Smile, chapter 1

AN: Title inspired by the song Smile by AFI. Can be read on its own (hopefully--let me know if mass confusion ensues) or as a sequel to Saviors. The idea for this story came from watching Batman Begins waaay too many times, then going to see War of the Worlds. . . . :)
AN (09-23-06): This story's presently undergoing some very minor fixes, and will--hopefully--be continued soon. See my bio for details.

Hide your eyes in heaven, in the lies.
Believe. Relieve. I'll end the world tonight.
--Smile, AFI--

Chapter One

The young woman sat in the small reception room, shifting uncomfortably in the thinly padded chairs that were meant to pass for comfortable but were actually chosen for the express purpose of making those seated in them utterly ill at ease. She had taken a brief glance at the dog-eared magazines that lay scattered on the small, wooden table beside her, but had quickly decided against attempting to read any of them when she discovered that the magazine with the most recent date was in fact from more than a year previous.

After her brief, unsuccessful foray with the reading material, the young woman's attention had turned to the room around her. The walls were painted in a tactful, pale blue which she associated immediately with institutionalization. Those same walls were decorated with perfectly spaced paintings of soothing, scenic images, all of them looking as though they had been straightened with a leveler. Yes, this place definitely whispered to her of hospitalization.

The wall against which the young woman sat housed a single door with a large, frosted pane of glass situated in the upper half; it was the reception room's entrance, and if it was open it would show a view of the narrow, plushly carpeted hallway beyond where one could enter any number of similar doors and find more offices and waiting rooms almost identical to the one in which she sat. On the wall opposite from where she sat was a large wooden desk, cluttered with papers and pens, and topped with an elderly computer; seated behind the desk with her gaze on the computer's screen was a similarly elderly woman, her silvery gray hair tied back in a tight knot and her pale eyes deliberately avoiding the young woman seated across the room. Beside the desk was another door, this one solid and leading to the single inner office.

After searching the room visually, the young woman sighed loudly and idly adjusted her sunglasses, pushing them further up the bridge of her nose; a moment later she ran the fingers of her other hand through her wild red hair, only succeeding in making it even more messy than it already was. Those vital tasks complete, she impatiently tapped her fingers on the wooden arm of the chair in which she sat. She cast a glance at the secretary only to find that the older woman was now typing away, still choosing to believe that she was alone in the reception room. Maybe it was the sunglasses, the young woman thought. She supposed that it was strange to wear such darkly tinted shades indoors, and the reactions she sometimes got when she did so were always varied; however, she would rather receive questions and stares for the sunglasses than questions and stares for what lay behind them.

Finally the door across the room from the young woman opened. Although she tried to see into the office beyond, her view of the room was substantially blocked by the figures that stood in the doorway. One of the shapes was that of a round, middle-aged woman, looking up at the other, taller figure and nodding wildly. The second shape was that of a man, perhaps in his mid or late twenties, and dressed in a dark suit; he spoke quietly to the woman, said something to which she finally shook her head instead of nodding, then smiled politely and gestured for her to be on her way.

The young woman in the uncomfortable chair watched the other woman cross the room and exit without once looking back, a frown appearing on the older woman's face as she closed the door behind her. As the door closed the young woman once more turned her attention to the man, who was leaning leisurely over the receptionist's desk, dark hair falling forward to shadow his eyes, speaking in hushed tones to the elderly woman.

The old woman scowled and gestured to the waiting young woman, not attempting to hide her instinctive dislike. In response to this the man glanced her way, peering at her over wire-rimmed glasses, blue eyes searching her face for her reason for coming to him. She had not made an appointment.

In answer to his gaze the young woman stood, eyeing the man critically from behind her dark sunglasses.

"Dr Lazarus," the young woman spoke, a tone of authority held in her voice. Before her the doctor straightened his posture, one eyebrow arched curiously, obviously willing to wait as long as it took for her to say more. Obligingly the young woman continued. "I realize that I don't have an appointment," she said, casting a dour glance at the unfriendly receptionist, "but I was hoping that you could spare a few minutes of your time. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you, if it's not too much trouble."

The young doctor seemed to consider this for a few moments before responding. "Right this way," he said, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter the inner room. "It so happens that I do have a few minutes to spare, Ms. . . ?"

"Nila," the young woman answered the implied question, stepping quickly past him and the scowling receptionist. "It's just Nila."

Dr. Lazarus nodded slightly at the young woman's back, then cast an unreadable look at his receptionist before entering the office, closing the door behind him.

Nila stopped a short distance into the inner office, her gaze immediately searching the room and taking in the tasteful decor. It looked to her like any number of other psychiatrist's offices she had visited throughout her life--particularly in the past few years, and not always with a 'visitor' status. Diplomas and certificates hung on the wall, interspersed with the calming images of landscapes that had spilled over from the waiting room. The walls were somewhat darker in color, meant perhaps to be relaxing. A large desk, much tidier than that of the receptionist, sat at the far end of the room, a comfortable looking chair placed behind it. Spread throughout the small room were various seating choices, most particularly the pair of seats that were placed before the desk--a more formal arrangement--and the long couch that sprawled nearby--a more casual approach.

"Sit wherever you like," Dr Lazarus offered, surprising Nila out of her inspection of her new surroundings.

Casting one more glance around the room Nila decided upon one of the chairs placed before the desk; she didn't want this to become too casual of a discussion and thought it best to keep the wide desk between them. Unfortunately this didn't quite pan out as the doctor, instead of sitting behind the desk where she had expected him to sit, lowered himself into the seat beside her. Worse yet he cast her a knowing smile, making it evident that he had quite easily understood her intentions, and had deliberately foiled them. Nila found herself feeling glad that she was not seeing Dr Lazarus on a patient/doctor basis.

"Now," he said, quickly taking control of the situation, "what is it you wish to speak to me about?"

Nila frowned, but refused to lose her cool. "Dr Lazarus," she began, only to be quickly interrupted by the young psychiatrist.

"Please," he said smoothly, flashing her a practiced grin, "call me Kiernan."

"Dr Lazarus," the young woman reiterated sternly, "I'd like to talk to you about one of your patients. A Mr Rovert Slayer. . . ."

"Ah," the doctor replied slowly. He immediately knew which case the young woman spoke of, and could quite understand her interest in it; indeed, it was a case that presently held his rapt attention. "Well, I'm afraid that doctor/patient privilege forbids me from-"

"Dr Lazarus, doctor/patient privilege does not extend postmortem."

The young doctor mouthed that final word, taking in the fact that one of his most interesting cases would seem to have suddenly come to a halt. "Well now, Ms . . . Nila, even if that is the case, I still see no reason for me to answer any questions you may have."

Nila frowned, but she decided to forge on ahead anyway. "Mr Slayer claimed to have . . . encountered a being he thought to be extraterrestrial, isn't that right?" It was more a statement than a question. Nila understood that posing a direct question would get her nowhere with this young doctor; even her half-questioning comment hadn't achieved so much as a flicker of emotion that might give some hint of an answer. "I hear that he also claimed that this 'extraterrestrial' implanted some sort of device in him, though he said he didn't fully know the reason for such a thing."

Dr Lazarus raised his eyebrows slightly, a look that might have been doubtful or highly amused; Nila was finding it difficult to say for sure which emotion it likely was.

"Of course," Nila continued, "no one believed a word of his story."

"There was no physical evidence to support his claims," the young doctor responded, his first admittance of information concerning the deceased. "That's why it was suggested that he come see me," he added with a small smile.

"No proof aside from the word of a single man," the young woman pointed out, her tone holding a hint of anger. "Why is it that no one is ever willing to believe. . . ?" She trailed off, realizing that perhaps she would have been better off keeping her mouth closed. The look of interest that the doctor was training on her only served to reinforce this opinion. Quickly Nila changed her words to something less personal. "Certainly this man's story isn't a common claim, Dr Lazarus."

Dr Lazarus smiled a knowing grin. "More common than one might think, Ms Nila."

"You get a lot of alien abductees then?" Nila retorted dryly, unable to hold the comment back. She had been to visit a few psychiatrists recently--there had been a surprising, sudden increase in the number of individuals claiming stories eerily similar to that of Mr Slayer, and many of them had found themselves under the eyes of a doctor--but none of those doctors had been quite as exasperating as young Dr Lazarus. Without awaiting a response of any sort Nila climbed suddenly to her feet, deciding that it would be safest for her sanity if she avoid this particular psychiatrist. There was little point in her remaining; he seemed particularly intent on being no help at all. "Well Dr Lazarus, seeing as that you have no intentions of answering my questions, I suppose I may as well by on my way."

Climbing easily to his feet, the young doctor responded, "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help." There was a meaningful hint of sarcasm in his voice, though not enough that a casual listener would pick up on it.

"I'm sure you are," Nila replied with equal tone. "Good day, Dr Lazarus."

She left the office as the older woman before her had--without looking back. Had she glanced over her shoulder she would have seen the young doctor's curious gaze following her out of the room, until the outer door closed behind her. In the hallway the thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she walked purposefully from the building, exiting onto the quiet, tree-lined street. She paused on the sidewalk, adjusting her sunglasses and pulling her light jacket closer about her small frame. With a small sigh Nila turned and started down the street, leaving the brick building and psychiatrist's office behind.

Her destination wasn't far removed from the building she had just left, and Nila soon found herself back in the familiar manor she had come to spend most of her days in. Within the walls of the manor Nila paused, closing the heavy door behind her and taking a relaxing look at the area around her. The entryway was ill-lit, and the young woman finally removed her sunglasses in order to better see her surroundings, placing them atop her head like a strange headband. She knew that no one within these walls would give her strange looks; they had all long ago grown used to seeing the strange, solid gray construct that made up one of her eyes, while the other remained its natural warm brown. Again her gaze slid over the familiar decor, coming to rest on a figure that had emerged from a doorway towards the end of the entryway.

As though sensing that he was not alone, the blond man glanced up from the newspaper he was scanning, his gaze almost immediately finding the young woman watching him. "Nila," he greeted, his tone perfectly neutral. "Any luck?"

Nila sighed, her head lowering so that her gaze met the ground instead of that of the man before her. "No. The doctor admitted that Mr Slayer was a patient of his, and as much as admitted the reason for their meetings--both things we already knew--but other than that he was infuriatingly unwilling to help."

"Hmm," the blond responded, seeming to have neither expected such an answer, nor to have been disappointed by it.

"So, Cyrus," Nila spoke up, breaking the silence and willfully changing the subject to something far less dispiriting, "have you heard from your darling daughter recently?"

The man cast Nila the first honest smile she had seen on his face in some time. "Risa? Yeah, I just received a letter from her today, stamped and mailed via the post. Can you believe it? A world of advancing technology and she insists on doing things the old-fashioned way."

Nila returned his smile with a grin of her own. She had to admit that she missed the young child since her father had sent her away to boarding school, but knew that it was for the best. As a single parent Cyrus had enough trouble keeping a close eye on the energetic girl, never mind adding in the fact that his job was one that continued twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Working for the government was time-consuming enough, but working on something as sensitive as they worked on left little time for anything else.

"She's doing alright, then?" Nila posed conversationally as Cyrus gestured for her to follow him upstairs.

Cyrus nodded. "She says she's doing well in all her subjects, and keeping busy with homework and new friends. There is, of course, no mention of mischief-making." He paused, pushing open a door that led to one of the upstairs studies. Nila followed him into the room, casting a lingering glance at the large picture that hung on one wall. Cyrus closed the study door behind them before continuing to speak, this time on the subject they had so recently abandoned. "So this Dr Lazarus was unwilling to answer any questions?" he posed as he took a seat at the long table that took up a large portion of the room.

With an undignified, annoyed sound, Nila took a seat opposite Cyrus. "Doctor/patient privileges, he cited," she responded dryly.

"It's been the same with the other doctors we've visited," Cyrus stated calmly.

"But this one was different," Nila responded with a hint of exasperation. "Doctor/patient privileges don't extend postmortem! I told him that, and he still refused to tell me anything." Admittedly she hadn't posed many questions; the young doctor had gotten her so bothered with his expressions that seemed to imply that he inferred more than she meant to give away that she had left before they had barely begun . . . but she wasn't going to admit such a thing to Cyrus.

Cyrus remained silent for a long moment, seeming to search Nila's expression for more information than she was willingly giving. "You're right," he eventually responded, "this one is different. Mr Slayer is the first of our suspected 'abductees' to have passed away and therefore open up the opportunity to question his doctor without treading a fine line between public information and private. . . . We'll have to see if we can arrange a more . . . official meeting with this Dr Lazarus--see if we can't somehow convince him to give us some of the information we seek."