A Multifandom Asylum RPG

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Day 52: Library (2nd shift)
longlivetehking wrote in damned
Scar possibly couldn't have been more thrilled at the prospect of being escorted to the library. He had visited this particular room plenty of times to know that it was entirely useless and uninteresting - like most daytime activities, for that matter. Still, the nurse seemed rather convinced he'd like one of those silly books filled with papers and papers of those silly symbols he could suddenly understand for reasons that still puzzled him. These symbols didn't quite tell him anything interesting either; if he'd wanted a silly story he'd listen to that senile baboon back home. Instead, he felt like he was particularly mocked with this activity. He had been blinded last night, only to be dragged over to something that required his eyesight as soon as it had returned.

Not caring whether he was taking the situation way too personal, the former lion opted for glaring to the spine of a book - with words reading 'Lolita' (whatever that may have meant) along with a name he didn't care the slightest bit about - as if everything had been its fault. The truth was that Scar was this close to snapping, and though breakfast had been a welcome distraction it hardly did anything to defuse his frustration and anger.

Especially because he had no idea when something like that would happen again. Or what else they had been doing to his head...

[For Naraku!]

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With the second sedative pumping through his veins, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other posed an immense challenge. Even if he had been in his right mind, Shizuo would not have wondered why, rather than being put up in a bed, he was being steered into the planned activity. As if he was in any state befitting a library. He would not have wondered it, but perhaps someone would.

The library seemed a ridiculous choice even to his nurse, but as she helped the tall patient down the hall, pace sluggish and well-behind the rest, she was alerted by another nurse to Mr. Takahaski's location: The Sun Room. Which left only one option. There was absolutely no way that Mr. Peace would be causing trouble in the near future, but putting them in the same room still looked to be a very bad idea. So they walked, one of her hands flat on his lower back, another at his wrist. Though he moved well-enough, a lingering, wobbling unsteadiness persevered.

She very nearly lead him to a window that opened into the Sun Room - but what if he looked out and spotted Mr. Takahaski? It wouldn't do. Back they went, far from the exit, into a corner unoccupied except for the dust. Shizuo slid into the chair she pulled out for him, even now muttering 'thanks'. Whatever she said, he couldn't get a hold on it, and that suited him fine. The languid, heavy calm had him, preventing him from even thinking that name. From doing much at all. He was unaware that she'd left his side until a book was place in front of him, and opened to the first page. More words, both said by her, and printed.

After a few minutes, in which Shizuo stared at the illustrations without actually seeing them, the fog began to lift. Only a little. Barely. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the art. What... were those things? Unable to make sense of the white, furry figures, his attention shifted to the text. I am Sam. Sam I am.

That Sam-I-Am! That Sam-I-Am! I do not like that Sam-I-Am!

Do you like green eggs and ham?

Unaware that he'd begun mouthing the words, Shizuo stopped at that line. Green eggs and ham? Even through his haze, that sounded foul. Who the hell would want green ham or green eggs? Focus was fleeting, but one solid thing stayed: he didn't like Sam-I-Am, either. If Sam-I-Am wanted to trick people into eating rotten food, he was no better than... only, he couldn't complete the thought. He couldn't even scrape together a real surge of irritation, never mind anger.

All he could do, and all he did, was sit and frown at the pages of Green Eggs and Ham.

[Claire of the Crazies :3]

A library.

Somehow, standing in front of rows upon rows of weathered, plastic sheathed books didn't bring to mind her past trips to the little community centre in Sydney. Or even the frequent visits during school (those ones had almost always ended with her falling asleep in front of an encyclopedia). Instead, all she could see was Sawyer in his goofy welded glasses - a different half for each prescription - and the little piles he kept of the island's meager reading material. Crummy novels people brought to read on the plane. Even that manuscript he'd thought himself so lucky to find.

Though it hurt to think about the man in any context, she let herself smile over the memory just this once. Those had been much happier times. When they were like a family.

And those glasses had been so ridiculous.

She drifted through the rows. The classics section made her turn up her nose. Those had been a nightmare to study and she wanted nothing to do with them even years later. She paused with a little more fondness when she came across some more modern collections, running curious fingers along the spines. Stephen King used to be a favourite. Claire traced the raised print on the spines, contemplating the titles. The familiarity. The fact that there were books at all. God, she hadn't read a thing since she'd last peeked at her old diary. That had been lost when those crazy boat people bombed her house. (Though that wasn't really her house - just the one she'd been using in the Other's village.) It was shortly after that that her 'father' had picked her up, and she hadn't given reading a thought since.

This was too weird. Not even two days ago she was thousands of miles away from anything like this. The idea of having a book, just picking it up and reading it like there was nothing better to do seemed so very...stupid. She hadn't had time for anything like that in years. The wicked didn't rest, or however that went. She'd had to keep on her toes at all times. She couldn't have sat down to read even if she'd had all the books in the world right in front of her.

Claire frowned. So what was she supposed to do now?

Frustrated, bitter, and yet still in awe, she lost herself in the tiny library. Drifted from row to row, spying on the conversing people at the tables and chairs. Eventually she arrived at a man sitting alone. Blond like her, tall like the boy from breakfast. He was slouching oddly in his chair. Puzzled, she drew closer, stopping just behind his shoulder once she caught sight of the book in his hands.

The whimsical, swooping illustrations and bold lettered rhymes were so deeply ingrained in her mind that the entire story came back instantly. This was a book she could have recited almost by heart when she was little. The bulk of it had drifted out of her mind over the years, but she always felt as if she had the whole thing memorized.

"My mum used to read that to me," she declared suddenly to the man, still standing behind him. "When I was little. It was my favourite book."


Would you like them here or there?


Would you like them in a house? Would you like them with a mouse?

The fog thinned further, dispersed by the force of displacement. Or some physics term he'd never learned, or never committed to memory. Something about filled space suddenly emptied, something filling it, air or otherwise. By now, reading lines like that, Shizuo should have, would have been past irritation. He'd have gotten pissed and probably ripped the book in half, or closed it before he got that bad. Right now, even if he wanted to get angry (he never actually did), he couldn't have, but its absence left a chasm.

Maybe Shinra would have theorized that, or a similar hypothesis. Shizuo wouldn't have even if he was at full mental capacity. All he would have recognized were the physical effects, the facts: while the drug continued to keep him calm, any movements slow, his mind was catching on rapidly. Enough that he had a sense of a person behind him, if not the interest or motor functions at present to look. Not until she'd spoken.

He understood most of it, too, at least the meaning. The easiest thing, his muscles decided, was to let his head fall back on his neck, over the chair, chin aiming to point at the ceiling.

A woman, but he'd known that from her voice. Mostly.

"...Favourite?" he echoed, pushing his head forward again, allowing his eyes to reexamine the words. With a fox, in a box, annoying, annoying, the emotion hadn't hit him yet, too obscured by the clouds of sedation, but his frown intensified.

"I don't get it," Shizuo muttered, vowels slurring, "with a mouse or a fox or in a house or whatever," barely emphasized, lacking the irritated bite such an obvious complaint should have, "if I don't want it, I don't want it anywhere. Definitely not with rodents. Asking all those stupid questions... Annoying... That Sam-I-Am is really annoying. I'd..."

only, without fury to fuel the threat, he simply trailed off. While angry, he might have beaten the hell out of Sam-I-Am, crushed his damn box, shoved the ham down his throat 'til he choked on it, killed him, but right now no words came, so he had nothing.

Edited at 2010-10-01 08:14 pm (UTC)

SOB OKAY. I will be here as long as you are willing to put up with me.

Suddenly, it seemed as if the way he sat in the chair was the least odd thing about him. She drew back in surprise as he literally flopped his head backwards to see who was talking, then rolled it forward to look at the book again. His eyes had seemed to struggle with finding her. They were unfocused somehow. Distant.

Now she was curious. And, truth be told, a little worried. Claire rounded the chair as he spoke in broken phrases, studying his face. His movements were lazy, and he kept muttering in a tone she had to strain to hear. And he was taking the book oh so seriously, to a point where every complaint he made him sound like a lunatic.

She crouched down beside him so that he wouldn't have to move to look her in the eye and cautiously put a hand on his wrist. Might be a risky move, but he looked so sluggish. Claire could probably yank his nose right now and the most she'd have to worry about would be some sloppy cussing.

"Are you all right?"

She was pretty damn sure she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him. Maybe there weren't drugs in the food after all, but this was supposed to be an insane asylum. They had to have at least a few loaded needles around for when the patients got unruly, and Claire knew the signs firsthand. Even if she had been much cheerier on sedatives than this guy.

Edited at 2010-10-02 05:25 am (UTC)

The question is, how long are you willing to put up with me?

Oblivious to her scrutiny, Shizuo managed to look at the woman as her face came into his level, if not line of vision; looking down at the page, she moved at the edge of his vision. His eyes slid toward her as her fingers touched his skin. Had he not been sedated, the contact would have surprised him. He might have wondered at it. Instead, he devoted his attention to hearing and comprehending her question.

Simple enough. Something he could answer. He felt fine; every nerve, every slack muscle, everything told him that everything was fine. Even if, while the cause had already slipped from mind (below his nose, green eggs and green ham), something unpleasant prickled.

"'m fine," he answered, though a furrow dug in his brow. She'd even touched his wrist; she must not think he was. His saying so could be enough. A slight compulsion to expand produced this: "-hey shtopped me from being violent, twish..." and dissolved in the face of a new question, as he was utterly unable to focus on more than a single thing at a time, if that.

"Don't like chairs?" Why was she crouched, rather than seated in an adjacent chair? A reasonable explanation never came; instead, another distraction, in that he found himself looking with curiosity at her hand on his wrist. Weird.

Until the Rapture hits. Perhaps even beyond. <3

Stopped him from being violent. The meaning behind that was pretty clear. Not entirely unexpected, either, but that didn't stop Claire's eyes from growing narrow. Of course they'd stick anyone who objected with needles. They had to keep people in line here or else it would be chaos.

She frowned at him, but patted his wrist lightly before pulling away. "No, I'm...I didn't want to make it harder for you to see me. How much can you hear right now? Is it just wooziness?" Claire cast a glance at their surroundings, rising to her feet and making her way to a chair nearby.

"Sit still," she advised. Just in case he tried to follow. "Moving around might make it worse." After exchanging a stern look with the nurses she picked up the chair (it was fairly obvious she was not going to hit him with it, what the hell did they look so panicked for?), flipping it around and scooting it closer to the man's. There. Should be easier to face one another now. Claire settled into her new seat and began to question the man again.

"Why did they sedate you? Were you trying to get out?"

s-such devotion;; ♥♥ i am UNWORTHY

Shizuo felt fine, but the effort of focusing, of trying to focus on all the words coming out of her mouth, threatened to give him a headache. Would have been annoying, had he not been so heavily drugged.

"Can hear," he said, and he could, though processing was taking a damn long time. It wasn't his thought, but: it might have been impressive in itself, that he was still conscious after two full doses. The forced relaxation, compulsory drowsiness, battled with and draped over instinct, over an infamously short fuse, over the attempt to attend to what went on -- to this woman.

Slowly, though she'd said not to move, he brought his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hard. He closed his eyes a moment (missing her lifting the chair, and the looks she received), and that moment behind his eyelids seemed to stretch into the darkness. He caught himself before his head crashed into the table, jerking back out of reflex. His hand fell from his nose, smacking clumsily at the table.

The words she'd started saying while he almost dropped off crawled into place. Shizuo shook his head, as if the air fought the motion. The drugs made it hard to remember, but the memory was there, clearer than it normally would have been -- when enraged, not much stayed. Having the recollection left him at an initial loss of what to do with it, not helped by his obvious predicament.

"Wasn't my room," he said, the words at a snail's pace as he clawed for sense through the calm haze, "couldn't... find shoots." That wasn't the word. "Shu.. suits. I figured Izaya..." his mouth twisted out of reflex, but the typical vehement loathing didn't make it, "Must've gotten mad. They got me there... again at breakfast. Saw Izaya."

Edited at 2010-10-13 10:53 pm (UTC)

No I am fairly certain you are the most worthy. :|

His mumbling was difficult to cipher without leaning in close. Claire scooted the chair closer and tried to lean in without falling over, her mouth a firm line as she listened to him fumble the words.

From what she could make of it, the guy was new here. Trying to find his 'suits'. He'd probably woken up and tried looking for his old clothes, then. He must have thrown a fit there if the staff had sedated him for it. The rest of it took some time to figure out, but this Izaya sounded like a person more than a thing. Someone who pissed him off, obviously. And the implication there was that he'd thought Izaya was responsible for his being here.

"Sorry to hear that," she said after some time. "You have to keep your head down here. If you keep throwing fits they might do worse to you. You're lucky they haven't dragged you off somewhere."

Memories of her time in the pit weren't far behind. This wasn't so different from her time in the Temple, only that here they had yet to try using shocks on her or stick her with needles.

That didn't mean they weren't planning on it.

idk, after this delay... DON'T FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE TO REPLY sob;;

Though it took time, an amount of time that would have infuriated him, he heard and understood what she said. Something in the content would've set him off, the suggestion of luck, or of throwing fits, or of having to keep a low profile. As if he could, he might've thought, though if he was able to think so clearly, Shizuo might have begun to notice the way in which he could. Might have. It had been over fifteen years since he last had that kind of control.

Something would have set him off, but the void, created by that absence of irritation and burgeoning anger, filled with the unexpected. Shizuo looked at the woman, the words you have to keep your head down cycling through his skull, and abruptly, he began to laugh. Beginning not with a chuckle but an outright, throaty, bark of laughter, the sedatives stretched it, forcing him to press his head into his hands, those propped up by his elbows, elbows framing the book.

The cause of this fit he could not articulate. In part because, halfway through it, he wasn't sure why he was laughing, if he'd ever known. It subsided as abruptly as it had begun; Shizuo lifted his head, grin fading but not gone.

"Yeah," he agreed, "Sounds familiar." The excess emotion, even filtered through the drugs, cleared his mind a minute amount, making room for this:

"Heiwajima Shizuo." He looked at her; unblinking (a little more focused), waiting.

MY LOVE FOR YOU IS UNDAUNTED BY DELAYS. though lol yeah DS approacheth. Intros and leave it there?

She wasn't cowed by the laugh. Confused, yes, but they'd already established that the man wasn't himself right now and could barely move without falling over. If anything, it made her more worried.

The introduction earned a polite nod. Which one was the family name and which was the given was still a mystery to her. The second seemed more manageable by far. Less syllables to trip over. She'd call him that for now and hope that she wasn't offending him.

"Claire. Claire Littleton. I won't blame you if you forget." Her mouth twitched into a brief smile. "I had a hard time remembering stuff when I got sedated."

She reached up and patted his shoulder. Partly to keep him upright, and partly to keep him from losing focus. Touch was supposed to reinforce memory, wasn't it? She'd heard something like that one time. Maybe in her baby books from way back when. "It's good to meet you, Shizuo."


The marginal increase in clarity let her name sink in quicker than any previous bit of information. Her sparing him the blame was more generous than she realized, as Shizuo had long had trouble remembering names. It was worse when he was angry. Unfortunately, given the dynamics of his temper, he rarely wasn't angry. Except for now.

That clarity also enabled him to recognize the difference in her name, though it took another half-minute for the significance of the difference to strike. Claire Littleton: had to be first name last, and every syllable English. At that moment came the realization that she spoke (Japanese to his ears) with an accent, though not one he could have easily placed while in his right mind.

Not that Shizuo cared much about accents, or even name types. Had he been disposed to, her again initiating contact would have wiped those thoughts from mind. Willingly, familiarly touched, in a manner not hostile, nor demanding, nor seeking anything -- then, told it was good to meet him. That wasnt, or shouldn't have been noteworthy. A matter of good etiquette.

But, it left him, especially through the sedative fog, unsure, off-guard, fumbling with what to say and how to react. His hand reached to disguise his face by pushing sunglasses that weren't there, fingers sliding clumsily over his cheeks, then brows.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "you too."

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