Black's Nest

Chapter Two

When an intelligent mind is bored out of its box that is when world changing thoughts happen.

Dr John Glass Black ___ (letters after his name)__ sipped his whisky and stared at the screen of his laptop. The reports were three weeks late. Next to him, beetroot and salad cream bled on to a plate from a half-eaten sandwich. He was rapidly becoming a stereotype, a psychiatrist with more issues than his patients and to celebrate the realisation he drained his glass. His head ached and he tried to get excited about PTSD caused by a bout of acne, trauma caused by plastic surgery going wrong and the various addictions of the great, good, noble and basically anyone else with enough cash to be treated at St Dymphna's.

A beeper on the desk disturbed him from his boredom. He blinked and shook himself. His brain realised what had happened and he sprung into action, standing up and plucking his suit jacket from the back of his chair he left the room without a single thought for the paperwork that was yet again neglected. He put his jacket on as he walked; it was a bespoke tailored affair because an off the peg suit hung from his lean frame like it was still on the hanger. With an air of confidence he never actually felt, John strode along the maze of identical corridors. Thick carpets, panelled wood walls and heavy damask drapes at the windows helped to create an air of unnatural quiet that would never be recreated in nature. It was demanded by the paying clients who were currently taking supper behind the closed doors. Each of the doors was engraved with a different scene taken from the Pennshire Moors the clinic hide away in. Watercolours on the walls also parodied the local vistas. They brought the Brontesque landscape inside and allowed the clients to experience the rugged outdoors from the warmth and safety of an armchair.

In here John was divorced from the real life outside. He laughed, but not in a cheerful manner, at the thought as in real life he was, just recently, divorced. An aluminium door, stark and out of place with the rest of the clinic, demanded his retina and palm prints. Excited he supplied them both and took a deep breath, waiting with anticipation for the shush that would let him into the HHF. This was why he put up with the first world problems of St Dymphna's. Adrenaline pumped as his feet clanked down the aluminium steps into the bowels of the building. Here the light lavender scent that permeated the clinic gave over the ammonia and cleaner. He pushed through the heavy plastic curtain and went through the metal door into the locker room.

"Is it bad?" he asked.

Dewdrop Granyon, a tall fae with pointy ears, nodded at John and took his scrubs out of the locker. "There's been a major battle at Tertia Hill. All hands on deck. Lots of casualties." He took off his t-shirt, revealing his six pack and replaced it with the peach scrubs. Peach was Dr Lavender Innes's favourite colour. She said it went well with her black skin. It didn't matter that pale John and even paler Dew looked like they'd been puked on when they wore them.

John worked to change into his. From his locker he took his respirator mark 5.

Dew took his. And together they walked down the metal corridor into the reception area. Aside from the lack of people sitting in the waiting area it resembled any NHS hospital above ground.

"Have you got a respirator?" John asked the nurse who stood with a grim face, staring down the corridor that lead to the portal to the fairy realm.

Wizened beyond her years, she shook her head. He couldn't determine what species of fae she was.

He handed her his. "The toxins won't harm you immediately. It's more like smoking twenty a day. You think you're safe then it gets you in your sixties." By the look of her she probably had far more years ahead of her than he did. "I'm John, by the way."

"Phoenix Doriver. Phoe for short." Her voice portrayed her nerves.

"First time."

She nodded.

"You'll be fine. This is the worse bit. The waiting."

Dr Innes came up next to him and handed him one of the new respirators. A mark six. "This is more like smoking sixty a day." She pulled hers over her head in a way that left her up do perfectly in place.

"Thank you, Ma'am." For cases relating to the HHF she was his commanding officer and not just his boss. And he was grateful for it. The responsibility she bore was not one he could handle.

Marshmallows, popcorn and decomposition wafted towards them and he heard the trolleys approach. He put his own respirator on before it became overwhelming. Wheels ground and the first stretcher arrived. Dr Innes nodded to John and Dew and they took their places either side of the trolley and helped rush it down to the operating theatre.

Behind him Dr Innes was giving commands. She was very much in control but John could hear the concern in her voice.

The poor sod lying on the trolley had severe rotting of the wings and John prayed he would be able to preserve at least part of them. A rebel fae without his wings considered himself in a living death. Not many like Dew found a new purpose in life.