damned_institute | Day 43: Intercom, Evening

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Day 43: Intercom, Evening

Hello! I.R.I.S. here once more to announce to you, our honored guests, that you have officially made it through a day of our typical Landel's treatment. Of course, it isn't quite over: we will now have you retire to our designated patient quarters with one of your agency partners to inspect their sleeping area and the tools that we provide them with for the true bulk of our behavioral testing. On an added note, we would like you to notice once again that the meals we provide to our subjects are of the highest quality.

For those of you feeling apprehensive about taking part in our more intensive methods, please be aware that we would never imagine putting all of you in any danger whatsoever. This last shift will be your last at our Institute; afterward, we will escort you to our Head Doctor's personal observation station to survey some of our test Next-Wave participants in the rigorous trials we put them through – all for their betterment, of course.

Once again, we hope that you are satisfied with what you find, and as always, direct any questions you may have to your console.

The nurses began to escort the patients to their rooms. They didn't even seem to be brought to awareness by words such as "testing" and "subjects."

[ All room threads go in response to this post; please post your character's room number as the subject line of the initial post. (Find all of the newly changed room assignments and shift introductions here.) If you are introducing your character during this shift, you may either choose for them character to wake up before their roommate gets back, or after. ]

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Usually, Sylar was observant enough to anticipate when someone was approaching his room's door, let alone opening and closing it. This time, however, he wasn't in any condition to be perceptive of anything outside of himself, not with thoughts so turbulent that he could only keep them at bay by the furious writing of his hands. It was only when he finally stopped to take a deep breath that he felt the instinctual sensation of someone else sharing the room.

Slowly, he closed the journal and pressed down on the cover with one hand. His head snapped to the side, and before he could tell his new temporary roommate to mind his own damn business, he found his muscles freezing in place and his eyes widening.

It was him. A cleanshaven him with angular brows, a bowl-cut, and pointed ears. He was watching him.

Studying him.

He shot up from his chair, knocking it over in the process. He was breathing hard. He looked like a mess – he was a mess – but his voice was still a growl, low and cold and dangerous.

"What the hell is this?"

The other man's movements were abrupt and sharp -- Spock's gaze flickered toward the fallen chair -- but he did not flinch. It was obvious he felt threatened by his presence. His behavior almost mirrored that of a caged animal who'd somehow been cornered. Up until now, it had not occurred to him that his new roommate would grow more agitated by their extreme similarities. Now Spock was inwardly preparing for the possibility that this could escalate into an unpleasant conflict. He was confident he could handle himself if it came to that (it would also give him the opportunity to see if his nerve-pinch abilities had been hindered by whatever the facility had done to him), but there were certainly benefits to not provoking someone whom he had to share a cell with, particularly if his sanity was questionable at best.

If he moved toward him, even in a disarming manner, he could be perceived as aggressive. If he moved away, he could be perceived as weak. In the end, Spock chose to hold his ground and remain still.

"It appears we have been assigned to the same room," he answered, calm, clear and quiet. Their voices were the same, and yet their tones couldn't have been any more different. "However, if your query is referring to our physical similarities, I do not know."

He, too, found this particular encounter puzzling. Puzzling, yes, but also somewhat...uncomfortable, perhaps. Yet that word did not fully describe the sensation one got upon being confronted by a near mirror image of oneself, the key differences mostly consisting of rounded Human ears, full Human eyebrows, and somewhat unshaven facial features that were, for all intents and purposes, completely Human. Had his physiology not favored his Vulcan heritage, surely this was what he would have looked like, albeit infinitely more composed.

Spock's grip on the edges of his dinner tray faintly tightened, but he gave no other outward indication of his thoughts, his expression still neutral. There was no reason to fight against what was so plainly in front of him.

His voice.

Even his voice was the same.

And not just that either. The way he spoke was so slow, so deliberate, so familiar, that it sent a chill down Sylar's spine and deep into his bones. He found his shallow breathing having less to do with anger and more to do with something else; his entire body was tense, one hand clenched tightly at his side while the other flexed its fingers as if in memory of a superpowered habit that could make this uncomfortable situation go away for good.

Of course, he didn't have that luxury right now. All he could do instead was focus on what the... the man had said. And in that, he found some solace: the words themselves had been formal, straightforward, patient, and generally nothing like his own; on top of that, they explained why this man was – supposedly – here in the first place.

"Assigned?" Sylar literally echoed, still growling but with not quite as much menace. He found himself instinctively searching the man's face for clues of what might be going on behind his eyes before he realized they were his own: dark, intense, and observing him with a nearly clinical fixation.

He looked away. His heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn't even explain the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling, that he had to struggle through as he tried to string together one thought with another. There was some other aspect of this situation that the physical similarity was blinding him to, something that helped explain–

His eyes narrowed in realization. He looked back to the man whose features were both so strange and so identical to his own, and for the second time in that long, long day, he could barely believe what he was saying.

"You... you're Spock, aren't you?"

'Kirk' had been Kirk and Sylar had been wrong: Star Trek was no laughing matter.

Spock noted that the other man was still tense, one hand clenched into a tight fist, the other flexing as though he was vaguely contemplating doing something. When he looked him in the face, their eyes met -- and his roommate looked away. Strangely, though, that was probably the trait of the other man's that unsettled Spock the least. Those eyes were his own, yes, but they were still just as Human as the eyes that he'd inherited from his mother. This was one of the few defining characteristics of the man's that appeared exactly as Spock would have anticipated. Furthermore, he had once gazed into the eyes of his older counterpart from an alternate reality. In that sense, he likely had several advantages that left him better-equipped to deal with this unexpected encounter.

"It is customary for 'patients' of Landel's Institute to share their quarters, is it not?" Spock replied calmly. Perhaps this man was a new arrival like himself, and was still learning to adjust to the situation. Or perhaps it was simply natural for him to regard such an alien-looking copy of himself with suspicion.

Spock's dinner tray was still in his hands. He did not trust the other man to react rationally should he make any sudden moves, and so he'd decided to continue holding it for the time being.

Hearing the other say his name did not come as a surprise. After all, the Captain had implied that he had met with this man before. He assumed that Kirk had more than likely mistaken this man for himself, though with how very Human he looked, it was difficult to imagine how that would be so. At the very least, however, it most certainly had to have been the cause of some confusion, which would have provided a sufficient opportunity for his name to enter the conversation.

"I am," he said with the barest hint of a nod. "As I understand it, you spoke with my Captain earlier today. He informed me of your presence, although I admit I did not expect for us to meet in this way."

Sylar continued to regard his alien twin with suspicion even as the man kept on speaking calmly and with no apparent distress about the situation. It was very disorienting for someone to react so little to what Sylar found to be an extremely disturbing situation – disorienting and infuriating. But that's how those "Vulcans" or whatever were supposed to be, right? Obsessed with logic and crap? Sylar suddenly found himself wishing he'd spent more of his unhappy childhood buried in comic books rather than with his father's watchmaking kit.

But this still didn't make any sense. How in god's name was there some version of Mr. Spock that looked exactly like Sylar? How? He hadn't heard of anything like this in all of the posts made to the bulletin board; he didn't have anything to compare this to, any standard to keep him on top of his game, and his mental state right now was giving him a hell of a time making sense of anything on his own. Normally, he knew, he would regard this situation with amusement, and maybe only a little discomfort; he would try to turn the fortuitous coincidence to his advantage and focus far more on the ridiculous differences rather than the striking similarities.

But right now, all he could think of was the mother who had visited him, and Zachary Blaine, her son, who'd had the courage to do what he never had. All he could think of were his own eyes, studying him and judging him in the same way he did to everyone else. Like an insect, dissected from actions and mannerisms to the very core of his being.

He suddenly realized that he wasn't sure what this man would find there.

"Yes, I... did," Sylar said, taking in a breath to steady himself. He found himself closing eyes out of both exhaustion and a desire to hide from something he couldn't quite grasp; he rubbed over his eyelids and shook his head. "I'm sorry about earlier. And the mess. It's... been a long day."

And he had a feeling it was about to get much longer.

Spock watched the other man carefully for a moment. It was obvious he was emotionally disturbed by something that had happened, but it was impossible to infer what it was without more information. Perhaps he had been one of the patients selected to receive a visitor. Supposedly they were nearly identical to those whom many captives knew prior to their abduction, which predictably triggered a strong response within those who encountered them. Spock admitted he was curious to know whether this was indeed the case for his roommate, but there were likely other, more stable sources he could turn to with questions regarding visitors. As it was, the risk of upsetting him, particularly in an enclosed space such as this, outweighed the prospect of obtaining that sort of knowledge when he could easily seek it elsewhere.

He decided to let the matter drop.

"Your apology has been noted," Spock said, and he moved to toward his own desk, though he did not immediately remove his gaze from the man before him. Fortunately, he no longer detected overtly hostile intent coming from him, though that was not an indication that Spock could lower his guard.

Once he put the tray down onto the desk's surface, the half-Vulcan's dark eyes glanced toward the animal flesh and cooked potatoes that were spilled across the floor. Although he did not outwardly suggest that it ought to be cleaned up, he found the prospect of leaving the mess as it was distasteful and unsanitary.

Face still neutral, he unfolded his napkin and set his eating utensils next to his plate. "I do not believe you have told me your name," he added after a moment. "Nor the time or place you hail from."

Sylar kept his eyes closed even as he heard the sound of the man – Spock – sitting down, and he didn't open them until he heard his own voice ask for his name. It was only the wording of the question that allowed Sylar to avoid having another damn half-panic-attack, and it was that wording that he chose to focus on as he turned his head to view the other man with a drained, nearly blank expression.

"My name..." he echoed once again. Just a few hours ago, he would have responded with 'Zachary Blaine' without a second thought, but somehow, that didn't seem like an option anymore. 'Zach' was no longer a faceless title he could take as a cover; it had meaning, now, and actions attached to it that were too alien to be his own and too familiar to be imitated. It had been made sacred to him in some small way, and though he didn't understand why, he knew it was something he couldn't tarnish.

And as he stared into his own inquiring, scrutinizing face, that feeling was made solidly, unbreakably concrete.

"I'm Gabriel," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse, but level, and automatic. "I'm from New York. I repair watches."

His entire body sagged under the weight of his own honesty, and he sighed as he turned to more directly face the other man.

"Last I checked, it was 2007. So, you know," he said, managing a small, wry smile, "not too many spaceships flying around."

Edited 2009-08-30 12:52 (UTC)

Spock raised an eyebrow at the answer, glancing away for a split second as he processed the implications behind Gabriel's words.

This man looked and sounded very much like himself -- perhaps they could even pass for brothers if presented to someone who was unaware of their true situation. And yet their backgrounds and demeanor were completely different: one a half-Vulcan Starfleet officer of the 23rd century, the other a Human watch repairman from early 21st century New York. Was it possible this man was an ancestor of his mother's, or was this an incredibly strange coincidence?

"Fascinating," he murmured, and he began to neatly cut into the Earth dish his nurse had given him (a vegetable quiche, as she had called it), dividing it into several precise, even pieces. "I believe it is likely our captors placed us together deliberately, although I am currently uncertain of their true motives." Either way, it would be wise to remain alert and on guard should these intentions prove to be a detriment to their well-being. His roommate already seemed troubled enough by his presence alone. Spock, too, found their meeting to be rather disconcerting, even if he managed to keep it sufficiently shrouded by politeness and formalities.

Judging by the remark concerning space technology, however, it was apparent Gabriel had at least some knowledge of Spock's own time, despite the fact he had not personally divulged such information. If that was the case, it was likely he had learned about it from his previous encounter with the Captain.

"You speak as though you are already somewhat familiar with my own background," he added after a moment. "May I inquire as to what you discussed with Captain Kirk?"

"Not much," Sylar replied slowly. He was beginning to realize that the best way to approach this situation and not constantly lose his cool would be to try to keep the conversation as normal as possible: discussing timelines, origins, and the Institute in general – things that wouldn't require him to think too much or feel.

But even in that, Sylar found himself at a loss. It would be impossible to look this particular face in the eye and pretend like he didn't know anything about Spock, or Kirk, or Vulcan death grips or whatever the hell else, and the fact that it was hard to think about how best to turn this situation to his advantage was proof enough of how off his game he was right now. Spock should have been the most useful, easiest person for Sylar to manipulate in the entire goddamn Institute, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to. Not here, not after everything he'd gone through, not when he was feeling like this and certainly not after this man had seen him at his weakest, at his most shameful.

His options were few and his ability to choose from them was crippled. Honesty was his only recourse right now, honesty that would make him seem harmless even as it revealed him to be pathetic.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably and realized from the dull crack under his slipper that his food and tableware were still lying in a mess on the floor. He crouched down to start gathering the stuff up, glad for an excuse to keep his hands and eyes busy.

"To tell you the truth," he started, already wincing at the opportunities he was throwing away as the words came out of his mouth, "I knew a lot about you guys before I even met you. In my world..."

He paused as he scooped up a handful of now-dirty french fries and dumped them onto the tray. He wasn't sure how to proceed, and given his current handicap, it might be better to let Spock – dear god, Spock – give him a lead-in.

Sylar gave another weak smile. "It's complicated."

Edited 2009-08-31 12:11 (UTC)

Spock paused in cutting his food, turning to regard his roommate with an intense, yet curious gaze.

That was not what he had expected to hear. On the surface, it would seem impossible for a Human from the year 2007 to have any knowledge of himself or Captain Kirk. That was an era before they had invented subspace travel, before the first contact with Vulcans. Earth had not yet pushed itself to the brink of destruction during what would be known as the Third World War. Not only that, but Spock had yet to meet anyone besides Kirk or Chekov who were originally from his own "timeline". How could anyone be familiar with such things in a world where Starfleet didn't exist?

As it was, Spock was currently unsure of what to make of Mr. Gabriel. This confession that he was already familiar with him did not help answer any questions -- if anything, it only created more. Suspicion would have been a natural reaction for many, but Spock resolved to at least hear what this man had to say before drawing any conclusions.

"Explain," he said at length. "Are you referring to Captain Kirk and myself specifically, or the general time period from which we came, including the political and military organizations that are operating during that era?"

The latter half of his question was, of course, referring to the Federation and Starfleet, but Spock did not think it would be prudent to "put words in his mouth", as the Earth saying went. Leaving Mr. Gabriel to illustrate what he meant would allow Spock to make a more accurate assessment of the situation. You guys was an extremely broad term in this case, after all.

Edited 2009-08-31 20:27 (UTC)

There it was, Spock unknowingly urging him to go on and explain why half the world already knew all about him – albeit from a different face. Sylar wasn't sure how to go about explaining such a thing without sounding even more idiotic than he'd already made himself out to be, or whether he wanted to keep some details secret in case he grew back a brain later down the line and actually had the common sense to use it against his almost-twin.

Then again, maybe it'd be smarter to throw out all his ammunition now, to use this moment of forced sincerity to his advantage and earn some amount of Spock's trust. Sure, maybe he and Kirk were less primed for manipulation now that Sylar knew they actually boldly went where no man had gone before, but given that the two of them were already a cohesive unit and that Sylar had made connections with both of them – was rooming with one of them – it'd be an obvious course of action to get both of them to be comfortable with him.

If he could get himself to be comfortable with them.

Sylar took a moment to pick up the tray and lay it unceremoniously on the desk. His eyes lingered for a moment on the closed journal that he'd left there before he pressed his hands against the top of the desk and bent over it, as if exhausted.

"I mean all of it," he said. "Your world – where I come from, it's..."

He didn't know why he was having so much trouble with this. He shouldn't have been stuttering or hesitating; he should have been considering how Spock would react to this, yes, but from a perspective of how it could make him useful, not how it would make him feel. He shouldn't have been thinking about what it would be like to be in Spock's shoes, to find out your entire life was apparently some far-fetched, badly-scripted television show created to entertain people.

Sylar grit his teeth and turned toward Spock again. He wished he could find this funny. He wished he could find pleasure and satisfaction in bringing out some emotion from this man's stoic expression, but he couldn't. Not with that damn face.

"It's all very... famous," he started, gently. He wondered if this was what truth serum felt like and then remembered Peter in the Courtyard and how painful it'd been. This was different; this was voluntary, which made it far more terrifying. He frowned. "You and Captain Kirk and the Enterprise – almost everyone where I come from knows about you guys. I mean–"

He brought up his hand and tried to pull his index and middle finger away from the other two, but found he was unable to. He sighed and let his hand drop again, realizing that if he had managed to do that, it would have just been one less degree of separation between himself and Spock, which he really didn't want to think about.

"Live long and prosper and all that."

Spock watched his roommate as he bent over the desk, his eyebrows faintly furrowing at his attempts to explain how he could have been aware of Captain Kirk and the Enterprise, not to mention himself. This situation was growing more bizarre by the moment; however, Spock was certain he was not getting a full scope of what their meeting entailed, or what the Institute's true motives were. There was likely a perfectly reasonable explanation. It was just a matter of finding the truth.

And yet, even if he learned the reasons behind their encounter, even if he unearthed more details about what sort of world Gabriel came from, Spock did not think he could grow entirely accustomed to his roommate's presence. Meeting someone with his face was strange enough; seeing such blatant emotionalism and Human characteristics attached to said face was...difficult.

When they were facing each other once more, however, Spock was still sitting straight, his expression just as neutral as before.

Still, the idea that they were somehow famous in the year 2007 was completely new to Spock. If it was indeed true, there were several theories that could explain it -- perhaps someone from the 23rd century, or even later, had accidentally found themselves in the early 21st century and had chosen not to withhold such information. Maybe Landel's was somehow involved in Gabriel's knowledge of the Enterprise.

Unfortunately, Gabriel was not being very forthcoming with details, aside from his claims that they were apparently famous in his world. Spock couldn't help but wonder what timeline he came from. Had the Eugenics Wars existed for him? That was just one of the many questions Spock had for him at that moment.

The half-Vulcan briefly returned the gesture, as if to demonstrate how it was properly done. Still, someone from the year 2007 should not have been able to give the Vulcan salute, as well as the traditional farewell -- under typical circumstances, at any rate. Admittedly, nothing about this discussion was typical.

Spock's mouth tightened into the Vulcan equivalent of a frown.

"Although your story is quite intriguing," he replied, his words slow and measured, "I still do not understand how Humans from 21st century Earth--"

But Spock's words were interrupted by the intercom's announcement, and he paused to listen.

Sylar was more glad for the interruption than he could say, and he felt a kind of relief wash over his shoulders when the spotlight moved off of his explanation and onto the intercom announcement. Not that it was saying anything especially interesting, but it gave Sylar a moment where Spock's eyes weren't watching his every move, some time to think and breathe.

He knelt down again to pick up a couple last pieces of broken ceramic, and as he stood up to put them on the tray, he leaned forward and slipped his journal back into the drawer it'd come from. He didn't need Spock prying into his personal affairs any more than he already had, and although putting the journal on his person would be safer, putting it out of sight was a higher priority. Dammit, why had he even let his guard down in the first place? This situation would have been so much easier to deal with if Spock hadn't walked in on what he had, or if Sylar hadn't let that fake ghost of a visitor get to him so much. (Fake. That's what he kept telling himself, repeatedly and deliberately: it'd all been fake.)

But on another level, he realized that this was just like the zombies last night: complacency met with curveballs, or worse. And right now, Spock was that "worse."

There was a pause from the broadcast system, and then the second announcement began.

[ To nightshift. ]

Edited 2009-09-01 09:05 (UTC)

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Day 43: Intercom, Evening

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