Several sleepless hours later, Fordo found himself again in Moscoe's office. Currently, he was found fiddling with a rubik's cube, the green side to be precise. He liked rubik's cubes, despite the fact that he had only completed one once, and had decided to steal this one at the earliest possible moment.

"Would you care to explain your insomnia?"

"What?" He had almost forgotten Moscoe was even there. In fact, he had hoped he'd died or something.

"Your insomnia? Your...lack of sleep, perhaps?"

"I know what insomnia is. I'm not a total idiot."

"There's no reason to be defensive, Mr. Summers. I meant no offense to your intellect."

"As usual." Fordo returned to the much more interesting rubik's cube.

"You haven't answered my question."

"What, my insomnia?" Turn blue line to the right.

"Yes."

"I 'aven't any." Blue-yellow-red-blue.

"The nurse saw you stargazing at two a.m. last night."

Fordo's growing glare darkened, though whether it was caused by the mental attention of the cube or Moscoe's indecency he did not know. "So?"

"Had you slept yet?"

"No." His concentration was slowly slipping.

"There you have it. Insomnia."

Fordo slipped entirely out of concentration and focused entirely on the man before him. "Just because I didn't sleep last night means I'm an insomniac?"

"Did you sleep the night before?"

"What's it to you?"

Moscoe sighed. "We're trying to cure you, Mr. Summers."

"Of what?" Now it was Moscoe who was slipping up.

"Of your disease."

"What disease?" He almost had him...

"You're in a scientific research facility. We study science, surprising as that is. Why else would you be here?"

"What's wrong with me, Doctor?"

"I'm not falling for that, Summers."

"But what if I'm dying or something? Haven't I a right to know if I'm dying?" He tried to seem as innocent as possible.

Moscoe laughed. "You're not dying. Then we wouldn't bother."

"Gee. Thanks."

Moscoe sat back in his swivel chair, hands together near his lips. Fordo sensed deeply that he had picked it up from a Freudian book of human psychology. Next thing he'd know, Moscoe would be accusing him of repression and an Oedipus Complex overly influencing his id.

"Tell me, Summers. Do you find this....cute?"

Cute? Who says cute? "How do you mean?"

"Everyday you come in here and act so cynical and passive."

"This is my second appointment."

"And it's quite tiring."

"Your job," Fordo scoffed.

"This needs to stop."

"What?"

"You're being problematic."

"Good."

"Do you need more medication?"

"Wha-"

"We can give you stimulants. We have that liscense."

"To what point?"

"Believe me, I will do anything to avoid conflict in this establishment."

"Even use force?"

"If it comes to that with you, yes."

"HYPOCRITE!" Fordo jumped out of his seat and, though less conspicuously, closer to the door. "That's what you are! A damn hypocrite!"

"Sit down, Mr. Summers!" Fordo saw the tops of his ears slowly turning an angry red.

"No!" Fordo knew he wouldn't be free until the next day at nine p.m. He knew that no one in this entire place cared one lick about whether or not he was found mysteriously dead in the middle of the night. He also knew the contents of Moscoe's desk contained a very well-built and extraordainarily sharp knife in a leather sheath. (He had snuck in about four that morning to see if there was a "jacket he had left".) But he couldn't contain this and he didn't really want to. His eyes narrowed and watched Moscoe carefully. The man's ears remained red and his eyes were full of utter hatred, unmatched by any Fordo had seen in his entire life.

"Well," Moscoe had composed himself faster than light. He was again sitting in his Freudian position, back in his chair, sizing Fordo up. "I do believe this was a successful session." He smiled coldly. "You're still doing well with the supplements?"

He returned to his seat and studied the cube in his hands. "If you mean drugs then yes." "That's such an ugly word, don't you think?"

"It's truthful."

"Oh, yes. Of course." His voice developed and airy quality. "The young, revolutionist patient, Fordo Summers, teaches 'truth' to the elder, educated scholar. How lovely. I can see the headlines now."

"And I'm cynical?"

Moscoe ignored him. "So the supplements-"

"Yeah. It's....it's fine, yeah." Don't give too much away, Fordo.

"Wonderful. I'm sure you're ready for your first treatment."

Fordo's head snapped up and his whole body seemed suddenly rigid. "Treatment?"

"Yes. Saturday morning, bright and early."

"Since when?!?"

Moscoe scoffed. "Since always. You should check your nutrition tray more often, then you'd know these things." His grin had become superior and eerie as though he had proven something of grave importance. It frightened Fordo, much as he hated to admit it. But more than fearing Moscoe's smile, it created in him a hatred unmittigated by any other he had yet acquired from the toad before him. "Our time's up, Mr. Summers."

Fordo left in a fury of rage, pocketing the cube subconciously. He flew down the corridors, making Nurse Rebecca jump out of the way before he trampled her. Back in his room, Fordo went to the earlier placed breakfast tray and searched feverishly through the unused food for a note. None was there.

"Bastard."

He sensed strange eyes on his back and whirled around. In the doorway stood Rebecca, watching curiously. He raced to the door, slamming it in her face and diving for the bed.

Thirty-five hours remained. He had to make it that long.


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Two, count 'em, two chapters in three, count 'em, three days! EAT IT! Oh, and STOP HARASSING ME!!!!!!!!! *melts into puddle of pity and self-loathing.

Happy Irish Day. Review, monkeys!

Kirily