Marc Dufour as Doyle Marshal

Welcome to Mising-Erystroph. We’re glad we can serve you. Please proceed to the Front Desk and sign in. A representative will be with you shor-shor-shor-shor -

“And the door’s jammed, too,” Parker said glumly. “Dunno what’s going on.”

Doyle Marshal ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “Be up in five.” And he switched the comm. off with a grunt.

His apartment, if you wanted to call it that, was cluttered but not dirty. Small. Cramped. But a helluva lot better accommodations than most of the other sods on this rock. Better a Murphy bed that sagged in the middle than a padded cell, he reasoned. Rising from his easy chair, he stretched, grabbed his tool case, and headed up to the main floor to see what could be done about Shor-Shor-Shor.

He had it fixed in ten minutes. A bit of loose wiring and a reboot later, the gleaming, sliding-glass door opened and closed smoothly and the chiming voice of the greeting program was free of stutter. “All set, Parker,” he told the security agent manning the foyer. “Anything else while I’m up here?”

“Not unless you wanna fix the toilet in 203,” Parker replied with a smirk.

“That’s all Hank. I’m an engineer, not a plumber.”

Just then the soft bell-note sounded, announcing a new dock. Doyle was always amazed at the sleek and pristine front the place put up - everything on the main floor, from waiting rooms, to foyer, to offices, was spotless and white-lit and perfect. A sharp contrast to the floors under it. “Who’s coming in?” he asked as Parker moved to the console at the front desk.

“Isely ID,” Parker replied and they both exchanged looks. The security agent glanced down, then cleared his throat. “Says it’s a visitor for you, actually.”

“Me? Great.” Doyle collapsed in one of the foyer chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Can’t wait to see what this is all about.”

A few moments later, the doors slid open and a immaculately-dressed man entered.

Welcome to Mising-Erystroph. We’re glad we can serve you. Please proceed to the Front Desk and sign in. A representative will be with you shortly.

“Are either of you Doyle Marshal?” the man asked politely. Doyle rose slowly and nodded. The man’s hand extended. Doyle absently shook it. “I’m Cary Tyler, CCO of Isely. Could we talk somewhere in private?”

Again, Parker and Doyle traded looks before Parker stepped around the desk. “I can open up a conference room,” he offered, and led the pair down a short hall to a door, which he unlocked with a keycard. The door opened into a small but beautifully-furnished room with a table and six chairs. After the two men had entered, Parker closed the door and wandered back toward the entry.

“How are you, Mr. Marshal?” Tyler opened.

“Not looking forward to updating my resume,” replied Doyle, and before Tyler could ask what he meant, he found himself going sprawling backwards from a very well-placed right hook. He sat there, stunned, as Doyle stood over him. “Worth it, though,” Doyle noted with satisfaction.

“Can I ask what the hell that was for?” Tyler grunted, feeling the tender left side of his jaw and attempting to pick himself up. “Have we met?”

“Nope,” Doyle stated. “Never laid eyes on you, but you’re Isely. So, I figure it’s the least you deserve.”

Tyler pressed his palm to his face, frowning with confusion and pain. “Any particular reason why, or are you just not a fan of conglomerates in general?”

“Isely owns Misery. You’re all monsters.”

Tyler blinked. “Misery?”

“Mising-Erystroph. Shortened up, but way more applicable. This hell-hole is an affront to everything decent in the universe. I reckon a punch to the face is bare minimum for building it.”

Tyler shook his head slowly and groped to pull out a chair and sink slowly into it. “Sorry to’ve wasted a...well, an admittedly impressive hit, Mr. Marshal, but Isely doesn’t own this facility, nor did we fund, design, or donate to its creation.”

This threw Doyle. “Are you kidding me?”

“At the risk of being punched again, no, I’m not. Mising-Erystroph is a private complex, owned by some LLC under some umbrella corporation. I’ve never deep-dove into their records, but I know for certain that Isely isn’t tied to it in any way. Drs. Charles Mising and Robert Erystroph’s original research and psychiatric practices are what the therapy here os based on, and that’s how the name came to be, but that’s all I know. They both died decades ago.”

Doyle grunted and took a chair opposite Tyler for himself. “Well. I guess I owe you an apology. I figured Isely owns all the space stations, even one's planted on a giant asteroid in the Bum-Fuck Solar System.”

“I’ll happily accept it, if you tell me what prompted it. Are things really so bad here?” He glanced around. “It seems to be a top-of-the-line facility.”

“Yeah. Seems to be. Someone walks in, sees all this, hears that pretty voice floating over the intercom, and thinks ‘Old Auntie Edna will be so happy here. All the comforts of home. Top-notch care. Luxury accommodations.’ And they drop Edna down and turn and beat feet, and never bother checking up ever again. Same story for every lost soul in this place.”

“I’ve never heard anything but highest praise for Mising-Erystroph,” said Tyler with genuine puzzlement. But then his eyes seemed to cloud over with thought.

Doyle saw the look and nodded. “Never anything, huh?”

“Well, I mean, rumors happen to every medical facility,” began Tyler, then trailed off. “What’s going on in Misery, Mr. Marshal?”

“Dream it up, it’s happening,” Doyle answered bitterly. “Patient abuse, unsanitary living conditions, bad food, bad pay for the staff which makes them angry and take it out on the patients. Darkness, discomfort, loneliness, experiments…”

“....Misery,” Tyler finished.

“Misery,” Doyle echoed.

“What about health inspections?”

Doyle laughed, the sound cracking and wry. “Aren’t any. That’s the way this place runs. Mr. Tyler. No one comes here except to dispose of the people in their lives they don’t want anymore. It’s a private facility, so they pay good money to never hear from anyone. This is where society secures the people that make them uncomfortable and, for just a few credits a day, they can turn their blind eyes safely.”

“How did you come to be here?”

“How did you know I was here?” Doyle fired back.

Tyler shrugged. “I need an engineer. I went pawing through some records. Saw you were some sort of prodigy at MIT, but you didn’t graduate. The GAF contracted you for some work and your superiors all pegged you as a genius. An aloof genius, but…”

“I left when the Capaign started. I didn’t want to build weapons or retrofit ships with ramming bits or whatever. War’s a joke. So, I left and got hired here. Stayed because someone has to give a shit about these people. Me, Parker, one or two of the nurses, we’re the only ones that treat the patients like human beings.”

Tyler leaned back and latched his fingertips. “That’s not...exactly the story I read, Mr. Marhal.”

Doyle frowned deeply. “Careful.”

“What I read is that you weren’t hired. Not originally. You were admitted. Voluntarily, yes, but you came to Misery not as an employee, but as a patient. After the required thirty days, you checked yourself out, asked if they needed a custodial engineer and got put on the payroll.”

“What do you want?” Doyle tone was edged with threat.

“I don’t care why you came here,” Tyler began. “Whatever it was, I hope you’ve made your peace with it, or gotten whatever help you needed. You seem sane enough to me. What I need is an engineer for a ship we’re sending into the Norma arm to investigate an anomaly. You’re the best one I could find, and this particular crew would suit you pretty well.”

“Why?” Doyle asked.

“Because, like you, they’re all...brilliant misfits. Good people, just a little soul-tousled. Some have signed a two-year contract, some are just on for the one mission. I was going to try and blackmail you into signing on, but the thought wasn’t really sitting well with me. Instead, I’ll switch tactics with a bribe.”

“Go on…”

“Go on the mission, and I’ll personally see to it that Misery gets a full shake-down. Inspections, press coverage, funding, ethics review, name it and Isely will do it. It’ll be good for us, too - the PR will be spectacular, just in case you’re wondering what my angle is.”

“Mr. Tyler, I’ll go. And I’ll hold you to the bribe. But you need to understand something about Misery.” Doyle’s voice was so solemn, Tyler was immediately alerted. “This place is more than just a badly-run nightmare psych prison. There are patients in here that are…” He struggled to find the right words. “...not what you’d expect. There are Ghosts. And I think maybe some clinical trial volunteers for things that took really, really wrong turns. I said Misery was a dumping ground for people who made the world uncomfortable. It’s also a repository for some pretty shocking guilt, too. You need to handle things carefully.”


Tyler nodded. “Ok. I’ll tell you what. When you’re back from the Norma Arm, you be our liaison. We’ll proceed under your advice. Acceptable?”

“Yeah.” The nod was slow but decisive.

“Port Alhambra. Two weeks. The ship is the Fairburn.”