damned_institute | Day 51: Breakfast

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Day 51: Breakfast

Yuffie Kisaragi, indomitable bouncing ball of sunshine and unfathomable ebullience, was tired. It'd been a long night full of gibberish and getting nowhere fast.

"Can't I—"

Plucky, who had been busily loading a plate full of French toast and bacon, tittered. "I'm afraid not, Hanna, darling. A chat over a nice, hearty breakfast would do you a world of good, don't you think?"

"Aaaaactually—"

"Come on, let's find you a seat. Plenty to choose from this morning!"

For a long moment, Yuffie seriously considered doing something—anything—to act out. Punch her nurse, rub jam in an orderly's face, climb a wall and hang off the ceiling, jump on a table and parody Loveless… A ruckus like that would definitely jolt her back into gear, right? Sedation aside. And it'd turn Plucky's good day right on its head, which was always a bonus worth shooting for.

But, by the time she'd reached a decision—and it was an epic decision, a really awesome one; everybody'd appreciate the genius, she was sure—she was already alone. Her breakfast tray had been set down neatly by the nurse, who had left with an infuriatingly winsome smile.

"Wow," Yuffie muttered. Shaking her head, she picked a chair at random and threw herself into it. She kicked back, one arm slung across her eyes, to wait. For what, she wasn't totally sure. Some moron to decide that she looked like good company? That was how it usually went.

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For a minute there, Indy kept his eyes closed and entertained the small hope that what had happened last night had been a terrible dream born of...Indy groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes. He didn't even want to think where a dream like that would've come from.

Of course it didn't matter, because as soon as he finally gave in and cracked one eyelid open (he was immediately tempted to shut it again; he felt like he was hungover) he knew it hadn't been a dream. The girl with the nightcap had broken every law of physics Indy'd ever heard of and turned Pilgrim and Peter into girls. And--he remembered belatedly with a wince as he sat up--he'd been hit with those light beams of hers. His left arm was bandaged around the bicep. Indy moved it gingerly and found that it was in tolerable shape. Felt like a minor gunshot wound, he thought; he'd been through worse.

He got up and let the nurse lead him to the cafeteria, where he looked around for anyone who'd been with the group last night. Aside from the absurdity of what had happened, Indy was frustrated at their lack of progress. It took a lot of coordination to get seven people in the same place at the same time, and to get held up was irritating. He hoped the other group had managed to get farther.

None of them seemed to be around yet, so he got a tray of French toast and bacon and found a seat by himself to see who found him.

[KIRK}

The pain from last night's injuries had now diffused to every part of his body, and as he awoke, Kirk was almost tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep. But because Jim never did what was good for him, he pulled himself out of bed instead, and made it out to the hallway before meeting his nurse. Normally these morning encounters were filled with outrageous flirting (on his part) and determined professionalism (on hers), but his tone was serious when he said: "Excuse me. Have you seen Ens—?" Kirk stopped, knowing by now that using Starfleet ranks wouldn't go well. "I'm looking for another patient. Seventeen years old, kind of short, Russian..."

"Ah! You mean Victor Bezborodov!" Victor, right, that had been the name Chekov had used. "He was released yesterday," she answered, not seeming to notice the look on Kirk's face as she cheerfully continued: "His family must be thrilled to have him back home; it's always a shame when someone so young—"

He stepped away from her before she'd finished talking, even though at the back of his mind he knew there could be some useful hint in her chatter. But he didn't care. Heedless of his fresh stitches, Kirk strode through the hallway as fast as he could, away from the nurse, away from all that suddenly overwhelmed him: horror and doubt and helplessness and failure — and anger, the one emotion he could something with. Part of him wanted to say to hell with cautiousness, to throw a punch at an orderly and make a scene and get Landel's attention for once, but momentum kept him moving, and Kirk couldn't stop himself even if he wanted.

Another part of him wasn't surprised. He'd known logically, practically that Chekov's absence was too sudden and ominous to be anything but this, but he hadn't wanted to entertain the possibility, as if even considering it would make it true. Bones had come to the same conclusion when Kirk had told him about it — Kirk had seen that much in his eyes — but the doctor had restrained from bluntly saying so.

Kirk only slowed down as he passed the bulletin board, knowing his responsibilities demanded that he put up some sort of notice now, but he didn't trust himself to act composed right now. Some authority figure you are, he thought to himself, but at least felt calmer by the time he'd passed through the line-up and gotten breakfast. He wasn't exactly hungry, but the motions took his mind off, made it easier to process what this meant. What he— they would do now.

Neither Spock nor Bones appeared after a quick glance around the cafeteria, but Kirk forced himself not to read too much into that. It was still early. He took a seat at a table, and felt his stitches pull slightly as he did, making him wince. The worst of it was hidden under his shirt, but there was a bandage wrapped around his arm from when the creature had bit him, which he idly rubbed. He was lucky to be alive. Again.

Kirk looked up, only then noticing a man seated nearby, across the table. "Sorry, were you waiting for someone?"

Indy thought he knew the look of the guy who sat down across from him. It was a common enough one around here, that impression people gave you of moving purely mechanically while they grappled with whatever was on their minds--usually nothing good. Not noticing who was around you was another typical symptom. Not that Indy could blame him; he'd done the same thing more than once himself.

He had been waiting for someone, or actually any one or more of a group of someones, but none of them was here yet, and he could wait to check in personally with them as long as he saw them all this shift. Indy shrugged and took a forkful of toast. "No, it's fine," he said to the guy (mid-twenties, blond, injured arm, probably Indy's height or a little shorter standing. The accent had sounded American, but who knew these days, especially if the translation had kicked in again).

They could've just eaten their meals in silence--evidently they both had a lot on their minds--but that always meant a hassle with the nurse later and it wasn't in Indy's nature not to try to gather information where he could. Besides, he wanted to say something. Talking didn't usually help Indy when he was having a lousy morning, but he didn't mind giving it a shot if someone else got something out of it. Ultimately he settled on asking, "Rough night?" with the intentionally sympathetic air of someone who's been through plenty of them.

Kirk's shoulders lifted slightly, then relaxed as he looked at the man again, as if he'd meant to answer with a vague shrug but suddenly thought better of it. He'd given the guy's earlier assent just a simple nod before letting himself fall back into thinking and planning, but something about him now gave Kirk pause. He appeared human, and ordinary enough, at least in comparison to some of the blue-haired, interestingly maimed teenagers he'd met. Older than him, brown hair, a scar on his chin. Years of hanging out in disreputable bars had given Jim the ability to identify someone who'd had their share of fistfights, and right at this moment, he was in the mood to like that quality in a person.

"Just the usual," Kirk answered wryly, but there was a smile as he said it. He picked up his fork at last, deciding that whatever he chose to do now, eating would be a good start. (Had anyone ever stopped eating out of protest? Would it make a difference, or would it pass unnoticed? Admiral ZEX was malnourished, but not by choice — for all the day staff's sincerity, their care didn't seem to extend past patching up injuries and making sure everyone showed up in the cafeteria.) "I lost a man yesterday," Kirk explained as he skewered a piece of bacon. "I believe he was brainwashed and sent off to... wherever it is they send the prisoners they've brainwashed and 'released.' Russia, maybe."

It was more information than he would've usually volunteered to a stranger, probably more than Spock would think prudent. But Kirk was starting to understand that, whatever their (perhaps dangerous) differences, all of the patients were in the same boat. Maybe this man knew more about the "disappearances" — to the least, he seemed like someone who'd been here awhile.

Besides, the fact that Chekov was gone wasn't something anyone but Martin Landel could use against him, and Kirk refused to be broken so easily.

"Captain James T. Kirk," he said, reaching across the table to offer his hand. If his earlier words about Chekov had seemed a little too casual, there was a seriousness in his eyes now which said that he didn't take his title — with all that it implied — lightly.

"Sorry," Indy said first--shortly, because they'd all seen friends and acquaintances disappear here and this fellow didn't seem like the type to want a big outpouring of pity over it. That phrasing, "a man," though, was interesting. That didn't sound like just a roommate; that was the way a leader would talk about one of his troops. An internal group--one of the clubs here? Or was he military? He didn't give that impression at first glance, but Indy could've seen it (God knew he probably hadn't looked much like an officer during his own days in the Belgian army).

He took another couple of bites to let the air clear and then picked up the next conversational thread. "Why do you think they'd send released prisoners to Russia?" Was that just personal prejudice, the way he might've instinctively pegged the Germans as being behind all this, or did the guy actually have any evidence? "At least some of them still seem to be around here, if the way they turn up on visitor day is any indication." Indy still wasn't sure he bought that whole explanation ("patients" like his father were rehabilitated through the Landel's program and returned to their "ordinary" lives, only to keep showing up every week to throw another wrench into the current prisoners' lives), but he was interested to know what the other man thought of it.

Indy returned Kirk's introduction readily: "Dr. Indiana Jones," he said, accepting the hand and giving it a firm shake. So he was military, then. And an officer, maybe the kind of guy who could get things done. Maybe a good person to know, if he deserved the rank. "Captain of what, if you don't mind my asking?" Indy asked.

Kirk smirked as he returned the handshake. Interesting name. He wondered how often Dr. Jones heard the line I'm more of an Iowa myself, but then suspected most people wouldn't actually want to admit to being a native Iowan. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Jones." And in fact, Kirk didn't mind him asking, finding himself in surprisingly talkative mood this morning, but there was certain protocol to be mindful of.

Namely, the Prime Directive, which Kirk had to admit he'd been pretty careless with so far. In some ways, it didn't matter. If anyone was guilty of violating the Directive, it was Martin Landel, and anything Kirk could do paled in comparison to their warden's crimes. But when he finally submitted his reports to Starfleet headquarters (and he would, in complete, as his pride would allow nothing less), it would probably be better not add fuel to the fire. Sure, he'd just saved the universe, but he hadn't exactly received official command of the Enterprise yet.

Even so, with or without her, he was still the captain here. "A ship," Kirk answered shortly, which he thought was a rather succinct compromise between accuracy and vagueness, but his ego couldn't resist adding: "A big ship. The USS Enterprise... but only a handful of my crew's imprisoned here with me. The officer I lost was Russian, and I thought maybe they'd sent him to... well, this world's equivalent of his home."

He nibbled on a bite of toast, mind working again — less distracted, more determined.

"But... you're right. It wouldn't make sense to send them anywhere too far from here." Doyleton? No, they were too careful for that. But somewhere else, somewhere close... "Maybe they believe they live somewhere else, but I have my doubts about Landel letting former 'patients' lead full productive lives outside these walls."

Indy ignored the smirk with a practiced smile--nothing he hadn't gotten before. At least this time a crack didn't seem to be forthcoming. "Nice to meet you too, Captain," he replied.

He took a second to try to remember if he'd ever heard of a "USS Enterprise" and decided he didn't think so. Indy wasn't a naval expert, so it could well be an existing ship, but it was just as likely that the captain was from sometime in the future (after last night's physics-breaking funhouse, the once-ludicrous idea of time travel seemed almost comfortably sane). The idea of alternate planes of existence, though, was one that Indy never got used to no matter how many times he heard it proposed. "'This world's equivalent'? What do you mean? Why don't you think this is your world?" he asked. He was playing slightly dumb, but any tack that yielded information (within reason) was worth it in his book.

The conversation about released patients put them on more comfortable ground--intellectually, if not emotionally. Indy leaned back a fraction and had some more bacon. "It's always possible," he allowed once he'd finished chewing. "Distance and time obviously aren't objects in getting people here or sending them back where they came from, if only temporarily. It'd be easy enough to transport them somewhere else and bring them back on the odd Sunday. But I don't think I buy that either."

Kirk's eyebrows raised slightly, wondering how long this man had been a "patient" here. Of course, one couldn't simply take everyone's explanation that this was some sort of extra-dimensional prison at face value, but even the ever-incredulous Mister Spock had only taken a couple of days to accept that it was unlikely they were still in the same universe.

But then, it was probably easier for them to accept, considering how the crew of the Enterprise had a hell of a lot more experience with time travel and alternate realities than the typical civilian. Or the typical Starfleet officer, for that matter. Violations of the space-time continuum weren't exactly highlights in the recruitment brochures.

"The stars," Kirk answered, picking the simplest hint among many. "I don't know if you've ever been outside at night, but the sky here looks like no Earth star map I've ever seen." Or that of any other Federation planet, if he trusted the combined knowledge of his science officer and navigator, which he did.

He ate while Doctor Jones spoke, more to fill up his stomach than for enjoyment. His focus was on the conversation, on trying to piece together the situation with only a handful of hints to work off of.

That was the problem, right there: he didn't know enough. Kirk was fine with throwing out idea after idea to see what stuck, but his instincts had caught onto something else in Jones' words. "You sound as though you've had some experience with Visitor Sundays," he said, casually.

Indy had been outside at night, but they'd traveled mostly under cover of trees, and where it had been clear overhead he'd had more immediate things to worry about than astronavigation. It hadn't occurred to him that the stars might not correspond to what he was familiar with--and truth be told, it sounded like yet another ridiculous claim. Still, now he'd have to check. As much as Indy would've liked that damn screwball theory to prove incorrect, he wasn't prepared to ignore any evidence that might suggest the contrary.

He was interested in just how much time Kirk spent looking at Earth star maps. That specificity almost made it sound like he looked at other star maps too, which almost made it sound like... "Where exactly are you from, Captain?" he asked, working to keep his eyebrows from making a skeptical dash toward his hairline. He had to be just reading too much into that.

Indy wasn't opposed to sharing information per se, but he was more comfortable asking the questions than answering them, and so when the topic of visitor Sundays came up, he found himself on the defensive. "Some," he said, not casually. He wasn't eager to talk about his father to a stranger; a bad idea to give someone something they could use against you that easily. Probably wouldn't be hard to tell that the topic hit a nerve for Indy. A beat late, he continued, "For the last two weeks they've brought in someone they claim is a former patient here."

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Day 51: Breakfast

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