damned_institute | DAY 45: Sun Room (Second Shift)

Breakfast had passed quietly, which had given Javert time enough to mull over the events of the previous night in his head. Of all the patients he'd been expecting to be taken, his erstwhile roommate hadn't been among the first. While he felt no sympathy and no regret for the fact that von Karma had been taken, the event still plagued his thoughts.

He requested to be taken to the Sun Room--he had no time for books that offered no information concerning his whereabouts--and seated himself, journal and pen out as usual, before returning to his thoughts. In all but one of the experimental cases he'd learned about, the patient had received some sort of supernatural power. The last thing he or anyone else here needed was a man like von Karma with ridiculous abilities to further his lies.

And then there was the matter of the patients here. From the look of things, some of them had given into their real lives at last. Javert doubted it was entirely voluntary; a pattern like this one was far too suspicious. He'd been here for nearly a month now and nothing of the sort had ever occurred before. And the last week had been anything but normal (if, indeed, anything could pass for normal in a place like this). He only hoped none of his contacts had succumbed to it.

A faint weight on his lap distracted him from his thoughts: a black and white cat had clambered into his lap, arranged itself on top of his journal, and was now staring at him with something approximating hopefulness. Javert almost deposited it onto the floor before remembering that he was under the watchful eye of his nurse, and Philip Hunt had been showing such improvement lately. Grudgingly, he scratched it behind the ears. He had never particularly liked cats.

[From here.]

The nurse led Daniel from the Library, where he had been for all of ten miserable minutes, into the Sun Room. He toted his pen and journal, and walked, again, with a downcast face. It is better not to be curious... isn't it?

He looked around for a seat, and saw one open near an older man, a man around Lunge's age, tall and on the slim side, hair mostly gone to gray. It would take a while to train himself not to catalogue these details. A black and white cat sat on the man's lap, where it received what appeared to be desultory attention.

Most of his time not spent in seclusion had been spent with his father, when his father had the time; thinking of him, Daniel experienced a brief pang of nostalgia. I... miss him? Yes. Based on this, and knowing that it was a flimsy basis for a decision which would otherwise have been completely arbitrary, he took the open seat.

He sat normally, rather than in L's outlandish perching crouch. That, and talking to other patients -- learning to see them as people, rather than as a collection of evidentiary statistics, behavioral profiles, and useful pawns -- might assist in his recovery.

He hesitated, trying to think of something to say. When something came to mind, he said it in a soft tone, less assured than it might have been a day earlier. "Do you like cats, Mr -- ?"

The fact that old habits were likely to die hard, if at all, presented itself yet again. He knew that the constant accusations of social awkwardness were fair. On top of that, he would have to force himself to stop leading all of his conversations in directions that would encourage people to give him personal information while allowing him to reveal nothing about himself.

Edited 2009-11-08 14:33 (UTC)

Javert glanced briefly at the young man who had sat down next to him, wondering what on earth he had done to receive so much unwanted attention this early in the morning. It wasn't as if he had suddenly decided his entire life had been one great delusion and decided to be friendlier as a result.

At least the boy was being considerably less impudent than the others who'd decided he seemed like a prime candidate for conversation, for all that he still looked like he needed about six square meals and a year or two of sleep.

"Hunt," he supplied. It couldn't hurt to see what information he could gather as a sane member of society. "And no, I'm not particularly fond of them." He eyed the cat in his lap, which had curled into a ball and was emitting the same sort of noises as the Doyleton buses made, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. "I'd have no objections if you took it off my hands."

Daniel's interest was piqued. "Mr. Hunt... Philip Hunt? You left a message on the bulletin board earlier, yes?"

If he did, I should go find someone else to talk to. He is an inspector, or thinks he is; this is hardly conducive to -- He had a sinking feeling, and a troubled, almost panicked expression passed quickly over his face before vanishing.

-- But he will be interesting, and on the chance that he is a detective, a real one, I might learn something. It's all right, as long as I know who I am. He had responded to the notice on the board for the same reason: the idea that speaking with people who really were what he only pretended and wished to be might make the differences between them obvious, and expose some truths about working in law enforcement. It couldn't all be voice changers and massive arrays of spy cameras so small as to be microscopic and attractive sidekicks at your beck and call.

After his brief flash of alarm faded, he walked two of his spindly fingers across the cushion towards the cat, then waved them in the air in front of its face, trying to get its attention.

Javert raised an eyebrow. "That's correct. Inspector Philip Hunt. Well," he amended after a moment's thought, "it ought to be Officer. But there are patients here who know me better as Inspector. I take it you were one of those who responded."

The expression of alarm on the boy's face was unexpected--it wasn't as if his 'real' name here was particularly well known, and the only time he'd used it before was with his doctor, who was no longer here. Was it a reaction to the message, then? He couldn't imagine why that would pose a problem to anyone.

"Is something wrong?" he asked mildly. The cat blinked lazily at the boy, sniffing briefly at his fingers.

Daniel hesitated, then nodded, a small and uncertain bob of his head. "Yes." There was another measured pause, while he stopped himself from following a script that had become standard for him: Please call me -- No. It isn't an alias, it is your name. He looked down, then looked up again, establishing eye contact with Hunt. "I am Daniel."

The visual connection was broken almost immediately; he let his gaze fall to the cat's face.

With his fingertip, he stroked the bridge of its nose, then pulled his hand away. The finger went to the surface of the cushion again, and he dragged it across, towards him, with a waving motion. The cat seemed interested, but not yet convinced.

Daniel's self-knowledge, or the return of it, was so new that he wasn't sure how much he wanted to say. A number of his own activities had been illegal; revealing them to an officer of the law might put him in a position even more difficult than his current one, but there was no need to describe precisely what he had done.

He shifted in his seat, bringing his left foot up and propping it on his knee so that his legs formed a triangle. His right hand pushed up into his hair. He rubbed at his scalp. "I am interested in the group -- interested in law enforcement, complicated cases, and so on -- but I worry that indulging that interest might impede my recovery. I have been under the delusion that I am an investigator."

Eye contact. He hadn't wanted to meet the young man's gaze, but to look away would be suspicious. As it was, Javert only just caught Daniel's name, and it barely had time to register before the headache descended and the vision pulled him under.

All he saw were hurried flashes of scenes, glimpses of a boy who was apparently Daniel seated strangely on a sofa, surrounded by older men in suits, and the face of another young man whom he was certain he'd seen at the Institute before. But this time he had almost been expecting it, and he fought to break free; there was no need to go rummaging around in other people's heads just because he could. He forced himself out of the boy's past with only a slight backwards jerk of his head, but not before a single letter flashed into his vision.

"--worry that indulging that interest might impede my recovery. I have been under the delusion that I am an investigator."

The pieces slowly fell into place as Javert's headache faded. Whoever Daniel was, he clearly thought that Philip Hunt was serious about sitting around and swapping amusing anecdotes with other retired policemen. And it was evident by now that the young man who called himself Daniel today had not been Daniel yesterday, or even last night. In that case, inviting him to the meeting might do more harm than good, especially if he thought reporting them to the nurses would improve their condition. There was little point in exchanging information about Nightshift if someone among them wasn't "delusional."

"That's entirely up to you," he said casually, focusing at a point slightly above Daniel's head. And then, abruptly, "Would you mind telling me a little about 'L'?"

Daniel's reaction to the question was something like a flinch, but slower, and involving most of his body. He pulled away as much as he could, gaping, looking unsettled to the core. His stare was focused on the older man's face.

How is it possible that he is aware -- ? This raised a number of questions. The most logical conclusion was that Hunt was, in some way, planted: by Quentin Laurier, to watch over Daniel, or by the police, maybe Interpol, because his actions in Tokyo had landed him in even hotter water than he'd realized.

Another theory came to mind, then, one less paranoid and alarming: Lunge. Daniel had noticed, in his few days in the Institute, that the patients who had been involved in law enforcement tended to band together. It didn't matter whether or not that "involvement" was illusory. Although Lunge hadn't mentioned Hunt, the message that had been exchanged on the bulletin board earlier in the day suggested that they had met -- "inspecteur to inspektor." Might he be -- ? He tucked the question away for later.

As these thoughts flew through his mind, his shocked expression didn't fade. Finding his voice, but not much of it, he murmured, "How do you know that name?"

Either Daniel was an exceptionally good actor or an exceptionally bad one. Javert decided on the former, considering what he'd seen of the young man's behavior. Apparently it was someone he wasn't meant to know about: an alias? A friend? No, almost certainly an alias. And one he'd heard of before, somewhere. Quite probably the bulletin board. It was mildly frustrating how these things occasionally slipped his mind.

The cat sat forgotten on his lap; irritated, it slunk off of him and nudged Daniel (L?) insistently. "A lucky guess." He tilted his head slightly, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his thin lips. "Is he the investigator to whom you were referring, I wonder?"

Daniel ignored the cat as it first insinuated its way onto his lap, then wreathed around until it was comfortable. Once it seemed settled, it began to nudge him again, pressing the flat of its head against his hand. He ignored it.

Its presence did affect him, though: most of his physical tension relaxed, as if by his slouched posture, he thought he could hide within himself.

The unwavering stare searched Hunt's face, and after a moment, he gave yet another nod, this one emphatic. Lunge -- Otto Jung? -- might be as delusional as Daniel had been, but Daniel liked him, almost trusted him. Even if he wasn't an investigator, he was astute; an agent of the BKA could experience a breakdown as easily as anyone else might.

"L is not real; therefore, he is not important." His voice had regained much of its strength, but it sounded oddly clinical. "An imaginary detective. Dedicated, professional, unconventional, relentless. I always liked Holmes. They had a lot in common, but L was... modern." He could say this much without giving away incriminating details. L was who he had wanted to be: a stronger personality, prudent, daring, and successful. "Why do you want to know about it? It is pointless."

The cat began to purr. With a sigh, he gave in, caressing behind its ear with the tips of his fingers.

Holmes. Javert searched his mental roster of the patients here. Nothing came up; he was clearly a historical or fictional detective who had turned up after his time. He resolved to check the library at a later date.

"Mere curiosity," he said simply, brushing cat fur off of his journal. "I can't help asking questions. You're not the only one here who's believed themselves to be a fictional character at some point or another."

It was impossible to keep the sardonic tone out of his voice. If nothing else, he was grateful to Sohma for giving him that book. Knowing why his doctors thought him mad had been a greater help than he could have imagined, even if he still had no idea what to make of it all.

Daniel shook his head. "No, not precisely a fictional character, except of my own creation. He isn't really worth considering." Apart from that -- a truism, as far as he was concerned -- there were a number of things about his attempts to embody L that he was loath to discuss with anyone.

Something in Hunt's tone, combined with what he had said, brought Daniel back to his suspicion of a few minutes earlier. Lunge had told him that there was someone in the Institute who thought he was Inspector Javert. Hunt was the best candidate Daniel had met so far, but still -- if he asked, there was the risk of initiating a quid-pro-quo exchange, during which Daniel's own illegal activities might come to light.

He continued to ponder the issue as he scratched behind the cat's ears. In the end, he opted for a more innocuous question.

"How long have you been here, Mr. Hunt?"

That settled it, then. Javert searched Daniel's face: the boy was almost certainly telling the truth, or at least believed he was. It was a shame he didn't appear interested in discussing the matter at length, although it was probably understandable given his condition.

"Just over three weeks." Javert tilted his head questioningly. "And you?"

Three weeks... that would certainly be enough time for some advancement. Many of the people with whom Daniel had interacted so far had only been at the Institute for a few days.

Had Hunt experienced more progress than he was admitting to? Daniel realized that he hadn't really asked.

"This is my third day. Why did you come here? Was it on your own power, or -- ?"

The insinuation: Did someone decide that this would be a better place for you? It didn't occur to him not to ask anything so personal or direct; people who objected to these kinds of questions were not obliged to answer them.

Edited 2009-11-14 06:47 (UTC)

Regardless of who Daniel was, there was no harm in giving him information that would be easily found in his patient files anyway. Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything to hide regarding the life the institute had constructed for him. The more Daniel believed Philip Hunt's stories, the less he'd be likely to inquire about Javert's own life.

"I was sent here by a coworker," he said simply, a touch of dark humor in his voice. The man who'd called himself 'John' had been quite clear about that. "Apparently my attempted suicide put something of a strain on our friendship."

"Attempted suicide?"

This indicates instability in its own right, he thought, but nothing else. What would have driven him to it? If he is who I suspect he might be, it could have been part of his delusions.

"It does not seem that a co-worker would have had the legal authority to have sent you here, though. How was he able to do so?"

He stroked the back of the cat's head. In the meantime, the nurses in the room all seemed to be picking up their activity, as if in anticipation of shepherding their charges to their next destination.

Edited 2009-11-17 05:35 (UTC)

"Apparently he convinced me to commit myself. Mind you," Javert added, "this is what I've been told. I've no memory of the incident."

That last part, at least, was true. And Val--the man who had come to visit him a week ago had certainly been infuriatingly vague about what had happened. Most likely he wanted to avoid a relapse. The patient files, too, had been uninformative; apparently there had been something about a fire, but it appeared Philip Hunt had been as thorough as Javert himself when it came to committing suicide unnoticed, with the unfortunate exception of his colleague managing to step in.

He eyed Daniel shrewdly, settling back against the cushions. "I could ask the same of you," he said. If he was made to rattle off a list of what his apparently real self had done, it was only fair that he get something in return. "How did you manage to find yourself here?"

His hand paused on the cat's head, as he considered the answer to Hunt's question. How had he managed to find himself here?

Looking back, he still couldn't put it together: his father must have hired someone, someone discreet, the sort of people you hire when you are wealthy and your children have developed problems larger than you can handle on your own. Daniel had not been involved with drugs, or fringe religious elements, but a stint in Japanese prison could have been on his horizon. These people who must have been deputized to retrieve him... his best guess was that they'd drugged the food he ordered from room service, then kept him drugged on the long journey to New Jersey.

When he saw his father, he would ask. There was no guarantee that he would receive an answer.

"It's the same. I have no memory of it. I think my father brought me here, or had me brought here." His face was blank, and his stare level; he was not lying, but there was a great deal he wasn't saying.

His hand resumed stroking the cat's head -- delicate, deliberate motions. "I had run off to Japan. It was... it was thoughtless of me. A mistake." All in all, there was a distance in his voice, as if it was the only way he could bring himself to describe his own activities.

DAY 45: Sun Room (Second Shift)

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