damned_institute | Day 55: Cafeteria

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Day 55: Cafeteria

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!]

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_{[[OOC: Slight correction - pin on Shinj should be MU not SC. Herp.]]}

For a few minutes Shinji worked in sullen silence. He hated this. He hated himself for giving in so easily. He didn't really complain about the hunger - his appetite probably wouldn't be that great anyway. Mostly he just felt tired - the same dull exhaustion that had been dogging him for a long, long time. He scrubbed at a particular tile over and over again, working mechanically, as if he could lose himself in the work. The collar on his shirt was too tight and he wondered if he would get in trouble if he tried to loosen it.

He was too afraid of possible repercussions to try.

He kept working as the minutes dragged on and he found himself next to a boy around his age - a bit older probably. Everyone looked older in these uniforms, though. He sighed softly, eying Minato out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, there was one little piece of rebellion - a mutter to his companion, sounding resigned and disappointed, "Why are they making us do this? We didn't do anything wrong."

Minato scrubbed in one spot to work up a lather; spreading bubbles around would probably make it look like he was working harder than he actually wanted to. He wasn't especially missing breakfast; he hadn't done much the previous night, so he was still functioning well enough without a meal. Two meals, though? That wasn't a pleasant thought.

A glance over his shoulder gave him a good look at the boy working beside him--younger, thinner, and timid in appearance. Just another face he hadn't seen in the institute, now aimed downward and reluctantly focused on the task at hand.

So he was surprised to hear the boy mutter, barely audible over the scratching of his scrubber against the floor. He didn't answer right away, giving the immediate area a quick visual sweep; the soldiers were observing, but not intensely so. "To make us resent each other." His voice was calm and not unkind.

If he focused only on what he was doing, he would be understanding only half of the situation; there were still the ones who had openly rebelled yesterday, and they were the ones who would continue taking flack, simply by being placed apart from the majority for this punishment.

He couldn't help but wonder how effective the soldiers' plan would be.

It was effective on Shinji, in a way. He certainly felt resentment, although it was aimed much more at himself for not standing up for himself. He couldn't even object to being treated unfairly. How pathetic. He just did what he was asked because he didn't want to be hated. He feared being hated. So he kept silent.

Although, like now, the occasional thought or word slipped out. He moved on to a new tile, still scrubbing obediently. It took him a moment or two t reply. "...why? Why would they want us to hate each other?"

That didn't make any sense to him. He thought they'd been mental patients. Now they were supposed to be soldiers? Was he going to have to fight again? He thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to move beyond that special brand of suffering and pain.

"There's probably a few reasons." He shook his head, sweeping the suds to a new tile and continuing to work alongside the younger boy. Conversation dulled the monotony of the task, so he wasn't in any hurry to give up what he was doing. But he still kept relatively quiet and spoke infrequently, not wanting to somehow get them in trouble for what could be conspiratorial talk.

"Easier to keep control of a divided group." Recalling what he had seen on the chain and tag he was now wearing, Minato decided to ask a question of his own. "What was written on your tag?"

"My tag...?" Shinji looked a bit startled and then hastily looked away, trying to look focused on his work. Of course, he wasn't a very good actor, so that failed a bit miserably. Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying attention. Or they didn't care. He kept scrubbing, trying to find tiny specks of dirt and food and slough them off.

He carefully fished his tag out, glanced at it, and then stuck it back down his shirt with a furtive glance. "Um... Sean Inoue... C Class. And then a number."

A beat.

"...that's not my name." He sounded unsure of that, though. And he wasn't. Everything over the past week and a half seemed like some crazy dream. Maybe he really was Sean. Of course, he was also clinging to Shinji Ikari - because at least Shinji Ikari knew who he was and knew where he belonged. He hesitated again. It would be polite to return the question, wouldn't it? Or would it be rude?

"...what did your tag have on it?"

A contemplative hum was all Minato gave in response for a moment. So he was C Class, too. What was that supposed to mean? And what was the number for? Minato spared a glance in the direction of his own tags, dangling down as he kept scrubbing the floor. He had already read them and recognized the fake name the nurses had given him.

"The same name the nurses called me--Christian Aarons," he eventually replied, finding a pesky stain and adjusting his arm to put more pressure on it. "And 'C Class,' just like you. It might be some sort of group or division." There was something about his tone that made it clear he had no idea what it really signified. But it fit with his earlier idea of the military controlling them somehow.

He paused as he finished with the stain, allowing himself some time to stretch his arm. Just a few seconds. "My real name is Minato Arisato."

"Maybe it's based on our age...?" Shinji hazarded a guess. It made about as much sense as anything else he could think of. He had now way of knowing what else they would classify them on. He shrugged and turned to dunk and wring out his sponge again. For a just a moment he stopped to let his arms rest and then went right back to scrubbing.

Honestly, at times there was something slightly therapeutic about cleaning. Watching little specks of dirt and dust give way and be swept up - for some reason it pleased him. He wasn't sure way. He glanced at Minato with a little nod, "I'm Shinji Ikari...."

Someone else from Japan. Well, they seemed to be from all sorts of different places around here.

It was possible that the "class" was based on their ages. But with only one example other than his own tag, Minato chose to remain noncommittal, simply nodding at Shinji's guess. Wanting to delay returning to scrubbing a little longer, he followed the younger boy's example and dipped his scrubber back in the water.

He was glad that nicking his thumb hadn't left him with a significant cut; at the moment, he wasn't sure whether these soldiers would allow him to take care of it in the middle of cleaning. Sure, there were a few injured people who seemed to be allowed to sit out of the cleaning, but it didn't look like there were any doctors around now. ...But maybe there is a medic, he randomly thought. This was supposed to be a military group, after all.

"Shinji-kun." Minato said his new acquaintance's name, testing it out. He was used to meeting so many older patients that it was a bit different to use this other honorific--but not in a bad way. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Nice to meet you."

Shinji almost flinched - he wasn't used to new people being quite so friendly. Well, that wasn't entirely true - he didn't think they should be that friendly to him. He wasn't worth it - but it was still a pleasant surprise when they were. Even i he wasn't sure about it. He gave the tile he was working on one more scrub, examined it earnestly to make sure that it really was clean (just because he was being forced didn't mean he was going to do a bad job), and shifted back.

He let out a long, slow breath and finally smiled at Minato - albeit weakly, but still a polite smile, with some genuine happiness buried under there somewhere. "Nice to meet you too, Minato-san. Ah..."

He needed a moment to come up with something to continue with. And to do some more scrubbing.

"How long have you been here?"

Minato had to count the days at the question. Sometimes the days seemed to stretch on forever, and sometimes the nights ended so abruptly that he could almost forget to make the distinction between one day and the last. He had started counting the days in his journal as well, but he had no updated it for a few days.

"Almost two weeks," he said, frowning slightly as he responded. Two weeks, and he had seen friends disappear and reappear in the institute. He had been brainwashed, armed with a proper sword, and gone through portals into a zombie-filled Doyleton.

This place was almost as eventful as home.

"How about you?"

It was much the same for Shinji, really. Some days he woke up expecting to find himself back in bed in Tokyo-3. Other days it seemed like Tokyo-3 was very long ago - even if it had only been two weeks. Shinji frowned and scrubbed extra hard at the tile in front of him while he thought.

"I... I don't know... I think almost two weeks."

The fact that he didn't know for certain troubled him, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Just something else he couldn't control in his life. He'd already lost control of most of it, so what was one more factor that he'd never be able to fully grasp?

"It's hard to keep track of time here..."

"It is." There was no denying that fact. The nurses were the ones escorting him around according to some shift schedule, and he had never been able to keep track of time once night fell. The Dark Hour tended to make nights more fast-faced, so the transition to the institute had been understandably different.

He sloshed a little too much water out of bucket as he reached for more water, sighing as his sleeves got wet. Looking around, Minato dropped his brush and properly rolled up his sleeves. A soldier gave him a passing glance, but did not say anything. Perhaps it was okay, trying to keep their uniforms from getting too dirty.

As he returned to scrubbing, Minato began speaking in a quiet voice again. "I wonder if they intend to train us." They were dressed up like military, being punished in what he might consider a military-like way... Would their activities for the day be replaced by physical drills and such now?

Shinji glanced up at the soldiers nervously as Minato rolled up his sleeves. After a moment and seeing as no one appeared to drag Minato off for a dressing down, Shinji followed suit. It'd make his life easier later. He settled back on his haunches and wrung out his sponge again. Any appetite he made have had was gone by now. He needed to eat at some point, but he usually just picked at his food anyway. He sighed and adjust his beret before going back to cleaning.

Training. Were they going to be trained? To fight? Shinji's shoulders stiffened as he tensed up at the thought. He didn't want to fight anymore. He couldn't. He didn't want to be hurt, he didn't want to listen to friends die, he didn't want to be responsible for any of that. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to ease the sudden tension in his chest, the heavy feeling on his shoulders.

He'd be OK. Really.

"I... I hope not. I don't want to fight..."

"I don't either. But sometimes you have to." He tried to shrug off the idea, even though he was the one to bring it up. Making a boy younger than himself worry about those possibilities was probably going to make him even more anxious than he already seemed to be.

And that could be a very bad thing with all these soldiers around. They were intimidating, carrying weapons and aiming those stern gazes at them, and somehow he was doubtful that they would be lenient on even the youngest of the patients.

"...Just keep your head down for now." It was a suggestion, followed by a supportive glance at Shinji. Maybe they would be able to figure out a few things later on. But this early on, blending in would be the best way to go.

Shinji smiled weakly. There wasn't much heart behind it, but the reassurances from the older boy did help. Maybe Minato knew something he didn't. Maybe he was just more confident. Either way, it made Shinji feel a bit better. At least he wasn't calling him a coward.

"Y-yeah. I think I will."

He flexed the fingers on one hand with a nervous frown. "...I don't want to have to fight again."

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Day 55: Cafeteria

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