Paul, who had been testing the vending machine, hiccoughed and spun around to face the young woman, roughly his own age, standing in the doorway. His glasses flew from his face and bounced on the roughly carpeted ground.

"Oh, jeez...um, hi." He dropped to one knee and slid his open palms along the floor in search of his spectacles. His hands barely came within a yard of them. "Hi," he repeated, "you're my, uh, four-thirty?" Squinting, Paul looked up as best he could. Without his glasses, he looked almost like a particularly hard-faced newborn, with slits for eyes and a strong blush creeping into his face.

The black text on the door's frosted window still read Dr. Mohammed K. Rajabi, Ph.D., P.C., and Paul didn't expect his own personalized sheet of frosted glass - Dr. Paul S. Young, Ph.D. - to arrive for another week. Dr. Rajabi had left the city entirely some months ago after being accused of malpractice. The trial had come and gone, and Rajabi had been cleared of all charges. Still, even an accusation was enough to instill doubts in his patients' minds, and he must have figured that it would be easier to start his life over entirely than to convince his patients that he hadn't planted false memories of dismemberment and sexual abuse in their minds.

So much the better for Doctor Paul Simon Young. The lease on the place had had another year on it when Rajabi had tried to flee, and Paul had purchased it for roughly half what it was really worth.

Paul had succeeded in making the place his own, with the exception of the misnomer on the front door. The waiting room was well-equipped with magazines aplenty (all of which were neatly stacked at the center of two coffee tables; there had been no patientsyet to disturb them), and the newly acquired vending machine was fully stocked with water and healthy fruit juice. Soda, nothing but foaming sugars and syrup, would have been a bad idea in the midst of the emotionally disturbed, more than half of which turned to gluttony to calm their woes.

Beyond a second door was a brief corridor, wall to one side and a desk on the other. The desk would be, for some time, empty: Paul hadn't found an office assistant yet.

A third door at the end of the hall led to Paul's study, where the patients would soon divulge their troubles, secrets, heartache, and stories to Dr. Young, who would likely be seated in a nearby red-leather armchair. Paul's considerable book collection, only some of which pertain to his profession, was already being stored in twin bookshelves about a yard apart from each other. Between them hung Paul's credentials: a B.S. in Clinical Psychology, a M.S. in counseling, and a Ph.D. in Clinical Transpersonal Psychology, all from the city's very own Keaton University.

Yes, Paul Young was off to a good start in his professional career. All he needed now was a few stable clients, and then it would be only a matter of time before his name became one of great respect. Wishful thinking? Perhaps, but the fact that Paul already had an appointment - four-thirty that afternoon - did nothing but contribute to his growing optimism.

A young woman in a trench coat walked in. She seemed troubled or maybe even lost. She looked like she would run away if anything moved. She took in the room cautiously. She was a short woman, shorter than average anyway. She looked to be about 20-25 years of age. She had long brown hair that went down to below her waist and brown eyes.

She jumped when she spotted the doctor. "H-hello, Dr. Rajabi?"

The woman walked over and picked up the glasses. She held them out for the doctor. "No, I've come to make an appointment. I don't really like phones." She smiled. Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought. "You must be Dr. Rajabi then? I'm Patricia."

Paul perched his glasses on his nose and got his first look at Patricia: long, brown hair, braided plainly and hanging down past her back. The top of her head would have slid into the space just below his chin with ease, he thought. Not that he intended to ever find it there.

Before seeing her, Paul could guess the expression on her face: one of anxiousness and doubt. She was doing a remarkable job of hiding it, really; still, Paul didn't need a Ph.D. to see she was uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid that the sign on the door is incorrect. This was Dr. Rajabi's office until a few weeks ago. I'm Dr. Young." Paul smiled as disarmingly as he could, slowly altering his facial expressions and tone of voice. The alterations were always subtle; it was a technique he had honed and nearly perfected over the years. Almost everyone was vulnerable to some combination of voice, demeanor, and topic of conversation. Vulnerability implied weakness, which Paul never liked, but the only other word he could ever find wasb "susceptibility." Neither was very flattering.

"I hope you're not disappointed," he went on, "but I suppose that if you didn't make an appointment, you didn't have any expectations. What can I do for you, Patricia?"

"Ah yes, I'm not quite sure if you can help me or not. I think I might have a slight case of multiple personalities." Well that was the best way to describe it. Paris didn't know what else to say, she had never been in a doctor's office before. Except maybe that time when she was born.

Paul couldn't help but laugh. It was short and brief, almost more a cough than any sign of amusement. Gathering control of himself quickly, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean any disrespect, but...uh...well, I've never heard of anything like this before. A multiple seeking help on their own is

ish might be at the plate right now-oh stop it shes probably just playing a game with herself-be quiet and let me work

unusual at best." Paul glanced back to the far door, the one leading to the corridor and eventually to his office. "Tell you what: I don't have an appointment for an hour or so, so how about we just head into my office and talk this over?"

It liked the feel of the trenchcoat. Slick leather, good dampening effect. Dead flesh feel crawling along its own warmth.

And it liked this conversation. Liked the way Paris shook a little, but her strength was still there. Good warm strength a few inches away, if and when he needed it. Could take care of himself. Was just an arm.

Hand clenches, slow roll of muscle. Brush of fingernail against fingernail. Waiting. Content to hide in its warm, leather shell until needed. Wearing its armor.

Content to hide because it knew the man was human, could sense/feel the thickness of his neck, and knew it could snap it in an instant.

Good leather. Warm, slick. And it waits.

"All right..." Paris said half-heartedly... but all I really wanted to do was make an appointment. She wasn't prepared to face a doctor today, she was expecting him to be busy.

"Erm... Lead the way..." The annoying scent of cleaners filled her nostrils, making her dizzy. Her dizziness plus her anxiety made the room spin, everything was a blur of senses. Even though it was a small office, she'd probably get lost in there.

Her apprehension turned to...fear? Anxiety? She didn't want this, not really, not here and not now. Paul's head throbbed, and the room suddenly foreign, as if he didn't belong. He felt dizzy.

He wiped the beading sweat from his forehead. "Look, uh...if you'd rather not...don't worry about it." The room spun like a record, and Paul was standing at the center, motionless. "You can come back anytime. Or call me- call here, I mean." She flew around him, an orbiting moon on Ritalin. He blinked sharply and the disorientation faded back a bit. "Or you can make an appointment. Like, right now. I don't have anyone for...uh, well, my four-thirty's all I got so far." He grit his teeth against the spinning. Things started falling back into place. He dragged his sleeve across his dampened brow again.

falling apart your first day on the job? how professional

Paris calmed herself down. She had to this, it was now or never. The dizziness was still there but she shook most of it off. "No, I'd like to get it over with now. I'm just a bit nervous. I don't see very many doctors. That is if the offer's still valid?" Paris smelled the nervousness (mostly the sweat) off the doctor. Oh great the doc's just as nervous as I am she thought.

The disorientation waned enough for Paul to realize that he'd violated one of the principal rules of therapy: NEVER let the patient see your discomfort while in session. Technically, there was no session yet, but Paul categorized that thought as rationalization and trashed it.

Summoning all his poise, he clasped his hands before his belt professionally and said, "Nervousness is very reasonable. Therapy can come to represent one's problems in many cases, as it's the place where the problems are brought to the forefront of the mind. Besides," he laughed, praying to no One in particular that he can downplay his nervousness with self-derision, "sometimes it can get to the therapist as well. C'mon back, we can be nervous together." He gestures gallantly toward the door.

"Alright." She said as she moved to the room indicated by the doctor. She entered the room and looked around. She looked to the doctor clearly not knowing what to do next. She remained standing and smiled at the doctor. She then turned and pretended to observe a diploma to hide her confusion.

Paul strolled nonchalantly back to his desk and took a canary yellow legal pad in one hand, a disposable blue ballpoint in the other while her back was turned. She pretended to examine his credentials, but really, just the presence of some sort of certificate was enough for most patients. It could've said Second Place Junior Spelling Bee, and Paul would have received congratulations for it from half the people to enter his office. "How about onomatopoeia? Can you do that one?"

Of course, half of the people entering his office at this point would equal one-half a person, and half-people weren't reknowned for congratulating able spellers. Though, if this woman did indeed have MPD (which Paul, against his logic and common sense, did not doubt), then "half the people" took on a whole new meaning...

"So, Paris, you believe you suffer from a mild form of Multiple Personality Disorder, or MPD..." He jotted down her name, the date, and other brief observations he'd made. There weren't many. "This is a rare condition; what makes you think you have it?"

Paris sat down on the first she could see and thought about how she should describe her problem. "Well, some time ago I lost the use of my left arm. I can't move it but somehow it moves on it's own. It's really strange." Paris needed a good lie, she didn't wanted to be directed to a hospital. She would be found out in a hospital. "The doctors didn't know what to make of it. They said that they don't know everything about the human brain." Paris silently hoped he didn't pry deeper into what the "doctors" said.

((Too.. lazy.. to change.. names..))

Slide. Shift. Following along, half-interested, and impressed at the sudden revelation. Hers, not its own. His, perhaps, the doctor's since everyone else present knew. Even if she was lying.

Gestures along with her speech, logical patterns and natural movements. Feminine, if it can manage it, strong and shaken. It fits well, too well, looks natural enough to be her own. To make her lie. Because that's what it's doing, now, discrediting her. Matching its movements to her own natural ones, mimicking the right arm with subtle variations and tics. When she sat down the hand smoothed over her coat, flattening imaginary wrinkles. When she spoke of it, it tilted slightly, offering itself as evidence. There was nothing wrong, here, nothing alien but in the slight tightness of the shoulder, only half-control and she was dominating the rest of it.

Beyond that, it was normal. Normal as it could be. And it waited, and listened, and felt her lie.

In any unusual case (like this) in which the patient had already been to another doctor (like this), Paul would immediately ask for that doctor's name so that he could gather all the documentation for the case he was looking at. Even if that documentation was just a long list of "Inconclusive," it would rule out certain possibilities.

More importantly, Paul's patient was describing a condition which, as far as Paul knew, didn't exist. Loss of limb control was normal enough (speaking from a medical point of view), but a limb reviving itself as a separate entity was...well, impossible. "Do you mean," asked Paul, knowing that it wasn't true but having to ask it anyway, "that the arm moves sporadically or spasmodically on occasion?"

On his legal pad, Paul writes: No leftarm ctrl, "possessed", arm moves normally

Well my arm is a complete spaze... Paris sighed, she had no way to explain it in normal terms. Dr. Young was no exorcist and that seem to be what Paris needed at the moment. "Maybe it was a mistake for me to come here." She frowned at her arm, it was being a jerk again.

She was beyond help. She'd probably end up in a straight jacket at the end of all this. Maybe there was a way to fix the problem... Maybe... "Do you know any good hypnotists?"

Paul, whose rump has just made contact with the firm surface of his sleek red armchair, isn't surprised by Paris's sudden apprehension. Few patients spend their first session happy and content in the psychologist's proverbial comfort-couch. Even less surprising is her immediate leap to the assumption that hypnosis is the panacea the self-help subliminal-message tape salesmen would have you believe. It, simply put, is not; every textbook he's ever seen has done nothing but bash the entire foundation of hypnotic therapy.

"I'm not a bad hypnotist, myself," says Paul (and truthfully, though most of his experience is in convincing friends that their belly buttons are missing, and not anything remotely theraputic), "but it's...not as desireable an option as you might think." He scoots forward to the edge of his chair, looking at Paris, seated in a cushy, deep-red, corduroy rotating armchair, across the coffee table. "Listen, do you think I could...uh, well it sounds weird: touch it? The arm, I mean."

Paris blinked. His question was unexpected. Paris didn't want to touched, she wasn't a freak. Well maybe she is, but she didn't want to be treated like one. "No... You can't." Paris shifted uncomfortably and looked at her watch.

The mentioned arm twitches. Slightly. Gently. And it moves forward, even as she's denying him access. Even as she denies its own right to free will.

Wanton display, as if offering up a vein for a blood transfusion. Elbow straight and palm up, fingers curled. Slightly. Gently. Thumb curled slightly inward, as if in rest.

Words come automatically to Paul's mouth: "It's for my own understanding, I want to see if you can feel it, if it acts preternaturally, if it can rub your stomach while you pat your head, if I can feel the thing, goddammit."

Even as he starts to speak, she hold her hand out to him, a silent invitation. Or does the hand hold itself out? Paul catches a whisper on his lips: "That's impossible."

Looking up to Paris's face, searching her, wanting to see what the hell she's thinking. His right hand twitches as he prepares for the reach across the table.

Paris sighed in defeat. Fine, let the hand talk to the doctor it's not like Paris was getting anywhere. She slouched into the chair and let the arm do whatever it wanted. She didn't even look at the doctor, just the arm.

Paris idlely thought about going home and giving the kitchen knife a try. If she cut off her arm there was only a small chance she'd lose too much blood. In any case, if she did die she could give Death a little piece of her mind.

Another thing that came to Paris' mind was the doctor's attitude. He didn't really have a good 'bedside' manner. Well, maybe that's why he's a shrink... She tired to picture Dr. Young as a MD trying to tell a patient that he has two days to live. It was hilarious, Paris smiled.

A vein tenses. In consideration, in hesitation, in any sort of 'ation' cell walls alone can convey. The elbow tilts, turns.



Not a word, but letters. Small knowledge. Absorbed. Proud, almost.

Confused, mostly. Behind her smiles are thoughts of self-mutilation, not to feel the pain but to be rid of this goddamn curse.

Paul, however, is caught up in the motions of the hand, deliberate and mesmerizing in their false complexity. He recognizes a letter or two - an E at the end, an I in there somewhere - but not enough to derive any sort of meaning.

He extends his hand over the table towards the signing hand, wanting only to tap it with the point of his finger, brush it with his fingertips. His glasses slide down his nose, growing slick with sweat, and he doesn't bother to correct them.

Paris openly stared at her hand in shock. She didn't know it could communicate. Nor did she even though to talk with it with symbols... Unfortunately she had no knowledge about sign language other then the fact that her left arm has some sort of vocabulary. Maybe a trip to the library was in order...

Extension. Extension of self - what is left of self - wrist and tendons, quick movement. Fingernails warm, gleaming. Shoulder tense.

The shoulder is always tense.

Hand out, self out, strike like a snake, fingers around the man's wrist. Familiar territory here and it feels the difference in the pads of fingers, creases of muscle. Grip tightening, supernatural strength but not all of it. Barely enough to sting. Barely enough to satisfy the instinctive want to destroy, react. Break.

Paul senses the grip on his wrist, feels the abnormal coldness of the skin scratch against his own, notices the pain as the bones of his hands near the wrist grate, but he is really only aware of the daggers sliding through his eyes and back into his brain, pulsing with his heart and tearing, always tearing, seeking vengeance for the wrongs of times past, injustices dealt to it (him? her? him is closer, but only it fits) and revenge it shall achieve, but until then Paul's wrist is just enough to hold it over until the big boys come.

With his other hand, Paul grabs its wrist and drives his strongest fingers into a painful tendon, pulling back simultaneously against its thumb, hoping he is stronger and somehow knowing that he's not.

Paris noticed the doctor's pain. She paniced. She didn't know that the arm would harm anyone. She grabbed her left wrist and pulled back, away from the doctor's hand. "Let go, you jerk!"

Fast release and the arm goes limp, bending backwards as the other hand approached and fitting neatly into the grip. Almost pre-planned. Almost autonomous. Just another limb, part of one body, and the girl was crazy, not it. Never it.

possible

The damn thing was responding, a fact that burns in Paul's mind with even greater intensity than the hatred that had bored through his skull and felt like slime in his head. The sensation lingers after contact is broken, subsides to a faint tingle barely noticeable over his adrenaline-enhanced heartbeat. Paul recalls why he doesn't like touching people: sometimes you find out a hell of a lot more than you want to know.

One thing is certain, now: something greater than paranoia is at work. MPD is possible, though Paul isn't sure how he could get such different vibes with the difference in proximity, even if more than one persona were at work. That the arm is somehow possessed, as irrational as it is, seems to be a good explanation. Then again, everything that the people of the past believed seemed to be a good explanation, too. The only problem with their assumptions, in fact, was that they were wrong.

Paris didn't know what to say. She looked down at her knees. She was slightly ashamed, slightly embarassed and very helpless. She needed something to take this presence away from her. She couldn't have something violent attached to her. Not in her condition. "Is there anything you can do to help?" She looked up at the doctor. She wanted to cry, it was hopeless.

Raises, jerky, like the rest of her body and through her hair. A quick swipe, feminine, removing obstructions from eyes and smoothing the strands back, itching gently along the back of her neck. Feeling the pulse points in a quick brush, then back down to her side. Intimate, and natural. A very human response, but something in the elbow tenses. Suppressed movement, violence. A further reaction to resentment.

Paul falls back and runs one hand through his hair - the hand that the arm didn't touch, the one that still feels clean. Something in the air throbs, and Paul pulls back further into his chair.

And how to comfort a patient whose arm is literally beyond her own control? Like hell it's MPD: Paul can see it, see the second soul clinging like a parasite to her torso, coiling itself against her body in the very image of comfort and yet somehow like a viper.

"Paris," pants Paul (he becomes suddenly aware that he's damn near hyperventilation), "do you...are you religious?"

Paris gave him a nervous half-smile. He couldn't help her... No one could. "No." She stood up from the chair. She was shaking, anxiety was getting the best of her. "Thank you for your time Doctor. Goodbye" She walked to the door, wanting to leave the office as if that would leave all her troubles behind.

The elbow floated out in a hazy, childish movement, fingertips dragging along the wall as Paris walked. The hand was held with the prestige of the wealthy or shunned, and seemed to offer some reluctance to Dr. Young at their departure.

"Wait."

He may not be able to fix the problem, he may not be able to even understand it, but damned if he's going to let that problem walk out of his office without at least the barest attempt to help.

"Just because there's nothing I can do doesn't mean that there's nothing to be done." Paul tears off a piece of paper from his legal pad and starts to write. "I've got some friends that might know a thing or two. I'll talk to them. And in the meantime-" He finishes writing and holds the paper out to her. "-you might try this number. Medium I met once. He could be a fraud, but I was pretty damn convinced."

Goddamn, what a way to start a career...

"What does he do?"

Paris turned back and took the paper from the Doctor. Any help was welcome, she was desperate. She stared down at the number. "Who is he?"

Taps impatient patterns along the wall. It can't read the paper - fingertips aren't that sensitive, certainly not yet. Can only wait for further explanation.

Paul favors Paris's right side. He doesn't want to get grabbed again.

"A medium. Like...a psychic for hire. He goes by Nostradamus. Nice guy, if you're willing to put up with a little bit of pseudo-voodoo bullshit."