damned_institute | Day 27: Breakfast

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Day 27: Breakfast

Day came too soon.

Sora hadn't been able to find Rena, had instead been forced to crumple onto the grass of the recreational field and bleed all over himself, and hadn't even accomplished what he'd been sent out to do. What he'd been entrusted to do. He didn't know how he was going to be able to face Renji and the others, but he also knew he wasn't going to hide from them, either. That would just be low, after all, and he was ready to face up to the consequences.

He didn't try to make excuses for himself. Even though there had been a Special Counseling patient, they had managed to take her down by sheer numbers. The fact that he hadn't seen any sign of Rena was what had him the most worried. He hoped he could find her today.

The boy laid in his bed for a good while that morning before his nurse finally came in to collect him. She clucked over the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and leg, and asked him if he was okay to walk.

Once Sora assured her he was fine (he didn't really want to use crutches, as that would just attract attention to himself, and he didn't need others worrying over him), they made their way to the cafeteria. Sora yawned and winced against the bright light of morning - it seemed even earlier than usual, and he realized why when they entered the cafeteria and found it empty.

The boy shuffled over to grab a chocolate chip pancake, a bowl of cereal, and a glass of milk (good for the bones, or so his mom had always told him) before settling at a table. He kept an eye on the door, hoping he would see Rena walking in soon.

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Carrying only his notebook and not feeling at all hungry anymore, Armand hurried across the cafeteria, which was much more crowded now, looking for an empty chair. This time he saw more familiar faces, but they seemed occupied. Eventually he dropped into a chair beside a rotund young man who was concentrating on his breakfast with an intensity that, after his recent encounter, worried Armand. Had he just traded dangers?

He set his notebook down carefully, trying to make up for the suddeness of his claiming the chair. "My apologies, monsieur. There do not seem to be many other places to sit this late in the meal." Then hoping to make a joke of it, but wanting as much warning as he could get just in case, he leaned a little nearer, lowered his voice nearly to a whisper, and asked, "You don't eat people, do you?"

Mark had looked startled and almost guilty as Armand sat beside him, as though he'd been caught doing something inappropriate. He chewed a little faster, to avoid introducing himself with a mouthful of pancakes, then choked faintly as he swallowed at the same moment that the new neighbor asked him that question.

Swallowing again more firmly, and taking a slight drink of water to clear his throat, Mark considered his uninvited dining companion. That was an accent of Earth, mid-Europe, and Mark conscientiously mirrored it with an urban Londoner's accent.

"You're welcome to the chair, it is getting pretty crowded in here." His pancakes were nearly done, but it wasn't enough to help the anxiety. Who were all these prisoners? If they were truly all prisoners; no sense in being paranoid if one weren't thorough about it. "And no... I'm not a cannibal." Of all things, not that.

Armand sagged in relief. "Oh good," he breathed. "There's a fellow over there who said the only reason he wasn't going to eat me was his friend hadn't said he could." He tilted his head to examine Mark's plate. "Do you like your pancakes like that, so fluffy?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Armand St. Just, though the nurses will try to tell you something different. They think we're all insane. You are new, aren't you?"

"Really?" Rather unable to resist, Mark tried glancing 'over there,' though he hadn't taken much notice of Armand until the other man had entered his personal space and so he couldn't guess who in the milling crowd might have made the comment. Cannibalism was a sensitive spot with Mark, though he hadn't yet encountered it in the form of actual gustatory preference. Perhaps it had just been a particularly tasteless joke, though Armand looked genuinely spooked.

"The pancakes are fine..." They weren't the best he'd ever eaten, but he wasn't a picky eater. The accent was from Earth, right, so introductions should be democratic and modern all the way. "My name is Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. And yes, apparently I'm 'new.' How long have you been here?"

"I like them flatter," he said while he tried to gather his thoughts. He opened the notebook to look at the last page where he'd written his name, almost as if he were reminding himself. "Only since yesterday, I'm afraid."

"Don't let them fool you," he said softly as his finger traced the ink. "I have no idea why anyone is here, but the nights are horrific. And you don't look any more insane than I do, M. Vorkosigan."

If only you knew. The thought was humorous, despite the situation. Mark nobly resisted the urge to offer to compress Armand's pancakes for him until they suited his tastes. Or are you just using humor as a defense mechanism? ... Mother must be wearing off on me. But it was good to stay aware of that urge. It could lead down to hysteria if he didn't rein it in properly.

"Horrific? What do you mean by that, exactly?" Mark pressed. And, "Do you know where we are? If you've been here overnight, have you seen the night sky and stars?" Cutting to the chase, "Is this Earth?" The most primitive facility he'd ever seen on Earth, but even in his years living there he hadn't seen every corner of the world.

With a sigh, Armand closed the book and sat back. What he remembered about this cafeteria was the glimpse of the struggle he'd glimpsed through the door of the Sun Room. He took a few deep breaths. "The lights go out, the doors unlock and they let out the monsters. A voice comes from the air to taunt us--it sounds like the same voice that claims to be the head doctor during the day. Messiers Javert and Trevelyan let me join them last night, and I found a mop handle, and a knife."

He didn't want to attempt to answer the other question. "I haven't seen the sky. The lights were too bright. I hope it's Earth. I'm from France. The time change is hard enough to understand."

Mark stared at Armand a moment. If that were true, it sounded absolutely... insane. Though the label in this situation was wince-worthy. What could possibly be the point in kidnapping people only to have them attacked in the night? True, he had no way of knowing if Armand was sane himself, which would add a nice layer of irony to Armand's earlier insistence that Mark seemed as sane as Armand was, but there was nothing about the tale that seemed impossible. Easy enough with a few genetic horrors cooked up on Jackson's Whole, or simply natural 'monsters' taken from their home worlds. It just didn't make sense.

Which was less important than the other key words Armand had dropped. "Time change? What do you mean, time change?" Surely that was just a trick played with the old-fashioned furniture and odd clothing...

"I don't know where you're from, M. Vorkosigan, or when, but I was born in Paris, France, in 1769." He didn't want to admit how bewildered he'd been by something as simple as a flashlight or a pen. Armand imagined he'd find something even more daunting as the days went on. His standard-issue Landel's uniform didn't give much credence to that, but his hair was still longer than shoulder length and caught back as neatly as he could get it in a make-shift tie.

"If you wish to know more about dates, perhaps you should ask on the bulletin board."

France? 1769? He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the Earth history he'd picked up. Was that before or after the end of the Civil War? The hairdo did look suitable to that era in Europe, though the man could just as easily been from modern Earth, or Beta Colony, or Escobar... and the idea just didn't seem plausible. Unless this was what people meant when they said to 'take a wormhole jump to hell.'

He'd have liked to brush it off as Armand simply being insane, but that was too easy and it didn't add up. The strange clothes, the handful of very strange-looking people wandering about (although they could have been Betans, at least the odd hairdos,) the absence of anything that didn't look downright primitive...

I suppose I'll know for sure tonight, when and if something tries to kill me.

"That must be a difficult adjustment." Mark set to work on finishing his pancakes, although he knew they wouldn't be enough to soothe him.

Armand thought that Mark's tone sounded a little patronizing. He frowned slightly. "It was. It still is. There are people trying to find a way out."

"Where are you from, M. Vorkosigan? Your name sounds Russian."

Now there was a nice, challenging question. Beta Colony, his most recent world of residence? Barrayar, where he held citizenship? Jackson's Whole, where he was created?

After thinking, he answered, "Another world. In the future. Though you're right, the name does come from Russian... distantly. I did spend several years living on Earth, mostly around London." His eyes shifted around the crowded room as he chewed and swallowed his last bite of pancake with regret. "Sorry, but this is a lot to take in at once."

"I realize that," Armand said solemnly. "I've seen London. Nothing like your London, I should guess." He didn't feel at all uncomfortable around this thoughtful man, which was a relief around here. "Is there anything else I can help you with? I was given good advice yesterday."

"Good advice?" Mark managed a small smile at that offer. "This may be a strange place to me still, but I can always use some good advice."

Gorge wished they could go back for more pancakes. Not right now.

"No matter how inane or annoying they are, listen to the nurses during the day. They can sedate you." He looked aroud the room again, almost as if searching, but combined with how restless his hands were yet on the table, it could seem more nervous. "And don't go out alone at night."

Sedation? No, no, no and no. People were not to put drugs in his body without his permission, at least not without one hell of a fight. As for the night... perhaps he could look particularly harmless and merge with some other group, until he had a better idea of what was going on.

"That is good advice." Mark exhaled slowly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Even with company, our general lack of weapons was disturbing last night." He pointed to people with bandages and even one or two in wheelchairs. "Those people were injured last night. I don't recall seeing anything like that yesterday."

Mark looked at the injured patients grimly. So, he'd been dropped into some strange time warping mental hospital that turned into a war zone at night. Wasn't this really more Miles's sort of thing? By this point, Miles would likely have finished organizing the dining prisoners, invalids and all, into a minor army and begun a systematic takeover of the entire facility.

Mark himself asked, "Do you have any suggestions on how to find someone to travel with at night?" Prisons tended to build up their own sets of etiquette which Armand, even though he had only been here a brief time, might know.

Armand grins. Finally, an easy question. "Oh, just ask on the bulletin board. People usually like to meet first, during the day." He wrinkled his nose. "You can sign up with the Arts and Crafts Club, but I don't know yet if the man running it trustworthy. I am hoping to meet him today."

"Arts and Crafts Club?" Mark raised his eyebrows. He somehow did not feel great confidence in the protective shield of a group with a name like that...

"It sounds as though I should post on that board, at any rate." Too bad Armand hadn't bitten the vague hook. Then again, it was possible his height and weight would be a barrier to encouraging others to accept him as a possibly useful companion. You don't want to be useful to anyone, you don't know enough yet. You just want to keep your head on your shoulders while you're still getting your bearings.

"The nurses and doctors read the board," Armand explained. "We can't put anything too blatant on it."

He thought about Javert and Trevelyan. The offer had not been made more out of his own self-conciousness than any judgement on Mark. "I could ask my companions, but I dare not speak for them."

"Ah, I see." Code words. That was very espionage-y, in a kind of childish way. He imagined Illyan commanding someone to attend the Arts and Crafts Club, immediately, lest Barrayar fall prey to Cetagandan knitting schemes. But if those code words helped a patient avoid being sedated, he couldn't blame them.

He shook his head at the offer. "Thanks, but I'll be all right." It was probably just as well. He couldn't get a good idea of the layout of this place, or the layout of people within it, if he ducked his head behind the first friendly person he met. "I am glad you're the first person I met here, rather than a cannibal."

"I'm glad that the first person I met wasn't a cannibal. And I am happy to meet you. Tis hard to judge men's honesty here."

Not to mention honor and integrity. He wasn't sure yet how he would measure any of that while he was here. Who was he to judge anyone? That was no way to think. If he was going to manage here on his own, he'd have to learn who he could trust and who he couldn't. He would have to depend on his own judgement, such as it was.

"If you change your mind, put up a note." That sounded so final, but there wasn't any sign of the herds of nurses come to drag them off somewhere else. "Did you have a profession before you came here? I was... studying law."

That question was unexpected, but he was happy to have an answer at hand to the question which he could share without worry. It still felt a little new sometimes to be an official person with an official, acceptable occupation. "Oh, I'm a student also. I was studying economics, myself. I last remember going to sleep in my student apartment..."

Apartments were a fairly ancient concept, weren't they? He wished he remembered Earth's history more clearly.

"Was economics interesting?" Armand asked. As a field of knowledge it sounded about as useless as his own study of law was, but then again, his French law studies had been fairly useless in England. "I've found myself wishing for more practical knowledge. My sister was an actress. If I'd followed her footsteps instead of trying to get into university, I'd at least have that skill at hand."

Now that he was away from the cannibal, his appetite was returning somewhat and there was nothing for it except to wait for lunch so far as he knew. "I didn't try it yesterday. Do you suppose we could get seconds? I didn't eat anything but fruit, and I gave most of it to the cannibal."

Day 27: Breakfast

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