The two men entered the room to find Marty in the midst of a restless slumber, a tense, hunted expression present on his bruised face even in sleep. His injuries had forced him to sleep lying flat on his back, and he didn't look very comfortable. Marty's appearance was troubling enough to give Richards pause, and an abashed look flitted across his face. "I... didn't realize- how bad it was," he said quietly, taking in the picture that the battered child asleep in front of him made.

John snorted derisively, just barely keeping the heaviest disgust from his voice. "Well, his dad wasn't throwing him a tea party."

"I'm well aware of that, Doctor."

"Right. Anything you say." Motioning for Richards to remain by the door, John approached Marty's bedside, wishing that he didn't have to wake him, especially for this, but there was nothing to be done. Gently, the doctor reached out and touched the boy's good shoulder, sadly unsurprised when Marty's light doze subsided almost immediately and his eyes flew open, the frightened blue gaze darting about in a panic as he tried to orient himself.

"Easy, Marty," John murmured, "easy. You're in the hospital, remember?" Waiting until Marty made eye contact, he asked, "Do you remember who I am?"

Despite his obvious anxiety, Marty smiled faintly at this. "Yessir," he answered softly. "You're Doctor McKenzie, sir."

John smiled back, brushing slightly at Marty's hair, again surprised when the boy allowed physical contact. *He trusts me,* the doctor realized suddenly, feeling even worse than he had a few moments before and unable to understand why this boy would have ever picked him as someone to be trusted. Pausing to pull a chair, John seated himself at Marty's bedside, beginning, "There's someone here who needs to talk to you for a little while. He... he needs to ask you some questions."

Marty immediately tensed at this, a flicker of betrayal passing over his features. *You stupid idiot,* he told himself, his whole body seeming to slump at what he was being told he had to do. *He didn't mean anything he said, none of them do- you should have known better.* Immediately, his gaze dropped to the blanket as he whispered, "Yessir."

"Marty," John started, feeling about a foot tall. "Marty- please look at me." Reaching out, he started to lift his patient's chin, trying to gain eye contact, but Marty cringed and recoiled, still not looking at him directly. McKenzie knew immediately what he had done wrong, could see it in the boy's eyes, and he quickly began apologizing. "I'm sorry," he said, "I know I told you that you wouldn't have to answer any more questions for a while, but this is- an emergency. I'll be here the whole time, all right? We'll stop right away if you want to, but I need you to try and do this for me."

"Yessir, I- I will." Marty still sounded apprehensive, but a little better than he had a few moments ago.

"That's all I can ask of you," John answered with a slight smile as he reluctantly motioned for Richards to step over. "This is Mr. Richards," he said, gesturing towards the other man. "He's from Federation Child Services, and he needs to ask you a few things."

"Hello, Martin," Richards began, sounding uneasy. "My name is Marshall- I've been sent over to ask you a few things; it won't take very long."

Marty nodded mutely, glancing from McKenzie to Richards and terrified of what was coming next. He knew what questions this man was going to ask- he'd heard them all before, and he couldn't answer them any better now than he could the last time they were asked. Didn't any of them understand? Why didn't they see what Dad would do to him if he told? A violent shudder tore through Marty's body, jostling his injuries and making him grimace in pain. Richards was busy consulting one of several padds and didn't see, but Doctor McKenzie noticed almost at once and immediately asked, "Are you hurting? We can wait until you get some more painkillers...."

Timidly, Marty shook his head, whispering, "No, sir, I... I'm okay, sir." While that was hardly true, it did seem that as long as Marty kept any movement to a minimum, the pain followed suit. He just wanted to get this over with, and waiting for more pain medication would only prolong things. McKenzie looked doubtful, but he shrugged and stayed seated protectively at Marty's side.

Clearing his throat, Richards began, "If that's settled, perhaps it would be best if we get down to business."

Marty eyed Richards warily, certain that all of this was some trick, a ploy to get him to tell things he shouldn't, then tell Dad about it. He closed his eyes briefly at this, paling at the thought of what his father would do if he told. Still, Marty didn't dare talk back to this man- he didn't dare talk back to anyone, but Mr. Richards seemed less forgiving than most of the people he had encountered at the hospital so far. "Y-yessir," he stammered, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Good." Richards took Marty's answer to mean that he would be willing to impart the necessary information to get things over with quickly, but John had a feeling that that wasn't the case at all. He didn't like any of this one bit, but he knew there was nothing to be done and so said nothing, fearing that arguing further with this FCS agent would just make Marty more frightened than he already was.

"Martin," Richards began solicitously, "I'm sure you understand how serious it is that we get all of the information you can give us about what happened to you. You want to help see that everything goes as it should, don't you?" Marty stared wide-eyed at him, feeling sick to his stomach. What was he going to say? Why wouldn't everyone just leave him alone? Mutely, he nodded in spite of himself- there was really nothing else to do, anyway. Richards didn't seem to notice, just continued on with the speech he had been making.

"Now...." Pausing, Richards shuffled through his padds for probably the millionth time, frowning slightly before he came across the one he had been looking for. "Marty, how much do you remember of what happened before you woke up here?"

"N-not much, s-s-sir." Marty's voice was as quiet as it had been before he spoke up. This was a safe question- he really didn't remember much of anything, but something inside warned him that it was going to be quite soon that they started in on the hard questions, questions he couldn't possibly answer.

"Hmmm." Richards sounded skeptical at this, and pressed a bit. "You're sure you don't remember anything? It's very important, Martin."

"Just- just falling down on the... the k-kitchen floor, s-sir." Marty kept his gaze firmly on his good hand, lying balled-up in his lap. He could feel himself starting to tremble a bit but tried to hold it back. He couldn't let himself have another... fit, or whatever it was, not like last time. It would just prove what people said about him, that he *was* "off."

"And that's all?" Richards was still pushing, still unconvinced. Marty grew more agitated at this, but he sill tried not to let it show. It wouldn't do any good- this man probably wouldn't care anyway, so there was no point in it. Nonetheless, the cold hand of the fear was reaching up to grab Marty by the throat, and he knew there was only so much he could do to try and hold it off. Sometimes it was the anticipation that was the worst.

"Y-yessir," Marty whispered, "that's... that's all, sir." That wasn't "all," and they both knew it, but there was no way that Marty could say anything else. There were no words to tell Richards everything, and there probably never would be. How was Marty supposed to explain what it felt like to be taunted every day at school for things he had no control over, for things he had to do to try and survive when all he wanted was to be left alone? How could he put words to the things that went through his head as he lay in bed late at night when his father had finally passed out or gone to sleep? How could he ever tell anyone about what it was to be beaten up and hated by the only person he had in the world? *I don't want *much,** he remembered thinking once, and it was true. Marty had always seemed to sense that to want a friend, nice clothes, a full stomach or a home where he wasn't beaten black and blue would be more than he could ever have, and he had never dared hope for such things. Just to be left alone- that was all Marty McManus had ever wanted or considered wishing for, but it seemed that even that would be denied him.

There was a long pause as Richards gazed across the bed at Marty, trying to decide how to approach this. He hadn't expected the boy to tell everything right away- if he wouldn't tell the hospital personnel, it was unlikely he would immediately open up to anyone else- but he was unsure of what would persuade Marty to admit to what his father had been doing. "Martin, do you know where your father is right now?" he asked finally, and the thinly-masked look of panic that crossed Marty's face at this didn't escape him.

"I- They.... The doctors said that- he was... t-t-taken in, sir?" The words came out as more of a question than a statement; Marty still didn't fully believe what Doctor McKenzie had told him about his father.

"That's right. He was arrested when the police came to your flat- do you remember?"

"No, sir." It was true; Marty still had no recollection of anything leading up to his hospitalization other than the monumental rage that his father had been just prior to the peak of the beating. Try as he might, Marty couldn't even remember what he had done to incense his father to such a degree, but he knew it had been awful. It must have been, for Dad to get so angry. Marty knew that he wouldn't get hit all the time if he wasn't such a wicked boy- how often had Dad told him that, and he still didn't behave properly? There was no way that Marty could explain any of that either, though, so he said nothing.

"I see." Looking down, Richards tapped a few notes into one of his padds before turning his clinical gaze back on Marty. "Martin," he began, "has your father ever hit you?"

Marty froze. He had been expecting the question, knew full well that it was on the way, but he hadn't anticipated being asked such things so soon. Usually they gave him some time- a day at least- to recover before they started demanding answers. Before Marty properly registered what he was doing, he aimed a shocked, betrayed look toward Doctor McKenzie. He could feel his chest starting to tighten, and it was growing harder to breathe. The boy tried to answer, struggled to think of something, *anything* to say that wouldn't break Dad's rules about what had to be kept secret, but his mind had gone blank, and when he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

"Well?" It was obvious that Richards was growing impatient. He was uncomfortable with this and unused to being placed in these situations- generally, his was strictly a desk job, and he very rarely conducted such FCS investigations personally. "I need an answer, Martin- you've said that you understand this is important."

"I... I d-d-don't- know, s-sir." Marty spoke the first words that came into his head, and almost before they had completely left him, he wanted to take them back. Again they forced their way from him, leaving his throat as a faint near-sob. "I don't kn-know...."

"You don't know," Richards repeated, looking confused and further aggravated. "Young man, I don't think you fully realize the gravity of this situation." McKenzie guessed what sort of things were coming next, sent Richards a glare that he hoped would stop it before it started, even reached out a hand to grasp the FCS worker's arm in an attempt to signal that enough had been said, but Richards ignored him, pretending not to notice.

"This is a serious situation," he continued gravely, "and I don't believe you fully realize the sort of trouble people are going to for you right now. Everyone is trying to *help* you, but you aren't making it very easy for them. I don't think you want to cause so many people trouble, do you?"

"N-no, sir," Marty whispered hoarsely, "but I d-d-on't kn-know...." His voice was tremulous, pleading with this man to understand why he couldn't tell them anything, but it didn't seem that this Richards person was having any of it.

"I'm afraid I don't believe you," he said evenly, "but I'll tell you something that might change your mind about all of this. Right now, your father is in prison. He can't get to you, but they might have to let him out."

This stopped Marty cold, killing all movement; for a moment, he was sure his heart had stopped beating. "Why?" he managed to ask faintly, one hand clutching at the bedclothes again.

"Legal reasons, but if you can give me the answer to what I'm asking you, there won't be a problem- we'll have enough to lock your father up." Richards' voice hardened now, and he demanded, "Now, once and for all, *has your father ever hit you*?"

Marty gazed at Richards for a long moment, trembling, before a soft sob tore its way out of him. It hurt to cry, hurt his ribs, but suddenly he couldn't stop, and the tears streamed down his face. "Yes!" he cried, sounding tortured, "Yessir, he's hit me!" Marty took a jagged breath then, sobbing, "I'm sorry, D-dad, I'm s-s-sorry...!"

McKenzie stared, uncertain of what to do first. Finally, he turned his attention to Richards, hissing, "There- you've got your damn information, now get the *Hell* out of here. I think you've hurt this boy enough today." As Richards wordlessly scuttled out of the room, looking upset but satisfied, John eased himself up to sit on the bed beside Marty, murmuring, "I'm sorry, Marty, I'm so sorry he did this to you...." Gingerly he rubbed the small boy's back, trying to calm him some, but it wasn't working- a flood of emotions had been let out, and try as he might, Marty couldn't seem to stop them.

"I'm sorry," he repeated over and over. "Oh, God, Dad's going to kill me!"

"Shhh," John whispered, "he's not going to kill you- he can't hurt you anymore, not now, not again. I promise you, Marty, you're safe here."

At this, Marty turned a shattered expression toward the doctor. "You p-promised that *before,*" he said plaintively before turning away.

"I know," McKenzie agreed, "and I'm sorry. I had to let him in for the same reason you had to tell- do you- can you understand that?"

A moment later those blue eyes were peering through John again, surveying him for a long moment before Marty nodded. "Yessir," he choked softly, "I understand." As he spoke, he grimaced in pain, his good hand moving to clutch at his ribs. "... hurts, sir," he managed, his voice strained.

"All right," the doctor soothed, "we'll get you something for the pain." McKenzie immediately pressed the nurses' call button, and a few seconds later someone appeared, asking what was wrong.

"Marty's ribs are hurting him, Connie, could you see about getting me some morphozine?"

"Sure," the nurse answered, pausing to look over at Marty. "We'll have you feeling better in no time," she added with a kind grin, and Marty couldn't help but smile faintly. He hadn't really been awake and alert often enough to realize it, but the nurses had become extremely protective of the small child, going out of their way to keep an eye on things. They knew that McKenzie would ensure that Marty would be well cared-for, but that didn't stop them from taking extra care over the McManus boy. Ever since he was brought in they had clucked to each over about what a sin it was that children should ever have to face what he had.

As the nurse left to procure the requested medicine, McKenzie remained at Marty's side, watching him carefully. He seemed to have calmed somewhat, which was a relief (John had been worried that permanent damage could have been done), but he looked exhausted. "Are you tired?" he asked, receiving a slow nod. "After Connie brings the medicine, you can get some sleep," he said quietly, and Marty nodded again, looking drained.

A few seconds later, the nurse reappeared with a hypo, handing it to John for administration. "That should help some," she smiled, reaching over to adjust the Marty's pillows a bit in an attempt to make him more comfortable before she had to rush off to take care of some other patients.

John sat beside Marty for a while, watching as the boy fought sleep. "It'll be okay," he murmured just as Marty lost his battle with exhaustion, his eyes falling shut. "It won't get any worse than it has."