Day 50: Chapel

[full-score.livejournal.com]

The last thing Claude heard was the Head Doctor's voice faintly filtering into the corridors of the ship before he found himself tucked beneath the sheets of his bed. It took a moment to register he'd even changed locations, but then he he abruptly sat up, fought the wave of nausea that washed over him, and felt the blankets beneath his fingers. The room. He was back in his room now. Under different circumstances, he might have wondered if last night had been some horrid dream, but the sharp pain in his eyes gave him a rude awakening. Hissing through his teeth, Claude buried the heels of his palms against his lids, only to discover two cold compresses had been taped over them.

"Good morning, Thomas," he heard the nurse's cheerful voice from beside his bed. Her sudden presence nearly made him jump out of his skin, and he sharply turned toward the source of the greeting, heart beating rapidly in his chest. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well today, but hopefully you can still enjoy some of the activities we have planned."

'Not feeling well' was a bit of an understatement. His hand hurt, his stomach kept turning with every movement, and it felt like someone had dumped a bunch of sand into both eye sockets. Right now, Claude just wanted the nurse to leave him be, but it didn't look like that was an option. Taking his uninjured hand, she gently tugged him out of bed, despite his protests that, no, really, he just wanted to stay in and sleep, please.

"I think getting out of your room a little bit will do you good," she told him. "I'm sorry your eyes are probably hurting, though. If you're ever feeling uncomfortable, don't hesitate to ask one of us for some pills."

"What about eye drops?" Claude asked tightly.

"Oh, no, too much of that could damage your eyes," she cautioned, and the sheer irony of the situation hit Claude so hard that it would have been laughable if he didn't already feel like crying right then. The nurse was as oblivious to it as always, however. "I know you usually go into the chapel during this shift. Would you like to go there again?" Claude didn't answered immediately, but that didn't deter the nurse. "Yes, I think that sounds best..."

In truth, he probably should have requested the sun room -- it was closer, for one, which meant the nurse didn't have to lead him as far of a distance. For another, lying down on one of their sofas sounded like a good option. But by the time Claude came to that conclusion, he was too stubborn to say anything, and he made his way up to the second floor, his footing slow, but steady.

The nurse deposited him on one of the central pews, next to the aisle, before leaving him to himself. Thankfully, it was still early in the shift. As he paused to listen, the room was mostly silent, save for the footsteps and hushed voices of the occasional staff member or patient who trickled in. But it was probably only a matter of time before others came. For some reason, the thought of being stuck in a crowded room made him tense, not necessarily because he thought anyone would pay him any mind, but because he simply didn't want it right then.

Somehow, the full implications of what happened last night hadn't sunken in: experiments, healing himself, the issue of whether he could actually go home after this, not being able to see, the ship, father. Instead, he just felt saturated with all of it, paralyzed by the horror of what they'd done to him, and the uncertainty of what it all meant beyond this moment. Claude took a shuddering breath, uninjured hand balling into a fist in his lap.

[For Guy.]

Comments

[tightsofmight]

He arched a brow, not in skepticism but in shock. How exactly did one get used to the idea that their entire lives existed on paper and were sold as entertainment to intellectually stunted middle class children? (Or whatever demographic they happened to be pushing you at. Better middle class children than the entire fanbase of Sex and the City.)

Peter shifted in the pew to better face her as they spoke, keeping his voice low in the off chance that someone was eavesdropping. From the look of things they were in the clear, but that was never any guarantee. It wasn't like everybody cupped their hand to their ear and leaned into your face. "What made you change your mind? I only found out last week, and it's been...uh. Something."

At a gesticulative loss, Peter smoothed the hair out of his face and freed his eyes of bangs. Geez, this was so weird to talk about out loud. "I still can't figure out where this place fits in. Why they would push us all together where we can recognize each other and burst everyone's happy little bubbles? Are they just messing with us, or is there some kind of method to it all? Hammer in how useless we really are so that...I don't know. Just seems like rampant will-breaking to me."

[finalwitch.livejournal.com]

What a question to ask. Ange briefly considered laying out the full story in detail, but the vague, mysterious route seemed more desirable. She could keep certain parts under wraps while allowing Jonah to digest the implications. Then, neither would have to feel strange about the situation--any more than they were right now, that is.

She drummed her fingers, mulling on exactly where to start. "I wonder," she started quietly. "My family attracts gossip and legends as a rule, but that isn't it. People can never fully adjust to the idea of fantasy crossing into reality; we're too stubborn to accept anything but truth. Except--" There was a sharp cutoff, and for a moment, a tired expression crept into her features. Only to disappear in the next. "There's something about loss that breaks that barrier down."

For others to take advantage of. So maybe it made sense. Maybe Jonah's viewpoint made perfect logical sense. "You might be right, then. If you blur the line between fact and fiction in a high-stress environment, you're more likely to accept the dissonance. You would want to take in whatever was thrown at you." Like how they were all insane.

[tightsofmight]

So was there something skeevy going on with her family that would make people start up the rumour mill? Or was she famous as opposed to infamous? Some kind of ruling party, perhaps, or a big fish in a small pond. That kind of deal. It was Landel's so more likely than not the issue involved sparkly fairy powers, but the same basic social principles should apply even in worlds with witches and dragons and stuff (unless Harry Potter was a lie).

He nodded along to the rest. "Yeah. It's hard to grasp when you're doing fine and dandy."

The unexpected mention of death rattled him, though he did his best not to show it. There might have been a hint in the way his brows twitched, halting before he could change expression, but for the most part he kept his poise. He wasn't about to drop a bomb on the conversation by mentioning how he'd found out about the comic books literally the day after Harry died. Loss breaks barriers, indeed. Would he have just laughed in Sangamon's face that day if they hadn't run into the shapeshifters? It was incredulous enough that he might. Even with the guy quoting his life back at nearly verbatim, and all the hints with Scott and Indy.

Honestly, he couldn't see himself buying it. Greta was right. You had to be in an absolutely spectacular funk before you latched onto some crazy idea like that. Unfortunately for him, that had been exactly the case.

A thoughtful fist pressed against his mouth. "That doesn't explain what the purpose is though. Even if Landel is a Class A Sadist and likes to down a bucket of popcorn while we cry and gnash our teeth. That I.R.I.S. thing said we're in a program. They're training us for something. They need us. Do they honestly think knocking down a couple fourth walls is making them any more loveable?" Peter scoffed. "Besides, the Stockholm Syndrome thing probably works better when it's one on one."

[finalwitch.livejournal.com]

Only a handful of truths could be derived from body language, and those observations could be taken as faulty. She could believe her short account had impacted Jonah in a meaningful way; a subtle response could give way to clarity over one's internal logic. It was interesting in a sense. Being regarded as someone without the taint of infamy or position, having suspicions reciprocated without mockery was an entirely new experience.

Therefore, she couldn't trust it. The impact, the effect. You couldn't wonder about another's loss without comparison. She might have done so in the confines of Saint Lucia or the world of 1998, but here was hesitation. It suddenly didn't seem right to compare, to think you might have said the wrong words. The people she met here appeared willing to divulge into truth without the messiness of the other place.

Ange would continue, then. Ignore everything that touched on subjectivity.

"It's hard to say when only a few seem to be aware of it." She lolled her head then, thoughts slipping when the younger mentioned an oddity. "What's I.R.I.S.?"