Beginning after the End [Sean]

[Sidra Cotton]

It was so stupid. She knew what it meant to have divorced parents. Sidra had friends who came from mixed homes because of divorce. Her father was a broken man because of it. He didn’t smile like he used to and when a smile did dare to meet upon his lips, it never traveled to his eyes. Divorce meant that she got sent away to Hammel while things were figured out. Well, that and her manifestation. It was so ridiculous. Her siblings needed her. Thad and Fallon were younger and less emotionally able to handle the change. Especially Thad. It was his teacher their mother hooked up with after all.

So why, then, did she have to go to in-school counseling? Why did she have to see ‘Dr. Sean’ or whatever popular name he was going to give himself to make it so he was ‘more identifiable with the kids’. God she hated therapists. It was a bunch of quack medicine. They hadn’t helped her sister, not one iota.

“This is such bullshit,” grumbled the gothed up teen. Having taken extra care to look particularly surly to show her resentment and general disinterest in the proceedings she was about to be forced into.

Counseling sessions. BAH! This was going to be a phenomenal waste of both her and the Dr.’s time. As much as she was dragging her feet, eventually Sidra had to stop. The office of Dr. Sean Neville was before her and as much as she would like to just walk past it, doing so would induce consequences of an unknown nature.

The door was slightly ajar, no doubt in anticipation of her arrival. Tugging on the bilateral lacing of her corset, Si cinched it in just a little more and retied them before crossing the threshold.

“I am here under protest.” Five words with a quiet force behind them. None of which needed to actually be said.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The counseling sessions had not been Sean’s idea, per se. One of Sidra’s teachers had approached him about her behavior, and her parents divorce, and suggested that she might benefit from conversation. Sean was of the mindset that most people would benefit from an hour or two of conversation during which they weren’t accountable to the outside world, and he also understood that although divorce was more common now, there were always potential issues when a family dynamic shifted, alienation from peers or not. Thus he had agreed to schedule a counseling session for her.

As he was familiar with Sidra, between interactions around the school and occasionally with her parents, and through stories from other faculty, he knew what to expect. He expected her to come but to try to talk her way out of participation and to be stubborn as a mule with twice the spectacle. He didn’t expect her to be happy about the sessions, and he didn’t expect her to cooperate.

When she arrived, he saw that his expectations weren’t for naught. She hadn’t knocked, but instead had entered on her own, dressed as she usually did. Profanity and irritation radiated from her thoughts, she all but scowled at him, and rather than greet him with a typical, “Hello Doctor Neville,” or an unintelligible murmur, she chose to make plain that she didn’t want to be here. So be it.

“Duly noted.” Setting aside the files he had been updating, he gestured at the array of available seating in his office. If she chose to sit on the sofa on the other side of his office, he could move from his chair to one closer to that end. “Make yourself comfortable, Sidra. Would you like a bottle of water?”

[Sidra Cotton]

No nonsense. That was what she was met with? Granted it's sort of what Sidra had approached with, just for different reasons. He wanted to get the session started. She wanted it over with yesterday. Or better, never to have been placed in the minds of others to begin with. It was her firm belief that she didn't need this. Freud's idea of 'talk therapy' had worked for some people, sure, for a lot of people, but she wasn't one of them.

Ignoring the offer for water for the moment, Sidra positioned herself in a chair. Back against the left armrest, both legs draped languidly over the right, one arm around the backrest and the other across her midsection. How she, how anyone, could slouch in a corset was unknown, but the gothic teen had apparently mastered the art. Allowing her head to fall back on it's axis for a moment, the two messy bun/pigtails she had on either side of her head wobbled she stared at the ceiling.

Through her peripheral vision she watched Dr. Neville, his huge height was tucked behind the desk where Sidra imagined his legs were pretzeled just to keep them out of the way. In a weird way he reminded her of her dad. That had to be, she supposed, superficial transference. Or whatever it was called when you took the feelings for one person or thing and shifted them to another when the first was denied.

“No water,” this was spoken to the ceiling, but Si's head came up and turned to look the man full on for a moment before she let her head drop back again. “Coffee would be acceptable.” As long as it wasn't instant. She hated instant coffee. Or claimed to, the truth was Sidra's palate wasn't discerning enough to know the difference, but she pretended to.

Just as she currently pretended not to know why she was there.

“So what the hell is this about anyway? I'm doing my work, turning everything in.” Not necessarily on time, but it was in. Maybe her essays had a darker tone to them, but that was how she rolled. All darkness and blood, baby. All darkness and blood.

Her siblings would have gotten a kick out of her Vlad the Impaler essay with the for-extra-credit shadow box of the people outside the walls on spikes. The history prof hadn't been too thrilled with it, and for the life of her, Sidra couldn't figure out why. It was accurate and had been fun to make out of the polymer clay she'd picked up in town with some corset funds.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Since Sidra had refused a chair on the far end of the office, Sean saw no reason to get up and move. If she grew uncomfortable with the presence of the desk, they could relocate, but otherwise, if she was comfortable enough where she was – he didn’t expect her to actually be comfortable, which is why he aimed for a ballpark standard – then he was fine to remain as well.

And as she’s also refused his offer for water, he didn’t have to go over to the mini-fridge. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a pot of coffee in here. Maybe we can scrounge some up before you go back to the rest of your day.” The staff lounge always had a pot of coffee on, and there was always the cafeteria.

Since they had no other beverages at the moment, they could get to the heart of the matter. This worked well, since she’d bluntly asked for an explanation; he would let the mild profanity pass, because truly, he’d heard worse in this office, let alone in his fifty-plus years on this earth. Time to get down to business. “Technically, you’re turning your work in late, which makes your grades discretionary.” Her teachers could refuse to grade her assignments entirely, or could deduct hefty penalties depending on the lateness, regardless of the quality of her work.

He was sure Sidra was aware of that already, which is why he didn’t linger on the topic; instead, he continued, “Several of your teachers are concerned about your work lately, and they wanted me to check in with you, to see how you’re holding up. So you have the option of talking to me, or you can sit there and stare at me, or I can teach you a couple of card games, if you’d like.”

[Sidra Cotton]

Card games? Really? He wasn't going to talk at her or give her some long winded lecture about how she needed to "care about where her life was going" or some such bull as that. He was offering to teach her card games.

Something was up. No adult (aside from her dad) was that cool. It just wasn't possible.

What are you up to old man? Because clearly he had to be up to something. Give her a false sense of security. Arching an eyebrow at him, Si dipped her chin towards her chest and administered the look. It always worked on her siblings, and sometimes on her mother. Her father, however, was impervious. But then she was a daddy's girl and never really had to give him a look of any kind.

But Neville there wasn't her father. He was a school staffer and a head-shrinker at that. He was trying to get under her skin some how, to "sort her out" or worse "make her like everyone else". Well she, Sidra Odette Cotton would not be made a drone. She was an individual and was damned determined to stay that way.

"So stuff's a bit late, it's getting turned in. It's not like standardized education is worth a damn anymore." That was true. And Hammel being a private school or not, had to adhere to state and national standards; which had all been getting steadily lower and lower. Hell, her brother had managed to pass on to the next grade level and if he'd been able to do it... anyone could. With or without work.

"I'm not much of a cards person. You'd want my brother for that, and he'd talk your ears off with his pokemon crap. Goldeen this and richu that." Her eyes hadn't un-narrowed, but Sidra's head was no longer in the look position.

Truthfully she didn’t know what to make of the adults at Hammel, and probably wouldn’t so long as her bias remained against them. They’d taken her away from her tribe - her sister, brother, and father during what was the most difficult time in any of their lives. No one asked her if she wanted to attend. No options were presented. Just oh, you’re a meta-human, you need training for this, come with us. It’s what’s best. and she resented it with every fiber of her teenaged being.

For the moment, Dr. Neville represented all of that, since he was the one in front of her now. He was the school. Nevermind that he was just one person among a body of people, he was where her anger, mistrust, and loathing lay for the moment.

Even if he reminded her just a teeny bit of her dad.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean was immune to “the look.” This was natural resistance borne from his lack of children and reinforced by his job; two decades of handling petulant teenagers wizened him to their tricks. He met her expression with the merest quirk of his eyebrow, letting her puzzle through her feelings before choosing the most appropriate reaction. He had plenty of time to wait. He didn’t react to her thought, since he didn’t want to seem like he was intentionally monitoring her.

He also had no intention of taking away her individuality. The thought of him as some sort of all powerful villain, intent on – and capable of – brainwashing her into becoming one of the worker bees would almost be flattering if it weren’t a horrifying image and contrary to the telepath’s entire worldview. In time, she would see that he meant her no harm but that would have to occur after she stopped giving him “the look.”

Eventually her effort passed, and she changed tactics. Sean focused on her attempt to shrug off her behavior as unproblematic due to external factors, and an attempt to brand her conduct as sufficient. It was typical teenage behavior, but he gave her a point for a valid observation. “Your teachers can fail you for handing in late assignments, you know, which means you’ll have to retake the class at best, and you won’t graduate at worst. Unlike public schools, we have no qualms holding students back a year.” The telepath folded his hands before him on his desk, prepared for a conversation about failing education standards; he was willing to treat her like another adult for this, even though she hadn’t seen how the administration actually functioned. “And yes, the national standards have fallen such that your college education is worth what my mother’s high school education was. But you still need the high school diploma to get through the rest of your life. And as a private school, we have some leeway; we can exceed state and national standards, so long as we don’t fall below them. We have some good stuff senior year.” He taught senior year.

The psychiatrist then smiled at the description of Pokémon; Ryan had adored those bizarre little creatures when he was younger. He’d insist on playing his Gameboy and showing off what he’d caught. He also had a tendency to give Sean all of his purple cards, which he’d been told were the psychic characters. “My nephew liked Pokémon too, although he’s a little old for it. The card games I play aren’t anywhere near that convoluted.”

Sean opened his desk drawer and removed two decks of card, one a standard deck and one a Pinochle deck, both Bicycle brand. “I’m willing to teach you if you want, or we can keep talking about education standards. Or I can bore you with a story about when I was a student back in the day.”

[Sidra Cotton]

It was ridiculous how difficult it was for the surly teen to decide if she should be irritated at Dr. N or admire him for his ability to 1) ignore her glare, 2) remain neutral while he spoke to her, 3) agree with her while at the same time still admonishing her for not turning in her work on time, and 4) remind her so damn much of her father! Irritation was winning out, but Sidra had to admit it was mostly because she didn't know how to react to him. Which was new. And decidedly uncomfortable.

How dare he?

Sure, adults were supposed to be intimidating and able to 'handle' whatever a teenager threw at them, but she[/b] was Sidra Cotton! true Goth supreme (not to be mistaken with those silly mall-goths who bought everything from Hot Topic and thought just wearing all black made them edgy). She was her father's daughter, and adults always broke her gaze first.

So why, had she looked away first?

Why was she going 'soft' on Dr. Neville?

This wasn't right. It wasn't right at all, and she knew it. Shifting so her legs swung over the side of the chair and her feet planted on the floor with a thud. Refusing to cross ehr arms over her chest in a 'protective' manner, the teen instead leaned forward at the waist and rested an elbow on the good doctor's desk.

"Please," her tone was mocking, "Spare me the details of ancient history. Show me Pinochle, instead." Why not? It sounded different and she was all about different for the sake of being different.

"So tell me," yup, there was a definate accusation coming, "what the hell's up with this? I get sent here because I'm not turning in my work on time, but you want to teach me how to play a card game?" Granted, the offer to continue their discussion about the falling standards of education had been given, and he had told her she could be failed for not turning in assignments. But he was being too cool about the whole situation.

Way. Too. Cool.

Suspiciously cool.

"Are you a closet goth?" That was possible. Not likely, but possible. It would explain his ability to let her glare (the one that sent people cowering away) just roll off his back.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean nodded in acquiescence and dropped the poker deck back in his drawer, as they wouldn’t need it. Opening up the pinochle deck, he removed the cards, letting them fall into his hand. He set the box at the end of the desk, and then handed her the instruction sheet from the bottom of the deck, so that she could use it for reference. Holding up the deck, he said, “Pinochle is played with a forty-eight card deck: we use the cards nine through ace, and have two of every suit.” He began to shuffle the deck, as he couldn’t remember the last time he used it, and that would help even the playing field a bit. “I just handed you the rule card, which tells you how many points each meld is worth. A meld is a combination of cards you want to try to display.”

Sean had always liked pinochle; his father had taught him how to play when he was younger, which was how he’d learned most of the card games he taught others. It was a simple way to spend the time, and an easy way to siphon off his paternal instincts, teaching the students how to play cards.

He’d just finished cutting the cards and had begun dealing them when she asked the first of her questions. The question was pragmatic, expected, although phrased somewhat uncouthly, as he expected of teenagers. As she’d already displayed the capacity to converse like an adult, he would continue to treat her as one, and he gave her an honest answer. “Your teachers are concerned that you aren’t handing your work in on time, yes. You’ve been advised of the consequences, and if you persist in the behavior, you’ll likely be sent here again since I’m the one-stop-shopping for non-curriculum matters. In the mean time, you’re here for the next hour and I prefer to do something constructive, even if it’s only learning a card game, rather than sitting here staring at one another for the next forty-five minutes. Fair enough?”

The psychiatrist finished dealing the cards and set the rest of the deck down. He chuckled lightly at the question and shook his head. “Not unless someone radically redefined ‘goth’ when I wasn’t paying attention.” With that, he flipped over the top card, which was a spade.” This is the trump suit; remember that for the rest of the game.”

[Sidra Cotton]

Staring at the rules the head shrink had handed to her, Sidra fought not to cross her eyes. The rules didn't make sense to her. They were confusing and completely different from any card game she'd ever played with her brother or sister. Granted, Pinochle was a far cry from "Slap Jack" or "Go Fish," but that aside, she wasn't about to admit she didn't understand. Giving her head a shake, she set the rules aside, she'd figure it out as they went along.

Watching as Dr. Neville delt and set the pile down, she smikred at his comment about gothism. Her dad was goth. Not as flamboyantly as she was, but he was subtle goth. Or maybe not so subtle since he was a mortician and as such had a mortician's sense of humor. Regardless he wasn't as out there as she was, but he was her dad and he'd been the one to read her Dracula as a child for her bedtime story. No, Dr. N was right, he wasn't goth. Not unless there was some obscure conservative version of goth.

"Not goth then. Not exactly normal adult, but not goth. I'll figure you out, Doc." She would too. If she had to fabricate something that made sense to her and her alone, she'd figure him out.

Eying the spade, Sidra groaned inwardly. There was no way she was going to be able to wrap her brain around the rules and the how-to of the card game without some kind of explanation. Damn, but she hated asking for help. HATED it. For her, it was a sign of weakness; a sign of inability to do something. Baring her teeth in a grimace, she waved a hand imperiously at the cards.

"The rules didn't make sense." The words were a defeat and ever ounce of her tone and body language said as much. Grinding her teeth, Sidra fought with her natural inclination and all but spat out, "Will you explain?" Actually asking was almost physically painful. Theoretically asking for help got easier every time a person did it. Sidra was doubtful about the truthfulness of the statement.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Pinochle was a game unto itself, which was one of the reasons it required a special deck of cards. When he was younger, Sean had been surprised that so few people knew how to play, since his father had played with friends and when growing up in the Neville house, it was no different from playing bridge in other houses. Common. But as he’d met other people, he realized that he was in the minority when it came to this game. It was complicated, and it was easiest played by counting cards which wasn’t a skill that many people possessed, and it wasn’t a game one played to wast time like Go Fish or Spit. However, it was worth learning.

Sean had never been a goth. As a boy, he had been too ridiculous, too wholesome, too proper and too befitting Long Island and its stereotypes to be goth. Besides, goth as a style hadn’t existed as such when he was a boy; gothic literature existed, but the style came about later. When he was in college, he had been a hippie, albeit on the tail end of the accepted hippie era. And then he had continued to be a hippie to varying degrees before settling down at Hammel in a medical faculty capacity. At this point, he was merely himself: non-traditional by most opinions, although he had to keep boundaries with students. With his friends, it was an entirely different story.

“And what do you consider a normal adult?” The psychiatrist inquired. He then smiled at her determination and glanced down at his hand. “I wish you luck with that. If you want, we can play a round of twenty questions and see if that makes it any easier for you.”

The game was complicated, and Sean was aware of that. However, he was also patient and enjoyed teaching this to other people, so he was happy to explain the rules to her in a different way and walk her through the first hand. That should give her the opportunity to learn and make the situation less frustrating. “Of course. On the back of that card I gave you is a list of all the meld and their point values. Keep those in mind, because you can meld when you win a trick.”

He paused, giving her time to absorb that, while he looked through his hand for available meld. “Aside from meld, cards are in usual order of value: Aces beat kings down to nines. You play a card, and I play a card, and whoever has the most valuable card gets the trick – both cards in front of us, and also gets to take top card for their hand. The winner then gets to meld and accrue points that way.”

[Sidra Cotton]

It was rough, she'd admit that to herself at least, this learning Pinochle. It wasn't like any game she'd ever played before and it really was rough. Still, as with anything she wanted, Sidra focused her attention on the cards as the shifted around. Little by little the goth was getting it though, and felt a smug superiority for it. How many other people knew about this game, let alone played it?

Doc N and his brood were the only ones she'd heard of and only that because he'd introduced it to her.

The more she sat across from him and watched his easy expression, the more he reminded her of her own dad. Without even realizing it that reminder was putting Sidra off her guard. She was relaxing around Doc N.

"This place isn't as bad as I thought it would be," the words were out before she could think better of it. Followed shortly there after by, "Just wish my dad and younger twerps were here." She missed them. More than had been admitted to herself. The complete lack of family around her was new. Something that had been day-dreamed of, yes, but new and unnerving. For as long as Sidra had known what it was to have a conscious thought, she'd been surrounded by family. Mother, father, sister and then brother. Her clan.

Though she would deny it to her last breath, Sidra was a daddy's girl. He was the one who encouraged her differences and stood back being her dark cheerleader when she started trying new things. He'd take her to work with him and explain the anatomy of a body while he worked. Oh, the things she'd seen laid out on the Medical Examiner's table. Mortician, ME, whatever title he pulled on for whatever position was available, her dad was her hero.

Period.

And there was Doc N. With his cool mannerisms, and unknown Goth levels. He was a puzzle, to put it simply. A dangerous puzzle.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Unsurprisingly, Sean won the first game, although he was not boastful. There was no pride to be taken in beating someone when he was teaching her, particularly when it was the first game of Pinochle she had ever played. As he dealt for the second game, he noticed that she was already picking up on some of the subtleties. If she came to enjoy it enough to keep up the game, then he would feel more comfortable counting cards and could give her even more of a run for her money.

In another area where Sean was not boastful but was confident, he noticed that she had begun to relax. He tended to have that effect on students who came to his office. Height, psychiatric license, and telepathy aside, he was not particularly off-putting.

“It isn’t bad once you get used to it,” Sean replied. That was a common reaction to Hammel; the students didn’t know what to expect and tended to tilt the scales in favor of the worst possible scenario as a coping mechanism. The faculty tried to make the school as pleasant as possible while retaining the atmosphere of a school, and thus the students were better able to handle it after the initial resentment wore off. There were plenty of luxuries at the school itself to make up for the fact that, although aesthetically pleasing, the location was in the middle of nowhere. And there was a certain degree of liberation in being surrounded by other metas and no longer feeling isolated back home, sticking out like a sore thumb and depending on the power, fearing harm or insanity. “It took me some time, but I’d been coming from a very strict school and I didn’t know what to expect.” The psychiatrist smiled at the memory and went in to deal more cards.

“Have you called them recently? I’m sure they’d like to hear from you if they haven’t.” Keeping up with family was important, particularly at that age and given the divorce and the new location. Not everyone could function the way he could, estranged from what few living relatives he had.

[Sidra Cotton]

It took her that long to realize what had happened. He'd wormed his way into her defenses and made her think of home. And just like that, all of Sidra's anger flared, her flesh hardened and the cards she'd been holding were slammed onto the desk as she rose in the same fluid motion.

"We're done." Two words that were practically spat out. How dare he presume to give her advice. Never mind that it was part of what the man was paid for at Hammel. A job she was not going to help him do. Hissing at him, actually hissing, Sidra whirled on the spiked heels of her boots and stormed from the office. Each step a sharp staccato against the tiles of the school's hall as she marched from the head shrink and his office of false security.

How had she been so foolish as to relax? To let him worm his way into defenses. Well on her way to a right and proper rage, Sidra didn't even notice random students getting out of her way as she threw open the doors to the main building. It didn't matter which direction she went in, as long as it was away.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

As far as Sean was concerned, she was picking up on the rules fairly quickly. Pinochle wasn’t like poker – particularly the Texas Hold ‘em style that had swept the nation that involved no strategy as to playing cards; it took time to learn. But she’d improved markedly from even the first hand. Then just as quickly, he heard angry, resentful thoughts, and then her half of the cards had been slammed onto his desk.

He lifted his head, keeping calm but giving her the look that was expected, for her to calm herself and sit back down. She didn’t, because she was angry that he’d talked to her about her family. While he understood the psychological reasons behind her behavior, he also thought it was an overreaction. But since she had remained for most of the session time, and since she’d been sent to him for help rather than a disciplinary meeting – although her behavior had been the signal to get her help – he wasn’t going to call for a security guard to bring her back. Nor would he go after her. Although he had to admit that hissing was a relatively rare behavior; he’d seen that before too, but not often.

Once she had left, he made a note to himself about continued sessions. If her behavior didn’t improve, and she didn’t return voluntarily next week, he’d send for her. In that way, the ball was partially in her court.