damned_institute | Day 57: Waiting Room/Lobby 2 (Fourth Shift)

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Day 57: Waiting Room/Lobby 2 (Fourth Shift)

By some stroke of luck, Harvey hadn't been bothered while he'd been in the library, allowing him to lose himself in a random book for at least a little while. Even so, he'd gone through all of his possible options for who might be visiting, from Gordon (in which case he'd probably end up sedated by the end of it) to his mother to Bruce Wayne to even the Joker.

He knew the latter couldn't be possible, not when he had to be rotting in a cell of his own by now. He'd better be, anyway. If Batman was going to be making a nuisance of himself, the least he could do was get the insane clown behind bars.

In other words, the book hadn't completely prevented him from working himself up about this whole visitor thing. It was the last thing he wanted, but as the shift ended and a soldier came to collect him, it became clear that resistance would not be tolerated.

And so he was shoved into one of the rooms, watching as the patients from the previous shift exited out, some looking relieved and others looking crushed. It only made the knot in his stomach pull tighter, but Harvey forced himself to breathe and calm down. No one he recognized was here yet, so he'd have a moment to compose himself at least.

Taking a seat off in the corner, Harvey considered grabbing one of the outdated magazines to read over while he waited, but he couldn't relax quite that much. Instead, he pulled up one leg to rest on the opposite thigh and made subtle glances towards the door every few seconds.

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All things considered, the day had actually been pretty pleasant for Battler. Things had been simple and easy-going. Given the circumstances, it was less a good day and more some feeble kind of comfort painted over the underlying tension of the place, but it was exactly because the situation was so screwed up that it was important to hold onto little things. .... Everyone needed a break now and then, right? When things got tough, there was a difference between holding out and wearing yourself thin.

Which was why, by the end of the day, he'd nearly forgotten about the prospect of visitors. ... It was definitely a weird thing to be happening. He was certain from the start that visitors were the reason things had shifted, but.... Why were they going out of their way to do something like this? There had to be something that made this worth the effort to them. After all, with the things they themselves had been saying, there was no way a gesture like this could be taken at face value. Of course, from there, his thoughts had never really progressed much. It was true, this may have been a huge hint as to what was going on, but even so. .... He hadn't really considered that it would end up being him in this room. Because of that, it was kind of easy to simply push aside.

Now that he was here, however, Battler felt ... uncomfortable. What was this for? What did it mean? Who the hell would be visiting him, anyway...? He kept asking himself that, but he knew he wouldn't know any of the answers until he saw for himself. Still... It was hard not keep asking them anyway. It was only natural he'd be kind of tense at the idea that the guys running this place might have something up their sleeves, even if it was true that all his perceptions of them were pure conjecture on his part.

After entering the room, his uneasiness didn't clear up a bit. There was nobody here yet, only a couple of the other patients, and both seemed to be in similar spirits. Was that because they knew what was coming, or were they in the same situation of not knowing as he was...? In the end, he didn't bother asking. After all, what was the point? ... He was about to find out firsthand.

Edited 2011-07-06 03:49 (UTC)

Sometimes, Jack wished the world would cut him some slack. Business trips and power lunches were all well and good on the weekdays, but the weekend was his time to unwind. Play a round of golf or whatever the rich and the privileged did to waste a day. The fact that he had gotten on a plane with a six-year-old to visit a nineteen-year-old at a mental institution came off as rather tense in comparison, and he assumed he wouldn't get a chance to relax. Not that it wasn't a crucial visit for the man; he simply did not want to appear put off in front of his son. A boy needed his father for courage and strength, and Jack had only hours to fake both.

Then he discovered tequila on the plane, and life was absolutely wonderful.

Liquid courage loosened the man like a freewheeling lady, and though he wasn't entirely drunk, he was tipsy enough to serve as entertainment for his daughter and possibly all the patrons in the entryway. Until a receptionist called them to the lobby, the man sat Ana on his shoulders, and both broke into a roaring rendition of a rather popular Japanese theme song, loud enough to carry over to the nearby rooms.

Everyone else, therefore, appeared absolutely relieved when the duo were asked to quiet down.

Still, it was a good day. And there, sitting like a moron was his precious son. Ana's brother. As they passed the threshold to the waiting room, Jack hummed the last measures and let the little girl down to greet her brother. She immediately ran over, red hair flying, to jump into the young man's lap. "Big Brother!"

Jack, on the other hand, was less dramatic. "Hey, brat."

And then he punched his dad in the balls.

A visitor? That was funny, Carter didn't even think anyone knew he was here. He was far from his own time, all his friends and relatives were probably dead by now, and he hadn't contacted anyone outside the institute. Maybe it was one of the shopkeepers from Doyleton who'd really taken a shine to him, but he couldn't think of anyone he'd gotten particularly close to.

Carter sat in his designated chair, fidgeting awkwardly. He supposed he'd have to see when they got here. He hoped they were nice and that it wasn't just an odd mistake.

When Gunther Fuhrmann first arrived, part of him had to privately admit he was grateful to see the building hadn't sustained any damage since his nephew had been admitted. He didn't need the extra bills, particularly when faced with the costly treatments Landel's Institute provided. Not that he begrudged Harold the finest care money could buy, of course -- but, at the very least, keeping the man away from explosives meant they were doing something right in this place.

Immediately, he caught sight of his familiar face. After hesitating by the doorway a brief moment, Gunther squared his shoulders and strode across the room.

"Harold," he greeted, and the warm smile came more naturally than he would have thought. After all, they hadn't parted on the best of circumstances. But family stuck together, through good and bad.

Carter had been pleasantly drumming his fingers on his knees and waiting for one of the passing visitors to magically recognize him. He'd been expecting something strange but he hadn't been expecting to see his old kommandant come walking through the doorway and call him by a strange name. He gaped in momentary astonishment and then broke down laughing.

Klink? That couldn't be Klink. What would Klink of all people be doing here? He was missing his monocle and out of uniform but that face was pretty hard to miss.

"I-I'm sorry," he managed, choking down his laughter. "You just...you look like someone I know." Of course it couldn't be Klink, Klink would be long dead now even if he lived to be an old man. It could be one of his descendants but he was pretty sure Klink had never had any kids. Either way, it was impossible that the old man knew him.

His nephew, it seemed, didn't realize who he was. Gunther wondered if he even needed to bother taking his coat off, since their conversation would undoubtedly be more frustrating than anything else. But he drove all this way to see Harold, so it wouldn't be right to just turn around and leave now that he was actually here.

"Of course I do, Harold," he said with a frown. "I'm your uncle. Don't you remember?"

He sat down in the seat across from Harold, removing his winter hat from his head. His gloves and goat, however, remained where they were. It felt awkward sitting here like this, but that couldn't be helped.

Carter bent over, shaking with repressed giggle. Uncle. Uncle. Him, related to that idiot?

"I really think you've got the wrong idea, mister," he said, one hand over his mouth. "Or the wrong person. I don't know any Harold and you're...you can't be related to me."

All he needed was the monocle and it would be a perfect double. The voice wasn't quite right, but it was right enough to make Carter find the entire situation hilarious. He was just so serious about all this.

What did he think Carter was?

It stung to hear Harold say those kinds of things. Weren't the treatments here supposed to be top-notch? Maybe they spent so much time trying to keep Harold out of trouble that it was hard to make any progress with him at all. It wouldn't be such a shock, at any rate.

"Why not?" Gunther asked with a troubled frown. "Why do you keep saying that?"

What was it about him that made Harold so sure they couldn't be related? It didn't make any sense at all. They both had Fuhrmann blood in them. Their relationship had been fairly decent before Harold had withdrawn from friends and family and started spouting all that war nonsense. Yet Harold always acted like there was something specifically about Gunther that meant he couldn't be related to him.

"You're a Kraut--I mean, a German, for one," Carter pointed out. His grandmother had been German enough to teach him the language but that was so far back that it hardly mattered. "And I'm an American.I knew a guy who looked exactly like you but we weren't related at all."

That frown eased Carter's laughter. The 'uncle' looked genuinely upset that Carter didn't know him and that just made the situation uncomfortable. Was it possible that Klink had actually gotten himself a wife (because you couldn't make kids without marriage) and had children after the war was over, and this one had sought him out. It seemed crazy. Especially when he couldn't get Carter's name right.

So it was as he feared -- Harold wasn't much better than the last time they'd seen each other. "You have German blood in you too," Gunther immediately pointed out. "Don't you forget that."

Sighing, he folded his arms and looked his nephew over. Judging by his appearance, it looked like they fed him well and took care of him. Didn't they have medicine to get rid of those delusions? He should have been able to recognize his own uncle by now.

"The war ended decades ago, Harold," he added. "Is it that you just don't want a normal life? I don't understand."

He did try to forget about that, it didn't pay to point out you were part Kraut any more than it paid to point out that you were part Indian. It was too small a part to matter, anyway.

"I know the war's been over," he said, trying to be patient with the poor, horribly familiar old man. "But it wasn't over where I came from. Look, I don't know who Harold is, but there's been a big mistake. My name's Andrew Carter. They just won't listen when anyone tells them that they've got all the names wrong."

Carter wracked his brain and tried to think of whether he'd actually met a Harold here. Was there someone he could redirect not!Klink to that might actually know who he was?

"That doesn't make any sense, Harold," Gunther promptly said. "Everyone knows time travel simply doesn't exist!" While he could have tip-toed around his crazy talk, it didn't do anyone any favors, least of all his nephew. "Have you ever honestly thought that maybe the doctors and nurses call you Harold because that's your actual name?"

If someone woke up in a mental institute, the logical assumption would be that they were there because they needed help. Gunther didn't even want to think about what kind of mental gymnastics Harold was doing to keep up his delusions. Hopefully someday it would become too much, and he could work his way back to reality.

"Whether you like it or not, you're my nephew, and I'm not going to deny that," he continued. "Look, I even have a photo of us together." After fishing through his pockets, he retrieved his wallet and produced a small, colored picture of them together at Christmas a couple of years ago. Gunther reached out and offered it to Harold so he could see.

Carter took the photo and stared at it. "Wow..."

He traced the lines of the impossibly familiar face with one finger, cocking his head to the side. There was a face like his, and there was a face like Klink's, and they seemed very happy to be standing together. How strange.

Carter looked at the picture for a few more moments, then handed it back to not-Klink. "That's one heck of a coincidence," he said, offering a friendly smile. "I can see why you'd mix us up. If I see him around I'll tell him you're looking for him. But I'm really not your guy. Maybe we're related?"

His brother might grow up and get married. These things weren't likely but Carter considered just about anything to be physically possible.

For a moment, it almost looked like he'd gotten through to Harold. But then he had to remain so impossibly dense, and--

Briefly closing his eyes, Gunther resisted the urge to rub at his temples. No, it wasn't just him being dense. His nephew was a sick man, and it was going to take time for him to get well. That much was painfully obvious by now, even if it hurt to admit it to himself.

Well, as long as they were keeping him out of trouble (and explosives), then that was better than nothing. After reaching out for the photo, Gunther gently plucked it from Harold's grasp. "It's not a coincidence," he said. "Someday you'll see that. In the meantime, you'll always have a place in my home. I hope you'll at at least remember that in the future."

There was an almost looming kind of regret on Bruce's shoulders as he walked into the patient waiting area, keeping an eye out for Aaron Eckhart's face. Or, rather, what was left of it. When he caught sight of the malformed wound, he felt his stomach twist -- not in any particular disgust, exactly, but in sympathy. In distress that Aaron was still choosing to refuse treatment for his burns. That alone gave him a good indicator of how Aaron felt about his psychological treatment.

Bruce had been careful. He'd found the most prestigious, promising psychological institute in the nation. When Aaron lost it -- When he lost himself. It was what Rachel would have wanted. She cared about him, as much as that incited a strange defensiveness in Bruce, and that wasn't something he'd trivialize just because she wasn't there to harangue him about Aaron's care.

He crossed the floor to where Aaron sat, italian leather squeaking on the freshly cleaned floors. It looked comfortable, really. His money's worth? Maybe not. But certainly the kind of place that Rachel would have been happy with. For a minute, it almost felt like she was there with them as he took the seat across from the man whom he would have liked to call a friend.

"Hello, Aaron."

Harvey spotted the man the second he stepped into the room. Maybe it was because Bruce Wayne was just the kind of guy who turned heads or maybe it was because he'd been watching the door like a hawk, but he was pretty sure he saw Bruce before Bruce saw him.

It was always better to have the advantage.

Granted, it wasn't like there was much he could do about it. It was a good thing that the visitor he ended up with was one who he'd considered as a possibility, but that only meant that he was somewhat prepared; it didn't do anything for the surge of anger that came when he saw that smug face. Not that it was particularly smug right now. Bruce looked concerned, but he probably didn't know the half of it.

He didn't want to talk to this man, didn't want to face Rachael's closest friend and know that he was suffering too. It couldn't be compared, what he'd been through versus what Bruce had. And he'd just never really liked the guy, even though Bruce had seemed to support his ideas. That was all a lifetime away now.

The name that was used was all wrong, and that was enough to almost push him over the edge. He glared at Bruce with the side of his face that wasn't bandaged. "What? Why the hell did you even come here?" Bruce couldn't be that much of an airhead, to think that Harvey would have been happy to see him. It was true that he hadn't seen someone familiar from Gotham in weeks now, but this wasn't how he'd wanted to break that streak. Not at all.

It was a good thing he'd been prepared to face Aaron's enraged outbursts. After all, he'd never been quite the same after the fire, and the animosity had been a part of that. His furious resistance against accepting Rachel's death. The doctors had claimed it was part of why he'd adopted this new persona.

Split personalities, they explained, could be deemed an unhealthy method of coping. It was easier for Aaron to live in a fantasy world where what had killed Rachel was evil that had come from nowhere. That was the reason this 'Joker' he'd manifested never had a true identity. He represented the unadulterated chaos that Aaron saw in Rachel's death, the pain that he couldn't rationalize away.

Hearing the explanations and seeing what had happened to him were two different things entirely. He'd never expected Aaron to be happy to see him, it had been clear that he'd been threatened by Bruce while Rachel was still alive, but something less than ardent loathing would have been nice. After all, he'd thought so highly of Aaron before.

"I came to see you. The doctors advised that I come check on how you're doing, get an idea for what they're doing to help you here." A beat, he kept his tone calm -- it was a part of that businesslike air that he'd learned after dragging himself out of the gutters of self-loathing a few years back. "It's always better to hear it from the horse's mouth." Side of his mouth. The working side. The corners of Bruce's mouth twitched unintentionally. "I want you to tell me what you think of the treatment options here. Has Dr. Landel been treating you personally?"

Oh, this was just rich. Did Bruce honestly think that he was some sort of caretaker now? Harvey had gone off and lost his mind and now he had to babysit? That wasn't how it had gone at all, for one thing. He wished he could just tell the idiot to get lost so he didn't have to bear this ridiculous charade, and yet he knew that if he got too out of hand he'd only pay for it.

Still, maybe getting sedated would be worth it, just this once.

Of course, trying to explain just how ridiculous it was to consider anything here as healthy or helpful would take longer than the time that they had, and Harvey didn't have the energy for it. For a moment, all he did was laugh, and he realized that he was probably making himself seem nuts with his behavior. Luckily for him, he didn't really care what Bruce thought of him.

"Landel isn't even here anymore. He got the boot by the people who are really behind this whole thing, and believe me, they don't have any of our best interests in mind. But Bruce..." He paused, realizing how bizarre it was to even be talking to someone who knew about Gotham and everything that had gone on there. Granted, the billionaire had probably been oblivious to most of it, but still, this was a throw back that wasn't necessarily appreciated.

"Don't lie," he said, his tone gaining that edge again. His one-eyed stare was surprisingly potent. "You're only here to soothe your own conscience, because you think it's what she would have wanted."

If the laughing wasn't the first hint to Aaron's fractured mental state, the statement that followed was. He'd always had some paranoia, the 'out to get him' vibe that had been very much real while he was district attorney had been exacerbated by his psychotic break and became an unhealthy level of neuroses, according to the doctors.

Now, Bruce could see it before him, playing out. He was more paranoid than any man should rightfully be, making up fantastical stories of conspiracies in the system that he was trapped within. Maybe he thought that he'd be safer if he convinced himself that they were the ones in the wrong and not him. Or maybe he really had hallucinated enough to believe what he was saying.

The sight made Bruce's lips draw into a thin, grim line -- one that was worsened and creased at the corners more still when he mentioned Rachel. After a long hesitation, he had to break away and avert his gaze from the cruel stare of his one-time friend.

"My reasons for coming aren't what's important here. What's important is seeing whether or not you're making progress and making sure that you're getting the level of treatment that I'm paying for." He, and the others who had donated to Aaron's campaign.

There was a look on Bruce's face in response to all that which Harvey was able to identify, though it wasn't something he wanted to acknowledge. It was pity. The guy felt bad for him. That was enough to cause his rage to build because he didn't need that from Bruce Wayne. He didn't need it from anyone.

This was his fate. Maybe it wasn't fair, but he'd made risky moves and put people who he cared about in danger and he'd paid the price. Yes, there were people who were to blame for it, but Bruce wasn't one of them -- and Harvey would deal with those who were, once he got the hell out of here. In the meantime, he didn't need this rich pretty boy rubbing it all in.

Bruce deflected with more expertise than Harvey had thought him capable of, but what he said instead only added fuel to the fire. "There's no way you're paying for this. Why the hell would --" But Bruce could have all sorts of self-serving reasons behind it. That didn't mean Harvey was going to stand for it.

"Look, I never asked you for anything. I didn't want to be put here and I sure as hell didn't want you to have anything to do with it." It was possible this was all one big charade, but it was also possible that it wasn't, and Harvey wasn't calm enough to figure out what the truth was. "But what do you think?" he continued with a grin that pulled at his wounds, though that was all covered by the bandages. "Am I making progress?"

There was a tenseness that tightened in Bruce's face as Aaron tried to bait him, the fury in him growing evident. No. He didn't look like he was making progress. And in all honesty, it killed Bruce to see it. There was something grim and mature like Aaron had never before witnessed in the corner of Bruce's frown, and he simply watched him with a steady look for a long, silent moment before responding.

"I hope that things change, Aaron. I really do. My goal isn't to keep you trapped in here -- no one wants that. We want you back home. The people need you." There was some mingled sadness there and then he swallowed it down with a slight shake of his head. "I'll visit again soon. I hope by then, you'll be a little more ready to talk about how things are going." He got to his feet, then he waited a beat.

"Oh, and try making some friends, will you? I'm going to get your behavior reports from your doctor before I leave. 'Playing well with others' used to be something you were so good at."

Every single thing that came out of Bruce's mouth sounded like a practiced line to Harvey, and it was that insincerity that really got under his skin. Actually, even worse than that was that Bruce's squeaky clean attitude might actually be genuine, that he might actually mean everything he was saying.

The people didn't need him. In fact, even hearing that said in seriousness almost caused him to flip over the table between them and go rushing straight for Bruce's throat. He didn't need to be mocked, even if that wasn't the idiot's intention in the first place.

"Don't bother coming back," he snapped, standing with Bruce if only because he was still trying to decide if decking him was a good idea. It was good that the man's visit was turning out to be so short, seeing how Harvey wasn't sure that he could keep himself together for much longer. Being told to make friends as if he was a child was the last straw. He gripped the back of his chair, glaring at Bruce as he left, his anger only barely contained.

After finishing both his bowl of indifferent porridge and his conversation with his new acquaintance, L hadn't been settled on where he would go--but then, he'd caught sight of Lunge being escorted to the Library. The subterfuge intended to protect the Lars alias would proceed better if they weren't in the same room at the same time at any point between the day's two meals, and the Library was the only one of the activity rooms which L had considered. His second choice was, to him, the only choice.

The Sun Room wasn't quite as quiet as the Library might be, but the noise of an old movie wasn't much worse than the buzz of conversation (it was preferable, in fact, to what he might hear in the music or game rooms), and the chairs were much more comfortable. Sitting there had also given him the opportunity to see whether or not anyone else was watching the area with intent. That hadn't seemed to be the case, so as he sat, he'd fallen into his usual occupation, turning the current case over and over in his mind.

He had more information now, but it didn't seem to be enough to make a difference, after all: if there was an escape tunnel hidden in the back and forth between Landel and Doyle, the advent of Marc or of Aguilar, their tricks and assignments, he had overlooked it so far. Although he was grateful for what Javert had passed on to him, he suspected that he and Lunge had reached the extent of it, for the time being. They had been able to identify some weak points, but without direct access to any of their captors, and only unpredictable, intermittent access to Marc (which he doubted would be possible when Landel was imposing on Marc's tenuous hospitality), it would be almost impossible to exploit them. Aguilar had toppled Landel easily enough, and L's personal knowledge of Aguilar extended only to his rank and his actions. If there was a thread that could be tugged to cause the General to unravel, it was still well-hidden.

Once in a while, when a case wasn't going well, a sinking, exhausted, hopeless feeling would press in on L from all sides. He could feel it today.

Is it more or less frustrating than Kira? The Kira case had consumed his life for almost a year before his abduction, but it had only taken him six weeks to identify the probable culprit from a list of suspects that was as long as the entire population of the Kanto region; the trouble had been proving it. The two weeks he had been held at Landel's were a blink, in comparison... but in that case, the passage of time was the only consideration. In Tokyo, he'd had a number of resources at his command--money, facilities, personnel, equipment, and a degree of pull with the Japanese government. Freedom to pursue almost any reasonable course. In the Institute, he had little. He couldn't even choose his own meals.

He tried to look hard truths in the face. In most ways, the patients' lot was worse under Aguilar. L had worked hard to try to unravel the puzzle, but pile of data on a man who was no longer in charge was of questionable utility; he felt like he was still working on last week's puzzle, and had nothing new and relevant with which to interpret the current iteration, no idea of what his new enemy loved or hated, apart from disorder. Landel was still a definite factor, though, and he didn't seem to have any great love for Aguilar. Therefore, it seemed to L that it might be better if Landel was--

His train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of his escort. "Laurier? You have a visitor. This way."

A visitor? His first impulse was to wonder if it would be another simulacrum of Watari, marginally convincing if he didn't look hard enough. Landel's knowledge of L had seemed to be so thorough, in many ways... why didn't he understand that L would always try to look as hard as possible? Maybe it was Aguilar, or his underlings, who didn't grasp it. They might try Yagami, or Amane, both of which would fit what L had heard about visitors, the idea that they were reformed patients.

She led him back out of the Sun Room and across the main corridor, carrying herself with authority over her charges and obedience to her superiors, both absolute. The room she took him to was near the front office where he and Jones had been attacked that second night.

His feet on the chair earned a sharp look of disapproval, followed by raised eyebrows. He set his feet on the floor and waited, hunched and uncomfortable, curious to see what his captors would try.

Edited 2011-07-09 03:08 (UTC)

Just coming back to Landel's made Langdon Caul feel nervous. The hallucinations and headaches had faded when the tumor was finally removed and the delusions had eventually followed, but he still had the memories. The sooner anyone could be released from that self-induced hell the better.

Langdon nodded a hello to the nurses as he was once again let into the visitor's room, this time from the other side. He was wearing a knitted sweater and a newsboy cap that hid the scar from his recent brain surgery, and his long-fingered hands were buried in his pockets. There had apparently been a staff change after his release, but he still felt ashamed to walk sane amoung people who'd seen him mad.

But enough about his problems. He was here on a social call. They had said his real name was Laurier, but it was hard for Langdon not to think of him as 'L' when he saw the wide-eyed young man hunched in his chair. Abe approached him carefully and sat down in the opposite chair, folding his hands in his lap. He hoped L at least remembered him, he remembered their interactions as being pleasant.

"It's good to see you again."

As Abe entered the room and took his seat, L leaned forward across the table, staring at his visitor with keen, undisguised fascination.

Not Watari; not even Yagami or Amane or any other significant person from his history prior to the Institute. It had only been five days since he and his erstwhile roommate had last seen each other. Why did they choose him? Am I less likely to be skeptical of him?

Then, Maybe he made the choice himself. If nothing else, it would tie in with the way Aguilar was hiding both his own presence at the Institute and that of his troops, and with the way Abe had seemed to feel responsible, in their last conversation, for his inability to rescue L from Monday night's procedure.

Edgeworth, in his previous stay, had suggested that visitors might be brainwashed, might be actors. Abe's appearance--perfectly himself, as far as L could see, apart from the change in clothing--suggested the former rather than the latter, but how brainwashed could he be if he had made the choice to check in on his former roommate, and if he had to be convinced that Landel was still in charge? The situation suggested certain parameters.

"Yes," he replied, sounding vague, mystified. There was some possibility that Abe could pass on some information about the world outside; if he couldn't, or wouldn't, that might help to establish the specifics of the supposed brainwashing. "Where have you been all week? Your release was sudden." After a pause, he added, careful to weight his tone with chagrin, "I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye."

Edited 2011-07-30 11:25 (UTC)

Sync wanted nothing to do with the visitors.

It was all with good reason, he felt, considering his choices for this predicament. They'd already tested his patience with Ion, and not only did he have to face that sorry excuse of a replica, but he had to do it with Anise in tow. There was no denying that he expected to enjoy a vacancy this week, but when he was about to enter the Sun Room he was pulled aside by his nurse and given instructions to follow her to the waiting room. That alone was more than enough to coax out a scowl, wanting nothing to do with the ex-Fon Master but following regardless of his obvious opinions.

He wasn't going to get himself sedated because of a disagreement between himself and the staff. It wasn't like he was obligated to actually talk to whoever came through those doors, and so he'd decided to spend the shift in silence. Maybe he'd get a break and they'd get the picture and leave him alone, but when had this place ever given him a break like that?

Sync entered the waiting room without bothering to see if anyone familiar was around, taking a seat in the corner and staring straight ahead.

Somebody would have been better off paying attention to his surroundings. You never knew who was going to be popping up in places like this spooky old dump.

How she had managed to stay out of Stephen's line of sight was going to be a secret. What was important was that not a minute later after her adorable little friend sat down was there strands of bright red hanging over his head and a carefully wrapped basket being dropped into his lap. She could have given him time to adjust, but that would distract from the great big hug she was trying to give him from behind!

It might have been her intention to make that hug just a little too strong and restricting. Maybe.

"Hello, Steffy!" came the cheery and eerily familiar shout she gave right into his ear. Oh, she just missed this. She was positive he did too.

Had Sync been in any less control of his reflexes he would've shoved away whoever decided to surprise him like that, embracing him like they even had a reason to.

But instead the sight of red triggered the appropriate memory, and the sweet voice accompanying that suspicious grip was more than enough to signify who'd come for him. To be honest, she wasn't the one that first came to mind, but it wasn't like this institute was ever the predictable type. If anything, he preferred her company more than anyone he knew on Auldrant; that is, unless she decided to slit his throat with a hairpin when no one was looking.

"Linda," He began, a smile drawing over his mouth. His fingers traced the edge of the basket, though he made no move to sift through its contents just yet. "It's great to see you, but are you sure it's good idea for you to come back so soon?"

Linda laughed as she relented her grip and lithely danced around his chair to face him. It was weird. It felt like it had been forever since she'd seen him, but it wasn't that long at all. Less than a week? Ugh. Less than a week ago she was spouting about lawyers and murdering people and about what a little freak Stephen was.

...maybe he was a little right, too. "Really? I haven't been sure of much of anything lately." Her hand found the back of her head and rubbed, her fingers gently scratching her scalp. It still wasn't long enough to tell which memories were real or not. She could swear on her life that this guy wasn't as innocent as the face he was giving her, but how much stock could she put into a memory that involved killing zombies with a power tool? Not that it was entirely a bad memory to hang on to, but-- Focus, Linny.

"Um," she interrupted herself, skittering off for a second to pull a chair across the floor she could sit in. "Anyway. How are you? Still dealing with that creepy blond kid and his friends?" What were their names? Eh, she didn't remember. She just knew Steffy didn't like them.

...She thought. Maybe that was a dream.

Tsubaki had been given just enough time to finally give Sora an answer before she was collected for visitation. It wasn’t as though being visited was coming as a surprise--she’d have been more surprised if no one had come to see her, now that she knew there was a family of some kind worried for her. Throughout everything that went on during the weeks, she wasn’t able to forget that. There were more people out there than just two parents, as well… There were Miyu’s friends. A brother…

And today maybe it would be her turn to see that brother in person, with her own eyes.

Now that her visitation time was finally upon her, Tsubaki was consumed by the possibility that the person who walked through the door was going to be Masamune. Maybe not the one she had seen the night she’d experienced his demise, the one her shadow had talked about and the one Kurogane had somehow glimpsed through her, but a Masamune. One who was still alive. Still in contact with her and her parents.

Coincidentally, it was his picture she had tucked into her clothes, meant for a meeting with Kurogane that she hadn’t yet been able to follow through on.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Day 57: Waiting Room/Lobby 2 (Fourth Shift)

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