L slept late again, far past the first intercom announcement of the morning. The second one made him stir, but not enough; he sank back into a deep, dreamless sleep, drifting to consciousness again some time later.
Without windows or clocks in the room, it was hard to tell exactly what time it might be. The same thing that had happened the previous morning held true, though: there was less obvious activity around the residential corridors than there should have been if it were early, and Orihara was gone, which suggested that breakfast was at least underway.
Thinking about the blank walls and windows, their institutional blandness, gave L a sudden sharp pang of yearning. He wasn't sentimental, but the room he had been sleeping in before his abduction had a wide window with a view of the Tokyo skyline. Once he'd had it to himself again, he'd thrown the curtains open when it was dark, turned off the lights, and looked at the landscape; it was a relaxing way to let his thoughts spin out. But here, the best vantage point for a landscape was on the bus to Doyleton or the top of the wall around the recreational field, and there was nothing he enjoyed about it.
His recent tendency to oversleep worried him. He remembered the rumors that people often began to sleep a lot before they disappeared from the Institute: that in itself didn't bode well. More to the point, though, was the fact that it was contrary to his habits to sleep heavily or rise late. It was hard for him to tell precisely how much he was sleeping at Landel's--he had woken refreshed before breakfast in the past, and although he didn't understand the mechanism of the supposed "compressed sleep cycles," he did cautiously accept that he might have experienced them. If the amount of time they slept between losing consciousness and the morning intercom announcement was usually enough, why had he been sleeping for several hours longer?
As he blinked at the ceiling and prepared to sit up, it became obvious to him why he had overslept: he wasn't feeling well. A little too warm, a creeping ache in his limbs and in his head, and a heavy, tired feeling, as if he could be coming down with a cold. His throat wasn't sore, though, nor did he have a stuffy or runny nose. The idea of staying in the bed had some appeal, but it would cause him to lose a whole day. He could as easily rest in the Sun Room as in bed, but the more public location would allow him to pursue certain avenues of inquiry that would definitely be closed if he sequestered himself in this room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, then rested for a moment, staring at the floor, with his elbows on his knees and his long hand pressed against his forehead.
The normal incubation period for most minor illnesses, colds and flus and other ailments of that nature, was a week to ten days. His sleep study ten days ago would have made him vulnerable in a general sense to anything that he hadn't already been exposed to at that time, and it had been a week since the arrival of Aguilar and his troops, who'd probably brought new and exciting germs along with them. Beyond those factors, it was hard to pinpoint anything... and unless or until the symptoms developed, it would also be hard to even begin to diagnose himself. A slight fever and its typical accompaniments could mean anything. He was careful to wash his hands before meals, and had been going to considerable effort to keep his fingers away from his mouth when he'd been handling communal objects like the serving utensils in the cafeteria or anything related to the bulletin board... but that clearly hadn't been enough.
For once, it felt good to slip his feet into the slippers. After a moment's consideration, he put one of the sweatshirts on. He wanted a proper cup of tea with lemon, or possibly just some Lemsip, heavily sweetened, but he knew neither was forthcoming. If he hadn't slept through it, he should be able to take a shower in the afternoon. The warm water would probably feel good. If he asked, the nurse might also give him some paracetamol, but he wasn't sure that he needed it, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to trust any medication given in the Institute after the forced injection a few nights earlier. He had found that kind of medication himself upstairs; he could take it without asking for any if he could wait until dinner, when he should have access to it.
The nurse tutted at him when she arrived just as the noon announcement died away, then admitted, as he trailed alongside her down the corridor, that she'd let him sleep past the second announcement because something seemed to be going around. Once they'd reached the Sun Room and he'd washed his hands, he chose a peanut butter sandwich for his lunch. Today's lollipop was cherry-flavored.
He felt faint dizziness and queasiness as he scanned the room to decide where to sit. Going out into the courtyard, as Landel had suggested and as Lunge appeared to be doing, was out of the question: he had no desire at all to be outside. No weather was pleasant to someone who was feeling under it.
He chose the nearest empty seat. Daemon didn't appear to be available; Edgar and Ilia were each engaged in conversation. He didn't know most of the other people in the room, and just at the moment, he didn't feel like making a new acquaintance.
It wasn't until L saw Terra that he attempted to wave someone over.
no subject
Without windows or clocks in the room, it was hard to tell exactly what time it might be. The same thing that had happened the previous morning held true, though: there was less obvious activity around the residential corridors than there should have been if it were early, and Orihara was gone, which suggested that breakfast was at least underway.
Thinking about the blank walls and windows, their institutional blandness, gave L a sudden sharp pang of yearning. He wasn't sentimental, but the room he had been sleeping in before his abduction had a wide window with a view of the Tokyo skyline. Once he'd had it to himself again, he'd thrown the curtains open when it was dark, turned off the lights, and looked at the landscape; it was a relaxing way to let his thoughts spin out. But here, the best vantage point for a landscape was on the bus to Doyleton or the top of the wall around the recreational field, and there was nothing he enjoyed about it.
His recent tendency to oversleep worried him. He remembered the rumors that people often began to sleep a lot before they disappeared from the Institute: that in itself didn't bode well. More to the point, though, was the fact that it was contrary to his habits to sleep heavily or rise late. It was hard for him to tell precisely how much he was sleeping at Landel's--he had woken refreshed before breakfast in the past, and although he didn't understand the mechanism of the supposed "compressed sleep cycles," he did cautiously accept that he might have experienced them. If the amount of time they slept between losing consciousness and the morning intercom announcement was usually enough, why had he been sleeping for several hours longer?
As he blinked at the ceiling and prepared to sit up, it became obvious to him why he had overslept: he wasn't feeling well. A little too warm, a creeping ache in his limbs and in his head, and a heavy, tired feeling, as if he could be coming down with a cold. His throat wasn't sore, though, nor did he have a stuffy or runny nose. The idea of staying in the bed had some appeal, but it would cause him to lose a whole day. He could as easily rest in the Sun Room as in bed, but the more public location would allow him to pursue certain avenues of inquiry that would definitely be closed if he sequestered himself in this room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, then rested for a moment, staring at the floor, with his elbows on his knees and his long hand pressed against his forehead.
The normal incubation period for most minor illnesses, colds and flus and other ailments of that nature, was a week to ten days. His sleep study ten days ago would have made him vulnerable in a general sense to anything that he hadn't already been exposed to at that time, and it had been a week since the arrival of Aguilar and his troops, who'd probably brought new and exciting germs along with them. Beyond those factors, it was hard to pinpoint anything... and unless or until the symptoms developed, it would also be hard to even begin to diagnose himself. A slight fever and its typical accompaniments could mean anything. He was careful to wash his hands before meals, and had been going to considerable effort to keep his fingers away from his mouth when he'd been handling communal objects like the serving utensils in the cafeteria or anything related to the bulletin board... but that clearly hadn't been enough.
For once, it felt good to slip his feet into the slippers. After a moment's consideration, he put one of the sweatshirts on. He wanted a proper cup of tea with lemon, or possibly just some Lemsip, heavily sweetened, but he knew neither was forthcoming. If he hadn't slept through it, he should be able to take a shower in the afternoon. The warm water would probably feel good. If he asked, the nurse might also give him some paracetamol, but he wasn't sure that he needed it, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to trust any medication given in the Institute after the forced injection a few nights earlier. He had found that kind of medication himself upstairs; he could take it without asking for any if he could wait until dinner, when he should have access to it.
The nurse tutted at him when she arrived just as the noon announcement died away, then admitted, as he trailed alongside her down the corridor, that she'd let him sleep past the second announcement because something seemed to be going around. Once they'd reached the Sun Room and he'd washed his hands, he chose a peanut butter sandwich for his lunch. Today's lollipop was cherry-flavored.
He felt faint dizziness and queasiness as he scanned the room to decide where to sit. Going out into the courtyard, as Landel had suggested and as Lunge appeared to be doing, was out of the question: he had no desire at all to be outside. No weather was pleasant to someone who was feeling under it.
He chose the nearest empty seat. Daemon didn't appear to be available; Edgar and Ilia were each engaged in conversation. He didn't know most of the other people in the room, and just at the moment, he didn't feel like making a new acquaintance.
It wasn't until L saw Terra that he attempted to wave someone over.
[Terra!]