The Doctor is IN.

[effinfitz]

The coffee was past cold and fast growing a skin of coagulated cream and sugar-free sugar-substitute, hardly touched since he'd dragged himself into the office at a quarter-past-seven. It had been the first time since he'd started at Ægir that he'd arrived on time, let alone early -- woken up at six in the morning (six in the morning! Who on earth wakes up at 6 in the morning to make a business call?) at the insistence of the phone on his nightstand. Important appointment today. Papers waiting for him in his office. Don't be late.

It wasn't until after the other party hung up that he'd realized he had no idea who just called him. His half-asleep assumption was that the young lady was one of his secretaries, but...

...none of his secretaries had a slavic accent.

Fast forward two hours, and now he was just barely starting to feel prepared. He barely remembered the commute, it had gone so quickly. He'd showered and brushed his teeth here, and picked up coffee from the 24-hour Starbucks on the 15th floor. He'd hardly touched it, though. A combination of toothpaste-taste and a long-dormant, nearly-forgotten feeling had kept him from it.

There had been papers in the office for him, alright. Sealed envelopes. "For your eyes only." For a moment the room spun, and he'd had to pace around his own couch until his heartrate subsided and blood pressure fell back into a more tolerable range. What was this feeling? It had been so long...
...oh, yes. Usefulness.

Which had lead, without him even realizing it, right into excitement.

Dr. Irving grinned, settling back into a badly-broken-in easy chair, envelopes in his hand. For his eyes only.

He had another hour until his very important meeting. He'd have to read fast.

_{((your ball, Stuckey!))}

[Carl]

I hate psychiatrists.....

I could think of little else on my morning drive-in. A light snow was coming down as I crossed the Manhattan Bridge over to Brooklyn in my Cadillac, I wasn't far from the office now. At least not physically. Mentally, my mind kept going back to last autumn.....back to that "Resort" in New Hampshire.

"Shady Grove", it was called. A name that would imply a peaceful haunt in the calm forest. I was there because my dreams were becoming too violent...the official records show I checked myself into that place, but it was "them" who made me go. "They" said I was a danger to myself and everyone around me until I could be "diagnosed" and "cured." I suppose the people of that resort made a good show of trying to make the place not look like what it was. The walls around the place were not cold grey concrete, but black steel gating that wouldn't look out of place in an upscale community. The "caretakers" didn't wear white but rather informal plain clothes; you could almost believe that they didn't have tranquilizers at the ready if you stepped out of line....

"BEEEP!" The high-pitched, almost comical horn of a Scion alerted me that I was drifting out of my lane. I corrected appropriately and returned my attention to surviving the murderous New York traffic. From there, my commute played out like normal. I parked in my reserved spot in the parking garage, then locked the car behind me and made my way into the main lobby of the Solvall. I held up my ID for the security gaurd by the front desk, and received the usual curt nod in return. Up the elevator to the Investigations Department, and then I headed to my office at the far end of the floor. I passed by a couple of junior agents by the watercooler who were likely talking about "American Idol" or something. From behind me, I heard one of them say, "Spooky Weaver's here, I see."

I pretended not to hear her.

At the desk outside my office door, Miss Willmore was busily typing away at her computer, as she usually was. A prim and efficient middle-aged woman, Willmore always seemed to be at her post no matter how early I came in or how late I stayed at work. I wondered if she ever went home....or if this was home for her...

"Good morning, Mr. Weaver. You first appointment today is with the good doctor....in his office in a half-hour."

"Trust me," I told her as she handed me the morning's mail, "I haven't forgotten."

"Routine checkup, or new medications?"

"Same medications, new flavor," I replied drily as I entered my office. "It's cherry this month."

I tossed the mail on my desk, I'd look at it later. I began gathering the pertinent files from my office for my "discussion" with the Doctor. My mind started wandering back...

They had tried several different combinations of pills while I was at the "Resort." Some formulas only made my nightmares worse....another had caused me to sleep dreamlessly for almost 20 hours straight. Finally, they found what they considered the "right" combination. "They" didn't tell me what I was taking, only that I had to take the orange pills after getting up in the morning, the yellow ones sometime in the midday, then the blue ones right before bed. The drugs seemed to work...I wasn't screaming in the night anymore...but why wouldn't "they" tell me what I was taking?

I hate psychiatrists.....

Back to the elevator I went, heading for the appropriate floor. Down the hall, until finding the correct office. I knocked and a voice responded, "Come in."

There he sat in his easy chair, excitedly looking through some files. He glanced up, and smiled broadly, obviously far more pleased with this meeting than I was. "You must be Mr. Weaver."

I walked over and shook his hand. "Good morning, Dr. Irving."

"Please, please," he indicated towards the patient's couch, "lay down and make yourself comfortable."

Like hell I'm laying down.... I instead sat down on the edge of the couch, hoping to make it clear that I was here for a business meeting and not an evaluation. "Have you been able to look through all the files?"

"Oh yes."

"Well then, what's your professional opinion on the psychological profile of one Mr. Dieter Herman?"

[effinfitz]

The good doctor sat, grinning like he couldn't hear the audible groan of the easy chair beneath him. The moody writer couldn't faze him, no. He'd seen this act a hundred times before, and he was always happy to remind his patients that he was paid by the hour, not the word.

Of course, this appointment was a special case. Oh yes.

"MISter Herman, huh? Looks like a nice guy. I mean, y'know, so long as you don't like your guys talking too much." He picked up the file from his end table, flipped through it mostly for show. He had a good idea of what was inside. Heck, he'd skimmed it just half an hour ago! His memory wasn't that bad.

"Spotless record, no complaints, kinda short resume but hey, he's the CEO's favorite! That counts for something. I, ah, got this project proposal -- ÆSIR? Very, very thorough. Multiple failsafes for anything that goes wrong. Practically idiot proof. He even has suggestions for responding to a military attack. He definitely knows his stuff."

Irving didn't really wait for a response from the writer, tossing the file onto the coffee table between them with gentle indifference.

"So you're looking at a middle-aged man, no family, probably some sort of military or similar background, who's very knowledgable regarding supernatural threats and ways to deter them. He has no previous history of any physical or psychiatric difficulties, but that doesn't really mean anything in this field."

He gave Carl -- and see if he ever read another of his books again! -- just a moment to process all this, taking that time to sit back comfortably in his chair. Properly arrange himself. Steeple his fingers over his less-ample-than-his-wife-implies gut.

Look academic.

"Of course," he said, once he was sure he'd managed the look. "You could have figured all of that out on your own, anyway. I might be able to help you out a bit more if you could tell me what you're looking for."

_{((For what it's worth, Irving isn't aware of the latest developments and theories concerning Herman. I.E., he only knows what was publicly available up until the time Herman left for the Island.))}

[Carl]

This guy's got an even bigger complex than what I feared.

It was clear Dr. Irving was getting some kind of perverse joy out of all of this. It was obvious he had spent more than a few years in relative obscurity within AEgir, only dealing with the occasional bout of depression or post-traumatic stress. Now that something had come along that had even a modicum of importance to it, Sigmund Freud here...(or was he more of a Carl Jung?) was ready to demonstrate his "obvious brilliance and expertise", regardless whether his audience was receptive to it or not. (And in my case, it was most definitely the latter.)

I began to understand why Mila had delegated the task of speaking to Dr. Irving to me, and why she didn't handle it herself. I began to wish I had pulled rank myself and left this thankless task to some poor Junior Agent. I dearly wanted to fakingly thank Dr. Irving for wasting my time and be on my way. However, Mila's instructions had been clear: "Full Disclosure."

I grabbed the manila folder I had brought with me and tossed it across the coffee table in Irving's directions. The look on his face was similiar to a little boy whose parents had bought him an ice-cream cone.

It was all neatly summarized in detail in the folders, but I began to explain audibly, just to make sure he didn't overlook anything in his excitement. "Dieter Herman's last assignment was on Solomon Island, where he was spent most of his time confined inside a house on the Savage Coast. There, he communicated with the locals and filed reports on the happenings of the Island on a clockwork basis. That is, until his reports suddenly and inexplicably ceased to come in. He has now apparently disappeared without a trace. Interviews with local survivors indicate that nobody saw him leave the residence, nor did anyone see someone entering the residence intending to kill or kidnap him. Given the state of affairs of the Island, it's certainly possible something could have happened without the local Neighborhood Watch noticing."

Irving said nothing in return, his eyes fixated on the files I had passed to him.

I continued, "The prevailing theory at the moment is that Mr. Herman succumbed to the Siren's Song and was drawn out and taken by the Fog. He may have been of sound enough mind to resist it's pull for a short period, but it's suspected that after months of prolonged exposure to the Fog and the Song his inhibitions broke down and he couldn't resist it any longer. Under such an assumption, Mr. Herman is obviously either dead or has been completely corrupted by the Filth."

The Doctor looked up excited to again demonstrate his smug superiority in the subject matter, "I suspect that you wouldn't come to me with this if there wasn't an alternate theory."

A "Doctor", no matter his discipline, can be defined as someone who knows more and more about less and less until he eventually knows nothing....

"There is a hypothesis that Mr. Herman came down with a case of what the layman would refer to as "cabin fever", a result of being cooped up in his residence for an extended period of time. Or he may have reached a level of depression and despair upon realizing that the situation on Solomon Island is almost certainly going to get worse and probably isn't going to get better. Such an assumption would mean he left of his own free will. However, if he tried to pass through the Fog, even if he was wearing a hazmat suit, it's again very likely he's either dead or corrupted."

"Hmm...." The Doctor only offered in reply.

I didn't want to ask the question, as it would obviously feed the Doctor's ego, which had so obviously been undernourished for a long time up until today. It was one that had to be asked however. "Given the facts that have been presented, is it possible Dieter Herman left that residence of his own free will?"

[effinfitz]

Doctor Irving didn't answer for a long, frustrating moment. First he had to lean back. Stretch his legs a little. Study the ceiling. Hum, a little.

"Hmmmm..."

This kept up until he could hear the couch creak, cracked leather protesting as Mr. Weaver shifted his weight. Maybe it was just that. Maybe he was about to stand up, leave.

On his first big consultation? That wouldn't do.

"Before we begin," he said, voice loud enough to silence the upholstery, "you have to understand that there's not nearly enough information here to make a clear interpretation. I mean, of course you understand that, that's why you came to me in the first place right?" Good, good, state the obvious. Stall for time. "But," loud voice again! Keep him from walking out on you. "But. You've only just started looking into his safehouse, right? Right. Let me run through these scenarios that, ah, that you've presented, and if nothing else I can tell you waht to look for. That should help give you some insight as the investigation continues. You with me?"

No response. Not that he waited for one.

"Alright! Alright. So, I'm going to start with cabin fever, because I honestly thing you can just --" here he gestured almost wildly, a drunkard tossing out an empty. "You can just throw this one out the window, alright? You've got to understand, cabin fever's really just a, a," rambling. Gesticulating. "An environmentally induced depression. Now, I can see why, in light of his recent performance reviews, you might think Mister Herman would be at risk for depression. But nothing you're showing me fits the profile. There would have been a more gradual...decay in his reports, like he just wasn't interested anymore. Communications with the rest of the island would have started coming later, later, and eventually sporadically before dying out altogether. But I'm hearing that everything stopped suddenly!" A chopping motion with his right. "Like that! That's very atypical. If you want more evidence check the house. He'll probably have paced everywhere, stir crazy, before eventually winding down in whatever room he felt most comfortable in and hiding beneath the covers. Things should be disturbed. Books should be open but half-finished. Drawers rifled through. Maybe nonsense doodles here and there. You get me?"

He nodded. That is, Dr. Irving nodded. He was mostly talking to himself, now -- if the illustrious novelist had already left, well, that was his issue. He was in his Zone.

"Now this, ah, this Siren Song? Supernatural influence is always something to watch for, alright. But from what I understand it only really struck once. We're not seeing reports that survivors are still trying to walk out to sea, are we? Even if Herman was worried about it -- maybe he heard a rumor or heard the Song itself when he first came to the island -- it's an easy solution. Check his requisition forms, see if he asked for cotton swabs, ear plugs, headphones...heck, he coulda just handcuffed himself to the bed at night, right?" The doctor laughed, miming the cuffing. "Can't sleep walk off a pier if you're locked up, right? This Herman guy has experience in the field, probably more than me and you put together. This isn't the kind of thing I think he'd fall for."

It was time to reposition, lean forward, elbows on his knees and his gut pressing against his lungs. Eyes closed. Stay in the Zone.

"Now, intruders. There's only one way in to the house, according to this diagram. Also only one way out. So a violent intrusion, we're talking about a forced ingress, overturned furniture, bullet casings, damage to the walls. Again, experienced field agent here. Sure, he might have been overpowered, but I'd be real surprised to hear it was a, was a bloodless coup, know what I'm saying? Most likely he would have ended up dead, and you would have smelled it inside the house. Heard the flies. You never forget those flies, man. Ever."

Deep breath. Corollary.

"Now, full disclosure time, and if the CEO asks you didn't hear it from me. But a lot of the, the, you know...the old employees? Worked for Ægir before the new Sponsors rolled in? They weren't a hundred percent happy with the new management. Heck, we used to have protests out on the front lawn about it. Someone might have known about it, maybe tried to pick him up. Recruit him. It's supposed to be frowned on these days, but that never means anything. That would fit with the sudden stop in communications. You'll have to see if he left any notes about wavering loyalties, or doubts about the leadership. There's also the matter about how he got out -- he's not a superman, like most of the field agents these days. He's sixty-something, he's not about to take a two-story drop for the first cause that tries to recruit him unless they've got some very, very good medical coverage. Even if he did? You should see the earth tore up underneath that window, and some foot traffic where everyone came and went. Look for army boots, maybe steel toed. People in standard defense arrangements so they can carry on a conversation without getting chewed on. that should have drwan some attention, sure, but with the state of things there you never know. You never know."

The doctor, frowned, hummed again a bit. There was something else.

"Unless there was another way in and out.

"Look, alright, I don't know too much about our Sponsors, but I know they got a thing for BBC style secret doors and mazes. If he found that, or if someone else found it and contacted him through it..."

He paused again. How to eliminate it?

"If he was looking for a secret door, there should be signs of it. Almost certainly lower levels -- first floor and the basement. Usually these passages go down and through the bedrock, for obvious reasons. He might have had to tear the house apart looking for a trigger, or he might have found it by...by...dumb luck. If someone else opened the door and picked him up through it, the door should still be open. There wouldn't be any need to hide their passage, and in an abduction you don't want to waste any time."

More of a pause. Then he sighed, lost it. Out of the Zone.

"That give you an idea where to start?"