postictal | ic inbox; entranceway

[So. Not the first time he's woken up with an injured leg, blood matting his hair, a familiar white mask at his side. Not the first time he's groaned as he's realized what must have happened.

But getting shot? That's definitely a first.

Getting shot, it turns out, hurts just as much as you'd think it would hurt. Waking up and realizing you've gotten shot without any memory of who shot you or why is even worse, believe it or not.

But why, god, did she have to pick video?

He thinks he knows the answer.

Tim himself is only barely visible, the angle of the video showing only one eye and a portion of his forehead. Even then, it's clear from his gaunt exterior that he's even worse for wear than he is usually.

The words are quiet, when they come.]

That was you?

[Video certainly isn't fair, especially given how little her face gives away, but that's why she picked it. She's not in the mood for being fair. She's in the mood to take every single advantage she has access to.]

That was me. Turns out when someone in a horror movie mask attacks me, I get tetchy. So does Shaun. Any blunt force trauma you're suffering is him.

[Yeah. He should've figured. A hand creeps up to momentarily shroud that thin slice of his face from view as he scrubs at his eyes, tiredly. He's barely slept since then, and who could blame him? He got a bullet wound the leg and he's been doing back-alley first aid to keep himself on his feet. He'll have to turn to someone who can legitimately take care of him soon, just so the damn thing doesn't get infected.]

Yeah.

[He doesn't have an answer to that beyond the obvious. He's not about to blame her or Shaun for their actions. They were defending themselves, for all they knew.

Except they put the pieces together. Or at least George did.

Might as well start with the important questions. His hand falls away, his stare sincere.]

Did I hurt anyone?

Not to my knowledge. [She doubts he could have done much after she and Shaun took him down, but he could have hurt someone before he came across her. She won't claim he didn't hurt anyone. She doesn't know if it's true.]

What the fuck was that?

[She's found it out. There's no escaping this conversation without conceding some information. Just, you know - accept that she's probably fucked herself over in the process.

Tim sighs, slumping back in his seat.]

Something that was supposed to be gone. It was supposed to be gone.

Clearly it wasn't. [Her tone is harsh, unrelenting. She let him get away with having secrets once. Look where that led.]

Give me one reason why I shouldn't publish this. I like you, Tim, but this is fucked up.

[This isn't fair.

That's the first, childish thought that springs up into his head, and he recoils, inadvertently, at the mere thought that she'd publish this - just the way Jay did, just like how he did, like the whole world needs to know what's going on in his head. This isn't fair. This isn't fair. He beat this. It was supposed to be over. He was never supposed to feel like this again.

He forgoes begging. Pleading. That gets him nowhere with people like this.]

I was getting better. I was supposed to be better.

[He was doing fine. He could live. Not live, maybe, but he could exist in uneasy accordance with the things in his head. He could be without jeopardizing everyone's lives.

The pipe dream is over. Time for reality to lock back down over his head, as it inevitably does.]

It took away my medicine. It never...that's never happened before.

This is something you can medicate.

[Her tone is almost thoughtful. Despite what he thinks of her, she doesn't particularly want to ruin his life. But not everything is about what she wants. If she deems Tim a danger, it's her duty to make sure everyone knows so that people can protect themselves from him. But if it's something that can be medicated, that complicates things. That means he's only a danger without his medication. Too bad they obviously can't count on Wonderland to actually keep him medicated.

It occurs to her that she might find herself without her own medication one of these days and the thought is chilling. She's not a danger to anyone without her painkillers (though without caffeine she's arguably terrifying) but her migraines get bad enough when she has access to everything she needs. She doesn't want to think about just how incapacitated this place is capable of making her.

And she doesn't have to. Not right now, anyway. There's a more pressing issue.]

Tim, I'm going to ask you questions about your... condition. If you lie to me or don't cooperate, I swear I'll let Shaun take over. Do you understand? Remember the part where you tried to kill me before you answer.

[She is, believe it or not, the good cop.]

I don't remember.

[The words break, sounding nearly strangled as his hands go back over his face. He has to hold this together. George's stoic demeanor isn't so different from the way Jay was good at detaching himself, trying to be the objective observer with a camera and nothing more. The smell of smoke in his nostrils, and the impact of his back striking the hospital wall as he screamed, on the verge of breaking down once more, but what if I'm RIGHT?

She's going to interrogate him. And unlike Jay, he doubts he'll be able to reliably keep her off his back with vague answers and untruths. She's harder to mislead. She has something Jay doesn't have, that Jay stupidly threw away when he published his findings online.

She has the power to destroy his life. Again.]

I never remember.

[She could give him shit for starting to dodge before she's even asked questions, but she lets the opportunity pass. He's off balance enough, and she doesn't want to be any crueler than she has to be.]

That makes sense. You certainly didn't seem responsive at the time. But if you have medication to prevent it from happening, you're obviously aware of it. What happens?

It was...it wasn't like it was all one...

[Deep breath. The pounding of his heart in his chest, the tingling in his fingertips, the tremble in his voice - those are all the slow build he wants to ignore, that he needs to deescalate before it starts off in earnest.

The breath rasps in his throat, fingertips digging into the skin of his temples. The stab of it might hold him, might ground him, just for a moment.]

It's not a - it's, it's a symptom. [Is that the best way to describe it? That little freak who hijacks his body and runs amok with it, just to make things that much more difficult for someone who didn't really, did not really, need more shit going wrong in his life.]

It's a symptom. That's why it's - that makes it treatable.

It's a symptom. [What the fuck. He does seem to be trying, at least. It's almost painful to watch. How much he's suffering. Georgia steels her heart and does not react. She has a fucking job to do and until she's made up her mind on how to proceed, she cannot allow herself to be empathetic. And she can't make up her mind until he tells her what the fuck is going on.]

A symptom of what, Tim?

[She just keeps drilling. Of course she does. He swallows, even if it's painful, even if the lump in his throat constricts and constricts to the point where, for a moment, he can't answer.

Breathe in through the nose. Slow, even. Clench hands into fists, and out again. Sink fingernails into the flesh of palms, enough to hurt, to sting. It's all right. It'll be all right. Just breathe it out.]

Of...being me?

[The words croak out with the closest thing approaching humor that Tim has to his arsenal.]

I was born with a lot of...problems, all right? Most of them were just stuff - you could treat. Except, uh.

[An awful rasping noise drags at the back of his throat. Almost like a laugh, were he capable of doing so.]

Except maybe most people get headaches. Paranoid delusions. Hallucinations. Maybe most people get that and that's - that's it, you know?

Most people don't turn into...that.

[Most people aren't born wrong.]

[....dammit, she can't report this. It would be a cheap, sick ratings grab in her world, and here they don't even have ratings.

Not that she's going to tell Tim that. Yet. Not until she knows everything.]

But you can treat it, you said. Has this ever happened while on your medication?

No. Not while I keep taking it.

[At least he can say that firmly, clearly, and have it be true. As long as he keeps medicating - he can do whatever he needs to. He can stand up to the nightmare that's tormented him for the entirety of his life and glare it into submission. He can keep people safe - everyone except the people he's supposed to keep safe.

He can't shake his corrupting influence from anyone else, no matter what he tries.

No. He's not lucky enough for that.]

[It's either the truth, or something he believes to be true enough that he can say it with confidence when he hasn't said anything that confidently this entire conversation. Since she doubts he could come out of an incident unscathed, she believes him.]

So the danger, here specifically, is that we never know when Wonderland won't decide to suddenly leave us without necessary resources.

[A beat.]

You realize this could have been avoided if you'd mentioned being out of medication and what might happen before it got to the level it did, right?

[Has she mentioned lately that telling the truth is always the best option in every situation? Cause she sure still believes it.]

I have it on me. All the time.

[How was he supposed to know Wonderland would strip it from him spontaneously? Most events at least usually have the decency to leave you with the clothes on your back and the lint in your pockets. This was the first big exception.]

It was supposed to be over. That part, the worst part - that's not normal. It was supposed to be done.

[He was getting better.

Or maybe he's just a liar.

Who's he kidding.

Of course he is.]

Wonderland doesn't seem to care much about supposed to be. It seems to take some kind of sick joy in dragging to light things we'd rather keep hidden. I've met tabloid writers with more tact.

[Someday it'll even drag her one big secret out. It's amazing how much less she cares with every passing day. She's given the world enough. She deserves what little happiness she can carve out.]

You know it can happen again, right? Something like this doesn't just go away. Especially not here.

[He can't take this. He can't take her treating him like some dumb kid, like he didn't consider this, like he didn't live with it every day up until now before it all crashed down onto him all over again. He'd nursed one tiny, infinitesimal hope - and that was apparently enough to take the ground out from under his feet.]

I know.

[His fingers curl into his hair, tightly, about ready to rip it out from his scalp, just so he won't have to listen to any of this.]

I needed it to be over. It was over.

[This is the point where a nicer person would assure Tim it's all going to be okay. He's distraught enough. Can anything be gained by drumming in the point? But Georgia isn't nice, though she likes to think she can be kind, and with her, all you'll ever get is the truth. Nothing but.

So help her God.

Everyone always accuses her of seeing things in black and white and ignoring shades of grey. They're not entirely wrong, but they're not fully right either. She knows the world is complicated. She knows that this situation, for instance, sucks. Tim isn't a bad person. Even George can see that this is a time when perhaps the rules should be bent, that he needs someone to pat his shoulder and be comforting. But that person will never be George. Complicated or not, she can only treat this situation the way she treats everything. Slice through the tangled emotional mess of opinions and thoughts. Stick to the facts. Keep it black and white and manageable. She can't let his emotional state change what she needs to do.

But it's never as easy as she wants it to be.]

You know I won't lie to you, Tim. I can't tell you it's over when it's obviously not.

[She lets out a soft breath before continuing. The truth and a lie can both hurt you, but only the truth will take the time to heal you. And while she won't offer a comforting falsehood, maybe her hard reality can help anyway.]

What I can tell you is that you aren't nearly as tough to deal with as a pack of fresh zombies, and if it does happen again, Shaun and I won't let you hurt anyone. Including yourself, if we can help it.

[At least he can trust that much, right? He can trust that she's telling the truth, because she can and she will, without fail. That's more than he ever could have expected from Jay.

Or himself.

He needs to claw himself together. Back into something resembling someone who can pass as human.]

Yeah. Guess that's for the best.

[He's just one guy. One guy who might as well -

If someone has to know...

Might as well help them make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else. Might as well make sure it's someone who's willing to put him in the ground if they have to.]

That freak - that thing. It limps. Has a bad leg. It moves slow.

Your alter-ego has a weakness you don't have. [Her tone is dry, skeptical. She knows the rules here are a lot weirder than she's used to but still, that one's hard for her to swallow.]

Someone broke my leg while it was...doing its thing. Seems to think it's still broken.

[Don't ask him to explain it to you, George, please - he barely understands it himself, and even should he try to conceptualize it, it's not like he can confirm anything except for what he can glean from the leaf mulch and blood that always ends up caked in his hair the next morning.]

[That doesn't make any sense. Georgia's mouth thins, but she doesn't press him on why. He already said he didn't remember anything.]

That's... convenient. And you'll let me know if you think it might happen again? If you lose your medication again?

Couldn't tell you why.

[He could tell her some of it, conceivably. But then he'd end up kicking himself when she inevitably starts seeing shadows in the corners of her vision. So he doesn't. It's...safer that way.]

I - yeah. I don't want it...

[Don't want it hurting anyone else.

Tim lurches off the feed entirely as he leans forward on his desk with his face in his hands. His voice is small, cracking with the lump of anxiety that's wedged itself down his throat, when he says, nearly inaudibly:]

Please don't publish this.