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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"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."

"Very interesting. I've been working on a few business ventures on the side, but the more I learn, the more informed my decisions will be. And economics even on a small scale tend to be more complicated than they first appear." He stopped himself short, so to speak. He'd discovered that he was genuinely passionate about making money, but that didn't mean other people wanted to hear about it.

Mark would have offered Armand some of his own food, but he'd cleared the plate rather thoroughly. So instead, he gave a helpless shrug. "I don't know. The nurses seem to keep a close watch on how much we eat, but they might let you get more if you explain someone else ate yours."

"You understand all that?" he asked about the economics, because it was like a foreign language to him. Worse actually, since he didn't do badly with languages.

Armand stood a moment to look over to the bar where the fruit and toppings were. There was a nurse watching it rather closely, he thought, so he sat back down scowling. "I think I'll wait until the next meal. I don't want to attract any more unwanted attention. I already think the nurse from yesterday is going to tell a doctor I have some great fear of bathing."

"Well... if by 'all that' you mean everything about economics, not yet. But that is why I'm in school." Mark smiled in a manner he hoped was engaging. "Sorry I don't have any leftovers, or I'd offer you some. Say, how long is it between meals here, usually?"

"Oh, I wouldn't take your food, M. Vorkosigan." He lowered his chin while he considered how to answer. "Not more than a few hours. They're regular during the day, but the nights are long."

So, no worrying about starving. That was good, at least.

"You mentioned the weird stuff at night... but what do we do during the day here? Just sit around waiting? Or do they follow up on the pretense of an asylum with treatments?" Thinking back to primitive mental health treatments, Mark felt faintly ill. Betan therapy, it was not.

"I haven't talked to anyone more professional than a nurse myself, but from the bulletin board I know there are doctors here. Some of them seem to be terrible excuses for human beings." He resisted the urge to lower his voice. These weren't secrets. "I understand we're shown through structured activities. There were showers yesterday, and gardening I think. If you don't like an activity, the nurses will often let you go to the Sun Room. I haven't any idea what is on the agenda today. I don't even know what day of the week it is."

"So I suppose your answer is yes, they pretend to the hilt we are mental patients. I still don't know what we're all supposed to be suffering from--some sort of identity-related dementia perhaps.

Cruel doctors? That was nothing new, though being at the mercy of such was hardly reassuring. Armand hadn't met any yet, he said, so perhaps that delight might be postponed until after Mark figured out where (and when, apparently) they were, and how one got home. Understanding time travel, that should only take a few years.

Kareen... He felt lonely.

"The delusion that we are not supposed to be in this place or time," Mark echoed with faintly grim humor. If Armand was crazy, it seemed to be the catching kind, mass hysteria. Did Mark and his gang count as a 'mass'? No, the evidence for what Armand said was already impressive, just from looking around at the other patients and the strange and primitive facilities. This wasn't a delusion.

"It would be less strange if there were any sense in it. I can't find a connection between the few people I've met."

He rested his chin on his hand, angled just enough to be able to see his conversation partner. "If they'd allow it, I think I'd go back to bed and sleep all day. I don't see how we can get any rest being up all day and night." He hadn't felt sleep-deprived or tired today, though he didn't know if that was usual or not. "Having to put up with the nurses all day again seems a depressing prospect."

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Day 27: Breakfast

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