Captain Uranophane didn't know what time it was. She didn't know what day it was. Really, the whole ordeal was like being in the chair at the dentist's office. It was oddly similar to those moments when you had your mouth full of seemingly purposeless pointy objects and the person who had put them there had gone off to take care of something else, leaving you to stay put and wait for the nebulous in-just-a-moment in which he would come back and continue his work. It always took forever for him to return. And in the interim you could make out the faint hum of activity around you, catch a few footsteps and voices, but never get an idea of what was really going on or where the dentist was.

Occasionally there would be a drill, or a child crying, or something that brought a sinking feeling with it as it reached the ears. Uranophane had gotten woken up once in a while by the unmistakable noise of someone getting beaten. She'd heard Wolframite and Tanzanite screaming a handful of times.

She wondered if they ever heard her.

There were never any clocks visible at her vantage point from the chair. It was almost as if it had always been some perogative of the Family Dentistry clinic to temporarily damage a patient's sense of time during their visit. Whether the damn dentist had been gone for five minutes or fifteen was anyone's guess, and eventually the focus shifted from wondering how long he had been away to just wanting him to come back, just so he could finish and all of the tubes and hooks could be taken out and replaced with a cool drink of water. She was parched. A couple of times she'd had her face held into place and her jaw pried open while being forced to gulp down a glass of water at odd hours (all hours were odd, but these were always unexpected), but it was never enough.

It was like they took it a way the very moment it alighted in her awareness that they were giving her a drink. They did it with such force that more was usually coughed out than taken in, and the majority of it always ended up spilled down the front of her coat -- or worse, splattered on the floor. Sometimes the cup wasn't even brought to her lips at all, the contents instead emptied straight onto her face to force her back into consciousness, a rude lead-in to another endless session of questioning.

The moment she was caught up in in her chair droned on and on and on. It was a disjointed cycle of staring, waiting, and unsatisfactory sleeping, occasionally broken by the fluttering of voices over her head, stagnation and exhaustion seamlessly flowing into noise and chaos once in a while. If she wasn't wondering when the dentist would come into the room again she was curling her fingernails into her palms, desperate to know when he would be finished drilling.

She wanted out of the chair. She wanted more than two damn measly sips of water. She wanted to be able to breathe without her entire body aching from the effort. She wanted to stretch her legs.

For all the loathing she had towards the senshi who had captured her, the desire to kill or even hurt them had barely surfaced in Uranophane's thoughts at all. There were things on the list of her desperate wishes ranking far above seeing them dead: a bite of food. A good night's sleep. A familiar voice. A shower. She would trade the privilege of cutting off Sailor Ares's head for a chance to wash her hair. She would turn down a promotion and start all over from the bottom rung as a Lieutenant if she could talk to Vera on the phone for ten minutes. Negaverse accomplishments didn't seem to mean as much anymore. Being Captain Uranophane meant being stuck in this room, uncertain of how long she had left to live. Being Janice Fitzpatrick meant being free and having a promising future.

There was no room for Janice in this chair.