damned_institute | Day 27: Intercom, Evening

The intercom gave its cheery jingle just before the Head Doctor's equally buoyant voice rang through the halls.

"Ah, and finally, our day is coming to a close! Rooms and roommates have been reassigned with care, though what great partnership can start without a good meal? Ah, yes, after the nurses escort all of our patients, new and old, back to their proper rooms, everyone will have the chance to enjoy a savory chicken pot pie, full of peas, carrots, potatoes, and of course, chicken. On the side, we'll have buttery corn on the cob and green beans, and to drink, you may choose from the regular slew of water, milk, or assorted juices, which your nurse will bring to you.

"I believe that's all for now! Phew, long day, huh? I know I'll be happy to get some sleep, and thank you to all our vigilant doctors and nurses, although Dr. House seems to have gone AWOL... Hmm... Well, in any case, have a good dinner, everyone!"

The intercom clicked off again as the nurses began organizing the patients for the small trek back to their rooms.

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Ken stared at the tray of food on his desk when he hobbled back into his room. Well, that looked familiar. At least he knew it was decent--if he cared to eat in the first place, which he really didn't. His head still hurt horribly, and he certainly didn't feel like dealing with Homura tonight--which of course meant his roommate was going to want to talk.

Ken knew what the likely subject would be, too.

He took the painkillers the nurse offered--after all, he could afford to be fuzzyheaded, he wasn't going anywhere tonight--and let himself fall onto his bed. Maybe if it looked like he was asleep, Homura wouldn't bother him. Unlikely, but possible.

Oh yes, Ken's roommate very much wanted to talk, and no, pretending to sleep simply wouldn't cut it. Homura had far too much experience observing people both on the battlefield and off to be able to tell the difference.

It was a nice try though.

"You might as well stop pretending, my friend." Homura moved to his desk, the sight of the chicken pot pie a bit depressing. Had he already been here long enough to see the same meals more than once? No matter, however, as there was a topic to serve as adequate distraction. "I'm certain you can guess what I wish to discuss."

"If you would've given me a few more minutes, it wouldn't have been pretending," Ken grumbled. The painkillers were starting to take hold in earnest, and while his various pains were going pleasantly numb, his head was also feeling like it'd been stuffed with cotton. "I can take a few guesses. Might as well get the first out of the way now: No, I have no idea what they did to me. I can't remember shit."

Ken sat up then, propping himself up in the corner with his pillow behind his back. "And I don't think that's the concussion talking either."

Homura listened with curiosity as Ken immediately claimed to remember nothing. The demi-god wasn't surprised at the annoyance; no doubt he wasn't the only one to have asked that day.

"Nothing at all? Do you remember when they took you?" Homura could at least fill in those details for the man, though he was much more interested in what followed.

"I remember that and being hauled upstairs. After that, it gets all mixed up and then I was downstairs again." Ken frowned. He might not have been the smartest person ever, but he did generally have a decent memory, head injuries and all.

And then he'd attacked his friends. He remembered that part perhaps a bit too well. At least up until the bat to the head.

Homura watched Ken as he spoke, studying the man for the telltale signs he wouldn't realize he'd given off, little things he wouldn't want to betray. Like his frustration at the loss of memory, and the omission of what followed when he came downstairs.

"What happened then?" The demi-god could make his own assumptions with the frustration, but Homura wanted to know exactly what the Institute made its victims do.

He always had been bit too open. Ken was generally an honest person--both with himself and others--and he had little need or desire to hide his feelings and moods. Ken shot a glare in Homura's direction, neither very intense or very warning--he was too tired, just the wrong side of hurting too much.

"What do you think? They made me fight." Ken's fists clenched. "Or made me want to. Whatever."

The demi-god had suspected it, but the confirmation was what he was after. He'd never encountered a brainwashed patient before, nor had he seen the torture that took place. But he was hardly finished, Ken's glare having as much effect on him as a dust speck.

"And do you remember that? Fighting for them." Again, Homura had another suspicion, based on Ken's anger. But his voice was more serious, thoughtful now. A subtle difference, but real.

The power to control minds. It was a frightening thing, and something that went against Homura's morality. Heaven would pretend they offered a person a choice, but here they simply stripped it all away.

He would fight much harder if they came for him.

Ken snorted. "Yeah. I remember." And that was why he was going to kill them. Whoever was responsible. He shifted to the foot of his bed and grabbed the glass of water sitting there. "Everything from when I was downstairs until I was knocked out."

Ken had fought against those who could control minds before. He'd experienced it before himself. But he'd always been able to break away--defeat whoever was behind it. He hadn't been able to this time, and it pissed him off.

Day 27: Intercom, Evening

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