damned_institute | Day 57: Arts and Crafts Room (third shift)

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Day 57: Arts and Crafts Room (third shift)

They hadn't handed him a cane this morning, and they'd been right. His knee was healing. It ached, but it held his weight. Going out to the greenhouse and standing on it for a few hours was a bad idea, though. If it gave out on him tonight, what would he say. "Sorry, dudes, a bunch of tomatoes were more important. Like actual tomatoes." That sounded stupid in his head, so he'd stay indoors.

His hands itched. For something to do. Metaphorical sense, not a rash. Volunteering for KP would be a) pointless, b) not fix the standing-up problem, and c) suck, so he didn't. It was almost worth trying just to see the expressions on the goons faces, but the slim possibility that they'd take him up on it outweighed the chance to look under the mask Landel/Aguilar had put on the place by day.

Instead, he limped over to the craft room and hassled them into bringing out the tray labeled 'Paul Quincy'. Expressionless surprise was a funny expression. You could tell new cops by it. A little widening of the eyes, an absence of fidgeting for a few seconds. The old ones weren't surprised by anything. These guys had expected him to try and shoot the place up with a set of safety scissors or something. Not to pull out craft supplies and ignore them completely, except for a glance or two at their initial reactions.

A Zodiac wasn't much more than an inflatable pool raft with a big fucking motor on the back. Put enough power back there and you could make one out of a brick. No grace, but it went like he'll. S.T. liked them.

The boat that was taking shape on the table was of a different lineage. About the right size for G.I. Joe to take his entire platoon along when he went canoodling with Barbie while Ken was off on a business trip, it was long and slim. Right now it was indistinguishable from a dinosaur-model ribcage, given that he'd started at the spine -- oops, keel -- and worked up.

[Free]

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[S.T.!! My third shift date cancelled on me. Is this okay?]

Well. Wichita was nice. And had a sense of humour, thank fricking god. That was one good thing that happened today, even with all the awkward talk about fiction and blurring the lines of reality and that whole can of worms. Why did he keep opening it? There should be an opt out button. Peter could at least be thankful that it was only his name and his costume that tipped people off. People from movies, like Luke or Indy? Yeah. They had it ten times worse than he did.

He shuffled out of the cafeteria without aim or purpose. This was free choice day. As much as he hated being trapped in the Sun Room every five minutes by the insipidly repetitive schedule, he was having a tough time figuring out where else to go. He didn't feel like going outside. If it was sunny, maybe, but snow? Not really his thing. Not without Christmas trees and cocoa to go with it. The music room was equally unappealing since nobody in it ever knew how to actually use a damn instrument, and the gameboys would be snatched up by now in the Game Room, leaving him with a paltry round of snakes and ladders. No thanks.

Maybe he should just wander around and find someone to talk to. Someone he liked.

Or maybe, he thought as he peeked into the Arts and Crafts room, he could do some damage control.

"Sangamon?" he called out, pushing in with strides that meant business. "Hey - uh - you got a minute?"

He should. He was alone in the Arts and Crafts room and fiddling with the supplies. It just screamed complete boredom. Besides, he had promised to give a full explanation about Jessica's wicked, wicked ways. He would not let her sully his good reputation, dammit.

Edited 2011-07-01 20:30 (UTC)

"Peter." S.T. grinned. It was kind of childish to get a thrill out of meeting comic book heroes when you'd seen them acting like the teenagers they were. Then again, he'd never claimed maturity aside from being old enough to drive, shave, and buy beer without showing I.D.

"We missed you last night. Or are you the evil twin who's been going around making wild claims in your name?" He crossed two cardboard ribs and held them up, entirely failing to ward off Peter Parker's approach. It was totally Peter. Whoever was going around pretending to be him wouldn't have recognized S.T., and he wouldn't be looking like the guy who just farted on the bus and was hoping it would be covered by the diesel fumes.

"Everything O.K., man?"

Peter rolled his eyes as he took a seat, dropping into the chair with zero grace or enthusiasm. "Yeah yeah, a-hyuck hyuck hyuck. It's all high times and Parent Trap shenanigans over here. I heard the party was a success though. Zombie arms and beers. The Manly Man's Saturday Night." He should his head and cut to the chase.

"Twin is close, but yeah. I went looking for a friend of mine who I heard might have gone missing. I was planning on checking out the girl's block to figure out if that was true before coming back for the party. Instead, I ran into Jessica." He cringed, affronted by the words before they even left his mouth. "My. Um. My lady clone."

See, the moment you said it out loud was when you realized exactly how stupid it sounded. His life really was a comic book, wasn't it? (Though if he had to put up with these crap plot twists, he should at least have a car. Batman had his own car. Why couldn't Spidey?)

"Um. They wouldn't have happened to mention that part in the comics, did they?"

Girl clone with the same handwriting. Right. Comic book logic.

"Not the ones I read. You might want to try someone who didn't just fall out of the land of big hair and bigger boom boxes." The boom boxes he had proof of. The electronics in the shop in town had gone racing in the opposite direction. The smaller the package, the bigger the boom, bow chicka wow wow. And if hair got bigger it'd be pre-Revolutionary France all over again, this time fueled by the last dregs of the ozone layer.

"Evil or just female?" There were ways these plot twists went. Either she'd stab him in the back and make him mope about fighting her. Or she'd be good and just mack on his best friend. He wanted to ask Peter if he'd made out with her before finding out who she was. Then he decided it would be a bad idea.

"Wait. What?" Sangamon, you are now the proud father of a newborn sketchface eyebrow. Name it wisely. "How big are your boomboxes, exactly? Can you weigh anchor with it, or use it like a throwing star?"

iPod style.

Peter wasn't exactly sure he wanted to know how far back his run in the comic stands dated. If it was the - no, okay, boomboxes did not even exist in the sixties. That should spare him an Adam West adaptation. Right? If he remembered correctly, stuff like that didn't start hitting the common man until the early eighties. Maybe dipping into the seventies. And the fact that he called it a boombox was pretty damning. It also hurt his tender Generation Y ears. Might has well have asked about an eight track.

"No, not evil. Just paranoid. Hence the assuming my name on the bulletin and investigating all my contacts. At least that's what I'm assuming happened."

"Depends on the size of the boat." The Zode wouldn't get very far towing one of those along the bottom, but more because the antenna would snag on something and then he'd be in a tug of war with the bottom of Boston Harbor. That never ended well. He cut a rectangle of cardboard, folded it into a box, drew two circles for speakers, and set it by the slowly-forming hull. It gave the whole thing a scale, which he hadn't bothered with before. Not that that would help Peter.

"Nothing wrong with a little healthy paranoia. Did she get the radioactive spider whammy with the genes or is that just you?" Genetics didn't work that way in real life, but neither did the shit Landel's goons had shot him up with.

Right now it was making him feel like he could get high on a sixty-per-cent vulcanized can of rubber cement, out of which he was trying to pry enough still-plastic goo to start tarring the bottom of his creation.

Perplexed, Peter followed Sangamon's efforts from paper conception to the (presumably intended but unlikely made to scale) model. Which he then set on his primary creation. Peter blinked for a moment. "Oh - oh that's a boat? Oh, okay. I thought you were making one of those lacrosse things." He nodded appreciatively. "So you are from the eighties then. Cool, we can work with that. You already know of electricity, which is ten steps ahead of some people."

He didn't know what the hell Sangamon was talking about radioactivity for, though. He really didn't. "Wouldn't that give you cancer?" The stare was a befuddled one, and held for just a beat too long. No seriously, since when did that have anything to do with - whatever. Not the point. "Well anyway, yeah. She's all spidery too. And I guess she has good reason to be paranoid, since she pretty much had to escape from this mad scientist shindig and whatnot. But that whole bulletin thing was so very unnecessary and now everyone thinks I'm like, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde bonkers. She didn't even ask me first."

Yeah, that was a legitimate teenage pout on his face right now. Peter didn't care. He'd earned that right four clones ago. The chair tilted back so he could properly complete the image of pubescent petulance, crossed arms and all. "She wants to keep it secret, but seeing as how she'll be running around with my face and only fifteen pounds of hair to disguise it, I figured I might as well stop her from totally ruining my social life. People are going to put two and two together sooner or later." He bit his lip and glanced over. "Promise not to tell anyone else? I'm letting a few people know, but one by one and not as like, this mass news bulletin. We're playing it off as being twins. If word got out that it was cloning, people would wonder why a slouchy-pants whippersnapper like me was worth cloning to begin with, and then the spider thing gets out, yadda yadda yadda. You get me, right?"

Did you just call me a yuppie? Not cool, dude. A teenage Spiderman had just called him the kind of guy who could not only spell lacrosse but build a racket. Or whatever the things ere called, which he didn't know because he didn't fucking play lacrosse. Sangamon Taylor, a yuppie. He'd told that lifestyle to shove it when he'd quit Mass Anal and never looked back. (O.K., he'd looked back a few times. All of them involving an empty bank account and an emptier fridge, but neveer for very long.)

Hurt puppy eyes were just pathetic on a man old enough to be mistaken for a responsible adult, so he glared at his boat. It still looked more like a kit-built rat skeleton (the normal size, not the capybara-sized monsters that claimed the title here) than sporting equipment of any kind.

Peter had moved on from the time travel shit to his own mythos. No more radioactivity? Times had changed, man. Radiation just caused cancer. It had lost its sex appeal on the danger scale. About time. S.T. wondered what had replaced it. Genetic engineering? Not a bad guess, though how they were going to make that look cool without glowing green crap he wasn't sure. Cloning fit that theory. Test tube babies and all that jazz. A paranoia for every generation, and the comics just lapped it up. When they started using PCB dumping or heavy metal contamination (the elements, not the music, which would just be fucking weird) or the ozone lay as an origin story he could retire and leave the world in good hands. And then he'd have to get a real job, because being smug didn't pay.

"If the hair's the only way to tell you two apart, you've got bigger problems." He set the rat-boat abomination down and traced an hourglass worthy of a black widow spider's ass in the air. Revenge for the lacrosse thing. Then he uncapped the two-part epoxy and started mixing. His nose overreacted, his eyes teared up in response, and snot threatened a sinus avalanche. Fuck.

"Gotcha. I won't say anything. But I think hiding it's about as hopeless as your little crusade at Skywalker the other day." He blew his nose on a pap towel. "I'd go with full disclosure, warp factor nine."

At first, Peter wasn't sure what Sangamon was getting at. Then he traced the imaginary figure of Jessica Rabbit in the air and Peter squawked in horror. "No! I mean - aside from the obvious!! Geez, dude!" He shrunk down in his seat and shielded his eyes with a hand at his brows. That did nothing to hide the striking resemblance his face was making to a piping bowl of tomato soup.

Was he offended on his behalf, or Jessica's? Because if Sangamon was implying that she was mannish then he was off the hook. In a fashion. They were identical in the face, true, but she had boobs (sorta). And hips (if you squinted). And Peter himself had a manly...strapping frame. Nothing girly about him. Surely no one would ever mix the two up. Even if Jessica got a hair cut.

Peter took an errant wisp of bangs between his thumb and forefinger, examining the length compared to his brow. Maybe he should get one. Just in case.

His nose wrinkled in response to the glue about the same time as the man beside him started tearing up. Now they wore matching stinkfaces. Peter's, however, was at least half genuine, seeing as how his many efforts at retaining the institute's collective insanity were the day's featured laughing stock yet again. "Well - come on, I was only trying to do the guy a favour. He bought it, didn't he?" Peter was downright peeved by now. Sangamon needed to leave this place and take his confounded logic and reason with him.

"What's wrong with the twin thing? I like the twin thing. I'd believe it." Peter shrugged. "Okay, maybe not, because for it to be a boy and a girl combo the only option would be dizygotic twins, and so they would just look like a regular brother and sister rather than anything identical. But not many people think about that. Or know it. And we can pass it off as that odd time when siblings really are impossible to tell apart. Why would anyone question it in the first place?"

Augh. Just. Whatever. Peter's face found a new home in his hand. "You know what, dude? I'm really sick of talking about myself. There is no happiness here. Can we scrap this topic? What is your life like? You've...read about me in some capacity, and I know nil about you. What's fair about that?"

Teenagers. They were so easy to piss off. Mention anything to do with sex, their own appearance, or any implication they might care about anyone related to them, and they rolled up like a porcupine that had been kneed in the balls. A sullen, retrograde progression.

Retrograde motion was when a planet appeared to move backwards in the heavens, confounding primitive astronomers who constructed elaborate theories as to how that would work and still keep themselves at the center of the universe. Just like teenagers. Then a few heretics put out an eccentric theory and, like all geeks, refused to budge more out of scientific devotion than any practical purpose. The fact that they Earth revolved around the sun wouldn't have practical implications for centuries. The baroque orreries with layers that would make a Spirograph shit its pants would have handled astrologers and ship captains until the twentieth. S.T. knew the type. Hell, on a few subjects he'd been known to be a little stubborn himself. So long as his pronouncements on The Harbor didn't endanger Fish Friday, the Pope didn't give a fuck about sludge in the Mystic or wanna-be Satanists making a spectacle of themselves. So he and the Pope were cool. Dolmacher might be be in trouble, but he had the pasty jowls of an intractable Lutheran as floppy, wriggly armor.

There he went, thinking about that asshole again. Damn. And Peter hadn't asked about his supervillain's idiot henchmen. He'd asked about S.T. And Sangamon Taylor, having attained the mythical state called adulthood, didn't mind talking about himself.

"Eco-activist. I go out in a little boat and get people fired." It was almost never the right people, but that was life. "Not whalers. That's a different crowd." He grinned. Boone had jumped ships, but he'd always been more of a generalist. S.T. stuck to the pollution beat. "We hold corporations responsible for the toxic shit they slip into everything." He spread the last smear of epoxy over the end of a spar and held it down. "Take this stuff. Could be a dozen carcinogens in here. A tube here and there isn't going to kill you unless you eat it. And once it dries it's pretty safe. We think. Which just means no one has proved a connection yet."

(The health hazards of Bisphenol A, a major component in epoxy resin, would take another two decades to render this statement prescient instead of paranoid. In the interim, it would also be a major component in reusable water bottles, the kind whose sale tracked the dawning of a nascent environmental consciousness across the nation, one that necessitated bottles for carbon-filtered water as a yuppie status symbol rather than the province of duck-squeezers and hikers.)

He hadn't ever busted a glue factory, but there was always tomorrow. "The problem isn't the glue. It's the other crap -- plasticizers, hardeners, color-coding." Peter was a Chen nerd. He'd figure it out. "The reagents they use to make it. Somewhere there's a plant with a pile of excess hydrocarbons and a bottom line to meet. Probably a river nearby. You do the math." His grin grew wider. "And when they succumb to greed, I'll be there with a test tube and a few bags of quick-set cement. Maybe even made at the same plant."

Gamzee wasn't usually the sort to be easily irritated by things, but at the moment he was finding a wet rag to the face very displeasing. The troll had jumped at the opportunity to go to arts and crafts, where there was apparently plenty of paint to be had, but he'd hardly gotten the base coat of his clown design on before he'd been faced with an admonishing nurse and had the paints confiscated. She was dabbing the last bits of it off his face now as he scowled.

He wasn't even grumbling anymore, after having already been told off several times for foul language. When she was finished, he was left with some paper and a box of crayons with strict instructions not to eat them. Paint might be returned to him on a later day as long as he promised not to try and decorate himself again. Were they really that much against self-expression?

At least the box contained a variety of colors. For now, Gamzee settled for drawing happy clown faces across the paper. Maybe if he asked nicely, the nurses would let him keep an indigo one to use on the bulletin. It was dull having to write in the same color as everyone else, especially when being denied his quirk.

[For Rose.]

It seemed she needn't have spent her meager pittance on equipping herself.

The Arts and Crafts room was aptly named, and when she'd not scowled at that as much as the other suggestions, she'd been summarily ushered there. Once inside, she started systematically opening the cabinets. Hence, the can filled with knitting needles, though the soldiers would only let her have one pair at once.

None of them had any dark or sinister lineage. Just a lot of aluminum and plastic, in bright colors. The yarn eclipsed it. Gamzee would like it; he'd liked that horrible sweater. And he was over in the corner getting scrubbed down, which she'd pretended not to notice. When he'd been let free, she joined him at the table.

"I recommend makeup over paint." Click, clack. Her knitting needles went snicker-snack. She wasn't even sure what she was making. Probably just another scarf, since she wasn't paying attention.

"What ominous portend do clowns offer in troll society?" She wasn't sure there was one. Maybe it had something to do with roles. Clowns weren't that far removed from John's ridiculous harlequins and disguises.

Edited 2011-07-02 02:22 (UTC)

"I figured paint was the best the motherfuckers got." The troll didn't seem too down from that little upset, but his religion was a rather important thing to him, and if anything could put him in a bad mood it was being denied the ability to do what little he did to follow that cult. At least the conversation from the chapel had started his day off right.

He shook his head at the question, tapping the paper with one of his crayons. "It ain't really troll society what's followin' clowns, sis." Speaking of the conversation from the chapel, as fascinating as it had been he wasn't sure he wanted to keep repeating it. "It's kind of an obscure follwin'. None of the others in our group all had the same motherfuckin' interest."

Which was a shame, seeing as he'd like them to be able to come along to the Dark Carnival as well.

Rose's own choice in craft distracted him, and he found himself watching the yarn become something else in her hands. How was she even doing that? Such a miracle that was. "Shit, those are some pretty wicked skills."

That wasn't exactly an answer. Rose's own interests were far from mainstream. Take dubious zoology, for example -- was this the chink of grimdark notlight to seep across over the universal divide, pointing the way to a collective terror? Had she found a point of synchronicity between sessions, or was this another false mirage?

"Yes. The denizens of the deep fear the metronomic assault of my weapon of mass affection. It is difficult to look forbidding while wearing pink tentacle cozies." Maybe she should make Lily a scarf. She'd seemed so startled by the lack of a collar.

"Do you see them in your dreams? Does their laughter cocoon you like an absurd blanket, swaddling you in hilarity and mirth?" Trolls had to have dreams, didn't they?

"Whoa... How'd you all motherfuckin' know?" He didn't always dream, or at least he didn't remember if he did thanks to the overabundance of sopor in and around him, but when he did they did involve clowns quite often. They were just such a large part of his life that it would be surprising if they didn't, but as far as he was concerned the fact that Rose guessed that put her up on soothsayer level.

Even if he didn't understand half of what she said most of the time. Drawings ignored, he continued to watch her work. Was she saying she could make weapons out of the string there? That would be incredibly useful, not to mention miraculous. He wouldn't be able to do anything with his drawings aside from maybe decorating his room with them.

"What all can you make?" And could she make something for him? Because that looked really fun and soft.

"I know many things. It is one of my magical powers." She managed to say that with a completely straight face. It was easier over Pesterchum, but she could always use the practice. After all:

With great power comes great responsibility.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1][2]

The question of what she could make would take a delicate answer. She'd only started learning a few months ago, and even several months of dedicated study weren't going to teach even the swiftest student every nuance. Flat things were easiest. She had an entire pile of practice scarves in her room. Covers, blankets, nooses. Things that had arms were tougher, even when following a pattern. "Lots of things. Would you like to learn?"

"Whoa." Rose might not have been serious, but Gamzee easily took her at her word. The troll believed in miracles, after all. There was no reason in his mind why the human girl couldn't know as much as she let on. "Do you all know like... what I'm motherfuckin' gonna eat for dinner and shit?" Never mind that he was going to be eating the same thing everyone else in the Institute would be eating.

He leaned closer to watch her work. It seemed complicated, and when she offered to teach him he could only blink dumbfoundedly at first. There was no way he could ever be coordinated enough to put something like that together. It would come out a complete mess. "You really think you could show me how?"

Edited 2011-07-05 20:26 (UTC)

She didn't need sight to answer that question, aside from the mundane vision required to pick up a skein of yarn in the appropriate shade of pink and shake it so some of it unraveled in front of him.

"I don't see why not. You might not be able to weaponize them, due to the restrictions we labor under, but one scarf of maternal affection should be well within your capabilities."

Oops. That wasn't the kind of thing she wanted to think about her mother doing, not even in the service of elocutionary retribution. She picked up a larger gauge of needles, and handed them to Gamzee. "Pick a color, and we'll get started."

Only one color? How restricting. Gamzee picked through the yarn and, with a grin, pulled out a roll that was dyed rainbow, the color changing as the yarn was pulled out. How anyone could pick any other plain variety was beyond him. Hopefully this was acceptable, even if she had told him to pick a single color.

How he was supposed to use those little sticks to make anything with it was beyond him, though. It looked like she was just clicking them together and it was making itself, all magic like. Not that he wouldn't believe her if she said that was what was actually happening. Rose was something of a miracle worker, as he was coming to appreciate.

Why hadn't he trolled her before now?

The restriction hadn't meant to crimp his style, which was apparently as lacking in restraint as his vocabulary was variation in obscenities. Merely that multiple strands was something to climb towards.

She picked up a second set of needles, and the pink yarn she'd used as demonstration, and looped it slowly around into a slip knot. "You start like this." She slid the knot over the needle. Then she tugged it free and repeated the process, more slowly.

Then she did something complicated, and there were two loops. Three. Four. She slid the needles out again and pulled it back into a heap of yarn. "Any questions?"

"Uh..."

He'd almost been following there for a moment. For that whole first loop he'd been totally there. After that, however, he was left sitting and staring with a knitting needle in hand as his mind tried to backtrack over the steps before it. And that was going absolutely nowhere.

"I don't think I up and all got any of that shit right there, sis. Can you all like... do that whole motherfucker over in slow motion?" Really, really slow motion. Preferably repeated several times. he just needed to focus a little harder, that was all. After the first few steps it looked like you just did the same steps over and over. He could do that.

The corners of her mouth bobbed upwards, buoyed on the equal tides of egotism and altruism. "Of course." That was, after all, why she'd unraveled her progress as soon as it had been made.

She moved slowly, making the loops larger than they needed to be, until she'd made two dozen stitches. "This is a good length." Her grin did not grow in the slightest, except in the confines of her own mind. "For killing ogres and netting the grist, or for a scarf." She added a second row, still moving at glacial speed.

"Do trolls have hobbies?"

"Of course we got those! Every motherfucker's gotta have somethin' to do." Ans since they were all basically the equivalent of thirteen in human years that didn't equate to having a job. "I like chillin' in my horn pile and tryin' to ride my motherfuckin' one-wheeled device, exceptin' that one's always buckin' me the motherfuck off." It was a crazed beast, that device. Also he lacked any sense of balance.

He was still trying to follow her movements, looping together a mess of yarn that might have almost been something. Almost, but not really. He wasn't going to be making scarves for all his friends any time soon (and they'd probably be grateful for that anyway).

After that rather satisfying lunch with "Mr. Pilgrim", Erika decided she had successfully spread enough misery to make her feel slightly better about last night's events. Not that she was entirely happy because she had that disgusting glop for breakfast while in the sight of a breakfast buffet, but it took the edge off a bit. For now, Erika decided to retreat to the Arts and Crafts room, not because she was interested in expressing her hatred and dark feelings in art form, but because she wanted to use its supplies to make a map of the basement so far.

Her map was a little inaccurate, given that she didn't know how big the unknown rooms were at this point and how many were on the other side, so she gave good guesses based off of the evidence she saw in the room and her own reasoning, and she stared at the finished project (a mess cobbled together with markers and construction paper) for a good few minutes. They made some progress, but ... Last night didn't go that well, though it could have been worse. The boy they traveled with didn't die, but he was in no condition to walk to the next room, so they had to finish for that night. They probably didn't have that much time to make it to the next challenge anyway, as dawn came not shortly after they collected their prize.

It wouldn't matter if they didn't find another person. She had a few candidates in mind, but she was looking for one in particular. Dear "Noah" seemed like a good choice, as he appeared to be a man who wasn't concerned about details and that is exactly who Erika wanted to take along. Xemnas had been the most ideal, but the man was definitely gone now, and there was nothing else she could do about that. It was a shame, but she was first-rate and thus was able to find a replacement.

If he wasn't in this room, Erika wouldn't be too bothered- she would simply request that her nurse move her elsewhere and continue to search until she found Noah again. One good trait that her Master surely valued from her was her extreme tenacity and inability to be discouraged.

[ for gabe! ]

Edited 2011-07-03 19:28 (UTC)

Cat was out of the bag, (proverbial) heart unburdened, cleared and lightened chest, no longer Atlas-ing the truth, et cetera, et cetera. Gabriel sure wasn't pleased about it - but considering he wasn't really pleased with anything that had happened outside of stuffing a teenager into a cake, there wasn't much to bitch about. Everything was pretty downhill, and there would be no hopeful Rocky montage to bring the tension back up again.

What Would Sylvester Stallone Do? Words to live by. He probably would have gotten eaten the first night, so maybe not so much.

Either way, the sooner he was out of Castiel's ever-encroaching consternation, the sooner he could breathe without inhaling melodramatic angel vibes. The room his soldier-nurse (great disguise, by the way. Arnold in a wig was a bit more convincing than this little ruse) picked wasn't his top personal choice, but it wasn't like free patient bakery was on the menu either.

Well, if it wasn't Erika. Not to claim he was a master at reading people (he was), but if there ever was a suspect for Rosemary's baby... here she was. Hell, what did he have to lose outside of time? Even if she was looking for someone, he wasn't too concerned about it.

"How's it been going, Blue? See that you've survived a few more nights. Personal congrats."

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Day 57: Arts and Crafts Room (third shift)

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