Day 37: Breakfast

[scarletspeedstr.livejournal.com]

[for Sylar, I believe]

At the sound of the intercom, Wally jerked awake and blinked around at the room. He’d fallen asleep. He should have been up and keeping an eye open for ZEX, but he’d fallen asleep waiting on his bed.

“Idiot,” he groaned, ruffling his hair and sighing in annoyance. “Way to help a guy out, hotshot.” Hopefully ZEX hadn’t dropped by and thought he’d left or something, or wouldn’t be too mad at him for just forgetting about it like that. If he was lucky, he’d be able to catch up with the other patient at some point and explain what had happened.

Rolling himself a little awkwardly out of the bed, Wally took the opportunity to stretch his injured leg and test how well it was holding up. It was feeling a bit better, not so much that he could abandon his crutch or that it didn’t pull painfully if he wasn’t careful, but better. Tony had apparently made it through the night in one piece as well, which was a relief. He really didn’t feel comfortable about the thought of his roommate wandering about on his own with an injured arm. Not when Wally himself could relax and fall asleep in the apparent safety of their room.

Yeah, he wasn’t going to let himself forget that one in a hurry.

It was at that moment that the door swung open to admit one of the nurses. She seemed surprised to find him awake and ready to go already, but smiled warmly. “Hungry, are we Mr. West? Well in that case, let’s get you to the cafeteria. The staff have provided some delicious French Toast as well as a range of other foods I’m sure you’ll like. Now will you be needing a hand with your leg, dear?”

“No thanks, I can handle it,” Wally replied, smiling back. After all, it probably wasn’t the nurses’ fault that this place was so messed up, so it wasn’t like picking fights with them would do anything. With a cheery wave goodbye, Wally slowly made his way to the cafeteria, keeping a tight grip on his crutch all the while. Obtaining a plate of food was only slightly less difficult than it had been yesterday – he didn’t have the painkillers to work around this time – but he managed well enough, coming away from the buffet with a tray containing a plate piled high with slices of French Toast and slathered in maple syrup, butter, and sugar, as well as a glass of juice. Not quite as good as some coffee would be right now, but the sugar would hopefully make up for it. And, with how few people were here at the moment, he could afford to take more food than might have been considered ‘normal’ – he’d have most of it gone by the time anyone came to keep him company, then he could just worry about how many extra serves would be allowed before he aroused suspicion.

Feeling pretty happy with how things were looking so far, Wally hummed faintly to himself as he dug in to his breakfast.

Comments

[centermusthold]

The second time Brennan awoke in the strange, sterile room, she was not very surprised. If this continued, she expected herself to become exponentially less startled each time.

A quick examination of the room led to the conclusion that everything was the same at night as it was during the day - with the notable exception of light. The fact that the door opened so soon after she was mobile suggested that the room was being monitored remotely, probably from a distance that took a few minutes to walk. So the surveillance room was maybe a third of a mile away... A decent-sized prison, then.

That the woman who entered was dressed as a nurse corroborated Keman's story that this was a fake mental institution.

“It’s good to see you’ve finally woken up, Miss Keenan,” the woman said cheerfully.

“My name is Brennan,” Brennan responded. “Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute. I’m sure if you check your records you’ll see that you’re in error – and probably legal trouble – for detaining me.”

The woman glanced at her clipboard and clicked her tongue, which Brennan found vaguely offensive. “Don’t you remember, dear?” Okay, that was really offensive. What kind of proto-military terrorist organizationor brainwashing cult referred to their captives as ‘dear’? Was this some kind of Death By Obnoxious Nicknames Squad? “You are Joy Keenan, of the Smithsonian Institute.”

Suppressing individual personality and trying to imprint a new one. Yes, they were definitely trying to brainwash her. With her… real name. How could they possibly know that name unless they were privy to Booth’s report on the McVicar case or earlier reports of her parents' criminal activity? The implications of that were troubling, to say the least.

And what the hell was the Smithsonian?

Brennan glared at the woman. “No,” she said slowly, just in case the woman was simply deficient and not, in fact, a devious mastermind of psychosocial intimidation. “No, I’m not.”

The woman merely smiled and said, "Why don't you come have some breakfast, Joy? You should meet new people." Well, she might as well observe her captors before making a move. It would be sensible to discern their modus operandi and then determine the best course of action. So she grabbed the blank journal - which the "nurse" didn't seem to mind - and followed the woman into what appeared to be a large cafeteria, already bustling with activity.

There was no sense in being held prisoner and malnourished, so Brennan got some french toast, a bowl of fruit, a few sausages, and a glass of milk before finding a seat away from everyone else and beginning to note a few observations in the journal.

[for Farf]

[jei.livejournal.com]

Newbie day! Ahh, Farfarello loved newbie day. All sorts of new toys to play with. Which almost made up for the fact that last night had been completely, stupidly, bizarre. He'd started walking down the hall to knock on Artemis' door... and that was it. End of night. Unbelivably lame! He was at risk of becoming critically--dangerously--bored, if this kept up. Well, that was a matter to discuss later, if Schuldig was in a better mood today. In the meantime...

After taking his usual breakfast of bacon, sausage and a token bit of fruit, Farfarello sought out a nice, fresh newbie to poke at. There was one, a woman taking notes in her journal--brainy type? Could be fun. At the very least, she wouldn't bore him with stupidity.

Farfarello sat himself down across from the note-taker, giving her his best shark's grin and a merry, "Morning."

[centermusthold]

Brennan glanced up quickly at the sound of footsteps approaching. It was unlikely that anyone would attack her in a crowded room such as this, but in a strange place it was always best to be on one's guard.

"Ah. Good morning," she said vaguely. The man was instantly unappealing on a strictly aesthetic level - scars were certainly interesting, but not appealing - though that didn't preclude the possibility of good company, or at least some information.

But Brennan preferred to eat alone, so she went back to her notes. It would hardly bother her if he stayed; she was merely uninterested in making the first overtures of friendship at this time.

[jei.livejournal.com]

Better and better. She seemed to be the type who was pretty wrapped up in what went on in her own head--not so much unflappable or stuck-up as not inclined to pay as much attention to what was going on around her. That was a type Farfarello hadn't seen much of, around here, and would make for an interesting change. She hadn't bothered to hide her examination of his scars, either, so clearly the social niceties were either lost on her, or not worth bothering with, in her opinion.

Without missing a beat, Farfarello whipped one hand out, grabbing for the woman's notebook. A test of her reflexes would be a good start--was she jumpy, was she fast? Probably not faster than a trained assassin, but one never knew around here.

[centermusthold]

Brennan was quick to respond when the man lunged for her journal. Her reflexes were good enough that she could tighten her grip before he got to it, but he was fast too. Though she began to pull it away, it wasn't quite in time, and he was able to grab the side she wasn't holding.

"You're very quick." It wasn't a compliment, merely an observation. "What sort of training do you have?" She tugged vaguely on the journal, to see if he'd let go.

[jei.livejournal.com]

Farfarello was not about to let go of the journal--who knew what sorts of interesting observations this woman was making? First and foremost, Farfarello wanted to know just which sort of nerd she was, so that he could better tailor his torment. "Self-taught." He gestured at his eyepatch with his free hand. "Occasionally the hard way. Very effective."