damned_institute | Day 27: Lunch

Diva had done everything right: she had asked for Amshel, she had noticed the woman to be a nurse, she had moved to punish them when they acted out of order. So why? Why were they still alive, after everything done to her? She had forbidden the use of those drugs, no matter what stupid medical reason Amshel had for her, because now that the old man was dead with plenty of food to go around she didn't want to see them ever again.

Because now that...

Not once did she ever stop struggling, and hardly spared the room of noisy people a glance. "No! I don't want to! I said no!" For a being that had the power to bring humanity to a bloody end, she was easily mistaken for a tousled young girl, dragging her feet on the slippery, tiled floor.

The moment her rear end touched the seat, and the restraining hands left, she sprang back on her feet. Or what counted as a spring when her reflexes were not as clear as they should be. Sedatives, she hated them, those two... only human, so why.

The man had been hopelessly subdued to all but his own predicament; that is, until the unresponsive gaze happened on a patient who'd apparently materialised beside him. He'd hardly taken heed of the nurse's greeting. Face still wiped of emotion, (which, ironically, made it glaringly obvious to those on familiar terms with him that he wasn't feeling so hot), his movements were mechanical as he stood and seized the kid's wrist.

The idea of a panicked little girl, frightened by circumstances, had him recall his first day, and the absolute terror he experienced upon realising his brother was absent. It was clear this patient had just arrived – not simply because the nurse had mentioned it, but from the wild hair curtaining ice cold eyes; eyes most likely suited to royalty, capable of warming a room if in the proper environment. ... Maybe. They were pretty remarkable, actually. Her immature huffing seemed to be a sign she was a princess of some sort, though.

This'd become a dog pile in a minute...

"Hey, c'mon," he said calmly, predominant stare on the orderlies as he stepped up without hesitation, a wary hand touching her shoulder. "Don't wanna tempt them." Unless the bastards had manipulated the memory of his first morning too, he unthinkingly decided to appear as firm as possible. Rein's method – soft and reassuring, one step at a time - had worked a treat, now that he thought back to it. Had it not been for her kind words, he'd have probably gone straight to the podium and beaten the holy crap out of Landel; or he'd have tried before getting his head kicked in. Quintessentially, she saved his ass.

"Come on," Dean repeated with a bit of forcefulness, assuming the (standard in his book) commanding tone. He tugged lightly on the little girl's arm, carefully pulling her in the direction of a seat and maintaining strict eye contact with the nurses.

Another man. Human. Smelling human. She could hear his heartbeat through the hand on her body.

"Why are you touching me? I don't like it," she said, as monotone as it was possible to sound when her head was fuzzy. She didn't want to be led around anymore, and her arm extended and grew taught before she stepped forward, lest she be pulled off her feet. Diva was tired... Not hungry, but tired... Only half of what she remembered, but still annoying.

She felt it necessary to say: "Our clothes match."

Brow furrowed for a few seconds, he ripped his sights from the nurse to look directly at the little girl. It was clear the unexpected statement bowled him over, blank features quickly reverting to a politely staggered expression. He briefly raised his eyebrows.

"Uh huh," he replied with a dullness challenging the other, glancing at the chair standing inches away. "Sit down and I won't have to." May as well retort with equal whim. He had a hunch that orchestrating formal conversation with someone as bright as the patient in front of him would show how truly idiotic you were. He sighed and tugged on her arm a second time, stopping and blinking at her next comment.

"... Yeah," he murmured, unsure whether he was supposed to smile or 'smile and nod'. So he frowned instead.

There was a question rising up in her mind, or maybe more than one. Or maybe a comment. Somehow they didn't reach her tongue - in the end, however, many of her thoughts weren't voiced, simply because they grew uninteresting so fast, she discarded them with the same speed they came. Before, sedatives had made her quiet. She hadn't felt like talking at all. Or perhaps that had had something to do with having no one to talk to.

Looking over her shoulder, she watched the nurse woman and the man, ignoring the words being spoken to her until it became clear no answer was coming. Why was that? Her meaning had been quite clear; her Chevaliers would have understood. She had asked a question.

"The clothes," she repeated, passing a hand over her eyes for a moment. "Everyone's clothes. Why are they all the same?"

This girl was too simplistic in her mannerisms to be called a common dimwit. There was a story behind that façade.

Dean tilted slightly, kneeling to a degree that enabled him plain view of her face. He straightened a moment later, grimacing to himself. Sustaining a vice-grip on the new patient's wrist, the man stretched a leg toward the chair and caught his foot around the edge of it, causing a small screech when he managed to drag it in arm's reach.

This was ridiculous...

He sighed inaudibly and twisted the piece of furniture around, positioning it just behind the girl. Placing two strong hands on her shoulders, he cautiously forced her into the seat. There was plenty of time for talk, but it was the least of his worries for now. She appeared to be drugged; having her on both feet while in a daze like that - and then explaining she was trapped in this hellhole for good - didn't seem to be the finer option here.

It was a strange string of actions, first to look at her face, then pull the chair around so awkwardly. It would have been funny had things been different.

Her gaze slid to the hand on her left shoulder, then to the one on her right. When there were sedatives, there had been touching, done by men too; that old geezer, and Amshel too. But... Diva's eyelids slipped down to half-mast. But there was a difference here - she hadn't been weak in so many years. Not a harm to her. Not anymore. Had she been upset before? It seemed silly now. They were all human, and she was still Diva. Whatever the case, a seat was being pulled out for her, and that was a signal for her to sit down.

Reaching up, her fingers curled in the material of one of Dean's shirt sleeves, her head dipping down as though about to rest her cheek against his forearm. He had strong blood, it was loud. "Where's Amshel?"

She should maybe ask, first, who was for eating and who was for... other things. Business and stuff, none of which concerned her.

His sights descended momentarily when the material on his arms smoothly crumpled under the girl's fingertips. He had zero intention of offering hugs, let alone to a patient he'd just met, so he warily unfolded the delicate grip from his shirt and pulled up another chair from nearby.

"Who's that?" He muttered, shifting himself in the cheap seat. Aware his harsh gaze was probably a bit too rough for the likes of a baffled teenager, he rolled his eyes and tried begrudgingly to soften his stare on her.

Interrogation tactics? No use here.

If Diva even registered the underlying meaning between Dean's actions, she didn't show it. Nor was she bothered by sudden shifts in temperament; if there was one thing she was used to when it came to interaction with humans, it was their ever present need to pull when she pushed, to shift away when she touched.

Because she was a Chiropteran, she was special. Treated differently.

"Who are you?" she echoed, tailing the man's question with her own.

Dean's eyebrows elevated yet again, arms lifted and lowered lethargically as he gave a heavy, semi-exasperated shrug. He couldn't exactly say the girl was talented at pulling the heartstrings.

OK, whatever...

"Dean." He glanced elsewhere with an absent-minded air. "Take it your new in town. Got a name?"

Name? It was a rare instance when a human asked for her name, to not know it beforehand. After all, her Chevaliers did that sort of thing. She didn't meet people on her own.

Although she had asked after a name (or perhaps more than that, more unspoken questions that her Chevaliers would have picked up on), she didn't really acknowledge it, aside from something that momentarily caught her attention. Dean. "It starts the same." A 'D' for both of their names. "Diva. I'm Diva."

It didn't change the fact that the situation was rapidly losing its novelty for Diva.

"You didn't answer my question."

He pressed a thumb to his lip for a tick, scrutinising the young girl.

"Hm." He saved himself the effort of exchanging pleasantries with this one, nodding idly to signal his endorsement. "It's a pleasure." I think, he so keenly wished to add. As an alternative, he inclined forward in the chair, resting forearms over his thighs.

The huntsman snorted softly and what she then said, leaning back erratically and folding his arms as though emphasising how short his fuse was today. He'd have to approach this girl with vigilance, it seemed.

"... What question?" Hell, mirror what you receive. See if she liked that.

"Everyone's wearing the same thing!" Spoken as though she were repeating this out to a small child. She had, after all, asked the question not too long ago. When people didn't answer her the first time and made her repeat, it put her in a bad mood.

Something odd, though, just by hearing this one speak: he was not French, despite being in Paris. Everybody in Paris seemed French, unless they were tourists, or Saya-neesama and her Red Shield people. With a tired little sigh, Diva made to stand up. How much longer would she have to wait? That Carl, where had he run off to? All of her Chevaliers! Where had they left her?

These stupid clothes, they annoyed her most of all. "Tell me where my clothes went."

"Hey," he addressed the girl sternly, raising a hand to impede the tirade. "Would y'knock it off?" Rubbing his temple slowly, he deliberated an answer, gaze flickering over the adolescent. "I'll tell you everything. Relax."

He allowed a pause, eyes traveling from her feet to face as he decided how to forward an intro to her. The man finally sighed when the words felt confident on his tongue.

"OK. Diva, I'm sorry –" Which honestly resonated strangely, coming from his mouth – "I've gotta break this to you." He pulled a slightly hesitant face, speculating why in the world a nurse dumped this girl on him. This wouldn't end well. The short-lived interval concluded when he glanced this way and that before returning his full attention to her.

Why did he have to do this?

"Place's called Landel's Institute. The staff'll have you believe you're a mental patient, but we're all bright enough to estimate the opposite. Everyone here is a prisoner, part of some bigger plan." He exhaled silently, the beginnings of guilt swelling within him. "And we're all tryin' to work out an escape. In the mean time, we've gotta stick with the facts – we're gonna be stuck here a while. It's a sick, twisted kind o' thing we've got goin' for us. Long as we all keep safe, out of harm's way, we'll live through this." His jaw snapped shut, throat feeling parched for some reason.

"... They lifted our gear," he continued in a softer voice, unable to look at Diva anymore. "All of it. These rags we're wearin' are the uniform."

Knock it off... apology... Institute... prisoner... rags... live...

All words and awkward human actions that paused under the spotlight of her attention, then dropped out of mind as she moved on. Even if she found something, anything uncomfortable in Dean's words, it was nearly impossible for her to focus on it. Diva could accept that things were perverted and unhappy, but to have relapsed so far, reversed time and gone back to an even more miserable existence... That, she just couldn't fully comprehend.

For a long moment, the girl turned lightly on her feet and stared out at the cafeteria.

Then, finally, a small smile and giggle. "No, it's different. I can't be back. This is a different place." That boy... She still wanted that boy. "I can't believe they put a needle in me."

The hush that ensued was... odd. While a tad dubious to begin with, it soon turned into a somewhat soothing silence between them, like their small space had been temporarily separated from the noisy Cafeteria; a bubble of tranquility as an understanding was reached.

He jerked his chin up when she at last chose to speak, time permitted to let the facts sink in drawing to a close. Lips tightening with uncertainty, he moved forward in the seat a little, mind not quite capable of wading through what she uttered. Dean deemed the needle comment as irrelevant, drumming fingers on his knee as green eyes narrowed on her.

"Where were you before?"

She turned back after another moment, regarding the man like one would a curious toy that kept making noise. Where had she been before? Why was he asking her things like that?

This may have been the first real conversation she'd had with a human in her century of life, and despite being heavily sedated, she still had the mind to think this was very odd. The only men she could think of really meeting... were her Chevaliers, of course. And then the men her Chevaliers deemed it necessary for her to meet, and act as a good doll should at their dinner table. And then after that... the men that followed Saya-neesama, and tried to kill her.

It would seem this person did not fit into any category. Tilting her head, Diva touched her finger to the corner of her mouth. She thought maybe Amshel would say this was a time for saying human things, but Diva didn't feel like it at all.

"I was in Paris with Carl." That hadn't been the focus of the question, however; Diva knew that. "But I meant the room the old man put me in. The tower at the Zoo."

Aah, she was French. This was a revelation, perhaps a light to clarify this ambiguity of a girl. Dean could picture her at the height of fashion, clad in one of those stunning chic dresses, hand tailored to suit her measurements as much as her ego.

A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, sagging to nothingness when he received a response.

"Old man?" Expression now more clouded than ever, his eyes visibly widened as he stared up at her. The girl was still in a daze, and he was prepared to snatch her wrist again if she made for a getaway. He'd normally dub her behaviour as childish, except he'd never met a kid her age acting so thoughtlessly. His stomach churned as he folded his legs, curiosity numbing that dull sensation - of hunger coupled with mild dismay.

"That stupid old man who locked me up for so long," came the immediate response. That part, at least, she had to make clear; she really didn't like it when people like Saya-neesama said Joel of Father in terms of that horrid geezer. Diva knew better than to say she had killed him (that was something her Chevaliers said not to do, because that ruined plans, and it was boring enough waiting for plans to get finished anyway), so she explained further with: "But nee-sama let me out of that tower, and he's been dead a long time. So that's why I said it's not the same place. It's different now."

It felt good to be the one explaining things to someone when she had all the answers! Diva felt well enough to give another short giggle, momentarily waylaid from walking away in search of a dress, answers, and perhaps Amshel. "That's why there won't be any more of his experiments."

Well, despite the fact she was lacking the obligatory accent, she sure acted French. Anyway, the girl was evidently from a well-off family. Who in hell asked where their clothes were when they'd just woken up in a madhouse? It'd be like him questioning the absence of his car, though he'd be lying if he said the notion hadn't crossed his mind.

The older man watched her quietly, head canted to one side. The people he'd met here certainly had their share of interesting histories, but this one? Let's say this one in particular had his interest piqued. The fairytale was troubling, at best. Being informed of a tower, and the obvious ties it had to the princess's current condition, led to a separate route in his processes.

He'd heard fleeting mentions of a third floor. It wasn't clear if this was the key to discovering the truth behind the Institute, or a mere rumour told to entertain the masses. But...

But this girl, she could... could she have been...?

The miraculous healing of his injuries seemed to have occurred in a realistic time frame – prior to his awakening. He couldn't remember a single detail of the curing procedure itself. In his line of work, he'd come to accept that miracles? They didn't happen, least of all around him. There was a supernatural explanation for why he was alive and breathing; he didn't care how flash these bastards thought they were with their fancy surgical methods. You couldn't revive the dead with a scalpel. He had to figure out not who, but what was in the driver's seat of this absurd simulation. What sort of creature had him and Sam added to its collection, and why?

Diva had been a test subject. Maybe she could recall tidbits of an operating theatre. Maybe she was snatched at a time where she was at a hundred percent; rather unlike Dean's comatose state.

He nearly shook his head when he realised he was glaring at her in anticipation.

"Wish I could lie, say things're peachy now. Won't achieve anything," he reasoned weakly, offering her a poignant frown. "At night, we've gotta fend for ourselves. Landel has more than a few tricks up his sleeve. And sometimes..." He cringed, ready to issue a crippling blow. "Patients're plucked from the population. For experiments."

Shooting to his feet in a professional manner, Dean laid both hands on the teenager's shoulders, gripping them tenderly. Telling the nastiest truths was like ripping off a band-aid – only this closet sap wasn't the type to inflict pain on innocent little girls, on any level, no matter how pithy it might be. Cutting corners. He simply wanted the distant smile to remain on her face, for her to have gone temporarily deaf.

"The tower. You remember much of it?" He spoke gently, fixating on her cold blue eyes and performing a covert search of them.

Diva could sense the other's turbulent emotions, even if - unlike Saya - she lacked the interest, or understanding of them. Was this one sad because she had spoken of that tower? It was a weird human trait, to become upset over something without understanding what it was. Like her, for example. Humans wouldn't be sad if they all knew of her as a Chiropteran Queen... then they would just be scared.

Human emotions, they were just so dishonest. It was a funny thing.

Diva giggled again.

And oh, she knew all about people getting taken away for experiments. Amshel always needed new people to test his own experiments on; those were the times when she was asked to give up her blood. And she did. It seemed only her Chevaliers and Chiropterans would understand her song, even if she didn't sing it for them.

The sedation itself manifested in an almost sleepy, dreamy quality to her demeanour, although even when sober, there was no familiar human sparkle to touch those eyes. She just stared back at the man, oddly appeased by this funny interaction. It so rarely happened, it was something new and interesting for her. "Of course. I'm sure Saya-neesama remembers it well too."

Dayshift was different where it concerned time restrictions, and he was positive lunch shift was due to end pretty soon. He straightened for a moment, digesting her reply. Saya-neesama... sounded Japanese or something. He could ask about them later. The basis of his main concentration was what mattered for the remainder of this shift.

"OK. Diva," he caught a glimpse of her, then shifted his attention to their surroundings. "Bein' new's tough, 'specially when you've gotta go at it alone." He had to arrange this proposal in terms she would understand. This wasn't a child he was addressing, but a permanently damaged catalyst. "So how about it?" He waited a second, nodding his head as he thought it through himself. When he again rested his gaze on her, the look could've almost given away his fiery idea:

She was a lead. This announced the beginning of a new-fangled strategy.

"Wouldn't say I know this place like the back o' my hand just yet, but I've got experience with this kind o' thing. You want I'll meet you at the front of the F block, tonight? Very start o' nightshift?"

This was sort of fun! But she had a headache creeping up on her, with sticky fingers crawling along her temples. Drugs. Drugs made her feel yucky, unless Amshel was very, very sure it was suited for pure Chiropteran blood.

But Diva wasn't stupid. Despite it all, she could tell when someone wanted to use her. There was that look in his eye, one she'd seen countless times before. Everyone had it. It was the curious ones that didn't, like Solomon, like Saya-neesama and her Chevalier. People who didn't have that look were the curious ones, because if they knew she was Diva, why not want her? She was the most powerful creature in the world.

Though, if she couldn't smell fear, then he didn't know what she was.

The human's proposal wavered on the edge of her attention. Diva didn't understand a word of it, naturally.

Noiselessly sighing, his hand made to scratch his head before clumsily moving to his hip. He wanted to avoid a show of nerves. The girl wasn't sharp, though the view he'd gathered of her hinted she could be shrewd if anyone acted weak around her. Whether this was a result of her personality or the experiments was none of his business, nor was it useful to dwell on it. Diva was Diva, standing right here, no point wondering if she was being obstinate on purpose.

Wasn't a chick in this world who had Dean Winchester wrapped around her finger. Admitting he might care if this one died tonight wouldn't tarnish that.

"Diva," he repeated, considerable gravity in his tone as he struggled to present a manner bordering on impatience and courtesy. "Lemme take care o' you."

Man. Sounded kind of awkward, stated aloud like that. But it was probably the only way he was gonna get through to her, judging by his observations.

Whether Diva did - or had - felt anything when it came to her Chevaliers' ulterior motives, so blatant and sometimes painfully obvious as they were, she had never given a reaction. If she even noticed. Here and now, she saw it, because he was a human and even if she didn't understand humans, Amshel always said they were greedy and were all eager to stand beside her for some reason or another.

"Why?" Her lips pulled up in a whimsical little smile. "Do you want to play with me? Usually you'd have to ask Amshel first, but since he hasn't found me yet... Mmm, I know! You want to be my Chevalier, right?"

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thehellismycar.livejournal.com - 2007-09-30 02:34 (UTC) - Expand