Day 53: Intercom, Morning

[damned-intercom.livejournal.com]

When the intercom came on for the second time that day, interrupting people's meals and conversations, it was punctuated by what sounded like a flurry of movement, mainly the shuffling of papers and the noise of things being shoved around.

And yet it was Lydia who spoke. She sounded just as firm as usual, but there was something in her voice that betrayed how tired she was. "Hello, patients. Now most of you will be escorted from the cafeteria into the Sun Room to relax for a short while, though a few select patients will be taken to see their therapist. Also, as Dr. Weaver has had to leave us, some of her patients will make it up with some group therapy."

The loud noises continued, and a grumbling could be heard in the background. "... I apologize for the noise," the head nurse added. "The head doctor has decided to clean his office."

She coughed and sighed. "In any case, have a good day."

The intercom clicked off.

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M83

[hiddenbadass]

Michelangelo woke up screaming.

A moment, and the lack of pain, the lack of blood, the lack of dying registered. A ceiling. White walls. A bed underneath. It didn't feel right, he was too flat against the bed. Mike stared at the ceiling, unable to comprehend.

Was he dead?

Another moment, and he sat bolt upright in bed. He stared forward, his body freezing in place, and his gaze slowly fell to his hand.

A pale tan palm, not green. Four fingers, not two. Mike moved his flingers slowly, independently. It felt... off. Like his fingers had been split in two, but it didn't hurt. His thumb was smaller. He squeezed his hand into a fist. Even that didn't feel normal. Mike extended one finger at time-first his index finger, then his middle finger; his ring finger, his pinky. Four fingers.

He turned his hand over and stared. The scar were still there, now a paler white against his pale tan skin. He flexed his hand again, the movement pulling at the scar along the back of it. It was supposed to be dark green. It wasn't.

And then, slowly, his eyes traveled up the length of his arm, vaguely noting that his scars were still there as well. Hair. There was hair on his arm. And freckles. He had fucking freckles.

Mike looked to his left arm, afraid of what he would find. His stub was uncovered. He grew pale, his hand reaching over to feel the skin over where his humerus ended. Uncovered, bare. He cupped his hand around the end, his heart skipping a beat. There was a reason it had been covered. It was supposed to be covered. It needed to be covered, and his shirt sleeve didn't--

A shirt sleeve. Mike stared at it, then looked down at his chest, and was dumbfounded by the bright yellow smiley face staring back at him. He'd worn clothes before, but always bulky ones that encompassed his shell. This was closer, more form fitting.

He wrenched his hand from his other arm and slowly felt his chest. No plastron, no protective covering. His heartbeat was fast. Different. Not his. He breathed in and out, feeling his chest expand and contract in the completely wrong way. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be like this.

Mike already knew both were gone and missing, but he felt for them anyways. Slowly, he reached behind him to touch the lower part of his back, rubbing his hand up and down. It was too flat, not rounded, no carapace. No protection. Naked. Off-balance. He could feel his heart beating now. His hand went lower. There was only a tailbone where his tail should have been, and he couldn't even move it.

It was a moment of stillness before he wrenched the bedsheets off the rest of his body to reveal that he was wearing sweatpants that fit his body far too well. After another moment, he grabbed the right leg of his sweatpants at the knee and pulled the edge up, noting that the one scar visible was still there. His leg had same pale tan skin and freckles and body hair that had been on his arms. Five toes, not two. He wiggled them--first the toes on his left foot and then his toes on his right. It was just as wrong as his hand. His balance was going to be off.

That left one thing to inspect. Mike let go of his pants leg and reached up to touch his face. There was no mask, but he already knew that. A nose and mouth instead of a beak. His eyes weren't set apart the right distance, weren't the right size or shape, and something in his vision was just off. Slowly, he traced his ear lobe with his hand, and then he ran his hand through his short hair. It made no sense. None of this made any sense.

And then it hit him--not only was his body different, but he was without any weapons or gear. Mike's eyes went wide, and then he rolled out of bed and into a crouch, his hand reaching automatically for a nunchaku that wasn't there.

That movement revealed two things. Even with the changes in his body, his back was still rigid. Second, there was something in between his legs. Mike almost lost his balance--everything was off, with his shell gone--but regained it, instead focusing on bringing his very wrong hand to his very wrongly properly fitting pants and pulling them back.

M83

[hiddenbadass]

He was wearing boxers. Boxers with smiley faces on them. He pulled those back, too, leaving him staring at a very important part of his body that was permanently on the outside instead of protected. Out in the open. Exposed to the elements. Dangling between two sacks that weren't ever supposed to be visible.

"Am I human?" Mike whispered hoarsely; there was no answer, and he let the elastic band of his sweatpants snap back.

At least his voice was the same. Which didn't make sense, as he was in a different body. Shouldn't it have sounded different? But that was only something that Donny cound answ--

Donny.

Everything came back in rush. Donny's return, his reunion with April, Leo and Raph putting their differences aside, the final battle. The Karai Legions surrounding him as he turned around to shout--

He was dead. Or, he was supposed to be dead, and wasn't. Mike sucked in a breath.

What had happened? Had they won? Had they lost? Why was he in the body of a human whose scars were exactly the same as him? Where was his family?

Mike stood slowly, glancing around the room. Think. He had to think. Two sets of desks and chairs, each at the foot of a bed. Two closets. One dresser. Overhead lighting.

Weapons first. He rushed over to the nearest closet, stopped for a moment, and then quietly opened a door. Grey shirts. Grey Sweatshirts. Brown winter coat. Below that, two pairs of white slipers, two white sneakers, and one set of brown winter boots. No weapons.

He jerkily turned to look behind him in the desk. Journal on top with what looked like--

The knob turned on the door behind him. Mike whirled around, pressing his back against the wall, eyes searching for anything he could use as a weapon.

"Michael, you're awake!" a cheerful woman's voice said, and Mike blinked.

The door opened to reveal a woman in a nurse's outfit. She was smiling at him and far too brightly. Not a ninja, not a Foot Policeman or woman. Just someone that seemed to be a regularly, ordinary woman. Seemed being the keyword.

She gasped in surprised after a moment, realizing that he had his back pressed up against the wall. "Is there something wrong?"

Mike stared at her. She thought he was someone else, or was trained to act like she did. Which meant that he had to act along or his cover would be blown.

"Michael?" the woman said his 'name' again, taking a step inside, and looking worried.

"I'm okay," Mike grunted back. "Nightmare."

"Oh, you poor thing!" Her eyes softened.

He wanted to ask where he was, but knew better. She was sent to watch him. Asking her questions could go directly back to her supervisor. He had to act the part.

"I'm okay," Mike lightened his voice just slightly. "Really."

"As long as you're sure..." she trailed off, and then she was smiling again. "You're scheduled to be in the Sun Room with the other patients."

Sun Room. Probably had windows or glass, someplace that he could attempt escape if there weren't too many guards. Patients--was this some sort of hospital or mental institution? He was uninjured--all his wounds from the battle were gone--so that cut out the idea of a hospital.

Loony bin, then. That gave him more options. He could do things that they'd just chalk up to him being crazy. But for now, it was best to play it straight and observe.

"Lead the way," Mike replied, slowly walking towards her.

Damn, walking without a shell felt weird.

"Follow me, then," his nurse replied, and she turned around and began walking out of the room.

He followed her, wondering what the shell he was getting himself into and how in the shell he'd get back to the others.

[To here.]

[itwillbecome.livejournal.com]

There was light shining in his face and he groaned softly, burying his face against the pillow as he fought to wake up from the nightmare that he'd been having. For a few glorious moments that was all it was. He was in his own bed, the morning before the exam and afterwards, him and Aqua and Ven would celebrate.

He couldn't fool himself for very long. Reality came crashing back down and he curled up, gritting his teeth and twisting his fingers into the sheets, trying to force himself to some kind of calm. He couldn't afford to grieve right now, and all of his energy was focussed on that one goal now. Nothing else mattered. He wouldn't allow Xehanort (and how could he ever have called that man Master?!) to harm his friends. Even if he could do nothing else, he would not lose sight of that.

It was then that the wrongness of the situation began to register with him. He stretched a little, feeling cloth beneath his bare feet, a mattress. A frown crinkled his brow at the sensation. It shouldn't have been such a shock, but now it was just wrong. He opened his eyes, peering out at his surroundings warily, blue eyes narrowed in confusion and mistrust.

A small, white room, clinical and cold and his heart clenched with fear at the sight. This was no place that he recognised, not even from the myriad worlds that he had visited. He had stepped into the paths between, his focus set on one place and one place only and yet somehow he had woken up in a place like this?

He stood quickly, taking in in one moment the lack of his proper clothing and the subtle sense of wrongness which had been gnawing at his gut since he had woken. No mind. The door was closed and locked when he tried it, but that had never been a barrier to him before. He raised his hand, calling for his keyblade...

He couldn't feel it.

The loss settled over him like the iciest of waters, dread welling in his stomach. He tried again, calling for that part of himself where the keyblade resided, only to find it blocked from him somehow, sealed away by an impenetrable wall. The shock hit him and he stumbled back to sit on the bed, eyes wide with horror as he stared down at his empty hand. He didn't understand. How could it be gone like that? It had always answered his call before. Unless... somehow... could a keyblade reject its master? Had he sunk so low, so far into darkness that even that power had forsaken him?

Was this his punishment for not letting himself be cut down by Master Eraqus?

No... no this was wrong, all wrong. he couldn't let this happen, not now! He stood up sharply, expression grim as he approached the door once more. What a keyblade couldn't manage, brute physical strength might master.

He squared his shoulder to ram against the door, only for it to open before he was given the chance. A petite woman entered the room, smiling warmly at him. He gave her a confused look, gaze darting to outside the room where he could see the figure of a larger man.

"This is a prison," he said. It reminded him too strongly of the one on the spaceship. A prison capable of holding a keyblade wielder, or a fallen one at least.

The woman shook her head. "Not at all. Now Adam, it's good to see you awake, you're here to-"

"That's not me," Terra replied, blinking at the strange name that she'd called him. "I'm Terra." And he had things to do. He wasn't going to abandon them to Xehanort, whatever the cost, even if there was seemingly little he could do without a keyblade. But ah, he'd get to that bridge when it was time to burn it.

She glanced down at a clipboard and shook her head.. "No, Adam Hart is definitely your name. Now, why don't we get you to the Sun Room? I'm sure you'll make some good friends here."

His eyes flared at that and he took a step forward. "I have friends. And I have to be with them now. I'm going."

He headed to the door only to find it blocked by the burly man from earlier. Terra was hardly weak, but this man was taller than him, bigger and had a needle in one hand, a syringe filled with a clear liquid. It really was a prison.