<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong>Name:</strong> Hatter<br/><strong>Location:</strong> The Hatter's Hovel<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong> Cat<br/><br/>Hatter spent a great deal of time convinced that various people, animals and objects in the world were mocking him. His paranoia often resulted in destruction of large portions of the Hovel, as well as grievous bodily injury delivered to those around him who might, in their own sniveling way, be so bold as to demean his stature, his demeanor, or his degree of mental incapacity. There was one unfortunate painting in the West Hall which would never again chuckle under its breath at his approach. Never again! Even now it sat half immersed in a washtub of turpentine, no doubt begging for a mercy that would not be forthcoming. Not today, sir. Not today.<br/><br/>Merely being paranoid did not rule out those occasions when one was actually being mocked. Right now, to take a single observable instance. The crinkled grin on Cat's ever cheerful face was unmistakeable. Hatter did not enjoy being referred to as 'mad'. It was not on the list of his favorite things. He did not stay awake at nights scheming up ways to trick people into attaching the adjective to his name.<br/><br/>In fact, it was a bit of an issue with him. Of sorts.<br/><br/>It would not do, however, to directly address the problem. Luckily there were more than enough other points of contention to occupy the polite discussion to come. Hatter crossed the floor to where Cat lay, looking sweetly up at him, and bent to seize a great handful of her loose hair. With it he hauled her to her knees, twisting the locks through his greedy fingers.<br/><br/>"You've been eating the Hare's sweets, have you? You know what I've told you about that man. He can't be trusted! He's... deranged. He doesn't love you like I do, dear Cat. He'll hurt you, he will."<br/><br/>They were in the exercise room. How had they gotten here? He was walking, and talking to her, so she must be around, and... Ah. Here, still in his hand, dragged by her hair through three rooms and a closet. He held her up for inspection. There was something. Something round, like an eyeball. Something missing, like... well, also like an eyeball, on occasion. Something that ought to go...<br/><br/>"Your collar!" he exclaimed. "You've lost your collar again. Oh, you naughty thing. You vex me, Cat, you really do. I do such nice things for you, and this is the return on my investment. I am not some sort of Automated Collar Teller Fucking Machine!" he yelled. It was unlikely in the extreme that that particular denial was required, but he had gotten lucky before. With an effort he reduced his voice to the sort of steely growl he most frequented, which was still enough to fill the white-tiled room with echoes of madness. "This will NOT look good on your permanent record."<br/><br/>He came to a decision. "Boots!" As if the single word were enough explanation, he led her to the boots in question without further exposition. They were large on the outside, small on the inside, and made mostly of metal. They were also incredibly bad at doing what boots normally do, which is to accompany one on walks through the streets kicking at urchins and making the fields of broken glass a charming symphony of shattering rather than a source of terrible pain. For these boots were most firmly fastened to the floor, spread widely enough to permit all sorts of devilry, and sized most particularly for someone with feet the size of Cat's, minus perhaps a size or two. They also had the most lovely iron locks upon them, which presently stood open. "Boots!" he repeated, and threw her at the floor. "On feet now! Yours!"<br/></span>