Chapter Text
The first time was an accident.
Well, not an accident in the sense that it had been his fault, more so an accident in that he'd burst through the door of his first therapy session brandishing a razor-sharp katana, a fistful of molten energy and a cry of, "Where's the threat!"
Which he could admit might have been a little extreme if anyone had bothered to tell him the truth of the purpose behind the coordinates Zane had relayed over comms. Set-up was probably a more accurate summary of the situation, really. On the one hand, he supposed this meant there was no renegade gunman holed up in the crumbly old apartment complex his team had goaded him into, so that was a plus. On the other hand, he was going to kill his team.
So here he stood, on the vaguely familiar threshold of a shoebox apartment, breathing like a madman from his earlier pursuit of a score of actual renegade gunmen with his hair tousled at unfortunate angles and sweat slicking the hilt of the katana still pointed at his would-be-therapist's throat.
All in all, not the picture he would have chosen to present to someone whose entire purpose in life was to judge his mental faculties. Or lack thereof.
He wondered, briefly, if therapy was something you were able to fail. Because, well. He was off to a fantastic start.
Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't against therapy, per se. Years worth of late night talking with Kai or Cole or Zane had taught him the merits of decompressing, and it wasn't like he didn't want to shed some of the weight from his shoulders. He just also was very aware of the fact that, more often than not, the brunt of his sanity was held together with split pins and duct tape - and he really didn't need some glorified stranger getting wind of that fact.
Well. So much for that.
To his credit, the wrinkled man in the button-down at the razor end of his sword remained perfectly sallow-faced at the threat. Then, to the would-be-therapist's eternal discredit, he reached to adjust his glasses, scrawled something in his clipboard and murmured, "I see," as if Lloyd were the problem.
"Wha- huh?" Lloyd sputtered, eloquent as ever.
The man regarded him with infuriating solemnity. "Do you consider therapy as a threat, Mr. Garmadon?"
Oh, okay. So this guy had been expecting him. And Lloyd hadn't been shot in the aforementioned pursuit so this probably wasn't some coma-induced vision meant to fix the mess that was his conscience because there weren't enough waking moments in the world to do that. At least, he didn't think he'd been shot. And if he had, he certainly hoped this drab little apartment his mind had crafted for this purpose wasn't some godawful reflection of his own sense of security or self-worth or...
Okay. Maybe therapy wasn't a terrible idea.
The man raised an eyebrow at his sputtering silence. Lloyd opened and closed his mouth several times, but it wasn't like he was ever going to answer that. In the very least, this seemed about the right time to put the damn katana away. It was probably also about the right time to point the metaphorical blade toward his so-called team for their starring role in whatever this was.
"What," he said dangerously into his comms, "the hell."
There was a brief flicker of static. Then Kai's voice crackled to life, along with the distinct ring of steel on steel and the thud of something heavy hitting the ground. "Oh, hey Lloyd!" Kai said, breathless but audibly smug. "We booked you in for therapy."
"In the middle of a street fight?!"
"It's not a street fight anymore!" Cole protested, followed by a distinctly unfamiliar shout and another clatter of metal. "It's a warehouse fight now."
"Heyyy, I'm on the roof y'know!" Jay's protest filtered in. "And Zane's in the alley! And last I saw Kai was literally being thrown through the window of the deli across the street. It's a polylocal fight!"
"That is not a word," Zane interrupted, punctuating it with a solid thunk of a metal fist hitting something solid.
"Multilocal!" Jay corrected. "Uhh. Trilocal? Multi-dimensional?"
"Fine," Cole cut in. "It's not a street fight, it's a warehouse-alley-rooftop-deli window fight. Better?"
"Eh. I'll take it."
Lloyd glared at the wall, if only so he wasn't glaring directly at the therapist. Which he would, if he thought it might send the guy running, but if he hadn't flinched at the wicked razor tip of a katana, why should he think his eyes were going to be any more intimidating? Since when was anyone in Ninjago City that brave? Where had they found this guy anyway? Kryptarium Prison? Another weird warrior cult hellbent on transfiguring themselves into purple snake jerks? Postgraduate psychiatric fight club? "Who cares what you call it? Why did you pull me out?"
"Truthfully, we did not factor in the possibility of an untimely pursuit for renegade gunmen during the scheduling of your appointment," Zane said levelly. "Additionally, there is a fee for late-notice rescheduling and you were going to be late," he added, pausing as something rattled deafeningly nearby before continuing. "Intervention was required."
"And subterfuge!" Jay piped up, barely audible over a sudden cacophony of what sounded like fireworks. "Don't forget the subterfuge!"
"Is that gunfire?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, a little," Jay said. "Don't worry, we've got it - Arghh! Son of a -" There was a pause, followed by a clatter of steel and another heavy thwack. "Guys, they have tasers now! They didn't have those before, right? How is this fair?"
"They're criminals, Jay, It's not meant to be fair -"
"You're one to talk about fair!" Lloyd snapped, studiously ignoring the therapist's affirming little hum as he scribbled something else across his clipboard. Anger issues, maybe. Tendency to escalate rather than de-escalate? Recurrent mood swings? "What's fair about this?"
"That is quite simple," Zane said. "You appear to be resistant to therapy, in spite of the extensively researched, fully verified and ecologically validated empirical benefits consistently found through engaging in cognitive behavioral -"
"I'm not resistant. I'm just -" He broke off as a shout sounded over the comms, sounding suspiciously like Kai. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Kai said in his high-pitched cheerful tone that meant he'd probably just had a foot hacked off with a broadsword and was desperate not to show it. "Guys, they're heading for the subway! We'll lose them! Zane, Cole, Jay, we've gotta focus here! We're changing frequency. You know the one."
"Roger."
"Okie dokie!"
"Affirmative."
"Excuse me?!" Lloyd snarled.
"Interesting," the therapist murmured, and flipped the page. "Very interesting."
"Signing off now," Kai said cheerfully. "Enjoy therapy, Lloyd!"
The comms went dead. Lloyd turned back, fuming, to find the man seated plaintively in a ratty old arm chair, clipboard resting on one propped-up knee. Lloyd raised an eyebrow at the scrawls that covered nearly half of the second page. Whether this guy's writing skills seriously left something to be desired or whether he really had extracted that much information already, Lloyd had no idea. But there had to be some explanation for how the guy had managed to get a dissertation's worth of notes from observing one singular conversation. A conversation he hadn't even been a part of!
"So." The man had the gall to paste on a smile. "I hear you've recently suffered a loss. My condolences. Shall we sit down and discuss how you have coped with that?"
***
In Lloyd's defense, it had been an accident. And not an it-wasn't-my-fault-because-I-was-set-up accident... this time. More so an I-was-aiming-for-the-clipboard accident. And sure, the clipboard had met its fateful, splintery demise at the hands of an impulsive blast of green energy. Unfortunately, so had a number of the therapist's fingers.
"You what?" Kai said in disbelief. Or utter astonishment. Or maybe it was cold fury, it was difficult to tell over the comms.
"Oh FSM, he's gonna sue us," Jay groaned. "Whyyy?"
"He wasn't supposed to pick up the clipboard!" Lloyd lamented. "I had a perfectly clear shot but nooo. Someone just had to get in the way. Stupid therapist. Stupid clipboard. Stupid -"
"Why..." Cole sounded pained. "What did the clipboard ever do to you?"
"You wouldn't believe the things he was writing in there! How I'm 'repressing a heinous amount of psychological trauma', and 'compartmentalizing as a defense mechanism' and 'internalizing the grief of my recently deceased father' because I don't want to accept that I banished him to a realm of torture and eternal suffering and that if I hadn't then maybe -" He shook his head and glared at the too-sterile walls of the hospital corridor. "Just come and get me."
There was a pause. "About that."
Lloyd waited.
"We're maybe kinda..." Cole hesitated. "...tied up at the moment. A bit."
"He is being literal," Zane said. "As it turns out, the renegade gunmen have friends."
Lloyd snorted. "So the day you send me off to therapy, you all get captured."
"To be fair, we get captured a lot," Jay piped up. "Like, we've gotta be coming up to some kind of record -"
"Shut it, Jay," Kai said. "Lloyd? Could use a hand here."
"I dunno," Lloyd said, feeling a sly smile quirk his lips. "You guys did lure me to arguably the worst therapist ever."
"Hey!" Cole said, indignant. "He was perfectly respectable for our price range!"
"Price range?" Jay snorted. "We're flat broke! Where'd you find him, the Walmart parking lot?"
"Lloyd!" Kai cut over their argument. "Any time now!"
Lloyd waited.
Kai made a sound of simmering frustration. "Fine! Save our asses now and we won't tell Sensei about the incoming lawsuit."
"Are you blackmailing him?" Cole despaired. "FSM help us all."
"Fine, you machiavellian jerk." Lloyd cracked his knuckles. "Guess I've got time for some physical therapy."