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damned_institute2010-11-20 10:51 pm
damned-intercom.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2010-11-20 10:51 pm
Day 53: Intercom, Dawn
Although the day was sunny and warm, there seemed to be a strange tension within the walls of Landel's Institute. The nurses seemed a little more on-edge than usual, and they were already bustling to-and-fro in the hallways before the Head Doctor even made his announcement. It seemed that they'd all been roused early today by Nurse Lydia – but for what reason? The Head Doctor had been making calls all morning, it seemed, regarding a situation that he himself had not anticipated.
Finally, the intercom jingle sounded.
"Hello, everyone!" his voice finally said through the intercom. Although trying very hard for a cheery tone, it was clear he was under some kind of great stress. "Today, we'll be having waffles – the usual toppings are available: syrup, butter, whipped cream, powdered sugar, cinnamon, jam, and fresh fruits. We also have cereal and assorted drinks, along with coff– wait..." He murmured: "No, no, not coffee, he'll..."
After a moment of contemplation, he continued: "Ah! Anyway, I believe that's all for now. Just... go on with everything and stay behaved! Yes!"
The intercom clicked on without his usual farewell.
[ Any newly accepted character can be introduced in response to this post, waking up in their assigned room. Put the room number in the subject line. ]
Finally, the intercom jingle sounded.
"Hello, everyone!" his voice finally said through the intercom. Although trying very hard for a cheery tone, it was clear he was under some kind of great stress. "Today, we'll be having waffles – the usual toppings are available: syrup, butter, whipped cream, powdered sugar, cinnamon, jam, and fresh fruits. We also have cereal and assorted drinks, along with coff– wait..." He murmured: "No, no, not coffee, he'll..."
After a moment of contemplation, he continued: "Ah! Anyway, I believe that's all for now. Just... go on with everything and stay behaved! Yes!"
The intercom clicked on without his usual farewell.
[ Any newly accepted character can be introduced in response to this post, waking up in their assigned room. Put the room number in the subject line. ]
M8
Even an ordinary nightmare. Chuck's nightmares had been bad when the dreams about Sam and Dean first started (The Woman in White? He'd had to have a
nightlightlamp on his room for weeks, after), but now that he knew all of that stuff was real? Was happening to two people he knew? People he had met? And THE APOCALYPSE going down any day now?Yeah.
It had gotten a lot worse, and Chuck didn't see it quitting any time soon--the Winchesters were just too busy for him to take a break, and that's what made tonight weird, even to Chuck's somewhat sloshed unconscious.
Tonight, there was no Sam and Dean. Not even Castiel made an appearance (Chuck wouldn't have particularly minded if he had. Castiel
was awesomeunderstood the whole prophet thing.) It was all Chuck, every bit of him, and one part especially was receiving... extra-special attention right now, from two very special ladies, a brunette and a redhead, both of whom were very, very skilled, and----"Mr. Riordan? Mr. Riordan--"
m8
Maybe it was Becky. Still, Chuck was resisting, any guilt he might have had about cheating on Becky in his dreams destroyed both by his unconscious state and the pleasure he felt at actually having a good dream for once. Who knew when it would happen again? Maybe never. Maybe he'd just dream of THE APOCALYPSE and then, POOF. Like it never was.
Still, the shaking made it difficult to remain unconscious, and with twin smiles, the two gorgeous ladies disappeared, leaving Chuck cold, wet, and unsatisfied. With a disgruntled noise, he rolled over in bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around himself, covering his head with a pillow, and screwing his eyes shut, distantly hoping that Becky would get the message. Prophets needed their sleep, damnit. It didn't matter what time it was, sleeping all day was a prophet thing. Historically a prophet thing, and Becky needed to show a little more understanding for his process if she wanted him to get any work done.
It didn't work. Before Chuck even had a chance to start dozing off, the pillow was yanked out from under his head and the voice interrupted again, louder this time and even more annoyed. "Mr. Riordan. You're late for breakfast! If you don't get up right now... well, there's going to be trouble!"
Chuck shifted in bed and cracked one eye open enough so that he could try and squint angrily at her.
Blinked. That wasn't...
Felt someone touch him on the shoulder with a cold hand, blinked again--
--and promptly jerked up in bed fast enough to knock his blankets to the floor, plastering himself against the wall and staring down in bewildered terror at the room around him. Not his room. Not anything like his room, in fact it looked like a hospital room or a room in one of those creepy asylums that Chuck had read about until he'd had to quit out of sheer, unreasonable terror, because demons? Monsters? Apocalypse? Sucked, but he could deal.
But asylums?
Not okay. Not remotely okay, and this wasn't funny, and he needed to wake up now--especially since, not only was Chuck not in his room, but the woman standing by his bed was not Becky. She was wearing a white nurse's uniform, had her hands on her ample hips, and if there was ever a woman who looked like Nurse Ratched in the flesh--she would be it.
Not funny at all. But there was an explanation for this. Had to be. This wasn't angel work--he would've seen it, right? Right? And demons couldn't touch him without getting vaporized, and there was no one else who--
--his unconscious was punishing him for cheating on Becky in his dream. Yeah. (Not that he'd meant to! He couldn't control what he dreamt about, he would never hurt Becky that way.) That made sense. His unconscious knew that asylums were his least favorite place in the entire universe (except maybe Lucifer's cage, or sitting in a diner booth with Sam and Dean on either side of him and Bobby across the table), and so it made sense. Right. But okay, he was sorry, and so it could definitely end now. Nurse Ratched could... go back to whatever hell she crawled out of, and he could get to work. He didn't need any more sleep, he was good.
In fact, he'd wake up and get to writing right now, just for Becky. No problem. Anything for Becky.
Okay... um. Wake up. Still plastered against the wall and breathing heavily, Chuck mouthed 'sorry' to his unconscious to see if it would do any good, and then screwed his eyes shut again and pinched himself, hard. Once. Twice. Three times. With the nails, almost hard enough to break skin. That should do it.
Chuck slowly opened his eyes--and twitched again, violently.
M8
Her smiled widened.
Toothily.
That was never good.
Not good at all.
Chuck swallowed. His hand reached up and started nervously scratching at the juncture between neck and shoulder. "Um... I think there's been some mistake. My name's not Riordan, okay, I have no idea what I'm doing here, and honestly?" He paused for a second, seeing her smile widen even further, and swallowed again. "This isn't funny. Can we just... skip to the end? I'll pay you whatever they did." If it wasn't a dream, it had to be a joke.
A really elaborate, expensive joke, complete with a trained, really convincing Nurse Ratched and a room that... really, really looked like a white room. That made perfect sense. They'd probably chipped in together to do this for... his birthday.
Even though it wasn't for another seven months.
The nurse clucked, forcing another twitch from Chuck. "Now now, what have I told you about bribes? I'm not some sort of prison guard, I'm here to help you get control of that imagination of yours! Now let's take you to breakfast. You know you'll feel much better once you've eaten." With that, she took a step toward him. It was an obvious threat. Come down or be taken down.
Chuck began to wonder what his characters--what Sam and Dean--would do in this situation.
Attack the nurse and roll out the bravado, probably. Act cool and be cool. Nurse Ratched wouldn't bother them.
His throat was really dry.
But if it was a joke (And please, please, please let it be a joke), he had to play along or it would never be over. Very slowly, Chuck climbed down from the bed and hesitantly approached the nurse, stopping as far away from her as possible while maintaining the appearance of compliance. "Okay." He forced a smile. "I'm sure breakfast is... delicious."
That got him an even wider, toothier grin and a cold hand on his elbow, guiding him out the door.
Re: M8
M55
The only scattered moments Sechs could recall were blurred by fury and horror as a group of orderlies descended upon him once more in his room.
They were taking him in to be experimented on again.
The invasion of the institute staff sent Sechs into a blind rage. They were not taking him again! He would rather kill or be killed than to be bound to that horrible chair beneath that monstrosity of a doctor's tools again! He remembered sending a few of the burly men down, striking them in every vulnerable spot he could aim his fists and feet at, spilling blood from their mouths and noses. Yet his desperate fight arrived to the inevitable conclusion with the prick of a needle in his skin. Pinned down to his bed by numerous arms, Sechs felt his strength rapidly seep out of his muscles and his lucidity fade from his head.
Yet he didn't fall into complete unconsciousness. Whether the staff had planned it for their own sick amusement or not, the sedative left Sechs aware enough to feel himself picked up and fastened firmly to a gurney. As he was carted off into the darkened hallway, all Sechs could do was curse and cry at his captors, weakly snapping his teeth at any hands that came close to his face. His desperate uproar echoed throughout the halls, but no rescue came to him. Strapped down and nearly paralyzed by the sedatives, the panic surging throughout his body were like countless icy needles prickling and poking into his sweating skin. No...! This couldn’t be happening again...! NO...!
He remembered shouting himself hoarse before blacking out, only to regain weakened consciousness some unknown time later in a new room he had never seen before. Surrounding the prone Replica were uniformed staff hiding behind the glare of sterile lights and soulless white masks. They were preparing something terrible no doubt. Sechs' blurry vision spotted a familiar cyborg body in the corner of his eye, but his dizzy attention was captured by the sight of a gas mask being held towards his face. Sechs tried to move his head away from the damned thing; he could remember its gaseous hissing filling his ears as he struggled to get away from it. But the mask pressed down over his nose and mouth with no relent, and then all went black.
Next came a clearer dream, one that was a far cry from the nightmarish helplessness and pain he suffered in captivity. This time he was free, completely able to do whatever he pleased with full power and little ease. It was like he had never been taken away to the institute, he didn’t even remember his capture at all! All he knew then was that he had gotten word that a powerful warrior was to arrive in the field he was guarding. Even whispers hinting of Alita's arrival had reached the battle android's ears. If his Original was going to show up, Sechs was ready for her. He had all his power, his Titan blade, and even his favored interactive interface doll at his disposal. Now all he had to do was wait... and chase off any weak and cowardly intruders off his turf. He couldn't have any dumb organics stumbling around when he was trying to have a decent battle!
The pathetic prisoners came and went, injured and chased off by Sechs' power like scattered ants. It was like a game of cat and mouse, nothing but light amusement to quench the Replica's small patience as he waited for a real warrior to approach him. The stupid cowards had it coming; they should done what they were told and stayed in their rooms! Simple as that! Setting that one arrogant bastard on fire and then sending him tumbling off the wall was hilarious and all, but it just wasn't as fun as battling someone who could actually fight back. Where were those good fighters? Where was Alita? Sechs was starting to get bored playing with all those weirdoes running around in their pajamas...
Re: M55
With the same velocity and impact as a runaway freight train, Sechs' brain finally caught up with the memories from the night before. His small smile instantly fell. Sechs felt the blood rush down his face as his mind reeled from the realization that his capture and his bullying antics was not a dream at all... The images of the people he attacked, the ones he had no recognition of that night, had suddenly returned in full force. He had attacked his fellow prisoners! Most of them unarmed and just trying to escape the institute! Sechs hadn't been taken in for another experiment! He had become a brainwashed guard! Used like a puppet against innocents! Controlled like another disposable AR agent under the G.I.B’s command...!
A flurry of tossed blankets and pillows flew through the air and within seconds Sechs was attacking the door with full force. "YOU FUCKING COWARDS!" he roared, pounding his fists against the door with all his enraged might, "YOU FUCKING USED ME! I'LL KILL YOU ALL! YOU HEAR ME?! I'LL KILL YOU LANDLE! I SWEAR IT! NO ONE GETS AWAY WITH FUCKING WITH ME!" Head spinning and heart hammering, Sechs threw himself against the door as he felt himself grow sick and delirious with fury, "I'M NOT SOME PUPPET! LET ME OUTTA HERE NOW!!"
Re: M55
Accompanied by two orderlies, she quickly made her way to the room, intent on solving this before he upset other patients in the hall. She didn't immediately open it, however, as she hoped to try to soothe him somewhat before unlocking the door.
"Mr. Sasaki, I assure you we are only here to help you," the nurse said, trying to speak loud enough to be heard over the man's racket, but not to the point where she was yelling. "I'm more than willing to listen to your concerns while we walk to the cafeteria together, but you've got to calm down first."
[Jansen]
Re: M55
"Yeah right!" Sechs spat back, giving the door another thunderous smash with his fist, "None of you EVER listen to me or anyone else here! You're just FULL OF IT!" Another loud pound rattled the door to its very hinges. "You're NOTHING but a bunch of LIARS AND DENIERS! THAT'S ALL! There's NO POINT in me talking to YOU!"
Leaning away from the door, Sechs stared it down with all the intentions of hatefully shooting daggers at the staff standing on the other side. What a bunch of cowards! Always talking down to him and then poking him with needles if he didn't comply! "I will NOT calm down!" he snarled as his breaths emerged as heavy wheezing through his gnashing teeth. He wanted Landel's blood on his hands, and he was ready to fight anyone who got in his way!
"And I'm NOT some lab rat or a mindless agent!" Sechs shouted again, his voice now cracking slightly under the strain. The scattered memories of the night before were swirling like a whirlpool inside his head; even though he couldn't remember exactly everything that happened, the panic over his brainwashed actions was rapidly seeping into his consciousness. A second later, he broke out into another furious roar, this time leaving a dent in the door from his fit of rage against it, "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I COULD'VE KILLED SOMEONE LAST NIGHT!"
Damnit! He was starting to feel dizzy, and his vision was deadlocked onto an unseen target behind the door, yet his body was in full berserk mode; he couldn't let the consequences of last night get to him now, he had to focus on revenge! The institute wasn't getting away with this! He wasn't anyone's little puppet, or a mindless obedient Replica for that matter!
"Now let me outta here so I can give the Head Doctor a piece of my mind!" he growled, reaching a hand out towards his closet, "If you stay out of my way and give me directions to his office, then I promise I won't hurt you! Much!"
Re: M55
After giving the two orderlies with her a small nod, she reached forward and unlocked the door. "We're coming in now, Mr. Sasaki," she spoke up as she slowly began pushing it open. "Do not be alarmed. We simply want to talk to you."
Re: M55
"Yeah right!" he snapped at the door, tossing his head to throw his wild hair away from his eyes, "More like you want to come in and SHOVE those damn needles in my ASS!"
Keeping his front facing the door, Sechs leaned to the side to throw open his closet. His hand grasped for his axe, but to his panic he didn't feel the weapon in its usual spot. Risking a second to glance away from the slowly opening door towards where his hand clenched the air, Sechs was aggravated to find that his axe had been propped up in the back corner on the other side of the closet, much too far for him to grab for before the staff came crashing in!
He didn't have time to fume over it though, as his yellow eyes darted back to find the open slit between the door and the wall growing rapidly with each passing second. Snarling, he slammed the closet shut and grabbed for his chair behind him. A good fighter always knew that anything could be used as a weapon!
"Come on in!" he barked, readying the chair in his grasp, "I'm ready for ya!" And as soon as the door was wide enough, the Replica made a vicious swing at the uniformed invaders, aiming the chair's legs at their heads.
Re: M55
Thankfully, the orderlies with her were ready for the attack. One of them reached up to try to grab at the chair's legs while the other quickly moved around behind the patient to try to restrain him from behind. The nurse, meanwhile, stepped out of the way enough to make certain she wouldn't be a hindrance to the orderlies.
"Mr. Sasaki, please calm down," she urged instead.
Re: M55
The chair's legs were caught just in the nick of time, connecting with the orderly's hands with a sharp thwack! The next second came with the approach of the other orderly dashing in for an attack from behind. Snarling, Sechs shot his foot out in a blurring kick, aiming to knock the first orderly down as he attempted to wrench the chair out of his hands. Falling into a deeper state of enraged fervor, Sechs gave out a beastly roar at the staff, viciously tugging at the chair with the intention of regaining control and swinging it towards the second orderly behind him with added force to its velocity.
"NO! I'm not calming down until I'm FREE FROM THIS HELL HOLE!" he answered through clenching teeth.
Re: M55
Meanwhile, the second orderly moved in closer from behind, reaching out to try to hold him back and in place. The nurse watched with an anxious frown, wishing they could do something to calm him down. But there was no soothing his irrational state of mind now that he was lashing out at the staff like this. Leading him into the cafeteria as he was now would pose a hazard to the other patients.
Pursing her lips, she began to prepare a syringe.
Re: M55
If only he had been able to grab his axe! And this body of his was just too weak! At least compared to the former one he was cruelly controlled in! The disappointing lack of power and ability in his organic body had only been intensified by the false freedom he experienced the night before. It was like being gifted for a day with a high-end vehicle, only to be dumped back into your old junky car the following day! It was a sick game that was beyond unfair!
He couldn't let his disadvantage win over him though! Not again! Cursing himself hoarse at the staff surrounding him, Sechs released the chair, but not without sending another kick aimed for the first orderly's gut.
Now was the second grunt's turn, whose arms had now clamped themselves around Sechs' torso. "NO! GET OFF ME!" Snarling like a trapped beast, Sechs struggled madly in the orderly's restraining hold. As he fought to free himself, the Replica's face was contorted with rage and even a hint of dread as he spotted the nurse preparing the syringe. Just the mere sight of that damned, pointy thing intensified his struggles into a frenzy until he managed to pull out his right arm from the orderly's clutches. Wasting no time, Sechs then twisted to the side against the thick arms that fought to subdue him and sent his fist flying towards the offending orderly's face.
Re: M55
The second orderly, meanwhile, tightened his hold on Sasaki, sharply turning his face away from the flying fist in order to protect the more sensitive parts of his head.
Realizing that he was only going to get worse from here, the nurse didn't waste anymore time getting involved herself. Whipping out a cotton swab, she swiftly moved in and wiped the cool alcohol across his restrained arm and promptly inserted the needle there.
Re: M55
The nurse was making her approach, and Sechs felt the blood drain from his face as he realized he may have already lost the battle. He was losing control! Both against the staff and his own body's weaknesses! As soon as he felt the nurse apply the cold liquid on his arm, Sechs sensed the cruel presence of the drug in his back, cackling sadistically at him inside his consciousness. He was out of control and trapped inside his organic body, if not his very own mind! He had to get away! He had to get out of here! He had to--
The needle sunk in, and Sechs gave out a howl of rage. "NO! You can't keep doing this to me!" he cried, flinching from the sharp twinge of the syringe releasing its weakening poisons into his system. Sechs shot an expression of utmost loathing at the needle-wielding nurse. He couldn't stand being manipulated and drugged like this! He hated everything about the damn institute so much that he--
Slowly but surely, the sedation kicked in and Sechs' berserk energy gradually deflated. His ragged breaths calmed down into weary panting while his eyes began to lose focus. It was over...
"Poor little Replica..." came the soft hiss of the darkness in his head, "Just how many times do you have to be put into your place before you stop fighting against your fate?"
"NOO!!!" Just when the orderlies felt it was safe enough to slacken their hold on Sechs, the Replica suddenly pounced to life, tearing himself from the hands that restrained him and making a drunken stumble for the door.
Fighting against the chemicals invading his mind and muscles, Sechs willed himself past the door and out into the hallway. He had to reach the third floor and find that bastard Landel before the sedatives fully took over! He mustered all his willpower to move his legs, forcing himself down the hall in a desperate scramble as he felt his side scrape against the wall. His limbs were getting numb, his vision began to spin, and he felt just about ready to retch, but he had to keep going! He had to persevere! He drove himself further, pushing against the sedative's demands for him to surrender. The effort was so enormous that he must have reached Landel's office by now--!
Yet a dull pain felt throughout his front told Sechs that he had barely reached a dozen steps before his knees gave way beneath him, leaving him sprawled face-first on the floor and completely weakened for the staff to catch up with him.
Re: M55
"There, there, Mr. Sasaki," she said as the orderlies helped him up. "Let's get you something warm to eat. Some quiet relaxation will do you good, I think." They would have to keep an extra eye on him throughout the rest of the day to make sure he didn't have another fit. Hopefully they could prevent him having another fit before it got so out of hand.
The orderlies made sure not to let go of him this time, and they calmly escorted him to the current shift.
M37
Ever since the rebellion rescued him from the Capitol, Peeta had been--not afraid to go to sleep, exactly. But the thought had always nagged him, every time he lay down his head to sleep (or in this case, lay his head against the steely support column to which he was handcuffed), that he might wake up back in the Capitol's interrogation rooms. He'd slowly come to grips with the fact that this was an irrational fear, although to be honest, it wasn't easy to tell what was rational and what was irrational anymore.
But now he opened his eyes and realized he was no longer in Tigris's basement, handcuffed to a stair support. And he knew that it had happened. He was back in a Capitol facility. While he'd slept, they'd been found. He didn't know how, or why they'd put him back here. He took a moment to search his brain for things he did know and came up with only one certainty: Katniss had to be dead by now. The Capitol might take him alive, but Katniss was too dangerous. They wouldn't let her live.
Katniss was dead.
There was something of a gap, after that. Peeta didn't know how much time passed. He wasn't good at keeping track of time anymore, and right now he was terrible at it. He knew, distantly, that he was curled into a ball on the bed, but it didn't matter anymore. What happened to his mind no longer mattered, so what happened to his body certainly didn't, either. Eventually he'd decide whether to keep lying here until they found him and started torturing him again, or get up and do his best to kill as many of them as possible. But he couldn't make the decision right now. Katniss was dead.
Finally, someone beat him to it. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He was vaguely surprised that it wasn't a rough hand hauling him up--why should they treat him gently, anymore? Did they seriously think he would work with them now that they'd killed Katniss? Maybe they thought his programming was still intact, that he still hated her. But even then--
Even then, hating and fearing her had been his world. He wouldn't have known what to do if she was removed from it. Now, he wasn't sure what he felt. But he knew that a world without Katniss in it was not a world he could comprehend.
But he wasn't being handled roughly. He was being nudged gently. "It's time for breakfast, Simon."
The sheer unreality of what he'd just heard made Peeta uncurl and sit up. He stared blankly at the woman in front of him. She didn't look like a Capitol interrogator. She looked...a little like one of the people who'd helped rehabilitate him in District 13 (as if all that rehabilitation was good for anything now). And a little not, a little too bright and perky for that. And she was calling him by someone else's name. Real or not real? That couldn't be real; his face was all over Panem. There was no way they would mistake him for someone else. But it did make sense that he'd lost his grip on reality at least a little now that Katniss was gone.
So, not real. Peeta just sat there, waiting for the strange vision to go away.
But she didn't. In fact, she tugged at him some more. "Come on, it wouldn't do for you to miss breakfast! You need to get a healthy start to the day."
Not real. They didn't care about him being healthy anymore. In fact, if they could show him looking battered and beaten down, maybe next to Katniss's dead body, it would be a coup for the Capitol forces.
Why was he imagining a woman calling him Simon and telling him to have breakfast? Maybe it was his brain's way of making him get up and go on. Find out more of where he was and how he could make them pay. Would it do more good to tear the place up, or to wait until he'd found out more and tear it apart from within? No--not "do more good." Nothing could do any good anymore. Which one would hurt them more?
The second one. Real.
Peeta stood up and started to walk toward the door. The woman followed him, chirping something about how glad she was that he was motivated to--something, something. He couldn't focus on her words. He could only put one foot in front of the other and wonder whether the floor he walked on was real.
F32
Great.
So, instead of counting on Sam to come pull her out of worst case scenario like she'd gotten so used to doing, she got to fight tooth and nail to try and get him off of her. In fact, she fought to the very last minute, but suddenly, everything went a dizzying black that started with a fuzziness at the edge of her vision and swam across it, sucking her down into what she could only assume to be unconsciousness. Weird, considering demons didn't really do the unconscious thing so well -- let alone often.
But as soon as it had happened, it was over, and Ruby didn't have much time to brood on it.
She heaved a gasp and sat up straight in what appeared to be a plain, metal hospital bed. Minus, y'know. The freaking hospital. Granted, Ruby had never been a fan of the establishments -- too clean, too sanitized, waaaaay too many people starin' at your guts -- but she woulda taken it over the shut door and the empty bed beside her. Talk about one ominous prison. She'd never been thrown in jail -- always smoked out before she could get that far -- but this was a pretty fitting image of what it looked like. Her breath slowed to a regular pace as she slowly took in her surroundings, then wormed her hands up over the body she was wearing. The hands looked familiar, and when she tugged some of her hair in front of her face and she recognized the brown curls, she knew it had to be that same dumb coma patient she'd hopped when she made it out of her punishment round with Lilith.
The most surprising part, though, was that there was a pressure -- a tightness in her core -- and the realization set in slowly and horrifically. It was the same awkward pressure demons felt in devil's traps that stopped them from smoking out, the same pressure she'd felt when it got too crowded in that hot blonde sorority chick when Lilith tried to crash the party. Something in this possession wasn't matching up right. It took one helluva demon to put a spell on one so bad she couldn't smoke out of her body, but judging by the crushing feeling weighing down on Ruby's soul, it was a pretty fucking safe bet that was exactly what was going on. Before she could better assess the situation to appreciate the gravity of how fucked she was and how fucking priceless that sadistic little smiley on her shirt was, there were nurses in the room calling her Kristen and telling her it was breakfast time.
F32
"You gotta be kidding me," she groaned. For now, it appeared they were just a threat -- a warning of what was going to happen if she didn't choose the willing route. Her arms crossed over her chest apprehensively and she flicked her gaze between them, hesitating for a long moment before her jaw set with annoyance. She wasn't gonna get any answers by getting detained and pumped full of drugs, and considering she'd just come back from getting her ass kicked, she wanted answers a whole lot more than she wanted to go around with these boys. So, rather than fighting, she decided to do things the easy way and just sneered. "You know what? On second thought, breakfast sounds great." Fan-freaking-tastic. This time, the nurse didn't touch her, and instead just dismissed the two orderlies who she'd brought in and held the door of the room open for Ruby so she could lead her down the hall. Walking slowly out of the room, she glanced back at it as soon as she was out in the hallway and took note of the number -- F32. Didn't tell her much more than the fact that they were separated by gender in this quaint little funhouse.
F33
Instantly, everything felt wrong. When she'd fallen asleep, it had been on the hard concrete floor of an underground tunnel, with her squad all settled equally comfortably around her and the steady drip drip drip of water from an invisible leaky pipe in the background. But as she sat up, scratchy cotton sheets pooled in her lap and she could feel the supple hardness of a mattress pressing back against her hand. The room she was in was smallish, sparsely furnished, and it looked like the hospital back in District 13, only without the beeping equipment and morphling drips. She swung her legs off the bed and recoiled as her bare skin made contact with the cold floor. She looked and found a pair of shoes beside the bed. Generic, factory-made, and only moderately comfortable, but at least they would keep her feet from freezing. She slipped them on and stood up.
That was when the door swung open, and a bland, beaming woman stepped in, her smile too full of something--pity, maybe, or condescension--to be entirely genuine. She was too cheerful to be from District 13, but too mundane-looking to be from the Capitol, though when she spoke, her accent sounded more affected Capitol than District. "Good morning, Miss Pearce! I hope you slept well?"
Katniss looked first to the other bed, then back at the woman. "What?"
"Oh, dear," the woman said, her face pulling low in exaggerated concern. "I can already see you're going to have a difficult time adjusting. Can you remember where you are, Miss Pearce?"
Rather than answering--I remember where I was, Katniss thought--she said, "Who's Pearce?"
The woman sighed and pulled out a clipboard, jotting something on it before she answered. "You are, dear. Your name is Ava Pearce, and you're in Landel's Institute. We're a hospital for the mentally unwell."
The idea was so hysterical, she nearly laughed. Not because it was ridiculous, but because she was pretty certain a mental hospital was one place she definitely belonged. Hadn't she been wondering, only weeks ago, why Thirteen didn't have a doctor checking the state of her mind? But that thought brought up another one that stopped her short.
Coin. She wanted Katniss out of the way. That was why she'd sent Peeta to join them in the Capitol in the first place. Had she finally managed to do it? Was this her new plan, to present Katniss as the burnt-out husk of a girl on fire, broken by the Capitol's cruelty? But Katniss couldn't see how that would be more effective than setting her up to die as a martyr, especially after what Boggs had said about the sort of power Katniss had. He seemed to believe that so long as Katniss was alive, she was a liability to Coin. And anyway, if this was her new plan, why the name charade? There would never be any doubt as to who she was: Katniss Everdeen was universally recognized across all of Panem. And more importantly, where were the others?
So was it the Capitol after all, then? A thrill of terror ran down Katniss's spine as vivid images flashed through her mind: Johanna, small and stripped of her bravado in the hospital bed; Annie covering her ears and withdrawing from the world; the look in Peeta's eyes as he reached out to wrap his hands around her throat, and his frantic story of the Avoxes' guttural, tongueless screams. But if the Capitol had her, they would no doubt have executed her immediately and publicly. She was too great a threat to Snow and too strong a symbol of the resistance. Katniss looked up at the nurse, scowling suspiciously. Thirteen or the Capitol? (Real or unreal?)
F33
The nurse shook her head in an overdramatic display of sympathy. "No, dear. You're confused."
Mentally disoriented, Katniss thought. And definitely crazy. But I know my own name. She tried another tack. "Don't you realize who I am? I'm the Mockingjay."
The nurse made a hmmm sound in the back of her throat. "Yes, your file said you insisted on calling yourself that. Now come along, Ava dear, and let's get some breakfast in you, alright? You're far too thin."
A flare of anger pulsed through Katniss; she didn't insist on it: she hated it, she hadn't had a choice, and plenty of people had died because of her. She'd never really chosen to become the Mockingjay; it was just the only way she could fight, a means to survive. But Katniss became aware of something else, as well: she was hungry. Not just hungry, but starving. And if free food was being offered, there was no way she was going to pass it up. She'd think better on a full stomach.
One thing was certain: she had to get out of here, and fast. Because if Coin got to Snow first, Katniss would lose the one thing she wanted right now: her chance to put an arrow through Coriolanus Snow's heart.
M13
Thus, the question was begged as to why he’d found himself coming to in an unfamiliar room, staring up at an incredibly bland ceiling. His memory, debacle of fobwatching himself aside, was perfect (certainly better than the Doctor’s; he’d never had any embarrassing incarnations prone to amnesia, after all). The blankets felt cheap, as if they were designed to serve a purpose and that was all – there was no indication as to whether there had been any presence of mind to ensure that they were comfortable, or capable of doing their job well. Swinging his legs out over the edge of the bed, the Master sat up, taking in his surroundings.
Having reached the conclusion of ‘bland’ after appraising the ceiling, he found the description suited the rest of the room. ‘Sterile’ worked too – it had the faint air of a medical facility – the windows that served as windows in only the loosest of senses and, he doubted, would open the smallest amount so as to give those inside the faintest of tastes as to the outside world. There was another bed, he noticed, although it was lacking a body. Regardless, whilst the Master was fond of the idea of getting answers, he doubted, oh, he doubted whether someone in a room with him would be the greatest of sources.
His first thoughts had travelled to the Doctor, despite knowing full well that the Doctor wouldn’t be capable of such a feat – not then, not now, and certainly not in the position he’d been left in. That was disregarding, of course, the sheer sentimentality the Doctor was fond of, his ego. The Doctor wouldn’t have been willing to commit such an act without ensuring the Master was fully aware of it, fully aware of whatever alternative option the Doctor claimed existed, and fully aware of the Doctor winning. This? This was too subtle, too boring, and altogether too quiet.
Pressing his lips together, he stood up, expression flickering at the quite frankly terrible clothes he found himself in. The questions of ‘where’, ‘who’, ‘how’ and ‘why’ soon gave way to a new line of thought: what. There was something wrong; he felt wrong. After a moment’s pause, he mentally corrected himself – it wasn’t so much that he felt wrong (although he did, slightly – there was definitely something different), and more that his senses felt dulled. Time. At the sound of the room’s clock ticking, he glanced at it, running his tongue over his teeth as he once again considered the situation. He’d likely been drugged – somehow, he wasn’t sure how – and brought ‘here’, wherever that he was. He assumed the same drug that had kept him under had dulled his senses, had affected his awareness of Time. It was—
It was so human.
M13
“Just Harold? No ‘Mister Saxon’? Prime Minister? Something else, perhaps? Something a little more—,” he paused, pursing his lips as if thinking about what she could call him. “Respectful?” Raising his eyebrows at her, he watched her intently, gauging her reaction. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been a laugh, and any semblance of amusement immediately left his expression as she continued to tell him that it was time for breakfast.
“No.” Taking a breath, he sighed dramatically (or melodramatically, as it were). “No. You see, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somewhere here.” Taking a couple of steps towards her, he spoke again, this time in the manner one might speak to a small child. “I believe the name you’re looking for is Master.”
There was that laugh again, and the woman shook her head, dutifully informing him of how there was to be ‘none of that’ going on in here, regardless of how often he might try, and hadn’t he heard the intercom message? Waffles. Breakfast ‘would help’, and they really ought to get a move on. There were other patients after all, and—
Ignoring her, he decided revenge could wait until he knew where he was, who had done this, and how; it would be useless formulating something half-cocked. Flashing her a grin, he agreed.
“I could do with stretching my legs. I hope you’ll take me the scenic route.”
M31
You went to Berga for clobberings and the like, not for party dates or presentable bodyguard escort business. They’d actually tried that once, in fact. Luck had told him over the phone that it had been an experiment to “broaden his horizon,” whatever that meant. The turf war with the Runoratas had been getting troublesome, but Keith’s wife was a woman who refused to abandon grocery shopping just because of a little trigger-happiness on the enemy’s side. Thus, Berga was assigned to guard her. Let’s just say that the giant man managed somehow to get into a one-sided fistfight with the fishmonger and things escalated from there. According to Luck, their eldest brother Keith had even deigned the incident significant enough to actually open his mouth and reproach his younger brother for his unsightly behavior.
Just as well, really. It was Claire’s opinion that most men were only useful for the few things they really excelled at (exception: himself!) and Berga was the kind of man who was good at pounding their enemies to a pulp in preparation for questioning. The man just wasn’t suited for anything other than that. His imposing height stood out in a crowd and his temper was difficult to keep in check. The man fell for every jibe that was aimed his way; last night’s incident was the perfect example. Claire had only meant that Berga could not be relied upon to come up with any useful information in terms of subtly drawing out enemies, and it was the complete truth! When Berga had retaliated with a fist, Claire had countered with a swift sidestep, a swing up onto the nearest railing, and then a swift kick to the jaw. Naturally. Really, it wasn’t like he had retained any permanent damage, Claire reasoned, so there was no reason at all to get so riled up when it was all just for fun, right? Well, Claire hadn’t gone easy on his older brother, but then “going easy” wasn’t in his vocabulary anyway. But aaaanyway…
…But wait! Had the train even arrived yet? Perhaps he had drank a little yesterday then. His memory was a bit foggy. Claire couldn’t remember what had happened between changing into clean clothes after the whole train fiasco and settling down with a stolen bottle of wine to congratulate himself on a job well done, and waking up in this morning’s peculiar setting. That previous sequence of conscience, he realized, had been the remnants of a dream. That explained why his old ringmaster had been there, dressed in a weird clown suit, dancing on a table. Claire was pretty sure that had never happened at the get-together last Christmas.
…Well, whatever! He had better things to be wondering about. Like, for example, whether this had any impact on the time he would have to make her wait for him in Manhattan? Or whether her message on the train had actually meant what he thought it had meant? What if she actually wanted to kill him?...
M31
Shrugging, he turned the other way, launching himself off his bed to stand in the middle of his new room. The first thing he noticed was the overload of white. Kind of boring, wasn’t it? Whosever place this was, Claire decided that they really needed to rehash the color scheme. The other bed in the room was unoccupied, but from the looks of it, he wasn’t the only person inhabiting this room.
And the second thing he noticed? This truly atrocious pick of clothing he was now wearing. Especially this color. What was this?! Was he expected to look his best for the ladies in this gray mass of cotton? This wouldn’t do. There was a closet on his side of the room near the door. Claire moved towards it and pulled the door open to behold… a whole rack of these abominations. Just swell, really. What if Chane appeared here and saw him like this? The thought was painful to imagine. He looked best in black trenchcoats or dyed in bloody color that matched his hair, not in gray bulky things with yellow smiley-faces.
When the door opened, Claire was still busy sulking about his wardrobe. The nurse blinked at the empty bed and looked around, finding her newest patient in front of his closet, looking rather dissatisfied with what he had found. Well, what had he expected, she thought, annoyed at the fact that she had not been allowed her morning coffee at the institute today. This was an asylum and they were stocking the patients with their basic necessities already. They had a budget to keep, after all! Did he think they were some sort of
Brusquely, she walked forward and placed an arm on his shoulder.
“Mr. Felix Walken, is it?” she asked in as amiable a voice as she could manage, what with the head doctor’s antics this morning and the early start all the nurses had been put through. “Yes, those are the only kinds of clothing we have available, so since you’re already up, please come with me to the cafeteria. It’s breakfast now.”
She gave a tug on his arm when he didn’t move.
“Mr. Walken,” she said again, her tone slipping further and further towards irritated. Claire finally turned to glance at her, seemingly surprised that there was someone else in the room with him.
“Ah… who are you? I don’t think I know you, do I?” The finger he waved in her face made her want to whack it away with her clipboard, but that would be unprofessional. Even without caffeine, she was always on her best professional behavior, though not necessarily her best nurse behavior. Her lips thinned as she realized this patient might take a bit more time than she had thought.
“Please, Mr. Walken. Of course you don’t know me. You just arrived today. Now, to breakfast please. I am a very busy woman and it would be nice if you would please cooperate!” She pulled on his arm again, turning towards the door.
Claire was bemused, but he allowed himself to be distracted by this nurse lady. Truth be told, she wasn’t that bad-looking either, though she definitely wasn’t his type. He could humor a good-looking lady every once in a while, couldn’t he?
But what was the deal with that name? Did he wake up in a new place that his mind had conjured up? Claire might have been surprised, but this new “predicament” he now found himself in was hardly reason for alarm. After all, the entire world was an illusion anyway. This new place was yet another conjured vision from his mind, yet another game for him to play in.
He followed her out the door, all wardrobe grievances forgotten for the moment.
M31
no subject
Um.
Where the heck was he?
"Mr. Savalas? It's time to get up."
"Savalas? Who?" Badd sat up, twisting to look at what was definitely not his original corrections officer. Unless the guy had undergone a sex change in the past few hours and the uniform code had gotten a lot more lax. "No, Tyrell Badd. Where am I?"
"Landel's Institute. Come along now, Mr. Savalas, it's breakfast time." The nurse gave him a strained smile, as if she was bracing for the large man to start being violent and making her day even worse than it already was.
That didn't even sound like his name. "No, it's Badd," he corrected.
"No, it's waffles," the nurse quipped back.
Oh, she was going to be one of those. Badd rolled his eyes. "I think there's been some kind of filing error. I was supposed to go back to prison, not..." He looked down. What the heck. "Smiley Face jail, or whatever." Who had put him in this outfit, anyway? Badd felt a little uneasy at the idea of some random mooks taking his clothes off while he was unconscious. How had he slept through being transferred to somewhere completely different?
Fine. He'd go along with it for now. Eventually someone would realize their high-profile prisoner had been put in the wrong slot.
M36
Still, something felt distinctly off when Pinky came into the room. Sanosuke couldn't help but wonder about the way the woman looked at him, almost like she was sad or something. But when he asked, all Sanosuke got was silence and a faked smile. It wouldn't have bothered him so much, if the fighter didn't get the distinct feeling something bad was about to happen because of her attitude.
Maybe Kenshin would have some idea.
M8
He woke with a start to find someone shaking his shoulder.
"Come now, Thomas; it's just another dream. It's time to wake up now."
He blinked up at the nurse, taking in the white walls and the faint scent of disinfectant that was impossible to escape in a medical facility. A hospital, then. And while he can't remember the aftermath of the pool, there must have been one -- certainly one would have landed both himself and Sherlock in the hospital (though John didn't feel injured). This lead directly into his first question, which leapfrogged over his initial thought of who's Thomas?
"Where's Sherlock?"
The nurse gave him a stern look.
"I won't have any of that from you, Thomas. It's time for breakfast. I'm certain one of the doctors would be interested in talking about your imaginary friend later."
"My... my what?"
"Come on now, Thomas." She tugged at his arm and he got to his feet, following her instructions by force of habit rather than any effort of thought on his part. Imaginary? He felt dazed.
Dazed enough that he was rather more than half-way down the corridor towards the cafeteria before he realized he hadn't even asked about the whole Thomas thing. Well, one problem at a time, he supposed.
[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1009002.html?thread=74151530#t74151530).]
M25
'...powdered sugar, cinnamon, jam and fresh fruits. We also have cereal and assorted drinks, along with coff- wait... No, no, not coffee, he'll...'
He felt hazy and off, though he couldn't quite pinpoint why (which annoyed him more than anything else). There were no drips, there were no bruises; only marks that he could already account for, so drugs, injected or ingested, were ruled out almost immediately. His last memory (and it was a blur, all of that adrenaline and conversation and realisations and Moriarty and John, with explosives and his gun aimed and cocked and ready to-) seemed out of place given the perfect condition his body was in. It wasn't a dream. He knew that much.
He didn't have dreams.
He placed his feet flat onto the ground; it was cold to the touch, but it was a necessary evil. He sat for a while, staring blankly around the room, willing his body to get over the disjointed feeling of cold under the pads of his feet, wondering just where they'd put him, and why, precisely, he needed to be there in the first place. Princess Grace Hospital? Mycroft wouldn't allow it. Royal Brompton? Too far. The Maudsley Hospital? Possibly. He had the gentle but nagging thought that he'd never been here before, but he dismissed it. All hospitals looked alike. That was apparently part of their charm.
M25
Any further thoughts were disrupted by the sound of standard, inexpensive shoes travelling directly towards the room he happened to be staying in. He watched the door, and sure enough, it opened to reveal a nurse wearing scrubs, a clipboard in hand.
"Good morning, James. How are you fairing?" There's an obvious accent cornering her words, she's of American origin. She spoke with a concern that's overly dramatic and likely faked. Her smile was as showy as her demeanour, which Sherlock recognised as polite but indifferent. He didn't have the naivety to assume she had been talking to the man in the bed opposite his; she was looking directly at him, with a hand poised and ready to write any notes she deemed interesting. Sherlock frowned.
"It's Sherlock," he returned before continuing with: "Tell me where John Watson is." Because if Sherlock was forced to stay in a hospital, John would likely be too. It didn't take a particularly intelligent man to make that particular leap of logic; John would, were he able to even stand, be in his room beside him and waiting for him to wake up. He was predictable that way; good old John Watson, loyal to a fault.
He was given a fond smile, something that was dangerously close to giving away to pity as she dropped her arms to her side, taking a step or two towards him. He watched her like he watches everything: obsessively. He didn't want her pity, and the thought was obvious as he wrinkled his nose.
"Yes, your file says that you rarely answer to anything other than Sherlock Holmes-" Sherlock began to point out that it was his name, so obviously he was going to answer to it, but he was silenced with a finger. "-but I'm afraid we won't be enabling any of your delusions, James. It's bad for your health to choose imagination over reality. We'd all like to pretend we're famous, but really, dear, you can't possibly believe that you're literature's greatest detective." She let out a hollow bark of a laugh, shaking her head all the while. "No, you won't be finding Dr Watson anywhere in this hospital. Now, come along, it's time for breakfast, and I've been told you can be a bit awkward with your food."
Sherlock refused to move. "And what hospital is this, precisely?"
"Why, it's Landel's Institute for the mentally ill. You checked yourself in yesterday, dear. You must be confused."
M25
"I'm not confused," he bit back, flinching away as she placed a hand onto his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. He disentangled his arm from hers (he was perfectly capable of standing on his own, thank you very much), and then impulsively dusted himself off, shooting her a glare. No one needed to touch him, especially not nurses.
"Of course not, Mr Smith. Now, if you come to breakfast of your own accord, I won't need to hold your hand, will I? And we'll want to get you a nice seat before all of the good ones are taken up, so don't make a fuss, there's a good boy."
How he hated being talked down to like an idiot. If anything, he should be the one acting condescendingly to her (she was American, for goodness sakes!). He gritted his teeth and stared her down, eventually deciding that whilst he doesn't feel particularly hungry at all, he'd need to eat at some point. Suspiciously, he gestured for her to go first, smiling an overly fake smile (which he made perfectly obvious).
She brightened instantly. "Oh, good! Now, would you prefer James or Mr Smith?"
"Neither," he grumbled, placing one foot in front of the other towards what he assumed would be the cafeteria.
[ to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1009002.html?thread=74165610#t74165610). ]
M61
No doubt that spoke a lot about him. The other mercenaries thought that everything did, thought that every little action he made was some basis to judge him. It was action and thought that defined a person. To judge a person by one without knowing anything of the other would provide something inaccurate, and depending on such inaccuracies would be foolish. Soren knew that, even if they didn’t. It was one of many reasons he kept his thoughts to himself.
Nearby noise prompted him to open his eyes. He shut them again instinctively, blinded by the onslaught of bright lights, then forced himself to slowly open them again.
The lights came from a flat roof. He was no longer in a tent of any kind. Nor did this look like any sort of castle or fort he had ever been inside. The interior walls were bare of any decoration, wiped cleaner than could ever be considered strictly necessary. Even the floor. Soren noticed as he leaned over. It was as he did so that he noticed the frame of the bed. As far as he could tell, it was made out of metal. Closer inspection revealed that nothing in the room, with the probable exception of the door (and he wasn’t altogether sure about that, either), was made out of wood.
Perhaps this was some sort of intimidation technique – a way for his captors to show that they had more than enough metal for an entire armory, and some left over to decorate cells with.
It was rather light and airy for a cell, Soren noted, though there were no windows, or indeed openings of any kind save the door. He was sure it would be locked. All the same, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up.
Another worrying thing – these were definitely not his undergarments. He had expected to find his magic tomes and knives removed from his person, but his robes as well? A scowl crossed his face. As though something so petty would break him.
He padded across the room towards the door, straining his memory of the last few days in an attempt to work out just who might have taken him captive. Unfortunately, he remembered nothing of any importance.
He reached a hand out to the door, only to have it open before he touched it.
A woman entered, dressed in whites like the room. It appeared to be a uniform of some kind, though Soren didn’t recognize it. She smiled as he watched her. “Glad to see you’re awake, James.”
James? She had him confused with another prisoner. Ashera knew how many of these cells there were. “I believe you are mistaken.” Soren attempted civility. It was the best course of action until he became more familiar with his surroundings, the situation at hand and the people controlling it.
“James.” The woman’s voice became stern. “You know you mustn’t play pretend like this.”
“I assure you, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.” Soren’s tone became sharper in return.
The woman heaved a sigh and, taking hold of Soren by his shoulders, led him back towards the bed. “Perhaps you’d better rest a while longer.”
“No, I-“ Soren fought to keep her attention. If she left the room, so did his chances of escaping any time in the near future. Who knew when she might return, if at all? “My apologies. I didn’t mean to appear so rude. It must just be hunger. Might I have something to eat?”
He was hoping for the promise of being brought a tray later, so that he might at least have a second chance to converse with the woman. He wasn’t expecting her to take his wrist with a returning smile. “Of course, James. Follow me. The cafeteria’s this way.”
Soren allowed himself to be led from the room. He decided it would be best to play along for the time being, to see what information he could dig up. Let the nurse think he was James, and walk him about the place. Ike would rescue him eventually.
Re: M61
F20
When there was noise coming from the other side of the room, Aerith slid back into a laying position and rolled over, pretending to sleep. She waited for an attack or for someone to speak to her, but she fell asleep again on accident, and this time was woken up by someone gently touching her shoulder.
She slowly stirred, and yawned as she moved to sit up. There was a nurse dressed in white standing there, smiling at her in a manner that was a bit too welcoming for her taste, and Aerith blinked up at her.
"Where am I?" She questioned, making sure to keep her voice firm without ever losing any of the friendliness her tone had under normal circumstances.
"Don't you remember? Ah, of course you probably don't. You checked yourself in yesterday. You're most likely overwhelmed and confused, Mary."
A pause, and a look of pure confusion etched itself out on her face. Her fingers knotted tightly in the blanket, and she shook her head, gently protesting. "But I'm Aerith, not Mary. I think you're the one that's confused."
"Don't be ridiculous, it says here on your chart that your name is Mary Bowen. I think you just need to get some food in you, and you'll be just fine!"
The cheerful edge of the nurse's words made Aerith wince, and she cast her eyes downward to glare at her hands that were still tangled in the blankets. She couldn't shake the feeling that none of this was right, not at all. And given that she was locked up in some kind of medical facility, she instantly assumed ShinRa was at fault for this, and she was going to be sent away to one of their labs. And even though she couldn't really remember her time there as a child, the memories of being locked up and almost forced to mate with an animal still were fresh in her mind. And if she had been captured and couldn't remember how that happened, then where were Tifa, Cloud, and the others?
The urge to cry was overwhelming, but she sucked up her emotions and steeled herself so she could look up and meet the nurse's eye.
"Where are my friends? They'll be worried about me, you see. I really should go find them."
Aerith's only response was an annoyingly perky giggle from the nurse, and the cetra fell silent as she ignored the other woman's presence entirely and instead focused on sorting out her own thoughts. She rose from the bed when prompted and got dressed, not because the woman wanted her to, but because Aerith felt that she would need decent clothes on in order to explore and locate the others. If she was locked up in a ShinRa facility, then Cloud and the others would be locked up too, she was sure of it. Probably in one of the lower levels. The outfit that she had on now certainly wasn't her pink dress, and it made her stick out like a sore thumb, but it wasn't impossible to work with. And at least it was comfortable.
"You'll see, Miss Bowen. You'll fit in with everyone else at no time. I'll just lead you to breakfast now, so you can start off your first day here at Landel's Institute the right way."
Institute?
Aerith repeated the word over and over again in her head as she was guided out of her room and down the hall. No, she shouldn't miss breakfast. It would be a terrible shame to start her first day in captivity on the wrong foot, wouldn't it? At least she knew the name of the place she was at now, and could figure out a way to find her friends after she determined the location of it. Her disconnection to the planet was jarring and upsetting, but she wasn't going to focus on that right now. All that was important to her was finding the people she had left behind.
Re: F20