"Ozzy....we're at grandma's house...time to wake up..."

Baxter's comatose form did not show any signs of awareness or movement.

The man rubbed his chin, almost perplexed at the lack of reaction.

"Well, that's about all I can do, really...."

"Whot?!" Dr. McGregor asked, spinning towards the man with an annoyed stare. "Jaysis criste', Jody! I didn't fly you all the way here so you could read him 'is bedtime stories!"

"Why can't you just say 'Jesus Christ', like everyone else?" his friend half-smiled, cocking a single brow.

"Listen, you twat, I'M not going to hell..." McGregor replied, quickly crossing himself. "...and you're damn well going to do more than--"

"What do you want me to do, Ian?" Dr. Jody Huerta exclaimed, his normally calm demeanor barely rising in tone. "Read him a chapter in the text books that says it's all in his head?"

"At least do a standard examination of--"

"Examination? I'm clinical psyche! Baxter's unconscious!" he explained. "My field of expertise may not stop at the threshold of consciousness, but, my ability to examine and treat him does."

Ian sighed deeply, rubbing his haggard, exhausted face.

"I know..." Ian nodded. "I know."

Huerta watched him, studying the fatigue under his eyes.

"What's up, Ian? I haven't seen you this flustered since finals week."

"Oh, I'll take trying to memorize Crabtree's analysis over this any day..."

"What'd you get in that class? 'D'?"

"A 'C', thank you!"

"Right...right...it was Stoney's class you nearly flunked..."

"Man, he was hitting on me the entire semester."

"Arthur Stonewall is a noted author and scholar, and--"

"He's also a noted queen, too."

"--AND, I think you're full of shit." Huerta continued unabated. "If memory serves....and it rarely doesn't....I believe your difficulties lay elsewhere. I believe you met one Kara Ingram at the beginning of that semester..."

"Oh, hell....'Icy Ingram'....forgotten about her..." Ian chuckled, lost in a memory.

"Well, Mora Staples certainly didn't..."

"Did they ever get married?"

"Last I heard, they moved to one of the legal states in the U.S. and made it official."

"Heh." Ian grinned. "Who knew ol'Icy was gay?"

"Who knew you were?" Huerta replied.

"Good point." McGregor nodded.

"Come on, I'll let you buy me a coffee while you show me around..." Huerta motioned.

"Buy you a coffee?" Ian replied, as they headed through the doorway. "No one has to buy anything around here..."

The two began strolling down the very long, and very busy hallway. Smooth, greyish-metal walls added a touch of the futuristic, belying the technology housed within the building.

"So, this is the M.R.C., eh?" Huerta asked, studying his surroundings as they walked.

"The one and only." McGregor nodded. "Within this building are the top clinical minds on everything pertaining to the word metahuman."

"And they let you hang out with them. How quaint."

"Arse."

"Heh." the psychologist grinned. "So, do you get benefits or..."

"Are you kidding me? Daddy-Paragon had the insurance industry create entirely new sections of liability coverage BECAUSE of us." McGregor stated, pausing to sign a clipboard offered to him by a very pretty and very-noticed-by-Huerta nurse. "We have every advantage over every other metahuman facility on the planet."

"Except me, of course..." Huerta added nonchalantly under his breath.

"Well, that's just because you're an elitist snob who's obsessed with a trio of head-cases."

"Yes, the boys send their love."

"Screw their love! I want the one-fifty Blackwulf still owes me!"

"And, I want Amanda Peet covered in baby oil, lying in my bed." Huerta shrugged. "...we've both got equal odds."

The two finished the rest of their banter in the break room. However, that is for employees and their guests only. And, as such, the narration will have to pick back up as they enter Dr. McGregor's office.

"...so, I said, Are you crazy? I'm not doing that with a horse!" Ian laughed.

"...what the hell kind of Churches do you go to..." Huerta shook his head, slipping into one of the brown, leather recliners lining the office.

Ian promptly lay back-flat on his desk, stretching completely out, hands behind his head.

"So...I've got this problem, Doc..." he began.

Huerta leaned back into his recliner, cradling his coffee.

"Go on." he nodded.

"Well...see...I've got this patient, right? He's comatose. Won't respond to any therapy. No treatment has helped. I've examined him head to toe, all the way down to his pretty marvelous molecular structure."

"I see..." Huerta nodded, pulling a notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket.

"The only thing I can come up with is that it's all psychological. That he's placed himself so deeply into some...I don't know...protective state...that his conscious mind refuses to acknowledge that there's nothing wrong."

"Do you think it's a symptom of his metability?"

"The initial coma, sure." Ian sighed. "According to all of his medical records, his body does this whenever it is presented with some form of physical conflict that it cannot readily compensate against."

"So, then, would it be feasible to believe that, perhaps, he has developed mental attributes and defense mechanisms in a similar fashion? That, for whatever reason, this time...he was sent into an even deeper subconscious state?"

"Mmmm." Ian nodded, staring at the ceiling fan. "I've got a few postulations running on this. Looking back over his records, I've begun to see a pattern on what causes this state, and, how long he has remained down each time."

"This is the longest, I take it?"

"No, no...he missed nearly six months in the beginning..."

Huerta frowned.

"In the beginning of what?"

"When his gene kicked in..." Ian replied, glancing over at his friend. "You know...have you not read Baxter's file?"

"No...I've never had the chance." Huerta shook his head. "Ms. Xiang had them sealed at his personal request."

"Sealed?"

"Seems Baxter has a shady past. One, I can only guess, that he's not proud of..."

"Well, I didn't receive his personal file...just the medical records. Hospital reports...psyche profiles...sports injuries...the like."

McGregor arched his back, digging under him. He finally pulled a vanilla folder out from under his ass, and tossed it to Huerta.

"There...light reading for you..."

Huerta flipped through some of the pages.

"Hmmm..."

"What?"

"What?"

"You said 'Hmmm'. What were you saying 'Hmmm' for?"

"Oh, nothing really. Old 'couch-reflex'. I haven't actually read anything yet." he smiled.

"Read the damn thing." Ian motioned. "I'll wait."