The Unknown Triumvirate

Three aliens have moved into an apartment in London, in hopes to observe humans. They do not know the others are in fact, not human and believe their actions to be, human, causing much confusion of facts when sent to their superiors. A government agency that no one really understands and is mostly known as, 'ah, you saw us. I hope you're funeral's pleasant.', do know, and spend their days listening to a narrator recite their lives, in all of it's awkward comedy.

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The tiles are cold and pale and patterns emerge between the creases of their light touches, blue grey cement forcing them together under harsh fluorescent lights. They flicker occasionally, they are old and used and a few are slightly shattered and they illuminate so large a space that it seems impossible that everything could be flooded with such a painful light. The noise level is only rising as the hours tick on, as more people flood through, teeth chattering, hands jittering, anxiety levels flooding them, tapping, pacing, worry. It's a lot to take in. 

    It's a waiting room, grey chairs all connected in the centre of a room made of white tile walls, and a white floor, all pristine and nice and clean, but the grime and dirt, although power washed away, only lurks below the surface, translated into hospital records and anti-bacterial soap. An onslaught of doctors rushes through the waiting room, panicking as they push a gurney, equipment screaming imminent death as they hurry through.

    Sitting in the very corner are two contrasting characters. Two the right, a white haired, pale skinned person it sitting, rocking back and fourth, chewing on a small black trapezoid. They're wearing headphones and muttering 'se on niin kolaa' under their breath. The other, to the left has stark black hair, sitting up straight, their oval eyes with dark brown irises pierce the surroundings with contrast. He is still, completely zoned out and has begin disassociating; this amount of people has overwhelmed him to much. He is wearing all black, in fitting clothes, that compliment his figure and make him look like a mystery in a movie. He begins to hum, trying to ground himself, feeling the vibrations between his lips, travelling through his mouth and face, it tickles and itches, he manages this time, and he feels relieved. 

    Both characters look tired, their eyes appear bruised and their expression pallid and gaunt, their eyes are transfixed on the door across the room. The one that says TEMPORARY PSYCHIATRIC STAY in bold red letters that seem to swim out of proportion and greet them at their seats. They've been waiting for four hours now, and still nothing. Around them they see others like them, but still not, some are laughing, crying, sitting worried tapping and pacing swimming in their own worry, basking in it's filth, but they all seem, more alive, that is the difference. 

    Then someone walks out of the room, aided by two nurses dressed it in light blue. They stand up to greet her. Her dark skin reflects some of the fluorescent light that beams down on her, and her hair curls in black ringlets around her head, forming a dark halo. She’s beaming at them, as she staggers towards them, her white hospital dress flowing around her. 

    “I am on so many antipsychotics!” She says, placing a hand on the dark haired man’s shoulder. He’s taller, so a better height for her, but also the other seems to have shrunk away behind him. Her words a slurred together a little bit, but they don’t seem bothered, they seem relieved. “I’m okay now, and they said I could go home, so le’s go!”

    She’s till clinging to him when a doctor walks up to them, “Are you Charlie Davids emergency contact, Damien Storm?”

He’s addressing the dark haired man, who appears to have become worryingly pale, and is starting to disassociate again, beads of sweat are running down his forehead and his hands get clammy. 

    The small blonde person walks forward from behind him and greets the doctor, eyes to the floor, never once looking to his face, but his eyes dart around it, avoiding his eyes.

    “He is.”

    The doctor narrows his eyes at the trio in confusion. “I’m sure Mr. Storm can speak for himself.”

    “No,” Charlie giggled, digging her nails into Damien’s shoulder, “Not right now anyway.”

    The doctor sighs, and turns back to the blond one before him, he’s small and gaunt and seems to fiddle too much for it to be due to anxious disposition. “If you wish. I was Ms. Davids doctor during her stay here and I need you to know that she needs to take rest days and she needs to take her medication, regularly.”

    The small blond one nodded and they started towards the door of the waiting room, it slid open before them, letting them into the smoke filled outside. As they walked out a girl, no older than sixteen blue smoke in their faces as she exhaled the poison of a cigarette. Damien was grounded, Charlie was giggling and the blond one was doubled over, over come by nausea and turning a plan shade of green. The teenager sighed and rolled her eyes before she inhaled again.

    “You okay, Mikko?” Charlie muttered in between giggles, swinging her bag around her. 

    Both of them hauled them up and walked towards the car that was sitting just around the corner. They got in and sat down, everyone drinking in the scent and stillness that surrounded them.

    “What are your taking today?” Damien looked back from the wheel at Charlie. 

    She removed a few bottles from her bag, “Anti-anxiety, antidepressants and antipsychotics, two of those. So, not so many. I only take these for another two months, and I don’t have to attend any meetings because it was stress induced and the waiting list is too backed up.”

    He nodded, turning on the ignition, and swerving out of the car park, to drive home, leaving the cold, grey ugly hospital building behind them.

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