Dear Future: I bought you, I own the right...
Day: 77
Characters: Nick (slitycicker), Huey Laforet (immortalstudies)
Summary: Here's a simple trade - company for cigarettes. Just like in prison again, right Nick? Except, this is 45 minutes of therapeutic talk for Nick, for the right to smoke as much as he wants in that time.
DAY/NIGHT & Time: DAY - Afternoon, soon after lunch.
Status: Closed; Ongoing
Laundry day or not, Huey was a man of his word, when it suited him. More often than not, it did not, but it played well into his current schedule, anyway, so he saw nothing wrong with it. He had acquired the cigarettes he had promised Nick - and he remembered the old-fashioned design of the packet, he remembered briefly living in this time in his world, seeing people smoke from these packets. These, and a lighter, he both put down on his desk, arranged neatly next to the ashtray.
It mattered little what Nick told him. It mattered little even if he told anything at all. But it was a chance to see and experience the man, for an impression. While his dossier had yielded little material of interest, Huey was not a person to pass on a chance. Anybody could be a chance, and chance meetings, such as his own with Tock Jefferson, or "Tim" now, could yield interesting results nonetheless.
And then, there was the information he had gained on Nick's background - something that, if in any way possible, he wanted to examine, to use if not for the institution, then for his own notes. Naturally, he had the interest of the institution in mind - it decided about his release, after all - but a scientist to heart, he couldn't help but be interested in what all of this meant for his own experiments.
With a small smile, he leant forward on his chair, elbows on his desk, folded fingers just high enough to obscure the lower half of his face, with his one eye unfocused (the other blind, an empty socket covered by bandages), lost, as it happened a lot, these days, in his own thoughts. His office looked almost friendly, if not cold - empty aside from a desk, sideboards, and a few medical cabinets, filled with tools rather than medicine. The sunlight of the early afternoon gave the room light through the window behind him. He had sent a guard to pick Nick up and escort him to this closed-off part of the asylum, and so for now, he could only wait, pondering, with the sun in his back and shining on the file and objects on the table.
Characters: Nick (slitycicker), Huey Laforet (immortalstudies)
Summary: Here's a simple trade - company for cigarettes. Just like in prison again, right Nick? Except, this is 45 minutes of therapeutic talk for Nick, for the right to smoke as much as he wants in that time.
DAY/NIGHT & Time: DAY - Afternoon, soon after lunch.
Status: Closed; Ongoing
Laundry day or not, Huey was a man of his word, when it suited him. More often than not, it did not, but it played well into his current schedule, anyway, so he saw nothing wrong with it. He had acquired the cigarettes he had promised Nick - and he remembered the old-fashioned design of the packet, he remembered briefly living in this time in his world, seeing people smoke from these packets. These, and a lighter, he both put down on his desk, arranged neatly next to the ashtray.
It mattered little what Nick told him. It mattered little even if he told anything at all. But it was a chance to see and experience the man, for an impression. While his dossier had yielded little material of interest, Huey was not a person to pass on a chance. Anybody could be a chance, and chance meetings, such as his own with Tock Jefferson, or "Tim" now, could yield interesting results nonetheless.
And then, there was the information he had gained on Nick's background - something that, if in any way possible, he wanted to examine, to use if not for the institution, then for his own notes. Naturally, he had the interest of the institution in mind - it decided about his release, after all - but a scientist to heart, he couldn't help but be interested in what all of this meant for his own experiments.
With a small smile, he leant forward on his chair, elbows on his desk, folded fingers just high enough to obscure the lower half of his face, with his one eye unfocused (the other blind, an empty socket covered by bandages), lost, as it happened a lot, these days, in his own thoughts. His office looked almost friendly, if not cold - empty aside from a desk, sideboards, and a few medical cabinets, filled with tools rather than medicine. The sunlight of the early afternoon gave the room light through the window behind him. He had sent a guard to pick Nick up and escort him to this closed-off part of the asylum, and so for now, he could only wait, pondering, with the sun in his back and shining on the file and objects on the table.