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damned_institute2009-12-16 12:12 am
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Entry tags:
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Day 46: Sun Room
Peter woke up suddenly, his body twisting in the bed and then forcing him to catch his breath in pain. Pain, which was coming from his middle because of the thing that had scratched him last night, and after that...
After that, Zach had jumped in front of him like some kind of martyr, like the exact opposite of everything Sylar stood for, to take the next hit for him. It got pretty fuzzy after that, so night must have ended right around then.
The man let out a pained grunt as he straightened himself up in bed. For some reason, he got the feeling that he'd slept in. There was no way for him to really tell without a window in the room, but he just knew. The fact that Sam's bed looked long since vacated was another clue.
Sam, but was he Sam again? Had the brainwashing worn off, as he and Roland had hoped, or was he going to have to go through this nightmare for even longer? He didn't know how long he could handle "Zach" and "Harrison" before he started going batty himself.
Pulling himself out of bed, Peter lifted his shirt and saw that he was tightly bandaged. The scratch most likely wasn't nearly as bad as the bite that "Zach" had received, but it still smarted. He let his shirt fall and then had to deal with a nurse chiding him for sleeping through the morning announcements. Not that Peter really cared at the moment. He was too busy thinking about last night and the fact that in a way, he now owed something to Sylar. Except it hadn't been Sylar. That was something he was sure of now.
Lost in his thoughts, Peter reached the Sun Room right as the rest of the patient populace was trickling in from breakfast. Sighing to himself, he headed over to the bulletin board and then saw a note written in familiar yet unpleasant handwriting. Holding his pen in a vice grip, Peter scribbled out a reply and then stalked over to an armchair and fell into it with a huff.
While Sylar was maddeningly frustrating, there was one good thing about the fact that he was himself again. It meant that Nathan was too.
[For Spock!]
After that, Zach had jumped in front of him like some kind of martyr, like the exact opposite of everything Sylar stood for, to take the next hit for him. It got pretty fuzzy after that, so night must have ended right around then.
The man let out a pained grunt as he straightened himself up in bed. For some reason, he got the feeling that he'd slept in. There was no way for him to really tell without a window in the room, but he just knew. The fact that Sam's bed looked long since vacated was another clue.
Sam, but was he Sam again? Had the brainwashing worn off, as he and Roland had hoped, or was he going to have to go through this nightmare for even longer? He didn't know how long he could handle "Zach" and "Harrison" before he started going batty himself.
Pulling himself out of bed, Peter lifted his shirt and saw that he was tightly bandaged. The scratch most likely wasn't nearly as bad as the bite that "Zach" had received, but it still smarted. He let his shirt fall and then had to deal with a nurse chiding him for sleeping through the morning announcements. Not that Peter really cared at the moment. He was too busy thinking about last night and the fact that in a way, he now owed something to Sylar. Except it hadn't been Sylar. That was something he was sure of now.
Lost in his thoughts, Peter reached the Sun Room right as the rest of the patient populace was trickling in from breakfast. Sighing to himself, he headed over to the bulletin board and then saw a note written in familiar yet unpleasant handwriting. Holding his pen in a vice grip, Peter scribbled out a reply and then stalked over to an armchair and fell into it with a huff.
While Sylar was maddeningly frustrating, there was one good thing about the fact that he was himself again. It meant that Nathan was too.
[For Spock!]
no subject
"Okay, has anybody actually confirmed this 'virgin-eating bird' thing?" He wiggled his fingers at the phrase in his most exaggerated display of skepticism yet. "Maybe they just go for the skinny little sick ones because they're easier to carry, and it's got nothing to do with that at all. Or like, old people are chewier. I don't know. How can they even tell if you've danced the horizontal hustle anyway?" He gave a derisive snort and moved on.
"Yeah, sure. Um, gimme a sec," he muttered, fishing out a folded sheet of paper and a pen he used for the bulletin from his pocket, scrawling out a list on his knee. But Alex's next remark gave him pause, the pen stopping halfway through crossing a T.
"Terry?" The other boy had his full attention. It wasn't so much a surprise that he'd been using a fake name as it was for why he was doing it. "Why would they call you by your real name, but give everybody else a new one? That makes no sense." He blinked for a moment, running through the possibilities. "Have you checked your file? Because-"
The intercom sounded off. Nurses swooped in and began carting the patients away. Peter swore under his breath and looked at his list in despair. He'd barely even gotten started.
Nonetheless, he tore it off the page and passed it to Kurt. There were only six items on it, each longer and more impossible to pronounce than the last. Things that he'd usually have to pay a pretty penny for, or even order in the mail, so the likelihood of finding them in a mental institution? Somewhere next to zero, but he couldn't afford give up hope that easily.
"Crap. Okay, um, here's the first few ingredients. Don't worry if you can't find them all, some things I can fudge or extract from another couple of chemicals, depending on what equipment they have. And be really careful, these last two are caustic like crazy. I'd even use gloves to grab the containers in case some dripped down the side. There's a reason why you can't find this stuff in a classroom lab." He saw his nurse approaching, and stood to meet her before she could catch the end of their conversation.
"I'll see you guys later, all right?"