A/N: Hum. Complete; no longer available. All that whatnot.
If I did my job, this should be somewhat disturbing. If I didn't, please pretend it's supposed to be a parody of Silence of the Lambs (this would make it even more uber-phail D:).
Also, a lot of Cearmada's reactions to the crime are based on the state of crime as we see it in the Pokemon games (read: the fact that the Pokemon world is accustomed to inept criminals).
ALSO. The battle is 4 v. 2, but with a rather even split. Which is not technically two sided, because it took four to get the one, BUT if we take the term side into account... yeah. XD
Behind Closed Doors
There is a cough, wet and hacking with loose mucus and recent sickness; a rustling of papers and scraping of cold metal chair legs against hard floor; a rasping of dry skin as fingers slide against each other in a domed clasp of hands, and then:
“Tell me your story, Mister Kolbe.”
The man has just asked him a question, but Aidan Kolbe isn’t particularly interested in answering it.
He finds the greying walls infinitely more intriguing than the prospect of retelling a story everyone has heard. Yes, the walls—weeping once-white walls, lightly padded and entirely devoid of even the customary two-way mirror. He glares at them, stripping off layers of peeling paint with his eyes, tracing the irregular stains of umber coffee-splashes and pink-tinged blood-droplets—imagining the pain-glazed eyes of the man whose blood was once spilt. He sees the convulsions of the man’s hands, the spasms of his breathing as burning coffee drips onto his flesh, the shudder of his shoulders and bite of teeth into tongue as he struggles to withhold a gasp of pain—and he lurches further into the fantasy, burying himself in its waves.
It could be seconds, hours, days, before he is roused out of his contemplations and drags his eyes away from the barren fašades to watch as the doctor, in his neatly pressed pants and perfectly-arranged paisley tie, clicks a pen’s end, twirling it between his fingers. The pale, blunted fingers twist and flick, rolling the cartridge again and again between their poorly-manicured tips that have spent far too much time poking savagely at a keyboard. Up, down, around—across the knuckles, the pen whirls in a wheel of blue. Aidan finds himself fixated on the ink as it sloshes from side to side, on the clack of the spring against the cartridge.
It irritates him. An itch surges through him, settling in his fingertips to lurk like heavy weights; he wants to grab the pen in his hands, snap it into pieces, then cast the shattered fragments at the ground. Pressure builds in his head, pulsating—but when his hands unfurl, the shackles jingle.
The man looks up at him, bark-brown eyes wide, brows furrowed and slightly raised. Aidan’s face hardens; his jaw clenches ever-so-slightly and his mouth purses as he narrows his gaze, pointedly looking straight past the man’s face and alighting on the curved skin of his balding pate. The silence continues.
And then the psychologist bites his upper lip and looks back towards his papers.
The pen’s chirping resumes.
They sit silently, stagnating in a cold room.
The thermostat is not broken. There is not even a window to be opened. It is not the temperature that makes the prisoners of this room tremble. Most certainly not the temperature, which is uncomfortably high—sweat dribbles from one man’s upper lip, pools in the other’s shirt, as they stare at each other in bleak disdain. They both roast, freezing all the while. The contradiction draped in the atmosphere is feverish and unsettling.
No, it is most certainly not the temperature that makes Doctor Gerard Cearmada imagine icicles forming on his clouded breath, falling through the air, shattering across the ground; it is not the temperature that makes Doctor Gerard Cearmada want to shudder, shiver—convulse until it all goes away. It is not even the worn fluorescent lighting that bathes the wall’s Spartan features in a frozen gleam—or the glimmering metallic surface of the table bolted to the floor—that reminds the psychologist of early morning frost crunching beneath his boots, that carries the jagged-pinprick feel of snow slicing into his face.
No, not the temperature. It is the knowledge that sitting before him is a criminal with a mind more corroded than a leper’s flesh that spears ice into his stomach.
“I think we’re done for today, Mister Kolbe.”
Cearmada is a talentless quack.
He works at Hoenn’s one and only penal complex because all other employers have deemed him hardly deserving of the title ‘doctor’. Adessi Penitentiary, quite possibly the smallest prison in existence, receives somewhere around three new criminals a year—few of which are in need of psychological aide. The most he has done in the past eighteen years of his employment is hand out a few Band-Aids.
Cearmada is fully aware of his ineptitude. Thus, he arrives at half past eight, leads a short group therapy discussion for seven of the thirty-something inmates of Hoenn, sits in a dingy office to write progress reports for each of said inmates, and departs each day at precisely a quarter to six.
In his time at Adessi Penitentiary, little competence has been called for until this particular case. The subject is charged with first degree homicide and attempted grand theft—the former of which is the first case in over seven years. The tale behind the crime is so twisted, so disgusting…. Nothing of its kind has been seen in decades. Not in Hoenn, not in Johto or Fiore or Sinnoh or Orre, or any of the islands or continents in between. The psychological scope of this man’s depravity is so unfathomable that government officials are not willing to risk deporting him to a more secure location.
This man is so violent that he’s already harmed seven orderlies; after seeing the razorblade-induced wounds, rest refuse to attend to him. This man is dangerous. This man is insane
. The only thing between Cearmada and this man’s deranged malice is a table, a pair of handcuffs, and plastic-stripped ankles.
Doctor Gerard Cearmada can not deal with this.