S.T. didn't feel any better for having done the tell-all thing. So much for a burden shared. And then the nurses descended and whisked them all towards the Sun Room.
He still wasn't moving very fast -- his body was flinging out one last goal-line stand against whatever vector they'd shot him up with, and it was effectively resulting in arthritis. He was walking like an old man, and he stopped in front of the bulletin board mostly to give his knees a chance to warm up. The usual deluge of personal ads and Shorty playing spider in the web had been replaced by a series of questions and then a series of fucking questionnaires-cum-manifestos. Something had kicked over the power structure and the ants were running around trying to pick up their dead comrades for tomorrow's lunch. And the Head Bastard had gone back to sounding competent at the supervillain gig. Peachy fucking keen.
He ignored the messages that sounded like power grabs, scrawled a couple of replies, and decided to get the hell out of the way. His nurse was trying to coax him towards a couch, which made his mind up for him. He was going outside, fever or no fever. Fresh air was a godsend -- wherever the fuck this place was, the air smelled cleaner than up in the Whites. He took the first deep breath he'd managed all day.
It was cold enough out that he was shivering as soon as he stepped through the doors. The sun was warm, but not warm enough. And there wasn't a badminton net to be seen. He'd meant to ask yesterday. Today, he wasn't sure he could hit the damn birdie even if they gave him a tennis racket. So he found a quiet patch of grass and sat down before his knees did something embarrassing like giving out beneath him.
The ground was damp, and there was still a residue of dew on the grass. Which was not helping with the plan where he avoided exposure on top of infection. Being cold didn't cause colds, whatever folk wisdom and a legion of overprotective mothers might swear by. But it did add another layer of stress, and he'd come out here to relax. He gave up on the idea of lying back in the grass and hugged his knees to his chest instead, resting his chin on them. Which was when he finally noticed that he'd sat down near another man. "Hi," he said, voice flat. "Nice day, isn't it?" Shit, now he was making small talk about the weather. Voluntarily. They really had fucked him up.
no subject
S.T. didn't feel any better for having done the tell-all thing. So much for a burden shared. And then the nurses descended and whisked them all towards the Sun Room.
He still wasn't moving very fast -- his body was flinging out one last goal-line stand against whatever vector they'd shot him up with, and it was effectively resulting in arthritis. He was walking like an old man, and he stopped in front of the bulletin board mostly to give his knees a chance to warm up. The usual deluge of personal ads and Shorty playing spider in the web had been replaced by a series of questions and then a series of fucking questionnaires-cum-manifestos. Something had kicked over the power structure and the ants were running around trying to pick up their dead comrades for tomorrow's lunch. And the Head Bastard had gone back to sounding competent at the supervillain gig. Peachy fucking keen.
He ignored the messages that sounded like power grabs, scrawled a couple of replies, and decided to get the hell out of the way. His nurse was trying to coax him towards a couch, which made his mind up for him. He was going outside, fever or no fever. Fresh air was a godsend -- wherever the fuck this place was, the air smelled cleaner than up in the Whites. He took the first deep breath he'd managed all day.
It was cold enough out that he was shivering as soon as he stepped through the doors. The sun was warm, but not warm enough. And there wasn't a badminton net to be seen. He'd meant to ask yesterday. Today, he wasn't sure he could hit the damn birdie even if they gave him a tennis racket. So he found a quiet patch of grass and sat down before his knees did something embarrassing like giving out beneath him.
The ground was damp, and there was still a residue of dew on the grass. Which was not helping with the plan where he avoided exposure on top of infection. Being cold didn't cause colds, whatever folk wisdom and a legion of overprotective mothers might swear by. But it did add another layer of stress, and he'd come out here to relax. He gave up on the idea of lying back in the grass and hugged his knees to his chest instead, resting his chin on them. Which was when he finally noticed that he'd sat down near another man. "Hi," he said, voice flat. "Nice day, isn't it?" Shit, now he was making small talk about the weather. Voluntarily. They really had fucked him up.