Chapter Seven

The Vulpes had stayed long enough for paramedics to arrive and help both the board and Lyra but didn't stick around to deal with the police. The news had a field day when the aftermath of the events got to them. The Vulpes watched from a distance as the media exploded with coverage of the bizarre incident.

It wasn’t long before the headlines blared from every screen and paper in the city, each one dripping with a mix of horror and sensationalism: "University Scandal: Respected Professor Found in Coma After Gas Chamber Nightmare", "Experimental Drug Horror: Doctor’s ‘Mind-Expanding’ Research Unleashes Psychedelic Chaos on University Board", "Nightmare in the Suburbs: Professor Sinclair’s Secret Drug Lab Discovered After Tragic Incident", "Vigilante Intervention? Mystery Masked Hero Allegedly Linked to Incident", "Psychologist or Psychopath? Dr. Lyra Sinclair’s Descent into Dangerous Drug Experimentation Exposed", "Board Members Safe, Doctor in Coma: University’s ‘Miracle Drug’ Trials Take Dark Turn"

Each headline seemed to paint a different picture of the night’s events, but they all had one thing in common—Doctor Sinclair had been publicly unmasked, her career and legacy shattered in the wake of her own ambitions.

For Vulpes, the news felt bittersweet. The board members would recover, lucky to have only been exposed to brief doses, but Lyra was another story. The sight of her in that coma, caught between worlds of her own making, lingered in Vulpes’s mind. It was a reminder that, despite all her efforts, some people couldn’t be saved from the traps they set for themselves.

***

In a quiet hospital room, Lyra Sinclair lay motionless, her eyes open but vacant, staring at a ceiling she likely no longer saw. Doctors murmured to one another as they examined her unresponsive state, their faces grim as they reviewed the latest test results.

"Her brain chemistry is… completely altered," one doctor said, frowning as he studied her brain scan. "It’s as if the Psych-D overdose rewired her on a fundamental level."

Another nurse shook her head in disbelief. "I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s not just damage; it's almost like her mind’s been rewritten."

The lead physician tapped his pen thoughtfully against the chart, his voice low with a mix of frustration and sadness. "There’s no known way to repair this kind of trauma. Whatever she was exposed to has left her locked in her own mind—if there’s anything of ‘Lyra’ left in there at all."

As they exited, her room fell into silence again, save for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the faint hum of medical machines keeping her alive. Lyra’s body lay intact, but her mind had been fractured and reshaped by her own creation in ways science could not yet comprehend.

The soft, raspy laugh echoed in the quiet room, a sound too low for anyone outside to hear. Lyra's gaze, unfocused yet filled with an eerie glimmer, drifted from the ceiling to the faint lights of the machines beside her, their beeping rhythm forming a surreal symphony in her altered mind.

Her fingers twitched again, as if testing their strength, their new purpose. The world around her, once clinical and cold, now shimmered in distorted colors, the edges of reality blurring and bending into a kaleidoscope only she could see. Every beep and hum seemed to pulse with life, filling the silence with invisible rhythms.

"Groovy," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Her lips curved into a twisted smile as she let her eyelids drift closed, welcoming the vibrant, fractured reality that her mind had created from the remains of what once was Lyra Sinclair.

***

The Doctors claimed it was a miracle when they discovered Lyra had come out of her coma. The Authorities wanted to ensure she saw a trial but the doctors claimed her mental state was unfit and that she required observation. Lyra was oblivious to the discussions that were unfolding regarding her, she was more concerned with the new world that only she now saw. The hospital was so drab and sterile, it needed colour, the world needed colour and people needed to see it, hear it, understand the truth that Lyra was now privy to. 

Her world was one of heighted bleeding colour and sound, of mental fluidity and something more, she wasn’t Lyra anymore no, no Lyra had been so obsessed with control and order, so blind to the chaos and colour. She didn’t know who was anymore but she wasn’t Lyra, she was someone who knew the truth, knew the pointlessness of all that control all those silly things like justice, law, morality and ethics. They all blinded people to the colours and the chaos that were now her world.

Lyra's eyes fluttered open, staring not at the sterile ceiling tiles but at the spiralling patterns only she could see. The world around her wasn’t just dull; it was trapped, locked into place by rules, walls, and lines, blinding everyone else to the brilliance she could now perceive.

As nurses and doctors bustled about, their voices muted under the hum of machinery, she found herself chuckling at the absurdity. They looked so dull, so painfully linear in their thoughts, their routines. How could they not see the truth? All around them, colours shimmered and bled together, sounds danced into fractal patterns, and yet they ignored it, holding fast to meaningless boundaries.

In her mind, Lyra—the Lyra she’d once been—was gone, leaving only this new entity who saw beyond control, beyond rules. She was aware of the whispers and the talks of trials, of consequences, but those were trivial distractions to someone who had been reborn. She didn’t need a name anymore; she was merely a prophet of colour, of truth in chaos.

Her mind buzzed with a beautiful, maddening idea: these people needed to see as she did. This hospital, these doctors, the entire world needed to be shown the truth—to be drenched in the same colours that filled her mind. Maybe then they would let go, maybe then they would understand.

Yes, she thought, a new grin spreading across her face, everyone needed to see it.

She remained in observation for a period of time that admitted was a bored blur of reality with long and delightful introspective forays into her own mind as she considered her environment, what she was going to do and how she intended to implement her new desires to show the world her new truth. All the while she played up being the recovering patient her mind damaged beyond repair by the overdose of Psych-D raising questions she was certain about weather and even if she should be tried as a criminal after her mind was seemingly destroyed. 

In the ward, Lyra moved through her days with the detached grace of someone drifting in a dream, her outward demeanour placid and dazed. She answered questions in a soft, disconnected tone, her responses vague and trailing off into moments of silence that only added to the doctors’ and nurses’ concerns. She was the perfect image of a mind fractured by a massive overdose of psychedelics , a woman whose brilliance had allegedly turned inward and devoured itself.

But beneath the surface, her mind was sharper, more dangerous than ever, weaving plans as vivid and surreal as the colours that filled her senses. She had learned patience in the sterile confines of the hospital, her idle time a fertile ground for schemes and plots, all hidden beneath the mask of a recovering, broken soul. Every flicker of doubt from the doctors and every murmur from visiting officials further confirmed that her act was working. They pitied her, even saw her as a lost mind rather than a calculating threat.

Let them doubt, she thought, an amused gleam flickering in her eye. This was her canvas, after all, her return from the cocoon, and she intended to paint the world with the truth of the kaleidoscope she now lived in.

Meanwhile, whispers of the trial grew quieter, scepticism mounting as experts and psychologists debated the ethics of prosecuting a mind so clearly “unhinged.” The authorities deliberated, debating her fitness, uncertain whether Lyra Sinclair—or whatever she had become—could even be held accountable for her past actions. And with each passing day, the scales tilted further in her favour.

As the days slipped by, she began planning her next steps, methodically considering how to share her newfound vision with the world. The constraints of logic and ethics were as meaningless as the bland walls of the hospital room; she saw her upcoming release not as freedom, but as her rebirth. Soon, very soon, she would be ready to unveil her masterpiece—a truth so intense, so colourful, it would eclipse everything her dull, grey former self had ever dreamed of.

And when they finally let her walk out of the hospital doors, she would be ready.

***

Alas boredom, that rueful bitch was starting to eat away at her, and she had never felt it gnaw so fervently at her as it did now. Her introspections had been delightful but what fun was just playing in her imagination when there was a whole world to paint in vivid hues and make listen to the groovy beat that she heard? 

Why wait she surmised, Waiting is what Lyra would have done, boring, predictable, safe Lyra, no she was the embodiment of the chaos that was the truth, she was a living Psychedelic. Psychedelic, yes that was what she was, who she was. A drug to open the minds of the masses, to teach them to let go and just ride the chaos no matter where it took them. 

The name settled in her mind with a sense of triumph—Psychedelic. It was perfect. A name as wild and untethered as her new self, a name that demanded attention, that oozed colour and sound, that called others to join her in her vibrant descent. Lyra was gone, buried beneath the brilliant madness that now reigned in her place, and Psychedelic had emerged, a prophet of chaos with a hunger to reveal her truth to the world.

Her fingers drummed on the sterile sheets as her eyes drifted across the dull hospital walls. This place was a cage, built of clinical whites and greys, designed to strip life of any flavour. But she was done with confinement. Psychedelic wasn’t one to stay locked away, a caged mind. No, she’d break free, let the colours spill out into the world, drown it in a tapestry of disorder that no one could look away from.

With a sly smile, she leaned over to her bedside table, running her fingers along the edges. The world outside was clueless, mired in their routines, oblivious to the reality she could show them. Her followers, whoever they might be, would need a guide, someone to liberate them from the drudgery of logic, order, and expectations. She would be the one to open their eyes.

Psychedelic, the name resonated, pulsing with purpose. She wasn’t just a woman anymore—she was a revolution waiting to happen.

Dr. Hutchinson entered the room, clipboard in hand, glancing briefly at the strange collage of colours Lyra—no, Psychedelic—had scrawled in crayon on the wall beside her bed. He adjusted his glasses and turned to her, giving a cautious smile.

"Good morning, Doctor Sinclair," he greeted in a calm tone, already aware that speaking to her required a particular delicacy. "How are we today?"

Psychedelic’s eyes gleamed, and she offered him a wide, dreamy smile. “Hello, Doctor Hutchinson! You’re looking sharp today, oh yes indeed. The bluebirds told me they'd be along to listen to me sing today,” she replied, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

He noted her expression and jotted down a few observations. “And these bluebirds, do they visit you often?” he asked, careful to keep his tone even.

She giggled, as if charmed by his question. “Oh, only when I’m feeling particularly musical. Don’t you see them? They’ve got ribbons, and they know all my favourite songs. They even tell me secrets, Doctor, about how everyone’s colours get tangled up when they pretend to be normal.” She cocked her head, watching him, her gaze piercing.

Dr. Hutchinson cleared his throat, nodding as he scribbled more notes. “Fascinating. Now, Lyra,” he began, using her old name deliberately, “can you tell me about the night you were admitted? What do you remember about what happened?”

Her gaze grew distant, and her voice dropped to a soft murmur. “Oh, the colours… they were everywhere, so vivid and alive. The world just needed a little help to break free, you see. I was only trying to help it along.” She grinned sweetly. “All harmless fun, really. Just a splash of excitement, a little ‘unpredictable charm,’ don’t you think?”

He made another note, his expression tense but controlled. Her answers were too perfect—each one aligned neatly with the symptoms of a delusional disorder, but the detachment with which she recounted her thoughts hinted at something far more calculating. Still, he kept his face neutral, maintaining a careful distance. “Thank you, Lyra,” he said finally. “That’s very helpful. I’ll be back tomorrow to check in—”

As he turned to leave, Psychedelic’s face darkened, her smile vanishing in a flash of mischief. In one swift motion, she grabbed the steel bedpan beside her and swung it, delivering a solid crack to the back of Dr. Hutchinson’s head. He stumbled, dropping his clipboard as he crumpled to the floor.

“Oopsie daisy, Doctor fall down!” she crowed, a triumphant laugh bubbling out of her as she stared down at him, her gaze gleaming with delight.

Psychedelic snapped up the doctor’s coat, draping it over herself with an exaggerated flourish, then fastened his ID badge to her lapel. She rifled through his pockets, pocketing his keycard, a few spare syringes, and a penlight—simple tools, but with her knowledge, they held far more potential. A wicked smile spread across her face as she slinked out of the room, practically dancing as she hummed under her breath, her tune bouncing through the empty hallway.

She knew exactly where to go next. Her feet took her down the corridor, straight to the janitor’s closet she’d passed countless times during her “observations.” The door opened with a satisfying click under the keycard’s access. Slipping inside, she locked herself in, eyes glinting with excitement as she looked over the cluttered shelves.

The shelves brimmed with supplies: disinfectant sprays, bottles of bleach, rubbing alcohol, and ammonia. There were bandages, empty syringes, a few small canisters of cleaning gas, and containers filled with powdered chemicals. To most, it was just a collection of mundane, harmless supplies. But to a chemist of her skill? It was an arsenal of potentially dangerous weapons.

Her fingers danced over the bottles, picking up each item with an appraising eye as she planned her next steps. A splash of bleach, a bit of rubbing alcohol, and a well-aimed syringe or two, and she’d have more than enough to create a delightful scene when the guards found her.

She worked swiftly, her hands assembling a concoction of hastily made but effective mixtures. She emptied a small spray bottle and refilled it with a combination that, when sprayed, would create a blinding, choking mist. Another syringe she filled with a carefully diluted mix of disinfectant, ready for a jab if any “helpful” staff got too close. And in a small, empty gas canister, she managed to mix ammonia with a little bleach for a surprise cloud that would send anyone in its path gagging.

Her grin widened, practically glowing with the thrill of her impromptu “art.” Soon, she’d be ready to bring a splash of colour to the drab, sterile walls of this hospital. Psychedelic was in her element, and she was just getting started.

She knew it wouldn't take long for security to find her, it would start with a few orderlies, maybe a proper security officer but it would escalate of course. So she worked quickly to make something to deal with a few small numbers and make her way to a proper pharmacy for better weapons to escape, by that point they would likely be proper security in larger numbers, maybe even police or RCMP called in if they were really scared of her. 

Psychedelic grinned as she spotted a pair of scratched safety goggles hanging from a hook, the clear plastic just what she needed to shield her eyes. She snatched them up, pulling them snugly over her face, distorting her vision into an even more surreal, colourful blur as she looked out through the scuffed lenses. Next, she grabbed a pair of thick rubber gloves from a shelf, snapping them onto her hands with a satisfying pop.

She scanned the closet one last time, her gaze landing on a roll of plastic sheeting, the sort of janitors used to cover surfaces during deep cleanings. Perfect. She tore off a long piece and fashioned it into a makeshift mask, tying it behind her head to cover her nose and mouth. It wouldn’t block all the fumes, but it would buy her time to push through the worst of them.

Now fully equipped, she rolled her shoulders, lifting the mop bucket with a sly smirk. To most, these were just mundane tools, but in her hands, they were an arsenal—her own protective “armour” against the chaos she was about to unleash.

Psychedelic chuckled to herself as she eyed the janitor's mop bucket—a perfect container for her chaotic brew. She reached for the bottles she’d collected, pouring them into the bucket with gleeful precision. First went a hefty dose of bleach, filling the air with its sharp, acrid scent. Next, she tipped in some rubbing alcohol, stirring the mixture with an old mop handle to create a volatile, eye-watering blend. Finally, she added a generous splash of ammonia, watching the fumes start to thicken and swirl ominously.

“Oh, this is going to be a gas,” she giggled, pulling a small towel from a shelf and draping it over the bucket’s rim to keep the fumes at bay until she was ready.

The plan was simple: wait for the first orderly or security guard to open the door, and then she’d tip the entire bucket toward them, unleashing a blinding, gag-inducing cloud that would knock back anyone within range. The fumes from the bleach and ammonia mixture would cause coughing fits, blurred vision, and would likely send the first wave of responders stumbling back, giving her precious seconds to slip out and make her way to the pharmacy.

Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She imagined the escalating panic as they realised the full extent of her escape plan—orderlies struggling to breathe, guards reaching for their radios, and soon enough, the clamour of heavier security as they scrambled to contain her. And she’d be two steps ahead, with more supplies and a new concoction ready for anyone foolish enough to follow her further.

Footsteps sounded down the hall. She heard low murmurs—likely orderlies or a guard—or maybe a mix of both. She crouched, gripping the bucket’s handle and positioning herself at the door, waiting with barely contained glee for the precise moment to strike. The footsteps drew closer, stopping just outside.

The door swung open, and with a wild grin, Psychedelic yanked the towel off the bucket and heaved it forward, sending the toxic cocktail of fluid and fumes billowing directly into the faces of her would-be captors.

A chorus of coughing, gasping, and panicked exclamations filled the air as they reeled back, hands flying to their faces. Psychedelic seized the moment, slipping past them and heading toward the pharmacy, her mind alive with plans for her next “artful” creation.

She slipped by the gagging gaggle of people slowing only to steal a baton from a security officer's belt. “Never know when you might encounter a rogue Pinata!” she exclaimed as she skipped down the hallway towards the stairwell.

With the baton twirling in her gloved hand, Psychedelic cackled, skipping through the chaos she’d left behind like a child on her way to a birthday party. “Oh, I do hope they have a pinata!,” she mused to herself, swinging the baton in gleeful arcs, her eyes alight behind her scratched goggles.

The stairwell loomed ahead, and she burst through the door, her laugh echoing off the concrete walls as she descended, her rubber gloves snapping against the baton like a drumbeat. The thought of a “rogue piñata” only fueled her manic delight, and she grinned wider, envisioning the scene that would unfold once she reached the pharmacy.

In her mind, the halls were no longer dull and sterile but splashed with brilliant, prismatic colours and spinning lights. Every step was a beat, every door another chance for mischief. As she reached the next floor, she gave the baton one final twirl, flicking open the stairwell door with a flourish. The pharmacy—and all the delightful concoctions waiting inside—was just down the hall, and she was ready to seize it all.

Security was buzzing now she could hear it over the PA’s and didn’t doubt they were taking her as a dangerous threat now. They would have tasers and batons and unholsters and would be calling in men in proper uniforms with guns not just rent-a-cops, and oh what fun that would be! But she needed to make use of the time she had. She skipped her way down the hall, doctors, nurses and patients alike giving her plenty of room. 

As she rounded a corner, a burly security guard spotted her and quickly pressed a hand to his radio. "I’ve got eyes on the escapee near the east wing. Requesting backup. She’s—"

Psychedelic, her grin wide and wild, interrupted his call, “Oh, darling, I’m afraid I don’t have time for an autograph!” She reached into the doctor’s coat pocket and whipped out a small bottle she’d snagged from the janitor’s closet—half ammonia, half vinegar. Before he could finish his sentence, she threw the contents right into his eyes.

The guard stumbled back with a howl, rubbing his eyes furiously as the sharp, stinging smell filled the hall. “Sorry, love, but I’m on a tight schedule!” she chimed cheerfully, and before he could recover, she lunged forward, swinging the baton against his leg and then to the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor with a groan.

She gave him a quick, mocking salute. “Duty calls! Better luck next time, eh?” With that, she twirled the baton again, sidestepped his writhing form, and continued her merry skip down the hall, leaving a trail of stunned onlookers in her wake.

That’s when she spotted the hospital gift store and her eye twitched a little and she let out a gleeful little giggle “Well, maybe a little impulse shopping first...”

The hospital gift shop was a small, cramped corner stuffed with a variety of sentimental knick-knacks: Get Well Soon balloons bobbed in clusters, plush animals with oversized, pleading eyes sat in rows, and garish flower arrangements crowded the shelves. Cards with words like Courage and Stay Strong! lined the racks, all in neatly organised rows. Shelves displayed overpriced chocolates, small potted plants, and shiny keychains in the shape of hearts, stars, and smiley faces.

Behind the counter, the cashier—a young man with wide, terrified eyes—was pressed as far back as he could go, clutching his hands to his chest. "P-please... I just work here! I won’t stop you, I swear!"

Psychedelic didn’t spare him a glance. Instead, she moved through the aisles with delighted focus, collecting a mishmash of items: a pack of colourful glitter pens, a stuffed bear wearing a tiny hospital gown, and a plastic tiara. But her eyes practically sparkled when she spotted the novelty Magic 8-Ball, sitting in a dusty corner as though waiting just for her. She snatched it up, cradling it as if she’d discovered a priceless artefact.

With an exaggerated flourish, she shook the Magic 8-Ball, giving it a gentle, dramatic spin. “So... should I pay for you?” she asked it, grinning like a child.

The answer floated up slowly in the murky triangle: "Outlook not so good." she nodded and snapped up some stickers and a few key chains with the classic yellow happy face and a nice canvas tote bag to carry it all. 

With her newfound treasures tucked into her canvas tote, Psychedelic twirled out of the gift shop, waving a jaunty goodbye to the terrified clerk. "Fear not, dear mortal! Your wares shall bring joy to the chosen few!" she called out with a wink, leaving him in a confused, relieved silence.

She moved swiftly down the hall, her gait a curious mix of a skip and a strut, her eyes gleaming with the prospect of the hospital pharmacy. The prospect of some true "fun" supplies had her giddy with anticipation. No longer content with improvised distractions, she craved the arsenal she knew the pharmacy could offer—a proper selection of chemicals, bottles, and equipment. The concoctions she could brew, the chaos she could unleash... it was all just a glass door and a few clever ideas away.

As she rounded the corner, a plan started to form in her mind, each step forward bringing with it an impatient thrill. Getting in should be easy, she had a doctor's keycard, though by now lockdown procedures were in effect and they were watching her on the camera's. At that thought she paused and blew a kiss at one of the security cameras. Then turned and gave her bottom a defiant smack after mouthing the words come get boys! to whoever was monitoring her.

The two security guards spotted her as she taunted the camera, their faces set with grim determination as they approached. Psychedelic tilted her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips as she stepped back and pulled a small pink bottle from her tote that proclaimed it contained a strawberry bubble bath soap . “Oh, hello, boys!” she chirped, unscrewing the cap and hurling the contents at the guards’ feet. The liquid splattered across the tile, forming a slick puddle that sent both men skidding and stumbling as they advanced.

Before they could recover, she darted forward, twirling the confiscated baton with an exaggerated flourish. A swift jab to one guard’s midsection and a crack across the other’s knee sent them both reeling. "Oh, I’m so sorry, boys," she cooed, grinning down at them. "That looks like it hurts!”

With the guards incapacitated, she swiped the fallen baton, tucked it back into her tote alongside her newly acquired loot, and waltzed into the pharmacy. She quickly slid her stolen keycard, and as the doors parted, Psychedelic took a giddy breath, eyeing the shelves lined with both over-the-counter basics and the more restricted, tantalising compounds locked behind the counter.

Spotting the frazzled pharmacist watching from behind the counter, she strutted over, resting her chin in her hand. “Be a darling and give me those keys, won’t you?” She leaned in, her voice syrupy and sweet. The pharmacist hesitated, but one flash of the baton and a predatory smile had her fumbling the keys into Psychedelic’s waiting hand.

“Thank you, love,” she purred before sauntering into the back. “I guess you do catch more flies with honey than vinegar!”

Inside, she worked fast, gathering syringes, bottles, and small vials with labels she barely skimmed. She filled a few syringes with alcohol and added a drop or two of some sedatives, then dunked the teddy bear from the gift shop in a bottle of antiseptic, squeezing out the excess and tucking it back into her tote.

She eyed a bottle of industrial-strength sanitizer with a gleeful spark in her eye. To most, it was just a disinfectant; to her, it was a combustible diversion waiting to happen. Alongside it, she grabbed some rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and a small stash of syringes, her tote bag now a cheery arsenal of unpredictable chaos.

“Now, let’s make this grand finale memorable,” she whispered, cradling a vial of iodine with a mischievous grin.

She noted the commotion was getting loud now and ah there was the sirens, they would call in city police first, the RCMP would come later if she didn’t get out of the hospital and steal a vehicle first she had the doctors keys of course not that she knew what car was his, but she was certain she could find something to play with.

Now she had to ask herself how to leave, there was the front doors, the Emergency entrance, side doors, how she wondered should she leave? “Oh Magic Eight Ball that holds the wisdom of the cosmos should I exit from the front doors?” she chanted as the pharmacist watched her from behind the counter.

Psychedelic shook the magic eight ball vigorously, watching with glee as the triangle floated to the surface: "Ask again later."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, you’re a fickle god aren’t you magic eight ball? Fine, I’ll just pick whichever feels more fun!"

Quickly glancing between the options in front of her, she weighed her choices. The front doors would mean a direct confrontation—a dramatic escape but highly risky. The emergency exit, on the other hand, would likely trigger alarms and could give her a few moments before the cops converged.

"Eenie, meenie, miney..." She shrugged and headed toward the emergency exit, figuring it would lead to a side street or alley where she could spot something that looked ripe for the taking.

"Now, let’s make this a proper show," she murmured, palming one of her homemade concoctions. She tossed the teddy bear in her tote one last pat and slipped into the shadows toward the exit.

On her way down the corridor, Psychedelic spotted the fire alarm gleaming red and inviting. She held up her eight ball, gave it a brisk shake, and watched as the triangle slowly revealed, "Yes—definitely."

With a gleeful grin, she gave the alarm a hard yank, and the blaring klaxon filled the hallway. "That should add a little excitement!" she mused, giving the camera a wink before heading towards the emergency exit.

Her path was quickly blocked by a group of security guards, each looking determined and armed with a mix of batons and tasers. Psychedelic let her face fall into a look of feigned defeat, dropping her own baton to the floor with a resigned sigh. "Alright, boys, you’ve got me. I give up."

As they closed in, she suddenly sprang forward, revealing syringes in each hand. She jabbed the first two guards with quick, precise strikes, watching them drop as the sedatives took hold. Then, turning to the last, she pulled out the antiseptic-soaked teddy bear with a wild grin.

“Mrs. Bear needs a hug!” she cried, leaping at the remaining guard and pressing the teddy bear firmly over his face. Clinging to his shoulders, she cooed in a singsong voice, "Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleeeeep..." as he struggled briefly, then slumped, dragging her to the floor with him.

Dusting herself off, she straightened her coat, adjusted her tote bag, and sashayed toward the exit, humming a tune that blended with the fire alarm’s persistent shriek.

As she neared the door she took up that jug of very combustible antiseptic along with gauze, cotton and a cheap novelty lighter from the gift shop from her tote bag. 

With a look of mischievous reverence, Psychedelic cradled the jug of antiseptic like it was a sacred artefact, her voice rising in a near-whisper. "Oh, wise Magic Eight Ball... the fire was foretold in your depths! All hail the spherical oracle!"

She deftly tore pieces of gauze and cotton, stuffing them into the antiseptic jug’s opening to create a makeshift wick. As she flicked the cheap lighter from the gift shop, a small, eager flame danced to life, reflecting in her wide eyes. Psychedelic raised the jug slightly, her grin widening as the flame caught, casting an eerie glow.

"Time to spread the light of chaos," she whispered, eyes gleaming with wild glee.

Outside the emergency exits, the scene was pure bedlam. City police cars lined the curb, blue and red lights flashing as officers took positions around the exits. Inside the hospital, the fire alarms wailed, throwing patients and staff into panicked confusion. Nurses and doctors hurried patients toward emergency exits, their calls blending into the chaos.

As Psychedelic stepped through the door, officers spotted her immediately, raising their stun guns and shouting, "Stop! In the name of the law!"

Psychedelic paused, raising her hands dramatically. "Duck and cover, boys!" she called out with a wink. Then, with surprising agility, she leapt to the ground, grinning as her makeshift fire bomb detonated with a fiery whoosh behind her, sending a billow of flames and smoke roaring up from the antiseptic-soaked gauze.

The officers staggered back, shielding their faces from the heat as the blast threw up a cloud of smoke, mingling with the blaring fire alarms. Inside the hospital, more people gasped and hurried away from the exits, adding to the pandemonium. Fire truck sirens blared in the distance, the sound carrying through the chaos.

Psychedelic’s giggle bubbled out as she watched the scene unfold. "Policemen and firemen?” she cooed, flashing a wide, unhinged grin as the officers steadied themselves. “All these handsome boys in uniform for little old me?”

She gave a delighted wave, savouring every second as the law enforcement and emergency personnel rushed to contain her chaos.

As the smoke from the blast spread, Psychedelic lunged forward, her movements swift and unpredictable. In one fluid motion, she twisted the first officer’s arm, yanking his stun gun from his grasp and firing the prongs straight into his stomach. The officer convulsed, collapsing to the ground as she held the trigger down, watching with a gleeful, detached fascination.

With a quick swipe, she unholstered his revolver and aimed it at a second officer who was rushing toward her, squeezing off a shot into his knee. The man crumpled, shouting in pain as a third officer ducked down to drag him to safety. Psychedelic’s voice rang out, clear and almost singsong. “Kill a man and you remove one enemy, injure a man and you remove him and the one who drags him to safety." She winked at the horrified pair before her attention drifted to the array of vehicles parked nearby.

Her eyes scanned past the hearse—"Too morbid, even for me," she muttered—then the ambulance, but she wrinkled her nose. “Done to death.” A police car? Tempting, but not quite the flavor she wanted for her grand escape.

Then she saw it. Parked on the far end, its paint chipped but its character undeniable: an old Volkswagen minibus with “Book-Mobile” painted in cheerful letters across its side. It was the antithesis of authority, the perfect ironic chariot for her mad flight from order and control. Her grin widened to Cheshire proportions as she slowly shook the Magic Eight Ball and read the floating answer.

"All signs point to yes."

“Well, fate delivers yet again!” she cackled, clutching the Eight Ball like a talisman as she dashed toward the minibus, weaving through the chaos she’d left in her wake. The Elderly woman driving the bookmobile's eyes went wide and she screamed and scrambled desperately out of the vehicle seeing psychedelics intent filled eyes. Sensing the policeman who had pulled his friend away would be opening fire soon she dashed forward and pulled the poor elderly lady in front of her just in time to see the last policeman with his service revolver aimed at her.

The elderly woman’s face paled as she clutched her cardigan, her eyes darting between the police officer and the wild-eyed woman now using her as a human shield. Trembling, she whimpered, “P-please, I don’t... I just…”

Psychedelic cooed in a stage whisper, “Shhh, dear, it’ll be over soon. Consider it an exciting twist in your day!” She kept her grin wide and mocking as she glanced at the officer, daring him to make a move. His hand shook as he held his revolver trained on them, his jaw clenched with the internal struggle of risk and responsibility.

“Now, now!” Psychedelic sing-songed. “Wouldn’t want to hurt a helpless civilian, would you, darling?” She tightened her grip on the woman, who gasped, her gaze fixed in terrified silence.

Leaning down to whisper, Psychedelic continued with a casual grin, “Sorry about this, dear. Normally, I’m quite fond of a good book, but I'd rather not be shot today.” Then, with a playful wink, she yanked the woman sideways and pushed her  hard toward the officer, who immediately scrambled to catch her.

In the momentary chaos, Psychedelic swung herself into the driver’s seat of the minibus, revved the engine, and leaned out the window, blowing the officer a taunting kiss. “Thanks for the lift!” she hollered, before peeling out with a screech, leaving the panicked onlookers, policemen, and the old woman all in her rearview mirror as she tore down the road in her newfound chariot, the “Book-Mobile.”

The old minibus thundered down the lot, a testament to the bygone days of sturdy steel frames and indestructible design. Psychedelic cackled as she barreled toward the checkpoint, the flimsy plastic arm and wooden barrier no match for the hulking relic. With a resounding crunch, the minibus smashed straight through, sending splinters and shards flying.

The security guard at the booth ducked down, throwing his arms over his head as she tore past him, the sheer impact shaking the entire structure. A sudden flurry of colour caught his eye as something tumbled through the broken glass of his window, landing with a soft thud on the floor beside him—a vibrant bouquet of flowers, petals bright against the drab booth floor. He slowly lowered his arms, staring at the card tucked in among the blooms.

“Get Well Soon” was scrawled in a looping, taunting script, staring up at him like a punchline. His hands shook as he took in the message, as if realising with a sinking heart that this escape was only the beginning of something far more chaotic.