damned_institute | Day 51: Arts & Crafts (4th shift)

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Day 51: Arts & Crafts (4th shift)

There were very few activity shifts, Cloud was sure, that could possibly make him feel more like he was being treated like a child. He took a seat at one of the tables and blankly examined the materials set out before him. A pair of the dullest scissors he'd ever seen were labeled 'ages 3 and up'. It was good to know where the patients stood in this.

He wasn't much of an artist, and he ignored most of the paints and other drawing utensils in favor of a few sheets of colored paper and instructions on how to make origami. That sounded vaguely familiar. Didn't Yuffie have throwing weapons made out of paper at some point? It was something to do anyway, and thus Cloud began the process of crafting what ended up being very elaborate paper wads.

Sadly, his attempts to keep from dwelling on the subject of his missing friend failed when he realized this was something Aerith probably would have enjoyed greatly. Tonight, he and Yuffie would go out and try to accomplish... something. It was depressing to think there really might not be anything they could do, that they might all end up the same as the flower girl eventually.

[for a hopefully more optimistic materia thief]

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"So I get to play with paper," Agatha was griping, as That Nurse practically pushed her into the room. "What joy!"

"You know, you could have a much more positive attitude. It might do you a lot of good," That Nurse told her.

"Well, no matter what attitude I have, it isn't going to make playing with paper fun. What happened to that sewing stuff they were talking about?" At least that might have some actual useful application.

"Marie, you've been violent. Recently. If you can behave better for a while, then we can see about extending you some privileges..." Agatha tuned her out at that point, not interested beyond the answer apparently being no, and set herself down at the nearest table. It already had a few drawings on it, and they weren't bad. At the very least, they'd been done by someone who had a very clear picture of what they wanted to do.

"Oh, very creative," she said absently.

So it seemed that things were more or less in place for the night, and Peter was glad for that. While he didn't have a problem with life suddenly changing on him and sending him somewhere completely unexpected (he was a little attached to the idea of fate, but he also didn't think that it was impossible to subvert it), he also liked some structure to his nights. Not much would happen otherwise, and this way he could keep an eye on Claire.

The bulletin post he made hadn't gotten much of a response, but Peter could see why. For one thing, they were all expecting to hear from Hanatarou, not him. It wasn't his fault that the kid was too nervous to make his own posts, but nonetheless, they knew him, not Peter. Most of them he'd only met once and some he hadn't met at all. No wonder they were treating him with what almost felt like suspicion.

The only one he knew particularly well was Kibitoshin, and he hadn't replied. On the other hand, he'd been put in contact with another group and that had given him a lead of sorts, so it wasn't a total loss.

But for now, all he could really do was waste time until the night came, and so he let himself be led into the Arts and Crafts room. One of the first people he saw upon stepping in was Sylar, but he was not in the mood to deal with the man right then. Besides, the killer seemed strangely distracted by making the paper animals, so Peter was glad to leave him to it. The less he had to talk to him, the better; he would just watch him from a distance.

And so Peter searched out the only free patient that he saw, taking a seat and then sending the stranger a smile. "I hope this is all right?" he asked as he shot a glance at the sketch in progress. It was looking pretty good. Way better than he could ever manage, unless he was using Isaac's power -- and that wasn't really possible now, anyway.

Endrance remembered that all right, and had started to cringe a bit at the memory when the ninja sat down in front of him, but all that changed when he caught sight of those bandages. Those looked like remnants of a rather nasty fight, all things told. His lips pressed together in a thin line, and while he idly kept working on the background, he was going over that night.

˙...and the resulting conversation regarding her Shadow. Perhaps that hadn't been the best approach to take.

"Sheena..." He nodded once, then went back to thinking. "I...in what sense do you mean 'attacked you'? Mine...changed forms once, years ago, but...Mia. Macha...made sure I didn't see the worst of the attack. It did break me, though, in its way."

Tenzen had been watching the area like a general overlooking the battlefield, but like last time all supplies were equally blunt and useless, and little could be accomplished while sitting out this useless shift. He had not even been scowling at the colorful sheets of paper for a whole minute before he was joined by a man who was about as excited with this useless activity as the ninja himself was. The man in question possessed Western features, and appeared to be more elderly than most of the patients.

Not quite as old as the ninja himself, Tenzen was certain.

Before he could even respond to the man's ranting, however, a second individual strolled over and claimed a seat at the table without so much as an invitation. This older man also possessed these Western features, including a tan, yet appeared much more jovial and loud.

"Such nonsense! I fail to see how these blunt scissors could help achieve any work of art," he responded. It was not that Tenzen had any particular objections to 'art' - Koshirou was rather proficient at wood-carving (or had been, before he had lost his sight due to Oboro-sama's infuriating behavior regarding that damned Gennosuke!).

"I am Yakushiji Tenzen. Now, state your own names."

Gren was about as interested in arts and crafts today as he had been the first time he'd visited the room. Which was to say, not in the least. It really wasn't his preferred form of artistic expression, after all. But if he was going to be there, he could probably get something done, even if that something wasn't exactly what the staff might have had in mind.

So upon arrival, he grabbed a pencil, a ruler, and several sheets of blank paper. To anyone else observing, it probably looked like he really was a madman, meticulously measuring and drawing lines on the blank paper. Anyone a bit more musically inclined might recognize it for what it was, though. If he was going to be stuck in this place for any length of time, he needed a way to score his music, and the journals they'd been given, while offering a certain amount of convenience, were far from standard staff lines. He wasn't feeling very inspired at the moment, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.

[Free]

"Why, thank you!" the Scarecrow said with a bright smile as he was not only joined at his table, but complimented as well. He didn't think of himself as much of an artist, but it was a little comforting to have some semblance of his friends before him, especially since he had no idea how long it would be until he could truly see them again. How long had Abe said his body probably had? Seventy years? He didn't expect he'd be trapped that long- surely he could think of some way out of his predicament in that amount of time.

The Scarecrow tapped his pen to the paper a few more times, stealing a couple of glances at his new acquaintance- he got the odd sort of feeling he'd seen her before, but couldn't place where. The Institution wasn't a huge place like the Emerald City; he'd probably spotted her in the halls once or twice in passing.

Still, that notion it was something else wasn't going away. "I don't suppose we've met before," he said, offering the lady his hand. He briefly considered giving her his pseudonym, but then realized that if he did already know her, she'd probably be more confused with two names than if his only one was more fitting of his previous form. "I'm Scarecrow."

A voice, and Kairi looked up, blinking at the woman who had appeared next to her. She was beautiful - the once princess found herself silenced as she looked at her for a few moments (she reminded her of one of the Princess of Heart.) before smiling brightly and turning to look back at the painting. "You know, I have no idea," she said with a small laugh, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I think I was just painting what I was feeling."

Which was ... what?

Kairi reached forward for another piece of paper, thinking about maybe drawing a paopu fruit or something. Grabbing at a small cup of yellow paint, she began to paint a yellow star before turning to look at the woman once again. "What about you? What are you going to paint?"

Origami, huh?

Kenshin was familiar with the basics of paper-folding, but that was about it and he was at least a decade out of practice. Still, it was a pleasant (and quiet) enough way to pass the afternoon, and after several failed attempts he had created a passable, if slightly lop-sided, crane. The poor creature had been folded and re-folded so many times that it was covered in odd creases and one wing didn't quite stand up properly, but at least it was vaguely recognizable as a bird. Maybe.

The next attempt was slightly more successful. There were fewer creases and misfolds and the rurouni felt absurdly pleased with himself. Folding paper was a relaxing, semi-mindless task, just like folding clothing.

[for she-who-throws-rurouni-off-of-balconies]

Edited 2010-08-21 00:00 (UTC)

No matter where he went, there seemed to be so many strange, weak, and often downright stupid people. When the nurse told him that after eating, they would be doing Arts and Crafts, for a moment or two he looked at her blankly. Arts and Crafts?

None of the countries had a typical childhood, at least, not when compared with humans (And perhaps with the exception of America, who'd been coddled and spoiled) so the thought of doing something so completely pointless and recreational was frustrating, but at the same time, he couldn't deny that it did sound just a bit fun. The nurse helped him to a seat and there were an awful lot of things to try. Paint, paper, clay, sewing, and even some things he wasn't quite sure what to do with.

It wasn't long before he was sculpting a small set of matryoshka dolls, fat, round, little pieces (even if they couldn't actually fit inside one aonther) that he lined up in a row. The biggest, of course, was made to look like Russia, and all the small ones would be gobbled up and made part of the biggest.

Ivan picked up a medium sized lump of clay, using the end of a paintbrush to draw a completely ridiculous face, a pair of oversized glasses, and a patch of hair that just never seemed to stay in place. A fitting effigy of the obnoxious nation. Before he could finish, the end of the brush ran right through the clay doll's head and out the other side. Tragic. Actually, it looked a lot better this way. He set it among the slowly growing row of round clay dolls, nodding his head in approval.

[Matt!]

At least the ninja was too concerned with herself to notice Endrance cringe or she might have felt even worse than she already did. His perspective was different, unique really, in that he was a summoner, but his summon was different than her pacts. But still a summoner to her.

"Like if yours took form outside of your control and tried to..." An uncomfortable pause as Sheena looked away and swallowed heavily. "To eat you."

Teresa had caught a glimpse of Lelouch heading into the Arts & Crafts room after lunch and followed him. Now that the sedatives from this morning had worked their way out of her system, she remembered why she needed to talk to him. Left arm hanging almost limply down at her side, she came to a stop standing over him.

"Lelouch. You and I must speak." To the point. Her eyes strayed to the pink cranes and something flickered within them. Pink.

"Rachel, stop picking at your leg. It's going to get infected that way..."

"The skin's already closed..." It was more polite than telling the nurse she wasn't twelve anymore and didn't need to be treated as such. It was her leg, she'd pick at it if she wanted. Actually, it wouldn't surprise her if this woman was the one that sliced her open last night. Now she was worried about her actions.

"Well, not if you keep picking at it..."

It wasn't a fight worth picking, no pun intended. "Alright..." She'd be a good girl. Her limp had disappeared after breakfast once her muscle had gotten warmed up from walking, but now the bandage was itching and pulling at her skin. The ache was there, but negligible and not longer an impediment, and for that she was thankful since she was no longer fermenting really terrible alcohol tonight all by herself.

Brought back into the arts and crafts room, Tifa looked for a certain redhead, but she found other friends instead. Yuffie and Cloud were sitting together, making uhhh whatchamacallits, origami--ah well, Yuffie was. Cloud was making an avant garde pile of trash. She couldn't tell yet if Zack was faring any better.

"Would you like another box of crayons?" The older woman already had a tub picked out. Tifa took it without complaint and took her supplies over to Zack's table, hoping her winning smile would distract the SOLDIER from her healing black eyes and busted nose.

"Have a good night?"

Abe waved one hand appeasingly. "No, no, it's quite fine!" he said, sending back his own smile. He was improving, now he just looked like a human faking a grin rather than an alien unused to human facial muscles. "I'm just doing some sketches, it's nothing important." The long-fingered hand shifted to let Peter have a better view of the front end of a sideviewed cat. He only had the basic shape so far, but eventually it would be one of Hellboy's calicos.

Abe wondered how the cats were doing these days, anyway. Manning probably gave them away to someone, he couldn't imagine their uptight manager actually having a pet more stressful than a goldfish. Hopefully they were happy somewhere in their other time/dimension/plane/god knows what.

"Do you draw?" he asked his new companion as he returned to the cat's back. Conversation, yes, he would have proper self-control and not read his mind.

The dog was going as well as could be expected. Zack was used to swinging around large swords with all sorts of reckless abandon, so something that required finesse was a little harder for him to manage. He was being persistent about it, though. It wouldn't turn out to be the prettiest dog ever, probably, but it would be something.

But he paused in his project when he realized that someone was approaching, and lifted his head to see the pretty face of Tifa Lockhart all beaten up and bruised. His mako-tinted eyes widened perceptibly. Even though he'd heard from Yuffie about the girl's wounds, it was a little harder to see in the flesh, so to speak.

Zack struggled to reclaim his expression, not wanting to be rude. Tifa was acting like nothing was wrong, which indicated that she was accustomed to a certain amount of pain. Nonetheless, he was worried about recruiting her for the basement; what if she wasn't able enough? Her wounds looked superficial, but it probably wouldn't give Aidou the most confidence in her ability, even if these things happened and it couldn't always be helped.

"Geez, that looks like it hurt," he said, ignoring her question for a moment. He would have to explain about Aerith and while that needed to be done, he wanted to check on Tifa first. She was right here, and so she was the one who he needed to focus on now. "What happened?"

It looked like one Cure spell hadn't done the job. How bad had it been originally? He winced at the thought. Even though Zack had been through his fair share of bad injuries (including some that were fatal), he was still completely sympathetic. Pain was pain, and you didn't necessarily get used to it no matter how many times you went through it.

Oh, good, he'd picked someone friendly. Granted, the grand majority of people here were pretty friendly, but Peter had come across a few bad apples here and there, and so he never assumed that any one stranger would be okay with him just taking a seat like he owned the place. He did notice that the man's smile was a little off, though -- kind of forced, maybe? But that could just be because he had something else going on (an injured friend; a distressing visit the day before) that was making it hard to be sincere. Peter didn't want to pry.

When the piece of paper was turned toward him, Peter made sure to admire it enough that he was respectful, and really, it looked like the guy was off to a good start. Even though only the basic shape was there so far, he had been able to tell what it was right away.

At the question, he chuckled and shook his head. "No, not really. Not normally, anyway." But he wasn't sure if talking about precognitive art skills was the best idea with a complete stranger, and so he didn't elaborate on that point. "Usually the height of my ability ends right around stick figures wearing ties."

That drawing of him and Nathan had been his masterpiece.

"Ah. I've been trained in sketching, for professional work." Abe laughed slightly and unlike the smile it sounded quite natural. "I wouldn't say I'm an artist, of course." His pencil traced out the cat's tail, held high and perky.

At this point he was used to random people coming up and talking to him. It really seemed the only thing to do at the institute during the day. Supposedly there were activities but they were mild distractions at best, only a faint struggle against the white and sterile monotony. If he ever made it back to Doyleton he was going to raid the bookstore for as much as his arms could carry before daylight hit and he didn't care if they were old car manuals as long as they were books.

Deep in thought, Mello barely listened as the ever-perky nurse continued to try to sell him on various aspects of this place. "...wonderful chance for the patients to express themselves!" she concluded her latest spiel.

Give me a full clip, and I'll express myself all over the place, he thought, giving her his usual flat look. He hadn't seen the setup for arts and crafts yet, and while he didn't expect to find anything useful, he would've been remiss if he didn't at least look. There wasn't anything useful. The room had the same feel as the rest of the Institute, trying to be cheery but falling short enough to come off depressing instead. Maybe that was just Mello. Some of the other prisoners seemed to be getting on all right.

He took a few sheets of paper and a calligraphy pen, half-intending to pocket it, though there were better weapons to be found at night, grabbed a black magic marker as if in afterthought, and found an empty table. He got two fingernails colored black, the kind of pointless rebellion he'd almost always been too busy to bother with at Wammy's, before the nurse intervened.

"Really, Michael, that's unacceptable. These supplies are for art, not getting yourself dirty right after your shower."

"Jesus, lady, are you for real?" Mello snapped. That was a rhetorical question. He knew she was. "I'm expressing myself."

She took the marker away, and he indulged in a brief but vivid fantasy about finding a third bullet and delivering it to her. He had to do something tonight. Being reduced to kid shit like this (failing at it, too, came the unwanted, silent addendum, right on cue) was unacceptable. He'd find a more destructive outlet for his frustration later.

[for Lunge!]

Agatha hadn't actually given the person across from her much thought, and even now that he mentioned it, he wasn't particularly ringing any bells. She shook the hand, though, politely, and said "Sorry, I don't remember meeting anyone with that name." Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't look familiar to him... she really hoped he hadn't met Lucrezia. The fact that Recluse had was worrying and embarrassing enough; she didn't need someone else in that category. "Mine's Agatha."

Huh. There was a little guide to making that origami stuff, too, and while Agatha still didn't think playing with paper sounded at all enjoyable, the guide itself was something to read. Sadly, there were clearly no instructions for making a trilobite.

Art? Funny kinds of activities they got here, it looked like stuff kids would play with. Carter poked around in search of some sort of 'future art' device and found nothing to his satisfaction. There was yarn but even that was rather crude and not really satisfactory for wearing. Odd. Digging further in the box yielded no needles, which was also odd because really the best place to put things for dealing with yarn was right next to the yarn itself. There wasn't really any point in knitting when they gave you all the clothes for free and it wasn't cold enough to need anything more, but Carter found it a soothing activity when he couldn't put his hands to work on wires and explosives.

"Hey, you know where I can get some knitting needles?" he asked the back of someone's head. Peering over their shoulder showed that he was drawing some kind of strange lines all over the paper. Carter wondered why.

Of all the mindless nonsense to put their captives through... And that's what they all were: captives. Callisto would accept none of this 'patient' nonsense. She wasn't, for one thing. (Patient, that is.) And if they were being treated for anything it was their own sanity and not the lack of it. Those that ran this house of nonsense seemed to be making it their goal to do the opposite of what the Institution claimed to be doing in the first place. Perhaps it was lucky for them that the former warlord was already lacking in anything resembling a sound mind.

The blond scowled as she was led into the room. Despite all the supplies laid out for their use, there was really very little she cared to do here. One could only paint blood-spattered stick figures with their fingers so long before it became dull. She needed to look for someone who'd provide for amusing conversation.

Then her eyes fell on a familiar red-haired girly-man and her lips curled upward in a sinister sort of smirk. She'd like to sit with that one, she informed her nurse who was all-too-willing to sit her down and be rid of her.

"Well," she greeted once she was situated and the nurse was walking away, "isn't this a pleasant surprise."

That was her name, all right.

Yomi glanced up out of the corner of her eye, hands in the middle of folding a piece of paper in half. After a moment, she made a sound of agreement and said, “I am.”

This guy was still around. She hadn’t realized how much of an accomplishment that really was before, when she‘d been newer to the game. Now, she knew a little more, about the Institute, about the people. And about Fujiwara Yoshiko, too, though the last had been against her will, for all that she’d wanted to track down her file.

But then, not everything had changed. Her smile, for instance, was still the same as ever.

"I don't think I need any more sparkle than I already have." Cloud smirked, indicating his eyes with one finger. "And I'd prefer to repay my debts in a manner that doesn't involve me picking glitter out of my ears for the next few days." If she'd give him the option, that is. It wasn't really fair of him to hold the materia over her head (and Zack might agree with that, so it was a good thing he wasn't around at the moment), but if she was seriously considering pulling a stunt like that...

He started messing around with some of the colored paper again, trying to get it to look like, well, something. Of course Yuffie had to go and make him look like a fool with her intricately crafted whatever-that-was. A chocobo? Really? How unfair. That wasn't even in the instructions.

He ended up with something that looked sort of like a crab (it was supposed to be a cat) but that was better than a wad. "So. Our great plans for tonight."

Gren glanced over his shoulder at the question and shook his head a little. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm not sure they'd actually let us have those," he admitted. It might have been arts and crafts, but given the sad state of the rest of the supplies available, he wouldn't be surprised to find that knitting needled were on the 'forbidden' list.

"You might be able to suggest it. They're probably worried someone will put an eye out." Not necessarily their own. "But if they're going to let people have sewing materials, they might be persuaded to include knitting supplies." If they all behaved, of course. As if they weren't spending their evenings fighting whatever this place decided to throw at them.

Leela didn't mind the Arts and Crafts room--she'd first met her awesome roommate here. Though she'd been favoring her virtual-reality-in-her-own-actual-time theory lately, people like Elaine were problematic in that one. Why would there be so many people from the twentieth century and earlier in a thirty-first century fake asylum? Even the people from places like Leela's home seemed to be from earlier than she was.

She sat down at a table that had some clay on it, and started idly fashioning some into an oblong shape (http://images2.fanpop.com/images/photos/3300000/Planet-Express-Ship-futurama-3305283-1024-768.jpg). Hopefully, Betty wasn't going to take enough of a personal interest in her so-called recovery to scold her for making a spaceship. Assuming it came out recognizable enough for Betty to know what it was. Leela wasn't terribly artistic. Once she gave it fins, she would've known it anywhere.

She set the little ship on the table, and studied it with unusual thoughtfulness. With any luck, the real one was on its way to her right now. Who knew what color it would be, how many dings it would have in it, and what shape the gears would be in. Leela laughed softly, and nudged the clay one with a finger, turning it so its nose pointed toward her. Maybe the professor was driving, and that was what was taking those jerkwads so long.

[For Knives Chau, age seventeen! <3]

The Scarecrow shook his head with a shrug- it seemed he didn't know her after all, but he was so sure he'd seen her face somewhere! It had to have been sometime more significant than a passing glance, or surely it wouldn't have bothered him so much.

He continued his drawing, leaving Agatha to her reading. The pen hit the paper with two more idle taps as he considered what he should add next. The background was plain- maybe the Emerald City would liven it up, or even the Wicked Witch flying--

Realization hit him so sharply that he nearly leapt from his chair- instead, his knee hit the table and he fell back into his seat, hissing at the immediate feeling of pain that shot through him. He scooted his chair back a few inches, desperately attempting to sink into it and disappear. It didn't work out so well.

The Scarecrow had suddenly recognized Agatha, remembering exactly where he'd seen her face: her own visage was opposite of Depth Charge, both visible in the sparking light from the Horrible Hallway just the night before. "Y-y-you're the witch from the second floor!" he stammered, holding his pen with two hands as if it would protect him. He wanted to know why she was out in the daylight, why she wasn't haunting the Horrible Hallway that very minute. She wasn't like the Mangled Witch, who appeared just out of sight the following day, stalking him like a shadow- Agatha was right there, and he had to admit she didn't look nearly as frightening when not illuminated by the light of her magic.

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Day 51: Arts & Crafts (4th shift)

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