tightsofmight (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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
But if Firo had been expecting to go to Alcatraz (during a time when it still functioned as a prison), then what crime had he committed? It was hard to imagine someone who looked like he did was a criminal, but Peter knew that looks could be deceiving. He probably didn't look like he had the ability to blow up a whole city, after all.
"This isn't Alcatraz," he said with a shake of his head, though he gestured for the kid to keep working so that he didn't get either of them into trouble. "It's called Landel's Institute. Didn't the soldier who brought you here tell you anything?"
Some of the officers came off as pretty terse, so maybe Firo had gotten landed with one of them. Still, they wouldn't have outright lied to him, so it was clear that the young man had made some of his own assumptions.
no subject
It was true that he didn't have any memory of his arrival on the island—but that was just because he'd been asleep, wasn't it? Alcatraz was where Huey Laforet was and therefore where Firo had been heading, but... Victor had repeatedly said things like "We'll fill you in on the details of what you'll be doing later," but if this was part of the man's plan, Firo should have at least been told of this part. He'd agreed to go to Alcatraz, but not some other place.
Peter could have still been pulling his leg, but Firo had to admit the realization that it (maybe) wasn't that island prison made a lot of sense... a lot more than if it was. He still had his doubts about mutated animals, of course, but the other things Peter had mentioned fell into place—like that up until recently the 'Institute' had been an asylum.
He wasn't completely convinced—he wanted to ask someone else just to be sure—but he felt a momentary rush of relief nevertheless. If this wasn't Alcatraz, then this wasn't where Huey was. He wouldn't need to act as the government's watchdog quite yet.
Firo let out a shaky breath, finally looking away from Peter. "The only thing the guard told me was to fix my collar and put on my boots. But... if this really isn't Alcatraz, that would actually explain a lot," he said. One hand was still holding the sponge, but he hadn't started scrubbing again yet. He glanced towards the nearest soldier. "I'd been wondering why nothing had matched up with what I'd pictured, but I'd thought I'd just had the wrong idea all along."
no subject
But it sounded like the kid had been having some doubts after all, and this was adding to that. He nodded in response, glad that they could try to skirt around the issue of different times for the moment. Eventually someone was just going to tell Firo flat out that he was in the future, but that was a bombshell that could probably wait a bit longer. There was no point in overloading him.
"No, we're actually out in the country. No one's figured out exactly where yet, but I guess the rumor is that it's somewhere in the northeast part of the country." So not too far from New York, in other words, and yet Peter didn't recognize any of the terrain that he'd seen.
"Maybe we'll get to go outside today, and you can see for yourself," he said with a shrug; one that he almost instantly regretted for the way that it pulled at his wound. Even though it was mainly on his lower back, the slightest movements would force him to grit his teeth again.
no subject
Maybe, as Peter suggested, he would have a chance to look around outside to see for himself, with his own eyes. He'd welcome the chance.
He looked up at Peter again just in time to catch sight of a wince, a tightening of the jaw as though gritting his teeth, as the man shrugged. Firo's next question came out quickly, and wasn't one about Alcatraz or 'Landel's Institute' or the current situation at all: "Are you alright?"
The awkwardness of the question didn't hit him until after the words had left his mouth, but he didn't try to explain himself. Peter was in a wheelchair, so of course he wasn't alright... but there was a difference between not being alright and being in obvious pain.
no subject
"I got some pretty bad burns on my back last night," he explained, figuring that detailing how it had happened and by whom would just cause Firo to think he was crazy all over again. If he ran into the kid a few days from now, maybe he'd explain then.
"They're usually pretty good about patching up our wounds here, but... I don't know, I think the nurses did a better job." Most soldiers probably had some basic first aid ability, but their job was to injure, not heal. It made sense that the bandages felt kind of scratchy and like they hadn't been tied properly this morning. But he was stable and he'd been given a wheelchair, so he couldn't complain too much.
He was the one who'd thrown caution to the wind because he hadn't been able to feel pain the night before, after all. If he'd taken more care in what he was doing, he wouldn't have been in this mess. Being unable to walk was going to make it even harder for him to be of proper help to others come nighttime, which it was frustrating -- even more so because he was the only one to blame.
no subject
...He was starting to jump to conclusions, he realized. Firo wanted to be as smart as he could be about this—check Peter's story against someone else, before he made a move that might risk what Victor meant for him to do, and risk their deal by extension.
"So I take it all the nurses are gone now," he said. He certainly hadn't seen anyone resembling a nurse since he'd first been shoved out of the room he'd woken up in... Just armed guard after armed guard. "When exactly did everything change, anyway?"
Firo still hadn't resumed cleaning, but when he caught sight of the lady warden walking through with a few guards to inspect, he finally grabbed the brush and started scrubbing again.
no subject
"I'm not sure if they're gone or if they just aren't out and about as much as they used to be, but they've definitely been replaced for the most part. And it all happened yesterday." There had been some build-up to the event before that, mainly through Landel's nervous ramblings, but he didn't really need to get into that.
Peter only noticed the woman who was stalking through the room when he realized how Firo had reacted to her, but before he could make any sort of guess about it the officer started bellowing at them, ordering them to the next part of the day.
He sighed and looked back to Firo. "Looks like you're off the hook with the cleaning, at least. Usually they use the intercom system, but this is basically what the day is like. They shuffle us from place to place." Which meant that their time to talk was up, but Peter wasn't going to let the kid go without a few more warnings. "If you do decide to go out at night, find the flashlight in your room and don't wander around on your own. I know it might sound crazy, but take at least that much precaution and then you'll see for yourself." He didn't mean to be cryptic, but he also knew that his words only meant so much at the moment.
no subject
Then again, he thought, throwing another sidelong glance at their guns, they've got ways of making sure they're obeyed. Most people wouldn't want to get shot.
When the warden dismissed them, Firo set the brush aside and stood up, dusting off his pants, which were now sporting wet spots at the knees where he'd gotten too close to the wet floor. He wasn't sure where the courtyard was supposed to be, but—between Peter's words and the soldiers hurrying every which way to escort prisoners—he figured that wasn't going to be a problem for long.
"Thanks for the advice, Peter," he said. In spite of himself, he had started quickly believing that there was at least a chance everything Peter had said was true—no matter how crazy some of it had sounded. "I'll keep that in mind."
A moment later, two guards strode forward (one of them the soldier from earlier), one heading for each of them. Firo gave Peter one last look and a brief wave before following the soldier he recognized.