Day 28; Bus 3

[fyeonly.livejournal.com]

There was, Naomi decided, some sort of cosmic irony in all of this. Not that she was trapped in a deranged and possibly other-worldly asylum with a man she'd idolized for years and a boy who was being investigated for - among other things - the murder of her fiance. No, at this point, those were perfectly normal occurrences. Rather it was the soft, pretty, feminine pink sweater dress she'd been stuffed into in the morning. A chance to wear normal clothes, and she looked like a soccer mom. The white blazer and white boots only made her look like a soccer mom who maybe hadn't given up gogo boots.

It was humiliating. Why couldn't she have jeans and a sweater? And sneakers? Something she would conceivably wear? Not this damned pink monstrosity. And her nurse kept saying how pretty she was.

She didn't care if she looked pretty.

Grumbling to herself, and taking it out on her muffin, Naomi was shoved onto an empty bus and told to 'sit tight'. Oh, she'd sit tight alright....

At least she was relatively certain L was alright. She'd spent the whole night with him, and other than falling on his ass, nothing had happened to him. And hopefully nothing would happen to him in town, either....

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[unmocked-lawr.livejournal.com]

Javert snorted, glancing sharply at Dairine. "What the Institute is doing is hardly legal," he said dryly. "Nor are they the authority in this case. I rather think my conscience will still be clean." But is it? -Don't think about that.

He settled back slightly. "I can't be the only one onboard who's considered it. Perhaps the other patients will formulate a plan during the day."

[wiz-kid-redfive.livejournal.com]

"Who knows? Here, in this place, it might be. One thing's for certain, though, this isn't any reality I know."

The bus's engine roared to life, and she braced herself. She had faith that Javert would be able to not have a freak-out fit about the bus. At least, she hoped so...

[unmocked-lawr.livejournal.com]

Javert opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled as the bus began to move. His jaw clicked shut and his knuckles whitened noticeably against the sides of the seat, but his face remained relatively impassive, if somewhat paler than usual.

"Are all buses as insufferably loud as this one?" he managed, his voice nearly lost amidst the noise. When - if he got back to Paris, he'd never complain about the fiacres again.