St Elizabeths Hospital (no apostraphe) is a quick 15 minute drive from the hotel. It's entrance is hidden behind rows of 60's-era single-family homes, some in pristine shape, others having seen better days.

As you drive through the entrance, you notice first of all that the complex is huge, and under construction. The construction area off to the left is gated with a an armed guard huddled out of the rain in a small and featureless guard shack. Multiple signs in English and Spanish warn that all construction personnel must check in with the attendant and unauthorized access is strictly forbidden. Since the front of the main building is covered in scaffolding, there are makeshift traffic lanes which take you to the rear of the complex, towards the visitor's entrance.

On a good day, the main building would look old and decrepit; today the light mist makes it appear as if dirt and mortar are oozing from the building in sickly streaks. A faded wooden door with a temporary "Visitors use this entrance" sign tacked to it opens to reveal a poorly lit hallway, with another signboard directing you back through to the front of the building.

Along the way you immediately notice two things. The increased security at the construction zone has little to do with the mental hospital, as there's not even an aging Rent-A-Cop in sight to keep you from wandering into the wrong place. Secondly, the place seems largely deserted. Many of the rooms you pass seem like they were once patient rooms, but are now bare of anything not bolted down (which, in a mental hospital, actually leaves most of the furnishings still in the room). Entire wings are closed, with the lights off and entry doors chained and locked.

Eventually you make your way back to the front of the hospital, where you come into a waiting area. A large orderly dressed in rumpled scrubs looks up from the  book he's reading to see who has entered. You notice immediately that he covered in short, thick brown fur, with pointy canine ears. He is not human, but a bugbear. You've seen his kind before, especially in positions where physical prowess is a boon (and where an occasional use of excessive force can go unnoticed), but it's still jarring and hard to hide your surprise.

You know, it's usually the patients who see me for who I really am, but they're all schizophrenic. He taps a big clumsy finger on his computer keyboard to remove the screensaver and asks, Well you aren't a delieveryman, and you aren't medical personal, and you came the back door so you're not one of the damn construction workers who can't read their own signs. You here to commit someone or complain about the conditions here?
This message was last updated by the GM at 02:38, Wed 08 Feb 2012.

Frank wasn't sure what he had expected from St Elizabeths Hospital, but it certainly wasn't a bugbear orderly. The construction work had thrown him a little bit of a curve ball too; he had heard the place was virtually closed down, but there seemed to be a major construction project taking place on the hospital grounds.

It took him a moment to recover his professional demeanour after the surprise of encountering a bugbear right at the visitors entrance to the hospital, but once he had he replied to the creature's question.

"Neither, actually," he said, flashing his Terryl-Hoyte ID badge. "I'm here to see a patient, David Mathers. I'm working as a civilian liaison with the FBI."

Despite Tobias' suggestion that he just pass Sean his number on route, Frank had made a point of getting the FBI agent's number. If he needed Sean to confirm his clearance, he didn't want to have to try and get hold of their new partner via the FBI's switchboard. He had wrangled with the switchboard enough times while he was still employed by the FBI to know he didn't want to go through that again without due cause.

The orderly points over his shoulder to a sign on the wall, an act he's clearly done many times before. Dryly, he says, Visiting hours are between 2PM and — wait, FBI liaison? Is this like a Hannibal Lector thing or something?

He sits up, suddenly animated, and starts tapping away at the computer. In his excitement, he forgets to inspect Frank's ID badge. Let's see, Mr. Mathers is in C-wing, so he's probably in the Abe Lincoln room. I'll take you there.

He reaches under the desk and pulls out a little placard with an image of a clock with a smiley face and the words "Will be back in 5 minutes" lettered over top. He places it on the counter and ushers you back through the door you entered.

After winding through a couple more empty hallways, you are brought to the C-wing nurses station. The orderly hustles back to the front desk and leaves you in the care of two nurses and three orderlies — all human this time.

One of the nurses directs you to the Abe Lincoln room, a common room filled with tables scattered with tattered board games, which doesn't quite live up to the prestige of its name. David is sitting in the corner, staring blankly out the window. When Frank walks up, he turns around, looks Frank directly in the eye, and says Everything follows the Beam.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:17, Mon 06 Feb 2012.

Frank counted himself lucky that the orderly hadn't bothered to check his ID properly, as he wasn't even sure that Sean had the right sort of clearance to let him see David.

It was quite a shock to see David again after such a long while; to see him looking so crazy. He had been a gibbering wreck the last time Frank had seen him, and now he seemed calmer, but of anything that made his madness all the more disturbing. When he had been screaming and struggling it somehow felt more temporary, like he could recover, but seeing him now, it was as if the madness had set in.

"The Beam?" he asked David, capitalising the word in his head as he spoke it. "What do you mean 'follows the Beam'?"

He was intrigued enough to ask the question, but aware that he couldn't afford to become distracted by discussing David's delusions with him and forget that reason he was here; the case, and the children who would die if they failed to stop it.

David's eyes widen in recognition. Frank! It's so good to see you. Gorg! His words are sedated, as if he were high. When it comes down to it, he is high, though the drugs he's taking are more legal, if equally powerful. Despite the sluggish movement and speech, his eyes are wild with electricity.

In a gesture not seen while in the FBI, David stands up and gives Frank a strong, slow hug. He pulls away and holds Frank in a Let Me Look At You pose and says How is your wife? Why did the chicken cross the road? How old's your kid now? To go to McDonald's!

He speaks with the same slow purpose, sense and nonsense intertwining seamlessly.

Frank considered asking about the Beam again, but something about David's behaviour suggested he probably wouldn't even remember saying it. Instead he answered David's questions slowly and carefully, ignoring the nonsense in between.

"Diane's fine," he said. "Brianna's six years old now. She's growing up fast."

He found it unsettling to be making seemingly normal conversation with the man he was responsible for putting in here. Though he couldn't remember the incident that had led to David's madness, Frank had been in charge of the team, so the responsibility was his.

He needed to get back to the business of the case, so he changed the subject.

"I'm looking for Mr Monday, David," he said. " Do you know where I might find him?"

Six. That is a magical age. You just promise me that when she gets in a car accident on her 16th you won't punish her too hard. Kids will be kids, you know.

He perks up when "Mr. Monday" is mentioned, and looks upwards, as if remembering something.

Mr. Monday maniacally maims muted mice. Mr. Monday maniacally maims muted mice. Mr. Monday maniacally maims muted mice. He says this as if he's said it a million times and plans on saying it a million more. Luckily, though, he stops at three. Just like I see you in my dreams, sometimes. Mr. Monday lives in the white house, black house, white house, black house, white house, black house. Mr. Monday is a bad man, I see him in my dreams. Just like I see you in —

He looks at Frank apologetically and with a lucidity Frank has yet to see in him thus far. I said that out of order, didn't I? Sorry about that, sometimes I feel like... I feel like I'm thinking in the future and the past and the present all at the same time. You know the feeling? Of course you don't, how could you? I'm sure it's the drugs, only I don't know if it's because the drugs are too strong or... or not strong enough.

Sometimes I just feel like... like there's two of me: one crazy and one sane. Only, it's the crazy one's the one who seems to know stuff, and I'm the one who can't do anything other than sit around in this ward and stare at the walls and play chess with a partner who thinks he's Sir Charles Barkley and with the White chess pieces missing the king, both knights and half the pawns.

He smiles a faint, half-smirk. I guess that chess set's a little like me, in a way.

Frank listened to David's ravings, and it came as a relief as he seemed to gain some lucidity, talking about his condition, the way it made him feel. It broke Frank's heart to see his former team-mate like this, barely managing to hold it together long enough to have a conversation.

'What am I doing here?' Frank found himself thinking. 'David's insane. So why am I trying to interview him?'

Unabated, Frank decided to continue his questioning of David, trying to determine if he had any link to the case.

"What things do you know?" he asked. "Do you know about Henry Leyden?"

I know many things. Good things; evil things. He cocks his head to the side in a gesture you're now familiar with.

Henry "Hank" Leyden, age 11, resident of 3486 W. 16th Street, Mount Pleasant, Washington DC, with father, Peter, and mother, Sonya. He's in the white house, black house, white house, black house, white house, black house.

He shakes out of it, returning to his "normal" self. No, that's not right... not yet, anyway. Henry's special; he's the reason you're here. This "Mr. Monday", he wants Henry for some purpose. And he's taking him to this white house/black house, whatever that means. I think the "other" me knows, but he's got a cruel streak in him that keeps him from just coming out and saying it.

If Frank had been doubting the sense in speaking with David about the case before, now he had got Frank's full attention. There was no way he could have known Henry Leyden's home address, let alone his family details. It seemed that there might be some truth to what David had been saying all along; that there were now two versions of himself, one relatively sane one kept in the dark about everything, and an insane one, who seemed to know all about Frank's case.

"OK, so here's the million dollar question," he said, smiling. "Where is the white house/black house?"

As soon as he'd said it, Frank realised he'd just asked, 'Where is the White House?'.

"Here's another good one," he continued. "Does the word 'Abmayid' mean anything to you? Either one of you."

Where is it? I can't see the outside clearly, but the place... he... takes them to is a room that's not a room. This place has one foot here and one foot somewhere else.

He looks a bit sheepish. I know it's not very precise, but you still like riddles right?

Abmayid... abmayid... No, it doesn't ring a bell, sorry. It sounds kinda Arabic, though, doesn't it?

He is more lucid than he has been throughout your whole conversation; he's almost back to the David you used to know.

Frank hated riddles but he didn't correct David. Perhaps one of the other teeam members had been a riddle fanatic and he'd got Frank mixed up with him. He couldn't remember for certain, so much of his work with the FBI was hazy now, as if he incident had jumbled his memories.

"A room that's not a room," he said, repeating David's words. "Well, one foot in here and one somewhere else could refer to a house on the state border, but somehow I doubt it's that simple."

It was still unclear how David knew these things he shouldn't know, but it was equally unclear how much he did know. Frank was reluctant to leave without asking every question he could think of relating to the case.

"Is Mr Monday in Washington, David?" he said. At least some semblance of a plan was beginning to form in his head. "Does he know where Henry is?"

No, it's not that simple. But you'll get it, in time.

And yes, Mr. Monday's near. But I don't think he knows about Henry. What he is. So that's lucky.

David swings his feat and looks around aimlessly, like a bored child during mass.

Frank noticed David's attention waning and figured he probably only had time to ask a few more questions before his brief moment of lucidity faded altogether. He leaned forwards.

"What he is? What do you mean?" he asked, not sure what to expect from the answer. "What is he? What makes Henry Leyden special?"

Waiting for an answer, Frank found himself wondering how Sean and Toby were getting along. He wondered if their visit to the Leyden house was as perplexing and confusing as his visit to the mental hospital.

David stares at Frank, utterly silent, for a full, drawn out minute. The blank expression on his face does not give away what, if anything, is going on behind his dull eyes. Finally, when the silence is on the precipice of being completely unbearable, he speaks, his face still unchanging:

The young Mister Leyden is like me, in a way, but not by accident. Whereas my... condition was caused by an unspeakable horror, his was given by God or the gods or by the universe or maybe the all-knowing Star-People so that he may one day use it to fulfill his purpose. I do not know what that purpose is or when it will occur, but nor does Henry. He does not even know that he has a purpose, nor does Mr. Monday. Mr. Monday's purpose is in direct contradiction to that of Henry, and once he finds out what Henry is, what he can do, Mr. Monday will at best harvest him for his own gains, or at worst, keep Henry from ever interfering with his plans.

This is why it is imperative that you save him. The universe is at stake; perhaps even existence itself.

"I don't understand," said Frank, feeling more lost than ever. "I'm here because I'm trying to stop a serial killer, David. Henry is meant to be the fourth, but there are other victims that come before him and others later. So, are there other children like Henry, children with a purpose? Or are the kidnappings and killings the result of Mr Monday searching for Henry? You've got to help me out here."

David's cryptic answers were starting to give Frank a headache, but he didn't want to leave before he was certain he'd got everything he could from him. He could always come back later if he thought of more to ask, but he didn't want to miss something vital that might only make sense based on an answer of David's.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:09, Sat 24 July 2010.

OOC: For clarification, Henry is the 4th child abducted, not the 1st.

David is silent, pondering. I don't think Henry is the only one of his kind, but he might be more important than the others. I don't know if Mr. Monday is looking for all kids like him, or if he's looking for Henry in particular, or maybe this is all a coincidence and Henry's just unlucky.

He thinks for another few seconds. Do you know if Henry is going to be killed, or just kidnapped? If he's killed, then maybe this is all just a big coincidence. If he gets captured... then Mr. Monday is using him for something. And that's exactly what we don't want.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:32, Sun 25 July 2010.

[Private to GM: Thanks, I'd mixed that up in my head somewhat. I've edited my post to reflect that Henry is the 4th and not the 1st victim.)

From the notes it seems that Henry is kidnapped and killed in possible future, but are the remains positively confirmed to be him?]

Frank shook his head. "I don't think it can be coincidence," he said. "What happens after Henry is taken differs, but the fourth victim is almost always Henry. Somehow he's the lynchpin in this whole thing. I'm getting the feeling the other kids are just, I don't know, collateral damage in Mr Monday's search."

He stopped, rethinking what he'd just said to David, then shook his head and gave a dissatisfied grunt of disgust.

"If that's true though, then why would the killings continue?" he said. "I feel the harder I try to puzzle this out the more tangled it gets. I need to get out of here, try and look at the big picture, 'else kids are going to start dying."

He reached forwards and embraced David gently.

"Thank you, for everything," he said, withdrawing.

For not blaming me, or just for not letting it show.

"I'll come back to see you. I promise."

David returns Frank's embrace. He pulls back, holding Frank at arm's length, though doesn't let him go.

Don't worry, Francis, you will do just fine. And I don't blame you for anything.

Then, something changes and his eyes glaze over yet again. He drops his hands to his side and starts wandering, at a strange, cockeyed angle, towards the door out of the common room, all while singing absently to himself.

Dad-a-chum! Dad-a-chee! (gorg!)
Not to worry, you've got the key!

You flag down one of the nurses, who lets you out of the Abe Lincoln room, and directs you back towards the back parking lot.

[Private to Francis 'Frank' Decourcey: After you leave, you recheck the case notes. Henry is most often the 4th "victim", and the police always assume he is dead, since there is very good proof that it's the same abductor that killed the other three children... but you also know how cops think. They only find the body about 8% of the time, and those killings seem different than the others, less methodical; almost accidental. But even though the police assume that Henry gets killed, he usually just vanishes and is never seen from again.]

Frank pulled out his cell phone and dialled Toby's number. His encounter with David had at moments during their conversation felt like he had stepped into The Twilight Zone, and he needed to talk to the others to reconnect with reality. He rubbed at his forehead as he listened to the rhythmic chirping of the calling tone.