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

[avengingfists.livejournal.com]

"You don't look like you're fine." Ilia's concern came from a source deeper than she could pinpoint. Really now, he was a big boy and could take care of himself, but something within her said she needed to check on him regardless.

They were interrupted by a soldiers who kindly found Claude a seat to rest in but didn't seem nearly so friendly towards Ilia. For a moment she balked at the rebuff. She hadn't done anything to deserve that kind of attitude. But she swiftly recovered and gave him a resolute nod. "Yes, sir!"

She grabbed up her brush broom and started back to work, a wry smile coming to her face. She almost snorted in amusement when Claude apologized. "It's not like he gave you much of a choice in the matter, did he?" She shook her head. "You don't have to worry about it, really. I was in the military. I remember how life in basic was." She chuckled. "Never thought I'd be back on the lower end of things, though." Short of a court martial, which was still possible in her future. If she managed to get home.

She worked silently for a moment, but couldn't keep the questions from bubbling out. "I wonder, though, why do you get special treatment today? Of all the people here..."

[full-score.livejournal.com]

Just because he hadn't been given much choice didn't mean he wasn't going to feel bad about it. As a soldier, his mom was definitely more qualified than Claude. He was a junior officer, while she was the executive officer of a starship, yet their guards were giving him more respect than her. Even though there was no way he was going to clue her into his own military background, he figured his mom had noticed the difference. It didn't make sense...

"I don't know," he admitted when she finally voiced that question out loud. "They've been pretty nice to me all morning, actually." Claude sighed as he gazed around the room for a moment. He saw Guy scrubbing the floor not too terribly far from where he and Mom were. "I hope they lighten up a little after this shift. Why aren't they making the ones who got in trouble do the actual work, anyway?"

He still hadn't forgotten what he'd been on the verge of saying earlier, but it looked his arm had distracted them from that topic of conversation. Maybe it was just as well. Claude probably needed to confirm Anise's condition before telling everyone she'd lost her memories. There were too many factors that pointed toward it not being a typical case of brainwashing, which meant he didn't need to stir everyone else up just yet.

[avengingfists.livejournal.com]

Preferential treatment wasn't tolerated aboard the Calnus though Ilia had seen enough of it in her earlier days at academy. In fact, she'd been the center of some of it at one point during her studies. Being young and bright could attract the wrong kind of attention if lauded too often.

"Hmm." Ilia paused in her work for a moment, pretending to study the floor for cleanliness. "Well, it seems to me you might be getting the reverse hazing treatment."

She almost resumed scrubbing, changed her mind, then reached over to switch out her brush broom with the mop previously used by Claude. "Now, not saying you don't have merit, but it's entirely possible they're trying to make it harder on you by giving you better treatment, whether you deserve it or not. Separating friends, turning them against one another; it's a good way to assess strengths to turn the dogs against the dogs, as it were."

It was a pretty disgusting method of sizing up strength but effective if they wanted to really separate the wheat from the chaff. Ilia abhorred that kind of method but she happily understood it enough to realize she didn't want to fall into their plan. "Though, I'm sure if they are trying to somehow make others jealous by putting you up on a pedestal, they won't get far. Assuming your friends are really true friends." The friends of Claude's that Ilia had met had seemed sincere enough.