Session: 4-7-2000

Kidder sat in silence in the interview room. He was upset for various reasons. Hugely troubled, in fact. For one thing, much of what Bartholomew had said had seemed to make sense. Except for the fact that he knew his forays into other realities had been real. He knew it. They had to be. But thinking back, they now seemed so fuzzy. Maybe it was the medication- they were for now keeping him mildly sedated. But he'd have to escape and try his machine again, to be sure.

In the meantime, he hated having been goaded into trying to kill Bartholomew. He hated that he had failed to do so. He hated that he had been stopped by those two, just two simple guards. Perhaps that could be excused by his passion, perhaps he hadn't been thinking straight. Still, he was feeling very insecure. If he'd just hallucinated interdimensional travel, how much of his past year or so- or of his whole life- could he be sure of? How much of what he thought was real, was real? How well did he even know himself, or any of his friends? How much of what he remembered saying and doing with them would they remember?

What's more, he hadn't managed to escape last night. Okay, temporary maximum security, heavy surveillance, plus the sedatives. That, too, was certainly excusable. Maybe in a week or two, maybe a month. Meanwhile, he'd have to talk to his friends, although there was the matter, as Bartholomew had brought up, of their talking less to him of late. As much as the Kidder hated to admit it, they really didn't seem to like him anymore, and he had no idea why.

He winced as he thought about this. What point would there be in life without friends with whom to share his triumphs and failures? To scheme, to play, to just hang out with? He needed his friends; he needed people who could at least come close to understanding him and appreciating him for who he was. He needed people who made at least a modicum of sense to him (and there were so few of those in the world). He thought he'd had such friends. But how could he be sure of anything, anymore?

He was desperate to find out so many things. He wondered if the truth, whatever it might be, would plunge him into sanity, or deeper madness, or drive him to suicide. The only sure thing was that until he could get out of here, he'd have alot of time for thinking, and he'd spend that time poring over every memory of his life, striving to separate sure fact from possible fantasy.

Was he here because he was a great villain, or because he thought he was? If one aspect of what he believed to be his brilliant career proved false, how much else might be? Time travel? Murder? Theft? Fights with Batman- even his supposition that he knew who Batman was? Was it possible he'd never even truly been friends with those he so admired? He almost laughed out loud when he realized he wanted to talk with Dr. Bart and find out how much of what he remembered him saying, he actually had said, in the years they'd known each other. It was terribly sad, ironic, and pathetic that he suddenly found himself considering that man his best guage of what he could safely believe about himself.

He almost laughed, but he did not. He wasn't in the mood. He was in terrible pain and wracked with doubt- so much doubt! He needed to talk to his friends; and yet, more than anything in the world, he feared what they might tell him.

The new doctor sat reading through the papers in the file in his hands. Clipped to the front page was a note written in his own hand, Call him James. His eyes kept coming back to this note, and lingering there longer than on all the other entries about his temporary patient's criminal career and psychological analysis. The only other thing that came close to holding as much of his attention was the most recent report, that of Dr. Bartholomew's condition. At this point, the doctors weren't yet certain whether he'd live. The man sitting across from the man responsible for that condition... was not sure whether, in the same position, he himself would want to live.

His gaze fell one last time upon the note, the advice given him by Bartholomew. He'd read many more reports by the other, knew his course of treatment, knew why he wanted to stick to it- as it had been, certainly not as he had so recently proposed to change it.

He knew, too, that whatever was to happen, he must finally begin the session. With a quick, nervous glance to each of the four guards, he then forced his eyes upon his patient, and spoke. "Well. It seems... it seems you won't be heading for minimum security, after all, K- ...Kidder."

With that last word, Kidder looked up from his troubled thoughts, and smiled.