Scott was so not used to this whole M6 thing yet. Even after however many days it had been since he was marched down a new hallway at dinner, and Guybrush was mysteriously replaced with Nameless Redhead, he still found his nurse catching his shoulder to keep him from plowing straight on past the 1-A hallway. Funny how deeply entrenched habits could become, even after only a few weeks.
And it had only been a few weeks, hadn't it? Sometimes Scott could swear he was going on three years in this place, but nope: he had to keep trading out words like "months", "years" and "fortnights" when he really took stock of his time in Landel's Institute. Only three weeks? Bull. Honkey. He was still convinced they were all living in some kind of bizarro time bubble where up was down and quarter pounders were Royales With Cheese, and nobody realized it because they were all too busy noticing how much this place sucked.
That all said, today hadn't been half bad.
It was the first day in months days that Scott hadn't spent feeling sorry for himself and everyone whose presence had ever graced the Institute. He was actually interacting with the world, smiling, being bros with new people, etc etc normal people stuff. Was it weird to think that he had fake!Peter to thank for that? Really, it had been his visit that had been the spark for all this newfound determination. Fake!Peter had been the ultimate proof. The proof that the people who disappeared were not necessarily lost. They might have had their minds messed up worse than the stock room at the Gilded Palace of Flying Burritos, but hey, it was better than oh, say, death. Plus it explained how people could come back and not remember having been around before. All Landel had to do was pop a person in the de-neuralizer or whatever and they were back to normal and ready for re-traumatizing. So really, all they had to do to bring everyone back was take Landel down, get to his brainwashing machine-y thing, round up all the former patients from Doyleton or wherever, and presto chango, everyone goes home happy. Only slight trauma
Heck, that kind of thinking even made Scott hold out hope for the uncomfortable situation with Ramona. Who knew? If they fiddled with the knobblies on the brainwashing machine in just the right way, there was always a chance they could just have people... conveniently forget a few unpleasant memories...
Man, he hadn't eaten since lunch. What was for dinner?
One thing he couldn't fix just yet was the continuing awkwardness with Nameless Redhead. Who Scott realized he probably ought to have asked the name of a while back, but... Yeah. Things. So as it was, their time as roommates had been spent alternately sleeping through each other's company or outright ignoring each other due to moping/grumping/spiting and such. And yes, Scott had felt a little bit of spite in between bouts of feeling sorry for himself. Was it Nameless Redhead's fault that he wasn't Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate™? No, of course not. But he still wasn't, and he never could be. And Scott hadn't been able to help but hold that against him all the same.
So, the million dollar question of the day was: am I feeling good enough today to try some attempt at making amends for the past few days of being a total dickweed?
The answer? Eehhmmmaayybably...?
Scott opened the door to M6. His nurse closed it behind him. Nameless Redhead lay in grumbly mode on the bed. Scott crossed the room toward his own bed, gaze shifting and half-shifting back and forth between his roommate and the delicious chicken dinner on his nightstand. Scott didn't say anything.
He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, not facing the guy. He poked at his chicken, took a few bites. Then he paused, fork resting on the plate.
no subject
And it had only been a few weeks, hadn't it? Sometimes Scott could swear he was going on three years in this place, but nope: he had to keep trading out words like "months", "years" and "fortnights" when he really took stock of his time in Landel's Institute. Only three weeks? Bull. Honkey. He was still convinced they were all living in some kind of bizarro time bubble where up was down and quarter pounders were Royales With Cheese, and nobody realized it because they were all too busy noticing how much this place sucked.
That all said, today hadn't been half bad.
It was the first day in
monthsdays that Scott hadn't spent feeling sorry for himself and everyone whose presence had ever graced the Institute. He was actually interacting with the world, smiling, being bros with new people, etc etc normal people stuff. Was it weird to think that he had fake!Peter to thank for that? Really, it had been his visit that had been the spark for all this newfound determination. Fake!Peter had been the ultimate proof. The proof that the people who disappeared were not necessarily lost. They might have had their minds messed up worse than the stock room at the Gilded Palace of Flying Burritos, but hey, it was better than oh, say, death. Plus it explained how people could come back and not remember having been around before. All Landel had to do was pop a person in the de-neuralizer or whatever and they were back to normal and ready for re-traumatizing. So really, all they had to do to bring everyone back was take Landel down, get to his brainwashing machine-y thing, round up all the former patients from Doyleton or wherever, and presto chango, everyone goes home happy.Only slight traumaHeck, that kind of thinking even made Scott hold out hope for the uncomfortable situation with Ramona. Who knew? If they fiddled with the knobblies on the brainwashing machine in just the right way, there was always a chance they could just have people... conveniently forget a few unpleasant memories...
Man, he hadn't eaten since lunch. What was for dinner?
One thing he couldn't fix just yet was the continuing awkwardness with Nameless Redhead. Who Scott realized he probably ought to have asked the name of a while back, but... Yeah. Things. So as it was, their time as roommates had been spent alternately sleeping through each other's company or outright ignoring each other due to moping/grumping/spiting and such. And yes, Scott had felt a little bit of spite in between bouts of feeling sorry for himself. Was it Nameless Redhead's fault that he wasn't Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate™? No, of course not. But he still wasn't, and he never could be. And Scott hadn't been able to help but hold that against him all the same.
So, the million dollar question of the day was: am I feeling good enough today to try some attempt at making amends for the past few days of being a total dickweed?
The answer? Eehhmmmaayybably...?
Scott opened the door to M6. His nurse closed it behind him. Nameless Redhead lay in grumbly mode on the bed. Scott crossed the room toward his own bed, gaze shifting and half-shifting back and forth between his roommate and the delicious chicken dinner on his nightstand. Scott didn't say anything.
He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, not facing the guy. He poked at his chicken, took a few bites. Then he paused, fork resting on the plate.
"...Hey."