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

[boyking]

There had suddenly been an excess of things happening at once after what had started off as a pretty quiet night. Sam hadn't figured for a goddamn angel to blow into the room, and therefore throwing him the task of keeping Castiel and Ruby from destroying each other. Thinking on it later, Sam would conclude that trying to step between an angel and a demon, both of whom had their powers back, wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done.

So yeah. It was probably good the night had cut out when it had. Jesus Christ. He was so distracted that there was a beat after he sat up before he realized that the simple clothes he'd been wearing since day one were gone. Replaced, as a matter of fact, by a dress code that was decidedly military issued, right down to the boots and dog tags. He frowned down at the tag and ran his thumb over the neat letters and numbers stamped into the stainless steel. Looked like they were keeping the assigned names. The smiley face, too, though he had a feeling that'd been kept ironically than anything. But it did indicate that this apparent change of hands didn't mean all pretenses were getting dropped. As much as the military facade seemed much more genuine—by virtue of lacking the creepy it's-for-your-own-good vibe—it was worth remembering that it didn't mean that it actually was. His serial number didn't mean much to him either. He hadn't figured it would've. Were they gonna be expected to remember it? Identify by it, even?

He had no clue, but he took a second out to file away the digits. No such thing as remembering too much information. He dropped the tags beneath his shirt and was half-reminded of the amulet he'd been wearing...not that long ago, really. It felt awhile, but it'd only been a little over two weeks.

Shaking it off, the significance of Peter not being there struck him right as one of the soldiers threw open his door. He'd gotten used to often waking up without his roommate with him that it'd taken a moment to understand it made no sense this time. He felt a flash of concern. Shouldn't they have dragged them both out of bed together? He could see the nurses letting each of them sleep as much as they needed, but the soldiers were a totally different matter. Had something happened? Was he over-thinking it?

He didn't get the chance to mull any further. The soldier pointed at the beret, said tersely, "Put that on," and growing up with Dad meant Sam had gotten extremely good at making snap judgments about when to pick his battles. He did as he was told and weighed the thought of asking questions. The soldier didn't seem hostile, but he wasn't all smiles, either. Sam opted out. He might be able to get away with a few questions, but not more. There was no point in saying anything until he sorted out what needed to be asked and what didn't.

Half of him was preoccupied with absorbing all that was happening at the moment; the other half was stuck on what the hell he was going to do with this whole angels and demons deal. He knew Ruby well. He recognized when something had her freaked, or at least on edge. Castiel had definitely been it.