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damned_institute2011-03-09 12:03 pm
tightsofmight) wrote in damned_institute2011-03-09 12:03 pm
Entry tags:
- aidou,
- alaric,
- albedo,
- anise,
- ax,
- badd,
- battler,
- bella,
- brainiac 5,
- byrne,
- canada,
- claire bennet,
- claire littleton,
- claire stanfield,
- claude,
- damon,
- dean winchester,
- dexter,
- edgar,
- edward cullen,
- erika,
- firo,
- franziska,
- goku (dragonball),
- gren,
- gumshoe,
- guy,
- guybrush,
- ilia,
- japan,
- kairi,
- kaworu,
- kenshin,
- kibitoshin,
- kinomoto sakura,
- kirk,
- klavier,
- kratos,
- l,
- lana skye,
- leela,
- lightning,
- lion,
- lunge,
- matt,
- maya,
- mccoy,
- mele,
- mello,
- minato,
- nigredo,
- peter parker,
- peter petrelli,
- prussia,
- rapunzel,
- renamon,
- rita,
- ritsuka,
- roxas,
- ruby,
- s.t.,
- sam winchester,
- sasuke,
- scott pilgrim,
- shinji,
- snow,
- sora,
- soren,
- spock,
- stefan,
- sync,
- taura,
- the doctor,
- the flash,
- the scarecrow,
- tsubaki,
- two-face,
- venom,
- yue,
- zack,
- zevran
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!]
no subject
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."
no subject
Carter kept his head down and scrubbed the floor vigorously, the way he'd swept the kommandant's porch back at Stalag 13. Good old Stalag 13...at the rate things were going the only thing Landel's was going to have to top it would be hot showers, decent insulation, and a general lack of lice.
no subject
"I know that," she snapped back at the stranger, feeling even more irritated now. "I'm not stupid enough to take on a whole army by myself." Actually, she did that before, back in Heliord. Usually, taking Rita Mordio prisoner meant getting burned... in a painfully literal way. But here, where her magic was this weak, there was little that she could do to get back at her captors. The powerlessness was exceptionally frustrating.
"... Not like this, anyway," she added after considering all of that. She then made a few half-hearted motions with the mop, not feeling too interested in accomplishing any actual cleaning, but not wanting to attract unwanted attention by standing too idly.
no subject
The guards didn't seem interested in jumping in yet but the guards were unpredictable now. This wasn't Schultz and it wasn't the nurses either. Carter really, desperately wished one of his S.O.s were here to give him a little more guidance. He was no good at dealing evil people, he just couldn't get in their heads.
Carter gave their oppressors another glance and then went back to his cleaning. "I just don't want you getting hurt," he whispered. "It's very important to know how to behave as a prisoner. They should really give lessons about it or something." Carter could guest-lecture. He'd only had about a year of prisoner-time himself but when Nazis were involved you counted it at least triple.
no subject
His notion of 'proper prisoner behavior' was even more laughable. "And I suppose you're an expert on prisoner behavior?" she jeered. Going out of her way to please the people who kidnapped her and were indirectly contributing to the destruction of her entire planet didn't make a lot of sense to Rita. Sure, she'd cooperate enough so that she wouldn't get killed on the spot, but as soon as they let their guards down, this place was going up in flames. "I hope you've got a better long-term plan than sitting around and being complacent while these idiots try and ruin our lives."
no subject
Actually, back at the stalag having a food fight would probably get you murdered by the prisoners if the guards didn't immediately take you out. Food was strictly rationed and good food was a rare treat that usually came courtesy of raiding German storehouses and the officer's mess.
Carter furrowed his brow as he worked, determined to at least look like he was doing the best of jobs. Colonel Hogan would never have let this happen. He knew how to organize people and make them all do their part.
no subject
"I told you, I'm not stupid." If there was anything that could irritate Rita, it was being treated like a child who needed common sense explained to her. "I wasn't going to try anything in broad daylight." Not without a plan.
Catching the gaze of one of the soldiers overseeing the cleaning, Rita grudgingly resumed her cleaning. She was quiet for a few moments. "A year... that's ridiculous," she murmured, eyes to the floor. "I don't have a week to spare, much less a year. One way or another, I'm getting out of here."
no subject
"We could have left if we wanted, we had reasons to stay. But there's still certain things you gotta do to stay on the guards' good side and throwing food's not one of them."
no subject
There was something about his story that struck her as odd, however. "Why the heck would you want to stay in a place like that?" she asked a moment later, narrowing her eyes at the man.