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

[toxicspiderman]

"You going to kill me in my sleep if I let slip what we did find out as trade goods?" He was joking. Mostly. Supervillain, but not one of the kill-first-ask-later sort. Actually, most supervillains weren't. Liked to hear themselves talk. Like politicians. It was the corporate overlords you had to keep an eye on. They just shut up and murdered people by proxy, cutting off the ones that talked by pink slip rather than handgun.

The goons that had tried to deep-six him and Dolmacher had been sent by middle-level management. Stay away from desperate henchmen seemed to be the lesson of the day.

The question of what was down there was more interesting than threat assessment levels of his own teammates. The Sphinx, now that he remembered high school history lessons, made perfect sense as a security guard for an area Landel wanted them to break into.

"Given that the first test was brains, what do you want to bet the second is brawn? Or is that redundant, with what we usually have to do to get down there?"

[dualistic]

Even if the man's comment was clearly a joke, it did strike Harvey a little harder than it would someone else. But even considering what he'd done before coming here, he still wasn't the kind of guy that would kill someone when they weren't able to at least attempt to defend themselves. He'd want to look them in the face first, to make clear what his reasons were for taking their life.

Still, he tried to brush the question off with a wry smirk that was only visible on one side of his face. "You're the one who got us down there. Say as much as you want to whoever you want." It wasn't like they had a claim on the basement or its secrets, so he wasn't going to split hairs over it.

As for the more practical question that Sangamon asked next, Harvey sighed and shook his head. "No, you're probably right. Something physical to counter the mental. Riddles and mazes. The other side has to have an obstacle course or something."

He was better off with the mental puzzles, personally, but he refused to let himself drag everyone down. He'd work through the pain that came with physical exertion and make it through somehow.

[toxicspiderman]

The question had been loaded. Just a little. But the answer seemed genuine, though the bandages made Harvey's expression more disguised, less disgusting.

Then he ducked out of that line of conversation altogether, and S.T. stifled a sigh of relief.

Harvey wasn't the only one who leaned more to the brains side. The only thing S.T. marathoned was movies. He kept in shape, between not being able to afford a car and lately spending his nights running from zombies, giant rats, and whatever the fuck those things had been last night.

"Maybe one of the boys in spandex will be up for this trip. Show us how it's done." Peter could pull off the brains department too, if he pulled his head out of his teen-aged ass long enough to think, but if there were sudden rolling boulders and bottomless pits, he'd be more help. Because who ever remembered the two guys who went in with Indiana Jones. If one of them was a hot chick, maybe, but them? Sidekick cannon fodder.

The frequency of casual march-by inspections of their work had remained fairly constant throughout the conversation. Now it picked up, bootheels ringing like a fascist music video dance squad. S.T. faked a little more effort, but it looked like they were about to let the lab rats out to piss and get some fresh air. Great. His knees were starting to ache from squatting without a chance to stretch.

[dualistic]

Boys in spandex? Harvey knew what the other man was referring to, but there was one thing that tripped him up. "There's more than one?" he asked with a frown, pausing in his cleaning as he realized that they'd somehow made it through. Whether the cafeteria looked any different from before they'd started was hard to say, but the powers that be had apparently decided that they'd paid their dues.

And it'd be out to the courtyard with a shower guaranteed later in the day. Wonderful. He hated what the cold did to him and showering in his condition was a pain, plain and simple, so it looked like he was bound to have a great day.

Actually, other than the cleaning, this conversation hadn't been so bad. He nodded to Sangamon as he set his mop aside. "Sounds like I'll be seeing you again tonight, so... until then." He wasn't very good at ending things like this, and so he just headed off once those words had been said.