Day 48: Doctor's Office 5 (Dr. Venkman) [Second Shift]
Last day of the work week. Venkman should have been thrilled. Instead, he was told in the morning that not only had the attractive Dr. Burroughs quit before he ever had a chance to ask her out, but that her patients were being thrust onto all the other doctors in turn. That meant that he would have two - count 'em - two double patient shifts to
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"And I'm pretty sure I'm the kind of doctor who's at least a little more on the ball than one who believes he works in outer space with green-blooded aliens," he added, pulling Ingram's file toward him and flipping it open. He had only really gotten to skim it a bit before today, but he remembered something that stood out to him earlier. Skimming down, he found the relevant paragraph. Apparently, Ingram had been dropped off at a field hospital not long before his commital by an unidentified older man with dark hair and a beard. The man had disappeared not long after doing so, and part of Ingram's commital had been due to his ongoing babbling about the man and the supposed parallel universe he had come from. Strangely enough, he had referred to this man as a mirror of someone called "Spock."
Now that had gotten Venkman's attention. Wasn't that what Aidan called himself? Aidan had dark hair, sure, but he was meticulously clean-shaven and definitely not an older man by any stretch of the imagination. Never mind the fact that the report went on to state that the man had possibly been part of enemy forces. The man in the report couldn't have been Aidan. Maybe there was some sci-fi book or movie he'd missed that both Aidan and Ingram were drawing from? Ray and Egon had always been a bit nerdier than he was (Egon especially); maybe if he called them up sometime, one of them would be able to tell him.
In any case, there was one part of the paragraph that had spurred Venkman to connect it with his previous jab in the first place. "Say, speaking of which, you know a guy with dark hair and a goatee?" he asked, looking up from the file again. "Says here you were going on about 'that green-blooded hobgoblin' not long before your commital. Ringing any bells?"
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"No, I mean the part where you people drilled a hole in a patient's head and removed an eye, all without his consent," McCoy shot back. There was absolutely no way any sane doctor could justify that act. He wasn't even touching the brainwashing just yet, mostly because he suspected Venkman would try and turn it back on himself, claimed he was being paranoid. Why did this feel like what should be a simple conversation with another doctor was becoming a battle of wits?
Venkman tried to bait him, even as he reached for a file and opened it, implying that he'd just dreamed up his time on the Enterprise. It was a fairly routine psychological approach, possible hallucination and delusion, but Venkman wielded it like a weapon. McCoy just lifted an eyebrow at him, a clear 'is-that-the-best-you-can-do?' look, and straightened up. He clasped his hands behind his back.
McCoy was learning that there was a certain method to Venkman's madness. When you dealt with ego driven doctors, there were ways to handle them. He was feeling a little more steady and more prepared the longer he could take note of the other man's tactics. Venkman was probably used to having his sarcasm bring a patient down a few notches and having them back down. McCoy knew better than to back down.
Then Venkman abruptly threw him for a loop with that sudden question. The doctor swallowed a little, taken off balance by the seemingly non sequitar. Dark hair and a goatee? He could think of one person, and one person only who matched that description. It brought a rising sense of unease at the thought alone. McCoy licked his lips, then said, "What are you talking about?"
How did he even know about that? The only people who knew directly were the away team.
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It didn't look like he was too thrilled when his alien delusion was pointed out, either, but he had nothing to say on the matter. Terrific. Deep down, surely Ingram knew that his sci-fi dream world was nothing but a big, fat load. At least, that's what Venkman wanted to think, anyway. If it were true, then that would mean fewer sessions with this guy before he was sent home.
It also pleased him that Ingram seemed thrown off by the mention of his goatee'd friend. Looked like that was the nail to hammer on further. "You sure you don't remember? Says you even called him by name here," he said, pointing to the text on the page even though Ingram couldn't see the text clearly from where he was standing. "Or rather you said the name of someone he looked like. Still not sounding familiar?"
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This place had to be the furthest thing from an actual hospital he'd ever seen. It looked like one and that was about it. You had doctors unassigned to admitted patients for days, no explanation of why they were admitted, not to mention how he'd gotten here in the first place was physically impossible (a very important factor). The place seemed to transform at night too, something that just wasn't natural for a hospital. What hospital left the doors unlocked, let supposed mental patients roam free and let things like that creature last night have free reign in the building?
If this was a hospital, then he was a damn Vulcan all along and Kirk was an Orion slave girl and Spock had grown wings. There wasn't any way this was an actual medical facility. This was more like someone's idea of what they thought one should look like to a human, then modified with some perverse personal touches. Maybe they had somehow scanned their minds, plucked surface images.
Now Venkman was pointing at the file. McCoy followed the motion down. He couldn't see it from here, but a part of him was relieved to find there was just text and nothing else, like a picture.
"I remember enough," McCoy said. It wasn't completely true, and the answer even felt evasive the moment it left his mouth, like he was back doing his own report on the subject again.
"How do you even know about him?"
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He ignored the part about the quality of the facility. Again, he would have argued that Landel's was not, in fact, the root of all evil, as Ingram seemed to think it was. However, he also couldn't really argue that the place was a shining beacon of protocol and professionalism, either. There were definitely some issues here that raised even his eyebrow. Like letting doctors quit at the drop of a hat. Seriously, had they never heard of two-weeks' notice around here?
The evasiveness of Ingram's answer was as evident to Venkman as it was to Ingram. Whatever he "remembered" about his mysterious saviour, it almost certainly wasn't related to reality. When asked how he knew about the man, Venkman gave a patented "seriously?" look. "Uh, because I can read?" he answered, tapping the text on the page sharply again. He knew perfectly well that wasn't what his patient had meant, but he really had walked right into that one, though. Ah well. He was willing to cut the guy a bit of a break for once, and continued with the real answer: "He's the one who dropped you at the field hospital you were transferred here from. Didn't give the staff there a name or anything, but they noted what he looked like before he up and vanished." He tilted his head a bit, playing up a look of curiosity as he added, "You wouldn't happen to remember a name or anything offhand, would you? Other than 'Spock,' I mean. There's a guy here in the building's got dibs on that one already."
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McCoy grit his teeth and managed not to explode at the man. "If there's malpractice goin' on, you don't look away just because it's not your assigned responsibility. You're a doctor, you're responsible for every patients' welfare in here, especially if one of your peers is the source of the abuse."
Patients and doctors had a unique relationship, with the patients submitting to a doctor's care. That mean that a doctor had a responsibility to keep the patient's welfare in mind, above ego and their own gain. How could Venkman show no interest at looking into the matter? McCoy wasn't ready to directly bring up the Admiral's name to this man, although the description of the wounds wasn't too hard to miss for anyone with a working pair of eyes. The fact that someone had saw fit to commit that atrocity on his person should have been enough to cause concern, and yet Venkman was acting like it was all just an inconvenience.
Of course the man could read, that wasn't what he was talking about. McCoy glared at him from over the chair. The facts were that the Enterprise was currently the first to have crew definitively visit a parallel universe and report back on the matter. But the visiting party had been limited and most of them unwillingly to idly talk about the subject with the rest of the crew. Uhura seemed content to try and forget about it, but McCoy had noticed that there were some lingering awkwardness around Sulu. But it was passing. Uhura was quickly going back to her own self. Scotty was back at his engines, free of that other Sulu's reign that had them closed off earlier, which was tantamount to depriving Scotty of his own child. Spock had shared his findings about their counterparts, as clinical as you please, but seemed content to carry on as usual.
And Jim? He'd tried to talk it out the night they got back, but after some uneasy minutes dwelling on the differences between their universes, that woman from the transporter room, they'd both ended up lapsing into silence as they sipped at bourbon. Jim still had a fading bruise on his chin and lip from the failed assassination attempt.
At least Jim had tried to talk.
The report had been sent out, but it'd been classified to only Starfleet's top officials. It wasn't something that should have been easily accessible. Wherever this backwater was, they shouldn't have any knowledge of it. Or him.
Venkman's story didn't ring a bell at all. Not that it should have. McCoy didn't see the point of fabricating up a whole story for him. They had certain facts in there, about had happened a little over a week ago, that were true, surrounded by something completely wrong. He eyed him suspiciously. Where was this going and why even go to such lengths?
"I'm not a diviner. And that was his name," McCoy said testily. "If the file says that's all I remember, then that's that then." It was better something was there in that false file. Better than the actual void of memory that sat there, made him wonder constantly. "Is there a point you're trying to make, doctor?
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For all intents and purposes, it appeared simply that Ingram had annoyed him into agreeing. What Venkman didn't say out loud, however, was that there was a little niggling voice in the back of his mind wondering if maybe, just maybe, Ingram might be right. There always was a chance. An incredibly slim chance, but it wasn't impossible. He very much doubted that if something shady was going on, it was outright diabolical and mad science-y. However, Ingram could very well could have been exaggerating some legitimate abuse of power by staff. It couldn't hurt just to check. Venkman hated to agree with someone in the loony bin, but he was right - writing something like this off out of hand with no evidence to justify doing so flew in the face of good skepticism, almost as much as blindly accepting it did. That was probably true no matter how much his inner layabout protested.
When all that was said and done, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand - actually getting through this damn session. "It's worth asking. With these kinds of disorders, some days may be clearer than others for a patient," he answered, noting down Ingram's continuing lack of memory next to the paragraph about the bearded man. "Makes things easier on me if I know what state of mind you're in. Clearly today is a Spaceman Spiff day for you, and now we know that. That's good. I can work with that."
He wasn't sure if he was going to regret this or not, but now he was curious, so he asked: "Anyway, so you don't remember anything about what's in the report. What do you remember about this guy? Go ahead, lay the technobabble on me. I want to hear it." Or rather, he wanted to hear how detailed it could get. He wanted to see just how deep the rabbit hole went with this guy.
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"The patient calls himself ZEX," the doctor said. Why did it feel like he was trying to soothingly talk down a Capellan power-cat? "He's got a bandage over an eye. Looked like someone drilled into his head while he was awake too."
Whether Venkman actually made good on his word and started his own investigation was another matter entirely. He could just as easily throw the paper away and forget about it the moment McCoy left the room. It was hard to tell if there was an actual heart beating under there or if it was all brain and sass. McCoy hoped that he'd sparked some doubts in the man.
The doctor waited until he had written that all down before reluctantly taking a seat. Venkman had caved on something, so McCoy supposed he could do the same, even if he felt out of place on this side of the desk. The chair itself was made of some strange fuzzy, rough fabric. he felt like he was on the other side of a magnifying glass.
Whoever thought Venkman would make a good therapist had to be blind and deaf, McCoy thought. His life wasn't a delusion (he certainly didn't have it in him to dream up something as terrifying as transporters on his own), and mocking 'his delusion' wasn't exactly a good way to get a patient to talk. McCoy gave him a disapproving look.
"Sarcasm doesn't make for good therapy. Neither does patronization," the doctor grumbled as he tried to make himself comfortable. The chair could have been antique leather, perfectly broken in, and it'd still feel off. The line of questioning wasn't helping either. He wasn't about to spill everything that happened over there, especially to a man like Venkman, although at the same time, these people had somehow managed to drag it up all the same. How much was still hidden from them? Could he find out what they were trying to accomplish if he played along to some tiny degree?
It was possible. It would be a logical course of action, but it was easier said than done. The doctor wished he'd drop the subject, ask something mundane and a lot safer. At least something he had an answer to.
McCoy settled on what he did know. It was vague enough. "I remember him having a certain honor to him where there wasn't any on that ship."
Even as he said that, a part of him questioned its validity. He'd been cold but logical, still a Vulcan even if it felt like morals had taken a backseat: even for a Vulcan, he'd seemed completely frigid , emotionless, and somehow that seemed a lot more frightening than the rest of the crew. But at least, out of the entire crew on that death trap, Spock hadn't tried to kill them. Well, not until attacked first, and Jim admittedly had thrown the first punch.
Yet something in him knew better, that there was a ruthlessness to the man that couldn't be overlooked just because of a few good deeds. It tugged at his memory, like he'd seen that Spock commit acts himself that made Sulu, Kirk, and Chekov's bloody rises to power look as harmless as a child's game.
"The away team attacked him when he had us cornered. He still let us go when he didn't have to," McCoy finished.
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Oh well. The upside was that this meant he could get Ingram to focus more on himself, which was what they were supposed to have been doing since he first walked in the door. "Yeah, but it sure is a hell of a lot more fun," Venkman answered to his patient's grumble, his shoulders shaking briefly with a chuckle. "Besides, aren't you glad your therapist actually acts like a real person?" he asked, taking a lazy spin around in his chair to emphasize the point. "I know I wouldn't exactly be thrilled to have one of those fake, boring 'Uh huh. Uh huh. Fascinating. Now tell me about your father' psychiatrists. Never know if those guys are actually listening to you or secretly plotting your death. At least you can tell right off the bat what I think of you. Gotta give me points for honesty."
And it was true that he was somewhat interested in this whole "Spock" thing, both as it pertained to Ingram's disappearing benefactor and to the stick up Aidan's ass. Even with the vague, avoidant way Ingram was describing the man, he could already see the similarities. Irritatingly stiff as Aidan was, he could definitely see the whole honor thing going on there. If Ingram and Aidan were both drawing from the same stories, he could easily see how Ingram could have associated the Spock/mirror-of-Spock character with a similar personality type in the real world.
"And why did he have you cornered?" he asked, his curiosity surprisingly genuine. "What's the context to that?"
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McCoy looked unamused. Therapy wasn't meant to be fun, it was supposed to help the patient, not serve as something for the doctor's entertainment. Silently he marked down paranoia as a possible trait for Venkman, because he couldn't think of a single doctor he'd ever encountered that secretly had it out for him. Maybe Venkman had personal experience. Or thought he did.
"It'd do more to assure me of their professionalism. It's hard to believe you have my best interests at heart," he pointed out. He'd rather have a completely bland doctor and a bland bedside manner than someone who didn't take their patient seriously.He wasn't something to pass the time or amuse the man.
Venkman's last comment caught his attention, however. Maybe there were some serious abuses going on in this facility, a good deal of cases with actual hard evidence and results, but McCoy didn't see that applying to every therapist and psychiatrist across the known galaxy. A failure to create an engaging and encouraging atmosphere for a patient didn't mean necessarily mean boredom from that therapist. It also certainly didn't mean they were secretly plotting to assassinate the patient. For sarcasm, it was a damned peculiar thing to throw in there. It didn't just come out of the blue. Chances were it'd come right out of Venkman's subconscious, which pointed to something else going on in here. McCoy loosely clasped his hands on his stomach, elbows resting on the armrest. He looked Venkman over critically. "Call it my professional opinion, but you should consider some therapy yourself. You're showing some signs of paranoia. Could be a latent system of querulant delusions."
Much to his chagrin, Venkman didn't drop the subject of the other Spock. He actually sounded interested, which was the last thing McCoy wanted. It meant that he was probably going to bull dog right onto the subject. He eyed the clock, tried to silently will it to go faster. The sooner this session was over, the better. He'd managed to find out, although it was vague, what he was supposedly here for. It sounded like a mistaken identity, but the parts of that file that rang true were too close for comfort. It couldn't be one huge mistake. McCoy still didn't know how they'd even brought him here. The doctor had the feeling that Venkman would laugh off him if he asked. He'd have a field day with his explanation of how he'd been in the middle of transporting down planet-side when he'd been pulled out of the beam.
McCoy decided against mentioning the parallel dimension aspect of it. Even now that they knew it was beyond scientifically possible and actually plain existed, the idea sounded insane. He would've thought the very same if he hadn't experienced it personally himself. Now that they were back safely on their own ship and in their own reality, it still sounded crazy.
"We were trying to escape that ship. He discovered the plan," McCoy said stiffly. He went on. "I'm not telling you the specifics, they're classified."
If these people and this facility were as technologically advanced as he thought they were, with either some way to dig through his memory or crack Federation security, then they had to already know the context already. There was only so far the doctor would go along with this.
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That and it didn't really deserve to be debated. So what if Ingram mistook a comedic trope for real paranoia? Hell, so what if he really turned out to be paranoid (which he wasn't)? This wasn't a session for Peter Venkman; it was a session for David Ingram. He said as much next: "You know what, it doesn't matter anyway. I'm getting pretty tired of you trying to reshift the focus of this session at every turn," Venkman said bluntly, lacing his fingers together and pointing both index fingers at his patient. "You seem pretty keen to talk about anyone other than yourself, you know that? I keep asking questions about you and what you remember, and you keep trying to talk about me or your friend Zex or whoever else. When you do answer about yourself, it's vague and you look real reluctant to talk. What's up with that, doc'? Sounds like a sign of possible esteem issues. Little autophobia, maybe? Or it could be just some persecutory paranoia of your own, making you apprehensive of retribution by the conspiratorial powers that be?"
He tilted his head and gave a "so there" look at Ingram, adding off-handedly, "See I can use fancy words too. Don't try to get cute with me."
Leaning back from the desk again, he tried to steer the conversation back on course. "Anyway, so you were on his ship-" meaning that in the real world, he had probably been in enemy territory and found out "-he discovered and cornered you, your team attacked him. And yet he ended up saving you and bringing you back to your own base, and you yourself call him honorable. Why do you think that is?"
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It wasn't paranoia when it already happened and there was proof of it. He'd examined the man himself, seen it with his own eyes. How else did you explain those wounds? He highly doubted ZEX could have done those to himself. The odds would have been stacked against him: he would have more likely caused severe brain damage or death if he'd attempted it himself. He couldn't have made nearly so neat an excavation of that eye either. The pain, if not the shock and psychological damage, would've seen to that.
"I'd like to understand 'my' attending doctor myself before I let myself be committed to his care. You've given me no reason to believe in your abilities as a doctor," McCoy said brusquely. Venkman didn't look too amused himself at being tentatively diagnosed and had fired back with his own.
Autophobia? That was a new one. McCoy didn't think he had too much of that. His self-esteem was just fine. He had a severe distrust of the transporter and was generally suspicious of new technology, and with good reason. He'd had a fear of space and flying initially too, but for the most part, he'd slowly come to terms with it.
Maybe he had kept on the issues that involved people other than himself, but he usually only thought of himself and his needs after his shift was over or when there was nothing left to do. The crew and his patients had always come first. He wasn't the only one who worked that way either. Miss Chapel was just as guilty of overworking herself. But to someone who thought patients were just there to entertain him, McCoy didn't doubt it would come off as some autophobia.
Venkman had a point though. It hit closer to home than he liked. Part of him was avoiding the questions not just because it was a security issue, or because Venkman worked for their captors, but because he honestly couldn't remember all of it no matter how hard he tried. The fact that he had a gap in his memory was troubling enough, nor could he explain how it came about. Even if he wanted to tell everything, he could only give him an incomplete account. He couldn't say why that Spock had decided to help them at the end or even how he'd even found out Jim's plan.
What he did know was the other Spock had actually taken it upon himself to warn Jim that he had a time limit to decide about the Halkans before he'd be replaced. McCoy couldn't say he much cared for the fact that Spock was dead serious about making good on his orders, but compared to the rest of the ship? Spock was gentlemanly enough to warn the captain that he had a target painted on his back. After being attacked, and after discovering the truth, Spock had plenty of reasons to kill them. He'd let them go instead. He'd actually seen them off.
"Because he didn't have to. I don't know why he let us go. He had plenty of reasons not to," and every reason to toss them into the agony booth before throwing them out the nearest airlock. Or worse. McCoy thought back to some of the 'experiments' he'd discovered going on in the more secluded parts of 'his' sickbay.
"And I told you, I'm not at liberty to discuss the rest," McCoy said. "Take the matter up with my commanding officer."
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He shook his head, adding something slightly more serious to balance it out: "And you're not really giving me much reason to believe you're all that interested in making use of any ability I might have, either. You come in here yelling about how much the place blows, demanding I see to a patient I had no idea existed in the first place, and then don't give me nearly enough information to actually, oh, I don't know, actually figure out what your deal might be." He raised an eyebrow at Ingram before thumbing through the stack of patient files on his desk. He soon lifted one file out of his stack - Hal Youngberg's. "If a patient seems like they actually want to talk, I will - shock of shocks - talk to them. Like a real human being. Hard to believe, I know."
While Hal hadn't exactly been asking for Venkman's help, it had definitely seemed like real help was needed then. Also, at least Hal hadn't actively rebuffed his therapist's attempts to ask what was wrong. Though he hadn't ultimately done much to lift Hal's spirits, Venkman did feel that his session had been one of the few so far that hadn't just stopped at a brick wall. There was still the possibility of progress being made there soon. That was pretty good by his standards, considering psychiatry was not his forte. He was sure Ingram could tell.
He sighed shortly when the "it's classified" dodge came up again. "And who exactly is your commanding officer? Is he here as well, or somewhere else?" he asked, wondering if Ingram's fantasy had pegged any of his fellow patients as fitting the role of his superior officer.
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"That's because there's nothing wrong with me," McCoy said, somewhat defensively. There was plenty wrong with this facility, starting with their admission here, which was more like a kidnapping than any legal admission. And if there was something wrong with McCoy, Venkman would be the very last person he'd want to check him out. He'd rather have Jim try his hand at medicine than Venkman, which said plenty right there.
McCoy had to pause for a second when Venkman asked who his commanding officer was. Well.... a version of him was here, but McCoy didn't feel like digging his hole even deeper with Venkman. Not only would calling another patient his superior officer hurt what little (if any) credibility he had with Venkman, having to explain that it wasn't the same version would see to putting the rest of it to its grave. Better to keep it simple: the one he knew wasn't here.
"His name is Captain James Kirk. He's not in here," McCoy thought for a moment. Venkman was calling him a different name, which meant that there was a good chance that it wasn't as easy as as just glancing downwards and finding a Captain Kirk on that form. "The medical officer who evaluated me and my commanding officer should have signed off on those papers."
McCoy knew no such procedure, certainly no evaluation, had ever happened but Venkman was insisting up and down on that file being the absolute truth, and that McCoy was that man in the file. Venkman could go chase down whatever wild goose there was that signed off on that paperwork, try and get the classified information out of him.
The doctor's eyes drifted back to where Venkman had just pointed, at the wall behind him. Sure enough, the man did actually have a degree, and two of them at that. Psychology, which wasn't unusual in itself, and then parapsychology. Plastered along the walls were what looked like old magazine and newspaper clippings, showing Venkman in a jumpsuit and some strange equipment strapped on his back. He was usually shown with two or three other men, the words 'Ghostbusters' appearing in some of the titles.
He arched an eyebrow at the other man skeptically. "Parapsychology, doctor? Don't tell me you believe in ghosts."
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Venkman raised both hands palm up at his sides. "Well, which is it, doc'? You don't pick one, I'm gonna pick for you." Ingram wasn't leaving today without either admitting he needed help or allowing Venkman to throw digs at him as he would at any stiff jerk without a mental problem.
On the side, Ingram had finally taken notice of the wall behind him. While Venkman was irked slightly that the man had again chosen to veer off the rails, he was always at least somewhat willing to talk Ghostbusters. After all, as a great man had once put it, bustin' made him feel good. "Kinda got no choice when your torso's covered in their slime more days out of the week than not," he answered casually. "Good times, good times."
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He added, "And speaking hypothetically, if I wasn't mentally sound, I'd find you unfit to treat me; I'd want another doctor assigned to me. You have no empathy for patients and not a shred of bedside manner or professionalism."
It wasn't the most diplomatic thing to say, but Venkman seemed to only understand the same 'honesty' he prided himself on, and there wasn't any other way McCoy could say it more clearly. Maybe Venkman had a natural, hidden gift for picking apart a patient's brain, or form snap diagnosis... who knew? McCoy didn't know his background or much else about him, outside of what he'd learned in this session so far. He probably was a genius at something, usually that overabundance of confidence and ego came from somewhere, yet he doubted that genius was involved with dealing with patients face-to-face.
Ghosts discharge physical slime now? McCoy thought, which was the first he'd ever heard to that particular tradition. McCoy's eyes drifted from poster to poster. From the various poses and headlines, it looked like they were heralding theatrics and and pomp than any form of science.
"And I'd have to question your own sanity if you really believe in the existence of ghosts."
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