Something disturbed L's sleep—he dreamed of a swarm of bees that formed themselves into the shape of a lumbering man, twice life-size, buzzing with anger. A gust of wind dispersed the insects, and the skeleton of the man clattered to the ground, dry old bones sounding against each other.
He murmured, fussed, and rolled onto his side to face the wall.
The lack of windows made it hard to tell what time it was when he woke up, but he knew that it was late and that he had probably missed at least part of breakfast: Orihara was nowhere to be seen, and the corridor outside of his room seemed quiet, in contrast to the bustle he could expect if it were still early.
He sat up, blinking, then raised one hand to his head and rubbed his scalp, his fingers brushing against the fine, smooth scar on the back of his head. None of it dispelled his drowsiness, but time would probably take care of that. He flexed his toes, then slid his feet into the slippers that waited beside the bed, then moved to take the journal and a pen from the desk drawer. He was interrupted by the intercom.
Lunch...? It's even later than I thought. Landel seemed to be sticking to his new meal plan, for the time being. That meant that L had missed access to the fruit at the salad bar for the entire day... still, the meal itself would be tolerable, if he took the cheese sandwich.
He was more troubled by the fact that he had missed at least two opportunities for conversations: he still wanted to talk to Jones, and he wanted to find Daemon, to learn what he could about the encounter Daemon had had two nights earlier. If other people got to them first, he'd have to postpone, and in doing so, he might lose the chance to get the information at all.
At least we were able to accomplish something last night. It wasn't much of a breakthrough, but it was the most he had been able to manage in days. He had a nagging feeling that if he had approached this as a regular case rather than an involuntary one, it would have been wrapped up by now with very little personal cost to him. That was as irritating as anything else. They might have saved his life by pulling him away from the Kira case, but they had put him into a situation that was hard for him to tolerate. It required the constant suppression of annoyance and anger on a level he had never attempted in the past.
The nurse appeared a moment later to lead him to the Sun Room, where he took his bagged lunch. Apart from the items Landel had mentioned, the bag also contained a small lollipop, cream soda flavored, a familiar American style with a waxed paper wrapper. Not bad, but this couldn't possibly constitute the "changes" that the doctor had mentioned so ominously.
He glanced around the room again, and something stood out: there weren't many people in the Sun Room. A "free shift"... it sounds like we're being given a choice, but I don't think many of us would choose to be here at all... the choice is illusory. It's a way for Landel to present himself as magnanimous. In actuality, allowing patients to choose one of half a dozen places to spend the next hour or two, and combining that license with the fact that we're escorted everywhere and therefore can't simply search for someone until we find them, greatly inhibits our ability to strike up conversations, especially those that haven't been planned ahead of time. It scatters us. It makes us less of a threat, whether in theory or in practice. He had a sense that the most cynical interpretation possible would usually be the correct one. That wasn't always true, but it was often true, and until he was free of the Institute, he might as well consider it a rule to live by.
He saw a man who he thought might be Daemon, but that man was already deep in conversation with someone else. Jones didn't appear to be around, and there was no way of knowing which of the other areas he might have chosen, so that avenue was also a temporary dead end. Lunge was here, talking to the older man L had met a few days earlier, but L's third choice, Edgar, was nowhere to be seen, and the bulletin board held nothing of pressing interest.
With a sigh, he found a seat on one of the sofas and took the cheese sandwich out of the paper bag, waiting for something to turn up.
["Something" = another Japanese kid who wants to save the world by killing a lot of people. Hi, Niikura!]
no subject
He murmured, fussed, and rolled onto his side to face the wall.
The lack of windows made it hard to tell what time it was when he woke up, but he knew that it was late and that he had probably missed at least part of breakfast: Orihara was nowhere to be seen, and the corridor outside of his room seemed quiet, in contrast to the bustle he could expect if it were still early.
He sat up, blinking, then raised one hand to his head and rubbed his scalp, his fingers brushing against the fine, smooth scar on the back of his head. None of it dispelled his drowsiness, but time would probably take care of that. He flexed his toes, then slid his feet into the slippers that waited beside the bed, then moved to take the journal and a pen from the desk drawer. He was interrupted by the intercom.
Lunch...? It's even later than I thought. Landel seemed to be sticking to his new meal plan, for the time being. That meant that L had missed access to the fruit at the salad bar for the entire day... still, the meal itself would be tolerable, if he took the cheese sandwich.
He was more troubled by the fact that he had missed at least two opportunities for conversations: he still wanted to talk to Jones, and he wanted to find Daemon, to learn what he could about the encounter Daemon had had two nights earlier. If other people got to them first, he'd have to postpone, and in doing so, he might lose the chance to get the information at all.
At least we were able to accomplish something last night. It wasn't much of a breakthrough, but it was the most he had been able to manage in days. He had a nagging feeling that if he had approached this as a regular case rather than an involuntary one, it would have been wrapped up by now with very little personal cost to him. That was as irritating as anything else. They might have saved his life by pulling him away from the Kira case, but they had put him into a situation that was hard for him to tolerate. It required the constant suppression of annoyance and anger on a level he had never attempted in the past.
The nurse appeared a moment later to lead him to the Sun Room, where he took his bagged lunch. Apart from the items Landel had mentioned, the bag also contained a small lollipop, cream soda flavored, a familiar American style with a waxed paper wrapper. Not bad, but this couldn't possibly constitute the "changes" that the doctor had mentioned so ominously.
He glanced around the room again, and something stood out: there weren't many people in the Sun Room. A "free shift"... it sounds like we're being given a choice, but I don't think many of us would choose to be here at all... the choice is illusory. It's a way for Landel to present himself as magnanimous. In actuality, allowing patients to choose one of half a dozen places to spend the next hour or two, and combining that license with the fact that we're escorted everywhere and therefore can't simply search for someone until we find them, greatly inhibits our ability to strike up conversations, especially those that haven't been planned ahead of time. It scatters us. It makes us less of a threat, whether in theory or in practice. He had a sense that the most cynical interpretation possible would usually be the correct one. That wasn't always true, but it was often true, and until he was free of the Institute, he might as well consider it a rule to live by.
He saw a man who he thought might be Daemon, but that man was already deep in conversation with someone else. Jones didn't appear to be around, and there was no way of knowing which of the other areas he might have chosen, so that avenue was also a temporary dead end. Lunge was here, talking to the older man L had met a few days earlier, but L's third choice, Edgar, was nowhere to be seen, and the bulletin board held nothing of pressing interest.
With a sigh, he found a seat on one of the sofas and took the cheese sandwich out of the paper bag, waiting for something to turn up.
["Something" = another Japanese kid who wants to save the world by killing a lot of people. Hi, Niikura!]