Central Asia, right?”

It isn’t, but the prince was never much of a geography student. Social studies, yes, and the political sciences, but not much more than that.

“Drink something,” Ashav says.

“But-”

“The reason you aren’t supposed to is the same reason you aren’t supposed to brush your teeth. There won’t be anything left to swab. Do you understand?”

“… I thought you could put it down my throat,” Vladimir admits, sheepishly. “Cranberry, please.”

Ashav shoves the juice box - almost crushes it - into the prince’s hand.

“I also showered,” Vladimir says. “Does that mean-”

“DNA might be lost. Bruises still count as evidence, though. Bitemarks, if there are any. And…” He grits his teeth. “I’m most worried about your injuries. Once you finish drinking that, I’ll help you get undressed.” Vladimir takes another sip, not really acknowledging if he’s heard or not. Ashav waits for the tell-tale slrrrrrk of the straw against the empty container. “Ready? I can cut them off, if you’d prefer-”

“WHAT?! NO! Does imported silk mean anything to you, you boob?!”

Ashav tries to keep hold of the rush of concern he felt for the prince just a moment ago. It’s harder than he would have thought, even when said silk is carefully removed and hung up and the bites and bruises on his arms and the fingernail gouges on his thighs are revealed, even when Ashav sees the blood spots on the table.

“If you need us to stop, say so,” he says. “I would like to get this looked at, but I won’t force you to let me.”

“Mm, it’s fine. You wouldn’t have been the first to see it anyway.” Vladimir tries to sound as dismissive as he usually does, but he tenses up when Ashav urges him onto his back.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I could send someone to get…” His mother is busy. “Your father-”

“If you can figure out which one he is,” Vladimir bites back. Selesta-khatun never did keep track of which of her three concurrent husbands and multiple lovers fathered which child, and had declared it would be unfair to treat the one son differently, genetic wellness aside. “I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody.”

“Suit yourself,” Ashav says. “I’ll take imprints of those bitemarks in a minute. For now I want to see what’s going on between your legs.”

Vladimir’s knuckles turn white around the edge of the table and he looks away. “Quickly, please.” Loshadkin stands at his side, reassuringly murmuring, and Ashav gets a glimpse before Vladimir’s legs slam shut.

“… This is harder than I thought. Sorry.”

That might be the first time Vladimir’s ever said that.

“It’s alright, your highness,” Loshadkin says, and Ashav is immediately reminded of not-Zaria when they looked her over at the start of this mess. “You’ve had a terrible experience. It’s only natural you’d be a bit-”

“Stop. Please, just… stop.” Vladimir says, hands clenching around his knees. “Talking doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Let’s just get this over with. I don’t care what you have to do - just do it. So we can all go home. Or… wherever it is that you people live.”

“I can give you something,” Ashav offers. “If you think that’ll help.”

“What, like drugs?”

“Anaesthetic. Yes. Usually we’d use a local anaesthetic for stitches, but it might be easier on us- on you if we put you under entirely.”

Vladimir thinks for a moment, then says, “Very well. Probably for the best, it isn’t like I’ve slept for real since the arrest either. Just have me carried to bed when you’re done.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Still sympathetic as they are about his situation, it’s a relief to both doctors when he goes under and shuts up.

Chapter 86: Sandhya Bhakta

Patient is… unknown.

“Name, please. And I mean your real one this time.”

“Sandhya Bhakta,” she says, not looking him in the eye. She’s fully dressed, sitting cross-legged on the table, with the cloth gown laid out on her knees. Still squinting. “I usually wear glasses…”

“Where are they now?”

“Still in Tatary. Güneş- I mean, the princess didn’t want to risk contact lenses. In case- In case somebody found them.”

Loshadkin raises an eyebrow. “ ‘Somebody’ as in his highness?”

She looks down guiltily. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t- I mean, I never wanted to… Nobody was supposed to get hurt!”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Where’s the real Zaria Samaant?”

“I don’t know,” she says flatly. “Probably dead.”

“Probably?”

“His majesty didn’t tell me. He took her away, and… Whatever he’s done, it’s not good.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “I hope he didn’t give her to his daughter.”

“His majesty being…?” The immediate thought is Vladimir, the man of the hour as it were, but he’s a “highness” at the very most. He doesn’t have a daughter anyway.

“Tyrek-kehan,” she says. “He wanted… He and Güneş-begum had some kind of agreement. I just… I wanted to leave. I’m sorry.”

“Leave? Leave where?”

“You haven’t met Qalbinur-begum, have you? That child is a monster.”

“That child is ten years old.”

“He started teaching her early.”

“Right,” Loshadkin isn’t buying a word of this. “And how did the two of you become…” He trails off. He can’t speak. Not looking at that. At her.

He saw her naked during the initial checkup. The parts he thought he ought to be concerned with anyway. Nobody bothered to check the inside of her mouth. Or the bottoms of her feet.

“What on earth…?”

“Horseshoes,” Sandhya says. “Basically. These were specially made. Eventually the skin started to grow around them. And… and I think the nails fused to the bone.”

“Wh-why?”

“He told her she couldn’t bring real ponies into her room.” She unclips two partial dentures from her mouth, one on each side. “These were for the bit and bridle.”

“Dear Ladies.”

“The bruises have all faded by now. She had a little whip that wouldn’t cut the skin too deeply. No scars. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“When she got bored, I guess, he still wanted to sell me.”

“Sell you?”

She shrugs and hugs her knees against her stomach. Her stomach…

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“No. Qalbinur was awful, but she never… and anyway, she was a girl. His majesty wasn’t interested in me, and his highness Vladimir, well, he wasn’t either. Even if they were…” She goes to adjust non-existent glasses. “I haven’t even started on my period.”

“What? But that can’t be- How old are you?”

“Fourteen makes the most sense, physically speaking. Any younger seems unlikely, at this point in my physical development. No more than fifteen, I’d wager.”

“What?!”

“It’s not that bad. I knew already that Vladimir-beg was rumoured to see his marital duties as a, well, duty, if you understand. I calculated I would be safer with him than Tyrek-kehan.” She swallows hard. “But… I found a pregnancy test in Zaria-begum’s bathroom. She hadn’t used it yet…”

“And that’s why you… I see.”

“I went to Güneş-begum first. I was… worried. I asked her if anyone knew and she- Well, she was never very close with his majesty. We got scared. And Luna-begum told us-”

“Luna-begum was involved?!”

“… She said your people were hurting her mom.”

Loshadkin raises one hand in a “stop” motion, pressing the fingers of the other into his temples. “Alright. I think you’re going to have to speak to Selesta-khatun and the guard captain-” Zaria’s brother, of course, this couldn’t possibly be straightforward. “-and start from the beginning. But first, I can at least look at those wounds. I’m probably going to have to book you in for surgery.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Surgery for…?”

“Your feet. You… you should sit down. Let me look at your feet.”

“Oh. They don’t hurt that much anymore. At least… I’m used to it.”

That might be worse. They could be looking at nerve damage. He helps her sit again and examines the twisted flesh. “Since the prince wasn’t responsible, may I ask what happened with, ah, the injuries I looked at last time?”

“That was Güneş. She didn’t hurt me- well, it did hurt but I mean… I was okay with it. With her.” She buries her face in her hands. “Is that illegal here?”

“No…”

Loshadkin thinks that should really be the least of her worries.

Chapter 87: Bernard Kekata

Summary:

First names have been changed; the Powhatan language has been almost completely lost and the names aren't used anymore, sadly.

Patient is unconscious.

Looking at the young man on the bed - tube in his throat, hooked up to maybe a half-dozen machines - Sweet can’t help but feel like he’s out of his depth. Kekata usually takes the “bad ones”. The weird ones. The gory ones. That’s not an option here.

“Just let me hold him.”

“Please,” he says (not for the first time that night). “You can’t touch him. Not yet. We can’t risk contaminating anything.”

“You don’t understand! You’re not a father,” Dr. Jason Kekata says, face blotched, eyes streaming. “He needs me.”

Sweet looks at Kekata. Normally calm. Normally collected. Normally rational. He’s absolutely none of those things right now and Sweet’s not about to blame him. “How about this? I’ll collect what DNA evidence I can off of his hands, and then you can hold them for the rest of the time. Will that work?”

Hesitantly, Kekata nods. Sweet already doesn’t know when he’ll be able to look at his colleague the same way again. If he ever will.

Male… Native American… 22… O-

Sweet halts. Twenty-two. He remembers when the boy was even younger. Wandering around without a mother. He looks again at Kekata. Too much is all he can think now.

“He doesn’t have any enemies, does he…? Anyone who would do this?”

“Matty thinks it was a hate crime. He’s only been gone a few hours-” Kekata’s voice broke. “He didn’t want to go out last night. I told him it would be good for him.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sweet murmurs, clipping away at Bernard’s fingernails. Left hand. Right hand. And a wipe to remove the blood. “There. You can take one now.” Kekata takes both. “Did… did they do that to his hair?”

“I assume so. It was long when he-” Kekata cuts himself off. He can’t finish. He can’t continue to speak. Not that Sweet can blame him. He decides not to press.

“Okay. I-I’m going to check his mouth now.”

There’s little to find. Of course there’s little to find. Bernard was nothing if not serious. He probably didn’t move his mouth, even when…

Sweet changes out his gloves. Takes the comb from the kit and moves to stand behind Kekata’s son.

“Do his… Between his legs. That needs the most attention.”

“They cauterized… it, in the ambulance. I’m not sure- He’s not in danger. From that. And the DNA would have been… I can check now if you’d prefer?”

Kekata nods wordlessly. Nothing comes up on the swabs but spots of red. Sweet makes a note that it may need to be recauterized. Then he looks between the patient's legs.

“H-how does it look?” Kekata asks shakily.

Not good. Privately, Sweet worries about incontinence. Temporary or otherwise. “It’s… The damage has been repaired the best it can.”

Kekata winces, but nods.

One last swab actually does get a bit of off-white from the patient’s knee. That’s all there is to take. He hopes the EMTs saved whatever they used to clean him with. Makes a note to check. Gets the camera.

Kekata blinks sluggishly. “Bruises?”

“Injuries,” Sweet confirms, moving the camera up to take pictures of Bernard’s chest. “Did the tattoos have any particular meaning attached to them? Any cultural significance? If this was a hate crime…” He trails off, not wanting to finish.

“I took him to get them done. For his t-twenty-first birthday. They… It used to be common for the Powhatan to have tattoos. All over their bodies. Especially the women…” He shudders. “Can you fix them? Put them back or-”

“I can do a skin graft, of course, but… but we didn’t find the missing skin.”

“Bastards,” Kekata says. Sweet doesn’t disagree with him.

“I’ll put in an order for the skin graft. And…” He pauses, noticing something. Something in the way Bernard just lies there…

“Sweet?”

Sweet pulls out his penlight, leans forward, and pulls back Bernard’s left eyelid, shining the penlight over his right. His pupils remain as they are. No movement in the slightest. “How long had he been there before the EMTs found him?”

“T-they don’t know. It couldn’t have been that long. He was only gone a few hours.”

Six minutes. That was how long it took after cardiac death for brain death to occur. “I-I’m also going to order some brain activity tests. Just to-“

“NO!”

“Dr. Kekata… Jason-”

“No! He’s… We have him back.” Kekata thumps the heart monitor. “He’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s not- He’s going to be okay.”

“Maybe you’re right…” But Sweet isn’t optimistic. “But it’s better to run the tests all the same.”

“He’s my son,” Kekata whispers. “He’s my son. You’re not a father. You don’t understand. He’s my son-”

“I’m going to comb his hair now. If that’s alright with you.”

Kekata nods. “Do what you have to. I want those bastards to be in prison when my son wakes up.”

If, Sweet mentally corrects Kekata as he brushes through Bernard’s pubic hair. Grey and red and blonde tumble from the black. You mean if he wakes up.

And that was a very. Big. If.

Chapter 88: Rocky “Rhodes”

Patient is John Doe, found in Russia.

Rocky Rhodes is cooperative. Eerily so. Rocky is not his real name. Neither is Rhodes for that matter, but it is all Kekaka has to go on.

Male… Caucasian… 17… AB+…

“Your name is weird,” Rhodes tells him right off the bat. “Ke-kat-a. It’s fun to say.”

“Thank you. It’s Indian. The kind from India, I mean. I’m actually Native American.”

“There’s a difference?”

Oh God, he was being serious. “You don’t know what a Native American is?”

“Nope! Why? Is that one of those weird things Tulio and Ginger act like I should know about?”

“I’m Native American, it’s a race.”

“Huh.” Rhodes blinks up at him. “I just thought you were an Indian.”

Why did he always end up with the weird cases? “Well, some people do use Indian, but I’m not from India, so I prefer the term Native American. Our tribal names have mostly been lost, so we have names from various other places instead.”

“Okay!” Rocky says a little too cheerfully. “Got it, mister doctor guy. So, what exactly do you need me to do?”

“Can you tell me when you were last assaulted?”

“You mean had sex?”

“… Sure.”

“Well, gee, hm… I haven’t had sex since I left the warehouse. I mean, I offered to have sex with Tulio, but he didn’t want it, for some reason.”

“Right… and when did you leave the warehouse?”

“I dunno. A little while ago? We were floating around on a boat for a while and then we had to go to this big building and he scared some people by making out with another dude, I dunno why. Oh! And then the FBI showed up, and they put us on a plane and brought us over here.” Rocky beams. “They said they’d seen my movies! I’m a bit of a celebrity. Have you seen any of ‘em?”

“… No. No, I have not.” The ninety-six hour evidence window is long gone, better focus on blood tests and physical injuries.

“Okay, Rocky, can I have you open your mouth for me, please?”

He does so. Automatically. His teeth are decayed, and he will probably need several pulled. Extreme case of gingivitis. Will need to be referred to both dentist and orthodontist. Kekata makes a note to test his saliva and see if the patient turns up in the missing persons’ database. The swab dampens and stains with a red that is not quite rusty from an unhealed mouth wound.

“What are you doin’ that for?” Rocky asks, eyeing the mess of bloodstained gauze in Kekata’s hand.

“I’m getting a DNA sample.”

“DNA? For what?”

“To see if we can find out who you were before the island.”

“But… that’s all I remember.”

“That doesn’t mean that’s all there is. It just means they must’ve taken you when you were very young. Your family probably wants to see you again, so we’re doing what we can to find them for you.” May have amnesia.

“Hey,” Rocky speaks up. “How come there isn’t a camera? Don’t you need to do doctor stuff in front of a camera?”

“No, I don’t need to, ah, 'do doctor stuff' in front of a camera. In this case, I could actually lose my license.”

“Why?”

He looks so much younger than seventeen… “Because that would be a breach of patient confidentiality.”

“What’s confidentiality?”

“It’s like a secret protected by law. I’m not allowed to tell anyone what happened to you unless you say it’s okay first - unless it’s the police and they have a warrant, or they’re your legal guardian.”

“My what?”

“The adult responsible for you. Usually it’s your parents, but not always.”

“Like Mr. Rabbit? Or the Coach?”

Kekata raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Oh, um, y’know the island? Coach was the guy who was in charge of us there. Mr. Rabbit was one of the guys from the warehouse. That’s custody, right?”

“Not exactly…”

“Then what-”

“Later. Mr. Rhodes, I’m going to need you to spread your legs for me.”

He has been cleaned up a bit. There is no rust-red, nor off-white, but there are bruises. Yellowing and faded, green and brown, none of them fresh, but undeniably finger-shaped. Massive internal scarring, consistent with the Pleasure Island victims.

“Mr. Rhodes, do you have any problem with blood?”

“No, not really. Why?”

“I’m going to have to test you for diseases.”

“Oh, yeah. Tulio mentioned that. Go right ahead.”

A vial fills up with blood. Rocky has scars from track marks on arms. Probably drugged.

“Were you ever given anything, Mr. Rhodes?” Kekata asks. “With needles, I mean? Did they ever give you shots that made you feel… strange?”

“Strange how?”

“Tired, perhaps? Or overly energized? Anything you wouldn’t normally feel?”

“But that’s normal with needles.”

“I…” Kekata is for once at a loss. “No. It isn’t.”

“Is this one of those things that’s different outside?” Rocky asks. “Ginger and Tulio keep talking about that kind of stuff. What are needles supposed to do?”

“Well, either they draw blood, like I did just now, or they deposit something like a vaccine or medication.”

“What’s a vaccine?”

“It’s… hm… It’s something that keeps you from getting sick.”

“You can do that?!”

Kekata notes Schedule patient to be vaccinated.

“So is there anything else you need, doctor guy?” Rocky’s smile seems… odd.

“We’re just about done, actually.”

“So, this is the part where we, y’know…”

“Where we what?”

“You know, where we bang?”

Nope. Nope. Nopenopenopenopenope.

“No. No, that will not be necessary.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Why not?”

Kekata takes a deep breath and tries to pick his words.

Chapter 89: Alice-May “Skipper” Roberts

Summary:

We wanted more intersex characters - IRL it's more common than red hair, and most people don't know they are until they get checked for something else.

Patient is in a bad way.

Jekyll almost gasps when she sees her.

Alice-May Roberts is covered in blood. Enough that she leaves bright red footprints down the hall where she steps, and handprints on the wall when she leans against it. “I got in touch with my folks,” she says, “so you can do whatever.”

“You don’t want me to wait?”

“Nah. They’ll get here when they get here… and I don’t really want a transfusion when they do.”

“Is all of that blood yours?”

“Uh, most of it. I think I broke one guy’s nose?”

Female… Caucasian… 14… AB-…

Jekyll urges her towards the paper. Alice-May drips little red spots onto it. “What exactly happened?”

“I’m… pretty sure it was GWF. The last few of ‘em, I mean. Two guys, and they said something about calling more in, and one lady. She didn’t do anything to me, but…” She shudders. “Tried to kidnap Chelsea. I don’t know what she was gonna do to her.”

“Okay, put your clothes in this bag… Chelsea? Was she the little girl who came in with you?” Alice-May nods. “Your sister?”

“Um…” Alice-May inhales through her teeth. “Legally, yeah, but genetically, she’s my aunt. She has a much older sister and I was kind of a surprise to that sister, so… The people coming over are technically my grandparents, but the adoption went through legally and stuff. I don’t know what the paperwork says.”

“Ah, I see. Don’t worry, it won’t be the first time we’ve dealt with this.” Jekyll remembers the Loud girls.

“Okay, um… Cool.” She takes the paper gown from Jekyll’s hand. “They thought it was me, you know.”

“Thought what was-”

“That I… That Chelsea was my kid. I don’t know how, I mean, I’m fourteen and she’s six.”

Well, it’s certainly not unheard of, but… “I don’t think they put much thought into it,” Jekyll says gently.

“Well, yeah! I haven’t even had my period yet! I guess they couldn’t know that, but…”

“Okay, now can you hold still for a bit? I’m going to comb out your hair.”

Little bits of brown fall onto the paper, a few threads from her big purple streak. Some grey, some black.

“Everyone else in the family is blonde…”

Jekyll isn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for them?”

Alice-May nods. “Barbie’s with Stacey anyway. She’s my other sister… aunt… person.”

“Barbie or Stacey?”

“Stacey. Barbie’s my, uh, mom-sister.”

“You wanna tell me about them?”

“Well, you probably know about Barbie Roberts. Everyone does.”

“The Barbie Roberts?” Jekyll picks up the nail clippers and Alice-May holds out her hands without being prompted.

“Yeah. She wasn’t famous when I came along, so, uh, yeah, not a lotta people know that about us.”

“Doesn’t she- don’t you have a brother? I remember hearing you had a brother.”

“We did. That’s Stacey. We were here ‘cause we were bringing her for an official, like, diagnosis? Is that the right word? So she could get blockers and stuff.”

“Oh! Well, congratulations. I hope that goes well.”

“Yeah. ‘Least those guys didn’t find her. That would’ve been even worse.”

Time to move onto the difficult part. Jekyll gently urges Alice-May onto the exam table. “You say you haven’t had a period yet?”

“No. I know it’s a little late, but I’m growing normally otherwise so my regular doctor said not to worry. Can… can you get me some Plan B anyway? Just in case.”

“Of course.” Jekyll smiles tightly as she helps the girl lay back. “Let’s get the hard part over now.”

Alice-May nods, slumping over from her side. “Is this going to hurt?”

“It shouldn’t. At least not badly - I can give you something if it does.”

“… O-okay.”

Rust red and off white.

Alice-May is unusually flat-chested for a girl of her age and healthy weight. Fourteen and no period. Fourteen and little breast development…

“Do you have any family history of diabetes? Celiac disease? Kidney issues? Cystic fibrosis?” Jekyll checks her medical record. No signs of any such issues in the patient herself.

Alice-May shakes her head to every suggestion. “No, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have any of those.”

“Any pains in your abdomen?”

“No. Why?”

“I’d like to run some tests after we finish here,” Jekyll says - gently, very gently. “Nothing too invasive, I promise. An ultrasound, maybe an MRI scan…”

“… Why?” Alice-May bites her lip, trying not to look as the swab is taken and bagged.

“To check the physical damage, partially. But I’m also concerned about… hm…”

“About what?!”

“Has your regular doctor spoken to you about your puberty? It might be that you have a minor issue with your ovaries, but since you’re not reporting any pain, I’d also like to check for androgen insensitivity.”

“No!” She sits bolt upright, eyes wide and terrified. “Is that serious? I’m not- I can’t… I can’t get sick.”

“Alice. Sweetheart. It’s okay. You’re not dying. It’s not a disease.”

“Then what?”

“It’s a possible cause for your puberty not arriving. People with androgen insensitivity look like typical female-assigned people and usually identify as women, but their chromosomes are XY. When someone has a condition like that, their body can’t use testosterone normally, and that’s what triggers foetueses to develop as male-appearing, so they… don’t, basically. It might not be that, but if it is you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh… Huh.” Alice-May rubs her stomach. “I didn’t know that… What else does it do? Is it dangerous?”

“Well, it depends on the specific form of the condition, but it shouldn’t be dangerous. We’ll have to do a scan to check. If you do have AIS I’d recommend hormone replacement therapy. If it’s not that, it might be ovarian cysts - those are just like blisters, basically, they can be removed easily.” Jekyll leans down and looks her patient in the eye. “Don’t worry. If you haven’t shown any other symptoms, it’s very unlikely it’s anything dangerous. I will warn you, you might turn out not to be fertile. I know you're a little young to worry about that, but… But I really don't think you're in any serious danger.”

“Mm. Yeah, I’ll take the tests. I ought to know, right?” She seems to think for a moment, then adds: “Kelly had something wrong with her too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with… Wait. Kelly?”

“My- She was my mom’s… my sister-mom’s first little sister. She had a heart condition. She didn’t… I think I exist because Barbie couldn’t deal with that.”

“I’m…” “Sorry” doesn’t seem like the right word. “… I hope your family are doing better now?”

“Yeah, it’s… been a while. We have- Barbie has new sisters now, and I know they’re not unhappy I’m here. It’s just sort of weird to know.” Alice-May fiddles with her purple streak. “I hope she doesn’t get worse again now. This is going to mess us up…”

Very likely. Jekyll thinks of her sons. “Well, whatever happens, it’s not your fault, okay? And I’m sure everyone will be happy you and Chelsea got yourselves out of there.”

Alice-May smiles weakly.

Some days later her test results come back. XY in her blood. Swyer Syndrome. The Plan B was unnecessary; Alice-May Roberts has a perfectly-formed uterus, but no ovaries at all.

Chapter 90: Charlie Barkin

Patient is an inmate - Orleans Parish.

Charlie Barkin leans on the wall, not unconscious but not well enough that they’d trust him to stand. Overgrown hair. Bloodstained teeth. His eye is bloodshot, swollen and oozing - drops of foul smelling greenish-yellow on the paper. “Can I get a phone call after this?” he rasps, blood leaking through the gaps in his teeth. “Today’s visiting day. Need to… tell her why… Daddy didn’t show…”

Dr. Princess takes hold of his arm and urges him toward the table. “Sure, sure. Just come and sit first.”

He doesn’t so much sit as flop backwards onto the table like an exhausted dog. He tries to push himself back up, fails, gives in. “Thh-ank you…”

She doesn’t ask what happened. Context means she can tell.

Male… Creole/Cajun/Southeast Asian mixed… 24… unknown…

“Okay, how long ago did this happen? Each part?”

“Face tat happened the first day I was in,” he rasps. “That was… I ‘unno when.”

“His cellmate,” the accompanying officer adds helpfully. “Got a history.”

Princess pointedly avoids asking why they didn’t remove him before now. “Is he responsible for… the rest of this?”

Barkin nods, mouth twisted into a sardonic smirk. “Romantic type. Thinks we’re in love.”

The officer rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Didn’t you get any treatment for the tattoo at all?”

“Washed it best I could. Maybe not well enough.”

“How did he apply it?”

“Uh, pen, I think? He used this… he had his own tattoo gun… thing?”

“Did you bleed at all when he did it?”

Barkin nods. “He did too, I think. Got a few good bites in.”

That would be concerning, but anything he was going to pass on would probably have been passed on anyway. “Are you okay with needles? I’d like to do a blood test.”

“Keep it off my face and yeah, should be fine.” He does wince and look away when the needle goes in, though.

“Do you know what blood type you are?”

“Uh…”

“It’s alright if you don’t.”

“Nah, nah, let me think… We tested it. When Anne Marie was born. I think I’m B? Why? You lookin’ to do a transfusion?”

“Not yet,” Princess says. She motions for him to lay down on his back instead of his side. “Before I start, I want to ask how long has this been going on for?”

He laughs humourlessly. “First day in, I said. That’d be… God, almost a year ago now, I think. Or maybe it just feels that long…”

“I see. Have you been tested in that time?”

“Uh…”

“I’ll get on that first then,” she says, prepping the needle. “Have you experienced anything… odd? Sores? Lumps? Trouble urinating?”

“Now you mention it…” He shifts, looking embarrassed, as if this is the worst she’d have heard. Some of the male inmates get like that around a lady doctor. “I did notice my, uh, my urine is a weird colour. Sort of dark, no matter how much water I drink.”

Princess peers closer at his eyes. Tinted yellow. That’s not good. “Have you experienced stomach pains? Tiredness?”

“Ugh, all the time. I figured that was just ‘cause I’m not sleeping, though.” Barkin looks worried. “This a problem?”

“I’m afraid it could be. The test will tell us more.”

“Are we thinking it’s, like, AIDS bad, or herpes bad?”

“Mr. Barkin-”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie, there’s a bit of a range between those conditions. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can work something out, alright? Now-” Still focused on her work, she sees his embarrassment. Not that it stops her from slipping a gentle hand between his legs. “If you need something for the pain I can give it to you. Otherwise-”

“No stitches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No stitches. He, uh… It shouldn’t be too bad down there. He didn’t make me bleed.”

“Well, at least that saves us some issues. Wounds there can be pretty dangerous.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t sound very relieved, and he looks awkwardly away as she checks. He’s right; no bleeding there, at least. There are some reddish marks on his clothes, but when she looks closer it turns out they’re ketchup - one of the easier-to-obtain substitute lubricants that get passed around among the inmates. No serious damage there. His face is entirely another matter. She changes her gloves and prepares to look at his eye.

It’s hot to the touch, getting warmer the closer her fingers get to the afflicted area. Princess stops mid-motion when Barkin half-screams through his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Princess says quickly. “I should have started with the anesthetic.” Not that getting it in is all that comfortable. Still though. It’s better than nothing. A moment later she probes the still-warm cheek. He doesn’t flinch. “You said he gave you the tattoo almost a year ago. When did the infection…?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs… as well as anyone can shrug lying down. “It never healed right, but it didn’t get nasty until a few weeks in. Got worse. Kept getting worse. Freaked the kid out. I shouldn’ta picked at it but it itched so bad I couldn’t not. And I guess… maybe in the back a’ my mind I was tryin’a scratch it off.” He shudders. “He’s marked me forever this way.”

“Mm. I’m sorry.” Laser removal isn’t really a service she can offer here. “And the infection spread to the eye, or was that a separate injury?”

“Think it musta spread. Rubbing at a wound that close to my eye… yeah, I know, it was dumb.”

“Well, in the circumstances I think it’s impossible to blame you for not thinking quite straight. Look this way, please?”

The infected eye barely shifts, doesn’t focus at all.

“Okay, now cover the other eye for a moment?” He does. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Uh… I… Shit.”

“I’ll have to run some more tests,” Princess says. “But that’s not good.”

Chapter 91: Chance Cailean

Patient’s foster family are present.

Chance Cailean is glaring daggers at Kekata. His foster brother is leaning against the wall, holding the boy’s arm tightly. His foster sister stands on his other side, gripping his shoulder. And his foster mother stands between him and the door.

“You don’t all need to be here-”

“Yes they do,” Chance snaps, jerking back like he’s going to run.

The older boy squeezes his arm, then turns to Kekata. “He was assaulted by a doctor.”

“Oh.”

Male… Caucasian… 14… O-…

“Can you tell me when this happened?” Kekata asks, his voice much more gentle.

Laura Seaver, the foster mother, clears her throat. “Thursday afternoon, probably around five o’clock.”

Just over forty-eight hours then. “Have you showered or changed your clothes since the assault?”

Chance scoffs and motions to himself. He’s covered head to toe in dried mud. “Does it look-”

“No,” his equally-filthy foster brother interrupts. “We haven’t had access to running water in…” He trails off when he sees Kekata’s expression and glances apologetically at Laura. “We’ve, uh, been camping?”

“Did you hear about the runaway teens?” the foster sister asks. Her eyes dart from wall to ceiling to wall - everywhere but the dirt on herself and the others. “That’s us.”

“We weren’t being abused or anything,” the foster brother adds quickly. “Laura’s a wonderful person, we always have food and heat and she never-”

“It’s my fault,” Chance says, his eyes watering. “I said she wasn’t coming back, Shadow kept telling me but I wouldn’t-”

“But it was all my idea, Sasha tried to talk me out of it-”

“But I could’ve told Kate, I should’ve-”

“Guys,” Laura interrupts gently. “Dr. Kekata can’t understand if you’re all talking at once.” A major understatement.

Shadow takes a deep breath and starts over. “We were staying with a family friend - and she was very nice, none of this was her fault-”

“I thought Laura wasn’t coming back,” Chance says quietly. “I… I said Laura wasn’t coming back, and they listened and… We thought we could walk home, through the mountains.”

“We shouldn’t have listened,” Sasha adds. “I’m not sure why we believed him…”

Kekata nods slowly. “It can be distressing to be separated from your primary caregiver.” Not usually this distressing, especially in teens your age. “Chance, I see in your file you take Diazepam. Is that for anxiety?”

“Uh, yeah. We all take it - or we’re supposed to, anyway.”

Kekata frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve all got our own prescriptions, we’re not sharing! Laura wouldn’t-”

“No, no, you said you’re supposed to be taking Diazepam?”

Shadow nods. “We’ve been off them since we went to Kate’s - I forgot the bottles at home.”

Laura gasps softly and Kekata grits his teeth. “Didn’t you tell anyone?” He’s struggling to keep his voice even, and Chance picks up on that.

“It took hours to get there! We didn’t need to drive it again just to get some stupid pills!”

“Chance, calm down-”

“No, he doesn’t get to judge you, you took care of us!”

“Chance,” Kekata says slowly, “I’m just trying to understand here. You all stopped taking your medicine very suddenly. Is that right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So, that’s incredibly dangerous. Going off a medication cold turkey can cause some pretty serious withdrawal symptoms.”

Chance goes pale. “What, like drug users have?”

“Exactly. Diazepam affects your brain the same way certain narcotics do, so quitting it suddenly has the same effects. It can cause pretty serious anxiety - if I had to guess, that’s why you were all so willing to think you’d been abandoned. But you could have experienced seizures, heart attacks…”

“Shit,” Chance mumbles.

Shadow starts to breathe shallowly. “This is all my fault-”

“No.” Laura’s voice is very firm, and she puts a steady hand on his shoulder. “It was a mistake, Shadow, anyone could have made it.”

“But I could have killed them!” he counters, and now he’s almost shouting. “It’s my fault Chance was assaulted, and Sasha almost died, and you were-”

“Shadow.” Still firm, still steady. Kekata’s impressed. “None of this was your fault. You did everything you could to keep everyone safe. You did enough. If you don’t believe that right now, I’ll find a way to help you believe it. But right this minute, I need you to calm down so we can help Chance. Can you do that?”

The boy nods his head slightly, taking unsteady breaths.”Yeah, I… Yes. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Right?” This question is directed at Kekata, her eyes flinty.

“Right,” he agrees automatically. I’ll tell her about post-acute withdrawal syndrome later. “Chance, can you step onto this paper, please?”

The boy, momentarily worried for his foster brother, now resumes glaring. “Tell me why first.”

“I want to comb your hair, and then I want you to take your clothes off. The paper will catch any hair or DNA that may’ve come from your attacker.”

Chance shakes his head. “He used a rubber, so there’s not gonna be much-”

“But there might be something,” Laura says gently. “And even if there’s nothing, I really think you should be checked for injuries.”

“Didn’t bleed,” Chance mumbles, but he steps onto the sheet of paper. He flinches with every swipe of the comb, and he clutches Sasha’s hand hard.

“Did you scratch him at all? If there’s skin under your nails-”

“He drugged me.”

“Sedated,” Shadow says softly. “We thought he was panicking over nothing.”

He nods, staring at the paper. Flakes of mud and dead leaves and many colors of hair. It probably isn’t enough, but he’ll do his best. “Now I’m going to ask you to take off your clothes.”

The boy points to the farthest corner of the room. “Stand over there.”

Kekata obediently backs up, handing a paper gown to Sasha before averting his gaze. After a moment he’s told to turn around. Chance is sitting on the examination table with Shadow in the chair beside him and Sasha and Laura by his head.

“I’m guessing you’ve eaten and drunk since the assault?”

“Not a lot, but yeah. Why?”

“If there was any DNA in your mouth-”

Chance shakes his head. “It was all, y’know…” He motions to his lower half.

“Okay… I’m going to have to look, alright?”

The boy winces and grabs for his foster siblings’. They hold his hands tightly. “Okay.”

It’s not okay, of course. But at least he isn’t alone.

Chapter 92: Wangpo

Summary:

Yeah, we're planning a thing where some of the Furious Five aren't technically Chinese. It'll make sense when you see it.

Patient’s hands are unsalvageable.

That’s obvious when she walks in. They’re hanging by threads of flesh, the bones practically dust, tourniquets around his wrists. His face is covered in bruises and grazes and she guesses it was rubbed into the ground. His clothes are stained with red and drying brown, and with cloudy white. And yet he’s beaming, arms awkwardly wrapped around his crying teenage daughter, trailing blood down her back.

Male… Tibetan… 55… A+…

The girl pulls free and turns around, and from the way her sleeves sag her own lack of hands is visible. Yangchen remembers her from that, though she doesn't remember her name - it’s a birth defect, unlike her father’s current issue. A handle-less, broken dancing ribbon, the ripped end trailing on the ground, is tied around one shortened arm.

“A-Pha,” she sniffles. “I’m sorry, I-”

“No, Medo,” the man says. “Don’t apologize for anything. You… you were magnificent.”

“You were hurt. I… I killed-”

“I know!”

Yangchen clears her throat. “Hello, sir, miss…?”

“Wangpo,” says the man, bowing from his seated position on the table. “And this is Medo.”

“Doctor Yangchen. I wish we could have met in better circumstances. I can see the most obvious damage, so how about we start with that?”

Wangpo holds up his arms, still smiling. “Of course. I’m sure this is going to hurt a lot when the shock wears off, so we might as well get started before that…”

“What exactly happened?”

“Soldiers,” Medo says. “Um, I mean, one soldier. I was… They were…”

“Chinese,” Wangpo sneers. “They came to shut down the temple. One of them… I tried to stop him. I could not.”

“I see. Your hands?”

“Boot heels. Crampons.”

“And…?” She glances down at the stains on his robe.

Wangpo is quiet for a moment, while Medo sniffles. “A-Pha always said I should hide when the soldiers came so they didn’t… didn’t do that to me. I didn’t even know they could do it to him!”

“I’d rather it was me than you, dear. But I’m still proud you didn’t stay hidden.” Wangpo nods to the ribbon on her stump as Yangchen fills up his own stumps with local anaesthetic. “You didn’t listen to me when I said dancing was dangerous either. I should have learned from that.”

“Y-yeah,” Medo says. “A-Pha said I had to be careful and walk slowly everywhere because I couldn’t catch myself if I fell,” she explains. “He w-was really surprised when I learned to do a flip.”

“Now she ribbon-dances better than the real Chinese girls,” he says, chuckling and flinching as he shifts. “And she used that to save me - save us.”

Medo shakes her ribbon and says, “T-that soldier is dead now. A-Ma’s helping the men cut up the body.” Yangchen knows what she means; the stony soil’s not suitable for burial and if the body’s in pieces the scavengers can take it all before anyone comes looking. Yangchen also understands why the killing was done. She’s still immediately concerned.

“You don’t think they’ll come looking?”

“If they do,” Wangpo says, “they won’t find him.”

She sighs. “I suppose you won’t need an evidence kit.” It’s not like one would have done them any good, anyway. “Still, I’d better have a look.”

“Mm,” Wangpo says, reaching for his collar and falling short. “I…”

Yangchen retrieves a pair of scissors from the drawer. “Sleeves first. The rest can come off later. Whatever’s under there… your hands are my most pressing concern.”

He seems to fully register the damage at that, staring at the mess that remains of them. “I… They’re going to have to be removed, aren’t they?”

“It’s alright, A-Pha!” Medo’s sleeves slip back as she moves to hug him again, exposing the two or three little claw-like fingers at the ends of her arms, in the place where most people’s elbows would be. “I can show you how you can still do everything.”

“And we’re…” The exhaustion hits and he slumps against his daughter. “We’re going to have to leave. I knew it was coming one day…”

“Leave?” Medo says worriedly.

“If they do look for us, they mustn’t find us. It’s… fine. I have false passports for us already.” Medo helps him lie down on the table and Yangchen wields a scalpel. “Wouldn’t you like to see America?”

“I…”

“Please be still,” Yangchen says. The flesh gives easily. The bone gives… easily enough. As it would do - she has experience. Mostly mountain climbers and falling injuries. Some from the men who handle yak. There. Cauterized and bandaged. A little longer than Medo’s arms.

“What will you do with the… the rest of-”

“Medical waste,” she says. “Unless you’d like to… keep… it…”

“Uh, no.”

Medo forces a smile. “We’re gonna have to travel light, after all.”

Chapter 93: Bubba Thomas-Addams

Summary:

Note addressing concerns from elsewhere: this chapter was written by our Metis cowriter and vetted by our Cherokee one, and we are NOT making the pink guy part white and part Chikashsha as a stealth "red" slur except in the sense of reclamation by those writers. Both Gumball and Marshall are Chikashsha, and Gumball is written to be part white because it's relevant in the upcoming chapter that he's white-coded, i.e. has Caucasian-looking pinkish skin. Also, colour-dropping proves he's closer to purple, and pastel magenta is not a colour any human has ever been accused of being unless something is very wrong.

Patient transferred from Chickasaw Medical Center.

Dr. Prince gives the once over to the two young men in his exam room. They don’t seem to notice him, thoroughly wrapped up in their own conversation… which is becoming an argument rather quickly.

“Marshall!” one of them shrieks. He’s strawberry blonde and pink in the face. Dressed in an extraordinary mulberry-colored shirt with black and pink ribbons woven through. “My mother never liked you because-”

“Your mother never liked me because she’s racist,” says the other. Darker skinned. Darker haired. Dressed in a dark-gray hospital gown, chest heavily bandaged with thick white gauze.

“That… that isn’t true!” The gingerish one crosses his arms over his chest, scowling at the polished linoleum. “And even if it was-”

“Ahem,” Prince says, clearing his throat and sending them both jumping. “Hi, I’m Doctor Prince. I’m sorry about what happened. Are you ready for me to examine you?”

“Not really,” the ginger one says, “but it needs to be done.” They look awkwardly at each other.

“Uh, they fixed my thing up in the ambulance,” says the dark-haired one, brushing his fingers against his bandages and wincing. “I can wait…” He looks guilty.

“It really is the very least you can do,” snarks the guy in pink. He turns back to Prince, who sees dirt in his teeth. “I’m afraid I… I require a forensic exam. He doesn’t.”

“I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

“Mm.”

“Can you give me your name please? Before we do anything else.”

“Thomas-Addams,” the ginger says. “And that’s-”

“That’s his last name,” the other mutters. “ ‘M Marshall Lee.”

Noted. Prince keeps his eyes on Thomas-Addams. “Sir, I do need your full legal name for our records, but I certainly don’t have to call you that if there’s something else you would prefer.”

Trans bashing? Usually it’s a woman, but he’s seen it with men before.

Thomas-Addams seems to see where this is going. “No! No, I’m not… well, it’s not a deadname. It’s just embarrassing.” He blushes harder. “It’s Bubba. My mother thought it was… sweet. When I was small.”

Male… Caucasian/Chikashsha… 22… O-…

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Uh, some guy jumped us. Gay bashing, anti-black, anti-Indian, take your pick, he said it all…”

“What specifically?”

Thomas-Addams shrugs. Lee puts a hand on his shoulder. “Something about how we shouldn’t exist. Manifest destiny bullshit. Whatever.”

“It is not ‘whatever’! He… he stabbed Marshall in the chest. I thought he was… I thought we were both going to…”

“But we didn’t,” says Lee. “If I’d moved, we might have! He didn’t realise he hadn’t finished the job!”

“He wasn’t going to bother anyway! He didn’t with me!”

“Only because we didn’t piss him off more!”

“Sir. Sir. Please, both of you, calm down. I can appreciate,” Prince says, “that this is hard for both of you. But are you sure you want to be in the same room for this?”

“Yes.”

Their response is automatic.

“Marshall is my… I don’t want to be alone during this.”

“Bub’s my boyfriend. S’ nothing I haven’t seen before.” Lee smiles, nudging the air. Thomas-Addams moves away. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“Okay,” Prince says, feeling more like a first grade teacher than a doctor. “But if you can’t stop fighting, I’m going to have to ask Mr. Lee to wait outside.” They both nod. “Mr. Addams-”

“Thomas-Addams.”

“I’m going to roll out some paper. And I want you to stand on it when I do, okay? It will catch anything that falls off when you change your clothes and I comb your hair.”

“And you,” Thomas-Addams says slowly, “you keep my clothes when we’re done, right?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well… yes. That’s… These are handmade.” He fingers one of the ribbons. “They’re important.”

“Alright, you don’t have to give up anything with sentimental or cultural value, but I’ll warn you that reduces the amount of evidence we have to look at.”

“I can’t imagine it’ll make that big a difference. It wasn’t my upper half that was mostly injured.” His eyes flick to Lee’s ribs and back very quickly.

“Very well. If you wouldn’t mind, though, can you shake the shirt out over the paper and brush it down a little? And I’ll check for any fluid stains I can swab. That’s about the best I can do outside the lab.”

“There should be plenty elsewhere,” Thomas-Addams says, slipping it from his shoulders and shaking it out as per instruction. He starts on his lower half and Prince immediately sees he’s right. The pants are black, but his underwear isn’t and he’s bled through them in the time it took to get him here. Rust red and off-white. He looks over helplessly, now completely bare. “What do I wear home?”

“Uh…” Lee moves to stand, then thinks better of it. “My pants should be around here somewhere. You take those and I can drive home in my boxers. Or… something. We’ll figure it out.”

“Actually, I think you should both stay overnight,” says Dr. Prince. “Mr. Thomas-Addams, you’ve had a nasty shock and might have internal damage, and Mr. Lee, we’ll need to look at that wound again. Besides, if you want to make a police statement, it’ll be easier to let them come here than you having to make the trip to them.”

They look at each other, and look resigned.

“Yeah, that makes sense…”

“Probably for the best.”

Prince tries to be encouraging. “We can find you a room you can share.”

Lee says “Yes” immediately, but Thomas-Addams looks displeased.

Chapter 94: Zima Petrikov

Summary:

If you've seen the show you'll know there's more to this than is apparent.

Patient transferred from Choctaw Memorial Hospital.

Poor man’s stable, but so cold, so oxygen deprived, so badly bruised that his skin has gone a sickly shade of blue and stuck like that. Beaten bloody and bitten on his neck and shoulders. A few times on and around his genitals. He looks more like a fighting dog than a rape victim.

“Daddy, no!”

He’s not sure about the little girl. She shouldn’t be here. But here she is.

“Hey there,” he says gently, stooping to her level. “I’m Dr. Prince. What’s your name?”

“… Marcy.”

“Hi, Marcy. I’m Dr. Prince and I’m going to take really good care of your dad, okay? But it might be better for you to wait out in the hall-”

“Nooo! No, I can’t!”

“Marcy, this is going to be quite scary-looking, and we need space to work. And everything in there has to be kept extra-specially clean, you can’t go in without special sterile clothes. We promise we’ll do our very best to make sure your dad’s fine, okay?”

“It was already scary!” she pouts. “I saw what happened.”

Good grief, the poor kid… “Well, how about you go talk to the nice police officers about that while we work here? I’ll take good care of your father.”

“But… but what about Candy?”

“Candy? Who-”

“Daddy’s wife… girlfriend… person. We gotta make sure she’s okay too!”

“Is she here?”

“No, the policemen took her away!”

Police and not the ambulance. Ah. “… Well, I’m sure they’re keeping her safe.”

“Tell me if you see her, okay?” says Marcy. “She’s the lady with the funny eyes.”

“I promise. Now will you be a good girl and wait for us to finish helping your daddy?”

“Okay.” She sighs and wanders off to the waiting room, where an officer sits to keep an eye on her.

Dr. Prince enters the examination room, where Zima Petrikov is already lying on the table. The paramedics already changed him into a hospital gown, no need to package up his clothes here.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Prince. Are you willing to proceed with a forensic exam?”

“Y-yes,” Petrikov says through chattering teeth. “Quite alright, I c-can handle it…”

Male… 39… North Asian… O+…

“How’s the pain?”

“It was worse before. They, eugh… they gave me something in the ambulance.”

“Do you know what?”

Petrikov shakes his head. “I don’t… My head. Where’s Marcy? Is she alright?”

“She’s safe,” Prince soothes. “She’s just outside - one of the officers is with her.”

“And… what about Candace?”

“Your little girl - Marcy? - mentioned a Candy, is that her?” Petrikov nods, and Prince coughs and says, “Ah, Marcy says the police took her away. Was, uh…?” He glances at the bite wound he’s disinfecting, on Petrikov’s neck.

Petrikov looks uncomfortable. “Mm.”

“I’m very sorry about what happened to you.”

“Yes, well… You know how women are. Especially those women.”

“I’m not sure I do know.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Alright…” Prince swaps out his gloves for a clean pair. “Are you comfortable talking about it?”

Petrikov shrugs. “I think she was drunk. Or on drugs… or possibly not on drugs. She’s supposed to be taking medication.”

“For what?”

“Several things. Fits, delusions… I suppose I can’t really blame her for acting irrationally.”

“Does this happen… often?”

“What? Oh, dear, no! Goodness knows she’s always been volatile, but… She didn’t hurt Marcy, did she?!”

“No, no. Marcy is fine.”

“Oh, my baby, thank goodness,” he says, relaxing as much as he can really be expected to under the circumstances. “Still, if this happened once… I suppose I’ll have to press charges now.” He sighs. “That’ll be so hard on Marcy too.”

Chapter 95: Marceline Abadeer

Patient transferred from Wewoka Indian Health Center.

Skin ashen from blood loss. Eyes dim. Hair splayed out around her. She barely lifts her head when Prince enters and whispers when he asks for her name.

“Marceline.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, miss Marceline. Are you willing to proceed with a forensic examination?”

“Won’t do much good,” she rasps. “White guy.”

Prince winces. She need say no more. “Alright. I can at least treat your injuries, if you’d like?”

Grimly, she nods. “Fuck. He really worked me over.”

Female… 18… African-American/Seminole/North Asian… O-…

“Where does it hurt?” he asks, prepping the syringe already.

Marceline groans. “Where do you think?”

“Anywhere else?”

“I guess? He held me down by the neck,” she says, brushing her fingers over the bruises. “Kneeled on me. Should leave some pretty gnarly bruises when I wake up.”

She’s right; the blood’s coming to the surface already, tinting the skin light purplish. The nails on her callus-tipped fingers are torn and tipped with more blood, and there’s even more in her teeth. Looks like she put up a good fight. Such a pity it wasn’t good enough.

“I’m going to apply some local anesthetic before I do your stitches,” Prince says. “Before we start anything though I can get you some ibuprofen, it should help - a little - with everything else.”

Marceline nods, wiping her bloody lips on her sleeve.

“He didn’t do anything to your mouth, did he?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t’ve been able to do anything else if he did,” Marceline says, and bares her teeth. The adrenaline’s wearing off and she’s starting to slump. “Shit. It… it seemed smart to fight at the time but what if he presses charges against me? The law’s so fucked up about us, he could…”

“I think you’re probably not in the best state to be worrying about that now,” Prince tries to soothe her. “After you’re patched up and have a chance to rest, you’ll be able to think more clearly. I’m sure something can be worked out. And he might not bother to try.”

“I hope not. Fuck. Fuck.” He hands her two little tablets and she swallows them dry. “This is so fucked. I just wanted…”

“Is there anyone you can call? Someone who can be here for you? We don’t have to start right away.”

“There’s no one to call,” Marceline says. “Mom’s dead. Dad’s dead to me. Everyone else is in California.”

“No local friends?”

“No one I’d wanna have to trust with this.”

“I’m sorry.”

She jerks one shoulder up and down. “Eh. Nothing to be done about it now.”

“Well, I hope you feel you can trust me, at least.”

Chapter 96: Starr de Gebelin

Patient(s?) transferred from the Muskogee Medical Center.

Prince recognizes Starr de Gebelin right away. Her father is a major player in the local LDS church. Strange man, but influential. Wealthy. The other girl, though… He’s never seen her before.

“Bonnie,” she says tightly, hand pressed to her bandaged eye. “Bonnie Bell.”

“Are you here together? Would you prefer to stay together or separate?”

“Uh, separate?” says Bonnie after a glance at Starr. “This is kinda weird already. I can wait, the eye’s patched up okay now…”

“No!” Starr says, arm snaking out, bony hand choking Bonnie’s nearest wrist. “Stay? P-please…?”

“But I’m not- I don’t… It’s not like I’m her sister or anything.” Bonnie tugs, but Starr won’t budge. “Oh, come on. We’re not even friends! And I… I k-”

“I know,” Starr says, pleading. “But there’s no one else.”

Bonnie thinks for a moment, then sighs and sits in the plastic chair. “Fine.”

“What exactly happened?”

“I would really rather not talk about it.”

Prince looks at Starr instead. She’s relatively unhurt. At least compared to the other girl. No visible marks or bruises… but she’s wearing several layers of ribbons and black velvet frills.

“Daddy,” she says. And suddenly he understands everything -

“Where is he now?”

“In pieces.”

- scratch that.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, yeah… um.” Starr squirms in her seat. “Go ahead and treat me. Don’t worry, the insurance should still come through.”

“That’s not quite my concern.”

“Self-defence,” Starr says quickly. “I… I guess I have to be a witness for her. It was self-defence.”

Bonnie nods and points to her eyepatch.

“Oh…” Prince clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Do you both require forensic exams?”

“The police said it would support our story…” Starr sounds nervous, but not panicky.

“Clothes stay on,” Bonnie says.

“Miss-”

“He didn’t. With me. He didn’t even try.”

“Fine,” Prince sighs. And shakes out a hospital gown.

Female… 17… African-American/Mvskoke… O-…

“Miss de Gebelin? This should fit you. See that paper on the floor over there?” She nods. “When you change I need you to stand on it. It will catch anything that falls off.”

“Anything like… what?”

“Hair. Fingernails. That sort of thing.”

She does so, and it takes a while for her to get all the ribbons and buttons on her gothic-lolita dress undone. She shakes it out in case there’s anything caught in the frills. There are bloody marks down the front - the expensive dress is probably ruined, and she probably won’t get it back from evidence anyway, but she doesn’t seem concerned or regretful when she packages it up. Bigger concerns, and Prince knows she probably has a lot more dresses just like it at home. Bonnie, on the other hand, looks like she’s been sleeping in the same clothes for at least a week. Doesn’t smell so much like that, but the wrinkly, blotchy fabric looks to have been hand-washed. They make an odd pair.

Starr’s hair is chemically relaxed and glossy, and the comb slides through it like it’s barely there, bringing out a few pale hairs with it. She’s waxed from the eyebrows down, not one dark hair on her bleached skin, so no more hairs or fibres can be found.

When she opens her mouth, there’s something clear and gooey in her teeth. It doesn’t look like semen.

Chapter 97: Gary Prince

Summary:

The original show's Prince Gumball and vampire Marshall were the ones in the prior chapter, decomposited from human Gary and Marshall in the spinoff. Just so you're not confused!

Patient transferred from Cherokee Nation W. W. Hastings Hospital.

Three people in the exam room (not including Prince of course). The pink-haired kid, the redheaded woman cowering behind him and Hanna Abadeer’s son. Older now, than when he used to appear in the newspapers, but recognizable all the same. He’s crying. The woman is crying.

The only one who isn’t crying is the one with pink dye and pink… something in his hair.

“Gary Prince,” he says, as if from a distance. “And I’m…” The woman whimpers loudly and Prince, the other Prince - Gary - immediately goes to her, the metal bells on his gown ringing as he walks, clashing with those on hers when he gets close. Popping his lips softly until she does the same. “Nelly? Nelly, it’s okay. It’s going to be fine.” Sighing, he goes back to the doctor. “She’s, um… nonverbal. And we dropped her text-to-speech.”

“Is she alright?”

“She will be when I’m more alright.” Gary looks calm, but Dr. Prince recognises the forced calm of a patient in shock, of someone keeping it together until the immediate crisis is over. “Is it okay to have her and Marshall in the room?”

The man who is presumably Marshall wipes his eyes. “If it’s not, I can look after her. I think she’s okay with me…?” he says hopefully.

Dr. Prince knows not to talk past a nonverbal person; he looks at Nelly and asks, “Do you want to stay?”

“Mm,” Nelly hums and reaches back for her brother.

“Okay,” Gary breathes. “Okay. What do we do now?”

Male… Caucasian/Cherokee… 22… O+…

“Let’s start with the basics. Was anyone else injured? Or was it just you?”

“I… Maybe a few scratches or bumps. I think he wanted to hurt Marshall, but I got there first.” The boyfriend winces. Gary squeezes his hand. “Hey, hey, it’s not your fault.”

“I would’ve just let him, I don’t think he wanted to hurt me that bad…”

“I don’t want you to get hurt at all!”

“Gentlemen?” Dr. Prince says, opening the drawer full of hospital gowns. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

“Oh! Of course.” Gary looks at his companions. “Nelly, when he does the examination… do you want to hold my hand?”

“Mm,” she says again, signing something at him.

“Yeah,” Gary says. “Just a minute. I think I’m going to have to take this off… right?”

“Correct, I’m afraid.” Too bad too, it’s a phenomenal piece of craftsmanship. Remembering Mr. Thomas-Addams, Dr. Prince adds, “Are you alright with that being turned over to the police?”

“Not really. But… it’s ruined now, anyways. The blood won’t come out.” He pulls the fabric like he wants it gone anyway. What were you wearing? Dr. Prince thinks ironically. Often the answer is something they’ll never want to wear again. Gary says sadly, “I can make a new one.”

Nelly jingles her own skirt and signs something which Dr. Prince guesses might be I’ll help, as Marshall says those words out loud.

“Over here then.” Not quite touching him, Prince leads Gary over to the paper on the floor and has him stand on it, stepping out of his shoes. “Shake everything out before bagging it.”

Gary does. And blushes at the floor when the dress slips off his shoulders. Nelly turns away.

“Now I’m going to take a few pictures. It looks like he grabbed you around the ankles? Okay, then I’m going to measure the size of his hand.”

Thin finger marks, scratches from pointed nails that tore through gloves and left fine red threads embedded. A tight grip left bruises, but little abrasion. Not like Marshall’s rough musician’s hands would. When Dr. Prince combs Gary’s hair, he finds red hairs; not like Marshall’s black, but could be Nelly’s.

“Was he a ginger?”

“No,” Gary says. “But I am. You know… underneath.”

“And you fought back? Then can I see your hands, please?” They’re bruised and split along the knuckles. Bloody under the nails. Prince takes and bottles the clippings, then leads Gary back to the table and urges him down. He takes a gown from the drawer. About the right size. A little big maybe. Pink. “You can cover up now.”

As soon as Nelly hears the rustling as he does, she turns back around, clings to Gary’s hand, and doesn’t let go for the rest of the procedure. Marshall does likewise with his other hand.

Chapter 98: Lambert Berhan

Patient is approximately thirteen years old.

Young thirteen. Only a few weeks past his birthday. He looks younger. Eleven maybe. Small for even that. Lambert Berhan sits curled up against his father, eyes wet and huge with shock. Hands shaking so bad that Mr. Berhan has to hold the tissue and persuade him to blow.

“Isn’t there a more… suitable doctor? Suitable like… like a lady?”

“I’m sorry,” Stein says earnestly. “There are a few women qualified to perform this exam, but they aren’t on call right now.”

In truth, he volunteered for this one. Jekyll off for the weekend, Achoda visiting her grandchildren, Maxwell planning a funeral and the others busy with Lord knows what. It came down to Stein or Kekata. And, when it comes to children (not counting the serious, angelically-behaved Bernard), Stein has more experience between the two.

“Hey,” he says, trying not to talk down to the boy. “You must be Lambert.”

“Yeah,” the kid mumbles. He sounds rather stunned. “Lambsy is okay too. To call me, I mean. It’s usually my dad and mom and-” He stops. “Usually people I know who do, but I don’t mind.”

Male… 13… African… O-…

“I’ll stick with Lambert, if you’d prefer? Right, do you want to tell me what happened or would you rather your dad did?”

“N-no, I can. I’m old enough to… I can do it.” Lambert breathes deeply. “Abaye - my dad, I mean - is- uh, was engaged to this guy. Milton. Sometimes I called him Pop… But he wasn’t just there for my dad.”

Tale as old as time, but Stein means it when he frowns and says, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He always is, every time. He glances to the father. Mr. Berhan’s knuckles are white. “When was this?”

“About five weeks ago. It was the night before my bar mitzvah. It… wasn’t that bad? I kinda said I didn’t mind and I didn’t think he hurt me ‘til I got sick.”

“Lambsy!” his dad says. “It doesn’t matter what you said to him, he’s an adult. He ought to know better.”

Lambert shrinks. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s-” Berhan turns helplessly to Stein, eyes pleading.

“When you say you got ‘sick’,” he begins tactfully, “sick how? This is important.”

“I dunno. Like… it hurts a lot worse now than it did before, even when it was happening. A-and I’ve been feeling real sick. And thirsty. But that might just be from throwing up.”

“The guy didn’t have any infections I knew about,” Berhan says. “But he… since it happened, he wasn’t in the mood with me anymore. Either he really felt as guilty as he said or he got what he wanted elsewhere,” he adds bitterly.

“Sorry, Abaye.”

“Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do it… Agh, this is all so…” Brice runs his hands down his face. “But yeah, if the guy was clean…?”

“Probably infected microtearing,” Stein says. “Even if you didn’t bleed,” he says to Lambert, “the membranes inside could have been damaged, and obviously it’s easy to get that place infected.”

“Gross!” Lambert claps a hand over his mouth. It’d be cute if the situation weren’t so severe. “You… you can fix it, right?”

“I can fix it,” Stein reassures him. “But… you’re going to have to let me look. Think you can do that?”

The kid glances over at his father, shakily nodding.

“You want I can hold your hand?”

“Okay.” Lambert bites his lip. “Do I take all my clothes off or just my pants?”

“For a full forensic kit, we’d usually take all your clothes-”

“You won’t need one,” Mr. Berhan says. “The guy turned himself in.”

Stein notes the way Mr. Berhan’s fist flexes as he says this. “Actually turned himself in?”

“Yes. He confessed, he’s at the station right now.” Berhan senior looks to junior. “If you don’t want to go through the full kit, you don’t have to, but you do need to let the doctor look at… the hurt place.”

“O-okay, yeah. Just my pants, then…” He removes them and lies back.

Stein checks; microtearing, he was right. Not fully torn, but definitely abraded and raw, looking swollen. “Oh, yes. You’re gonna need some antibiotics. I’ll write up some pills and cream for that. No stitches, though.”

“See, Abaye?” says Lambsy, half-smiling. “Coulda been a lot worse. I’da come to you first thing if it was bleeding, honest I would!”

“Lambsy, if someone hurt you, Daddy needs to know right away. Right away. No matter what.”

“But… but it was Milton.” Lambsy sounds rather lost. “He said he was sorry. I didn’t wanna get him in trouble.”

Berhan senior shudders at that and clenches his fist again.

Chapter 99: August Mint

Patient is developmentally disabled adult.

“Hi!” August Mint smiles brightly, legs swinging from the table though they’re long enough to reach the floor. “Are you a doctor or a nurse?”

“Doctor. Doctor Hudson,” the man in question introduces himself. Out of habit, he doesn’t shake hands, though he knows there’s probably no evidence to contaminate on Mint’s fingers. “You’re August Mint, right?”

“Right! Nice to meet you, doc!”

“Yeah…” Pity it’s here.

“The policeman told me to come and somebody called my parents… They said I should.” He blinks. “Sorry, should I have waited for you to ask?”

“No. No, that’s fine. I… Do you know why you’re here?”

Male… Caucasian… 25… A+…

Mint shrugs. “Something about my friend. I guess I need to do this to prove we did something so I don’t go to jail? I dunno if I was paying attention, sorry… I was kinda scared. I could tell the policeman didn’t like me very much.”

Hudson’s been briefed by the cop in question, who seemed very disoriented. “Okay, well, you’re not gonna go to jail, that was kind of a misunderstanding. But the cop’s worried because it sounds like your friend did something to hurt you, so I need to check.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Oh, you mean… down there. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I’d still like to look, if that’s okay with you.”

“Uh, okay? Should I take my pants off?” He’s already started on his fly. “It doesn’t hurt, but we do this a lot. Are you sure you wanna do it now? We could wait until next time.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“There shouldn’t have to be a next time.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Well…” Not for the first time, Hudson’s glad he wasn’t the one who had to explain Lightning’s situation to Mater. “He was supposed to be looking after you, right? He did stuff for you and told you how to do other things? Uh, I mean daily life things, not… this.” Mint nods. “So he could have made things difficult for you if he wanted? And he knows about things you’re not too sure of, so he might not be telling you everything?”

“Um,” Mint bites his lip, “… I guess? But why wouldn’t he tell me everything? We’re friends.”

“I think maybe he didn’t feel the same way. You aren’t… Maybe he didn’t, because otherwise you might not have agreed.” His patient blinks at him, still not really comprehending. “Maybe this is a question for your social worker… or a family member.”

“Like Mom and Dad?”

“Exactly.” Whew. “For now, how about we just get you checked out and settled? Okay?”

“No problem!” Mint sounds genuinely happy to help, as he says it. He sits on the table, feet still dragging on the floor, he’s so tall.

“When was the last time you had a check-up?” Might as well see what he’s working with.

“Huh?”

“When was the last time you went to see a doctor?”

“I know what a check-up is, silly!” Mint laughs. “But why would a grown-up need one? Cyril said they were just for kids.”

“Ah.” He was afraid of that. “I think he said that because your doctor might have noticed what I’m about to see. And figured out what he was doing.”

His patient looks terrified. “A-are you gonna give me a shot?”

“I… might have to take a little blood. Just in case he- Hey,” Hudson gentles his tone as much as he can here, “I need to make sure you aren’t sick.”

“Couldn’t you just… cut my arm? And get the blood out that way?”

“It’ll only be a little pinch,” Doc says. “You’ll be fine. Anyway, we can worry about that later. Now though, I want you to climb down from there, find yourself a gown that fits. And-” No point in combing or collecting, they’ve passed the window. “-just leave your clothes in that chair over there.”

“Okay.” Mint sorts through the gowns and finds one; it doesn’t exactly fit him, but it’s the only one in the pile the same shade of red as his clothes. “Oh, the doctor I saw when I was a kid said my… down there looks a little weird. Is that a problem?”

“Weird how?”

“He said it was something to do with the brain thing I have, it makes other parts go funny too. Um, what did he call it…? I think it was Special K? But that’s something else…”

Hudson turns this over in his mind a few times. “Do you mean Fragile X?”

“Oh, yeah, I think that’s the one.”

That fills in a few blank spaces. He makes a note to check Mint’s records as soon as he gets the chance. “When was the last time a doctor looked at you like this?”

“Before I was friends with Mr. Licorice.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s put a pin in that. How have you been feeling since this started? Since Mr. Licorice… became your friend.”

“Good! I like-”

“I mean… down there. Have you felt any discomfort? Itching? Burning? Noticed any lumps or sores, or slimy stuff? Like when you have a cold?”

“Um… I get some itching sometimes there, but Mr Licorice gave me some stuff to put on it and it went away.”

Probably herpes, it’s extremely common. “Did you notice any red spots with the itching?”

“I did, but I thought that was just from scratching. Mom and Dad said it’s not polite to scratch there but I couldn’t not, sometimes,” Mint says, wincing.

“Understandable. We’ll check your blood sample to see what’s causing that and I’ll get you some more of that medicine in case it comes back, okay?”

Mint looks worried. “Do you have to tell Mr Licorice too? If that was from me being sick, he might have caught it from me!”

“Um…” Hudson takes a deep breath and sits down, trying to think of the kindest way to explain. It takes him a while.

Chapter 100: Basil Brush

Patient appears in good spirits.

Dr DeWitt doesn’t know how, though.

“You walked half a mile like that?!”

Basil Brush’s shins and hands are covered in gasoline burns. It looks like the fire was put out quickly, but that didn’t immediately take away the heat, so he’s in a bad way. He’s obviously in pain, but he hasn’t dropped his smile since he was brought in, having been found collapsed on Moscow Road, still trying to crawl towards Hyde Park.

Fergus Fox was brought in at the same time, in the same condition. DeWitt knows him personally, so she isn’t allowed to treat him. Not for something this serious.

“Not much of a choice, eh?” he says, shrugging and wincing. “No phones.”

No kidding. They both barely had wearable clothes left.

Male… 35… White British… O+…

“Speaking of, doctor, I don’t suppose I could pester you for some way to call my friends? I said I’d be back at the firework show in a jiff, and, well, I can’t be. Jolly bad form to skip out on an agreed meeting without notice- ow!” Brush yelps as DeWitt cuts away blackened tissue from his hands. At least not all the nerves are killed; his fingers might be salvageable. “Might have to trouble you to dial the number for me too, I’m afraid.”

“I can do that, certainly,” she says. “Who are your friends?”

“My neighbours. The Alepou-Brown kids and their Uncle Steven. Nice family. The parents are archaeologists, so their uncle took them in while they’re off on a trip. Digging up around Redwall Abbey in Yorkshire, y’know, could be worse, they could be here by morning… Golly, they’ll be unhappy about the cathedral…”

DeWitt lets him ramble and distract himself while she disinfects and bandages. No point in scraping what’s left of his nails for evidence. They’re burnt enough to peel right off.

“It might take a moment for the painkillers to kick in,” she says. “I’m sorry, but we have to do this fast. Don’t want an infection.”

“Of course not,” Basil says, nodding along.

“Do you… You mentioned neighbors? What about your own family? Should I call them too?”

He’s quiet for a while. “I suppose I shall have to tell them sooner or later, but… I’d rather it was me and not you, if that’s alright. We’ve had our issues and I need to think about it first. The one who lives nearest is cousin Mortimer and we’re not talking.”

“Say no more. I don’t have to call anyone you don’t want me to.”

“I should tell them before it hits the morning news, I suppose. They’ll find out one way or another. Don’t know how I’ll explain to young Bingo. Oh, speaking of young… how’s Master Fergus? The boy I came in with.”

DeWitt stops and swallows. “I’m… not at liberty to say.”

“Oh.” Brush pauses, then gently asks “I say, do you know him?”

She’s not supposed to say, but her silence says it all.

“He…” Brush runs a finger along his moustache. “You might find some of his DNA in the old soup-strainer. They made me, well, not quite kiss him, they just sort of banged our heads together. Thought it was funny, I think.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I like men and women,” Brush says. “Not teenage boys.”

“Did they know that? The first part, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I’m not that famous yet.” He’s still looking at his fingers. “I do hope Master Fergus knows the last part.”

“I’m sure he does. I don’t think he thought you wanted to be there.”

“True. One does worry, even so.”

“That’s not unusual. This kind of thing… Self-blame is common, even if you rationally know it’s nonsense.”

His smile cracks. For just one second. Just one moment.

“Mr. Brush, are you sure you don’t want to call anyone now? I’ve done quite a few forensic kits in my time. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

“I’ll be alright,” he says. “It’s late. Even if I did call… I’m not sure they’d hear the phone. And, really, I would like to have it over with quickly.”

“If you insist… There,” she says, finishing off the wrapping. “I had better help you out of those things. Try not to do much with your hands.”

“Shame,” he says, his grin rather fixed as she cuts the already ruined fabric away. “I liked this suit.”

Chapter 101: Shoko Drach

Patient has been recovered from war zone.

“You… You’re Charlotte, right?”

“Shoko, Dr. van Helsing.”

“Oh. But that’s a Japanese name, isn't it?”

“I am Japanese.”

She doesn’t really look it, but he checks the file; her mother was. Makes sense.

Female… Slavic/East Asian… 15… AB+…

“Alright. You understand why you’re here?”

“I know what a doctor is.”

“Of course. If you could take a hospital gown and get changed-”

She bristles. “Not with you in here. I’ll do it but only if you leave the room.”

“I… I’ll have to look eventually. Unless you’d prefer a woman?”

“Tato asked already. There are no women here qualified to perform a kit.”

“Well, not right now, no…”

“Please just go. I don’t want- I can’t just… I’m a lady.”

“Is there something you don’t want me to see?”

She mumbles something.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ll laugh. Just like they did.”

He sighs deeply. “I’m a doctor, Miss Drach. Trust me when I say I will have seen something similar before. Medical conditions and injuries aren’t funny.”

“I know that! How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Look, if you’re injured I need to see it to fix it. Wouldn’t it be better to get it over with quickly?”

“I…” She swallows hard and undoes the first button on her nightie. “Can I get a purple gown at least? To replace this one?”

“Of course.”

She nods then tentatively slips it down her shoulders. Ah, he sees what she was talking about. It’s a lot of hair for a girl her age. All in the right places - armpits, legs, forearms, breastbone. But thick and noticeably brown. She hasn’t starved or been cold long enough for it to be lanugo, either. She was evidently like that when she went into that basement.

“Even the soldiers didn’t want to rape me. They said I looked like a werewolf and went to Adrian instead. I’m not… offended. A-at least… I don’t know how to feel. Am I really so disgusting?”

Van Helsing almost says no, but that could be taken the wrong way. He has to think about what to say, and works out “It’s not disgusting, and they shouldn’t have laughed at or raped anyone. They’re the ones who did something disgusting.”

She sniffs and rubs her nose. Hopefully that’s a sign he said the right thing.

“I might need to check your hormones, but it might just be normal variation. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. What’s concerning me right now is-” He swats a flea that leaps onto his hand. “Well. It’ll probably be easier to shave it all off.”

“O-…okay,” she whispers. “Can I do it?”

“Have you before?”

She shakes her head. “Mam… Marfa said it’s normal. To have hair down there. And I believed her.”

“It is normal,” van Helsing says. A bit awkwardly. “Better than hemorrhoids.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. If you’ve never shaved before, I’d rather do it. I know you’re uncomfortable, but I don’t want to take the risk. Especially not in this state.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Your voice is hoarse,” he says. Trying to focus enough to shave the little brown hairs away. But not so much that he drives Shoko back into herself. “Are you alright?”

“It is pretty sore,” she says. “Do you have any ice water? Maybe peppermint tea?”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll send someone down for it.”

“Thank… you…”

“They didn’t hurt your throat…?”

“Um, no. They didn’t. But I was screaming most of the time we were down there. That’s how they found us. Um, my Aunt Walpurga and Uncle Wayne.” She points to the heavily pregnant woman by the door.

“Dear, are you sure you don’t want your father here with you?”

“I’m sure,” she says, and looks away. “He has to look after Mirka and I don’t wanna make him feel even worse than he already does.”

Chapter 102: Telmo Castaneda

Patient is recently exonerated.

“Telmo Danilo Castaneda Gato,” the patient says. “You need me to spell it?”

Doctor Manuel shakes his head. “I am familiar.”

Castaneda snaps his fingers. “Guatemala.” Statement, not a question.

“Mm. And you?”

“Mexico. At least… my parents. But they had me in the city. Queens. Born an’ raised.”

“Both your parents?”

“Yeah, whatdya… Oh. That’s just Dibble.”

The White cop stands awkward in the doorway. Shifting his weight and shuffling his feet. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, but…”

“Can he be here?” Castaneda sounds desperate. “Like is there anything saying he can’t? If you need to say anything on the paperwork you can say it’s a case he’s working.”

“No, it’s alright. He can stay.”

Male… Mestizo… 22… O+…

“I don’t want to get a kit done, okay? I don’t know nothin’ and even if I did it doesn’t matter. I just…”

“He needs a screen. STDS. And he’s been limping.”

“I told you it’s nothin’ serious. Griswald roughed me up a little. That’s all…” He smiles at Manny, almost apologetic. “Parting gift.”

“Rikers Island,” Dibble supplies. “He got out yesterday. Check him for pneumonia too - kid turned up at my place last night. Half frozen to death.”

“It was summer when they collared me,” Castaneda says. “Didn’t have a coat.”

“Okay,” Manuel says. “I can’t force you to do anything, but I would strongly recommend the STD screen. That would involve blood and urine tests, and I would have to perform anal and oral swabs, but it would be over much quicker than a full forensic kit. If you want to back out of any part, you can, but it would probably be a good idea to do the full thing.”

Castaneda shifts his feet. “Uh, can we start with the piss test and work up? That way you’ll have something to test, if not everything.”

“That’s fine. Do you want to do that now or shall I check for pneumonia first? I just have to listen to your lungs for that, it’s not an invasive test.”

“Um, that sounds okay but I have hella bruises around there. Could you please be careful with them?”

“Not a problem at all.”

He doesn’t have to remove his shirt for this. The vest, yes, but he’s got a button-up on underneath it. It’s just a matter of un-buttoning it. And when they do…

“What the fuck, TC,” Dibble bites back the curse as much as he can. “What did they do to you?”

It’s bad. It is. Really really bad. Purple in huge uneven patches. Surrounding that, yellow and brown.

“Gris… Um, there was one of ‘em who was built like a bulldog. Had at least a hundred pounds on me. And he’d slam me into things… the door, the shower wall… the ground…” He grins awkwardly. “Tried to tell him it was comin’ off like he had a thing for me, hoped that’d make him stop. Didn’t work, but eh, I tried, right?”

“T.C., you don’t gotta joke about this,” Dibble says. “I know it’s bad.” He looks at Manny. “Does he need an ice pack or something?”

“Little late for that to help, but I can get you some arnica cream. Painkillers too.”

“Yeah, okay,” Castaneda mumbles.

There are some older scars too, when Manny looks closer. Much older. Not relevant. So he doesn’t ask…

“How long ago was the last assault?”

TC shrugs. “Few days, I guess. Lemme out yesterday. Showered at Dib’s place. That’s… Well, I ain’t pressin’ charges. Already said.”

“And, if you don’t mind telling me, when did it start?”

“About an hour after I walked in the door.”

He says it so casually…

“Remind me how long ago that was?”

“Coupla years I guess. Time sorta runs together on the inside.”

“And how often did it keep happening?”

That one makes him flinch. “Ugh… I don’t know. Often. Wasn’t exactly on a timesheet. Sorry.”

“It’s… not fine, but you know what I mean. I can treat the damage in front of me.”

Castaneda smiles. “Just close me up enough to get the hell outta here.”

Manuel can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He hopes he is…

Chapter 103: Maisie Katsen

Patient is angry.

Not that Kekata can blame her, given the reason she’s here, but it’s still noteworthy. Most patients in her position are crying or flinching or staring shell-shocked into space. Maisie has fire in her eyes and spits her words.

“Fucking bastard,” she mutters. “Fucking bastard.”

“Miss Katsen, can you step onto this paper and-”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish, silently fuming as he runs the comb through her blonde hair. Strands of orange-red come tumbling down.

“That’s his,” she growls.

Female… 27… Caucasian… B-…

Kekata hesitates for a moment. “Miss Katsen, the man you came in with-” The redhead.

“That’s a coincidence,” she snaps. “He helped me. Doesn’t even fucking know me and he drove me here. Don’t you think I’d tell you if it was him?”

The doctor holds up his hands in a sign of surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to make sure.”

Maisie huffs and rubs her eyes. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be a bitch…”

“After what happened, it makes sense you’d be upset.”

She gives him a cracked smile. “Bitchy,” she clarifies, but at least she seems calmer. “You need my clothes, right? I sure don’t want ‘em.”

“Please. It’s important evidence if you choose to press charges.”

“Oh, you bet your ass I’m pressing charges,” Maisie mumbles, accepting the hospital gown.

Kekata turns away while she changes, then carefully bags up her bloody jeans and torn blouse. “Did you scratch him at all? If there’s skin under your nails-”

Maisie looks slightly pleased with herself as she holds out her hands. “Got his arms, mostly, but his face too. I was trying to get his eyes.”

Kekata nods approvingly as he trims her bloody nails. Now for the hard part, he thinks as he motions her towards the examination table. “Did he do anything to your mouth? Kiss you, or…?”

“He put a hand over my mouth to stop me from screaming. I tried to bite him but I couldn’t.”

“Okay. Well, if it’s alright, I’ll take a swab just in case.”

Maisie opens her mouth without argument. The swab comes away clean.

“Can I get you some water before we continue?”

She shakes her head. “I want this over with,” she says, crossing her arms and looking away.

Kekata nods and reaches for another swab. And another. And another. All come away dripping rust-red and thick with off-white.

“Okay, I’m just going to get you an emergency contraceptive and-”

“No.” Maisie is back to glaring, her legs tensed like she’s prepared to kick him if he argues.

Kekata nods. “Okay. If you do conceive and you change your mind, you have until your twenty-fourth week to terminate.”

Maisie scoffs. “If I conceive, it’ll be the one good thing to come out of this shit-show. I won’t be changing my mind.”

Privately, Kekata wonders if she might be making a mistake; then he sees her leaving the hospital a few months later. Her stomach is swollen enough that he can guess she’s carrying more than one baby, and she’s grinning ear to ear.

Chapter 104: Klaus Kabbani and Raihan Tinglang

Two patients, both with severe foot injuries.

“Hi, sir, how are y-”

“Forget about me!” The older man snaps, one hand on the metal table. Bulbous nose about an inch from Achoda’s face. “Him! Fix him! Fix him now!”

Male… 58… South/Southeast Asian… O+…

There’s another man…? Boy? Cowering on the table itself. Black hair and a deep reddish complexion. Big watery amber eyes.

“His feet!” The first man says, a little louder, more urgent. He actually snaps his fingers in her face.

“What about his… oh.”

And then she sees them.

Male… 19… Southeast Asian… O-…

She never got much into fantasy novels, but she remembers a line from one which seems to apply now; it would be a lazy use of language to call this mess a nightmare, it could only have been created by someone thinking cruel and violent thoughts intentionally and carefully. Mere nightmares couldn’t come up with something this methodically destructive. The feet have been cut and broken into shape to fit them into hoof-like sheaths, and when she turns one over she sees the tips of iron nails that must be driven into the places where the keratin nails are gone. There are spiked bars around the arch and heel and bolts through the ankles, further holding the devices in place.

“What…?”

“You don’t worry about me,” he says. His accent is German. Very thick and harsh. Even the kid flinches with each increasing decibel. “He’s a dancer. He needs them to perform.”

She looks at the man’s feet now. They’re no better. And he’s standing on them…? How is he-

“Sir, you need to sit down,” Achoda says. If nothing else, she’s confident in that.

“Not till I see he’s safe and well. He is my best student.” The man huffs. “Did you know male dancers traditionally do not dance en pointe? Many never bother to try, but he can. He learned before I even met him, all on his own initiative! This was intended as a taunt, I think.” He clatters to the side of the bed, leaving a trail of blood and rust.

“Sir, it’ll help me to help him if I’m not also worrying about you, okay? You’re going to do yourself some serious harm if you don’t sit down.”

“We have both already been seriously harmed! I don’t care about me, fix him first.”

She gently nudges him and he stumbles back into the chair. “Please, sir, just stay there for now, alright?”

He sighs. Loud and affected and thoroughly dramatized. He reminds her of exam on Louis Merante ten or eleven years ago. As with him, she looks for a distraction. A clipboard and a bundle of papers. She dumps both in his lap and looks for a pen.

“You’re his teacher?”

“I said so already.”

“And your family?” She asks the boy himself. “Where-”

“O-oh, I don’t… I mean, I don’t have anybody besides Monsieur Klaus.”

“Klaus Kabbani,” the teacher says. “Only the finest young dancers are permitted to join my company - the very finest, not the spoiled, petulant and rich. I found Raihan at an orphanage in Kalimantan. The master of orphanage agreed to part with him for… maybe fifty American dollars. Thereabouts.”

“What? Sir, that’s illegal!”

“Not there! It is quite the usual process there.” He sniffs. “I’ve acquired plenty of dancers this way. They have a bed to sleep in and good food.”

“It was normal at that orphanage,” Raihan mumbles. “I… have no idea if that’s how they were supposed to do it. But Monsieur Klaus didn’t do anything to me! Really! So it was… fine… it was fine until…”

“Well, I can make an educated guess that it was someone else who did this to both of you,” Achoda murmurs. “I suppose we should save it for the police.” She preps the anaesthetic needle. Two needles, one for each foot.

Raihan purrs audibly. “Ah, sorry. That feels good…”

“How long have they been like this?”

“I don’t know. Weeks? ‘Wild Jackasses’…”

“I’m sorry?”

“From Carnival of the Animals? Camille Saint-Saens?”

“Oh, I’ve heard the name before, yes. Was that a ballet?”

“A musical suite. There have been dance interpretations, though, yes. And this was… sort of one.”

“It’s a comedy,” Raihan shudders. “He wrote it for his kids.”

“I’m sorry if this is a hard question,” Achoda says, “but I need to ask… I can see your feet are hurt, but it also looks like something happened… higher up?”

Kabbani’s frown deepens. Raihan winces and crosses his legs.

“I see.”

“It happened before,” he whispers. “When I was- Before Monsieur Klaus took me away. He said no one would ever hurt me again… And no one did! I know what people say about Monsieur Klaus taking in so many little boys but no one did! He was good to us! And th-then this man… they called him Mr Wolf…”

Achoda raises a hand. “It’s alright, you don’t have to describe it if you don’t want to. I’m… familiar with prior victims of the organisation in question.” Zuko’s family provide regular updates on Skipper’s planning. She turns to Kabbani. “And did they…?”

He grimaces. “They didn’t want me on my own. Just like the stage. Too old, too fat… They wanted to make me hurt Raihan. Him and the other pretty ones. I tried to say no, but…”

“They told us it was him or the dogs. So it was him. And then Mr Wolf took us both and…”

Achoda takes another look at the young man’s feet, now the anaesthetic’s kicked in and he’s not flinching. The smallest toes are gone completely, and the bones of the others hollowed out by bolts - they’ll probably have to come off too, even if she can save the rest of the foot. The ankle bone is drilled right through, the flesh bloated and discoloured and shredded.

“No matter! Raihan is strong! As soon as he is dancing again, we will both forget all of this.”

“Ah, sir…?” Achoda tries to say it gently. “I… I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

For the first time, Kabbani looks horrified.

Chapter 105: Ashley Caddoc

Patient suffering from many puncture injuries.

“I’m afraid this might take a while.”

Ashley gives a weak thumbs up. Her smile doesn’t change. It can’t, until they cut the fishhooks out.

The girl’s lying face down, her entire back, scalp, and arms covered with quills. Metal points forced through every inch of skin. Cuffs spiked on the inside hold her wrists and ankles, cut wires dangling from them, and more hooks run through her feet and fingers. Every single movement could have been directed, like a fine-tuned marionette.

Female… 18… Native American… O-…

“They wanted to make me a star,” she says through gritted teeth. “Well… a bird actually. Birds have feathers. But he didn’t want to ruin my face either. I guess I look more like a porcupine than anything else…”

“He?” Kekata asks, hooking up another IV bag. Pumping morphine into her system. And lots of it.

“Mr. Crystalll,” she slurs. “He was in charge. His theatre. His showwww… I’m the Dying Swan… or something. Never was into classical.”

Kekata takes it for delirium. He’ll find out more later. Not important right now. First thing, he takes the bolt-cutters to the hooks in her face and starts carefully unthreading the metal. It’ll leave marks, but just a small hole in each cheek. Not too terrible. Not like on her back. Not like the ones lower down, fine wires tied through the flesh of her thighs and holding her lower lips open too. What’s seeping from there is a slimy mix of pink and yellow, swirling into the red everywhere else. He works on those next; fix the most painful first.

Her nails are still pristine; long white acrylics painted with a silvery feather-like pattern, matched in gold on her toenails. She’s cried and bled most of it away, but there’s still makeup on her face - pale powder and black-and-orange lipstick. Somehow that makes the whole thing look even worse.

“I called my boyfriend in the ambulance,” she says as Kekata starts in on her.

“Try to relax here. Good. Now don’t tense-”

“Lance found someone else,” Ashley sniffles. “It’s only been a couple months and… and… ah!”

“You’re doing well,” Kekata murmurs. “It’s alright. You’re doing so well.”

“He said it was my fault for not listening to him.”

Kekata doesn’t think he likes this Lance at all.

Chapter 106: May Hanabira

Patient covered in straw and raw egg.

May Hanabira comes in clutching her mother and muttering. Jekyll smiles, trying and failing to make the little girl smile back.

“What do we have here?”

“MAX TOUCHED ME!”

“Who’s Max?”

“Her brother,” her mother explains apologetically. “I don’t know what’s got into him, he said something about a teacher told him to do it. We left their father trying to calm him down and get the full story.”

Female… 10… East Asian… O+…

Jekyll mentally tut-tuts, picturing an older brother they don’t want to report. “Okay, I do need to tell you that in cases of child abuse I’m obligated to report the incident to the police. I would usually advise pressing charges.”

“I don’t think that’s going to do much this time,” Mrs. Hanabira says. “Max is her little brother.”

“Little? How… how old…?”

“Eight. Two years younger than May.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Of course it’s not, but… but I don’t- He’s a little boy. He didn’t know what he was doing-”

“Yes he did!” May yells. “He did it on purpose! He wanted to hurt me!”

“Well… maybe he did, but I don’t think he knew how much it hurt you, sweetie. Does that make sense?” Hanabira crouches to meet her daughter’s eye level. “He was crying a lot too, he sounded frightened.”

“What was it he said about a teacher?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t very, um, coherent. Something about a teacher and cartoons.”

“Mm. Kids that young who do that kind of thing have usually picked it up from an adult,” Jekyll says. “I… think you might want to bring Max in too. I can book you in when we’re done here?”

“I’ll call Norman,” Mrs. Hanabira says. “Oh gosh. I mean, I never noticed anything…”

“Let’s focus on how we can fix it now.”

“Right. Of course. May-chan? The doctor is going to look you over, okay? And make sure you aren’t hurt too bad. Think you can be brave for Mommy?”

“I’ll be fine.” She does not look fine. “Um… what do I have to do?”

“Well, can you tell us what exactly he did?”

“He pulled my shorts down and stuck his hand, um… you know.” She blushes fiercely, scowling as if to challenge the doctor to say anything. “And he bit me on the chest. I think he was trying to do more but I hit him and yelled and I started crying and then he did too.”

“Alright. Now, we don’t need to gather evidence since you know who did it and it’s not likely to go to court, but I’ll need to look at where he hurt you.”

“Um, okay. How do I do that?”

“I’m gonna get you something to change into. Just hand your clothes to your mom. We’re not gonna need them.”

“Oh. Okay. What do you want me to…”

Jekyll pulls out the tub of hospital gowns and May’s eyes light up. “You wanna pick?”

She does. Red with little yellow birds.

“Just like Blaise when he was little!”

“Blaise?”

May’s face lights up. “He’s my baby! Mom! Mom! Show her!”

“Not now, honey,” Mrs. Hanabira says. She smiles apologetically at Jekyll. “Blaise is a chicken. The kids are in the 4H program.”

“Technically he’s a rooster.”

“Oh? Tell me more,” Jekyll says as May changes and climbs onto the table. Keeping the patient talking often helps, and now May’s thinking about something happier - all good.

“He’s so cool! He got the blue ribbon this year, so Dad said I could have a piglet too - I hope they get along okay…”

Chapter 107: Mohammed Avdol

Patient is exhausted, bleeding from jagged cuts down his face, but is determined.

Gyro Zeppeli gives an assuring smile, at least, the best he can do with his grills. He’s a popular one - any time a gaijin comes by, it’s always for Zeppeli. No complaints on his end.

Mohammed Avdol sinks down in his spot, pulling the tattered remains of a red robe around himself. Slipping between Masri Arabic and Japanese as he mutters to himself. Damnit. One of the few languages Gyro isn’t fluent in. At least his Japanese is fluent enough, but he can tell by certain words that Masri is his patient’s first.

“What happened?”

“Four despicable bastards pounced me, pulled me behind a 7/11, assaulted me, told me they were doing it for Kishibe, slashed up my face, and said they’d be back,” Avdol says, bitter in disgust. “I don’t know who the hell Kishibe is. Do you?”

Gyro nods. “Famous mangaka. House burned down a while back.”

“So that’s why the bastards arrested me of all people,” Avdol mutters, earning a curious eyebrow raise from Gyro. He notices and explains “I have an online channel where I use pyrotechnics as part of my tarot readings. They let me go when evidence proved I didn’t do it, but then they arrested someone else. Can we get this over with?”

Male… 28… African/Arabic… AB-…

“So,” Gyro asks as he puts on a new pair of medical gloves, the latex loudly snapping. “Where did you say they assaulted you?”

“Two of them went for my mouth, two in the ass. They took turns,” Mohammed says, letting go of the robe. “You’re not taking all of my clothing for evidence, are you?”

“Is there anything of significance to you?” Gyro asks.

Avdol digs into his pockets, pulling out the broken remainder of a gold necklace with an ankh symbol engraved in the middle. “I’m keeping this, it’s all I have from my family. And could I at least keep a scrap from my robe?”

Unusual request, but Gyro is one with the unusual. “I’ll cut you a small piece,” he says, handing his patient a simple white hospital gown before placing down a piece of paper. “Do you need any explanation on what to do?”

Mohammed shakes his head. “A friend of mine was here before, he explained it to me,” he says, changing into the hospital gown atop the paper. A few stray hairs fall - long and dirty blond, long and wavy and brown, short and black. None of the hairs are textured.

“Can you get DNA from that?”

Gyro makes a so-so motion with his hand. “More or less. A few of these have the follicle attached. That will do nicely.”

“And the ones that don’t?”

“It’s… a common misconception that you can’t get DNA off a strand of hair alone. You can, but it’s mitochondrial DNA.”

“Meaning?”

“Passed down from the mother. It’ll flag everyone with that same lineage. Still, it’s far from useless. Especially if you have a suspect already.”

“Does it help if they’re not Japanese?” Avdol asks, squinting at the blond hairs in particular.

“It does, especially since it looks like they’re not the same race as you either.” Gyro squints at the hairs. “Gene markers will show where they are from, so it’ll at least help us narrow it down. I can’t promise anything, but it’s certainly not hopeless.”

Avdol forces a smile. “Thanks for the help. Even if it doesn’t work out… thanks.”

“Want a sticker?” Gyro offers, pulling a phoenix one out of the bowl.

“… Do you give stickers to everyone?” Avdol takes it for himself.

“Only the patients who don’t cause a fight with me,” Gyro warmly chuckles.

Chapter 108: Takumi Aldini

Chapter by chelonianmobile

Patient is severely malnourished.

“Please, son. You need to eat something.”

Takumi Aldini shakes his head, mouth clamped tight. Teeth grinding together.

Gyro frowns as he slips on a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll have to warn you, he does have to open his mouth for oral swabbing. We can skip the procedure, but it’s highly recommended to gather as much DNA as possible.”

Takumi glares at him like a particularly offended cat.

Gyro points at his own hand, then at his ponytail, then his belt. “We can do fingernail clippings, hair combing, or a swab here. I’ll give you a choice.”

“I want to see Isami.”

“Is that your brother?”

Takumi clamps his mouth shut again.

Male… 12… Caucasian/East Asian… A-…

“I understand you want to see him, but confidentiality is a critical part of my routine. I’ll repeat myself if needed- fingernails, hair, genital swab. If it’s any compromise, I’ll allow you to see him after the procedure is done.”

“Papa.”

Mr. Aldini sighs and lets his hand rest on Takumi’s hair. “Soon. Soon.” He glares over his shoulder at Zeppeli. “You could be a little gentler, you know. He’s scared. He’s twelve years old.”

“Mr. Aldini, I’m trying my best to be gentle,” Gyro sighs and whispers. “I usually let the patients themselves make choices during these exams, but I’m not making progress. Would you pick one part of the exam to do first?”

Mr. Aldini looks at his son. Then sighs. “His hair and nails first. At least then I can hold him. And… and if we have to hold him down…”

Takumi scowls, but allows his father to take his wrist and turn it outward. Zeppeli trimming off his nail-ends into blunt little half-moons.

“You’re hurting me!”

“Did I cut too far?” Zeppeli looks down, noting that he made sure to only trim what was necessary. After the nail clippings, he opens a drawer with combs of various widths (thanks to a patient who had requested them for their own hair texture).

“Shh. Mio figlio,” Mr. Aldini croons, gathering Takumi to his chest. He nods for Zeppeli and mouths “do it”.

Gently but quickly, Takumi’s hair is combed out. Two dark brown strands.

“We’ve already photographed the bruising,” Zeppeli says. “That’s leaves-”

“Swabs. Right. Takumi? Papa needs you to open your mouth, okay? Just for a second. Shh. No. No, it’s okay.”

Gyro holds out the swab… and is bitten on his thumb and forefinger.

“Ow, what the fuck?” he yelps.

Takumi breaks from his father and runs for the door. Legs giving out after only a few paces. Mr. Aldini crouches beside him, pulling him up from the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he throws back to Zeppeli. “He’s scared.”

“I know,” Gyro tries to affirm him. “I might have to call in for backup.”

“I can hold him. If I have to.”

“We’ll try one more time,” Zeppeli says reluctantly. “Takumi?”

Takumi shakes his head no. Mr. Aldini whispers something to him. Quietly. Urgently. Eventually… Takumi nods.

“Will you be okay? Just for a minute?”

“Just for a minute,” he repeats.

Zeppeli stands confused as Mr. Aldini stands and steps out into the hallway, returning after a moment, leading another child by the hand. Dark hair. And big, round face. Full as the moon.

“Takumi!”

“Isami.” Takumi whimpers and latches on tight.

“Signore, I can’t… You can’t have him-”

“You want him to cooperate, don’t you? I will not allow you to manhandle my child. To… I don’t know, retraumatize him.”

“I understand,” Zeppeli nods in near-defeat, looking to Isami. “If it’s any relief, this is the last part we have to do. So it’ll be over soon.” He washes his hands before applying new gloves, as not to contaminate the evidence.

“Isami,” Mr. Aldini says. “Help your brother.”

Takumi opens his mouth after some prodding. A lot of prodding… But he opens his mouth. He does. The swab comes away more bloody than anything.

Zepelli sighs. “Now… the other place.”

Takumi bursts into tears.

Zeppeli thinks he might need a fresh start after this. Maybe he’ll spend some time in Japan.

Chapter 109: Mimi Kyuu

Patient’s face has suffered severe abrasions, lacerations, punctures, bites, and both chemical and thermal burns, along with broken teeth and multiple breaks in nose, cheekbones, and jaw.

It’s the most clinical way the description can be written. Glynda from reception is still crying, after the woman in red dumped the rag-wrapped child on her desk, unwrapped the jacket around her head, and frantically yelled “Someone fix her!” If not for the still-intact teary brown eyes and straggly black hair still growing in clumps, one could be forgiven for not even realising this mess was a face at all. The rest of her’s little better off, hands like raw bloody twigs and not a speck of skin undamaged in some way. Dr Maheswaran considers herself pretty jaded, but she almost wants to cry too.

“I know what it looks like,” the girl manages to mumble, slurred by the wreck of her mouth. “You don’t have to pretend. That’s why he left my eyes, so I’d know.”

“I… Yeah, it’s bad. I’m sorry. I can get it cleaned up and make it hurt less at least, okay?” The patient nods. “What’s your name?”

“Mimi Kyuu.” She sniffles. “My family wrote Mimi with the kanji that means ‘beautiful’.”

Female… East Asian… 9… A-…

“That’s… nice.” She’s trying to sound genuine, but the kid sees through her straight away.

“I told you not to pretend.”

“I know. I’m… Your parents? Where are they?”

Mimi wails. Dr Maheswaran mentally kicks herself as she prepares the morphine.

“Alright. Alright, we’ll just worry about you for the moment. I’m going to have to put the needle in, and I can’t see anywhere to put it that isn’t hurt already so it might hurt a lot. I’m sorry.”

Mimi holds out her arm without resisting, sniffling. What’s one more needle?

“How badly are you hurt under your clothes?” She doesn’t ask “are you”.

“Uh… Pretty bad. Not as much as my face, but bad. The guy didn’t do the thing he did to my parents but he hurt my… my underwear places too.”

When Maheswaran looks, she sees the flesh is melted together by chemicals and fire. Mimi will have to be cut back open again to safely menstruate and urinate, and will probably never experience sexual sensation normally. Even if they can stop the pain, she’ll likely go numb instead. At nine she won’t truly know what she’s missing. Maheswaran can spare her that conversation for now.

“You’re going to need surgery. Probably skin grafts. Likely some pins in your bones.”

Mimi’s fingers brush the hem of her hospital gown, too pained to clench it. “Can you put my face back to normal?”

Maheswaran hates so very badly that she has to say no.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 49 of WPaRG
• Part 9 of WPaRG: SbtS
• Part 10 of WPaRG: Hana Mo Naki