Phoenix blinked at the ceiling, listening for a stunned, disoriented few seconds to the cheerful babble of the intercom as it wished him good morning and ever-so-nicely informed him as to the day's plans. The seamlesness with which the noise met his last memory was the most offputting thing about it, he decided after another few disquieted seconds, pushing himself upright and wincing as the nearly-forgotten file folder poked into his side. The last thing he remembered was darkness, static-crackling and that voice, dark with anger. Then he'd blinked, and it was all white linens and smiles again. He shivered, looking down at the plain manila file, sliding a thumb under its edge to open it. Just how were they doing this?
He jumped at the knock at the door, shoving the file under his blanket. "Yes?" He tried not to tense, though it was hard, thinking of the broken filing cabinets that were probably covered with his fingerprints.
The nurse swept in, smiling and arms full of neatly-folded clothes, putting the outfit and a paper bag down on his desk. "Are you ready for a day in Doyleton, Mr. Appleby?"
"I- yes?" he ventured, cocking a curious eyebrow at what she'd put on the desk.
She followed his gaze, then laughed, holding up the topmost article as if in demonstration. "Field trip means new clothes."
It was a hooded sweatshirt in a dingy gray kind of color, with a pair of dark blue stripes running down each shoulder and arm. Phoenix momentarily dreaded that the institute was going to put him in a tracksuit, but glimpsed what looked like a pair of black slacks at the bottom of the stack, just below a dingy white t-shirt. There was a little mercy here, after all. "Well . . . thank you." He stood slowly, careful not to reveal the file, and reached for the sweatshirt as she offered it. He turned to peel off his shirt, paused with the hem in both hands, and looked over his shoulder to see the nurse still waiting, watching, and smiling in that pleasantly expectant way of hers.
". . . um. Can I have a minute to change?" he requested, after seeing her nod but not move adding a slightly more firm, "Alone?"
"Oh, of course." She nodded without the faintest hint of chagrin, which was itself probably creepier than the staring, letting herself out again. "I'll be right outside."
Phoenix released a deep breath, shaking his head and getting dressed. The clothes fit well, though the pants sagged at the ankles more than he was used to, and the entire shapeless weight of the sweatshirt was a vast departure from the well-balanced closeness of a suit. But he'd been given a pair of old leather sandals that were comfortable, even if they did nothing to discourage the homeless panhandler look. He grabbed his file and, at a loss for what else to do, stuck in in the rear waistband of his pants. He didn't want to risk one of the nurses taking it -- not before he'd even had a chance to read it. The only other thing he could think of possibly needing was his journal, which found replaced neatly in his desk drawer.
At least I have pockets, he reflected, stuffing the journal and a few pens into the wide front muffler-pocket of the sweatshirt and looking down curiously as they encountered something lumpy, soft, and vaguely woolly.
It was . . . a hat. He turned it over in his hands, smirking to himself. It was a pretty ugly hat, too. Knit cap, thick band. Cyan. He couldn't imagine himself in cyan. Still, he pulled it onto his head on nothing but a perverse whim. His hair had to look horrible by now -- he hadn't really combed it in more than a day, and there was nothing in it to keep the normally-orderly spikes from skewing here and there.
Besides. In a perfectly juvenile way, he really wanted to see the look on Edgeworth's face when he saw this thing. It was the perfect capstone to one great big fiasco of an outfit.
He grabbed his breakfast and met his nurse outside the door, following her to the second bus and loading without comment. By the time he'd settled into an empty seat, he'd begun to think that maybe the hat wasn't so bad after all. It might have been ugly as sin, but it was awfully comfortable.
no subject
He jumped at the knock at the door, shoving the file under his blanket. "Yes?" He tried not to tense, though it was hard, thinking of the broken filing cabinets that were probably covered with his fingerprints.
The nurse swept in, smiling and arms full of neatly-folded clothes, putting the outfit and a paper bag down on his desk. "Are you ready for a day in Doyleton, Mr. Appleby?"
"I- yes?" he ventured, cocking a curious eyebrow at what she'd put on the desk.
She followed his gaze, then laughed, holding up the topmost article as if in demonstration. "Field trip means new clothes."
It was a hooded sweatshirt in a dingy gray kind of color, with a pair of dark blue stripes running down each shoulder and arm. Phoenix momentarily dreaded that the institute was going to put him in a tracksuit, but glimpsed what looked like a pair of black slacks at the bottom of the stack, just below a dingy white t-shirt. There was a little mercy here, after all. "Well . . . thank you." He stood slowly, careful not to reveal the file, and reached for the sweatshirt as she offered it. He turned to peel off his shirt, paused with the hem in both hands, and looked over his shoulder to see the nurse still waiting, watching, and smiling in that pleasantly expectant way of hers.
". . . um. Can I have a minute to change?" he requested, after seeing her nod but not move adding a slightly more firm, "Alone?"
"Oh, of course." She nodded without the faintest hint of chagrin, which was itself probably creepier than the staring, letting herself out again. "I'll be right outside."
Phoenix released a deep breath, shaking his head and getting dressed. The clothes fit well, though the pants sagged at the ankles more than he was used to, and the entire shapeless weight of the sweatshirt was a vast departure from the well-balanced closeness of a suit. But he'd been given a pair of old leather sandals that were comfortable, even if they did nothing to discourage the homeless panhandler look. He grabbed his file and, at a loss for what else to do, stuck in in the rear waistband of his pants. He didn't want to risk one of the nurses taking it -- not before he'd even had a chance to read it. The only other thing he could think of possibly needing was his journal, which found replaced neatly in his desk drawer.
At least I have pockets, he reflected, stuffing the journal and a few pens into the wide front muffler-pocket of the sweatshirt and looking down curiously as they encountered something lumpy, soft, and vaguely woolly.
It was . . . a hat. He turned it over in his hands, smirking to himself. It was a pretty ugly hat, too. Knit cap, thick band. Cyan. He couldn't imagine himself in cyan. Still, he pulled it onto his head on nothing but a perverse whim. His hair had to look horrible by now -- he hadn't really combed it in more than a day, and there was nothing in it to keep the normally-orderly spikes from skewing here and there.
Besides. In a perfectly juvenile way, he really wanted to see the look on Edgeworth's face when he saw this thing. It was the perfect capstone to one great big fiasco of an outfit.
He grabbed his breakfast and met his nurse outside the door, following her to the second bus and loading without comment. By the time he'd settled into an empty seat, he'd begun to think that maybe the hat wasn't so bad after all. It might have been ugly as sin, but it was awfully comfortable.