. cast no shadow . [open] [Nov 5, 2007 * 4:30pm] patient4 It wasn't for a lack of trying that left her, patient four, sitting up in her sterile-white bedding with a perfectly displayed look of bewilderment. 'Where am I?' It seemed like the right question considering she hadn't a damn clue, and looking around the room for some sort of confirmation of time and place did nothing. White, white and more white. She felt vulnerable as a stark contrast to her surroundings, noticing the coppery red of her hair and surprised that she didn't naturally know that she was a red-head. This only seemed to open the door for more questions, and those questions lead to increased anxiety and panic. It was almost too much to bear. That had been weeks ago. She had a name now, Sarah, given to her by her roommate Felix. She was nearly certain that the hadn't belonged to her but it was something. As for the rest, well, let's say she was struggling to adjust. The way everyone talked. The computer boxes they sat at and bickered over--where Felix said he was searching for his wife and Sarah wondered how he could possibly find her in that thing. Basically, she instead of finding answers to questions, she was coming up with with more questions to ask. Her fingers laced in and out of her ginger hair, lips puckered and eyes careful not to linger on anyone or anything for too long. She hadn't the constant confusion, releasing some tension by deeply exhaling. Sarah had been doing an excellent job of staying off of the radar, at least up until now, as she sat perfectly straight on one of the couches in the common area. [ open! ] read (1) comment

[Oct 27, 2007 * 1:43am] patient12 Patient 12 had been fairly quiet since waking up in what looked to be the inside of an ipod. White floors, white walls... it was almost enough to drive a sane person crazy. Which might actually be the purpose behind the top secret experiment they all seem to be a part of, he isn't quite sure yet. However the way things are going he wouldn't be surprised if he did begin to lose it, especially since every night this week he's closed his eyes and dreamt the exact same thing. It's disturbing to say the least, and he knows it's important somehow but he can figure out why. He can't work out if it is a real memory or if it's just something they've planted inside his head, to make him think he was... whatever he was. Which is why he's determined not to fall asleep tonight. At the moment though he's content to sit and stare into space, rather than at the open book in his hands, and hopefully continue to ignore and be ignored by his fellow housemates. [ awful open for patient 10 ] read (1) comment

I'm still learning. [open] [Oct 23, 2007 * 5:33pm] patient1 Being in such a confined space was really starting to get on One's nerves. He'd had a while to get used to it, and unlike his roommate, it wasn't driving him to distraction, but he still felt the strong urge to be somewhere open. Moving. To feel wind on his skin. He thought he could remember that sensation, the stroke of cool air brushing down the back of his neck. The unchanging temperature inside their white prison irritated him nearly as much as the antsy itch in his limbs. He decided on a compromise not long after their awakening. The exercise room was pretty bare, but it had the basic necessities he wanted, so it wasn't anything to complain about. Every day now, One would make a beeline to the gym after breakfast. He'd run in circles around the perimeter of the room -- ignoring the pair of strange machines, of course -- until his pristine white shirt grew damp and dark across his chest and in his armpits, until the sweat collecting on his forehead beaded down his face and flew off the tip of his chin, until he started to feel his eyes and lungs burning with each breath. Only then would he slow to a walk and finally sit. He didn't talk to anyone else in the room, and he didn't stop for anyone's entrance; if someone stepped in his way, he'd politely circle around them, eyes narrowed with purpose. As usual, this day was no different than any other. One had finished the first part of his afternoon routine -- walking first, then back to his long-legged jogging -- and sat down by the weights, wrapping an appropriated bathroom hand towel around his neck to soak up some of the perspiration. His breathing was harsh and loud, almost wheezing in his throat, but the ghost of a satisfied smile lingered around his lips. He felt good. Exhausted, but pleased with himself. [open!] read (3) comment

[Oct 23, 2007 * 1:31am] patient41 Who: 41 and OPEN Where: Living Room 1 What: Contemplating mostly. Forty-One was laying on one of the white couches on her back, her blonde hair fanned out above her head. She had a cigarette held loosely in one hand, having found them and had the almost uncontrollable urge to have one. Which made her think she was a smoker, either that or her nerves were getting the best of her making her do silly things like take up a habit that could kill her. Anything to get me out of here quicker She thought to herself, shaking her head slightly at the thought. That was another thing, it seemed she was rather sardonic. It was just one of the many things she was finding out about herself, it was strange being in a body that she didn't know from a hole in the wall. Forty-One only recently discovered the apparent piercing she seemed to have had, why anyone would look down at their belly button and think 'hmmm i'm gonna punch a hole in that' was beyond her. And yet, there it was. A small hole right through the top bit of her navel, but the apparent bit of jewelry was missing. It was things like that, that made her wonder just what type of person she was, exactly what life had she lived before waking up in the white room. With a sigh, she rolled over causing her hair to flip around her face. Laying on her stomach but making sure to keep her lit smoke out of reach of anything flammable, she reached over the side of the couch and picked up one of the books she had been flipping through. Poetry of some sort, pretty but she wasn't exactly sure what the point of it all was. Perhaps she just wasn't much of a reader, she wished she knew. With an annoyed grunt, she flopped her head down onto the soft cushion. Her head hurt, which made her wonder just exactly if it was possible to get a asprin in the white roomed hell. Forty-One, slightly remembered seeing a first aid kit in one of the kitchens. And for a moment actually considered going to check, but really it was there and she was here. It seemed like too much work to go check at that very moment. read (3) comment

[Oct 20, 2007 * 11:11pm] patient40 Who: Patient 40 (Sunshine) & OPEN Where: Kitchen What: She's hungry? Rating: I can't imagine it'd be high - she's a baby. 40 didn't know how long she'd been there, and she still didn't remember anything about where she was before. And sometimes it made her sad, but for the most part children are adaptable, and without any explanations or alternatives, she just made do. Some people had been nice to her, and she'd picked up a tendency to follow 7 around a lot, when he let her. Other than that she would play by herself, and sometimes someone helped her with the computers, but she got bored with them pretty quickly. There wasn't anyone in here now, and usually she had to ask someone to help her reach the food, but everyone was out, and some were sleeping, and she didn't want to bother anyone. 40 looked around and then walked up to the island where all the food always was, standing on tiptoe and trying to reach, hopping once to see what she was reaching for and then made a face. Eww. Vegetables. read (33) comment

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, and 10 [open to 38] [Oct 17, 2007 * 1:18am] patient24 Ok so all of this was starting to get a little bit old. Old in that 'hey this is still messed up and creepy and generally unsettling' kind of way. The same overall routine day in and day out was bound to grate on some nerves eventually. Maybe this was what it felt like to be in prison? No, that wasn't a good comparison. There you couldn't move about as you pleased when you pleased. And somehow she was pretty sure the food here was better. But at least in prison you knew why you were there. Here you got no such realization or confirmation, and no one seemed to know more than anyone else did She didn't need to keep an eagle eye on the journals to know that it was probably only a matter of time before some people started to do stupid things just to keep themselves occupied. Maybe that was the real point of this, and it was all some big social experiment? If that was the case, she'd damn well better be getting paid or something, though she couldn't possible imagine a scenario that would prompt her to setp into something like this voluntarily. Maybe it wasn't voluntary, then? Getting on such hamster wheels of thought was only going to make her head hurt eventually. She could find other ways to pass the time. Like focusing on the lighter in her hand as she methodically flicked the flame into existence, let it die out, then ignited it again. Perched on the arm of her chair was an untouched pack of cigarettes. Currently, she was contemplating whether not she was a smoker. And considering being one for the time being regardless just to pass the time. [38!] read (13) comment

Your journey's been etched on your skin. (Open to 34) [Oct 10, 2007 * 9:32pm] patient10 The boredom was hard to get used to. True, it had only been a few days (by his estimation -- he'd only really slept a few different times, he thought? This being unable to tell time thing really blew), but he was really wanting for things to either change, or for himself to get used to them not changing. It was getting a little more tolerable, he supposed. The headaches and restlessness and general sick feelings that he'd been experiencing had diminished for the most part, which was a plus. Not that he'd ever admit it, but he'd honestly thought for a minute that he'd been potentially contaminated with something (maybe the whole world had died from a disease except for them but then he'd caught it anyway). He'd only thought of that after already telling people that he didn't feel well, or else he never would have. Time and alcohol had helped to make him better though, so his spirits were up a bit. With that, however, came the need to move more, to be out doing something. Did he used to be a really active kid? Had he been into sports, maybe? He had muscles, so he was assuming between that and his desire to move mean that he had. But what sports? Nothing was really coming to mind, and he couldn't think of anything in general that he knew Australia to be known for. He couldn't understand that either, how he knew general facts about some things and places, but then not others, when the things seemed equally (un)important in the long run. He still had yet to visit the books. He didn't recognize a number of them, and in general they just held no interest to him. Maybe it was the fact that sitting down and reading the materials that were there felt like giving in a bit, to him, or maybe it was that he had hated books before...whatever this place was. It was frustrating, having to consider every tiny thing that happened to him as potentially happening because of things that he couldn't remember. And Alex was really, really tired of being frustrated. He'd run around some today, literally, through the halls and around the seemingly circular makeup of the building rather than going into the workout area, but now was in one of the living rooms, looking through the records. The hell? He pulled one out of its jacket, eyeing it and wondering what it was. A frisbee? He paused a moment before throwing it across the room. It sailed easily and hit the opposite wall, falling to the ground. Hah! That was sort of fun. Maybe Jenny'd want to throw some of them later. He pulled another one out, preparing to throw it as well. (Open to 34) read (3) comment

[Oct 10, 2007 * 9:33pm] patient39 Who: 39, OPEN Where: Kitchen What: ??? Rating: TBA 39 sat in a chair he'd pulled in from one of the living rooms, idly watching the kitchen islands. The only way he'd found to set time by was when they delivered the food. He, and others, he was sure, had gone over every inch of the space they lived in and hadn't found any exit, save the chutes that took away laundry and trash. And those were too small for anyone to risk - even his tiny roommate. There wasn't a lot to do, and for lack of any other options, he'd taken up residency in the kitchen for the day, resolving to try to stay awake in the chair and watch when they food came and went. read (12) comment

Log: Patient 3 and Patient 16 [Oct 8, 2007 * 2:07pm] patient16 WHO: Patient 3 [Felix] and Patient 16 [Jenny] WHERE: 15 and 16's room. WHAT: The two married patients compare rings, chat and someone gets a name. ( Like a lot of girls she has no problem with being married to a doctor, especially if he's rich and glamorous and can perform cpr in restaurants ) comment

let me keep my faith and innocent eyes. [Oct 8, 2007 * 9:10pm] patient25 Patient 25 was not well. She knew why, of course. She was worried. Worried about the food, whether they were putting things in it, worried about whether things were happening to them in their sleep. She'd never imagined people would be capable of things like that - well, she assumed she'd never imagined it, but she found it so hard to believe that people could be deliberately cruel to them that half the time she didn't even have an appetite. She was staying away from her room as much as possible as well, not because she didn't like her roommate, just to the contrary. She was quite fond of him, and she didn't want him to see her worry. He'd taken such heart from her not worrying about their situation that she couldn't bear to disappoint him. She was losing weight as well, she thought, or maybe she just imagined her hip bone being a little bit more prominent, that the pants provided for her were a little looser. And that was another thing to worry about. She worried about everyone else as well. Quite a few people were spending a lot of time drinking and smoking, and that couldn't be good for any of them, right? And there were kids here, a few teenagers and then an even younger child, who couldn't possibly have hit double digits yet. She seemed sweet and innocent and definitely shouldn't be in a place like this. But then what had any of them done to deserve being here? Patient 25 didn't know, and she hated the fact that she had to think like this, that there could be something sinister behind everything. She sat curled up in one of the armchairs, nibbling on the end of her hair as she watched people move around, trying to keep her fear and pain and worry out of her eyes. Everyone had their own demons to deal with about being in this place, she didn't want to burden anyone with hers. But she couldn't go back to her room, because she didn't want to sleep and she didn't want to worry her roommate. So she'd just sit. And watch. And fret. [ OPEN ] read (11) comment

LOG: Patient Three & Patient Four [Oct 7, 2007 * 6:54pm] patient4 Who: "Felix" [patient3] and "Sarah" [patient4] Where: Their bedroom. Summary: Felix comes back to his room to find his roommate, Four, there as always. The usual niceties take place including a brief discussion on whether he's had any luck finding his wife (or whomever he is married to) and Felix reveals a girl named Jenny has named him. Not wanting to be left out, Four asks to be named and settles upon Sarah. With a renewed sense of self, Sarah might actually try leaving her room every now and then. ( That's all it was, I presume. She just thought that was what I looked like and that's what I decided to use. ) comment

Where are we? What the hell is going on? The dust has only just begun to fall. (Open) [Oct 5, 2007 * 11:26pm] patient20 Americans, Australians, British and French people, at least one Irish person. Some people speaking English as a first language, others not. Some speaking multiple languages, others only one -- himself included. He couldn't even begin to guess the similarities with the ages. He and several others seemed to be in their twenties, but there was one girl who looked to still be in the single digits, and at least one or two who looked like they were only teenagers. Then there were older people as well, and at least two with wedding bands. Some people had tattoos, others had none. Some seemed to be into the alcohol and cigarettes, others hadn't touched them. Some people didn't even seem to know how to use the computers. Some didn't want to leave this place, and some were practically crawling the walls. David had spent the last...he wasn't even sure how long, working on lists. He'd found a pad of paper and a pen, and had started listing off as many things as he could think of, as many designations and ways to categorize as possible, and then tried fitting as many people as he could remember in them. He didn't know enough, he realized. He knew faces, but not all of the numbers, and certainly not with they were calling themselves, if they were calling themselves anything. It didn't seem to matter anyway, though. He couldn't think of one thing that they all had in common. Beyond all being human, he supposed. He rested an elbow on the armrest of the chair that he was sitting in, fingers pressing against his lips as he thought, quiet and still. Don't get frustrated. He ran his hand over his face slowly. Just take a breath. Be reasonable. There has to be something you're just not thinking of. He took in and let out a slow breath, finding it easy to center himself, thankfully. His eyes sketched over what he'd already done, as he found himself tapping the end of the pencil against the paper. He took a moment to appreciate that, some previously unknown habit that he apparently had. You have time. You have the time to think this through. Just focus. His eyes closed briefly and then opened again. He flipped to a new page and rested the tip of the pen against it, as he tried to think of other possible ways that they could all be distinguished and, hopefully, eventually, connected. (Open) read (1) comment

You should have known better than to come around. [Oct 5, 2007 * 1:09pm] patient31 She was praying to the porcelain gods. It wasn't after any crazy night of drinking with her equally crazy room mate. In fact, she had no idea why she was suddenly sick. She had woken up and upon sitting up and moving, a sudden nausea washed over her. So as fast as she could move herself, she stumbled to the bathroom and proceeded to get sick. This week had been a whirlwind for her. All the new things, the mystery, figuring out what was going on, the anxiety, fear, personality clashing had riled her up. She found herself with a ton of energy. It was naturally part of her personality. She was easily influenced by others, passionate and lively. All the energy she had gotten off the others into banging into the walls or searching for cracks in the walls seemed to have suddenly been wiped from her body. She was crashing for no known reason. Zoey had been laying in the bathroom for a matter of hours now. Too tired to get up and get back to bed, too afraid she was going to get sick again. Though it was unlikely she was going to throw up again, she still felt like she was. Every now and then, more nausea would wash over her and she'd begin to gag or her head would spin. She lay very close to the toilet, a towel scrunched under her head. How did she get so sick? Was it something she ate? She didn't know what was wrong or how to tell. All she could do is lay on the cold floor and try not to move as much as possible. People began to wake up and move about the compound. Still feeling pukey and extremely tired, but doing slightly better, she crawled out of the bathroom. Using a bedpost, she put herself up on her feet wobbly and stumbled out of the room, slightly paler than normal. She didn't have much on her mind except to get something to throw up in and hopefully make it back to her bed. The only thing she knew was that this wasn't right. [Open or Narrative] read (2) comment

you shouldn't get so annoyed (open) [Oct 3, 2007 * 3:53pm] patient42 [ mood | calm ] [ music | Arctic Monkeys :: Fake Tales of San Francisco ] As far as things went, 42 was probably taking this way too damn easily. But why shouldn't he? He had a cute roommate, there was free food - and pretty good coffee! - the beds weren't lumpy, and really, you could get used to white eventually. Though, he'd discovered that at about five cups of coffee, the lines of grey between the white objects kinda blurred together, and he'd tripped over an armchair. Whoops. Or maybe he needed new glasses - though he hoped that if he did get new ones, somehow, he'd get to keep his tortoiseshell frames. They were stylin'. At present, he'd grabbed the book he'd found on the shelves in the common room - The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide, a big shiny faux-leather-bound deal with five books in it - and was stretched out on the couch in Common Room Two. Geez, everything had numbers, didn't it. He'd found the stereo, and managed to get a CD going. He had no idea if he could remember any of the bands, but since he'd had snatches of songs popping into his head since he'd arrived, he decided maybe he should listen to some real ones. So, really, it was the good life for 42 - chilling on the couch with a cup of coffee (decaf, for now, he didn't want to trip over any more furniture just yet) and a pretty funny book. To hell with knowing who or where he was. He was happy enough. (OPEN) read (4) comment

no sweeping exits or off-stage lines ( open! ) [Oct 2, 2007 * 11:00am] patient23 23 was not fidgeting. 23 didn't seem the type to fidget. Or at least, that was what he assumed. Sure, he was in the same boat as everyone else, didn't remember a thing beyond the basics, but he could be fairly certain that he wasn't the type to fidget. Just like he was fairly certain that he wasn't fond of the color white. Of course, it was just an assumption, but the one about fidgeting was based on the fact that he didn't really have the excess energy that most people did when they fidgeted. And the color of the walls was just really annoying. But it was something easy to focus on instead of the now almost constant need to do something with his hands. It had started with tapping against his thigh, then against any hard surface that happened to be nearby, and it was all usually accompanied by an unconscious shaking in his leg if he tried to sit still. The faint headache didn't help, and neither did the short temper that only seemed to get worse as the days ( he assumed they were days, anyway ) went on. There didn't seem to be anything he could do to stop it either. It was only getting worse or was only going to get worse. Or something. Even his thought process was starting to be affected, and he really hated that. He'd even avoided the computers and everything just because there was no promise of what he'd end up saying to someone. It was getting more difficult to filter what he said after all. On some deep primal level he realized he was craving something, but that thought wasn't conscious. But it was enough to make him sit in the room with the computers, in one of the white chairs, one of the many books in his hands. He didn't even know what it was, but it didn't matter. He wasn't actually reading it. Instead, it made a faint slapping sound as his leg bounced against the closed cover and his thumb tapped against the spine. Hey. He wasn't trying to be annoying. read (3) comment

Log: Patient 3 and Patient 2 [Sep 30, 2007 * 7:19am] patient2 Who: Patient 3 and Mark Where: Dining Room 1 Summary: Mark is distracted from his cornflakes and his failure to cope by the arrival of Three, who mulls over the idea of investigating just who his wife could be. ( That was giving his noggin a real floggin', heh. ) comment

this is the best life we've ever had. [Sep 30, 2007 * 11:39pm] patient38 ((ooc: backdated to monday; I'm on hiatus, I know, I fail - I just couldn't not do anything for so long >.> consider this a very brief return)) White wasn't an unpleasant colour, per se, but when waking, rousing out of that comfortable state somewhere between dream and peaceful nothingness, it was a somewhat abrasive colour; for something so bland, it was just too intense, which was part of the problem. The entirety of it, really. Who had painted the room white? Wasn't that boring, and not only that, a bitch to keep clean? Other problems would register before long, after he had turned his head to bury it in brief, groggy frustration, wanting nothing more than to sink back into oblivion and stay there for a few more hours. But that damned white had already infiltrated his partially-opened eyes when wakefulness had threatened, and now, there was no going back. Dammit. Of course, like so many others in the same building - unbeknownst to him, naturally - at around or even exactly the same time, that whiteness became part of a bigger conundrum. The blaket was disrupted completely as he sat up, hands down on the mattress behind him as he looked around, eyes wide but not comically so, studying the featureless but not empty room. What the hell was this place? More than that, where the hell was this place? He had no idea as to the answer, which was enough to light a spark of concern in his chest, driving him to slide his legs from under the tangled sheets and stand, barefoot, on the immaculate, cool floor below. As his eyes skated over the furniture, what there was of it, he expected details, flickers of recollection, to jump out at him, but nothing came. He didn't know where he was. Wait. He didn't know who he was. The bathroom was his next port of call, the light flicked on even without his registering the action, and the mirror, though it reflected a face back at him when he studied it briskly and with a quiet desperation, gave him no answers. Nothing was familiar; the eyes, the jaw-line, the hair. Nothing. Futile though it was, he found himself touching a hand to the pristine surface, as if that would help. He looked around again, and then moved swiftly out of the room, searching through drawers and anything he could find that might hold an ID; anything with a photograph he could match to the face he had just seen in the mirror. After dropping the last corner of the mattress back to the base of the bed, he concluded there was nothing to give him any answers. The room was a lost cause, and apparently, so was his own memory. That was far from comforting. ( NARRATIVE; CLOSED ) comment

I live at the end of a five and a half minute hallway [Sep 29, 2007 * 11:17pm] patient8 [ mood | curious ] After taking a nice, warm shower and dressing in a clean set of clothes, Eight - now, thankfully, christened Heidi - slipped into a pair of sandals and made her way through the halls. She could feel her damp hair soaking through the shoulders of her shirt as she looked everything over - the doors, the floor, the ceilings. Only a few air ducts, nothing too large, or indicative of anything in particular. She didn't go around opening people's doors, but those that were open gave her a general impression that the rooms were all very uniform. Each end of the hall was the same, upon inspection, and she put herself over to inspecting the exercise rooms. These, too, had chutes for trash and laundry, and suddenly she couldn't help but wonder where they went. Taking off one of her shoes, she slipped it through the chute marked Laundry, and listened for any indication of where it might have gone. There was no soft thud, or other sort of sound. Frowning thoughtfully, Heidi took off her other sandal and held it in her hand, weighing it a bit, as she glanced at the Trash chute. Hmm. To throw it down, or not ...? (open!) read (9) comment

I'm jumping in the crowd just to see if they will carry me. (Open) [Sep 28, 2007 * 8:02pm] patient10 This sucked. This completely. sucked. Alex couldn't tell how long they'd been in this place, although he knew that it had to be at least two days (he assumed), as he'd woken up three times now. He didn't feel very refreshed after waking up, more feeling like he hadn't been getting much sleep. It was starting to be in strange places, too. The first time he'd fallen asleep, it had been in his room. This last time, however, it was in the living room, on the couch. He didn't remember being particularly tired. On the contrary, he was restless, unable to get comfortable enough to fall asleep easily (or so he'd thought, until he...had). It made this place especially tedious. He didn't feel up to screwing around in the workout room, and had no use for the books on the shelves. Mostly, he just stayed in his room (and occasionally others), being mad at the world and whoever had put him here and all of the stupid people who wanted to stay. He wanted out. Or at least some kind of explanation. He really didn't understand why he couldn't get that. And why he still couldn't remember anything. He had taken to imagining different lives for himself, but was always stopped by wondering if he was getting ideas from things that he'd actually experienced or seen. His stomach had started being sketchy recently, too. He'd had to throw up soon after waking up this time, and his head was still hurting too. He left the room though, figuring that location wasn't going to make him feel any better or worse, and that maybe one of the cabinets had something he could take, or...something. Wasn't he supposed to wish that his mother was here to take care of him? Despite posturing, he knew that he was still young enough that he should be living with a family. Maybe his family was in here with him? Or maybe he'd been stolen. For whatever reason, he was more inclined to believe the latter. Finding himself in one of the living rooms, he spotted the liquor cabinet. He'd ignored it before, too busy with trying to find a way out, but hey. Maybe that'd help. He moved over and opened it, eyes running over the bottles inside before finally pulling out one filled with vodka. He opened it, the smell seeming sort of familiar to him (although he figured that wasn't strange -- he knew what chicken smelled like too, before connecting it with the food on the table the other day), and hesitated. He took out one of the shotglasses and filled it, screwing his eyes shut and bracing himself for a severely nasty taste before drinking it down. There was a pause...and then he opened his eyes, realizing that it hadn't been terrible at all. It burned some, of course, but not much, and it actually..tasted sort of good. Not good, but relieving, like he'd been wanting that without even knowing it. The bottle earned itself a suspicious look. Was he supposed to be an alcoholic or something? What the hell, world. He shook his head some. That was retarded. Kids weren't alcoholics. Maybe he was just a badass at his school or something and went to all the cool parties. That was far more reassuring, and he took one more shot just to make sure that his head would shut up for a little while with its hurting. (Open) read (7) comment

Log: Patient 14 and Patient 26 [Sep 28, 2007 * 5:47am] patient26 Who: Patient 14 (HORATIO!) and Patient 26 (THEO!) Where: Living Room 1 What: 14 and 26 go through the now common routine of meeting and naming themselves, but then they discover the booze! ( Is there any coke? ) comment

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