He entered the building quietly. Ah, this was a smell he knew; insanity. And there was plenty of it. This was Rhy'Din; insanity incarnate. Earth had been a hopeless case, hopelessly insane. But Rhy'Din had an order to the chaos. It was something John understood; he was, after-all, human, and humans are born crazy. Some just lose control. Who was HE to tell someone they're not crazy? Well, that was his job, in a way... he was a psychiatrist. He had a diploma back on earth, he'd paid the thousands of Earth-dollars (The kind good in any country, you know?), gone through ten years worth of school, and for what? To ask people about their mothers? Yeesh, what fun! But here in Rhy'Din...

He entered his office to check his mail and noticed, sitting precariously on the edge, nestled under a flyer for a Practical Joke-War, was some sort of summons; he knew the moment he tried picking it up, it would fall, so instead he sorted through his mail. After ten minutes of being informed he was an instant winner (Almost!), he decided to lunge for the summons. Predictably, the mailman (Or Mailer Daemon, he wasn't sure which delivered here) had made it so that it would fall... fortunately, he was use to such antics and caught it. Reading it carefully, he knew this was the case for him... small, blue child-like creature, murdered six people, and already escaped, but returned willingly? This was enough to tickle John's nose, and whenever his nose tickled, it was either because the milk had gone bad, or he had a good case on his hands. So, gathering his tools, and his favorite recording pen, he set off for the future on foot, letting nothing get in his way!

(Ok, so he got there by signaling a Taxi-Carpet, but who's checking?)

Once safely there, he entered the building and approached the nearest guard... or whoever was behind the desk... there was ALWAYS a desk in these places... he hated desks...

"Hi there, I'm John Rashe, Psychiatrist. I received a summons to examine one... 'Renne'?" He really hoped he was getting the name right; it's bad form to get your potential-clients name wrong...

Port South Holding House. John liked the name; it didn't alert the world out-right the loonies stayed here, simply that some people needed a place to be keep things, and this was it; it could have been for any number of reasons. Such as... a zombie safe-house. After that LAST swarm, he wouldn't be surprised. Or even a museum... John always called them you-see-um's-don't-touch-um's... for the eccentric. But John knew the smell, and appreciated the festive name it had...

"Credentials, summons notice, membership card for the Artisan's Basket-weavers club... oh, sorry, wrong pocket..." John was a slightly... intriguing character, as many liked to say. They weren't sure, but sometimes they wondered if HE should be seeing a psychiatrist... "I believe this covers everything; you'll have to excuse me, though, my diplomas are still inaccessibly stuck on Earth." John handed the requested papers over, then glanced around, sniffing the air. Bringing his pen-recorder up, he placed it near his left temple and pressed a button. A slightly mechanical voice played back a few key-words for him.

"Renne. Murdered six. Port South Holding House. End of playback. Delete entries?" John clicked the pen three times. "Entries deleted." John smiled and then held the pen out towards Mr. Gaston.

"Pardon me good sir, but might I get you to speak your name and profession into my recording pen? I hate taking notes all the time, so I use this to help me remember key points." John clicked the button for recording, and the little blue light came on instantly. John didn't mind if Gaston took a moment to say anything; for some reason, John had discovered people were hesitant to speaking into a recording device, proving once again that humans, as a whole, were crazy. After-all... any SANE person would speak when a microphone was shoved under their noses... right?

Hmmm. After Gaston spoke, he clicked the pen off and followed him to the cell... he hated the word cell. It often brought to mind dangerous individuals. And though he was fully aware that a supposed blue child had murdered, yes, MURDERED, six people... he couldn't be biased. He was paid to be unbiased, to be sure, but he had issues with being biased. Too many were biased towards the unusual.

"Well then." John said softly, looking past Gaston. "It would appear this is going to be more interesting than I thought. That's him, is it? Is he a living dream machine? Does he take requests?" He chuckled to himself and stepped slowly into the room. "Mister Gaston, please wait outside the door. Thank you." John sat himself down on the floor and leaned against the wall, pen-recorder in hand. He clicked it once to play-back the newly acquired information.

"Name's Gaston, I'm chief warden here. 'S pretty much it, I s'pose. End of recording. Delete entries?" John clicked his pen four times, deleting the few short seconds of data. "Entries deleted." John placed his pen in his pocket and sat himself to watch the dream. Apparently... had to deal with issues he had concerning humans. He THOUGHT he heard laughter somewhere... he watched this strange kaleidoscopic world unfold before him. He watched as human-types encountered these strange, frighteningly beautiful-but-misshapen creatures... tall... and shiny. John knew they were 'misshapen' only from a lack of knowledge, and his pathetically human mind didn't grasp the significance. But unfortunately, he had to be the proverbial needle to pop the dream-bubble. He almost imagined it was like a cartoon on Earth; take a sewing needle and pop the bubble. But this dream was too kind to shatter, so he hoped to gently prod the subject awake.

"Mister Renne, time to get up; we've got cookies to bake this morning!" John was, if anything... very strange. "Or would you prefer to make me some soup?" The information included in the summons said he was once a cook for a tavern he had never heard of. "Oh right; your speciality is clam chowder, right? Hmmm, I wonder if your clam chowder is as good as the clam chowder on earth?" And John readies his recording pen, to catch anything and everything Renne says when he awakens...