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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,585
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1/1
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1,383

Asylum

Summary:

the title says it

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:


Asylum
Jin Katkin

I kind of like this place. The only thing I hate is they won't let me have a pencil and paper, and I can only get to the computer on certain days. And then I try to check up on my life and they think I’m obsessive. They won't let me write home. They don't believe it is my home, and they say I'm having phantasies. The word 'obsessive' appears then sometimes, too. Of course, if I did write home they'd probably come and take me, and I need a little while longer to recover first. It's very peaceful here, and they give you tranquilizers so you don't dream. I need a bit more of that before I  leave.

Oh, and I've had better food, too.

The biggest problem I have here is they don't believe I'm me. No, scratch  that. I have to admit I'm not trying very hard to convince them. If I  really tried, I could probably get pencil and paper and request an ID.  Hell, if I were really serious, I could write on the walls with my blood.  All it would take is about two week's waiting and a broken fingernail. Only  I've had about enough of that.

They call me the Whistler. This, by the way, is the reason I was admitted. I don't talk, I whistle. I can see that this looks strange, but when you can't talk or hum or sing, and they won't let you write for fear you'll stab yourself (even though you've carefully shown no violent tendencies), and you don't know sign language, what's left? I can't help it if nobody here is familiar with the songs I know. I've been trying to learn the local lyriced songs like mad ever since I got here; they do let me do that. I wonder when it will occur to them that someone who whistled compulsively would probably have a lot less trouble learning songs than I do. Of course, if I let them know that I can't talk rather than won't, they'll want to find out why, and then it'll be the restraining field.

I was glad to be here when I got here, and for a long time after that. It  was a place to rest, to heal. There are interesting people. Very  interesting people. I haven't had so much free time in years—decades, even.  But it's been weeks and weeks, and there's nothing useful to do, and aside from the boredom factor I'm getting seriously worried about my ship. Way too many people have transferred off. On top of that—well, I really couldn't care about being AWOL at first, but now it's starting to bother me.

I used to get like this towards the middle of summer vacation when I was a kid. By the end of it, of course, Mom could never do  anything with me.

Okay, I've talked myself into it; I don't want to stay here much longer. But I'm not sure I
really want to go back, either. Would they believe I'm me? Could they fix me, uncripple me? Would they believe what I have to say? Would they let me serve, give back my job, my life? Even if all the answers were yes, would they pity me? Could I stand it?

Well, no, but I've never let anyone pity me before. I don't see why I should start now. The best thing for those kinds of people is to laugh them off and ignore them. I can do that.

So let's take it from the top. Would they recognize me? No, probably not at first, I've seen myself in the mirror.  Just show me a chess set, though. Fingerprints probably wouldn't  work very  well, and voiceprints are obviously out of the question, but I could still  sit for a retina scan and genetic testing. So that's no problem.

Could they fix me? I don't know. They couldn't, or wouldn't, but their surgery is less delicate than ours. I don't think someone of theirs in my condition would have been allowed to live. If they can't—well, I'll think of something. I've been practicing on the  clay they  set out for us (ooh, basket-making time, fun), and I'm getting my dexterity back. If I got back into the knack of it, I could probably keep myself going with pension and my carvings. They used to sell well when I was a kid, and I could probably get more for them now. Sure as hell I'm not letting them boot me into a desk job. I'd rather  resign.

And if they can, well, they can. In which case, would they believe me? Again, I don't know. I fulfilled my duty, I know that. I escaped, and I rendered myself incapable of giving information. Damn, that hurt. It still itches like crazy. Not the easiest thing I've ever done, either, what with the pain and the nausea factor and the very real possibility of accidental suicide, but I didn't see that I had much of an attractive choice. But—well, they'd probably want to believe that command training held, and it makes very little sense for interrogators to mess with a prisoner's vocal cords and hands, but of course they can't take chances, and I don't know if I can make them believe that they didn't use a Mind-sifter.

Oh, wait! Physicals. Of course, they'll be suspicious about my identity if I volunteer for one, but they will have to give me one, and if I can make sure it's Bones doing the Sigmund instead of some random cutter who's gotten an earful of Fleet agenda and propaganda it should be all right. They'd have no choice but to believe me.

And if they believe me, and they fix me, they'll have no choice but to give me my job back.

Well, this is all well and good, but I just got that feeling at the back of my head that tells me I'm refusing to let myself think about something I need to think about. Okay, brain, I know I completely fried you with information-withholding exercises, but I can't think  about whatever it  unless you tell me what it is. Give.

Spock.

No, of course I couldn't have let them know that. Oh, how they would have used it. But I remember now.

Starlight in his hair, his waist under my hands, on top of me, palm to palm,  his mind in mine…

Well, that settles it. I'm outta here. Pronto.

I can't believe I let him worry this long! Oh, I'm going to be kicking myself for months over this one…

I lie still for a few minutes, strategizing and composing, looking up out the unbreakable window at all the wrong stars through an atmosphere I can't breathe. Then I break into the computer room and power up just one of the machines to keep the noise level down. They always say they can't, and I believe them, but it's pathetically easy when you know how. I connect a keyboard and begin to type.

Attention: Winona Kirk

URGENT!

This is not a bill, solicitation, or catalogue. This is not junk mail. PLEASE read it.

Hi, Mom. It's me. I know you won't want to believe it from the stationary, but it is. And I promise I'm not crazy, I just needed a place to sit and think a bit before I saw everybody again. Nogura will probably yell at me about the AWOL, but what the hell. McCoy will, too, but that's okay.

 

It's true enough, what you heard—I've read the media reports, so I have a fairly good idea what you must have been told, knowing Fleet. I got a little careless on a mission—it was going so well, Mom, we were almost done, then I was walking to the reception they were holding and prick, hiss, fizz, I'm out, bang, just like a candle. Stupid of me, but you know I like to take walks alone at night, and I felt safe. Back of my neck really let me down this  time. I'm  still wondering if that thing they fed me after lunch was drugged.

But don't worry. I escaped before they could do anything drastic to me; I'm sure there's nothing McCoy can't handle, and I'm not in pain. Scabs itch like hell, though. Most of the damage was actually self-inflicted. Clumsy Jimmy strikes again, right? And *I didn't tell them anything.* Not one single, solitary thing. I didn't even tell my name, rank and serial number? Why? Hey, they didn't even have to  ask me. The face is known.

Okay, so I've got a warped sense of humor. It was pretty funny at the time, though. Well, flattering, anyway. Sort of.

So, anyway, if you could ask Spock to come and get me, I'd be much obliged. For his information, I'm known around here for whistling. For yours, should he tell you where the queen is, the king joins her and they enjoy themselves. That's encoded, sort of, but it's three in the morning over here and I'm sure he'll be able to  figure it out.

Hmm. I was imprecise at the beginning. I guess this is a solicitation of sorts. Oh, well.

All my hopes, hint hint. And a reply (addressed to the Whistler, please, or the damn orderly won't give it to me) would be nice so I know you didn't throw this out.

end

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Jin Katkin.
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