Date: Sun, 11 Jan 1998 20:52:41 -0500
From: "Kathy B." <kw@escapenet.org>
Subject: [seaQuest-ff] Dirty Little Secret, v.2.0 -- Story version part one.
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Okay, this is my first script, Dirty Little Secret, rewritten, in STORY
FORMAT. Feedback will be hugged and caressed and printed out to gloat to
all my friends with, and flames will be used as an alternate fuel source.
::smiles::

I make no money off this, and all characters and places (on board sQ) are
property Amblin, Sci-Fi, Spielburg, JB, NBC, and all other entities
contained thereof. Since no money shall be made from this, only alternate
payments, such as cookies and/or Combos (pizza flavored, preferably) will
be accepted in appreciation.

Dirty Little Secret
By: Kathleen Brown


	The year is 2032. The _seaQuest_, cuts through the water at full force,
pushing the sea aside with only a gentle inner hum to speak of its speed.
	In Lucas Wolenczak’s quarters, the young man is there, sitting at a small
desk against a wall, resting back against his chair, staring
contemplatively at his SEAPOC’s screen. There’s a soft knocking at his
closed door and Lucas looks up, surprised, sitting up in his uncomfortable
chair, taking on a more professional-looking attitude. He makes a final
assessment of the gibberish displayed on his monitor before beginning his
rapid typing. “C’mon in.”
	The door opens and Lieutenant James Brody enters, carrying a full tray of
food which he brings over and places gently on the desk. Lucas looks from
his computer to the food, eyeing it warily. Brody sees this glance, and
swallows uncomfortably. “I didn’t see you at mess today, I thought you
might be hungry.”
	For a moment Brody believes it himself, but the boy looks away, seemingly
uninterested, his gaze focusing once again on his algorithms, content to
believe that Brody has no idea it’s nothing more than the inner coding of
Lucas Internex page. The young man shrugs. “I didn’t go because I wasn’t
really feeling very hungry, Jim.”
	Brody looks at Lucas, watching his bony, nimble fingers flick over the
keyboard without a single hesitation. “You okay?”
	Lucas looks up, giving Brody a perplexed look, as if it is unthinkable for
the man to ask such a bizarre question. He shrugs, then looks back down.
“I’m fine, I just haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
	Tired of this attitude, Brody goes on the offensive, trying to provoke a
reaction. “You should eat something, Lucas, you’re nothing but skin and
bone.”
	Lucas looks up for a horrified moment, then quiets and looks down towards
the floor. Suddenly looking confused, Brody reaches down and takes Lucas’
right hand. Lucas looks up at the lieutenant. Brody doesn’t look at Lucas’
face, he’s studying an odd pattern of bruises on Lucas’ fingers and
knuckles. “What’d you do?”
	Hoping that his trembling is imperceivable, Lucas bursts out with the
quickest and most believable lie he can come up with. “I don’t know, I
must’ve banged it in my sleep.”
	With Brody getting too close for comfort, Lucas grows shy and intimidated,
his nonchalant attitude gone, replaced by a nervous, polite tone. “Jim, can
you please leave? I’d really like to get back to work.”
	Jim sighs, knowing he won’t get through to Lucas tonight. “All right.” He
looks down into the younger man’s tight, drawn face. He grows gentle for a
moment, reaching out to lightly brush Lucas’ shoulder with his hand. “Eat
something.”
	Lucas nods softly, waiting with a deep anxiety for Jim to leave. Jim turns
to look at Lucas’ face before he leaves, but Lucas turns away, unable to
face Brody and, in turn, the truth. As the pressure door swings closed,
Lucas sighs and looks around, as if someone is standing there, scolding
him. Lucas pushes his chair away from his desk and stands, picking up the
tray of  heavy Naval-issue “grub” and carrying it into his bathroom. He
lifts the toilet seat and gathers the food into his bare hands. He crumbles
the “meat” loaf into the water and dumps in the nondescript vegetables and
pasta, too. He flushes the food down and makes his way blindly over to his
sink. He begins to compulsively wash the fat and grease off his thin,
bruised hands as tears pour down his cheeks.

	At midnight, in the ship’s mess, Lucas is sitting at a table, choking down
the remainder of a cherry cola drink. He places the empty can on the table
and looks sadly at the empty aluminum cans and plastic wrappers of the food
which is now so bravely held down in his stomach. His nausea is blinding,
truly overpowering. He feels too heavy to even stand. He wants immediate
relief but lately his methods have become very painful. In his mind, he
knows he can’t risk anyone knowing; Brody noticed the bruises, that means
other people will, too. Besides, lately, there’s been blood. To grant
himself some amount of rest and healing, he chooses what is truly the more
disgusting route. Gathering the strength, he stands and collects all the
empty food wrappers, disposing of them discreetly in a waste can. He looks
back down the hall, making sure he left no evidence, before he quietly
leaves. 

	In her quarters, Doctor Wendy Smith wakes from a terrifying nightmare,
shocked out of a dream which, defying all her scientific knowledge that it
_isn’t_ real, continues to cause her to shiver in fear for hours
afterwards. The dream took her back to months ago, when she and Miguel
Ortiz were trapped, alone, on the planet of Hyperion. It was only by a
small miracle that they were returned to Earth and, in turn, to seaQuest. 
	She turns away from the dream and opens up a novel, trying to take her
mind off the experience. She’s barely glanced at the title, though, before
she is disrupted by a knock at her door. In a moment she sees who it is,
why they are coming, and that it can _not_ wait until morning. “Come in,
Lieutenant.”

	Brody enters, puzzled, wondering for a brief moment how she knew, before
she smiles almost shyly at him, enjoying his confusion. With another peek
into his mind, she grows serious. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

	Sitting uncomfortably, the Lieutenant sighs and reaches up to lightly
scratch the back of his neck. “Oh, I’m fine.”
	“Then something must not be all right for someone else. Who?”
	“Lucas.”
	She grows extremely puzzled, and very concerned. She leans closer to him.
“What is it? What do you think is wrong with him?”
	“He’s been acting...” Brody searches for the right word, “...odd.”
	“Odd? Odd how, Jim?”
	“He’s been taking a lot of time off, but he won’t go on leave. His work’s
not the same, either.”
	Wendy thinks this over, then looks back into Brody’s genuinely frightened
eyes. “How do you mean, ‘not the same’?”
	“Well, there isn’t the same attention to detail. Lucas was always a
perfectionist. He’s not anymore.”
	Wendy sighs, and her reluctance to pursue the issue grows more disturbing
as she begins to grow almost irritated. “What makes you think he’s sick?
Can’t he just have a bad day?”
	Brody’s desperate to help his friend. *Would I be coming here if I didn’t
have a good reason?!* “His work’s been declining for months now.” Brody’s
voice reflects the urgency he’s feeling, but it lowers slightly, as if
there is someone nearby to hear his implied accusation. “Have you noticed
how thin he’s gotten?”
	Confused by what Brody’s insinuating, she shakes her head. “No.”
	“He has dropped a _lot_ of weight. And he’s _trying_ to hide it.”

	Wendy shakes her head, Jim’s words are finally reaching her, and her mind
protests vehemently, not wanting to accept what she _knows_ is the awful
truth. “Lucas has _always_ been embarrassed by his weight.”
	Brody’s at the end of his tolerance now. *She’s a _doctor_! How does she
not see?!* “He doesn’t come to mess anymore.”
	Wendy raises her eyebrows, it finally occurring to her, with all the facts
and numbers and statistics running through her mind, that Brody’s _right_.
“Are you sure?”
	Sensing the change in the doctor, Brody nods, nearly shrugging. “Unless
he’s eating at night now.”
	Wendy sighs deeply, her voice growing soft. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
	Jim sighs, deeply. “Thank you.”
	“I’m doing this for him, not you.”

	Brody nods and leaves, satisfied that now Lucas will receive the help he
deserves.
 
	In Lucas’ quarters, the young man is standing in the attached bathroom,
drinking a glass of water. He brings his hand to his mouth and swallows
significantly more than the recommended dosage of one or two pills. He
sighs and walks into his bedroom, turning out the light and flipping a
switch to illuminate the next room. He unzips the front of his uniform,
pulling down the top to let it hang around his waist. He peels off the
underlying T-shirt and reveals to us, for the very first time, the extreme
severity of what is happening to him. 
	Every one of his ribs is visible, and the vertebra in his back are
highlighted with bruises simply from slouching in his chair. Sighing
deeply, he sits on his bed to take off the rest of his uniform. After a
moment of regrouping, he squirms into a sweatshirt and  slides between the
sheets of his bed, groaning as the tired bones of his body find relief for
the first time since last night. 
	The green-glowing clock beside Lucas’ bed reads “1:17”. 

	The green glowing clock beside his bed reads “2:03”. 
	Lucas wakes, lifting his head from the pillow, tired, wanting only to
relieve his pain as quickly as possible so that he may, hopefully, get
another few hours sleep before his next shift. He struggles out of his
knotted sheets and stumbles to his bathroom. The door closes, the light
flicks on, and Lucas begins sobbing....

	In the morning Lucas is walking down the main hallway of  B-Deck, alone.
Miguel walks up behind, cuffing Lucas’ shoulder, only to be rewarded with
seeing Lucas jump in fear, startled. Put on guard himself, Miguel reaches
out a hand to Lucas, trying to ease the young man’s fear. “Hey, it’s okay,
buddy, just me.” Miguel grins. “Come to join us for breakfast?”
	Lucas swallows uncomfortably. “Well, I...”
	Still trying to ease Lucas’ tension, Miguel sighs urges Lucas further.
“C’mon, it’ll be good for the soul.”
	Leading Lucas to the Mess Hall, Miguel glances at his young friend, only
to have a chill go down his spine when he sees the dread in those crystal
blue eyes.

	Not twenty minutes later, Lucas is sitting at a table with a large group
of people. They are laughing it up, having a wonderful time while Lucas
sits alone with only his thoughts as his company. His mind is wandering,
his eyes traveling over unseen faces, the faces of the friends he doesn’t
have and, he believes, never will. He wants help but he’s too afraid
they’ll take the only thing he has away from him. He wants company, someone
to talk to, he doesn’t want to sit here in the background. He just wants a
little bit of attention. No one is listening to his cries. Not the cries he
lives with every night, but the simple cry of him sitting here, alone. He
is _screaming_ in their ears for help but no one is listening to him, they
pretend that it doesn’t exist, that maybe if they leave him alone his
problem will go away. That _is_ his problem. He shakes his head softly and
stands and leaves. He turns back in the doorway to see if he matters. No
one noticed he left. 

	Lucas is crouched on the floor of a stall in the men’s room in Deck 5,
leaning toward the while porcelain bowl. He lifts his right hand to his
mouth and quickly, with practiced ease, slides his thin fingers down his
throat. He vomits heavily, bringing up very little, despite his strength.
*It’s hard to throw up what you haven’t eaten*, he thinks, *but this is
what I need to do. I need to be heard.* As Lucas continues to dry-heave,
his blood dripping into the water from the fingers he scraped against his
teeth. He leans farther towards the bowl, trying not to make a sound as he
finally vomits, bringing up only blood and bile.

 An hour later, after a short nap, Lucas has made his way to the Moon Pool,
his face pale, his lips bluish. He’s rubbing his arms to try to warm up.
Darwin is watching him curiously. 
	“Lucas is cold.”
	“Yes, Darwin.”
	“Lucas is sick?”
	“No, Darwin.”
	“Lucas is skinny.”

	Lucas turns violently on his last friend as a string within his
consciousness simply snaps. He braces both his arms on the pool railing in
order to lean foreword and not fall in. “Are you gonna start criticizing
me, too, Darwin?! Jump on the bandwagon, everybody make fun of stupid
skinny Lucas! Fine! Everybody make fun of me because someday soon I’m gonna
be gone and you are going to regret every word that you said!”  Wild with
anger and shaking with fear, Lucas storms off into the hallway. Wendy sees
him and suddenly understands what Jim was speaking about.
	“Lucas!”
	He whirls angrily, then turns to see her face. *She could know, don’t run
away, show her that the truth isn’t true.* He stays right where he is,
letting her catch up to him.
	Sickened by the sigh of the pain-crazed, panicked young man, she walks
slowly, trying to stay as steady and calm as possible. “Are you all right,
Lucas? I heard you yelling but I couldn’t make out what you were saying.”

	Lucas uncomfortably pushes at his hair, shifting his weight from foot to
foot. “I’m fine. What is it?”
	“I wanted to ask you something, is this a bad time?”
	“No, just walk with me.” Lucas walks away toward his quarters, and Wendy
struggles to keep up with his long, hurried stride. Her questioning is
meant to be nonchalant, but it is lined with anxiety. 
	“I just wanted to know if you could tell me how much you weigh.”
	Lucas nearly drops to the floor right there. He turns his eyes from Wendy,
watching Darwin, who swims quickly, making an obvious effort to keep up
with Lucas. Lucas barely perceives his friend’s presence, he merely wants
to avoid Wendy’s eyes meeting his own, as his are dulled by dizziness. “I
don’t understand. My weight’s fine.”


	*Defensive when questioned....* “How much do you weigh, Lucas? That’s all
I was asking.”

	Lucas shrugs, trying to act as if he doesn’t get up on the scale in his
quarters morning, noon, and night. “Oh, I don’t know off the top of my
head... one-thirty? Why is it so important?”
	“You appear to be getting thinner.”
	Lucas faces her, then looks away, fidgeting with his hands. “Oh, that,
I’ve been working out, I guess I haven’t been eating enough.”

	Wendy stops walking and puts her hand on Lucas’ arm, stopping him, and
forcing him to look into her eyes. “Lucas, honestly, do you know what an
eating disorder is?”
	Tears spring into Lucas eyes and he pulls away, looking skyward, acting
annoyed. It’s precisely that, though: an act. “Please, Wendy, I’ve got a
ton of work to do, I’ll talk to you later.” Lucas tries to make a run for
it, but Wendy calls after him.
	“Lucas!”

	He stops and slowly turns, he’s crumbling inside, that’s why he wants to
get away so badly, he doesn’t want her to see him cry. Shocked by the
enormity of his pain, she softens, knowing in her mind that she shouldn’t
be pressuring him, but wanting more than anything in her heart to grab him
and hold him against her breast and try to make it better. She sighs
deeply, her voice growing soft. “I’m here if you want some help, Lucas,
please, think about it. Anything, I’m here for you.”

	She’s inside his fears, she knows what he wants more than anything in his
life. He wants to be heard. He nods sadly, the tears already filling his
eyes. She sighs deeply, trying to think of an effective strategy that will
allow her to get through to him without making him feel like he’s being
accused. “This happens to other people, Lucas, there are doctors who can
help you.”

	Lucas shakes his head slowly, filled with shame. “No. It’s just me.” He
then walks away slowly, far too dejected for his own good. Wendy is
terrified for his sake. 

	Several days later, Lucas walks into the Bridge and up to his post on the
starboard platform. Hudson looks up from his console, then turns his gaze
to the young man. “Wolenczak, you’re not working today.”
	Lucas looks up, bewildered. “Yes, I am.”
	“No, I’m afraid not, Doctor Smith just called to say she’s giving you the
day off.”
	“I don’t want the day off.”
	“Oh well. And she says she wants to see you in Sea Deck as soon as
possible.”

	Lucas doesn’t want to go, but he obediently follows his orders and leaves.
	Lucas walks down the stairs to C-Deck, slowly. He walks along the swim
tubes, breathing deeply and closing his eyes, stopping for a minute. He
gives a soft moan and passes out onto the ground. Moments later, Dagwood
turns a corner and sees Lucas lying there. He rushes over, concerned, and
crouches down next to Lucas’ unconscious form. “Lucas? Lucas, what’s wrong?
Are you sleeping? Mmmm... Lucas...” Dagwood looks around, unsure, then
walks away.

	Later on, Wendy walks into Sea Deck, exhausted and worried about Lucas,
who has yet to be found. But, to her extreme surprise, she finds Lucas
there, contentedly petting Darwin as if not a moment has past. She swallows
hard, trying to force a resolve. “Lucas?”
	He looks up, an unruly lock of his hair falling out of place to hang in
his line of sight, slightly obscuring his vision. 

	Wendy looks at his beauty, and shakes her head at the thought of him being
ill. *Not possible.* Yet, it is. “Are you all right? Dagwood came and said
you were unconscious.”

	Lucas tries to lie; to appear confused. “I’m fine. Oh, you know what it
was, I fell coming down the stairs, that’s probably what it was.”
	Wendy steps toward him. “No, he said he came over and tried to wake you
up, but you wouldn’t wake up.”
	“Then  Dagwood doesn’t know what he’s talking about” Lucas’ attitude is
growing defensive again, he’s trying to take the focus off himself and
place it on Dagwood’s ‘incompetence’. He’s going so far as to try to hurt
one of his friends for the sake of living as he chooses. Wendy doesn’t buy
this act for a _second_.
	“Lucas, Dagwood’s your friend, he was only trying to protect you.”
	
	Lucas is trying now for stoicism. *Do _not_ let this affect you.* “I don’t
have any friends.” Luca turns to leave.
	“Lucas!!” Her cry provokes no reaction, and she’s obviously desperate.
“This has happened to other people! You’re not the only one!”

	He leaves, simply.

	Three days later, Lucas walks weakly onto the Bridge, practically
staggering up to his post. He sits, sighs, and puts on his headset, trying
his very best to work through the pain. He’s not ready to die yet, and he
won’t let anyone know until it is too late. Unfortunately, a determined
mind is no match for Lucas’ weak and deteriorating body. Out of nowhere, he
passes out onto the floor of the bridge. There’s a brief moment of chaos
before Captain Hudson and Miguel run to the young man’s aid. 
	Lucas is soaked in sweat, shivering, and moaning softly as his thin body
ravages him with pain from the fall. He’s trying to curl into a comforting
fetal position, but his back is hammering him with pain. He curls his hands
into loose fists and holds them close to his chest, folding his legs at the
same time. Hudson aches to reach out and touch the young man, but his hands
hang uselessly by his sides, and he is unable to bring himself to try to
help. He calls out frantically. “Somebody call a med-unit!”

	Tim glances up in horror and types at his console, trying to see what’s
happening without looking away. “Already done, Sir.”

	Ortiz frantically runs his hands down Lucas’ body, looking for a spot of
agony, a reaction, some sign from Lucas telling him what next. “What’s
happening to him?!”

	Hudson stares at the young man, just realizing that they are both shaking
equally. Lucas in cold and pain, Hudson in terror. “I don’t know.”

	Suddenly inspired by a deep recollection, Hudson reaches forth and unzips
Lucas’ uniform, only to discover a thick, soft, sweatshirt beneath the navy
jumpsuit. Hudson lays a hand on Lucas’ chest, feeling his thumping heart
but not the usual rise and fall that signals breathing. He puts his hand
beneath Lucas’ nostrils to feel his warm, moist exhale. He feels it. “He’s
breathing. It’s okay.”
	Ortiz’s onyx eyes are wide. “But what’s wrong, Sir?”
	“I don’t know!”

	Lucas’ face is serene as the pain subsides, letting him rest in the warm
recesses of the unconscious state. Hudson strokes back the sweaty blonde
hair from his forehead.

	When Lucas next awakens, he finds himself bundled warm and snug in one of
the soft white beds in MedBay. He looks around, his eyes scanning the room
in an effort to try to comprehend where he is and what has happened to him.
He closes his eyes in exhaustion, too confused to try to make sense of it
all. Beside him is an EKG, which beeps with every soft, rapid beat of his
weak heart, soothing him into relaxation with its rhythmical tone. He’s
altogether warm, but his arms are freezing, chilled on the inside by the
constant flow of two intravenous lines pouring sugar water into his veins.
Invading his traumatized young body are several other offensive tubes, one
of which is of a soft, pliable, plastic which it reaches down his right
nostril to feed him a creamy substance, the first nutrition he’s had in
weeks. He feels a slight pressure on his chest, then an invading warmth for
which he is eternally grateful. He opens his eyes and looks at Wendy, his
eyes asking the obvious question, *What’s happened to me?*. Wendy sighs and
reaches out to brush his silky hair back from his forehead, dreading the
knowledge that she must tell him the sad, sad, news. 
	She starts out calmly, trying to ease him into the idea of being ill at
_all_. “It’s okay, Lucas, calm down. You’re all right. You fainted and
we’re keeping you here.”
	His eyes plead for her to tell him the truth of what’s happened, but
behind that eagerness lies shame.
	Wendy sighs deeply, unspeakably troubled. “You have a disease, Lucas,
called anorexia. Do you know what that is?”
	His eyes reflect the sheer terror he is feeling, but no comprehension of
Wendy’s words. She sighs deeply, because she can’t be sure he knows what
she’s talking about. He was raised a rich kid, and eating disorders weren’t
spoken of when he was younger, it was thought to be a problem fixed by the
bridge between the “gender gap”, the attempt as gender equality, which told
us that it was okay to be a girl and to be heavy, but, as we see, Lucas is
no girl, and he was _never_ heavy. No matter how much these children are
told it doesn’t matter, a hundred years of progress won’t change the
actions of their parents, relatives, and peers, and they know that it’s
desirable to look pretty, to be thin and beautiful or strong and athletic,
to be popular, to fit in. To make a feeble attempt at self-esteem, even
though these diseases are the worst possible way to try to reach that goal.
It doesn’t take long to become a sick loner, to become *too* skinny, or to
become so obsessed with food that no one cares to be around them. Wendy
sighs deeply. It is all these factors that have out Lucas here, in this
bed, when he could be out with Tony or Tim, and playing with Darwin.
	Wendy sighs again, reaching out to stroke his soft cheek with the back of
her hand. “It’s when you don’t eat, so you can get thin. You’re bulimic,
too, Lucas. You binge on junk food because you’re just so hungry... but
then you throw it up. Did you think you were fat, Lucas?”

	Lucas blinks passively, unable to summon the strength to respond.

	Wendy sighs deeply, doing her very best to attempt the young man into
admitting his actions. “Did you want people to notice you, Lucas? Were you
lonely? Were you scared?”

	Lucas’ eyes are deep and soulful, rimmed by tears which cry out “Yes!” but
he won’t admit it.
	Wendy sighs and tries her best to treat him gently and not make him feel
guilty, but she is failing, and he’s spiraling into a deep pit of
self-loathing. “You did an awful lot of damage to your body, Lucas. You had
an ulcer bleeding in you stomach, your throat is all torn up, so much so we
couldn’t even put this tube down it.” She gently touches the skin of his
cheek, indicating the feeding tube near her hand. “You have severe
imbalances in you blood, you’re dehydrated, malnourished, literally
_starving_ yourself to death. Your blood pressure was down to eighty over
sixty, a few of your teeth are loose, even your _hair_ started to fall out.
Here.” She touches his neck behind his ear, and his eyes close with shame.
She tries every way she knows how to resist the temptation to hug him. “You
weigh ninety-four pounds, Lucas. A healthy boy your age and height should
weigh a hundred and sixty. You have to eat.”

	Finally Lucas tears down his wall of silence, but his voice is soft and
dripping with emotion and quiet desperation. “I can’t eat. I don’t want...”
	Wendy interrupts, “What don’t you want, Lucas?”
	Having had his attempt at emotion belittled and his painfully small
request for help denied, he looks away, no longer willing to talk about his
pain.
	Wendy is practically begging now, seeing the hurt she’s caused him.
“Lucas, what do you want? If you did this because you don’t want be fat,
don’t worry about it, you were a very sick child and you’re still a very
slender young man. It’s doubtful you’ll ever be _normal_. Why did you do
this, Lucas?”

	Looking intensely into her eyes, Lucas renews his strength, begging for
himself, begging for help. “I want to be someone special.”
	Wendy smiles *this shouldn’t be so hard*. “Lucas, you _are_ special,
you’re smart and funny and handsome and very, very sweet.”
	Lucas’ voice is wistful, filled with silent loneliness. “I want to be
noticed.”

	Buoyed by her confidence, Wendy forgets this young man’s link to mental
health is precious and dangerously thin, on the brink of breaking. She
begins pressuring him, when the last thing he needs right now is more
pressure. “Lucas, in time, you’ll find love.”
	Lucas suddenly has an outburst, a furious little geyser of anger and hurt.
His voice is filled with venom, and his eyes are blazing with hate. “It’s
not about love, it’s about everyone ignoring my existence.”
	Wendy’s suddenly confused. “But you thought you were fat.”
	Lucas sighs deeply. “I was.”
	Once again she’s belittling his feeling and emotions, pushing him further
and further down until he’s on his knees begging for mercy, then continuing
to push. “No, you weren’t.”

	Deeply hurt and exhausted, Lucas’ voice takes on a whiny tone, and he
tries, for all his pain and discomfort, to roll over and turn away from
her. “Tony made fun of me.” Wendy reaches out and puts her hand on Lucas’
shoulder, gently squeezing his scrawny flesh, almost shivering as she feels
his tender bones beneath her fingers “I’m sure he was only kidding.”

	Lucas is tired, and getting very irritated with this entire situation.
He’s riding on an emotional roller-coaster, unable to stay in any one realm
of emotion for very long, he’s switching from scared to angry to hurt and
back again in any one period of time. Now, however, he’s _extremely_
cranky. “Still hurt.”

	Wendy’s ignoring the business at hand and, in doing so, is basically
telling him his heartfelt feelings mean nothing. “Do you want to get
better?”
	Lucas turns away, tears springing into his eyes, but his voice filled with
hate for her. “Leave me alone.”
	Wendy pats his bruised hand and sighs. “Get some rest.”

	In Hudson’s’ quarters, the Captain, with the image of that young man lying
so pale and sickly on the floor of his Bridge still fresh in his mind, is
trying to relax with a thick novel, but he is failing to dispel that image,
no matter how many pages he can get through. “C’mon in.”

	Wendy walks in, subdued. Her eyes are sad, underlined by dark rings aging
her beyond her years. Hudson closes his book to give her his full
attention, he _is_ worried about Lucas, and is not afraid to say so. “How
is he? Is he all right?”
	Wendy sighs deeply, sitting heavily at a chair beside the table. “He’s
anorexic.”

	Hudson stares a moment as the full extent of what she is saying reaches
him. He swallows hard, and his voice is dry, pained, and quiet. “I was in
the Academy with a young man who had that. He died.”

	Downplaying the severity of her patient’s illness seems to be second
nature to the good doctor all of a sudden, “I doubt Lucas will _die_, but I
think he’s going to have a hard time getting better.”

	Hudson’s looking toward the future, knowing this won’t be easy. “Does he
_want_ to get better?”

	“No, not at the moment...”
	Hudson rolls his eyes, not at her, but at Wendy for her nonchalance. 
	“... But I’m sure we can show him a way out.”

	Hudson knows, through personal experience, this _can’t_ be true. “You
can’t _reason_ with people who are sick like this!”

	Wendy’s getting annoyed at him, her patience drained by Lucas’ “insolence”
all ready.  “And how would you know, Oliver, are you the one with the Ph.D.
in Psychology? Did you major in treating illnesses like this?”

Of the two people in this room, one a doctor, one a Naval Captain, only one
has a true grasp of what is truly going on. And it’s _not_ the doctor.
“You’re letting your personal feelings toward Lucas get in the way of his
proper treatment!”

	Wendy begins patronizing her superior officer, a move that would get her
booted if she was actually _in_ the military. “Well what do _you_ think we
should do?!”
	“Whatever is in Lucas’ best interest, that’s what!”
	Thinking that she, like a god, can fix Lucas on her own, she’s offended by
the accusation she _can’t_ fix him. She tries to put the blame on _Hudson_.
“You want to send him away to a rehab center, you want him off this ship!”
	Hudson’s voice is quiet and collected, not at all unsettled. “If that’s
what it takes to help him.”
	“I _can_ help him.”

	Giving up this go-nowhere argument, Hudson decides to focus on the problem
at hand. Lucas’ pain. “Has he told you why he did this?”
	“He doesn’t have to, I already know why.”

	*This should be good*. “And why’s that?”

	Wendy begins a lengthy dissertation, doing her best to display her skills
to a man she does _not_ like. “Lucas has an obsessive cast on his
personality. He’s also lonely, insecure, and craving attention. In his
mind, his life is out of his control, he needed to be in control of
_something_. The easiest thing he had available was his weight. He always
needs to have the final word in whatever’s going on. He’s a perfectionist.
He picks things and sticks with it until it’s as good as it can possibly
be. It’s the way he is with computers, it’s the way he is with this.

	Hudson explodes at this. “How low does he want his weight, ninety?
Eighty?!”

	Wendy sighs sadly. “He weighs ninety-four, he hasn’t told me how low he
wants it. I think until someone reaches out to him. He’s crying out to us
for help. No one was listening.”
	“Is he out of his _mind_?!”
	Wendy’s calm now that Hudson’s agreeing with her. “It’s a psychological
ailment.” She nearly shrugs. “Yes.”

	Hudson sighs and gives himself a moment to contemplate this. “How is he?”
He pauses. “I mean, what kind of a state is he in now?”
	“That depends on why you’re asking.”
	Hudson cocks an eyebrow. “Would he willingly _choose_ to get better?”

	*Did he just ask that?!* “Tonight?”
	Hudson nods thoughtfully.
	“I don’t know. I think you should see him with your own eyes before you
get too far ahead of yourself.”

	Hudson nods softly, his expression sober. 
	When the two walk into MedBay, they are shocked to hear the
life-shattering sound of  Lucas’ heart monitor flatlining, but when they
run in, panicked, they find that Lucas is nowhere to be found. His
intravenous lines have been roughly ripped out of his skin, and his feeding
tube has emptied itself onto the floor.
	Wendy reacts to all of this in immediate terror, slapping Hudson’s arm
lightly as she runs across the room to the exit. “I’ll check Sea Deck, you
get his quarters!”

	Hudson stands a moment, disoriented, before he runs out, praying in a
moment of weakness that Lucas be found, uninjured. 
	Minutes later, Hudson walks into SeaDeck, his search having proven
fruitless, only to find Wendy there, trying not to hyperventilate. Hudson
sighs deeply and looks around. “Nothing.” He thinks a long moment. “You
said he was bulimic, too, right?”
	Wendy looks at him a moment, nearly staring, before the two run out of the
room in desperate search.

	In the Galley, the ship’s kitchen, Lucas is at the private crew’s
refrigerator, gulping down nearly anything he can _find_. He finishes his
binge with a final can of soda, then realizes what he has done and an
uncontrollable wave of guilt passes over him. His stomach _aches_. He sinks
to the floor with the intention of staying until the pain passes somewhat,
but his plan is ruined when Wendy and Hudson run in. 
	Terrified of being hurt and punished for his actions, Lucas stands and
tries to stagger out of the room, but he is too heavy, too pained, and too
sick. Hudson grabs the boy from behind, accidentally performing a motion
similar to the Heimlich maneuver on him. The contents of Lucas’ stomach
fall to the floor with a sickening splash. Lucas moans softly in pain but
smiles at the looks of horror on the adults’ faces. Hudson becomes furious
at Lucas’ stupidity and, as if this would appease the situation, takes the
tightly-held bag of bones and tosses him heavily into the wall. Lucas’ eyes
close and his head hangs forward as the shuddering pain finishes its
journey across and along his battered body. Hudson pushes his face in
Lucas’, intimidating the young man with all his abilities as a Captain.
“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!”

	Lucas looks childishly up at Hudson. Outside, he is cocky. Inside, he is
crying. A small smile graces the young man’s lips, and he speaks softly. “I
can do something you can’t.”
	Something in this desperate statement and Lucas’ sickly-sweet breath
touches Hudson inside and he realizes, for the first time, that Lucas
_isn’t_ doing this to piss him off. The captain releases his grip on Lucas’
shirt and reaches up to gently stroke the boy’s long, golden hair. “I’m
sorry, Lucas. But I want to help you. Come have a meal with me and Doctor
Smith. If you keep it down for a good solid hour I’ll let you sleep in your
room tonight.”

	Wendy interjects, knowing that there’s no way Lucas can do that.
“_Captain_. I don’t think so.”
	Lucas pushes at his hair, stepping forward, pleading with her. “Please,
Wendy. I can, I know I can.”

	She sighs softly and nods, resigning herself to allow Lucas’ pain to
continue further. At 2:34 am, Lucas is still there, in the crew’s mess,
sitting at a table with his head resting on his arm as he dozes. Hudson
gently touches his shoulder, and Lucas raises his head, groggy. “Wake up,
Lucas.”
	“An hour already?”
	Hudson smiles and rubs the young man’s thin back, smiling, as if Lucas’
entire problem is fixed. “Good job, son. Now go to your room and try to get
some sleep.”
	Lucas looks around slowly and tries to get his wits about him, then nods,
stands, and leaves.
	Hudson looks to Wendy and smiles. “You know, I think he’s gonna be okay.”
	Wendy does all she can to keep from rolling her eyes.

	A clock reads “4:50”. A sheet passes in front of the glowing green light
crystals and it becomes apparent that Lucas is making his bed at 4:50 at
night. How odd. Upon closer inspection of his face, it’s noticeable that
his hair is wet, his clothes are fresh. Lucas finishes placing the new
sheets on his bed and sighs deeply and shakily; the kind of sigh usually
ends a bout of crying for hours and hours at a time. He lies down and curls
up between the clean sheets, then begins to softly weep once again. In the
morning, Lucas is pulling on his uniform over his sweatshirt, which,
despite strict uniform regulations, he wears to compensate for his
extremely low blood pressure, because it often makes him so very cold.
There’s a sudden, startlingly bold knock at his door. Lucas gives it scant
notice as he works to tie his black boots. “C’min.”
	Lt.(J.G.) Tim O’Neill walks in carrying the clean sheets from Lucas’ bed
last night.  “Lucas?”
	Lucas glances up, raising an eyebrow to the sheets. “Oh, hey, Tim. What’s
goin’ on?”
	Indicating the sheets, Tim sighs, “Are these yours?”

	Lucas looks at the linens in Tim’s arms and shrugs. “No.” Lucas looks at
Tim, almost suspicious. “Why would you think they were mine?”

	Tim is accusing Lucas, and there’s no two ways around it. “Well, I thought
I saw you carrying these to the laundry room last night.”
	Lucas shrugs, brushing Tim off. “Nope. Sorry. Wasn’t me.”

	Tim sighs, his plan is failing miserably. “Oh. Well, thanks anyway.” Tim
turns to leave, then turns back. “You feeling better?”
	Lucas smiles, nodding. “Yup. Nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure.”

	Tim nods suspiciously. *Didn’t seem that way at the time.* But, either
way, Lucas is his friend, and if he wants to talk, Tim believes he will.
Tim walks out, still holding the clean sheets. Thoroughly shaken by Tim’s
“curiosity”, Lucas walks into his bathroom and opens up the medicine
cabinet. He takes out a box of non-prescription medication. He stops and
puts the pill box back. He grows uncomfortable and begins to talk to the
only person in the room. Himself . “Don’t do this to yourself, man, you’re
better than this.” He thinks and takes out the pills again. “But... if I
eat, then I’ll have to do this all over again.” He goes over to his
bathroom scale and steps up on it. It reads, “93”. Lucas sighs deeply,
dissatisfied. “It’s not enough. They haven’t listened.” He sighs,
rationalizing. “By the time I’m done eating they’ll be working, I won’t
gain, but if I don’t eat then Hudson’ll make me go back to MedBay. This is
the only way.” He places at least five of the pills in his hand and
swallows them dry, nearly choking. He gazes at his reflection in the mirror
for a long moment, then flicks off the light and leaves.
	Just like last night, Lucas is in the crew’s mess, eating a soft meal to
spare the wear and tear on his torn throat. He’s sweating badly, very pale,
and unspeakably frightened. He sighs deeply and wipes his hand across his
face, trying to clear his vision, but he is blinded by pain. He gives a
sudden, loud groan of pain and falls to the floor, clutching to his
spasming abdomen. He continues to moan, but he can’t help it, he’s feeling
pain like he’s never felt before. Ford looks over at the sound of Lucas
falling and runs over to kneel by the boy’s side. He cries out, horrified,
to anyone who will listen. “Get a med-unit, NOW!”

	In MedBay, Wendy is just giving Lucas a small hypo injection. He’s calm
now, sleeping peacefully. Wendy takes his wrist and feels his booming pulse
through his thin skin, then lays his hand down on the bed as she strokes
his dry, brittle hair. She turns and walks stiffly over to a very shaky
Captain Hudson. He’s ready to pop for all the questions in him. “What
happened?”
	She sighs and pulls of her latex gloves, shaking her head. “It’s my fault.
I assumed he was too smart. Turns out he was.”
	Hudson cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not making any sense.”
	“I had assumed he was too intelligent to be this stupid. It turns out that
he was simply too smart for his own good. He knew what he wanted out of his
bulimia and just grabbed up the opportunity.”
	Hudson stares.
	“I thought he knew the risks of using laxatives. He did, and he didn’t
care. That’s why he did this. He wanted to lose that water weight, he
_wanted_ to starve himself, I think he even _wanted_ to be caught. He is
terrified, Oliver, he wants to be helped, it’s why he keeps running away.
He needs to be helped by someone who has been through it. I know I can’t
sit and listen honestly to him without somehow hurting him. I’ll say
something stupid, I’ll tell him to eat, I’ll increase his guilt and start
the cycle all over again.”
	Hudson sighs. “Where can we send him?”
	Wendy looks away. “I’m not sure. But we have time yet, I have to wait for
him to be physically stable before I can send him away.”
	Hudson nods softly, trying to absorb all this at once. He’s still
confused. “But what happened?”
	She looks up, remembering they’re in a serious situation. “At Mess?”
	Hudson nods the affirmative. “He took laxatives before he ate in the hopes
he’d be done eating when they kicked in. He wasn’t. He was overcome by the
cramps.”
	“He was taking laxatives.” He’s repeating it, just trying to see if it
makes more sense coming from his own mouth.
	Wendy sighs, sympathizing with the Captain’s loss for words. “Yes. He was
incredibly involved in his illness.” She sighs. “Oliver, he needs help.”
	Hudson nods softly. 

	Two months later, in a UEO Hummer transport, Lucas is sitting huddled
against the driver’s side passenger door, dressed in civvies, his knees
pulled up close to his chest, with his foot wedged onto the seat. He’s
feeling angry and betrayed, and he refuses to speak to anyone. Wendy leans
over to him, reaching out with her voice and her hand, ever-so-gently.
“Lucas.”
	He looks out the window and pulls closer within himself. “Go to hell.”
	She’s very much mothering him, doing her best to put him at ease, but
still trying to protect him. “Put on your seat belt.”
	He doesn’t acknowledge her, and pulls away, furious, as she reaches out to
complete the task for him. “Leave me alone!”
	She backs off, almost fearful. Since she had to put in the feeding tube
three days ago as he laid helplessly in MedBay at 90 pounds, he has been
violent and angry towards her. She can’t really blame him for the
hostility, though.
	Lucas’ voice is biting, edged with fear, denial, and anger. “I’m not an
anorexic.”
	She sighs. “You’re bulimic. You’re both, in fact.”
	“No, I’m not!!”
	Wendy sighs, unfazed by his behavior. Lucas leans toward Brody in the
driver’s seat.
	He makes an act of innocence, leaning toward Brody in the driver’s seat.
He’s trying to get Brody to defend him against this awful Wendy. “Why are
you letting them do this to me, Jim?”
	Looking in the rearview mirror at Lucas’ gaunt face, he sighs. “You need
help, Lucas.”
	“You really believe that?”
	Brody nods. 
	Lucas gazes out the window, thinking he hasn’t got a friend in the world
to try to help him. His mind wanders over all that’s happened in the past
two weeks to completely shatter his entire belief system. His friends have
become his enemies, his pleas remain unheard even as his cries grow louder
and more heartfelt and more and more desperate. 	Tears fill his eyes and he
wipes one forcefully away, sniffing, refusing to give Wendy the pure
satisfaction of seeing him cry. Suddenly, dark crimson blood gushes from
Lucas’ nose and the tender vessels broken as Lucas struggled against Wendy
and her horrid feeding tube. Wendy panics at the sight of his blood and
grabs a handful of tissues from a box in the front seat, reaching out to
hold them against Lucas’ small nose. He flings her hand away angrily and
wipes his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his face
but not doing much to stem the flow. Tears stream down his sad face as he
stares out the window, his blood running down his face to drip off his
chin. Finally, shaking, he reaches out to take the tissues from Wendy and
hold them between his pinched fingers.

End Part one.

Copyright Kathleen Brown, January 1997.
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Date: Sun, 11 Jan 1998 20:53:37 -0500
From: "Kathy B." <kw@escapenet.org>
Subject: [seaQuest-ff] DLS v. 2.0 Story Format Part two
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Begin part two. (see disclaimer part one)

	Lucas is suddenly screaming in the opening corridor of a large house. He's
blinded by tears and weak with exhaustion. He _wants_ to just give up and
lie down and go to sleep in someone's arms, but no one is offering. He's
being flung into a cold and foreign environment, he's scared, but his only
way to express that intense fear is through his desperate cries to be taken
home, but he doesn't seem to be getting his point across quite well enough.
He can't understand why. "You can't do this to me!! I wanna go home, I'm
_not_ sick!! This is _so_ typical of you guys, here I am screaming and you
are _all_ ignoring me! Fine, you have me begging, _please_, take me
home!!!"

	He's positively furious and confused by this treatment, and taking out all
this pain on Wendy, Ortiz, Brody, and Piccolo. Wendy's the only one with
the strength to stand up to the young man, the other three are too shocked
and horrified by Lucas' actions and behavior to be of any good. "Lucas,
you're sick."
	Lucas looks skyward, then back at her, his beautiful face made distorted
and ugly by his tears. "I'm not sick! I'm lonely and frightened and
terrified out of my mind, but I AM NOT SICK! I am screaming in your faces
but you are _not_ hearing me!! I wanna go home, take me home!"

	Wendy's trying to work her way into Lucas' wild, complex, out-of-control
mind. She reaches his state of thought and sees the less-than-comfortable
picture of Lucas as a small boy huddled in a ball on the floor of an
upper-class house, his eyes closed, terrified by the sound of his parents
fighting deep within their room. They're trying not to be heard for the
sake of their young son, but he hears. Wendy realizes, with sudden clarity,
that this frightened little boy is who Lucas is inside. Wendy blinks away
her vision and steps toward Lucas, her hand outstretched. She's absolutely
_pleading_ with him. "Lucas."
	He shakes his head, refusing to listen to her. He's shaking terribly, and
Wendy sees this in his knees and his pale, thin hands. 
	From behind Lucas comes a woman's voice, the voice of Christine
Fitzgerald, the woman who owns and operates this home. Her voice is
incredibly gentle, not at all threatening, having seen this kind of terror
far too many times to count. She knows how to treat these kids, and it
shows. "Lucas."

	He whirls to see her, seeking solace in someone, _anyone_ but Wendy.
Christine steps toward him, warily, as if he is a wounded, dangerous
animal. Her posture is passive and her movements slow, because Lucas is not
working as a rational adult right now, he is, at best, that same frightened
little boy being abandoned. Christine reaches out to take his hand "You
don't have to be afraid of coming here. I promise, we're here to help you."

	Lucas' words, his burned-in denial, mean nothing. His eyes saw one thing.
A woman who can help him. Someone who will listen. It's the most beautiful
sight he's ever laid eyes on. *Help Me.* "There's nothing wrong with me;
I'm not sick."

	Christine takes his shaking hand, actually shocked to find it so thin and
cold. *This boy is _sick_. Very, very sick.* Her voice is even and her tone
practiced to let him know he's getting facts, not being asked. He needs to
be given that structure. "You're terrified of your life. Every morning you
wake up wondering why you woke up today, why it all just couldn't end. You
get up and put on a sweatshirt under your uniform to ward off that awful
cold. You take some Tylenol for that headache you _always_ get. You go down
to the galley and pick up some vitamins and drink a few glasses of water.
Then, lately, you've had to run down to the head to go throw up. You can't
understand why, you're not _making_ yourself sick anymore, your body just
does it on its own." She stops a moment, giving him time to realize what
she's saying is true, to allow him to accept her knowledge as truth. "You
feel terribly guilty, but you can't stop it now. You spend the day working
with a stomachache, your hands tingle and shake, you're freezing cold, you
get dizzy, black out on occasion. You're covered in bruises just from
sitting in your chair. You get scared when you lie alone in your bed at
night, your stomach twists with those little reminder cramps, you know? You
decide, maybe you'll go get something to eat; hey, if you're hungry, you're
certainly not going to reject this food, right? You go get something to
eat, you end up eating all the brownies or the snack pies or the entire box
of Solar Smacks, whatever. That's how it is, isn't it?"
	He looks quietly at her, amazed and enthralled.
 	"You're in too much pain to move, you feel like it's never going to go
away, you can't just let it happen. You go down to the head. You slip into
one of the stalls without anybody seeing. You crouch down on the floor."
She takes his callused and still-bruised right hand into both of hers. She
notices the bitten, worn-down nails, the calluses, the soft, soft
fingertips, the tendons poking too far out of his thin skin. She feels him
shaking uncontrollably. She pities and sympathizes with him from the very
bottom of her soul. He stares at her hands, mesmerized. "You take your
right hand, this hand."
	He looks at her, astonished, it's like she's been watching him all this
time. She has his _full_ attention.
	"You bring it up to your mouth and slip it down your throat. It happens
faster than you remember it, no matter how many times you do it. The bile
burns your throat. It hurts so badly. But you can't make a sound. You lower
your head and throw up. It hurts and you hate doing it, but you can't stop.
You have power over something nobody can take away from you. You need that,
that is what makes you special. That's how it is, isn't it?"
	Lucas nods softly, his eyes filled with tears.
	"That is _not_ what makes you special, Lucas. You are special because you
are beautiful on the _inside_. You are a perfect and unique human being.
You are beautiful when you are most happy, not when you fit the example of
how people think you should look."
	Lucas speaks softly, quietly, his tone miserable, the tears still spilling
down his soft cheeks. "I'm not happy yet."
	Christine's tone turns sarcastic, trying to get him to _want_ to listen.
"Lying in a hospital bed with a tube down your face for the rest of your
life isn't gonna make you any _happier_."
	Lucas swallows hard, and his voice is soft, cracking into a whisper on
nearly every other word. "I don't know if I remember what being happy is
like."

	Several feet away, Wendy sighs softly, as all four seaQuest personnel have
been watching them with their undivided attention. Neither Lucas nor
Christine even _notice_. She continues speaking, softly. "You have to get
better before you can be happy. I can help you get better. _I_ will listen
to you, _I_ will be there when you need a shoulder to cry on, _I_ will be
here when_ever_ you need me! Let me take care of you, Lucas, I promise not
to take the power you have worked so hard for to slip away. Now tell me why
you did this, sweetheart, who said you needed to lose weight?"
	Lucas' voice is soft, and he's reluctant to accuse. "Tony."
	Christine grins, trying to make Lucas feel better. "Well, Tony's an
asshole."

	Tony steps forward to defend himself, refusing to believe that what Lucas
is saying may actually be true. "You got somethin' you wanna say to me?"
	Christine glances at Tony and grins at him, not _to_ him, but _at_ him.
She turns to Lucas, who is no longer crying, but who is shaking
uncontrollably. "Tony's not very smart, is he?"
	"No."
	She nods softly, taking both Lucas' hands, looking him square into those
beautiful blue eyes. "Yeah, see, Lucas, Tony's slow. When he makes fun of
you, to him it's all very tactful and subtle, but your mind doesn't work
the same way, you pick things up much quicker than he does. And you're a
very sensitive and trusting guy, when a friend says something bad to you,
you take that as advice, not a joke."
	Lucas suddenly hits a revelation. "Basically Tony's jealous I'm smarter
than him."
	She smiles. "That might be a reason."
	Lucas is realizing what he perceives as his own stupidity, not his
sensitivity, and is again near tears. "Tell him... tell him how much it
hurts me."
	Christine gives a sidelong glance to Tony, who is horrified by this entire
conversation. "I think he knows."

	Tony steps forward, looking very sorry, but giving no evidence he's
telling the truth. He's realizing, for the first time, how much he must've
hurt Lucas with all those cracks about his hair, his weight, his status as
a virgin. *How was I supposed to know, he never said a word!!* "Lucas, I'm
sorry, man, I didn't know."
	Lucas is sniveling, trying to hurt Tony. "I don't forgive you. I don't
think I ever will. You need to know that I'm like this, and it's your
fault. I'm dying because you made fun of me."
	Seeing Tony crumbling, Christine knows it's time to stop Lucas and give
Tony some time to recover. Lucas is scapegoating, but he doesn't know the
nature of his disease, he doesn't understand why he's so ill, he honestly
_thinks_ it's Tony's comment. "Lucas, it's gonna be okay."

	Lucas is just now getting a grip on himself, wiping away tears with the
back of his hand. "I don't want to go home. I want to be happy."
	Christine looks at his once-proud, beautiful face and sees only the
hollow, burnt-out shell of a young man who had his whole life ahead of him.
Now his biggest challenge in life is simply swallowing a mouthful of
Jell-O. 
	Ortiz feels the need to step in, knowing that this silence can't continue.
The doorways are filled with a sprinkling of thin, teenage girls, who are
anxiously looking on, whispering softly amongst themselves, wondering if
this _gorgeous_ guy is going to stay here with them. Ortiz swallows hard,
growing more uncomfortable, as if he is being scrutinized by these girls,
too, which, in fact, he is. "Here's your stuff, Lucas." He places Lucas'
bag on the floor. 
	Jim swallows, and, taking Miguel's cue, steps back. "We're gonna go now,
okay, buddy?"
	Lucas nods softly as Christine picks up his bag.
	Wendy looks longingly at Lucas. "Call me if you need anything,
sweetheart."
	He glares at her. "I don't want anything from you."
	She sighs, nods, and walks out the front door. The rest of the party
follows, with only Ortiz stopping to gaze back at the boy he watched grow
up and then take the spiral down. Lucas' eyes fill with tears and he nods
to Ortiz, letting him know he's not mad. "Go."
	Christine puts her arm about Lucas' thin waist and looks at Ortiz. "I'll
call when he's ready to come home, but don't hold your breath."
	Ortiz leaves quietly, knowing that Lucas is in good hands. The door swings
shut and Lucas looks at the one person in the world he _knows_ understands
him. Christine smiles gently at him. "Let's get you moved in, okay,
beautiful?"
	Lucas sighs, his voice soft and pain-filled. "I'm not beautiful."
	She looks at him with great love and understanding, reaching out to touch
his hair. "Of course you are. There's beauty in every pure heart.
	He looks at her with tears in his eyes once again. She gently rubs his
shoulder.  "C'mon. I'll take you to your room."
	They head up the stairs and a group of slender girls is forced to move out
of the way.
	Christine calls out to all of them, taking Lucas' hand. "Come on, ladies,
he's just like any one of you."
	A very plain-looking but quick-witted girl pipes up. "We don't qualify as
he's." Several girls laugh. Lucas looks down the stairs with his sad, sad,
eyes, not sure _what_ to make of these people. A dangerously thin Dagger
girl named Zoe looks up at him and smiles warmly. Her kindness brings the
first smile on his lips in weeks. He heads upstairs to his room for what
may be the next few months, Lucas' only foreseeable future.

	Inside Lucas' room, he finds it's a double room, with two beds, dressers,
and closets; the only thing shared is a small wooden desk. Lucas is sitting
on the bed he's claimed as his, watching Christine fill out a form. She
looks up at him compassionately. "How much did you weigh before you started
all this, Lucas?"
	His voice is shamed, as well he believes it should be. Not because he lost
so much weight, but because he was so "huge" to begin with. "One-thirty."
	She nods softly. "Skinny to begin with." She smiles. "So was I."
	He's disbelieving. *You seem so... normal.*. "You do this, too?"
	She nods. "I used to." She makes a note. "How tall are you?"
	"Five-foot-nine. Ten, maybe".
	On her form, under the category of "Ideal weight before departure", she
writes "129".
	Lucas is uncomfortable, fiddling with his hands. "How much weight are you
going to make me gain?"
	Christine grins. "That's for me to know and you..." She thinks. "...not to
know."
	Lucas sighs softly, exhausted. He looks around. "Who'm I sharing this room
with?"
	She doesn't look up from her work. "Paul."
	Lucas is just outright _staring_ now. "This happens to other guys?"
	She looks up, her tone biting. "As much as you wish it was, Lucas, this
isn't your ingenious idea."
	Lucas' curiosity is stimulated. "What's he like?"

	A slender boy with dark hair and eyes and gold-framed glasses walks in,
eyeing Lucas. Christine looks up at him, grinning. "Kinda like that."
	Paul nods to Lucas, acknowledging his existence. "Hey."
	Lucas nods in reply. The boy walks over to the night-table next to his
bed, looks through a drawer, and, not finding what he's looking for, walks
into the bathroom they have to share.
	Lucas leans to Christine, whispering. "Why's he here?"
	Paul comes back in, holding a book. He practically rolls his eyes at
Lucas. "Take a guess, genius."
	Christine reprimands Paul with a glance and sighs. "He's anorexic. He's
also our local smartass."

	Paul looks at her with anger present in his eyes, and Lucas wonders how
anyone could hate this woman. Paul does not hate her, though. He was an
abused child, and this is the only way he knows how to have a relationship.
Christine knows and accepts that about him. Paul eyes Lucas with distaste,
and when he speaks, his tone is accusing. "You're a fingerlicker, aren't
you?"
	Lucas looks at Christine for some sort of explanation. She sighs,
irritated by Paul's constant insistence on making the lives of new people a
living hell to start out. "Paul likes to create his own sayings, he has
some pretty interesting ones. In his language that was asking if you're a
bulimic."
	Lucas looks at Paul and shrugs. "Both, I guess."
	Paul nods. "How long?"
	"Five months."
	"How much do you weigh?"
	"Ninety-three. How about you?"

	Paul walks out. Lucas looks at Christine, knowing in his heart he's done
something _completely_ unforgivable. "What'd I do wrong?"
	She reaches out to touch Lucas' knee. "It's okay. Paul went down to nearly
seventy-seven about two years ago and he's been shaky ever since. He had a
bad relapse three months ago and he got down to eighty-four. Right now he's
barely keeping ninety-five at six-foot. He's in a lot of trouble."
	"Why?"
	Christine's voice is full of pain. "He was neglected and sexually abused
when he was a child. When he hit puberty he started gaining weight, _fast_.
He turned to food for comfort. When he was finally taken away from his
parents, he started out in a private high school. He was constantly made
fun of for his weight, even by his teachers."
	Lucas can't believe it. "That's awful."
	She nods. "Think about how it was for him." She strokes Lucas' hair
gently. He looks up from his deep thoughts to gaze at her through the fall
of his hair. "One day he finally decided not to take it anymore and he
just... stopped eating. Just like that."
	Thoughtfully, Lucas breathes the word "God."
	"It's why he's so hard on people all the time, no one has been able to get
through to him. Maybe you'll be able to. He's really just as scared and
lonely as you are." She sees Lucas' obvious turmoil and feels the need to
move on. "Now let's get back to these questions, huh?"
	Lucas nods again, looking down towards the floor. Christine puts down her
clipboard, goes over, and sits beside him, putting her arm around his thin
shoulders. "Do you wanna talk, Lucas?"
	He looks at her with those blue, liquid eyes and she knows he has so much
to say, but that he is just too terrified to tell. She decides the only way
to get him to know it's okay is by telling him that he is not alone in his
fear, that he is _not_ the only person suffering through this. "I've been
where you are, Lucas, I know what it's like."
	"I don't think you do."

	"When was the first time you binged?"
	He looks at her. He nods softly as he surrenders.
	"I was hungry late one night, I hadn't had a meal in weeks, I couldn't
sleep. I went down to the Galley and had a little something. That little
something ended up being a week's supply of Ho-Ho's and an entire bag of
chips and salsa. I went back to my room and still I couldn't _sleep_ my
stomach hurt so bad. I went into the head and took my finger and..." He
loses himself in the pleasant memory of that first night. His power was
intoxicating, and everything else fell into the background in comparison.
"I have _never_ felt relief like that. I had _power_. I could control
something no one else could. I could do something special. Miguel kept
asking if I was okay. It got me attention."
	"Not good attention."
	"I don't care _what_ kind of attention it is, if people pay attention to
me for even a moment, it's the greatest reward I can hope for."
	"That's all you ever wanted." He nods. "That's all any human being wants,
Lucas. Try to get some sleep, then you come to me and we'll talk, okay?"
	He looks at her for attention and love. She wraps her arms around him in a
warm embrace. He trembles in fear. His shoulders shake violently for a
moment, then he simply breaks, sobbing for the lonely nights hunched over
the toilet, the days he could've happily spent with his friends in
arguments over pasta and chicken. All this time wasted trying to make
himself happy, when in actuality all he was doing was taking his happiness
away. Christine gently holds the frightened boy in her arms, stroking his
hair and comforting him.

	Later, Lucas is in his bed with his face buried in his pillow, asleep. 

	"WAKE UP!!!"

	Lucas wakes in terror, looking around for the person who screamed so
rudely in his ear. Paul is in the room, leafing through a book. Lucas can
hardly control his anger. "I am an extremely light sleeper, next time you
want to wake me up for _whatever_ reason, just say my name and I'm up. All
right?!"
	"I'm not gonna let you get away with something I couldn't get away with."
	"Like what, for example?"
	"I'm not gonna let you say "Oh, I'll get up, I promise" so I say..." Paul
switches his voice several octaves higher, creating his voice to be like an
airhead's, trying to indicate to Lucas that he must be of lower
intelligence to think this would happen. "..."Oh, okay, Lucas, you'll get
up and surrender what you have worked five months for, how silly of me."."
He's right back to his bitter self in another second. "You think I'm that
stupid? Please. If I didn't get away with it, I'm sure not gonna let you."
	Lucas sighs wearily. "Contrary to what you may believe, I'm not here to
make your life hell, I'm here for myself. To get better."
	"You'll make my life hell anyway."
	Lucas' voice is soft, and he's saddened by the face that Paul thinks so
little of him. "How do you know?"
	"Call it intuition."

	Lucas looks at him, suddenly angry, with _no_ desire to deal with this
sort of crap from a guy who doesn't even know him. "Not everyone is here to
hurt you."
	Paul looks at Lucas for the first time. "Who are you to say who will or
will not hurt me?"
	"I been there."
	Paul is trying to make Lucas feel as low as possible. "Oh, so you're this
big _expert_ on humiliation all of a sudden? You _know_ what it's _like_ to
have every shred of human dignity ripped away _piece_ by _piece_?"
	Lucas is at a loss for words. This young man, this 'Paul', is impossible
to get through to. Lucas gets a sudden realization--this was him mere
_days_ ago. Now he's made the connection, these people are going through
_exactly_ the same thing. *Paul, man, he's just not getting it.* Lucas
knows how to help him, but he can't do it. He's afraid. He knows how much
it would mean to him if he reached out, but what if this man's mind doesn't
work the same way his does? Lucas sighs. *I'm not putting up with this*. "I
can't deal with you right now." He stands to leave. Paul rushes forward,
grabbing Lucas' shirt and throwing him back against a wall. Lucas yelps in
fear for his own life. Paul's face is close to Lucas', his breath is
blowing Lucas' hair.
	"Everyone I have ever known has said that to me." He begins to mimic his
own mother, his voice changing to fit the role. ""Oh, Paul's fine, it's
nothing to worry about." "Ma'am, I think something's really wrong with your
son." "Nothing's wrong, he's fine, really, it'll pass. Thank you for your
concern, bye."" Once again, he returns to his cynical self. "Click. I will
not allow anyone else to ignore me. I _hurt_. I feel _pain_."
	He releases Lucas and talks softly, looking at the floor. "That's all I
ever feel anymore."
	Lucas see how much Paul wants to talk and it kills him. "Talk to me."
	"Yeah, right. Would you talk to me? You'd never understand my problems."
	"I'm not as stupid as I look. Just try me."
	"Forget it, Lucas." He shakes his head and turns to leave, but stays,
waiting for Lucas to follow. "C'mon."

	Christine's kitchen is just like any average person's kitchen. A hearty
meal is being prepared of high nutrition but little bulk, so that they're
eating more than they realize. Lucas walks in with Paul, who simply takes a
pile of plates and leaves. Christine turns away from the stove to face an
unsure and leery Lucas. "So, are you going to eat with us?"
	He looks at her, completely bewildered as to how to answer. *No.*
	"It's not as scary as it sounds, Lucas." She pats a stool beside a
counter. Following her lead, Lucas sits. "Did you talk to Paul?"
	"I tried, but he wouldn't go for it."
	"Start out with _your_ story. Once he hears that you're _not_ making this
up, he'll open up. I know he will, that's the only way to get through to
him."
	"You talked to him?"
	"Mmm-Hmm. You can't blame him, Lucas, he just doesn't want anybody to hear
him and misunderstand." She gives Lucas a moment to absorb Paul's logic.
"If you've been _through_ it, then you're bound to have some sort of
understanding. Besides, he's gonna hear it anyway, what have you got to
lose by telling him when he wants to hear it?"
	Lucas looks up from his contemplation. "What do you mean, 'he's gonna hear
it anyway'?"
	"In therapy. You two have a therapy session every day together. It's your
choice whether you want an extra one by yourself."
	Lucas' eyes go wide. "But he _hates_ me."
	She reassuringly touches his hair, then grins as she realizes how drawn
she is to it. It's so soft and lovely to her, she can't help but want to
run her fingers through the length of it. She looks at Lucas' face. "He
doesn't hate you, Lucas, he's just nervous."
	*That seems pretty hard to believe.* "Seems more brutal than nervous."

	Christine smiles and ruffles Lucas' hair, ever-so-gently. "C'mon kiddo,
dinner's ready."
	"I can't. _I_'m not ready."
	"I _know_ it's a scary idea, but you only have to eat a little bit."
	"I can't eat that much."
	"You don't even know how much that is."
	Lucas nods. "Exactly." His eyes are filled with fear. She sighs and nods
softly. She walks to a row of wall-mounted cabinets, pulls out a key card,
and opens up one. Inside are medications, mostly prescriptions for the
mentally unstable or depressed patients (including Paul), but also some
others. She takes out a hypo and takes it to Lucas. She presses the warm
object against his neck and gives him a dose of the red liquid. He takes it
without fear, knowing that, whatever this is, it's for his own benefit. "A
sedative and some medication to keep you from getting sick. I _know_ the
bulimia is no longer your choice."
	"What's the sedative for?" He turns sarcastic, grinning for brief,
precious seconds. "You're gonna knock me out and _then_ make me eat?"
	Christine eyes him. She's not scolding him, but simply gently warning him.
"Lucas, that's not funny. People have actually come in here thinking that
was what I was going to do. This is an extremely _mild_ sedative, the most
it'll do will keep you from having a panic attack. It'll just relax you a
little so you can think a little more rationally without your emotions
butting in."
	He looks at her, mock disbelieving. "A panic attack? Over _food_?"
	She looks at him, perfectly serious. "Don't tell me it's never happened."
	He looks at her shyly, feeling stupid and ashamed. 
	"Don't beat yourself up, we've _all_ done it."
	"Even Paul?"
	"Hardly a day goes by." She strokes Lucas' hair, knowing how desperately
he needs to be touched, how comforting a woman's hand can feel on his
cheek. "Okay?"
	He nods softly. She gently urges him down off the kitchen stool and walks
with him into the dining room.

	Fifteen minutes later, thirteen slender people are having an extremely
quiet dinner around a large oval table. Lucas is there, quietly pushing his
food around on his plate, depressed, and extremely self-conscious. Paul is
sitting not far from him, eyeing him angrily. Christine has been watching
Paul's behavior all night and is _extremely_ dissatisfied. "Paul, leave him
alone." Paul looks up at her, shocked, but she doesn't notice, she's
looking at Lucas gently, with love. "Lucas, just try."
	He looks at her. He can't. She reaches out and gently places her hand on
his. He is absolutely terrified of doing this. She knows it, and can't
blame him. He hasn't learned anything about the disease attacking him, and
worse, his surroundings are new and frightening, she can perfectly
sympathize with his fear. "Just stay here until everyone else is done. Eat
as much as you're comfortable with."
	Paul glares at both of them, speaking angrily under his breath. "We all
know how much that's gonna be." He looks at Christine, furious, suddenly
loud. "How come you never let me get away with that?"
	She looks at him. She's so tired of his attitude, and deep in his heart
she knows it's just his fear and pain crying out, but her dinners are a
fight, too. She's tired, drained from having to admit two new students and
in no mood to deal with him. "Because I can see how frightened he is, there
are days when I think you don't eat just to spite everyone."
	Paul's eyes fill with tears and he stands, throwing down his napkin. "And
that's what it all boils down to, isn't it?! Paul's not really sick at all,
it's all in his head, what he's feeling isn't real, ignore him and it'll go
away. Him just shoving some food down his throat will make it better, it'll
stop the _pain_ he feels." Paul runs out, sobbing softly, running up the
stairs. The girls are all highly upset. Lucas lowers his head in shame.
Christine drops her head into her hands, burying her fingers in her wavy
blonde hair.
	Lucas swallows anxiously, his stomach turning. "I'm sorry."
	"No, Lucas." She looks up at him. "Do you realize what you've done?" 
	His eyes go wide. He *knows* he's ruined everything.
	"You let him see the bigger picture. It's _not_ about the food, it's about
_him_ and _his_ problems. You just being here is really helping him."
	Lucas looks at her, wondering what next. "Should I go talk to him?"
	"Later. Just let him cry about it for now."

	Lucas nods softly, thinking. He pushes at his long hair and looks at the
different races,  ages, and situations these girls come from. And then
there's _him_. The genius boy from a submarine. The diversity of all these
people, coming together, all struck by the same illness. Despite all this,
he has to question, *Why me?*. This leads him to wonder, what if it had
been someone else, someone who didn't have someone to love them, take
notice that something was really wrong. He realizes that the higher power
knew what He was talking about when He did this to him. This _had_ a
reason. While it may not be good for him, it saved another's life. He has
accepted it, now can he find the strength to fix it?

	Later on, heavy with his small dinner and sick with a terrible nausea,
Lucas walks into his room. Paul is lying in bed, resting. Lucas watches
Paul for a long moment. "You okay?"
	"Knock first."
	"It's my room, too."
	"Respect my right to live, _always_ knock first."
	"All right." Lucas sighs deeply, growing bolder with a renewed strength of
purpose. "Look, Paul, can we talk?"
	"Talk."
	This exchange reminds Lucas vaguely of the conversation between him and
Doctor Westphalen right before the seaQuest was destroyed. Suppressing a
grin, he chooses her words. "To your face."
	Paul rolls over onto his back, propping himself up on his pillows.
"Shoot."
	"I consider myself a pretty good judge of character--" *Sandra*
"...sometimes, especially when I see someone who is just like me."
	Paul is still _extremely_ bitter, refusing to believe he's got to share
his room with someone so rude, so _unbelievable_. He thinks he doesn't want
his privacy invaded, but his only real problem is that he doesn't know how,
doesn't comprehend how _anyone_ can want to know about him.  "We're nothing
alike."

	Lucas looks shyly down at the floor, then up, at Paul, his voice pained.
"How do you know, Paul, you haven't said two civil words to me since I got
here."

	Paul looks away, shaken. "You want to 'talk'. 'Share your feelings', I'm
not into that."
	"Are you sure that's true? I don't want to get deep inside your mind, I'm
not a shrink, I just wanna hear about how you ended up here."
	Paul looks at Lucas for a long moment. "Let's compromise. I'll tell you,
if you tell me."
	Lucas shrugs halfheartedly, sitting on his bed. "Should I go first or
you?"
	Paul stares a moment, shocked. He looks at Lucas and offers him the floor.
"Be my guest."

	Lucas nods and softly sighs. He loses himself in a memory of himself
getting dressed in his shared quarters with Tony, with Tony watching him.
Tony grins at Lucas as he dresses, watching as the young man pulls on a
pair of shorts, his ribs rippling visibly under his soft white skin. "Damn,
Lucas, packing on a few  pounds, are you? Might wanna consider a diet 'fore
you have to go and buy bigger clothes."
	Lucas looks at Tony, not sure exactly what he's saying. Lucas' next
recollection is of himself as an Ensign, all alone in his room all the time
with nothing to do but, in his mind, think about his weight and play the
game, "How little can I eat today?" as a test. To see how good an officer
he can be. *After all, it's all about how little you let things get to you,
if I can ignore the pain in my belly, I can endure anything, right?* Then
comes Lucas' first true display of his control and power, the utter feeling
of being able to do what no one else can. A part of him is finally
untainted by the captain's orders and everyone's expectations and all the
stress and chaos that _is_ _seaQuest_. The highlight of his hard day is
having his full dinner and then using his slender fingers to get rid of it,
along with all his pain. Then Lucas remembers something odd, a memory out
of place with all his others. Lucas is the blonde-haired, blue-eyed bundle
of love and affection he was at age six or seven. His parents are fighting
in the next room, and he is sitting curled up into a terrified ball, crying
into his tight little fists. He's suddenly pulled out of his protective
bubble by a strong male hand, and is lifted onto his feet, for doing
nothing at all but what is normal and expected of a child. He has done
nothing wrong, but his father doesn't care. There's no sound other than
Lucas' crying and the sharp stinging slap as his father's hand makes
contact with his tear-streaked cheek. Lucas howls in pain, but his reaction
only is an invitation for more and more and more pain.
	Lucas looks up at Paul, tears moist in his eyes, his heart bursting with
the freedom given by the emptiness, but throbbing with pain from the
memories he believes will always be painful open wounds. He had no idea
that as he relived his memories, he spoke them aloud. Paul is watching him
with something approaching respect. His voice is soft, respecting Lucas'
pain. "Is that the only time he hit you?"
	Lucas' tone is sarcastic, he doesn't appreciate the third degree, having
his own memories challenged. "Was that the only time _your_ parents abused
you?"
	Paul nods softly, understanding Lucas' pain. Lucas nods in an equally soft
manner, encouraging Paul to talk. "Tell me."

	Paul sighs deeply and ever-so-slightly releases his guard on his emotions.
Slowly, he relaxes. "It was different for me."
	"Let me ascertain that for myself."
	Paul sighs and nods softly. "My parents didn't care whether I lived or
died. They were both alcoholics, both did drugs, everything. Kytes." ¹
	Lucas nods, he's heard about the drugs' huge expense and highly addictive
qualities.
	Paul continues, his voice continually softer. "Your game was "How little
can I eat today?", my father's was, if we made this boy by havin' sex, what
else is he good for?"
	Lucas has to suppress a grin at Paul's terrible analogy, but the mischief
in Paul's eyes tells him that it's okay.
	"Go back to whence we came, isn't that the saying , Lucas? I was a little
kid like you, I didn't want to piss him off, he was my dad and I figured if
I let him get away with it this time, he'll have what he wants and he won't
hurt me. My sister wouldn't let him at her; he used to beat her terribly.
She ran away from home when I was thirteen, I haven't heard from her since,
she's dead for all I know. When my father wasn't raping me he was doing my
mother, making more kids to hurt, or out drinking someplace. He didn't
work. My mom had me and my sisters to take care of, she was always
pregnant, of course she couldn't hold down a job like that."
	"Why didn't she just leave him?"
	"The poor woman had no skills, she married the bastard when she was
fourteen!"
	It's becoming increasingly clearer to Lucas why Paul is so seemingly
violent and utterly hopeless. Paul doesn't look up from his monologue,
keeping to the task at hand.
	"Either way, it was pretty much all like that until I was fourteen myself
and heading toward high school. I was there for my mandatory physical when
my doctor realized the pure hell my body had been through. My dad had
whores twice a day, then me, I wasn't exactly the healthiest thing you've
ever seen. He called social services and got me an' the rest of us the hell
out of there, put me in foster care as they figured I was the oldest and
it'd be less traumatic for me to leave Mom."
	Lucas sympathizes. "Yeah, right."
	Paul glances up, for the first time establishing eye contact with Lucas.
"Exactly. Well, they put me in what was honestly a pretty nice home, people
were good, I still write from time to time, they're paying my freight
through here. They took care of me, all I really wanted was somebody to
give me a little bit of attention, a warm bed, and the food I needed."
	Lucas is lost in thought, his words are nearly to himself. "You put love
above all else. I do that, too."
	Paul sighs, pushing at his long black hair. "After what I was put through,
that's all I wanted out of life, that's all I'll ever want. That, and a
chance to live. I woulda never thought I'd end up here, an anorexic. I used
to eat _everything_. I was in a new private high school with all these
perfect people with their sports and their dances and all I did was stay at
home in the arms of a woman I hardly knew, cry, eat, and go to countless
doctors while they tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with me."
	Lucas looks up. "What _was_ wrong with you?"
	"Severe clinical depression, compulsive eater." It's almost shocking how
cold and clinical he can be about this. He speaks painfully, but he's
trying not to let his emotions get in the way. "Well, then I decided I
wasn't gonna deal with everybody making fun of me all the time, _I_ was
gonna make a life for myself. Stopped eating, stopped going to the doctor,
stayed even closer to my adopted mom, she adopted me by now, I wouldn't let
the woman out of my sight. She knew something was wrong but wouldn't admit
she had picked a defective boy as her son. So she kept denying it until I
fell unconscious at a basketball game _while sitting in the bleachers_. I
wasn't even playing, it was just hot. I weighed seventy-seven pounds and I
was five-foot-six. That's just not a good thing."

	Lucas nods. He tries to avoid Paul the imminent pain to come, speaking of
his continuing recovery. "Christine told me pretty much everything else."
Lucas sighs softly, pushes at his hair, and sits up a little straighter.
"What kind of music do you like?"
	Paul gives him a puzzled look. Lucas shrugs, "Go with it."

	The following day, Lucas, Christine, and Paul are in a large, quiet room.
Paul is speaking quietly with Christine while Lucas sits on the couch, off
in his own little world, thinking for himself. Tearing herself away from
this breakthrough session with Paul, Christine turns to Lucas, granting
Paul a moment to slip his glasses off his fine face and gently wipe away
tears with the back of his hand. "Lucas?"
	He glances up at her, looking somewhat teary-eyed.
	Christine sighs. "How do _you_ feel about love?"
	"What?"
	"We're trying to have a conversation, Lucas, therapy tends to work better
if you listen, maybe try to participate some. I asked you how you feel
about love."
	He thinks a moment, looking down at his slender, callused fingers. "I
think about it all the time. I wonder what it would be like. I think maybe
if I was a better person, maybe someone would love me."
	Christine touches his hand. "What makes you think people wouldn't love you
the way you are now?"
	"I'm stupid. I don't know how to act around people."
	Paul is obviously frustrated by Lucas' low self-esteem. "Dude, you're
gorgeous, and what do you mean, you're stupid, you graduated college when
you were fifteen!"
	Christine intervenes. "Paul, I think what Lucas means is when he's around
other people, he _feels_ stupid. When he was young, he was at school and
doing homework when other kids were playing. He never learned how to
interact with his peers. So, even now that he's older, he's unsure how to
handle himself. That's why he has such low self-esteem. Because he's never
had any positive experiences with others. That's why he's bulimic now.
Because he's lonely. And he figures _any_ change would be a positive one.
Am I right, Lucas?"
	He nods softly.
	"Lucas, that's what everyone here goes through, in some way or another."
	Lucas nearly stares. "But these girls are so pretty."
	Christine grins. "You think being a girl is easy? We can be brainwashed
into thinking we're fat in a matter of _days_. There is a _lot_ of
competition between the popular girls and the unpopular ones. So the ones
who aren't being hounded by all the boys are always left thinking something
is physically wrong with them, so they're not being noticed. So they try to
fix that. _Or_, the popular girls think they have to keep up their
reputation of being skinny."
	Lucas' entire view of women is shattered. "Can't you tell them it doesn't
really matter if they're skinny or not? As long as they care about us,
that's all that matters."
	"I wish every boy on this planet thought the same way you do, Lucas."
	"But... what about Paul? You don't think it matters, right?"
	Paul nods, speaking softly, once again letting down his guard.	"You and I
are the minority, Lucas. Not everyone is looking for the deep emotional
commitment we are. You and I... we just want to be held and comforted by
someone we can count on to always be there. I _know_ for a fact that there
are guys out there who only want a girl they can impress their friends
with. That's not important to us because we don't _have_ any friends."
	"I don't understand. How could somebody _do_ that? How could they be so
superficial?"
	"It's society, Lucas. It's the reason the overweight are made fun of and
the impossibly skinny are worshipped. Everyone wants to be beautiful."
	Lucas sighs and thinks. "You were right. I _am_ beautiful. Because I'm not
like those people."
	Christine smiles warmly at him, congratulating him with a smile. "You know
what, Lucas?"
	He looks at her.
	"The struggle's halfway over."
	Lucas looks over at his new friend Paul and sees him smiling weakly at
him, genuinely happy for Lucas, but insanely jealous that Lucas can do so
easily what he has been unable to.
 
	Six weeks later, Lucas is sitting alone in the same room, staring at the
walls within which he laughed, cried, and, ultimately, came to understand
his severe problems. He looks up as there's a creak in the floor and Paul
and Christine enter. Paul looks almost as good as Lucas does, content,
healthy, finally some meat on his bones. It was the understanding and
acceptance that they are not alone that got them better. Lucas smiles at
Paul, who smiles timidly back. Christine steps over to him, sitting down
beside him. "You ready to go, Lucas?"
	He sighs. "I guess. I hope so."
	She pats his shoulder. "You're gonna do fine. Just remember to call if you
feel yourself slipping. I'll be here whenever you need me."
	He nods softly, he'll try. Paul steps forward and hands Lucas two new,
empty journals, within which Lucas is _ordered_ to write in, daily.
Temptations, fears, relapses, long, wandering dissertations on the way
Wendy's hair lays along her shoulders. Lucas gratefully takes the journals,
nodding. He knows what these are for.
	"_Everything_, Lucas. No matter how small an idea it seems, write it down.
Whenever you feel tempted and _every night_. If you feel yourself getting
tempted repeatedly, get _off_ _seaQuest_. Go out, see a movie, _get away_.
"
	He nods, submissive. He will. Christine steps forward and hugs Lucas, and
he lets himself be held. She steps back and looks him up and down, smiling.
"You are absolutely _gorgeous_."
	He blushes and looks at Paul, who grins at Lucas' discomfort. Paul steps
forward and claps a hand on Lucas' back. "I'll see you in a couple weeks.
We'll go out someplace, have a little fun."
	Lucas nods, smiling. This is a bittersweet goodbye for him. "Definitely.
Thanks, man."
	"You're _thanking_ me? I made your life a living hell."
	"No, that stopped the day I had my first meal. If you hadn't been there I
woulda _never_ admitted it."
	"You did the same for me. Thank _you_, bro."
	Lucas shakes his head modestly.
	Paul grins, feigning jealousy. "Go home."
	He hugs his friend, Lucas smiles over his shoulder.

	Lucas exits the large house and heads down the walk to his awaiting UEO
Hummer. He stops for a long moment, letting the sun beat down in hot waves
along his body, feeling the breeze gently brush his soft, shiny hair across
his face, bathing himself in the sensory overload which comes from daily
life. It's incredible. 
	Looking toward the future, and his UEO escort, he smiles and walks on. His
friends are immediately bombarding him with compliments on how good he
looks and how happy he seems. He downplays the attention, blushing as he
throws his bag in the back and gets in. He sits with the new empty journals
on his lap, and looks back at the house. The Hummer drives off into the
great unknown, which lies beneath the surface a few miles out, waiting for
him to hitch a ride.

The End.


Copyright Kathleen Brown 
January, 1997



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