[center][h3]Jeremiah Dupree[/h3] Physical state: Exhausted Mental state: Sane[/center] "Nn-hwuh?" That was the initial none-too-dignified response of one Jeremiah Dupree, as Dr. Steiner's words roused him back from his state of fatigue. He then cleared his throat. "Yes, yes I am - I believe, however, we may be short by a few people?" He did another recount - as he had noted earlier, a few students who had expressed interest at the beginning of the semester now seemed to be running late, or had invented reasons to be excused from the field trip. At least one, however, had approached Dupree on his way to the sanitarium, ignoring the bags under his eyes to say that Dr. Atkins had been one of her teachers, and she'd just really prefer to stay safe at the dorms today to mourn. Dupree had let her go on her way. The trip was by no means compulsory, and he wasn't exactly feeling well himself. It had started after August had left. The visit had gone well enough - Dupree had watched with bated breath when August approached the wall of articles and photographs with nary a word, clearly trying to make sense of the wall Dupree prized so much, trying to see the connections Dupree saw. He supposed he couldn't blame the other man - at one point, Dupree had seen the value in marking off the connections with twine, but there were so many that it soon obscured the articles themselves. It wasn't as if Dupree couldn't recognize the connections with a look; mental strings replaced the physical ones, and shadowy order replaced visible chaos. The device August pulled out was confusing for a few moments before he got a good chance to examine it and realized - August had managed to get ahold of one of those 35-mm cameras. Except this one was far smaller than any camera Dupree had seen before in his life. He wordlessly nodded off on it and then hastily excused himself to the kitchen of his apartment to prepare a kettle of tea. From the kitchen, watching August photograph his precious wall, Jeremiah couldn't help but feel a knot settle in his stomach and the short hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raise up. August, far from thinking him crazy, almost seemed impressed by the wall. It had been no easy task assembling it. But some, small part of him that occasionally hissed accusations of paranoia and stalking when he laid down at night now muttered that August was clearly quite the actor. If August had ulterior motives for recording his wall... The kettle then shrieked into the quietness of the apartment, and Dupree busied himself pouring a cup for himself and August. Dupree had years to learn the difference between coincidences and evidence of connections. His meeting with August, while perhaps an effect of the universal truth underpinning life, had hardly been contrived by the man, and he stood no great benefit photographing Dupree's work. It wasn't as if he could capitalize on it, and if a tenured professor could not see Dupree locked away for insanity, August would likely have less luck. He and August did end up chatting over their cup of tea, mostly on how to proceed - Dupree mentioned that he would be spending most of the day tomorrow conducting a 'field study' at Arkham Sanitarium unless the doctors chose to cancel it on account of Dr. Atkins' suicide, but it might not hurt checking the university's library for any records of Faye Desdemona, if August so wished. The library was trying out a system that had been discussed elsewhere, keeping copies of articles in a reduced format for easier storage, so some records might not be available. Dupree, after the field study was complete for the day, could do his part by tracking down Faye's professors and asking them if they remained in contact with her. August had his own ideas, and clearly little time to spare, and so he offered Dupree a business card with a name, telephone number, and hotel room number. He didn't even wait for Dupree to send him off - a tad rude, though, then again, Dupree supposed he couldn't hold it against him. Not too much. Yet, even as the cigarette smoke dispersed and Jeremiah began washing the tea cups, he realized he could still feel the short hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end, and the knot in his stomach remained. He checked at his door, his apartment windows, behind any closed doors. He was, as he expected, truly alone. [i]So why did it feel like he was being spied upon?[/i] Sleep didn't come easily. Tea did not help, books did not help, hiding the bird mask in his closet did not help. Jeremiah thought to the glimpse of professor names he had seen in Faye Desdemona's file and attempted to call - the line rang dead. It was well past the witching hour when Jeremiah finally fell asleep, not in his bed but against the polished wood of his kitchen table. He slept - and descended into anarchy. Mortar shells whizzed overhead as clouds of yellow sank down beside him, ripping tears from his tired eyes and scraping at raw skin nerves. He gasped, unwillingly inhaling the air that smelt like horseradish, and flung his arm up to the edge of the ditch. His briefcase caught on the barbed wire lining the hole, and yet it gave him adequate leverage to pull himself up through the cloud and onto the surface. He almost wished to jump back into the ditch as he was greeted by the sight of a young man, bleeding out before him. He felt very vulnerable, briefcase held out before him as an ineffectual shield as he surveyed the miles of barbed wire, the crudely bent metal plates, the craters of exploded shells, the unexploded shells that would require a simple tap to set off, the splatters of blood and organs and separated limbs- The briefcase couldn't protect him from the sounds, though. Not from the screams of the dying, the pleas for help, the demands for answers [color=292929]the insults of the draft examiners who had grabbed him and proceeded to find him lacking[/color] Dupree had woken up, gasping for air and wheezing, an hour before he was due to awaken. Clearly, sleep was not in the universe's plan for that night. Thus, he had been the first to arrive at the asylum's gate, and certainly the last to truly wake up. It was a bit strange, he supposed, that the doctors had apparently not reacted to Dr. Atkins' death or how it might affect the college students. Dupree was hardly going to castigate their apathy, however - he was more determined than before to understand the surge in insanity that seemed centered on Arkham. "And yourself, Dr. Atkins? I will understand if you'd prefer the day to yourself."