OOC: Roxy Log!
Yes, you read that right. Roxy's @nuked, but what-if week offers a chance to play out a future scene that is not-quite-what-if, but would otherwise be off camera:
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Friday, April 06, 2007, 8:43 PM
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Bellevue Hospital Center, in it's multi-century history has played hosts to many more notable patients than Roxanne Lee. She, though, is a source of curiosity lately in one of the world's leaders of research on mental illness. Violent delusions, schizophrenia. These are not so unusual, it is the fact that she is a dangerous mutant that has made her a stop on many a tour for students. She has been institutionalized here for half a year. The days are no longer distinct for her. She is laying on her bed, arms bound down to it as is usual. There is still a huge gouge out of one of the walls from the last time she was let free without being sedated first. Blue-green eyes stare at the ceiling, her feet wiggling up and down in a slow, alternating rhythm. The purple dye she used to wear has long since faded from her dishwater blonde hair, her bizarre hair-style having grown out into something closer to normal. A medicated and restrained stupor is probably not in line with Charles Xavier's dreams for mutantkind.
Dreams can take strange forms, but this is not one of them. Called up for a consultation on the care and feeding of mutants, the consultation prolonged into an assessment once a patient history was taken and examined, Dr. Jean Grey walks the chill and institutional halls with her arms wrapped across herself, ostensibly for the chill. It's been over twenty years, but the reptile brain has a long memory. Bellevue's mental wards call up memories of others, seen through young and troubled Grey eyes.
"I'm sure it goes without saying that I'd like this particular half of my abilities kept quiet," she murmurs quietly to the attendant psychiatrist of Roxy's case.
The woman who has been handling the wind-manipulator nods her head, "I'll pretend it goes under doctor-patient confidentiality. You're a doctor, she's a patient. We'll keep it confidential." The woman is in her middle 40's, the sort who is graying around the edges and wears her hair in a bun that never makes it through the day. "You're welcome to her, though. I hate to keep her restrained like this," the psychiatrist explains as she unlocks the door to Roxy's room. "But take a peek at the walls once you're in there. You've seen the file." The door swings open, and Dr. Acotsa puts on a smile, "Roxy? Are you awake? This is Dr. Grey, she's here to talk to you."
Roxy looks down the bed at the familiar doctor and the red-headed woman with her. "If she works for Him, get her out of here. I won't give up the secrets of the order."
"I like the way you think," A flash of gratitude pierces the calm and professional facade that Jean has donned to shield the subliminal unease of the place. She quirks a smile and taps at a temple. "Figuratively, that is. But this sort of thing... I didn't see it in the file, but have you been able to piece together any sort of coherent world-structure? A number of these delusion cases are centered around a single idea." But then they're at the door, and then they're in the room, and Jean gives Roxy a shake of her head and a small smile. "I work for myself, Roxy. My name is Jean, and I'm here because I think I can help you."
Dr. Acosta leans toward Jean, whispering rather low. "She is convinced, of all things, that she is some sort of a knight charged with the idea of destroying the King from those Burger King adverts. And that clowns work for him. She was admitted after attacking another girl for trying to talk her out of it. Incredibly persistent delusions." Roxy has been talked about in front of her face enough times that by this point, she doesn't bat an eye. She continues watching Jean warily, "That's good. I could use help. These pigfuckers haven't been help at all."
"Hey," Jean murmurs back, with a nod of thanks and a wry smile for the explanation. "The guy scares -me-, a little." But it's Roxy that has Jean's full attention. She steps a little closer, into easy conversation range, and gives Roxy another nod, simply accepting the statement and opining in a low whisper that "Psychiatrists might not be the best equipped for the sort of thing you have in mind, you have to admit. But I'm a little different -- I'm a telepath, which means that you don't have to risk anything spoken aloud. You can just think about the mission, and I'll understand what we need to do."
The thoughts that reply to Jean are hazed and sedated and horribly ordered. It's like trying to follow three or four televisions at the same time. << He has to be brought down. It is my duty. My duty. I have to. The King and his armies. Why doesn't anyone else understand what they're doing? >> Roxy looks up at Jean, her eyes imploring. She has been isolated and poked at by experts and orderlies and no one has understood or cared. Dr. Acosta slips to the door and stands outside, giving Dr. Grey privacy without getting out of earshot. Just in case.
<< Why don't you show me? >> Jean encourages, settling her mind to the task of following splintered thoughts. To each that matches the delusion, a little psychic marker is added as it flutters here and there and then slips away, fluorescent labelling for the psyche. << If you show me, I might be able to make them understand. >>
Thoughts continue to flow oddly. In and out of each other. All through it though, this theme pervades. She is a Knight. She belongs to the Order. There are no names or titles though, only ideas that have somehow spun out of control in her mind. Hatred for clowns and their evil plastic King is there as well, tangled endlessly around a misplaced sense of urgent duty. Roxy closes her eyes as she keeps trying to think these things at the Good Doctor. A breeze stirs in the little room. It is not enough to be dangerous, but it is certainly out of place. The wind lightly disturbs Roxy's long hair, strands blowing across her face.
Tag. Tag. Tag. One by one, more thoughts are labelled, as Jean closes her eyes as well and lifts her face to the unnatural breeze, braced, but accepting. One does not live with a weather goddess and bristle at out-of-place gusts of air. << Good, >> she encourages, as the pieces begin to take on a familiar signature when her mind eases back to study them at a remove. << Very good. It's starting to become clear to me, too. Tell me, >> she asks. << What first set you on this path? >>
"It's my legacy," Roxy answers outloud. Her tone is embattled, tense. She has told this story a dozen times before, but never to someone who listens inside of her head as well as outside. Her thoughts struggle and swirl, trying to find the beginning. Memories of a random day surface, of her apartment and thoughts of Jesters defeating clowns. Her identity is somehow clung onto that first term. Another memory slams into this one. Burger King and talking to a teenaged girl about it. The face in the memory is one Jean will recognize - Katrina McMillan.
A different mental post-it for that memory, bright and shining electric blue in difference from the clinical green of the Burger King and his legions. << Then I think we'd better go live up to that legacy and end this, >> she suggests. Mind switching from observing to active contact, she reaches, touches just so, and leaves them both at once no longer in the sterile security of the cell, but standing on the middle of a vast and grassy plain in summer sunlight. Across the expanse, an army of clowns with the King's banner amongst them waits.
The addled mind immediately latches onto this idea. Roxy is dressed in black and white, a harlequin outfit instead of armor. Wind begins to whip around her, both in her imagination and in the quiet of the room as her power is triggered. It is a highly emotionally linked sort of a mutation. There is no hesitation and no mercy as this avatar for her in Jean's contruct attacks, rushing out to vanquish the evil legion. This is what she has been held back from doing for six months.
Jean, some sliver of awareness remaining on the physical world, moves quietly to that centre of the brain that controls Roxy's power and performs the mental equivalent of putting a kink in the hose line. The mind is freed to do as it will, but the physical world is spared its effects. This done, she settles back and allows Roxy to do as she will. With a roar, an army leaps up behind her, thoughtfully provided by Jean's own imaginings. Corporate lawyers and stockbrokers, briefcases swinging with samurai ferocity, thunder forward to lay seige to the King and his clowns in a very hostile takeover indeed.
After several minutes of chaos, battle left free of real life reprocussions, Roxy stands over a fallen King. The wind she conjures is used to brutal effect, like blades in the wake of her hands, to cut through the evil. A plastic mask is split neatly in half as the girl stands there, breathing heavily. << Finally...>> She looks out over the rolling green hill, the battle she has been spoiling for having come and been won. There is a tremendous wash of relief as she is no longer bound by a desperate quest, no longer trapped in the need to end the evil King's reign.
"Are you ready to go back to your old life now?" Jean asks, as the lawyers disappear, along with the carnage of slain clowns and bisected Burger King, to leave her simply standing in the meadow of the mind beside Roxy.
"It's over," Roxy replies. There is a little smile tugging at her lips. Her mind is still a strange place. Disorder reigns. Things don't run from point A to point B quite right, instead, they have to stop off at point T and point Eleven before they get there. There is real mental illness here, but nothing to the magnitude of the delusions that Jean has helped break. The jester's outfit in her imagination is put aside in favor of a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with an indistinct, blurry design on the chest. << I want to leave. People probably think I'm dead. How long have I been in here? >> Reason is starting to return, the seeds Katrina left in Roxy's mind to blossom into mania having had their blooms plucked away.
"It is," Jean agrees. "Now... how about we step off the Astral Plane, and back into the here and now, and I'll see what I can do to explain." With that, and not much further preamble, the grassy plane dissolves, leaving Dr. Grey and Roxy in the little isolated room of the mental ward. Jean smiles, hopefully encouragingly, and waits.
Blue-green eyes blink open and Roxy's instinct to try to rub her eyes is aborted by her restraints. She looks around the room slowly, frowning. "I was kind of hoping the hospital would be gone when the clowns were," she admits, with an awkward laugh. "You're Jean Grey," she suddenly realizes. "From TV. I thought you were a telekinetic? Brain moving stuff." Her mind is finally free of it's twisted focus of the last half year, and finally, reality is in her perception.
"Well, mental hospitals make sense for people to be in when they're crazy," Jean points out with a wry crook of a smile, settling cross-legged on the floor in lieu of having any (easily blown by the wind) chair to sit in instead. "And I am a telekinetic, yes, but I'm also a telepath. I don't like letting that slip, though, since it tends to make people cringe and run out to buy tinfoil hats for no reason... but you've spent the last six months under the influence of a pair of sisters, who were accidentally implanting telepathic suggestions into people by way of dreams."
"Someone... did something to my brain?" Roxy asks. Her brows pull together and her hands clench nervously. "So what? All of that? It was because some telepath decided to screw with me? No one listening, all of the shots and sirens and... everything?"
Jean nods, steady and solemn. "There was no Burger King and an army of clowns to defeat, and you weren't a jester -- that was the delusion that was forced on you. I just gave your mind the opportunity to play through it, in order to let you move past the delusion and reclaim your normal mind." There's a pause following this, as Jean carefully studies her thumbnail (Trimmed short and neat, and unpolished.) and gives Beckah time to digest. "Some of the sirens might have been real, I don't know about shots... you were brought here after attacking a young woman."
Roxy's frown deepens as she listens to all of this. "I hurt someone? Shit. I... no? I pushed Ana once. And then the police came. I didn't hurt her!" Defensiveness bristles up all around the restrained girl. "I didn't attack her, she wasn't one of them. She was yelling at me that I was crazy and wouldn't listen to me, so I tried to get her to leave. I grabbed her a little but..." Sighing heavily, she shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. Does any of it matter?" She tugs at the restraints on her wrists. "Take this off of me? I'm not going to cut anything."
"I'm only going off third-hand information," Jean admits. "So I can't say one way or the other... and I also don't have any authority to let you loose. But I think you should be able to convince Dr. Acosta that you're not a danger to yourself or others fairly quickly. I'll help." There's a pause again, as Jean runs out of things to say. 'Congratulations on a return to functionally sane'?
The girl closes her eyes for a long moment. "God, it feels so good not to feel trapped, like I'm being kept from doing something so damn important." Roxy opens her hands and lays her palms flat on her bed. "I guess I owe you a kind of big one huh? Maybe I can get you some uh..." Her expression turns sour. "I guess I just owe you one."
"You don't owe me anything, Roxy," Jean assures, and on that point she's emphatic, if quietly so. Dr. Acosta is waved in through the observation window before she reaches over to pat at Roxy's hand, light and quick. "This... well, this is going around and setting things back the way they should be. You weren't the first case of this I've run across, but I'm hoping you're the last."
Acosta makes her way back into the room. Her eyes are a little wide and somehow, her hair looks even more frazzled. "She's talking rationally? Already? You're a miracle worker, Grey." Roxy looks up at the older woman and narrows her eyes. "I was talking completely rationally for the last while. I just wasn't talking about anything that made sense." She smirks just a little bit at cracking the joke. Acosta makes a weird face.
"Not a miracle worker," Jean waves a hand as she rises, just a touch pink about the cheeks at the praise. "Just a journeyman brain mechanic. I'll leave you two to talk, I guess." Dusting her hands against the white of her lab coat, Jean then folds her hands in front of her, and nods towards the door. "Good luck, Roxy. And if you want to talk to me about anything in the future, Dr. Acosta can give you my contact number."
Dr. Acosta pulls up a chair beside the bed and immediately starts grilling Roxy. Roxy doesn't answer at first, but instead looks up at Jean with a grateful smile as the telepath makes ready to leave. With that, the long process of getting the odd girl released - and on medication she sorely needed before Katrina McMillan rewired her mind - begins.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Friday, April 06, 2007, 8:43 PM
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Bellevue Hospital Center, in it's multi-century history has played hosts to many more notable patients than Roxanne Lee. She, though, is a source of curiosity lately in one of the world's leaders of research on mental illness. Violent delusions, schizophrenia. These are not so unusual, it is the fact that she is a dangerous mutant that has made her a stop on many a tour for students. She has been institutionalized here for half a year. The days are no longer distinct for her. She is laying on her bed, arms bound down to it as is usual. There is still a huge gouge out of one of the walls from the last time she was let free without being sedated first. Blue-green eyes stare at the ceiling, her feet wiggling up and down in a slow, alternating rhythm. The purple dye she used to wear has long since faded from her dishwater blonde hair, her bizarre hair-style having grown out into something closer to normal. A medicated and restrained stupor is probably not in line with Charles Xavier's dreams for mutantkind.
Dreams can take strange forms, but this is not one of them. Called up for a consultation on the care and feeding of mutants, the consultation prolonged into an assessment once a patient history was taken and examined, Dr. Jean Grey walks the chill and institutional halls with her arms wrapped across herself, ostensibly for the chill. It's been over twenty years, but the reptile brain has a long memory. Bellevue's mental wards call up memories of others, seen through young and troubled Grey eyes.
"I'm sure it goes without saying that I'd like this particular half of my abilities kept quiet," she murmurs quietly to the attendant psychiatrist of Roxy's case.
The woman who has been handling the wind-manipulator nods her head, "I'll pretend it goes under doctor-patient confidentiality. You're a doctor, she's a patient. We'll keep it confidential." The woman is in her middle 40's, the sort who is graying around the edges and wears her hair in a bun that never makes it through the day. "You're welcome to her, though. I hate to keep her restrained like this," the psychiatrist explains as she unlocks the door to Roxy's room. "But take a peek at the walls once you're in there. You've seen the file." The door swings open, and Dr. Acotsa puts on a smile, "Roxy? Are you awake? This is Dr. Grey, she's here to talk to you."
Roxy looks down the bed at the familiar doctor and the red-headed woman with her. "If she works for Him, get her out of here. I won't give up the secrets of the order."
"I like the way you think," A flash of gratitude pierces the calm and professional facade that Jean has donned to shield the subliminal unease of the place. She quirks a smile and taps at a temple. "Figuratively, that is. But this sort of thing... I didn't see it in the file, but have you been able to piece together any sort of coherent world-structure? A number of these delusion cases are centered around a single idea." But then they're at the door, and then they're in the room, and Jean gives Roxy a shake of her head and a small smile. "I work for myself, Roxy. My name is Jean, and I'm here because I think I can help you."
Dr. Acosta leans toward Jean, whispering rather low. "She is convinced, of all things, that she is some sort of a knight charged with the idea of destroying the King from those Burger King adverts. And that clowns work for him. She was admitted after attacking another girl for trying to talk her out of it. Incredibly persistent delusions." Roxy has been talked about in front of her face enough times that by this point, she doesn't bat an eye. She continues watching Jean warily, "That's good. I could use help. These pigfuckers haven't been help at all."
"Hey," Jean murmurs back, with a nod of thanks and a wry smile for the explanation. "The guy scares -me-, a little." But it's Roxy that has Jean's full attention. She steps a little closer, into easy conversation range, and gives Roxy another nod, simply accepting the statement and opining in a low whisper that "Psychiatrists might not be the best equipped for the sort of thing you have in mind, you have to admit. But I'm a little different -- I'm a telepath, which means that you don't have to risk anything spoken aloud. You can just think about the mission, and I'll understand what we need to do."
The thoughts that reply to Jean are hazed and sedated and horribly ordered. It's like trying to follow three or four televisions at the same time. << He has to be brought down. It is my duty. My duty. I have to. The King and his armies. Why doesn't anyone else understand what they're doing? >> Roxy looks up at Jean, her eyes imploring. She has been isolated and poked at by experts and orderlies and no one has understood or cared. Dr. Acosta slips to the door and stands outside, giving Dr. Grey privacy without getting out of earshot. Just in case.
<< Why don't you show me? >> Jean encourages, settling her mind to the task of following splintered thoughts. To each that matches the delusion, a little psychic marker is added as it flutters here and there and then slips away, fluorescent labelling for the psyche. << If you show me, I might be able to make them understand. >>
Thoughts continue to flow oddly. In and out of each other. All through it though, this theme pervades. She is a Knight. She belongs to the Order. There are no names or titles though, only ideas that have somehow spun out of control in her mind. Hatred for clowns and their evil plastic King is there as well, tangled endlessly around a misplaced sense of urgent duty. Roxy closes her eyes as she keeps trying to think these things at the Good Doctor. A breeze stirs in the little room. It is not enough to be dangerous, but it is certainly out of place. The wind lightly disturbs Roxy's long hair, strands blowing across her face.
Tag. Tag. Tag. One by one, more thoughts are labelled, as Jean closes her eyes as well and lifts her face to the unnatural breeze, braced, but accepting. One does not live with a weather goddess and bristle at out-of-place gusts of air. << Good, >> she encourages, as the pieces begin to take on a familiar signature when her mind eases back to study them at a remove. << Very good. It's starting to become clear to me, too. Tell me, >> she asks. << What first set you on this path? >>
"It's my legacy," Roxy answers outloud. Her tone is embattled, tense. She has told this story a dozen times before, but never to someone who listens inside of her head as well as outside. Her thoughts struggle and swirl, trying to find the beginning. Memories of a random day surface, of her apartment and thoughts of Jesters defeating clowns. Her identity is somehow clung onto that first term. Another memory slams into this one. Burger King and talking to a teenaged girl about it. The face in the memory is one Jean will recognize - Katrina McMillan.
A different mental post-it for that memory, bright and shining electric blue in difference from the clinical green of the Burger King and his legions. << Then I think we'd better go live up to that legacy and end this, >> she suggests. Mind switching from observing to active contact, she reaches, touches just so, and leaves them both at once no longer in the sterile security of the cell, but standing on the middle of a vast and grassy plain in summer sunlight. Across the expanse, an army of clowns with the King's banner amongst them waits.
The addled mind immediately latches onto this idea. Roxy is dressed in black and white, a harlequin outfit instead of armor. Wind begins to whip around her, both in her imagination and in the quiet of the room as her power is triggered. It is a highly emotionally linked sort of a mutation. There is no hesitation and no mercy as this avatar for her in Jean's contruct attacks, rushing out to vanquish the evil legion. This is what she has been held back from doing for six months.
Jean, some sliver of awareness remaining on the physical world, moves quietly to that centre of the brain that controls Roxy's power and performs the mental equivalent of putting a kink in the hose line. The mind is freed to do as it will, but the physical world is spared its effects. This done, she settles back and allows Roxy to do as she will. With a roar, an army leaps up behind her, thoughtfully provided by Jean's own imaginings. Corporate lawyers and stockbrokers, briefcases swinging with samurai ferocity, thunder forward to lay seige to the King and his clowns in a very hostile takeover indeed.
After several minutes of chaos, battle left free of real life reprocussions, Roxy stands over a fallen King. The wind she conjures is used to brutal effect, like blades in the wake of her hands, to cut through the evil. A plastic mask is split neatly in half as the girl stands there, breathing heavily. << Finally...>> She looks out over the rolling green hill, the battle she has been spoiling for having come and been won. There is a tremendous wash of relief as she is no longer bound by a desperate quest, no longer trapped in the need to end the evil King's reign.
"Are you ready to go back to your old life now?" Jean asks, as the lawyers disappear, along with the carnage of slain clowns and bisected Burger King, to leave her simply standing in the meadow of the mind beside Roxy.
"It's over," Roxy replies. There is a little smile tugging at her lips. Her mind is still a strange place. Disorder reigns. Things don't run from point A to point B quite right, instead, they have to stop off at point T and point Eleven before they get there. There is real mental illness here, but nothing to the magnitude of the delusions that Jean has helped break. The jester's outfit in her imagination is put aside in favor of a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with an indistinct, blurry design on the chest. << I want to leave. People probably think I'm dead. How long have I been in here? >> Reason is starting to return, the seeds Katrina left in Roxy's mind to blossom into mania having had their blooms plucked away.
"It is," Jean agrees. "Now... how about we step off the Astral Plane, and back into the here and now, and I'll see what I can do to explain." With that, and not much further preamble, the grassy plane dissolves, leaving Dr. Grey and Roxy in the little isolated room of the mental ward. Jean smiles, hopefully encouragingly, and waits.
Blue-green eyes blink open and Roxy's instinct to try to rub her eyes is aborted by her restraints. She looks around the room slowly, frowning. "I was kind of hoping the hospital would be gone when the clowns were," she admits, with an awkward laugh. "You're Jean Grey," she suddenly realizes. "From TV. I thought you were a telekinetic? Brain moving stuff." Her mind is finally free of it's twisted focus of the last half year, and finally, reality is in her perception.
"Well, mental hospitals make sense for people to be in when they're crazy," Jean points out with a wry crook of a smile, settling cross-legged on the floor in lieu of having any (easily blown by the wind) chair to sit in instead. "And I am a telekinetic, yes, but I'm also a telepath. I don't like letting that slip, though, since it tends to make people cringe and run out to buy tinfoil hats for no reason... but you've spent the last six months under the influence of a pair of sisters, who were accidentally implanting telepathic suggestions into people by way of dreams."
"Someone... did something to my brain?" Roxy asks. Her brows pull together and her hands clench nervously. "So what? All of that? It was because some telepath decided to screw with me? No one listening, all of the shots and sirens and... everything?"
Jean nods, steady and solemn. "There was no Burger King and an army of clowns to defeat, and you weren't a jester -- that was the delusion that was forced on you. I just gave your mind the opportunity to play through it, in order to let you move past the delusion and reclaim your normal mind." There's a pause following this, as Jean carefully studies her thumbnail (Trimmed short and neat, and unpolished.) and gives Beckah time to digest. "Some of the sirens might have been real, I don't know about shots... you were brought here after attacking a young woman."
Roxy's frown deepens as she listens to all of this. "I hurt someone? Shit. I... no? I pushed Ana once. And then the police came. I didn't hurt her!" Defensiveness bristles up all around the restrained girl. "I didn't attack her, she wasn't one of them. She was yelling at me that I was crazy and wouldn't listen to me, so I tried to get her to leave. I grabbed her a little but..." Sighing heavily, she shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. Does any of it matter?" She tugs at the restraints on her wrists. "Take this off of me? I'm not going to cut anything."
"I'm only going off third-hand information," Jean admits. "So I can't say one way or the other... and I also don't have any authority to let you loose. But I think you should be able to convince Dr. Acosta that you're not a danger to yourself or others fairly quickly. I'll help." There's a pause again, as Jean runs out of things to say. 'Congratulations on a return to functionally sane'?
The girl closes her eyes for a long moment. "God, it feels so good not to feel trapped, like I'm being kept from doing something so damn important." Roxy opens her hands and lays her palms flat on her bed. "I guess I owe you a kind of big one huh? Maybe I can get you some uh..." Her expression turns sour. "I guess I just owe you one."
"You don't owe me anything, Roxy," Jean assures, and on that point she's emphatic, if quietly so. Dr. Acosta is waved in through the observation window before she reaches over to pat at Roxy's hand, light and quick. "This... well, this is going around and setting things back the way they should be. You weren't the first case of this I've run across, but I'm hoping you're the last."
Acosta makes her way back into the room. Her eyes are a little wide and somehow, her hair looks even more frazzled. "She's talking rationally? Already? You're a miracle worker, Grey." Roxy looks up at the older woman and narrows her eyes. "I was talking completely rationally for the last while. I just wasn't talking about anything that made sense." She smirks just a little bit at cracking the joke. Acosta makes a weird face.
"Not a miracle worker," Jean waves a hand as she rises, just a touch pink about the cheeks at the praise. "Just a journeyman brain mechanic. I'll leave you two to talk, I guess." Dusting her hands against the white of her lab coat, Jean then folds her hands in front of her, and nods towards the door. "Good luck, Roxy. And if you want to talk to me about anything in the future, Dr. Acosta can give you my contact number."
Dr. Acosta pulls up a chair beside the bed and immediately starts grilling Roxy. Roxy doesn't answer at first, but instead looks up at Jean with a grateful smile as the telepath makes ready to leave. With that, the long process of getting the odd girl released - and on medication she sorely needed before Katrina McMillan rewired her mind - begins.