Day 58: Intercom, Dawn
Dawn broke with the hustle and bustle of staff, uniformed men and women moving to and fro to wake patients from their slumber. Those who managed to slip through their watchful eyes and gain an extra minute or two of shuteye were soon rudely awakened by a rather enthusiastic man with a Western accent
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Haine squinted and cracked an eye open, the other following. Even the air smelled different. His hand moved instinctively for his sunglasses, but not even the sheets felt familiar. Not his couch, ok, that wasn't overly shocking. It was hard to keep track some days of where he stayed and where he went. A hotel?
Fuck.
If it was, it was some kinda shithole. No shower, only one door in or out. Didn't look like anything Bishop had as far as room back at the chapel went, if anything, it was just slightly nicer. Too clean and too new to be trusted.
He pulled himself up, clothes and sheets rustling in the act. Nothing like his well-worn leather and heavy jackets. These clothes were stiff and reeked of cheap detergent, the sort of stuff they washed en masse. Had he been thrashed in any fights or was there a reason for someone to dress him? Or was this just the work of some sick fuck who liked scrawny guys dressed up in uniforms?
Haine made a face and started rummaging through the room. Empty notebooks, a flashlight, pens... someone was trying way too hard to make this place look normal. There was one door. No bathroom. No cold apartment or hiss of static from the television. The city had enough backward shit going on without waking up boxed-in somewhere he'd never even seen before. The unfamiliar jingle of dogtags around his neck was enough to draw his attention for a second or two before he removed the things, glanced at the name that wasn't his, and chucked them to the far side of the room. What remained was a metal band, a collar of some kind. But the more he poked and prodded and pulled at it, the more confused he became. What the hell was this? And why was-
His collar was gone. The scrap of metal and whatever technology they'd used when they fused it all to his spine was gone. And even so, he could still hear that black dog laughing to himself somewhere in the back of his mind. He bristled, already on edge with this latest revelation. Was this a dream then? Had he lost control? Would he wake up to see someone else's blood and entrails smeared across the walls, gore still dripping from his fingers?
Dammit, Badou had better be the next one through that door with a fuckin' good explanation for this shit. He'd even settle for Naoto at this point, as long as someone told him what the hell was going on.
As luck would have it, he didn't have to wait long. A few minutes passed before he heard the telltale sound of footsteps(several, if he wasn't mistaken) and the door started to fidget, then cracked open, revealing a handful of people dressed up to look something like soldiers. They matched, but they were nowhere near as imposing as the masked soldiers in black coats he'd seen last.
"If you can't wear the uniform properly, you'll spend breakfast watching everyone else eat," the first voice was terse, sizing him up as he barked orders. The men backing him up made plenty of show of adjusting their weapons and shooting him pointed looks. Haine didn't so much as flinch, despite how confused he was. "Pick up your tags and fix your beret."
"They're not mine," he ground out, fixing them all with a flat and unimpressed look. Guns didn't scare him. Neither did a bunch of soft little weaklings pretending to be soldiers.
"Alex Lindemann? #03571764."
"Nope."
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Last time he'd been bullied into following along with a crowd of armed men, it was mostly due to the fact that he was at home in his own apartment and the landlady would be fuckin' pissed if he messed up the place. Not that he expected to get his deposit back. But here? He didn't even know where the hell 'here' was. No reason why you should care if we get a little wild then... Gouge out the eyes of that chubby bastard on the right with the pen you found, tear the limbs right off the fucker trying to tell you what to do. Maybe we should make him choke on that hat. See how far you can get your fist down his throat before something breaks...
He could always play nice instead. See where it got him. Probably some new mafioso thinking he was hot shit and looking for new recruits for his band of poorly-named thugs. Just clearly and assertively tell them no. And when they laugh, tear their fuckin' faces off.
Calm diplomacy be damned, he was not wearing that lame-ass hat. With a snort, he threw the cap back, not caring where it landed, so long as the thing was far from him. Another moment and he flipped the leading soldier a casual finger, a feral grin on his lips.
"Just fuckin' try it."
Heine wasn't entirely sure how it'd happened, but minutes later he was facedown on the floor, cheek pressed into the questionably clean tile as a handful of soldiers pinned him. Normally he'd be able to throw them off without trouble; they weren't that heavy. But all he could manage was a weak attempt. And while he could care less if they broke his arms or tried to kill him or whatever else it was they were trying to do, more than anything he was confused as hell about how they'd managed to do it. Not even the wild dog in the back of his mind could explain it. Usually his strength was enough to break free of any restraint. They hadn't even used any guns for fuck's sake!
"Keep it up and you'll be watching everyone else eat breakfast," the same soldier that seemed to speak for all of them announced.
Rather than answer, he jerked and twisted and tried to get even one hand free. One hand and he'd rip the throat right out of that bastard and choke the rest with his intestines. He could feel a knee grind harder into his back, wrists twisting behind him as his face was pressed harder to the floor. He could do without working arms, the animal in him reasoned. Broken bones knit, torn away limbs grew back. Pain was temporary. He started leaning into the twist, putting more pressure on it himself.
"You're forcing my hand Lindemann," the man continued as another soldier bent to help hold him down without injuring himself, "we'll have to put you on report. No meals today and you'll spend the rest of the day standing with an armed escort if you don't calm the hell down."
[ here]
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