Stigma

1: Captive

Eldridge turned toward the door when his swift swing failed to yield the desired impact, but forced his face to bury the tension beneath an even expression. The door's motion had been arrested by the hand of Advocate Kingston, who shook her head at him with a pointed glance before gently closing the door behind her. Eldridge fell heavily into the armchair set against the wall, leaning the side of his head against the fingertips of one hand. The Advocate adjusted her seat behind her stained-pine desk, so that her position would cross his gaze.

She was an older woman who appeared to be in her late thirties; although creases had begun to cross her cheeks in places her hair still retained its natural red-peppered blond. Her motions were mildly nervous, exaggerated in the frame of her unfortunately thin build. The shifting of her dry, pasty-pale hands seemed all the more sudden against the dark varnish of the pine furniture around her.

"Your admittance will be recorded as involuntary, I assume," she began quickly, lowering her eyes to the shuffling papers on the table between them. "That leaves only the question of your willfulness and consent pleas."

"Meaning what?" Eldridge asked, voice dry in both tone and texture. His eyes allowed only the highest portions of his vision to meet her form, reserving the remainder for a small, etched-crystal wolf figurine. Moments ago it had been anchoring one of the many stacks of paper on the desk. Now he held it between the thumb and center finger of his right hand, by the point of an ear and one corner of the base, spinning slowly as he examined it.

"Meaning you will first tell the Tribunal if your infection was or was not by your own decision. If there is doubt you may be questioned further, and in the end this determination is used to decide your potential for treatment. If potential is found, then you will agree to accept treatment by means of your consent plea."

"There's no 'guilty' or 'not guilty?'" Eldridge's eyes rose, drawing his attention away from the paperweight.

"There's no crime," said Advocate Kingston, looking up to expressionlessly meet his gaze. "You aren't a criminal, Mr. Eldridge. You're suffering from a serious illness." She frowned, then, blinking at the paperweight. Eldridge had released it from his thumb and was now balancing it on his finger, still slowly spinning but unnaturally still in his trembling hands.

He nodded at her with a wry grin, barely detectable through his stone-forged features. "This... 'willingness' plea... do you honestly think anyone would take the Stigma intentionally?"

"I'm no Soulseek," she told him, repeatedly flicking the end her quill during each pause in its use. "I couldn't begin to imagine why people choose what they do, when they know the consequences."

He sighed then, shaking his head from side to side as he pondered, eyes saddening. "'Love is patient, love is kind. It never envies, it never boasts, it is not proud...'"

An eyebrow rose cautiously on Advocate Kingston's face as she regarded him, only partially able to suppress her curiosity. "What poet is that?" she asked. "I don't recognize it."

"No poet," he shook his head again. "Words from another world."

She reached over her desk then, and took the figurine from him. "Mr. Eldridge, if you intend to enter a plea of Unwilling, I would advise you not to make any indication otherwise in the presence of myself or the Tribunal. I cannot, in good ethical practice, testify on your behalf when I know the truth to be otherwise."

Eldridge snorted once, reaching his hands back to press them between his head and the wall behind it. "So you hate them, then?" he half asked and half wondered aloud, looking up at the ceiling with unnaturally calm features. "You hate carriers of the Stigma."

Advocate Kingston's jaw tightened as she lowered her gaze to her paperwork once more. "One does not hate someone for something beyond their control. One can only hate when they choose to cause more disorder because of it, rather than seek the help they need."

He nodded at the ceiling, pondering for a few moments. "It's quite alright. They hate themselves more."