Day 55: Cafeteria

[tightsofmight]

A night spent inside his room had done nothing to ease his jitters. Peter couldn't stop worrying. Over Brainy, what he thought of him now that he knew about what he'd done to Grell, and where he was going for the night. If he'd be safe. If Indy and the others would be safe, trucking on down to the basement. (Not frigging likely, considering 'basement' was synonymous for 'giant ass doom pit'.) If that ominous intercom announcement had meant anything. Peter had spent hours staring into the dark after that, his stomach churning his supper into butter over the horrific possibilities. Whatever punishment that arose for the food fight was a mystery. It didn't seem to infect him, unless it was a particularly trying case of insomnia. No matter how badly Peter tried, he couldn't find the will to sleep. Much of the night had been spent making notations and doodles in his journal by flashlight, peppered with long stretches of staring at the dark.

Honestly, he'd rather be taking another crack at the Hall of Hallucinations instead of rolling around in his bed. Paranoia was his only company the whole night.

Morning felt like a blessing by the time it came. He wasn't sure when sleep had finally overtaken him, but as he blinked his way into life he couldn't help feeling a bit...off.

It was really quiet. Peter's face scrunched under the light, and he stretched underneath the covers. There was a zip of cotton on cotton, and his shirt half dragged itself out from under the belt.

His eyes shot open. Belt? The covers flipped back, and Peter gaped down at his form on the bed. ...Belt?!

What the frigging hell was this? Peter jolted to his feet, patting himself down. He looked like some kind of air cadet. There were freaking epaulettes on his shoulders (was that even what they were called?), boots on his feet and a beret on the dresser. A single pin was nestled into the front, looking freshly polished as it glinted in the light. Peter snatched the hat up and stared. Two letters were inscribed on the pin. Nothing more, nothing less.

"SC..."

Special Counseling? Peter's expression took a turn for the frantic. What else could it stand for? He tried to run through a few candidates, but nothing stuck. Nothing applied so neatly without being ridiculous, because it clearly didn't stand for Super Cuckoo or Spider Cadet. Was he supposed to wear this like some stupid badge of honour? God, just brand it across his forehead, why don't you? My name is Peter Parker and I totally snapped a guy's arm for Mother Landel's. Hail the Smiley!

Peter pressed the beret against his face and groaned into the fabric. This was it. They weren't playing games anymore. They were finally turning this into death match boot camp and sending them off to war. Shit. Shit he was going to be in the frigging army in some messed up alternate universe, and he didn't even know what the frick they were fighting against or why they were fighting. If they were pulling magical whatsits out of every book and TV show known to man, then who knew what wacky threat they were up against. Aliens? If it was aliens, he was quitting. He was going to curl up on the ground hugging a grenade and pull the pin. Just no. No. This was not happening. This could not be frigging happening.

Except that it was. The person who whipped open the door that morning wasn't the affably sour Nurse Rachel, but a hulking, thickly built man who looked like he consumed a toddler a meal solely to fuel his pecs. Peter couldn't even find the breath to argue as he was told to tuck in his shirt and put on his boots and come to the cafeteria. He left just as another soldier brushed past them to collect Brainy, and Peter abruptly realized that in his confusion he'd forgotten to check if the boy was okay.

Too late for that now. Peter tried to match pace with the burly man, fumbling to put his snazzy new beret on and watching with wary eyes as other patients were dragged by. Things seemed even bleaker as they hit the cafeteria. The buffet was empty. The scent of food was lacking. Soldiers packed along the borders of the room so neatly you would think they were part of a particularly tacky wall paper. And worst of all? Buckets. Mops and rags and brooms, all piled in the center of the room.

The lady officer's speech was entirely unnecessary at that point. Peter withered where he stood as she told them their duty. It was like a scolding from Aunt May, if someone gave her a gun and a license to use it. Except the joke only made things worse - now he just wanted his Aunt. The force of his loneliness bowled him over like a wrecking ball. He might never see Aunt May again. Peter's gaze fell to the floor and he clenched his fists.

Was this it? Was his life really over? Escape never seemed so far away.

There was no protest from him as they were sent to work. Ashen and queasy, Peter stumbled towards the cleaning supplies and selected a bucket and a rag. He couldn't even bemoan his lack of breakfast. His nerves were making it impossible to even think about food.

They needed to get out tonight. Everyone. Somehow...

[Lion!]

Comments

[bitpartgod.livejournal.com]

Kibitoshin opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Everything hurt- or that was the way it seemed to the Kaioshin, at least, lying heavily with the dull, sensitive throb of pain spreading from the tips of his toes up through his neck. He’d thought he’d only have to deal with the pain of his injuries, which as he could now see had been carefully bandaged, both leg and arm; he’d entirely forgotten about how tiring healing could be, even the next day.

What he wasn’t expecting was for the door to swing open a few seconds later, and for a tall, broad-shouldered, stern-faced man to sweep him and start barking orders at him. M-more soldiers? Still?! As if things couldn’t get any worse!

It took a moment for Kibitoshin to react, then he leapt up with a slightly panicked “Yes, sir!” and then crumpled again, doubling over with the stinging shot of the pressure. The man gave an impatient sigh and folded his arms, but even so waited for him to regain his composure and put his boots o- wait a second, boots? Yes, boots! And an entire uniform to go with it! Now he was a soldier too?! This was getting ridiculous! He could deal with being a fake patient, but now a fake soldier?

Half-hobbling and fiddling uncomfortably with his beret, he couldn’t help but feel his temper start to mount a little as he entered the cafeteria- he’d taken it all so far, but after the night he’d had, he needed a break and something to eat. Then he could calm down again.

The news that he had to clean didn’t exactly brighten his mood.

At least he’d made up with Sechs. That had been the surprise of the night, actually managing to overcome their little argument. Relatively speaking it seemed incredibly petty now, but hindsight tended to do that, didn’t it? Put things in perspective. Not that he’d enjoyed nearly getting killed, but at least something good had come from it- and, actually, he’d done a fair job of defending himself. The darkness had made it hard to tell, but he’d managed to take out at least two or even three of those horrid little things all by himself.

Why was it he didn’t think he could do these things, anyway? He was just as good of a fighter as any one else here, with the exception of Goku, surely? Maybe he needed to think more about this. Wincing and sucking in air, Kibitoshin lowered himself down onto his knees and started to scrub. The water soaked through the bandages wrapped around his thumb and palm, rubbing uncomfortably. Just great…!

[iwhipthefool.livejournal.com]

Franziska woke with a start and shot up in bed, clutching at her chest as she struggled to breathe. What had just happened?! One moment she'd been in the hallway, facing off against a giant rat clinging to that redheaded fool's arm and now....? The room was silent save for her roommate's breathing and a metallic tinkle from around her neck. Moving her hands away, Franziska found herself in strange clothes - clothes that reminded her of some sort of military prep school - with a cheap ball chain around her neck that sported dogtags. She barely had time to look at what it said (Wilhelmina von Richter, B Class, 20120101F) before the door opened and a woman wearing the same military uniform from the previous day came in.

"Out of bed. Get your boots and hat on."

The woman's tone was nothing like the nurse's and so Franziska warily complied, lacing the boots up and finding the beret (How tasteless. She was not one for this sort of attire.) on the dresser by the bed. So this was the result of Landel being kicked out, was it? Were they to be herded about like boarding school rejects now? Wonderful.

As Franziska was taken to the cafeteria, she noted the changes to the place immediately. Soldiers with guns were standing along the walls and the patients were told to get down on their knees and clean like servants while those fools who had caused all of this stood about and watched. The indignity of it all was too much for her to bear and Franziska turned to the soldier who had brought her here ready to complain when she suddenly had a bucket of soapy water and a brush shoved into her hands, and felt a hand on her back push her toward the middle of the room.

No arguing then. They were just supposed to take this like it was nothing at all?!

Franziska refused to go further than she was pushed and nearly dropped the bucket right where she stood when she realized that someone was nearby. Cleaning. Like this was no big deal. Franziska lowered her eyes with disdain until she recognized the shock of white hair and sighted the bandages on the man's arm. Injured patients were being forced to work while those lazy dolts who started this whole thing just watched? "Sit up. You're going to get an infection, you fool."

[herr-inspektor.livejournal.com]

Inspector Lunge was already awake and sitting on his bed when the soldier walked in. So that was General Aguilar: no pomp, no show, cut straight to the point as if with a scalpel. Yes, that was about right, clinical and dry and with a real sense of purpose, of an end, yet there was an edge of emotion to it, though one quite unlike any that Landel had chosen to display. Disappointment, faint disgust. Not quite so clinical after all, but hardly the emotional, scripted act he was used to hearing. And the feeling that had come with it, of the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, as though suddenly his every move was being monitored. You’re sharp, aren’t you, Aguilar? You want all of this under complete control- not necessarily for the thrill of it, but for the sheer damn efficiency.

Fascinating. Such change. Such focus.

Lunge would have just loved to meet him personally.

Rats trapped in a maze. He’d used that expression himself countless times before, but it was a surprise to hear it from the speakers. So they weren’t simply lab-rats. They had a far more specific purpose.

The order in the message was further reflected in the order of his new clothing, the uniform he’d woken up in. Clearly military, with the dog tags and new serial number (#14593677, no relation to the number he was given in his therapy session, he’d been through every possibility), far neater and more regimented than it had been before. There was even a beret and armband, the latter bearing the customary yellow smiling face. How’s that, Martin Landel? The beret, meanwhile, bore a single gold pin with the word ‘M-U’ written on it. ‘M-U’? What did that stand fo-

A brief search of his memory revealed the answer, and with it a dull thud in the pit of his stomach. CM-US. Used in reference to the nightshift experimental therapy. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, anyone for whom it wasn’t entirely necessary, but now…

That had been irrelevant, and he moved on from the thought swiftly and without (!) hesitation.

To complete the illusion, his inventory had also completely vanished. Confiscated? Possibly, but that didn’t mesh with the idea that the General wanted progress at night, unless this was a fresh start or progress had an entirely different meaning to the man. Neither could be dismissed. Either way, his suit, jacket, weapons and shield from the basement were all gone for the foreseeable future, and there was no point to mourning them.

He was impressed; the change was thorough, and without compromise. There was no illusion to the set-up now, no pretense whatsoever. One had to wonder how far that extended. Had the people of Doyleton known about this ‘purpose’ all along, or was this a secret shared only with the Institute’s primary movers? Perhaps not Marc, but Jill?

No matter. All that considered, it hadn’t come as much of a shock to see his new escort, and he came without complaint. There hadn’t been a morning announcement, but even so Lunge couldn’t be surprised by what they were to be spending their breakfast period doing: this was, after all, the new, efficient, hard-line Institute. No more toying with sedatives and threats. They’d even thrown in a little psychological warfare, separating out the troublemakers from the rest of the patients and lining them up like men facing the hangman’s noose. See? Look at them! They aren’t one of you- they did this to you! Crude tactics indeed.

Taking a scrubbing brush, Lunge knelt down by a bucket of water and began to scrub. Where was the point in arguing, after all? Battles had to be chosen here.

[girlsandgadgets]

The morning arrived without its usual greeting, the announcement just as night faded the only warning for the patients of what was now Aguilar's institute. As soon as he was awake enough to be aware of his surroundings, Edgar felt something was off- it was most likely the collar of his shirt, which was not only buttoned all the way to the top, but had buttons on it in the first place. He sat up, pulling the sheets from him: his entire outfit had been changed. Gone were the smiley shirts and loose pants, replaced with a blue top and black pants, complete with belt. In his lap- it had apparently been on his chest- was a beret and a set of tags.

Edward March
C Class
53180080M

There was barely time to raise an eyebrow to the changes before soldiers marched into the room. Apparently, Aguilar wasn't bluffing: his changes were being instated immediately. His words from the end of the night were of interest, as they confirmed he did indeed know of what was going on at Landel's- not only knew, but was in on it in some way. From the sound of it, the patients were a part of some project, and the nights were meant as tests. Edgar's suspicions had been correct in thinking that Landel was trying to challenge them; however, it seemed the Head Doctor hadn't taken it far enough for the General's liking.

Then how much further would it go? That didn't bode well for those unsuited for the dangers of the night. One thing was abundantly clear: the institute facade was gone. They were pawns to be used by Aguilar, all a part of a project with an unknown purpose. He wanted results, and having seen the hostility with which the soldiers treated the patients, Edgar was willing to bet the General would take whatever actions were necessary to get them.

Edgar laced his boots carefully, stopping by his desk to grab his journal. A new surprise awaited him there: his journal was the only thing in his drawer. His dismantled radio, tools, the relic- all gone. He took the book without a word. He'd expected everything would be confiscated eventually. He only wished he'd prepared better for it, now.

Wearing his hat (as ordered- Edgar thought he looked silly in it and would have died in shame if Locke saw him), Edgar followed the soldier to the Sun Room. His attempt to stop by the bulletin board was met with a sharp warning from the guard, who informed him board privileges had been revoked for the shift for anyone below the S and A classes. Edgar sighed once the man's back was turned- this was going to be an adjustment.

If only he'd known how right he was about that. Instead of the usual lineup for food, the cafeteria was filled with patients standing, most as confused as he was. Soon after, a woman (possibly the one from the day before, but it was hard to tell from the distance he was standing) entered the scene and gave them their orders: scrubbing the floor in retribution of the previous day's events. Patients were set to their task immediately. Others were forced to line the wall, while the more injured patients were ushered to a lonely table in the corner. Ordered to join those doing the manual work, Edgar was handed a sponge and told to find a bucket to share.

There was no choice. As much as he despised the situation, Edgar knew better than the break now. It was likely Aguilar was ready for any uprising- maybe even asking for it, thirsting for a chance to squash any inkling of rebellion out of the hearts of the patients. Even with as little as they knew of the man, it didn't seem beyond him.

Edgar did as he was told, rolling up his sleeves before finding a spot. He dipped his sponge into the soapy water- at least it was warm. "I suppose after this, we'll be eating off the floor come lunch," Edgar said quietly to the man sharing the bucket as he began scrubbing. Though his tone was light, he wasn't willing to say just yet that they wouldn't have that humiliation forced on them, as well.

[fuzzy-diablo.livejournal.com]

Kurt felt like he had been hit with a bag full of rocks. Which he knew he hadn't been--he'd been asleep nearly all day. But the intercom kept going off, it was clear something had been going on the past day and probably night. More reason for Kurt to just not get involved. If there were riots going on again, he didn't want to be punished for just getting caught up in it.

But sleeping all day and night hadn't served him very well either. On waking, it felt like he had slept on his neck or slept on a tree branch again. And it felt like he couldn't move for a few, sleepy moments.

When it finally started to bother him, Kurt sat up in bed, almost choking. He had a collared shirt on. A dress shirt. The last time he'd worn a dress shirt, he had been at the Prom with Amanda. Was Landel throwing a prom?

"Man, I thought sweatpants were bad," Kurt mumbled to himself as he climbed out of bed and found that the formal stuff just kept going. Slacks, a belt, and some kind of weird hat was on his desk. He picked it up and turned it over before setting it down and going to his closet. His gray clothes were gone, and so was his uniform and all of his stuff--including Terry's suit.

"Oh man," Kurt ran his hands through his hair, freaking out. "Terry's gonna kill me if someone took that!" He started tearing through the closet, dresser, and desk. Gone, gone, everything was gone!

His door opened and Kurt startled away from the dresser, closing it quickly. He turned around, not expecting to find-- a soldier?

"Hey...?" Kurt said, raising his eyebrow. "Where's my nurse?"

"Shoes and hat on, Wagner. There's a brush out there with your name on it."


During the trip from his room to the Cafeteria, Kurt managed to wheedle some answers out of the soldier escorting him. There had been some trouble yesterday, and he was going to clean it up. Even though he hadn't even been in the Cafeteria, or even awake during the day. And nobody who had participated in the fight was allowed to help clean it up. Awesome.

What he didn't get, though, was where his nurse was (or really, any of the nurses). Why the new uniform? Why the new announcer? He was told he asked a lot of questions, but nothing else.

I just woke up dressed for a wedding, what else do you want me to do? Kurt thought, annoyed. He was given a brush and some bubbly water, and told to get to it. Sighing, he started scrubbing a grease spot off the wall, giving everyone standing and watching the death-glare. I wasn't even awake for this!

[For Sakura!]

[see-my-back.livejournal.com]

Sakura woke groggily, feeling a bit like she'd slept in her clothes. Her collar felt tighter than usual and-

Huh. Different clothing? She tried not to think about how it'd gotten there and why they couldn't just let the patients dress themselves, no matter whatever it was they'd decided to make them wear this time? Some of her outfits back home had tighter collars, but not many that buttoned up like this. Not that it mattered so much, it was just kind of strange after the lazy pajama style they'd been wearing for the last couple weeks.

As much as she would like to complain that last night was horrible, awful, and a waste of time... it actually hadn't been half bad. Despite her terrible luck they'd gotten to the basement, accomplished their goal, and she'd spent the majority of the evening only inches away from Sasuke. Even if she did sprain her ankle, that was a pretty good night.

What did bother her though, was the fact that everything; her weapons, her old clothes, the items she'd gotten from Renamon, it was all gone. She threw off the blankets, checked all her usual hiding spots, but no matter where she looked, it was all gone. Apparently along with this no-nonsense uniform, they were going to have a much tighter no-nonsense policy. Well that was just fine. All she needed was her fists to kick their asses anyway!

It wasn't long before her nurse showed up. Only it wasn't the nurse this time. It was more of the soldiers in black. While she didn't like things before, she regretted not being more proactive in seeking solutions while the rules were still fairly loose. She crossed her arms and sent the one who'd come to escort her an icy glare.

"Get your hat and tags on," the woman told her stiffly.

Tags? She picked up the the necklace the soldier pointed at and put it on, but didn't get much further than reading the name on the inscription before she let it fall to her chest. Courtney Marsh?! Ugh, again with that. The hat was no better. She wasn't even sure which end was the front and she didn't like the idea of having nasty hat-hair at the end of the day when they only let them shower twice a week! It was disgusting!

The woman wasn't budging though, and as much as Sakura wanted to make her eat said hat one wooly fiber at a time, she was much more interested in finding out if her friends and teammates had been subjected to the same treatment and whether or not they were alright. She tucked the hat onto her head, trying, at least, for some semblance of style. But as her escort led her through the Sun Room and to the cafeteria, there was no stopping to check the bulletins or make plans, there was just the cafeteria.

And to top it all off, there was... whatever this ridiculous mess was. She was forced to stand and watch as the others cleaned? Half of them were probably glaring, but at the moment, she just couldn't make herself care. She crossed her arms angrily over her chest and was shoved along until she reached a familiar face. It was harder to tell now, who was who or whether or not her friends were all here, but that was Kurt, wasn't it? Okay, so maybe she felt a little bit guilty about yesterday.

"Hey..." she said, voice somewhat quieter and more subdued than usual. "Sorry you guys have to- I wasn't throwing anything like the rest, but..."

[osakapwnzu.livejournal.com]

Heiji had been awake all night, sitting on his bed, staring at the floor--like he had for most of the day. Unmoving, unblinking, eyes narrowed.

Shinichi and Kaito were both gone, gone the same day even. They'd either given in or been taken by Landel or that monster, and now he was on his own. And the only thing that kept rolling around in his head was: 'I never told them why.'

He'd never admit to anyone that when he'd first found out, he'd cried and beat the walls and torn his sheet in half. The rest of the staff was probably too busy with whatever hell was going on outside of his room, so no one came. And he hoped no one would, because he couldn't promise he wouldn't knock the jaw off of whatever thing came through his door next. But this morning, the initial screaming rage had worn off, and now he was just simmering. Waiting for an excuse to boil over. He almost got it when some damn soldier came into his room instead of a nurse--good, an explanation for why he was dressed like a policeman. He stood up when they came into the room, looking at them with the same cold expression.

"Button up, Hartwell."

"Bite me."


Heiji pulled the bucket over for more soapy water and scrubbed at a sticky pool of what must have been grape juice at one point. Now it was congealed and staining the floor. He might have taken another day of not being able to sit down or eat, just to get out of cleaning, but it wasn't fair for him to skip out when other innocent people were being punished and were taking it. He was too mad to fight over it, though. And it seemed like something was seriously going down while he had been throwing his fit. It'd be smart to just watch for now, now that he knew this place was under seriously different management.

"Well guys," Heiji muttered to himself as he dunked the brush in the water again. "You're missin' somethin' seriously big here--Hattori Heiji on his hands 'n knees, cleanin' stuff."

[For Scott Pilgrim]

[vstheworld]

Are you sure you want to win? (Y/N)

. . . (Y)?

. . .

You Win!

You scored 793 out of 800 points

The Secret of Landel Island

Featuring Spiffy as the dog in the bar . . .

As the credit roll played in the back of his half-awake head, Scott groaned. If "winning" meant having punched Guybrush in the face repeatedly, including once with a couch, he was pretty sure he didn't want to have won. And yet he had, apprently. It was only some kind of miracle that had prevented him from "winning" against anyone else last night. Those poor guys he had chased off. Oh god. Scott almost cursed Landel's name before he realized that he had forgotten what name he was actually supposed to be cursing now.

Right. Guybrush would be here. Scott had to apologize right the hell now and just pray to whatever deities existed in the multiverse that he wasn't about to apologize to a pile of steamrolled pirate goo. However, just as he was starting to sit up, something pulled against Scott's throat, causing him to almost choke. "Aackohgod what is that?" he croaked, rubbing his eyes with one hand and grabbing at whatever was around his neck with the other. Some kind of fabric-y collar? And a thin metal thing underneath it. Did getting put on Special Counseling entail more than Scott thought it would? Was this part of some kind of follow-up trial?

As soon as he was sure he wouldn't choke to death, Scott sat the rest of the way up; his face morphed into a portrait of dread at what he found underneath his covers. Gone was his spiffy Smashing Pumpkins shirt, gone were his jeans, and gone even was the smiling grey ensemble he had grown so used to over the last almost-two-weeks. In its place was something straight out of a young military fetishist's wet dream - perfectly pressed pants and dress shirt, neat little epaulets, shiny leather belt, and a black armband bearing a familiar brand. Around his neck was the thing that sealed it all: a pair of metal dog tags on a chain. Scott could feel a little part of himself dying inside already as he read the inscription:

Bryan Michaels
C Class
01743087M

Turning around where he sat, arms shaking some as he did so, he caught sight of some other things near the bed. Polished leather cadet boots sat on the floor, and there was a little black beret on the nightstand. The beret bore a single gold pin with some lettering on it. Scott picked the hat up, and squinted to see what the pin said.

". . . SC."

It was a miracle that Scott hadn't ground down his teeth to nothing by the time the soliders arrived.

He was warned curtly to get the beret on his head by one of them, a woman with a tall and imposing frame. Scott was so tempted to just throw the thing back in her stupid stone-cold face, but considering how far that kind of behaviour had gotten him the day before, he somehow managed to hold back. Grumbling under his breath, he fitted the thing on while stealing a glance back at Guybrush, who was also just waking up. Oh god, it's even worse than I thought, Scott thought with a visible wince. Not only was the Might Pirate™ dressed in the same army grunt uniform as him, but his face wasn't too far off from the steamroller analogy Scott had used earlier. The guy's nose was already bruised an angry purple, and the swelling was doing wonders at making him look even more like a cartoon character than he already did.

"Guybrush, dude, I'm really, really sorry—!"

"None of that," the lady soldier snapped at him in annoyance. "Just get dressed."

Scott couldn't help but shoot Sgt. Bitchface a glare, but kept it brief. He gave Guybrush a deeply apologetic glance over his shoulder as he bent down to pull on the boots. He would have to continue this later. If there even was a later at this rate.

[sdatislife.livejournal.com]

Well, Shinji hadn't planned on doing that much sleeping anyway. The very sudden, very swift change from yesterday was a complete surprise to him - but he wasn't about to object to soldiers who looked like they meant business. He'd hastily put on the new uniform they'd provided for him (this all felt like another dream). He even had a little pin on his cap - "SC", whatever that meant. The uniform felt a bit too tight, a bit too constricting.

He hadn't had time to get used to it, though. He'd found himself hustled down familiar corridors and into the dining hall. The sheer amount of soldiers gave him a moment of pause. What the woman told them did seem to break through his usual stupor and silence, though.

That wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything yesterday. He wanted to object - but if he did, that would just mean more trouble for him. He fidgeted and glanced at the room around him - the same crowd. Some people he recognized, others he didn't. Maybe they should just do as asked. Get it over with. Not like it'd be any different from what he'd done back home for Misato's - his - apartment.

Well, except this time he'd be doing it because he was forced. His stomach grumbled and he ignored the pang of hunger. Thinking about it wasn't going to help him. He picked up a rag and after a moment of staring at it dully, he dipped it into the water they'd provided and wrung it out.

Time to get to work.

_{[For Minato.]}

[foolishmessiah.livejournal.com]

While he wasn't exactly unfamiliar with rude awakenings (several midnight conversations with Pharos saw to that), Minato never liked that feeling of being dragged out of bed; he enjoyed his sleep, and would stay put as long as possible if he happened to have nothing to do for the day.

Today wasn't one of those days. He heard the clamor in the corridors before he was out of bed, and he stiffly sat up and looked around his room. By now, the fading of night only to awaken back in his room was not disconcerting, and he was able to tell that something was different.

My clothes? His brows knitted together in confusion as he pushed his blanket off, gray eyes taking in the very different uniform he was wearing. Someone had literally changed his clothes between him falling asleep and waking up, trading the familiar (if disliked) smiley-faced shirt for a long-sleeved shirt. The trousers and belt he also wore reminded him somewhat of his school uniform, and he shifted in bed to get a better look around. To the side of his bed was a pair of boots, more solid than the slippers he had worn just the day before.

He stared from his perch on the bed as a soldier entered with little fanfare, the door swinging and left wide open. "Get dressed, Aarons. Time to report to the cafeteria." Minato brushed at his new uniform a bit, but pulled on the new boots and stood up. Whatever was going on, he knew that behaving was the best route with these military types--especially if yesterday was any sign of what would happen. The soldier silently pointed to his desk, where other pieces of his new uniform sat--a black beret, gloves, a silver chain with his fake name and other things (C Class?) on it, and...

He shouldn't have been so disappointed to see that smiley face on the armband, but he was.

Minato continued to look at his new uniform even after he had dressed and left his room with the soldier. He had noticed his thumb had healed quickly before slipping on his gloves, and he couldn't help but stare at the pin on his beret before he put it on. SC. It took a few moments to connect the dots, but he grimaced to himself upon realizing what the pin meant--Special Counseling. These soldiers must have been observing them just like the Head Doctor, or they had come across information themselves. Now he had to wear a pin that displayed the fact that the institute had succeeded in brainwashing him.

Great. Just great.

The state of the cafeteria returned Minato's attention to the rest of his surroundings, and he stayed integrated with the other patients (all of them similarly uniformed) as he listened to who he could only assume was a superior officer of all these other soldiers.

He wasn't surprised to hear they had to clean up the cafeteria. It was a good way to teach them a lesson. But all of them who had not done anything had to do the cleaning now? He shut his eyes and hung his head for a few moments. ...And then he began peeling off the gloves he had just put on, grabbing a scrubber and soaking it in the water before kneeling where there weren't as many people working.

This was going to be a long shift.

[lighthearted]

Sora had still been sitting with Kairi in that empty room when the intercom had finally come on to announce the end of the night. Normally he was too busy fighting or running to actually hear a lot of the words that the Head Doctor spoke as morning came, but in this case he'd been able to hear it loud and clear.

Except, of course, that it wasn't the Head Doctor who was speaking this time. It was yet another unfamiliar voice. The accent didn't really stand out to Sora, since he'd traveled to enough places that he'd heard his fair share of them, but he could almost feel the disdain in the voice. It was scolding them, even going so far as to say that they were useless animals rather than flesh-and-blood people.

It was the sort of thing that filled Sora with a quiet anger, because they had already been toyed with and put through more than anyone should have to deal with. If this general (it had to be him, didn't it?) didn't consider that valuable, then he was full of it, plain and simple!

Before the boy could vent any of his anger to Kairi, however, his vision blacked out and then he was back in his own room, waking up to --

For once, silence.

The boy blinked, struggling out of the sheets as if he could find someone to be upset with. But still, he knew that any tantrums would only land him in trouble, and more than that, there was something else to distract him.

The first thing he noticed was the small weight around his neck. It wasn't as heavy as his normal crown necklace, but something was there. And as he lifted up a hand to grab what he realized were two small metal tags, he saw that all his clothing had changed.

Sora slowly stood up from his bed, staring at the new outfit. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse than what they'd had before, but he'd gotten so accustomed to the Landel's uniform that this more traditional one was startling.

The door opened soon after that, and while Sora had been expecting a nurse, what he really should have been ready for was the soldier who stepped inside.

"Good morning, Matthew."

Was it just him, or did the man sound friendly? It was one thing for the nurses to act nice, but Sora hadn't expected it from a uniformed man like this, especially not after what he'd seen of the soldiers yesterday. "Uhh... hello."

"If you could just get your boots and your beret on, I can take you to the cafeteria."

Sora glanced over at his bed and saw a hat at the foot of it along with a pair of boots on the floor nearby. It didn't seem like there would be much point in arguing, and so he put on the boots first and then gingerly placed the beret on his head. His hair made it kind of a hassle to wear hats at all, which was why he usually didn't bother, but eventually he got it to stay in place.

"All right, ready."

[lighthearted]

"Come along, then." The walk itself was pretty much the same as how it went with the nurses, but Sora spent it taking in the smiley face on his armband and marveling at how the boots were actually kind of comfortable. The pants were a bit tighter than he was used to, but he'd just have to adapt to them.

When he started to fumble with his dog tags, the soldier who was walking alongside him (instead of ahead of him) spoke up. "See the part that says S Class? That means that you're the highest ranked of all the patients here, since you've been here so long."

"Really?" Sora responded automatically. Why was this man being so nice to him? He hadn't even had to ask a question to get an explanation. It was true that he'd been here longer than anyone else that he knew of, but it bothered him that they were assigning them ranks as if one person was better than anyone else. He understood that it was something earned, but it still rubbed him the wrong way.

"Yeah. So make the best of it and stay well-behaved, and you'll be treated well," the soldier responded.

Sora thought it was fair for people to get rewarded if they didn't make trouble, though he wondered if it was all talk, and as they walked through the Sun Room he realized there was a simple way to find out. "Hey, does that mean I can write on the bulletin real fast?"

The soldier glanced from him to the board in question and then nodded. "Yeah, just make it quick."

Sora nodded and rushed over, putting up a note for both Riku and Venom before returning to the officer's side. After that they moved into the cafeteria, which was when this facade of everything being better was quickly crushed. There was no smell of the usual breakfast food, and all of the patients were gathered into a group, where their extended punishment was explained.

Even though most of them hadn't participated, all of them apparently had to clean. Sora forced out a sigh and pulled a face. He hoped this was the last of it, since he was getting sick of being blamed for something he hadn't done. Still, he knew that even if he was the highest rank, he'd get in trouble if he complained, and so he went ahead and grabbed for a sponge and started to scrub the floor.

[For Sam.]

[human-sponge.livejournal.com]

It seemed that their new regime, so to speak, couldn't decide on who they wanted to make the intercom announcements, since while getting bandaged up Peter had heard a very different voice speak to them as the night drew to its end. The Spanish accent was what struck him first, and it fit with the name: Aguilar. That had to be their new dictator, and the attitude that he expressed made that even more clear. The man seemed to think that even after all they'd been through, they still weren't good enough. They were disappointments.

Last time he'd checked, Peter hadn't been trying to impress anyone here. He wasn't a test subject that was supposed to react a certain way. He was a human who somehow had ended up with strange abilities and was doing his best to make things right. If he wasn't valuable to this General Aguilar, then that was fine by him.

Of course, any thoughts of resistance were cut off when the sudden switch from night to day occurred, because his morning started with only one clear sensation, which was pain.

He did wake up on his side at the very least, but that was only a small mercy when his back was killing him. Any suspicions he may have had about the lack of pain being permanent quickly left him, and in a way it made sense. He'd never completely perfected the ability to turn powers on and off at will, after all.

And so he woke up screaming, doing his best to stay still even if all of his instincts were telling him to writhe around in his bed. The yelling brought someone into the room, though all Peter was aware of at first was that he was being called by his fake name, which was hardly soothing, even if it was meant to be.

It took some time to adjust to the pain, but eventually he did, and by then he realized that it was a soldier who was at his bedside; two of them, in fact. He blinked blearily up at them, still only half-aware of what was going on in light of what he was suffering.

"Mr. Campbell, we're going to need to transfer you to a wheelchair, so please try to cooperate as much as possible," one of the soldiers said.

He'd been on the other end of this before, moving very sick or hurt people onto gurneys while doing his best to be gentle. It's something he would have entrusted to the nurses before some military guys, but he didn't have much of a choice now. He knew the burns were too bad for him to even attempt walking.

After Peter nodded in response, the two soldiers went to work. It was definitely painful, not to mention awkward, but Peter went along with it and eventually made it into the chair, where he made sure to lean forward slightly so as to not brush up against the back of the device.

The whole thing was humiliating, but he'd gotten himself into this mess and there wasn't much he could say about it. In fact, it was only after he was safely sitting in the wheelchair that he realized that his outfit had changed. The uniform he had on now was much closer to a paramedic's, which was in many ways preferable to the sweats they'd had before. He wasn't that big on the beret, which one of the men placed on his head for him, but he was in no position to argue.

Once the other soldier had put his boots on for him (another extremely embarrassing experience), they wheeled him off toward the cafeteria. Peter spent most of the trip trying to deal with his pain levels, but he did end up noticing the dog tags he was wearing around his neck. Printed on them was his fake name, a number which was probably another identifier, and then something that said "A Class."

[human-sponge.livejournal.com]

"Is that some sort of rank?" he mumbled to himself.

"Yes," one of the men unexpectedly replied. "You're the second-to-highest rank, which allows you certain privileges."

Peter blinked down at the dog tags again, wondering what he'd done to deserve such a thing. He hadn't been prepared for his question to get answered in the first place, but it just made him more curious. "Like what?"

"That will become clear soon."

So they weren't as open as they wanted to seem at first glance, but Peter could deal with that. He let the tags fall from his hand where they swung against his chest and then forced out a sigh. If only he could have gotten into his stash from the pharmacy, he could have at last taken some heavy painkillers to make this more bearable.

When they made it into the cafeteria, Peter was audience to an explanation about how everyone but the people who had fought yesterday would have to clean the whole room. He glanced over at his escorts, wondering how he could do such a thing, but one of them just shook his head at him.

"Injured patients won't be forced to participate."

Peter had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, trying to anything physical as he was would have been torture. On the other, he felt bad being totally useless while everyone else had to do the work for him. He would have preferred to help out, even if he wasn't exactly a fan of heavy-duty cleaning.

But he had to accept that there was no way he could join in like this, and so he remained bound to his wheelchair with nothing to distract him from the pain he was in.

[prodigalson]

The taste of blood and iron was still in his mouth when he woke up in bed with a groan, automatically cradling the limp arm close to his chest. It was wrapped tight, the bandages stretched around his shoulder enough that their edges cut into his somewhat pliable skin. Thank god he woke up on his back. With a very gentle, butterfly-light probing of his collarbone with his free hand, he could feel the swelling, the protruding bone sticking out with his skin barely covering it. He wondered if he could look at it in a mirror somehow, maybe stop by the bathroom and examine the damage... and double-check that his eyes had returned to their natural golden glow. He didn't want to risk trying to look immediately down and injure the bone more, but he could imagine the sight: startlingly purple compared to his usual paleness, warm, and rather sickening. Not the first time he'd seen this type of injury, but it was the first time he'd experienced it.

When Edward's fingers moved up his neck to feel only clean skin there and on his face, he sighed with relief. As much as he did not want to admit it, the sacrifice of pain had been worth it for the blood. He was free of its sticky hold on his skin, he was free of the raw burn of his thirst, he was free of... his gray clothes.

He noticed the difference immediately when his mind caught up with him. Crisp, clean. Unscented. Tight. When he carefully sat up and slid to the edge of his bed, he could see why. Aguilar - the Eagle - hadn't taken his threats lightly. He was clothed in a military uniform, the ones that reminded him of the children in ROTC programs, with a small, dark beret staring at him from his desk. On top of the shirt was a dog tag, stamped boldly with his fake name.

Rubbing his fingers over the words, he frowned. It was a little late to give him a dog tag, considering he'd been dead for over ninety years. Was the real owner of this name still alive? Was there a real owner?

Edward placed his feet squarely on the ground, standing up solidly. Even as much as he had learned last night, he still felt like nothing had been accomplished. The excitement, the adrenaline... all of it had faded away. Somehow, he wasn't surprised when he stumbled to his closet and saw absolutely nothing in it; it just echoed that empty feeling. No shotgun, no bottles, rotting or otherwise.

No pool cue.

There was no polite knocking before the door opened, one of the soldiers from the previous day moving through with complete disinterest. "Cafeteria. Tuck in your shirt, first."

With one arm? But he did it without arguing, awkwardly and struggling at times. He hated the feeling of the sleeve rubbing against his arm in the sling. It felt irritating.

The soldier jerked his head towards the hallway, clearly ready to get him where he needed to go. With only a nod, Edward followed him silently. It barely bothered him to know that these men, too, were entirely immune to his telepathy. At least there was no pain coming from trying to listen.

The cafeteria itself was blissfully free of the warm smell of foods. There was only a small grouping of patients positioned there, on the floor with sponges and buckets of water by their sides. No sign of Bella or Stefan, so he immediately looked away with disinterest. Cleaning up the food fight. Of course. It rather shocked him that all the man guiding him did was point to a chair, pushed off to the side, before leaving.

What, they weren't going to torture him by making him clean in his weakened state? How disappointing.

[For his soul mate. :(]

[vitale.livejournal.com]

When Bella awoke, she awoke to a world of pain.

Last night ... how had last night ended? Honestly, she couldn't remember. Everything seemed hazy; was it the pain? There had been no pain last night. What had happened? How had that happened? She didn't know if she wanted to find out. Through the food? Through something that had been slipped into the air? No clue. No clue at all.

Holy shit, ow.

Bella moaned as she carefully pushed herself up in her bed with very unsteady arms, looking down to see the damage -

But she was wearing something else. Something very ... army like.

"What the hell?" she was momentarily distracted from the pain, and instead carefully slid her feet out from under the blankets and to the floor. She was now wearing some kind of dark, tight pants, as well as the blue shirt. When had she been changed? And why into military garb? Looking down at her hands, she couldn't see any skin; bandages everywhere. Feeling through her shirt (after a slow process of reaching up) she touched the bandages that lay underneath. How much of her body was bandaged? She could feel her neck was covered, but she didn't know what else.

Oh, right, my ankle, she thought bitterly, looking down to, indeed, see her ankle bandaged. Upon further inspection, she could feel what appeared to be stitches on her head. At least that cut was small and didn't hurt as much as her arms or neck.

Suddenly, the door was swung open, and Bella couldn't help but jump in surprise as a soldier walked in and stared at her for a moment before telling her to put on her shoes and follow him out the door. He quickly then added (rather curtly, she noted) to tuck in her shirt and grab the hat on her desk.

Augh. I am not a hat person.

After trying her hardest not to limp after the soldier, Bella entered the cafeteria and was instantly told grab something to help clean. After giving the soldier an unamused look (behind his back, of course.) she proceeded to limp to the middle of the room to grab onto a rag and bucket -

And there he was.

Bella instantly felt her stomach drop at the sight of him. Not because she was injured and she knew he was going to be quite angry at her, but because he was injured. His arm in a sling.

Panic took over.

"Oh my god!" she cried, carrying her things over so she could at least clean the floor ... close to where he was. She was afraid to touch him, what with all the soldiers suddenly appearing (so many!), so she simply ... speed limped to his side and proceeded to unceremoniously drop to his feet, making it look like she was very interested in cleaning the ground next to him.

However, the action caused her arms to tighten up in agony. Bella continued "scrubbing" a few seconds later. "What happened to you? Are you okay?"

Never mind the fact that she had her own jumble of wounds to worry about. At least her ankle, head, and arms were covered by her clothing. She only wished she had something to cover her neck with.

[its-the-mileage.livejournal.com]

The first thing Indy realized on waking up was that the hat he was wearing was not his own. He took it off and inspected it: a black wool beret. The rest of his clothing was also not part of either the usual Landel's uniform, Indy's adventuring gear--or, now that he looked at it, anything else he'd ever worn before. It was an unfamiliar military uniform: dress boots, dog tags and all.

Indy didn't like being put into the uniform of an army he couldn't identify and didn't support. On the other hand, this was a hell of a lot better than the sweatpants, although Aguilar whoever was running the show now had thoughtfully preserved the yellow face symbol on the armband. Groaning slightly as he sat up, Indy turned over the dog tags and read them: Harry Lucas, Jr., B Class,
06121981M. Was there any significance to that number, he wondered, or had it just been assigned at random?

He stood and noticed at the same time that no one had bothered to rebandage his arm--which was fine, since under the old bandages the burn seemed to be mostly gone. Maybe they'd sent the nurses packing. This hypothesis was confirmed when the door opened to reveal one of the soldiers, who was polite but not chatty as he escorted Indy to the cafeteria. As unhelpful as the nurse had been, Indy sort of found himself missing her.

A few of his acquaintances (Peter, Lunge) were already there when he arrived (not many other people were, aside from a ring of soldiers with rifles), but the lady officer in the middle--Huh, Indy thought--didn't sound like she was encouraging the patients to be chatty either. He picked up a flimsy-looking sponge and a bucket of soap water and headed for the nearest table, alone. Might as well get this over with.

[for Prussia]

[hat_einen_vogel]

What the hell had happened last night?

That was the question on Prussia's mind ever since waking up—or perhaps more accurately, ever since waking up and finding out that there had been some minor changes to the prisoner uniform: they finally had real clothes.

A soldier had burst into his room moments as he'd been studying the identifiers on his new dog tags—Gilbert Beilschmidt, C Class, 65337489M. Neither the number nor the class was familiar, but Prussia couldn't help but smile a little at the sight of the tags themselves.

He'd adjusted his beret—and was reminded of Switzerland for all of about a second as he did so—and then followed the soldier out of the room towards the mess while wondering about last night, and how he could have forgotten who and what he was. There was no getting around it: he'd forgotten things. He'd called himself 'Gilbert' around other nations. He hadn't even remembered West was his brother, outside of context clues that had led him to the conclusion.

But he was Prussia. He was the Free State of Prussia and would be for a while longer. A nation didn't just forget about centuries worth of history...

Once in the mess, the lady officer in charge barked for everyone to get to work—save for those who had taken part in "yesterday's insubordination." Prussia had a sinking feeling he was part of that number; as punishments went, not having to join in the work was hardly fitting, but the way she'd termed yesterday's fight... It left Prussia feeling unusually uncomfortable.

A glance at the soldier who'd brought him in earned him a nod and a gruff "I don't want to see you with a sponge, Beilschmidt."

Prussia gave the soldier a narrowed-eyed look, but then nodded, wandering off to see if he could at least find someone—who wasn't one the nations he'd seen last night—to pass the time with. He spotted one familiar face working at the nearest table.

"Dr Jones," Prussia greeted, coming to a stop by the table. He hadn't spoken to his brother's roommate since their (admittedly disastrous) conversation a couple days ago. He wondered if Jones had mentioned what he'd said to West... "It's, uh. Been a while."

[gald_digger]

Before she even opened her eyes, Anise felt that something was wrong. Still drowsy, she reached across her bed, feeling around for the doll that should have been at her side. When she didn't find it, she rolled over and tried the other side. Nothing.

Finally, Anise opened her eyes... and found herself in a room that looked almost foreign. She remembered now, the institute, the people she met here, and how she'd forgotten all of it so suddenly... but now that it all came back to her, she still wasn't sure she was in the right place. The dolls she'd put on display were absent, and the room looked just like it had when she first arrived.

And Tokunaga... Tokunaga was gone!

Anise kicked her sheets away from herself and scrambled out of bed, desperately hoping to find the doll somewhere in the room. What she discovered instead was the strange uniform she had been dressed in. A metal tag hung from her neck, which she held up to her face to examine. Dolores Haze, S Class... What did that mean?

"Oh, you're up already." A woman spoke to her from the doorway, seemingly having let herself in. Unlike the soft, gentle tones the nurses used, this person's manner of speaking was more rough and blunt. When Anise turned to look, the reason for that became apparent: she was one of the soldiers from yesterday. It was weird, though... this soldier was actually talking to Anise. The woman stepped deeper into the room, and continued. "Once you're finished getting dressed, we can get going to the cafeteria." She motioned to a pair of black shoes on the floor, and a black beret on Anise's dresser.

Anise complied by slipping the shoes on, but she paused when she picked up the beret. There were two pins on the front, one with the letters 'SC,' and one with an image of a sword and shield. She wanted to ask about them, but she wasn't sure if it was safe to do so, so she kept her mouth shut. Since the hat wouldn't fit on her head with her normal pigtails, Anise quickly redid her hair, tying the yellow ribbons so that her pigtails fell low, covering the tips of her ears and falling in front of her shoulders in long, dark waves. It was a different look, but at least she wouldn't have to completely give up on her cute style.

"Ready now?" The soldier looked bored and impatient, but for some reason, she wasn't being as aggressive as the ones Anise had met yesterday.

"... Where's Tokunaga?" Anise asked her. When she got a blank look in return, she clarified. "My doll."

"You'll get it back later, if you're good." With that, the soldier stepped outside the room, motioning for Anise to follow. The girl hesitated, not satisfied with that answer (they took Tokunaga!), but in the end she decided to follow. Even if this soldier wasn't acting as cold as the others she'd met, who knew what would happen if her patience wore out?

When they passed the Sun Room, Anise realized she needed to contact her friends, to tell them she was all right and that her memories were back... but the soldier's pace didn't allow for such a detour, and Anise was quickly ushered into the cafeteria. The soldiers lining the walls made for an oppressive atmosphere, and Anise quickly grew more nervous. "Tough break, kid," the soldier murmured before leaving her there among the crowd of patients. Anise didn't have long to wonder what she meant by that.

The announcement that followed left Anise dumbfounded. They weren't going to eat? They were cleaning up after those idiots from yesterday instead!? With all those armed soldiers staring at them from all sides of the room, there wasn't any room for arguing. With a sullen look on her face, Anise crouched down beside the heap of supplies, trying to decide on which to pick.

"Who do these bastards think they are?" the girl hissed under her breath.

[brought to you by the letter L]

[1/3]

[ryuuzaki]

Before consciousness had faded, the night before, L had heard Aguilar's announcement. The general's accent suggested fluency in Spanish; therefore, he wasn't so far removed from the origins his name suggested. It was difficult to discern anything more concrete than that about his personal history, though, and in context, past an attempt to predict his motivations, that history might not be relevant.

One thing was certain, so much so that forgetting it would mean that any accurate interpretation of their current situation would be impossible. Aguilar had been involved in everything, the entire time, and to all appearances, he felt that Landel's harshness had been insufficient.

This idea was confirmed when L woke up. He shifted position, feeling uncomfortable, and there was a soft metallic jingling. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and looked down. The discomfort was due to a change in clothing: under Landel, the Institute's uniforms had been tantamount to pyjamas, but now, L found himself wearing a real uniform. A buttoned shirt with—he turned his head—shoulder straps and an armband. Trousers with a permanent crease and a leather belt to hold them up. Boots on the floor, and a rush of heavy booted footsteps in the hall; his heart began to race. It was no surprise when the door of his room burst open and he was told to put his boots and beret on. After a long pause, during which he calculated his chances of getting out of this at almost nil, he slipped his feet to the floor and complied with the order.

Then we can expect things to get much worse, he thought. Maybe they will never be better again. In any case, almost all pretense of this being a mental health facility is gone. We're now being treated like conscripted cadets rather than like psychiatric patients. There's nothing therapeutic about this.

He peered at the silver tags that had been the source of the jingling. The name was as expected; he wasn't sure what "C CLASS" meant. There was a number, also mysterious, although something about it—squinting at it didn't tell him anything. It nagged at him as he walked to the cafeteria with the near-silent soldier. Why is it familiar? He could feel it teasing him, tugging on threads at the edge of his consciousness, almost as annoying as the itchiness of the wool beret that was now clamped on his head. Three days in bandages, and now an obligatory hat, with a pin to remind him of the pain and helplessness he had suffered.

His discomfort increased on the rest of the walk to the cafeteria. He wasn't allowed to stop at the bulletin board, and when they reached their destination, the pancakes that should have been on the menu were nowhere to be seen: instead, there were enough armed troops around to kill all of the patients with little effort. His pulse quickened again, but he took a deep breath. Aguilar could have had them shot in their beds if he had been so inclined, but that didn't appear to be his aim; L's "punishment" the previous night, if that was what his flashes of insight into Edgar's memory and emotions had been, wasn't even particularly distressing. No, you want us to be useful. Corpses are of little use to almost anyone. The pile of cleaning supplies in the middle of the room made their first duties obvious, but it was also evident that the patients were to wait for further instruction.

The false name on the tag—a name that had also been called on the field the previous morning—meant that Aguilar would follow through with Landel's determination to instill the identities that had been constructed for them. Yet the words on the intercom and the shift in ambience made L suspect that it would be accomplished in a different way: as discipline rather than psychiatric treatment.

[dreadofthegrave]

For the second time in a row, Battler woke up without recollection of having ever gone to sleep. He stared at the ceiling wearily for a moment, still half caught in a dream-like state, but a dull pain in his arm slowly brought him back into reality. The more the haze of sleep drifted away, the more it stung, and the more it stung, the more the night started coming back to him.

What... was that....? He'd certainly been scared before, but not like that. That level of suspicion and fear had reached an entirely new level, one that he hadn't been aware that he'd been capable of. He wasn't scared anymore, but the same confusion remained in place, and above all else, the excitement from the previous night left him feeling mentally exhausted and wary. ... He remembered his actions clearly enough, but the more he thought about them, the less sense they made. No matter how unsettled he may have been, the things he'd been thinking about were so far removed from the norm the norm that they just didn't feel right. There was absolutely no reason to believe that person, or anyone else had been after his life, was there....?

.... He wanted to doubt those memories, to be honest. Given how scared he was, and that creepy creature at the end, he wasn't sure if he could trust them. They were clear enough that there probably was some vague kind of truth hidden there, but wasn't it possible they were exaggerated and made obscure by how unsettled he'd been? And there was just no way he'd been hurt by something like that...!

It would certainly be convenient to think like that, but as much as he wanted to, there were certain things he couldn't deny. Wasn't this the same room from the night before? And while it was hard to comprehend some giant, grotesque rat with a taste for human blood, something had left that wound on his arm. ... It was hard to deny something completely when the evidence was right there. Still... They didn't mean it was accurate. That thing's appearance alone was enough to show that it probably shouldn't be taken at face value.

Beyond that, he wasn't given much opportunity to think. The door slammed open, a uniformed man steeping in without prelude.

"Up. Hat and shoes on."

..... Huh? He sat up, but the words didn't quite process, leaving him to stare at the soldier with a bewildered expression.

"Now."

Something in the sharpness of the words caused him to move automatically, lacing up a pair of boots over pressed pants and pulling the beret on the desk over his hair, wondering vaguely why he'd even woken up in this kind of dress. He might have thought the military styling kind of cool in another situation, but now that he had it on he couldn't help but feel a little ridiculous. .... Well, despite the smile on his arm, it was at least an improvement from the clothes from the night. But why the uniforms? The woman he'd met had said something about a mental hospital, which would explain his missing clothes, but not what he was wearing right now. Were they on some kind of base or something?

[dreadofthegrave]

..... No, more importantly, how did he even get here? He tried to ask to at least make some vague sense of what was going on, but the solider made no attempt to accommodate him, instead ordering him into the hall and demanding he follow. ... It pissed him off, being ordered around and completely ignored, enough that he wanted to protest and demand answers rather than ask for them. But what was he supposed to do? The man's weapon was in plain sight, making Battler's position more than obvious. So that's how it was, huh...? A silent show of force to show that he had no position to bargain. That just made him want to rebel even more, but at least for now, he wasn't stupid enough to risk it, so he could only click his tongue and grit his teeth in annoyance.

Once to their destination, the small speech was lost on him, but it was easy enough to catch the meaning. There'd been some kind of incident, and instead of eating, they were being punished. .... Seriously? What the hell, he didn't even know what going on here! He had no involvement in this at all! And he couldn't say he was especially hungry, exactly, not after last night, but were they really not going to let them eat? He turned to complain, no longer caring much about the soldiers' forced authority, but rather than a response, he was meat with cleaning supplies shoved into his chest and a turned back as the man took his leave of him.

Dammit....! Confusion and an empty stomach were easy enough to incite a bad mood on their own, but added to his throbbing arm and being pushed around, Battler was far from happy. Yet, there wasn't a thing he could really do. If just one gun was enough to be uneasy, the number from the amount of soldiers in the room wasn't worth the risk. ... Of course, that was obviously their intention by displaying them in the first place. It certainly didn't seem like it could be for any kind of protection.

... Fine. It was totally unreasonable, but he could clean for now. But even if they were going to make a show like that, he didn't particularly intend on sitting quietly for much longer.

[Albedo!]

[dualistic]

It seemed common for night to cut off in the middle of a fight, and it was one time that Harvey was grateful for the unexpected transition. He hadn't been that interested in getting through that maze in the first place, even if there might have been a reward waiting for them at the end of it. That really made the whole "rats in a maze" thing too literal, didn't it?

He'd managed to get away from that fight without taking any damage, though one of his companions hadn't been so lucky. Sangamon had suffered both memory loss and a gash on his leg last night, which meant that for once Harvey could acknowledge that someone was worse off than he was. At the moment, anyway.

As the morning came with a blissful amount of silence, Harvey woke up slowly and then sat up in bed, realizing almost immediately that the clothing he had on felt different. It was a good kind of different, seeing how he was a man that was used to wearing suits. What he had on now hardly qualified as a suit, but it was the sort of fitted, neat attire that he had more or less lived in back home.

Granted, he didn't consider himself a soldier, which meant that he wasn't entirely thrilled with the outfit change. It also had a lot of bothersome implications. Was it better to be considered a cadet or a mental patient? Logically he knew that the former was better, but he wondered to what extent that really was.

Harvey was in the middle of pulling on a pair of boots (which were rather different from his normal dress shoes, but far better than the slippers they'd been given before) when the door opened and a female soldier walked in. It wasn't such a common sight, even in this day and age, but he didn't comment on it.

"Your hat, too," she said, pointing to where a beret was sitting on his desk. That really seemed to be taking it too far, especially when he already had bandages covering half his face (and head), but the look on the woman's face made it clear that she wasn't going to accept anything but obedience.

With a sigh, Harvey stood up from the edge of his bed and grabbed the hat, putting it on carefully so as to not aggravate his scalp. He turned to her then, and she led him out without another word.

As much as he didn't really approve of the strict setting, he had to admit it was nice to not have a nurse trying to offer small talk as he was led down the halls.

His reaction upon entering the cafeteria was mixed. Not being served breakfast meant that he didn't have to deal with those damn vitamin shakes, but he wasn't nearly as excited about the cleaning portion of things. He hadn't cleaned much of anything since he'd lived with his mother, which was obviously a long time ago. These days he just hired someone to clean his apartment. He was too busy with work and he had the money, so it had pretty much been a no-brainer.

Still, he was no idiot. It had been made clear that there would be no tolerance of insubordination -- in fact, that's what this whole stunt was meant to prove -- so he would just have to swallow this pill, regardless of how bitter it was. Shaking his head, Harvey grabbed a mop, dipped it in some of the soapy water, and got to work.

[For S.T.]

[toxicspiderman]

The Zodiac was taking on water. So was his exposure suit. The old bike patch had gone, or one of the shots had been closer than he'd noticed. Might explain the pain in his leg, too. Slowly. Hypothermia had been a problem all along, but when the water got up to his chest, he couldn't keep his hands out of it. The situation was deteriorating rapidly Stupid, stupid. He might have had a chance at the patch when he could still feel things. Now he was chin-deep and moving his arms through the water to paddle felt like swimming through wet concrete. Without the skin-melting. A little exothermic reaction would go down nice right now, even if it was fueled by his own epidermis. Lots of dead layers, and he couldn't feel much of it by now.

A high-pitched whine was turning the pounding of his heartbeat into a new wave remix. He looked up. If it was the 'copter again, this time he'd let them shoot him. He had to tip his head back, now, to keep his lips above the surface, and the salt was throwing static his vision. He shut his mouth and lifted his eyes out of the water, tears desalinating enough for the lowered ramp to be visible. Either he'd snuffed it, gone crazy -- crazier -- or the fucking Millennium Falcon was asking if he wanted a lift. It was probably a Coastie boat, blurred by exhaustion and LSD, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He lunged for the ramp.

He didn't even come close. Faceful of water. Warm, soft, fuzzy water.

Wait. What the fuck? His second lunge brought him bolt upright in bed, mouth full of wool. He let whatever it was -- a black beret -- fall into his lap. Where the hell was he? The uniformed goons in the doorway had twin smug looks that said they knew the answer, but it was no use asking. Landel's Institute. Right. Bullshit excuse for a mental institution, monster extravaganza by night. He'd been searching for Grails with a guy named Harvey and Indiana fucking Jones.

At least now he remembered his own name firsthand. He kicked off the covers. "Sleeping with our boots on? Kinky." The soldier boys were better trained than the usual class of security guard he worked with. Their humorless faces didn't even blink, aside from the normal random, involuntary kind.

He wiped the saliva from the beret, did his best beat poet impression, and let them do the usual hallway dance, slowed by the fact that he wasn't going to be running on that leg without another post-nuclear winter mutated horror chasing him. More trudging, less bitching, net about the same. He was glad he hadn't been born ten, fifteen years earlier. Soldier invasions were things he saw in movies. Lots of GEE was still twitchy. Marching orders replaced by corporate-ese doublespeak action plans just because Wall Street was less scary than the National Guard. S.T. knew too much to make that mistake.

He headed for Sinners Row, but a barked countermand stopped that. He'd kept enough of the civil in civil disobedience to earn a bucket and a sponge. At least they'd stuck with cheap, unscented detergent. Time to find someone who wouldn't bitch about the cleaning talents of bachelors, even to a laboratory scientist. One who dealt in dirt, sure, but he knew how to scrub.

He spotted Harvey, and set the bucket down on the guy's good side. Good side. Harvey Dent. He'd even had the coin. Fuck, he'd just made nice with a schizophrenic supervillain. He winced, and put a hand to his leg. The latter had nothing to do with the former, though saying the injury didn't hurt would be a flat-out lie. "Morning."

[idolism]

_{[Free! And causing trouble already. :D]}

An animal, was he? Less than sentient? Aidou woke to the indignation he’d felt at those words still smouldering in his chest, which flared back to full strength once he realized morning had come. Who the hell was tha--

His thoughts were interrupted at the sight of what he was wearing in place of the typical grey sweat suit. What the hell was this? But he hadn’t… He drew away the touch of metal from his skin, exposing dog tags, of all things. It read "Aidan Fairbairn, S Rank," and what looked liked an I.D. number. So what, the dress code had changed to suit the new military presence?

It took Aidou only a second more to process the possible implications of such a noticeable change.

He lunged for his closet and was still taking in its near empty expanse when the cell’s lock turned unexpectedly, emitting the soldiers. Gone! Everything that wasn’t standard issue was gone. All that he had amassed, even the box under his bed he’d refused to touch. Damn it! And he couldn’t even demand to know what happened to it all unless he wanted to make an idiot of himself. He already knew the answer--acting predictably wouldn’t help. Still, ask questions he did, once he had ascertained the situation from his lead escort. To add further insult, the man actually seemed interested in being companionable, and it made Aidou more angry than learning he was (naturally) expected to maintain his new uniform and that there would be new routines taking the place of old ones. Like the ranking system, of which Aidou was apparently part of the highest rank. What a joke.

So was the sight of the cafeteria when he was finally led inside, mood growing more dark by the second. Instead of breakfasting, those who’d started the debacle yesterday were expected to stand around while the rest--including himself--were to clean? After everything, these guys, the farcical charades, the new uniforms, they expected their prisoners to do menial labour for the sake of the Institute?

His soldier, with the same subdued amiability, pointed out the supplies in the middle of the room. "The quicker you start, the quicker it’ll get done."

The noble grit his teeth harder before snapping out a single word. "No." It was the first time since waking up that he’d earnestly acted against orders, which was essentially all the Institute was. Orders. Expectations. And he assented in order to better his chances. But this? Absolutely not. It wasn’t that as an aristocrat Aidou was unused to chores or that he found the act itself completely unbearable. No, what was unbearable was the idea of lowering himself further in front of his enemies while they watched, like a show pony, like an "animal." He wouldn’t do it. Not that day. Not ever, for that matter.

There was a pregnant pause while the man took in Aidou’s obstinate stance before warning him of what would happen if he disobeyed.

"No," was his simply reply. "Do it yourself."

And no amount of warnings changed his answer. He stood rigidly, arms crossed and jaw clenched, refusing to look at any of the uniformed people about the room. His first undeniable insubordination, and if this was how things were to continue, probably not his last. He didn’t care. He’d bear the childlike punishments during the day and whatever worse punishments came later.

[shorttank.livejournal.com]

[hope this is OK! sorry it's all huge!]
The door opening woke Leela, and she blinked--she was getting good at the closing-both-eyes-simultaneously part--at the not-DOOP guy who stood there.

"Where's Betty?" she said.

"Gone. Up and moving, now."

Leela sulked (he wasn't even cute), but she did have a kind of snazzy outfit now. Of course, this meant someone had changed her at some point, and that wasn't cool. "Changing my clothes in my sleep? You perverts!"

The not-DOOP guy remained unmoved, and Leela felt an odd wave of belated affection for Betty, who had called her the wrong name and been unrelentingly perky, but had never... interfered with her. Leela had never thought about what Betty's life was like, and she was now, assumedly, out of a job. It was sort of sad.

"I need to leave a note for someone," Leela objected, when she realized they were heading straight for the cafeteria.

"Not now," Not-DOOP said.

"Betty would have let me," Leela muttered mutinously. With little else to do as they walked, she inspected the necklace she'd acquired somehow. Lisa Townsend, D class, 13738484F. Gibberish, and not even interesting gibberish.

She quickly became aware that Betty being missing was only the tip of the comet when it came to the changes here. Manual labor was the order of the day, apparently, and while Leela was in favor of swabbing the Planet Express ship when it gave her the moral advantage, as it almost inevitably did where Bender and Fry's lazy, couch-imprinting butts were concerned, she was not so much into making like a cleaning robot for its own sake.

On the other hand, while she was perfectly fine with a blaster, and, like any environmentalist needed to, knew her way around a shotgun, assault rifles that other people had, especially other people who looked prepared to use them, made her understandably uncomfortable, and were an excellent motivator for wanting this place to shine like the spotlights on MomCorp.

She noticed a young man who seemed to be rebelling against the orders. Maybe it was guilt for having not restrained herself from throwing a foodstuff or three yesterday morning, or maybe it was a need to meddle, like Fry had said (and said and said), but Leela just didn't feel he ought to face this alone, so she went over to him on the pretense of retrieving a bucket nearby. She did have some experience dealing with both the military and bureaucracies.

"Don't you require forms in quintuplicate before, um, notarificating the physical enactment of punitative measures?" she said.

Yeah. That should shut them up. Unfortunately, her not-DOOP guy just grunted out a repetition of the order to get to work cleaning, and Leela felt she had no choice but to give the cute young man half a shrug, and get to it.

[zack-fair.livejournal.com]

The way night had ended could only be called bizarre. While Zack didn't know Lightning that well, the way she'd reacted still seemed abnormal either way. Falling against her like that had been rude of him, but it had also been an accident. Her response had been a little too severe, hadn't it? And after that she'd acted really odd, which might just have been embarrassment or annoyance, but it had seemed like more than that. He was no whiz at reading people, but he just got this sense that there was something else going on.

Not that he'd had a chance to ask her about it, since the intercom had come on then, and that had grabbed the attention of all of them. The man's voice was snide, as if he was really looking down on them and judging them for what seemed to be a lack of "progress." It didn't seem to be in the sense of getting better from their mental illnesses, though; there was probably something else that the man expected out of them. From the way he was speaking, Zack would have put money on it being the general himself.

Which meant that whatever he wanted from them couldn't be good. Zack didn't know if this new management was going to carry a large resemblance to Shin-Ra, and if anything, it turn out to be worse than the Company. He had to be prepared for that, but what he did know for certain was that he wasn't going to play the good little soldier. Not anymore.

Granted, it was hard to keep up that belief when morning came and he woke up to find himself in uniform. It wasn't exactly like his First Class outfit, but it was close enough that it brought back unpleasant memories. Actually, the shirt, pants, and armband (the smiley face was a nice touch) made it seem more like the sort of thing a grunt would wear, which bothered him on a superficial level. He'd earned his high rank, after all. But that obviously didn't matter here.

The dog tags he was wearing seemed to agree, since they said he was "C Class." He didn't know what exactly that meant, but it couldn't be good and it left a bad taste in his month. Who gave these jerks the right to judge?

As if answering his mental question, a soldier opened the door and stepped in, gesturing with his head to indicate that Zack was supposed to follow him.

"What's with the silent treatment?" he joked as he grabbed for the beret (that had never been a part of any of his uniforms back home, and he felt kind of silly in it) and then put on the boots, which were a definite improvement.

"Just come along," the man said, his tone unfeeling and impatient. Zack knew the type.

Sighing, he splayed his hands in defeat and moved over to the man, figuring that he'd already kicked up enough trouble the day before, even if it had been for a good cause. He didn't imagine these guys would forgive and forget so easily, after all.

That was also made clear when he reached the cafeteria and a female officer started to berate them for what had happened the day before. However, when she got to the part about those who participated, Zack jerked forward slightly. "What?!"

The soldier with him grabbed his arm to pull him back. "Mr. Findlay, please calm down."

Zack knew exactly what they were doing. Making an example of them along with piling on the guilt for what they had done; it was a pretty perfect solution to yesterday's problem, and he felt his stomach twist at the realization. He thought he'd acted the way he should have yesterday, and yet this sort of outcome was enough to make him reconsider that.

Still, he wasn't going to hide what he'd done; he was no coward. So he stood where they told them to, eyes narrowed slightly as he watched everyone else get to work. Tifa would be in the same situation, and he couldn't help but keep an eye out for her as he stood there awkwardly.

[composers-proxy.livejournal.com]

Neku woke, feeling sore and more annoyed with the world than ever. They had used him to attack the other patients of the institute. He'd nearly strangled one, zapped a couple, blasted them...

He threw off the blankets with a quick, annoyed flick and reached for his headphones. Only they weren't on his desk. They weren't in the desk drawer. And when he raced around the room, throwing clothes right and left, they weren't anywhere else either. Where the hell were his headphones?! He could handle this whole brainwashing mess, but to take his headphones? That was simply unforgivable.

On top of that, just what was he wearing? It looked like some kind of military school reject, with the crisp uniform and sappy smiley face staring back at him from the cuff around his arm like some happy hall monitor badge.

The door opened a few moments later, giving him precious little time to try to figure out what was going on, but he did know one thing. He was pissed. Yesterday was balls, today was worse, and now there was some soldier in black giving him the evil eye like he was the one that'd just had his figurative puppy kicked. Neku crossed his arms and glared right back.

"Uniform's mandatory. That includes the hat," he said flatly, pointing at the black beret that Neku had cast aside in his search for the headphones.

"I want my headphones back," he replied behind gritted teeth.

"You'll put it on now, or you'll be doing push-ups," the man continued, not at all flustered by the miniature teenage rebellion in front of him.

Neku would've been happy to argue the point into the ground, but the fact that they had guns made it a little harder to make a valid point. So he did what any teen worth his salt would do when forced to comply with a strict dress code; he pushed every possible inch he could get away with. His shirt was tucked in, if only just. His belt was worn as loosely as possible with still serving its intended purpose.

And the hat? Oh, the hat. Even if the soldier insisted his spiky head would fit under it, it totally undermined the point of having a trendy haircut in the first place. It made his hair look like ass, all crammed under the hat, spikes poking out here and there and his headphones GONE for all he knew. Did they have any idea how much he paid for those brand NEW?

He was led like a man to execution, the static of other people already buzzing in his head as they opened the cafeteria doors. And what was waiting for him? What was this?! Cleaning duty? Oh HELL NO. He'd sooner spit on this floor than clean it. Just because he hadn't been a moron and thrown his food yesterday, why was HE stuck scrubbing floors?!

His escort pushed a bucket of soapy water at him, spilling a fair amount down his shirtfront and dropping a nasty-looking rag into the bottom before pushing him toward a spot on the floor that needed his attention. He wound up in front of a guy almost a good foot taller than he was, and much older. What was THIS GUY doing throwing food around then?! He was an adult!

Neku let out a loud and irritated sigh behind gritted teeth and made a point of scrubbing as slowly and ineffectively as humanly possible.

[full-score.livejournal.com]

After having been here so long, it'd been all too easy to fall into a routine. But from the minute Claude stirred awake to nothing but silence in his room, he knew something was wrong. The clothes were more tight and restricting, for one thing, and it only took a glance down for him to realize that he was in a military uniform. Not his uniform, either, but a foreign one. Claude sharply sat up in bed, though he regretted the sudden movement the moment the wound in his arm began to throb.

"Ugh," he grumbled to himself as he rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "What happened?"

More importantly, where the hell were his things?

Claude swung his feet over the side of the bed, intent on figuring out what was going on. He didn't have to wonder long, though. The door swung open, and a soldier boldly stepped into the room, rifle in hand. He'd half-expected him to start barking orders to get up, but instead he was given a surprisingly cordial greeting.

"Morning, Mr. Appleby," he said with a nod. "I'm here to escort you to the cafeteria, if you'll come with me."

Gazing at the soldier for a brief moment, he wasn't quite sure what to think. Either way, though, Claude knew he needed to do as he was told for now. Once he got up, the soldier reached for a black beret perched on his dresser and extended it to him.

"You'll need to put this on," the soldier explained. "There's a new dress code starting from this morning onward." Claude took the hat, studying it in his hands. Two gleaming pins attached to its side stared back at him -- one with the letters M-U inscribed, the other with an image of a sword and shield. As if reading his confusion, the other man added, "Those mark your accomplishments since your arrival."

That didn't explain a whole lot right then, but they obviously had somewhere to go, and Claude didn't want to hold them up any longer. "Um, right," he said slowly, placing the hat onto his head. "Okay, I'm ready." Well, as ready as he'd be, at any rate. Claude still didn't get why the soldier was being so nice to him. In fact, the guy even let him take a second to write a bulletin note even though it was obvious he wanted them to move along to the cafeteria as quickly as possible. Maybe Claude would figure all that out later today.

Unfortunately, the soldier's courtesy didn't show through in other ways. When they reached their destination, he was stunned to discover a pile of cleaning tools, and even more shocked at the lecture they received. Everyone who'd behaved during the food fight had to scrub out the cafeteria while the real perpetrators had to stand and watch? No way!

"Good luck," the soldier said as he offered him a mop and a bucket of water. Normally Claude would have assumed he was being snide or sarcastic, but his tone of voice suggested he was being completely sincere. Baffled, he watched the man walk away before looking down at the floor he was supposed to be cleaning.

"Great," he grumbled as he dipped the mop into the water and started to get to work. As if getting tear-gassed hadn't been punishment enough...

[For Ilia.]

[avengingfists.livejournal.com]

Ilia wasn't surprised when her night of rest ended without a hitch. Their assigned rooms proved themselves to be perhaps the safest areas of the institute at night, though they couldn't keep out human intruders once daylight struck. The crashing of the door brought Ilia to alertness, though her first thought after awaking was not about her switch in captors but the pain in her leg. It was virtually gone! A sigh of relief would have been appropriate but she didn't have so much time as to draw in a breath before a new uniform was held out to her in an annoyed but quiet fashion.

She was quick to change and had smartly tugged her new beret into place but she didn't seem to be moving fast enough for her new entourage's tastes. The accompanying solider blew out a puff of air, physically showing her lack of interest when Ilia cheerfully asked her how she looked once she finished changing. Ilia would be hard-pressed to say she found something she disliked about the uniform; in fact she considered it a terrific improvement to the terrible sleepers had been wearing around before though she would have thought her behavior and status before entering the institute would have garnered her more than just a "D Class" position as stated on her dog tags.

The brusque way in which she was carted down the halls towards the cafeteria irked her. She wasn't even allowed a moment to check the bulletin board but instead forced right through the Sun Room. That had never occurred before when the nurses had been the ones calling the shots. Shaking her head, Ilia didn't allow herself to think fondly back at that time. This really was no different than before. If anything, she could handle a military situation much more effectively than Landel's old regime.

In the cafeteria, she recognized the objective of the exercise almost immediately and had to suppress her urge to sigh. At least she wasn't starving from fighting off demons all the night before, but cleaning the first thing in the morning after her leg had just healed was asking for sore muscles she didn't want to contend with. Today was going to be a long day.

A brush broom was placed in her hands without a word and her current attending officer looked pointedly at her. Ilia nodded curtly and set to work in silence... or she would have, if a familiar blond head hadn't caught her attention. She made her way over to Claude and found a particularly dingy spot on the flooring to scour away at. No need to be reprimanded for lack of performance just because she wanted to be friendly.

"Hey, there," she greeted, a cheerful smile managing to work its way to her lips. She didn't try to hide the slightly scornful tone that colored her voice. "Great way to start the day, huh?"

Something compelled her to take the time to notice just how well the uniform seemed to wear on him. It caused a stab of fond familiarity to run through her and she wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Claude that seemed so nostalgic. It caused her smile to curve up just a bit more, transforming into something genuine.

[nobleman]

Just as Guy and the others had been about to reach the ruins, it was as if he'd blinked and he was back in his bed. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, but that didn't stop it from being frustrating. He'd gotten an idea of what the forest was like and he knew where the ruins were located now, so that was all good, but it was still hard to accept the fact that night had decided to end right as they'd reached their destination.

More than that, the night had given him a lot to worry about. Tear's odd behavior, Anise's memory loss, and the fact that Claude had gotten a nasty wound and yet had acted like it was nothing but a scratch. There had been something weird going on with all three of them, and he could only hope that the man on the radio had been right and that the food was responsible for it. But then why had he been unaffected? Or had his symptom just not been as obvious?

Still, he couldn't think of anything it might be, and he realized it was about time to get out of bed. As he sat up, he felt a cold sensation at the back of his neck -- and more than that, it felt like he was wearing his outfit from home rather than the less flattering uniform the institute required them to wear.

He was half-right about that. The uniform he had on now was closer to his own attire, but it was hardly the same thing either. It looked more like something that a soldier might wear, though it wasn't all that similar to the uniforms that the Oracle Knights wore. It bore more of a resemblance to what the soldiers wore here, which made sense, of course. So they really were going to be treated like soldiers now -- or trainees, at the very least.

That cold feeling was due to something that had been put around his neck; a set of metal tags that had some identifying information on it. Dana Browne, S Class, 48923245M. The number meant nothing to him, but the class seemed to be a rank of some sort. S Class was generally the absolute highest, wasn't it? But in what context?

When a soldier (a male one, thankfully came through the door, Guy glanced up, grabbing for the beret that was clearly part of this new uniform. He noticed a gleaming gold pin on it, tilting his head when he saw the sword and shield design. And what did that mean?

"Mr. Browne, it's good to see that you're up and ready to go already," the soldier said with a nod, and he almost phrased it like a compliment.

"Yeah, I'm ready," he confirmed with a nod, taking a few steps forward.

"Please follow me, then."

After asking a few questions, Guy determined that he'd been right about the S Class, though the soldier didn't completely explain what it meant or what the pin on his beret signified. Both his class and the pin were supposed to be good things, but that was from the perspective of the military, which meant he had to take it with a grain of salt.

On the way through the Sun Room, his request to use the bulletin board was granted, and Guy left a message for his friends. He needed to be sure that everyone was all right after what they'd gone through last night.

But his day took a nose dive when he walked into the cafeteria and was forced to listen to a very severe woman give them a lecture about why they needed to clean up the whole cafeteria. As a servant, this sort of work was hardly new to him, but it bothered him on principle. Luckily, with the amount of patients who would be doing this, chances were it wouldn't take so long. While he hadn't done this sort of work in a while, it wasn't the sort of thing that you forgot, and so he grabbed a rag and started cleaning.

[Free! Come clean with him. 8D]

[tasteoftruth.livejournal.com]

Kay hadn't been happy to be sent off alone, but Badd knew he'd done the right think as soon as the general started gabbing off over the intercom. People like that didn't see other humans as people, just tools...men like Gant and von Karma and that entire damned smuggling ring. Whatever dangers awaited Kay outside, at least she'd be free. He just wished he could have come with her, and tried to take comfort in believing the lie he'd fed her about "needing to help the other people trapped here".

Waking up the next morning came as less of a surprise. It was probably some gas they put in the air, set on a random timer--outside the walls Kay wouldn't have to to worry about that. What did come as a suprise was the outfit change. Again. Badd forced down a feeling of mild violation at having for the second time been unconsciously stripped and redressed by unknown forces. They'd given him dog tags, too, some meaningless number and that false name they'd forced on him yesterday. It looked like the general had wised up and realized that a prison needed to actually be run like a prison rather than a nursing home.

That was all right. Badd had done a little time on the prisoner side and a little time on the guard side and he could work with prison rules. The enforced cleaning of the cafeteria seemed a classic technique, as did making an example of the guys who'd started the problem. That 'meatbag' guy, Badd did not rate his survival as very likely if any of the nastier prisoners knew where he slept. Maybe people were a little nicer to each other here than they were in real prisons, if only because the majority were likely innocent civilians or keepers of the law, but Badd knew how little it took for one man to turn on another and he bet the general knew it even better.

He just wished it wasn't specifically this kind of work. Badd picked out a spot near a younger kid, one who didn't seem inclined to be a spoiled brat about the situation, and began cleaning next to him. "This is going to be hell on my knees," he said by way of introduction. Badd kept himself in better condition than most men his age but his joints were starting to get untrustworthy and an hour on the floor scrubbing would probably follow him around the rest of the day.

[moarnomsplz]

[from here]

Ax followed the human male silently. He had not performed the morning ritual, about which he was normally more dutiful than enthusiastic. He wished to do it now. However, doing it aloud would have been the equivalent of plastering his species on his artificial skins. Human artificial skins were all much the same to him, but these were not the clothings he had been wearing when he left the mall. These were mostly black, and more complicated than what Rachel had given him.

From the water that gave birth to us..., he thought, and felt somewhat better.

He reached I, Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill, Andalite warrior-cadet, offer my life, as he was led into a room full of humans, male and female, young and old. He no longer had a tail blade to press against his own throat, but he felt it was having done as well as he could that mattered. Wasn't that a human concept? Sometimes they were wiser than they seemed.

The humans here represented two different groups, some in black, like the clothings Ax had, some in different artificial skins. Those had primitive human projectile weapons. The man who had ordered Ax to follow him left him with the unarmed group, where Ax looked around at the varied humans, many of whom appeared to be as confused as he was. There was no single enemy to face, then, and no answers. Not yet, in any case. He also discovered around his neck a metal chain, which had jingled as he walked, and on which was stamped, Alexander Kusnitz, D Class, 02946454M. Trying to make sense of this, he paid little attention to the human female issuing orders. They had confused him with someone else, clearly, possibly someone who had had a hand in a violation of the rules here.

"I believe, leeve, there has been a mistake. Miss-take," Ax said to one of the armed humans, showing her the pieces of metal. "This is not my name, and I was not here for the infraction, shun."

"You heard her. Start cleaning," was the only reply he received.

Imitating the humans being forced to clean as best as he could, Ax found a bucket and began to swipe at the floor with a sponge. It did not seem as if they were creating Controllers here, and if anyone knew who Ax was, there had been no sign. It wouldn't have made sense to infest humans, only to keep them locked up. But he would remain wary, in case this were a new Yeerk plan. He could use his skills at passing for human to blend in, and try to learn what the purpose of this place was from one of the other unlucky prisoners.

[for Brainy!]

[emotionl4arobot.livejournal.com]

Brainiac 5 woke slowly, the hazy cobwebs of the night before gradually clearing away in the light of morning and it dawned on him that something was different.

He sat up at once, peeling back the blankets and staring down at the clothing he'd been given now. A military uniform of some sort, outdated by his definition but clearly meant for that sort of role. There was even a strange hat of sorts with a pin set in it that, when he looked at it more closely, made his stomach seem to sink. It was unsettling enough that Peter knew of what had happened, but now he apparently had to wear a constant reminder as well.

He wondered if he could remove it and leave it in his drawer, and was contemplating doing exactly that when the door opened and instead of a nurse, a soldier from the day before appeared and ordered him out of the room in a tone that brooked no discussion on the matter.

Brainiac 5 had had enough experience in the past with the Science Police to know better than to try arguing or demanding answers at this point, so he remained silent as they left the room and headed into the cafeteria where, instead of the meal he'd been expecting, there was a large number of cleaning supplies and some very basic, almost insulting, orders.

Apparently keeping quiet until he knew more for certain was going to be more difficult than he imagined.

Fortunately the Coluan knew well enough that he could survive without a meal just yet, and he doubted the plan was to starve them, so he did his best to ignore the empty feeling in his stomach as he took a mop and headed to another part of the room. There was another patient there already, and judging from their reaction, they didn't know much about what had happened the day before. It could possibly serve as a distraction while he worked to talk with someone else, not to mention he did try to help others where possible, so Brainiac 5 waited until the other boy got back to work before approaching him.

"I'm guessing you weren't here for yesterday, were you?"

[forgot-it-all.livejournal.com]

When he woke up, he ached. The sound of the intercom hadn't broken through the haze of his hearing except for bits and pieces and so he had no idea what was going on until he woke up again in his bed, curled up on his side. They'd succeeded in getting what they needed, and in somewhat helping Peter, but Ritsuka knew the Institute could do a much better job in patching him up. Since the guy couldn't feel pain, he would need extra assistance so he didn't end up harming himself even more.

With a groan, Ritsuka rolled over onto his back just as the door opened and a-- Soldier?? There was a soldier in his room instead of a nurse and the man was... Oh, hell. He was talking and Ritsuka was having a hard time hearing him. Apparently, the sound burst from last night was still causing a bit of trouble today. It wasn't as bad at last night with his feline ears gone, but it was still difficult. He sat up in bed and waved a hand, touching his ear to indicate he couldn't quite hear. The soldier nodded and came over to the bed, speaking a little more loudly and clearly. "Time to get up. Get your boots and your hat on. You need to report to the cafeteria."

Well, that explained the weird clothes he'd found himself in. Ritsuka wasn't one for button-ups or military style anything, but apparently that was what they were being forced into now. Slipping out of bed, he did as he was told and had the soldier help him put the hat on. The dogtags around his neck were new and as they walked, he fingered them, turning them over in his hands. "S Class?"

"Your rank. Top level."

"....oh."

How the hell did he get that? He was probably the most useless soldier of all time since he couldn't and wouldn't fight, so why did he get a higher rank? It didn't make much sense, but neither did soldiers ruling the Institute either. He'd just have to roll with the punches until he got a better handle on whatever was really going on.

Once in the cafeteria, some lady started talking about what they were being punished for and Ritsuka rolled his eyes. Wonderful. So now they were all going to suffer because some stupid idiots hadn't been able to mature past the age of two. The woman's speech ended and the soldier handed Ritsuka a bucket of water and a scrub broom, and then warned him not to remove his hat or he'd be written up. Good to know.

Moving toward the middle, away from the soldiers with their guns, Ritsuka set the pail of water down and began cleaning with a sigh.

[For the Rurouni!]

[degozaruyo.livejournal.com]

WESTON AOYAGI
S CLASS
31011868

Kenshin stared dumbly at the stamped piece of metal around his neck as he was led (perhaps, due to his rank, with slightly more respect than some of his fellow patients, though he had no way of knowing it at the time) into the cafeteria for "breakfast." He thought he had learned to expect the worst in this place; he had hoped that the violent repression of yesterday's riot had been the worst of it.

Obviously, he'd been mistaken.

Their new military regime had dropped all pretenses during the day, hadn't it? Gone were the smiling nurses and the fragrant--if heavy and unfamiliar--food. Even the slightly disturbing gray and yellow uniforms were gone, replaced by something stiff and uncomfortable and extremely reminiscent of Saitou's police uniform. Kenshin tried to spot Tomoe as he was pushed into the cafeteria, but he barely had time to look before he was handed a bucket and a cloth. He would have to find her later...if they let him. The unsmiling men and women lining the walls did not look like they would be granting favors any time soon.

Kenshin found it strange--or maybe it was better to say that it was more manageably strange than everything else that had occurred in the last twenty-four hours--that those who had not taken part in yesterday's little adventure were being made to clean and those who had were forced to watch. Surely, they all already knew who had been involved? The patients of Landel's Institute were a relatively well-connected group. Patients talked. They had little to do here but talk. They must all--

Kenshin's empty stomach twisted uncomfortably. He'd gotten used to regular meals lately, and his body was protesting at the lack of breakfast. Maybe he understood the logic better than he first thought.

The arrival of a young boy inches away from where he was scrubbing (they were all awfully hemmed in, all on their hands and knees like this) brought Kenshin's mind away from his stomach and back to reality. He'd seen this child around since he arrived. That was a very long time to be in this place, especially for one so young. The rurouni smiled and moved over, giving the boy some room.

"This is certainly an interesting morning, isn't it?"

[osoreirimasu.livejournal.com]

The Institute was not Russian, it was not a part of Russia or working with Russia or anything of the sort, and yet he'd spent the entire night thinking all of the Nations and the rest of the patients had....become one with that monster. Now that he was awake and being bustled into the cafeteria in a manner far too fast for a Nation his age, he could see how ridiculous it all was. But then why had he been so convinced of it last night? He'd begun to distrust everyone and when he had so few to rely upon in the first place, that was a deadly move.

At least now he was back to his senses, even if he was in clothes that reminded him of uncomfortable things. The pants, boots, shirt, dog tags (why were they called dog tags anyway? Japan disliked the name), and the beret all reeked of the military and Japan hadn't worn a military outfit since the end of the war. The beret reminded him far too much of Switzerland and it sat strangely on his head. How did Switzerland make it look so good? Maybe it was because of his hair. If Japan had the same color hair, perhaps the beret would actually look nice.

"Clean." The soldier leading him around shoved a pail of water and a sponge into his hands and Japan looked at him in surprise. "You heard the woman. Clean."

"May I request a cloth instead?"

The soldier rolled his eyes, changed the sponge for a washcloth and then sent Japan on his way. Of all the punishments to chose, they at least did one he could do with some amount of confidence. Japan didn't mind cleaning. Yes, it was annoying and somewhat troublesome to his back, but he spent most of his day cleaning up after his bosses and keeping his house in order, so this punishment? It wasn't so bad. Plus, it gave him time to think. Which was always good when he still felt such confusion over the previous night.

Getting down on his knees, Japan rolled his sleeves up and dunked the rag into the water, twisting it to remove most of the water. Then, without another word, he set about cleaning his area.

[come to me, ayanami~~~~~]

[hasnomeaning]

She was not surprised at the night's sudden end, and the silence offered in its stead was subsequently ignored. No. What would be noticed was the change of attire. Neither her plug suit or the patient uniform, but something more resembling a junior military officer. She stood, straightening, and touching the hat on her head before straightening it. In essence, it was but another uniform. School dress, plug suit, patient attire, military wear... It was all the same in the end. It was not enough to bother her.

A soldier marched in, and gestured briskly to the door. She nodded, and moved forward. At any rate, this was preferable. It was more outright. A military establishment moving as itself, rather than a patient processing center. Her attention moved to the tag around her neck, noted it, and moved on. She waited with the rest as the woman spoke. There, irritation touched lightly, but she ignored it. There was no reason for it. By any regard, work was work, and by this point she would rather be doing something. Anything, in fact, if it allowed her to be productive. And not consider things. Like why she had been bombarded by Byrne Faraday's recollections, if actual. Or how she would repay him for saving her by risking himself. Was he treated, by now? She wondered.

Ayanami took one of the cloths offered, dipped it in water, and crouched carefully, pressing it to the floor. There was a man near her, already hard at work, and she moved to do the same. Regardless of the condition of her residence back in Tokyo-3, Ayanami could clean very well when she chose to. Or was told to. In this, despite everything, there was something comforting about order being acted out.

[dual-worlds.livejournal.com]

Instead of the customary morning announcement, they only had a silent captor to greet them, and as well as soldiers who suddenly entered their quarters. Spock immediately straightened in his bed, taking note of the new attire. Some sort of uniform, clearly, though not affiliated with any sort of organization Spock was familiar with. Very little was left over from their previous clothing, save for the smiling face on the armband. It was a peculiar choice for a symbol, one that Spock would not have been opposed to learning more about, but at that moment he had more immediate concerns.

"Get up," the soldier ordered, thrusting a black beret into his chest. "We're going to the cafeteria."

While his demeanor was a sharp contrast to the nurse who'd escorted him through his daily activities before, that was hardly surprising. Spock promptly placed the beret onto his head and stood up, naturally straightening his back and shoulders as he did so. He was aware of a set of metal tags hanging around his neck, but decided not to investigate them until he could do so without being reprimanded. Once the soldier exited the room, he followed after.

The first thing Spock noticed were other soldiers walking patients to their meal shift. They were clearly outmatched, which meant physical resistance was even more futile than it had been before. As they passed through the sun room, Spock glanced at the bulletin board. He needed to leave a message for their crew. The soldier, however, spoke up as though sensing his intentions.

"No bulletin board privileges until after first shift," he curtly informed him.

Spock turned his gaze ahead and didn't argue. When all was said and done, the soldier made an excellent point. So long as they were captives, luxuries such as communicating with colleagues and allies were simply that -- luxuries.

As was eating, apparently, according to the woman who lectured the patients once everyone was assembled. Instead of receiving food, they were to be given an array of cleaning tools to wash the kitchen. His soldier directed him to a bucket of warm, soapy water and a scrub brush. Spock realized that being ordered to get down onto his knees and scrub the floor was intended to humiliate him into submission. Such methods were generally ineffective with Vulcans; furthermore, they were unnecessary. He had no intention of defying their captors so long as there was nothing to be gained from it. And if there was indeed something to be gained, as well as a decent chance of succeeding, cleaning floors would not be enough to deter him from making an attempt.

Of course, he also realized that the soldiers were capable of carrying out harsher punishments if they saw a need for it. The next couple of days would likely be a period of observing their new captors and trying to understand their limits. In the meantime, there was little to do except take his wet scrub brush and roughly rub it over the floor's smooth surface.

[For Kirk.]

[doneinthree]

Kirk woke up to the door of his room getting thrown open and a voice barking at the prisoners within, a rude change from the usual cheery nurse — or even the usual creepily cheery Head Doctor announcement. Huh. So Landel really was gone. Kirk received exactly two seconds to contemplate this before he was being ordered to get dressed and report to the cafeteria. Get dressed? As he sat up in bed, he realized that he was wearing something different from the familiar greys: starched black and blue, uncomfortable in that undeniably military way. Jim might technically be a soldier, but it had still taken him a month to get used to the stiff cadet uniform. Collars didn't suit him. Command golds, on the other hand...

A pair of black leather boots stood beside the bed, and Kirk pulled them on without being told twice. For all this new uniform lacked in comfort, he was willing to accept never having to wear cheap slippers again. Or that stupid yellow smiley, but — as he looked himself over again — that particular bit seemed to have escaped onto the black band already secured around his arm. Oh well.

Kirk started for the exit, but the soldier blocked his way, and pointed to an object on the dresser. "Your beret," she informed him.

"Seriously?" he asked. The soldier stared silently at Kirk, her flat expression saying enough. For a reckless second, he considered testing his new guard's stoicism with a playfully smart-aleck comment, but he expected that to go over about as well as flirting with Spock. Make that Spock with a firearm. Okay then. Kirk tugged the beret over his hair, and the soldier executed a crisp turn out of the room.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn't the only one with new duds. If he'd found the presence of soldiers jarring yesterday, it was nothing compared to seeing the mild hospital hallways crammed with military uniforms. Even more unexpected than that was the way his escort headed him off when he tried to detour to the bulletin board, citing some new regulation about bulletin privileges. Kirk's misgivings only grew when he caught the smell coming from the cafeteria — or, more accurately, the lack of smell. No fried food, broiled meat, or sweet cakes. Nothing but a mountain of cleaning supplies in the center of the room. Another soldier stepped out of the lineup of black, and the reason for it became clear enough.

As everyone feared, the regime change had brought harsher wardens. This, Kirk could handle — god knew he'd endured these kinds of punishments before, if not in Starfleet Academy before he'd figured out his attitude needed an adjustment, then back on the farmhouse with his stepfather. Honestly, it was less confusing to actually be treated like prisoners for once... but as much as this made more sense, Kirk didn't expect Aguilar's strictness to end with mops and soap buckets.

He spotted Spock in the crowd ahead, and quickly made his way over after procuring a scrubber and bucket himself. Mopping and sweeping would allow him more dignity, but Kirk couldn't be too pressed to care about appearances right now. He knew what they were trying to do by forcing the "insubordinate" prisoners to stand and watch, but it would be hypocrisy for him to resent them for wanting to take a swing at the staff.

Kirk knew who the real enemy was, and it wasn't the people trapped here with him.

"You know, the new uniform suits you way better. You wearing that happy face kind of creeped me out." He plunked his bucket on the floor and kneeled down beside Spock. So much for their spotless, perfectly creased pants. "So what do you make of all this?"

[stlg13bomber.livejournal.com]

The general's voice made the hairs on Carter's neck prickle up. Dr. Landel was creepy but this guy was a different kind of creepy. At least Dr. Landel seemed to like having them around. And he was a doctor and Carter had always liked doctors. Generals, on the other hand, he knew all about how nasty a general could get.

But in traditional Carter style, a change of setting and a small gift were enough to turn his doubts into smiles. Carter woke up in a military uniform and nearly laughed with delight. An actual uniform, no more of this silly smiley-faced shirt business. And a beret, too, a really nice one. Even Carter's real military uniform wasn't this neat and formal, not after a year in a stalag. There was something around his neck, too, and Carter could tell what it was as soon as his hand touched the little pieces of imprinted metal. He'd been missing them ever since arriving here.

Harold Fuhrmann
C Class
24561199M

It wasn't the right name but Carter had worn foreign dog tags before. They never carried their true names while they were out on missions. Just having them made him feel a little special. Carter carefully tucked the tags back into his shirt with his right hand...wait, right hand?

"Ah! It's fixed!" Carter gleefully flexed his fingers, twisting his hand around and finding it as good as new. A fancy suit of clothes, a completely healed hand, this day was wonderful already. When the soldier came to collect him Carter was already on his feet, perky and dressed with beret firmly in place.

"Boy, I have to put it to you guys, I had my doubts but this is really--"

"Shut up."

Carter reflexively shut his mouth, making sad puppy eyes at the uncaring soldier as he was forced out into the hallway. That wasn't right. The nurses had always been nice to them and Carter hadn't even done anything wrong. He let himself be escorted into the cafeteria, noting with minor disappointment that everyone else was wearing the same uniform (sometimes with better pins, which just made him jealous). At least it was better than a t-shirt and slippers, and hopefully things would get less oppressive over breakfast...no breakfast?

Carter's stomach, now accustomed to good food every day, gave an unhappy gurgle. He'd been enjoying this place so much and now the Gestapo was here ruining it. And it was Gestapo...even if the accent was different he recognized the way they phrased things, the way they dehumanized you with words and looks. A Gestapo man could make you feel like they were capable of doing the nastiest things possible, not because they hated you but because to them you were nothing more than an earthworm.

"And Heil Hitler to you too," Carter mumbled under his breath as he grabbed a mop. When his back was to the soldiers he made a little flick with his wrist to mimic the Nazi salute. Boy, when he got his hands on the guy who started the food fight he was really going to let him have it about proper prisoner conduct. They had a convention for this sort of thing, you know.

[Free as a bird!]

[bodhiandspirit.livejournal.com]

Though Rita made it a habit of twisting her blankets around her body like a cocoon as she slept, this morning she found the sheets stifling and the room warm, and she instead kicked them away, sprawling on top of the mass of cloth. But as the haze of sleep began to clear, she came to realize why it was so difficult to make herself comfortable.

Apparently, the clowns running the institute had gone and dressed her in a different kind of ridiculous outfit. Few things could be less appropriate for Rita than a military uniform, but it didn't really matter what she wore so long as she had...

... Where was it?

Rita searched all the pockets of her new uniform, then stripped the bed, shaking each sheet as she did. There was no sign of the blood red ring she had repaired just last night. In fact, upon searching her closet, Rita discovered that all the items she'd collected during the night were missing. Did the military take everything?

The door to her room opened then, and a soldier entered. He gave Rita a sharp look, and simply commanded, "Shoes on."

"Would it kill you to ask nicely?" Rita retorted, irritated that anyone had the gall to walk into her room and start bossing her around without so much as a greeting. She knew nothing would come from fighting here, however, especially considering he was armed and she had just been cleaned out, and so she sat at the edge of her bed and put on the pair of black dress shoes, eying the soldier with a glare as she did.

The second she finished, a black beret was thrust at her, and the door was held open for her to leave. Rita looked over the hat as she stood back up. "You've got to be kidding."

He wasn't kidding. When she didn't comply immediately, the soldier grabbed her shoulder, tugged her closer to the exit, then shoved her out the door. Rita grudgingly set the beret on her head, and the rest of the walk was spent glaring at the back of the man's head.

That murderous look on Rita's face remained through their arrival at the cafeteria, the speech that followed, and the beginning of the cleaning process. With Rita's knee injury, kneeling down to clean was out of the question, and so she picked up a dust mop that she could use without much difficulty... even though she shouldn't have been doing any of this in the first place.

She limped slightly as she carried the mop away from the supply pile, stopping next to a patient who she'd never met before, but who seemed similarly displeased. "I can't believe this," she griped, not really caring who she was complaining to so long as she got her chance to complain. With a venomous look in the direction of the soldier who had announced the ridiculous punishment, she grumbled, "I've got half a mind to ram this mop down her throat."

[diamondstorm]

Valuable, was it? Well, that had given weight to a few theories, and drove in a few other points. The time to question those had not been when the words were spoken--night ended, and day came quietly; consciousness peaking to silence instead of the intercom's buzz. The other differences were noticed near instantly--the change of uniform from the lax, casual clothes to something near matching the military wear seen yesterday. Renamon quietly felt over the clothing, the new fabric and clasps proving reactive. Two things that stuck out were the hat which she tugged off to look over, and a small tag hanging from her neck. She peered at it carefully. The name she was called by here, a class ranking, and some numbers followed by an F. She blinked, then cocked her lips in dry humor. 01110010. 'R'. Clever.

The door opened then, a man briskly moving into her room to stare her down. "Name, rank, and number," he said, as if to explain the tag she was looking at. "And beret on."

The tone was no-nonsense, and after yesterday, the Digimon had no want to try any patience. And didn't truly care what she was wearing in general, as long as she could move in it. She stood, tugging the hat on, then ventured, "A class?"

A grunt of some sort. "Second highest ranking of the patients. Means you've proven yourself a bit by lasting this long."

She nodded, and moved to follow them without another word. Second highest, was it? Interesting. She would be curious to see how others measured. The man had said by how long she had lasted, but did personal ventures call into play? Or was it truly only a regard of survival and perseverance? The thought called as depressing in a way.

And then, she was only concerned with the idiocy of the morning's events. It was an obvious ploy, dissension in the ranks, but it still irritated. As if the Digimon would be so immature to argue back. Obviously, they would do as the heavily armed men asked. Happily and willingly. Because there was a choice in the manner.

....

Renamon stared at the options, and finally grabbed a broom to start sweeping away dust.

[Yukari!~]

[windsome.livejournal.com]

Well, at least waking up in her bed today hadn't been nearly as weird as it was all the previous nights; after all, she had already been there.

It was only after waking up that things started to get weird...er than usual. After all, the first few days before this, she hadn't woken up in a uniform. It hadn't been very surprising that it was a soldier soon barging into her room to wake her up instead of the usual nurses, considering they took over the entire place the day prior, but they had to put them in some crisp and proper uniform? Really? Those grey outfits may have been ugly beyond all belief (and that smiley face just made her feel ridiculous), but at least she didn't feel like she was suddenly being drafted into the military with those, either.

Ugh. It was going to be a long day. Yukari could already feel it.

After a few orders of getting her act and threads together, all nice and neat juuuust like they wanted it, Yukari reluctantly followed her escort all the way to the cafeteria, which, if the routine from days past were anything to go by, the normal destination first thing in the morning.

...And quickly found out what was up with the lack of everything, save for all the cleaning supplies conveniently placed about.

"Oh, you're kidding me," Yukari muttered under her breath, turning on her heels to go in some random direction after the oh so helpful announcement. There just wasn't enough exasperation in the world to adequately convey precisely how exasperated she had become (and that was saying something-- Yukari was pretty good at being exasperated), but what could she do? There were a billion guys standing around who'd probably take some sort of sick glee when it came to pointing their rifles at her, and she didn't need experience to know you simply didn't screw around with a bunch of guys and their guns. She was perfectly content when it came to being holeless.

With that much established, where on earth should she start? The mere thought of having to start on this at all was so degrading, though, but if she lingered around for too long, someone would probably catch on...

Yukari glanced up once, then came to a stop when she realized who she was about to pass by. Oh. Yeah, they spoke before-- she was one of those who knew her from-- before. Maybe it would be a good idea to catch up again, considering they were apparently pretty close before her entire memory of this place went out the window. Close enough that she knew all sorts of things about her Yukari wouldn't have imagined she'd reveal, but...

"Hey," Yukari greeted regardless. "Renamon, right?"

[unmocked-lawr.livejournal.com]

Morning. The beginnings of a frown appeared on Javert's face for a moment before he sat up, dragging a hand across his face. Something settled a little more heavily against his neck and clinked as he moved: a name plate of sorts, hanging from a thin chain. Philip Hunt. S Class. 07061832M. Too much to process at the moment. He ignored it in favor of more important events.

It wasn't that they had made him forget. That was almost understandable. Little as he had done in the grand scheme of things, he was bound to have struck a little too close for comfort once or twice. It was the way he worked, and it meant he had been doing something right. No, it was that they had allowed him to remember again. Everything, as far as he was concerned, from the moment his vision had gone dark under the Pont Neuf to the moment the intercom had switched on last night, had been returned to him. Was it a warning of some sort? It had been delivered through the food, or something similar; had it been random, or had the effects been targeted?

Less worrying, but of no less consequence, was the sudden disappearance of all of his belongings. It was hardly surprising; there were bound to be some changes with the institution of a new regime. But Javert found the sudden emptiness of his closet almost disappointing all the same. That sword had been worth its weight in gold most nights.

At the very least, the horrific daytime uniform had been replaced by something more socially acceptable, even if he supposed he must look terribly out of place in it. He seated himself on his bed again as the approaching click of footsteps heralded the arrival of his new captors.

"Morning, Hunt. Sleep all right?"

The voice was practically bordering on amiable, and the soldier who had entered his room seemed almost relaxed.

"Something like it," said Javert, standing up. The chain around his neck clinked again with the movement.

"Top rank," said the soldier, indicating it. "That comes with privileges. You'll get used to it in time."

There were boots and a beret to go with the new uniform, and a small pin that blinked M-U up at him as he turned the beret over. Javert's lips hardened into a thin line.

"Honored." He put as much sarcasm as he could into the word.

If the soldier noticed, he didn't remark upon it; instead, he seemed close to friendly as he escorted Javert through the halls. Disconcerting as it was, it was nevertheless preferable to his old nurse's overbearing chatter, and if nothing else, responding favorably to it allowed him the privilege of posting on the bulletin board before he was directed through the double doors to the cafeteria.

Evidently, the privileges of being S Rank, whatever it was, did not extend to avoiding the punishment for yesterday morning's insubordination. Aguilar's strategy was evident, that much was certain; already a number of patients had been lined up against the wall, clearly not cleaning. Those were the would-be revolutionaries, then. He doubted the next shift would make much of a difference to them, one way or another.

Wordlessly, Javert rolled up his sleeves, acquired a small selection of rags, and began to clean. There was little point in arguing, and it was not in his nature to shy away from hard work. At the very least, it seemed as if conversations were permitted. Perhaps he'd find a familiar face nearby.

[gamingsostfu.livejournal.com]

Things were getting a little too real for Matt's taste.

Before this place, he'd managed to keep himself so well detached from everything else - from the world in general, with his hermit lifestyle. Human contact was overrated.

But in this place, where nightmares became real things that crawled and flew and bit in the dark, it was quickly becoming an apparent necessity, if one wanted to survive.

The brunet had to face the awful truth: there was just no getting away with being a jerk here. Of course, this was a lesson he should have learned a long time before, but it had somehow been one talent he just never picked up. It stung a little, to think that there was actually something he wasn't good at.

However, his attention was quickly refocused, as it should have been; it was daytime, and there were important matters to attend to.

Such as eating.

Matt had listened closely to the announcement he and, he was sure, everyone else had been privy to just before dawn broke, and it seemed that Landel was gone for good for the foreseeable future; this realization made him unsurprised to find himself in a completely different (though equally tasteless) uniform when he sat up in bed that morning. Instead of the usual grey t-shirt dubbed with that annoying smiley face, he found himself in a crisp blue shirt, the collar and long sleeves making him feel weirdly at ease; he attributed this to the similarities the shirt held to his usual shirt and vest combination - but it also had the bad side effect of rubbing the bandage on the back of his neck and making his wound itch. The outfit was completed by responsibly creased black trousers, black boots, and a shiny new black belt. The entire thing felt much more formal than he was used to, but he could go with it; the outfit was surprisingly comfortable, and anything was better than the lazy retirement home clothing they'd been subjected to before.

He did raise an eyebrow at the band around his left bicep; it was adorned with that same smiley face, always mocking him.

The door opened suddenly, and a gruff voice simply said his "name": "Jae."

His head snapped in the soldier's direction, more startled than surprised, and something flew right off his head and made a small sound when it hit the floor, right beside his right foot. Blinking down at it a moment before he stooped down to pick it back up, Matt wasn't very happy to see that it was a simple black hat; it seemed to be made of wool, and it was just.

Awful.

In the doorway, the soldier stared at him with a vaguely annoyed look on her face. She was just an inch or two shorter than him, but Matt had the distinct feeling that she could whip into submission quicker than he could do anything about it - and her expression plainly said that she wouldn't mind doing just that if he didn't get a move on. Before she could come in and get him, the brunet put the hat back on his head and followed her out the door and down the hall.

It was a silent trip to the cafeteria, and his stomach grumbled loudly when he got there and listened in on the speech. As disappointed as he was that there was no trace of the most important meal of the day, he held his cool and silently made his way across the room with his sleeves shoved haphazardly up his arms and a sponge in one hand, a rag in the other. When he saw Javert, he glanced over at the nearby soldiers; they didn't seem to mind a little bit of chatting, so long as the cleaning continued and got done. With that - and the fact that they had some unfinished business that needed to be taken care of - Matt approached the other man. "Care for a hand?"

Hint hint: We need to talk about last night.

[monkeyboy]

Goku was pulling at his uniform by the time two soldiers entered his room, clearly armed since he had a record of violence against staff. One man in uniform stayed by the door, while the other advanced on him without a word. Goku watched as the man took one look at him and narrowed his eyes.

"Shoes on, and fix that shirt," he commanded crisply, impatience visibly radiating from his body language.

Instead of complying, Goku simply glowered back at the two soldiers. He wondered how quickly he could disable both of them. Apparently his posture was too telling, for the man gripped his rifle tighter in response, ready for an attack.

"We can do this two ways: Come willingly or we'll drag you out any way necessary. You won't win, kid."

Goku's black eyes shifted to the man at the door who had his gun poised to fire, or at least threaten. The threat went right over his spiky head. Bullets wouldn't kill him, so why should he cower before something so impotent? Unless they were willing to open fire, the young boy had called their bluff. His satisfaction didn't last long when the uniformed man came up with a better threat.

"Shoes, shirt, now, or you won't get breakfast."

Yes, nothing was more earth shattering than being denied food. It was a cheap shot, but Goku couldn't refuse now. Sliding off his bed as passive aggressively as possible, he began attempting to tie on his new shoes. It wasn't working very well, so he just tied them into one big knot that he could deal with later. His shirt was tucked back, despite his displeasure at how restrictive it felt against him. He tried to move past the soldier, but he was stopped.

"Hat," was the only thing the soldier said as he barred Goku from proceeding any further.

The monkey boy glanced at the nightstand beside his bed. The black beret eventually found its way into his stubby hand, but not on his head. The floor seemed the most appropriate place for it. He could only savor the man's expression for only a moment, though, before the hat was picked up from the floor and placed on his head with a crushing pressure that wouldn't cease.

"Ow owowowwwwah! Hey--!" Neither soldier seemed interested in his protest over the mistreatment. The powerful hand guided the three of them through the door and down to the cafeteria, with Goku squawking the entire way.

As if it couldn't get any worse, the cafeteria was all messed up. There was no food. Anywhere. Instead, a person began to speak once all of the patients had been rounded up. They would not be eating this morning. This announcement was beyond Goku's comprehension level.

He tried to look up at the soldier, but the pressure on his head kept him immobile. Shouting would work just as well, the monkey boy decided. "You said--Hey! You said I'd get breakfast! I came, so I want my breakfast!"

"I lied," the soldier replied, bored with Goku's constant complaining, as he kept his eyes on the woman in front of them.

"That's--" Goku began, his heart hammering in his small chest as a fit of rage began to boil over the confines of his body. "--not fair! That's cheatin'!" He smacked at the hand holding onto his head, trying to free himself any way he could. "You said I'd get breakfast! I want food! That witch--she said she'd get me food! She promised!" His complaints were becoming more hysterical with every word as he recalled the nice witch and that one girl he had talked with. He had asked for food and she said he'd get him some next time. Well, next time was here!

"Yer all liars! Liars!"

[NPC mod is go~]

[damned-soldiers.livejournal.com]

Of course there would be a lack of cooperation first thing this morning. It was the first day of the new system by which Landel's was to abide, and several of the soldiers gathered in the cafeteria to keep the peace were unsurprised when a ruckus began. A couple glanced that way, but only one approached the boy when he refused to quiet down.

Standing tall over the child, he glared down through narrow eyes, his lips forming a tight, thin frown.

"Takanawa! Drop and give me ten, if you refuse to see reason!"

If compliance continued to be an issue, the soldier had no problem finding a more interesting punishment.

[thatdemonbitch.livejournal.com]

For once, the sound of the intercom didn't wake Ruby up. In fact, she took a moment to roll onto her side in the tiny bed provided for patients and she reached one arm over to the opposite side of it with the lethargic intention of finding Sam there. When her hand dropped through air off the side of the bed and hit the cold metal frame, she cursed under her breath and was slowly brought into the land of the living. At first, nothing registered as strange, because her mind was slowly reorienting itself because she'd, for once, been able to wake up slowly instead of suddenly by force of Landel's obnoxious voice.

She was used to waking up in strange places, so it was no surprise that waking up in Landel's had never bothered her. But when she reminded herself that it was the Institute, her initial gruff dismissal was short-lived. The intercom. Squinting one eye open, she looked up at the box on the wall expectantly. Nothing. Not even a crackle. So, she propped herself up on an elbow, and that was when she began to really notice the strangeness.

The cheesy uniform with the smiley face was gone. Apparently, Landel's institute had turned into the S.S. overnight now that he was effectively usurped. In its place was a well-starched, long-sleeved shirt that looked more out of place on her than an elephant at a wedding. She sat up all the way and swung her legs off the bed and began to further examine her outfit -- the boots, she couldn't complain about, but the dog tags were the really interesting part.

When she shifted to a sitting position she could feel the cold metal fall between her breasts and she reached inside her shirt to pull them out by the chain. Inscribed on the tag was an identification system:

KRISTEN ALIGHIERI
D CLASS
33666421

Her expression soured at the central numbers -- could their digs get any more obvious and frustrating? It was like they didn't realize she was fully aware of her monster status and needed the constant reminder to keep her from --

That was what brought the last moments of the previous night flooding back. The angel. The rush of terror and apprehension and not good feelings that had come with. By comparison, the suddenness of her power returning seemed like spare change in comparison. Sure, he hadn't jumped at the chance to smite her, but all that meant was that he probably couldn't. She couldn't smoke out, the angel was out of smite-erade. Wasn't that a classic. Judging by the way they'd been at one another's throats, that was the only logical explanation for the lack of painful death on her part. He hadn't just decided to spare her -- what angel would?

There was a reason she'd tried so damn hard to avoid them back home.

She didn't get to think too long on the matter, though, because almost as soon as it had come rushing back, in came a small unit of soldiers, all snappy movements and purpose. The way they carried themselves was like a bunch of well-trained dobermans, it was honestly a little disgusting. They didn't hang around for long, though -- soon enough they were barking orders for her to get her ass out into the cafeteria. Ruby's first, instinctual reaction couldn't be avoided. A snide you gonna make me? slipped past her lips and, apparently, they took her a little too literally. The soldiers crossed the tiny room to her bed and snatched her up by either arm, dragging her towards the door. At first, Ruby dragged her heels, but the discomfort of being hauled around and the indignity of it made her eventually stumbled enough to catch up and jerk her arms out of their grasp, walking on her own in that direction and holding her chin high while she did it.

[thatdemonbitch.livejournal.com]

If she thought that was offensive, the cafeteria was even worse. Of all the time she'd spent thinking well, hell, at least the food's good she was now faced with a cafeteria devoid of it entirely. Talk about crappy dining options. The officer in charge was, to Ruby's surprise, a woman. Her snide sarcasm was quickly drawing up a sneer on Ruby's face, arms folded over her chest in silent protest. When the cafeteria door slammed and a soldier began trying to shove a sponge for scrubbing into her hands, Ruby felt her last thread of patience snap.

The constant fucking trapped feeling wasn't enough. Losing her abilities, being stuck in there with an angel who wanted her head on a freaking platter, wasn't enough. The monsters, the feelings of inequity. She was done. She threw the sponge onto the floor near the soldier's feet, livid.

"Funny, doesn't look like your arms are broken. You can clean your own freakin' floor. You don't want us slinging food around, open the door and I'll be the first one outta your hair."

[ Red Bull gives you wiiiings ]