When the voice started pouring from the intercom, Sangamon groaned, and reached out to input the correct set of pokes and prods that would shut off his clock-radio without knocking it on the floor or throwing it across the room. The former tended not to stop the noise; the latter was a waste of electronics. His hand was met by empty space, and its momentum continued unchecked until his knuckles hit the floor. He pulled the hand back, shaking off the sting, and sat up, blinking to try to return reality to normal operation. The voice was still booming from the intercom, sounding more cheerful than an NPR announcer describing another Reagan gaffe. Must be the Head Doctor. Charming son of a bitch.
Identifying the voice meant identifying his location; he'd woken up in the same shithole he'd been in last night. It hadn't melted away into vague recollections of one of his more creative nightmares. He took a deep breath, and then buried his head in his hands. Pathetic and lost, dazed and confused. What the fuck had happened last night? Memories were slotting themselves into order with too-sober clarity. He'd woken up in a room just like this one, gone wandering around a B-movie asylum set, complete with monsters. And lawyers -- he'd been spending way too fucking much time on the mop-up of the Basco affair if he was hallucinating lawyers, even personable ones. Then he'd been in another dormitory-style room, talking to a bored pseudo-intellectual with delusions of grandeur. Then everything went blurry. Darkness. A voice, sinister and familiar, laughing at him. The same voice that he'd woken up to. Oh shit.
He was still sitting like that feeling sorry for himself when a nurse practially bounded into the room, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. "Good morning, Mister Quincy. Time to rise and shine."
"Kwin-zy," he corrected, automatically.
"Quincy," she repeated, allowing his correction to stand and making a note on her clipboard. "Or would you prefer 'Paul'? We don't have to be formal here at Landel's. We want you to be comfortable during your stay."
"I'd prefer 'Sangamon Taylor'," he growled. Not that he expected that to be honored, given what he'd heard last night. But he was still going to register a protest.
"It's time for breakfast, Paul," she continued, as if he hadn't said anything.
"Not hungry," S.T. shot back, standing up. Crap, I had a map and a flashlight. He patted his pocket; the maps were still there. A quick shuffle through the blankets yielded the flashlight, still warm from where he'd apparently been cuddled up with it. He tossed it back on the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his nurse tapping her foot, smile still plastered across her face.
"Some nice french toast should make you feel better. We all want you to get better. Come on, you don't want to be late. First meal of the day, don't you want to make a good impression?" She was wheedling, now. Pretty soon she'd be whining.
"I said, I'm not hungry." A wet gurgle from his stomach made that one of his more obvious lies. "Fine, fine, just gimme a fucking minute." He walked over to the dresser, retrieved all of the slippers, and crossed the room directly in front of the nurse, refusing eye contact. He shoved two pairs in the closet, dropped the third on the floor, and stepped into them. Then he turned around and yanked open the desk, taking out two pens and the notebook. He opened the notebook, unfolded the maps Phoenix had given him carefully into it, and shut it again. Finally, he gave his shirt a quick sniff to see if sleeping in it had rendered him socially unacceptable (fortunately not), and picked up the notebook. "Okay, whatever. Let's go."
no subject
When the voice started pouring from the intercom, Sangamon groaned, and reached out to input the correct set of pokes and prods that would shut off his clock-radio without knocking it on the floor or throwing it across the room. The former tended not to stop the noise; the latter was a waste of electronics. His hand was met by empty space, and its momentum continued unchecked until his knuckles hit the floor. He pulled the hand back, shaking off the sting, and sat up, blinking to try to return reality to normal operation. The voice was still booming from the intercom, sounding more cheerful than an NPR announcer describing another Reagan gaffe. Must be the Head Doctor. Charming son of a bitch.
Identifying the voice meant identifying his location; he'd woken up in the same shithole he'd been in last night. It hadn't melted away into vague recollections of one of his more creative nightmares. He took a deep breath, and then buried his head in his hands. Pathetic and lost, dazed and confused. What the fuck had happened last night? Memories were slotting themselves into order with too-sober clarity. He'd woken up in a room just like this one, gone wandering around a B-movie asylum set, complete with monsters. And lawyers -- he'd been spending way too fucking much time on the mop-up of the Basco affair if he was hallucinating lawyers, even personable ones. Then he'd
been in another dormitory-style room, talking to a bored pseudo-intellectual with delusions of grandeur. Then everything went blurry. Darkness. A voice, sinister and familiar, laughing at him. The same voice that he'd woken up to. Oh shit.
He was still sitting like that feeling sorry for himself when a nurse practially bounded into the room, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. "Good morning, Mister Quincy. Time to rise and shine."
"Kwin-zy," he corrected, automatically.
"Quincy," she repeated, allowing his correction to stand and making a note on her clipboard. "Or would you prefer 'Paul'? We don't have to be formal here at Landel's. We want you to be comfortable during your stay."
"I'd prefer 'Sangamon Taylor'," he growled. Not that he expected that to be honored, given what he'd heard last night. But he was still going to register a protest.
"It's time for breakfast, Paul," she continued, as if he hadn't said anything.
"Not hungry," S.T. shot back, standing up. Crap, I had a map and a flashlight. He patted his pocket; the maps were still there. A quick shuffle through the blankets yielded the flashlight, still warm from where he'd apparently been cuddled up with it. He tossed it back on the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his nurse tapping her foot, smile still plastered across her face.
"Some nice french toast should make you feel better. We all want you to get better. Come on, you don't want to be late. First meal of the day, don't you want to make a good impression?" She was wheedling, now. Pretty soon she'd be whining.
"I said, I'm not hungry." A wet gurgle from his stomach made that one of his more obvious lies. "Fine, fine, just gimme a fucking minute." He walked over to the dresser, retrieved all of the slippers, and crossed the room directly in front of the nurse, refusing eye contact. He shoved two pairs in the closet, dropped the third on the floor, and stepped into them. Then he turned around and yanked open the desk, taking out two pens and the notebook. He opened the notebook, unfolded the maps Phoenix had given him carefully into it, and shut it again. Finally, he gave his shirt a quick sniff to see if sleeping in it had rendered him socially unacceptable (fortunately not), and picked up the notebook. "Okay, whatever. Let's go."