Reasonable Doubt ☁︎

① 「untitled」

I... should've been awake by now.

It is... well, what time is it? The sun has come up, it's now starting to get hot in that room. Flug's room. How did he end up in here? He didn't bring himself back to his room... did he? Last night, he'd planned on staying up. It happens a lot, so it wasn't a big deal. But this time, a great idea hit him on the back of the head like a hammer. Blueprints for a machine that was only large enough to fit a standing human inside. It would create virtual projections, giving the prisoner inside the impression they are safe in whatever landscape the projection depicted. Like the prisoner is not inside a machine at all. It could be programmed to fit any environment the controller wanted, such as... the villanious headquarters. Imagine luring an enemy in, letting them think they've infiltrated the headquarters, before driving them insane with all the possible psychologically programmed horrors.

That was the idea anyways. The scientist wanted to get right to work with it too. He rarely had a moment where he was struck with such an idea that it made him spring to his feet, heading to his lab. He forgot at the time that he was suppose to be waiting quietly in Blackhat's shadow as his boss spoke with a client, for whatever stupid reason. Haha, he'd never say that directly to his boss... but, well. Flug could most definitely think of a better way to spend his minutes. And so he trod off, to his lab.

But something was changed. His lab, things were arranged differently. No, maybe they weren't. It looks exactly the same. But he had a strong sense of anxiety. The type he gets when things aren't right. He instantly realized this once he entered... it was so off-putting. Dementia? Had she done something? He sighed heavily, feeling the warm air on his face. That startled him for a moment, thinking a breeze had hit his skin. His hands instantly patted his bag. No, no. It's fine.

These... memories kept coming back. It was getting bad. And... this is about all Flug can remember. He must've had a mental breakdown. He remembers how fast his heart was beating. That feeling he got when he entered his laboratory was akin to something he thinks he felt a lot in his past. Memories. Not something he enjoys having, no. But it's strange, he never can recall what he has been trying so hard to forget. Apparently, from online (un)reliable sources such as WebMD, his memory loss to some sort of painful past event is entirely expected. So he very rarely dwells on it. I suppose yesterday was my periodic psychological crash, he thought. The scientist sits up in his bed, rubbing his pounding forehead. Hm.. his bag was a bit damp from sweat. Unfortunate. He'll need another one.

___________________________

"Oh god." That's all Flug could say entering his lab. Wow... did he do this last night? Every book once on shelves, every paper once filed away, spread across the floor. But there are no broken beakers, nor glass or anything actually hazardous. It couldn't have been Dementia. And it isn't like the papers and books are thrown about without order. Actually, they seem to be neatly laid out on the floor. Maybe it's-- Ah fuck. Flug whips around, recognizing a slowly growing cackle.

Dementia is standing on her tiptoes and leaning over the scientist. "Dementia, I know what you're thinking. Well, okay maybe I don't, but.." She suddenly starts crawling up the walls, sending the scientist into a panic. "Do not touch anything!" he yells in desperation, throwing his arms out straight. He instantly covers where his mouth is and stares pleadingly at the chaotic being.

She hops onto the top of the only bookcase that seems mostly untouched, tilting her head to the side with the most blatantly fake innocent look that makes you want to strangle whomever thinks it could be convincing. "Uh-oh!" She pushes herself up with force, shoving the bookcase... Flug jumps as far as he can, landing on a pile of files, covering his ears from the loud noise of that beautiful wooden bookcase breaking. God. He hates loud sounds. Fucking Dementia! Again! He grabs a fallen tome and throws it her way with great effort, but she catches it and lunges it right back to Flug's head, knocking him down. "Haha, gush out his brain!," she chants, crawling out of the room.

The doctor touches his forehead and hisses from the.. blood.. which strangely, makes him feel woozy. It's already soaked through his bag.. his new.. b.. He stares at his red tipped fingers and feels himself getting lightheaded, so he stops looking and wipes it on his lab coat, letting his mind come back into his body.

Whatever is causing him to act this way has got to stop. He can't suddenly start drawing out files and old journals from his past jobs, lay them out on the floor, and somehow get into his bed to sleep without doing anything productive. And when did he ever feel sick at the sight of blood? He's evil damnit! But... there has to be a reason. Surely. He stands up, walking to lean on the door frame and looks down the hall from both sides. Blackh.. mm, boss won't come by until later tonight, for Flug's weekly deadline. He's finished the other 4 projects, which took most of his "sleep" and "leisure" hours, so he isn't behind in any way... yeah. It shouldn't hurt. Maybe an investigation would be good.

Just for good measure, Flug closes his door and locks it. To be fair, Bl... boss could easily smash his door in or rematerialize in his shadows and choke him from behind if he so chooses. But Flug isn't a pushover. Not... entirely anyways. Before working with Black... fuck it. Before working with Blackhat, he was a criminal. An evil scientist. He's done bad things. Terrible things, in fact. He's only ever become soft and malleable because Blackhat is so so terrifying. He's particularly mean to Flug as well, which makes everything worse. Originally, evil-doing was a kind of outlet for Flug's anxiety... but now? ...ugh. That doesn't matter.

The scientist scans the scene. There's a hole in the middle of the papers where nothing is laid out. He goes to sit there, understanding his typical way of organizing things on a floor. He's done this before. Lay out a bunch of strings to tie together, facing the center of the circle where he would sit. Flug picks up a few files and reads the first page. Each file is a report of an invention. Progressively more important. Ah, but they all seem to be under the same time frame, from last year.

He was working alone then, since he was having trouble getting any stable work.. what with his "social awkwardness," "lack of imagination," and worse of all, "lack of trustworthiness." That one. Fuck that. Just because I wear a paper bag over my head doesn't mean shit! Flug's hands go to the top of his bag and grab real hard. He used to do this whenever he was upset. Oh yeah, I would rip my hair out. Before this bag. Before those memories had a chance to form. He never got a good chunk of hair, but it felt nice to know he could easily punish himself for his wrongdoings. Whatever they were. Whatever those memories were.

He releases his bag, realizing he was panting again. Ah, that happened yesterday before I blacked out. Okay. Calm down. He found one of his hands had traveled to his coat pocket. His fingers touch something inside and he pulls it out. A pill bottle. Velium, and ambiem it seems. Maybe some Xanax too. Jesus, I should not have these in one bottle. And I'm missing a good amount of them. That must've been from yesterday. Ambiem amnesia, they call it. Maybe that happened. I've had bad experiences with his medications in the past too. I really should get rid of them...

But he won't.

It's so strange. He's slept for so long, and yet, he feels like he's going to pass out. Flug slaps his face and sighs. Ah. No, not a breeze. He'll never get over that nervousness of his face being exposed. He picks up file after file, knowing all this will just lead to something he doesn't want to deal with. Besides, he has work to do.