"I'll give you all the details later," Dr. K replied.  "Now, I must go.  Gotta get it all set up."

"Don't I get at least some idea what I'm about to do?" I complained.

"It's worth twenty points," he said.  "Perhaps more.  I'm good friends with your professor.  Is that sufficient enough?"

"I guess," I grumbled.

"Meet me in the Physical Sciences building in three hours," was all Dr. K would offer as explanation.  "Oh, and don't eat anything till then.  I'll need you as minimally massive as possible."

That last, I definitely didn't understand.  Certainly didn't sound to me like any psychology study.  Unless, of course, this mysterious Dr. K was one of those archaic barbarians, a follower of those psycho (not psych, but psycho) science pioneers who waterboarded their patients, sent powerful electric shocks through their bodies, and then locked them up in insane asylums when none of their treatments worked.

Good grief, I said to myself.  I could be selling myself to a maniac, for twenty frickin' points.  Is it worth it?

It couldn't be that bad.  Scientists today weren't like they had been in the old days.  They had a code of ethics now.  They wouldn't just mercilessly tamper with innocent young college kids for the fun of it.

I burst out laughing.  Now, THAT was funny.

Whatever my doubts, however, I stuck around the campus another three hours.  I found a little nook in the library, where I played my music full blast and did some homework, singing along with the exceptional dead guy as I went.

Okay, okay.  I'll stop calling him that.  But in those days, that's how I referred to him.  I felt the need to constantly remind myself of how ridiculous I was being, obsessing for (by that point) seven years over a wild and crazy rock star who, if alive today, was old enough to be my grandfather.

That was my version of self-therapy: perpetually telling myself, "Freddie Mercury isn't alive anymore, get yourself a real boyfriend, you wouldn't be his type anyway."

Oops!  Guess I let the cat out of the bag.  But there it is.  Of course, we've all got something, some little bitty neurosis causing mischief in the mind.  Mine materialized as the dark, complicated man whom I spent seven years of my life studying just to get some raw hint of what made him tick. Is that weird?  Don't answer the question, I'll only get mad.

I did indeed find all the members of Queen interesting.  But there were degrees.  Roger was on the bottom of my list. 

I may have just made some people angry.  Don't get me wrong, in his prime he was extremely pretty, but he always struck me as nothing more than a handsome face with fantastic rhythm, as someone without any real substance behind the blue eyes.  And it would be a sin not to respect Brian May and the countless things he excels at- science, guitar, stereoscopy, astrophysics, songwriting- but I just could never get really excited about him.  Maybe it's the badger thing.  I don't know.

John came second.  I loved how normal he was.  He seemed very sweet and easy-going, but even he had hot buttons, and when he wrote hit songs, they were absolute grand slams.  But the most fascinating and most deliciously mysterious bloke of them all, Freddie himself, captured my imagination far more than the rest combined.

I was not in love with him.  Do understand.  People can be obsessed without being emotionally attached.  I admired him, though, immensely.  He opened the doors for many of the arty things I still enjoy in life, whether it's drawing or teaching myself the guitar.  I'm not very good, but I enjoy them.  I suppose I could even say he's what sent me into psychology. 

Yes, I want to help people work out their problems, that goes without saying, but examining every word in every interview, heeding every little vocal inflection, watching his eyes go flat every time he walked onto the stage yet noting well how nicely they sparkled when he was off and relaxed- I knew that if I could just get the hand of the psychological tools, I could use those powers to at last complete the multifaceted person I believed him to be.  Past all the secondhand accounts, past all the iffy facts, past all the fame-mongering  retreads who milk their relationships with him every chance they can.  I wanted to know who he really was inside. 

And once that happened, I just knew in my heart of hearts, I would be freed of my obsession. But since he was gone for good, I had nearly resigned myself to the idea that the last seven years had been spent in a wild goose chase.

Freddie and I were crooning about our melancholy blues when I saw I had better pack it up and head toward Mr. K, and whatever lay waiting for me there.  Shrugging, I turned off the music, but I kept singing under my breath while I trekked up the stairs. 

It was cooler outside now than that afternoon, much more autumnal.  With every step I started to wonder whether what kooky Dr. K had in store really would be worth the grade.  My stomach began to churn, my hands to tremble.  What was I about to get into here?  That same feeling at the vending machine washed over me, but stronger.  Turning tail and running, driving straight home and pulling the covers over my head sounded increasingly more practical.  And I almost did.

Except as soon as I had made up my mind to do it, I had pushed the Physical Science building doors apart, and there was the gnome-like Dr. K, sitting before me, twiddling his thumbs. 

"Ah, Julia!  you've come!" He said.  "Follow me, please."

"Wait, um," I stammered, "I'm not sure about this."

He studied me with marked disappointment.  "Scared, already?"

He was appealing to my ego and desire to be brave and adventurous.  But I asked, in a meek little voice, "Dr. K, just tell me one thing."

He stood, waiting.

"Will it hurt?"

Dr. K smiled  that disarming smile again.  "Of course not, you silly girl.  You won't feel a thing.  Now come along- if you dare!"

Half-reassured, I did as he commanded.  He led me to the elevator, and we both got in.  I watched him carefully, still partly waiting for him to break into "Sussudio" at any second.

He pushed the basement button, and held it down even after the doors closed.  I looked over at the floor indicator, saw the basement initials flash, and then keep going.

My heart flipped.  A secret floor?

Four levels below the basement, Dr. K let go of the button.  The doors slid apart, revealing to us a bleak white hall just like in the floors above, except here there lived an unsettling silence.  A chalky, chemical odor stifled the air.  Our footsteps were the only sound, the clack-clack of our shoes leaving lonely echoes behind. 

"This is where the dangerous deeds are done, I suppose?" I joked.

"A few," was the distracted reply.  I didn't say anything else.

Further down, a very professional-looking scientist, right down to the proverbial lab coat, rounded the corner and was heading our way.

"This is our brave little volunteer?" he said.

Dr. K, nodded, and introduced me.  The new scientist smiled politely.  "Fantastic.  Now, Julia, if you could please take a few minutes and fill these forms out for me.  Purely routine stuff, informed consent, a rundown of your physical condition, a small questionnaire, a few forms of release..."

"Release from what?" I asked.

"In case something should happen to you while you are gone, we don't want to be held responsible."

Please, whatever you do, don't sugarcoat it, I can handle it, I muttered to myself.

But I took the forms and started doing as I was asked.  And there were some crazy questions in there, too: "Are you good at hiding yourself away?" and "Do you keep secrets well?" and my favorite, "Do you ascribe to conspiracy theories of any sort?"

I answered them as best as I knew how.  I filled these papers out as we continued to walk, when we stopped at two huge, industrial strength double doors. 

Before we entered, Dr. K looked at me solemnly.  "Now this is extremely important," he said.  "Are you good at taking notes?"

"Yes, very," I lied.  Then something Dr. Christopher (peering closer at his coat had determined his name) said hit me again.  "Wait a minute.  While I'm gone?  Where am I going?

"Stop, stop, stop.  Okay?  Hold on.  What is going on?  What are you going to do to me?  I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."

Dr. C sighed and glared at Dr. K.  "Didn't you tell her anything?"

"Put yourself in my place," Dr. K protested, as much as anyone can who sounds like John Malkovich.  "There is no way to explain it that doesn't sound crazy.  She has to be shown, not told."

"Shown what?"  I was getting very tired of asking the questions that nobody cared enough to answer.

But this time, Dr. K laid his hand against the steel-plated door, and, with a subtle wink, he whispered, "You are about to make history, my dear."

He pushed the doors open.  What I saw sprawling about the hexagonal room within took my breath away.

Hello, readers.  If you are asking yourself "IF THIS IS FANFICTION, WHERE'S THE BAND?" I'm getting there.  You are not being Rick-rolled- or shall I say, Queen-rolled.  But there is some lead-up, as you can see! :) Bear with me, stick it out, Freddie shall rear his pretty head before you know it.