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!]

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[bitpartgod.livejournal.com]

The silence that followed was almost defeaning to the Kaioshin. For a moment he found himself faintly confused, unsure of what he'd said aloud and kept inside of his head; he'd been thinking a lot of it for so long now that it seemed downright wrong to hear it spoken, as though he were breaking some sort of unwritten law. He wasn't really supposed to talk about how he was feeling if it didn't matter, was he?

He was breathing a little more shallowly than normal, too, though that was probably down to the fact that he'd been speaking pretty loudly. He looked across to Franziska: she seemed just as shell-shocked as he was, but doubtless she was already preparing some sort of counter-attack that would make him wish he'd kept his mouth shut. Maybe if she tried to hit him he could deflect it or grab her wrist before it hit.

But nothing happened. Franziska took a second step backwards, but the silence remained unbroken. Kibitoshin stared for a moment, thrown- and then he breathed in again, slowly and deeply. This kind of opportunity didn't come around all too often, and he needed a level head to make the most of it. He could manage that, right?

"... okay?" he said eventually, letting his shoulders drop; he hadn't realised they'd been clenched until now. His expression had softened a touch, but he didn't stop looking at her. Not yet. "No more hitting or calling me stupid or anything like that. I won't take it from now on, not like I have before." He sighed. "I just don't understand you at all, Franziska."

[iwhipthefool.livejournal.com]

Understand her? This fool didn't need to understand her and she didn't need to understand him! He should just follow orders and listen to her superior wisdom and things should be simple like that! Only...Franziska knew that wasn't going to fly here. He had gained the upper hand and now she would never recover it without losing face. There was only one way to repair this relationship, but a von Karma apologizing? Giving in to demands? Acting buddy-buddy because someone said pretty please?

Never.

Now that he wasn't shouting anymore, Franziska felt the freeze on her brain begin to melt as her indignant rage boiled up from beneath the surface. How dare he speak to her like that? Certainly she'd said some harsh things in the past and she was being a tad bit rude here, but still! She was merely expressing concern as much as she could for him. Admittedly, it wasn't the way any other normal person would do it, but von Karmas were extraordinary people and so they had to do things against the norm. To do otherwise just wasn't in their genes.

So rather than apologize, rather than agree to what he said, rather than do anything a normal person would do when confronted with someone who was upset, Franziska dropped her hands to her side with such a force that the shirt cuffs bounced. A moment later and she pointed a single finger at Kibitoshin like this was a court room and he was the accused. "Fools needn't try to understand the perfection that is a von Karma because they never will!" she snapped. "If you wish to be left alone, so be it! But don't look to me if you get yourself hurt again! I won't be the one worrying over a fool like you anymore!"

In one swift movement, Franziska scooped the bucket and the sponge she'd been assigned up from the floor. Then she pivoted on her heels and stalked off, trying to get as far from the guardian as possible.