schmetterling: (Schuldig)
Schuldig is given a set of scrubs that have been boiled at least a hundred times; Esset was never as cheap as this, resorting to some bargain laundry service. Must be Naoe's influence on the Kritiker board, he decided, grimacing as he finished dressing. "Ready or not, here I come," he alerted his escort, slipping his feet into the paper booties and shuffling into the hall.

The walk was brief but the corridors and stairs were blandly modern and designed to make the way un-memorable. Dampers were in effect, though with less strength between doors so Schuldig could occasionally feel a dizzying pull between muffled silence. His guide was keeping his own thoughts quiet and subtly shielded, while he himself was not, and his expressions betrayed him as well as uneven pace and direction. What the hell, he'd have a minute or so to pull himself together, and how serious could this interview.. debriefing.. whatever it was be, they expected him to arrive in hospital garb.

The man in the lead gave a polite bow as they reached their destination, a small room with a table, two chairs, and one obvious observation mirror, and pointed to the chair opposite the mirror. Schuldig gave a slightly stiff and comedic bow in return before sitting, but to his surprise his guide accompanied him inside and settled into the chair across from him. For a moment neither spoke. Schuldig tried on his best "I knew you'd do that" face and his guide smirked right back.

"Du Halsabschneider, you're reading me," Schuldig leaned forward, thin and predatory, defenses crackling as he desperately tried to keep up a front. This guy, this holding cell errand boy, could read him despite the effect of the dampers? Schuldig couldn't even really feel the barriers or resistance of the dampers, it was like appreciating heat or cooling without ever feeling the air move; whatever new technology Kritiker was rolling out was new and horrifying, and damned if he was going to fail whatever..

"Too late," the man across the table shrugged. Schuldig opened his mouth to protest, frowned as he realized that was ridiculous given the circumstances, and then the circumstances brought heat to his cheeks. The other rose from his chair and Schuldig watched, rapt, desperation suppressed but rising. "Don't bother getting up, and don't be too disappointed, this wasn't actually your interview."

With that Schuldig was left alone to consider his reflection.
schmetterling: (Schuldig)
Schuldig is falling, and if someone doesn't catch him he's just going to -SPLASH- oh, well, not such a hard landing after all. Why still falling, though? He's trying not to lose his fingers to the wire around his neck and angry about the inevitable damage to his hair, he's trying to keep his eyes open, he's trying not to mentally scream because his team doesn't need that while they're trying to swim, he's contemplating the odds of being crushed by stone that's falling underwater before he runs out of air and sucks in water - sinking not falling, it's sinking stone, is it stinking faster than he is? This one is, this large one coming very quickly, it's definitely coming down on him. Can Farf and Nagi even swim? He thrashes and kicks. Parts of the tower coming at him very quickly, very large, very bad. His lungs are bursting and just before the debris smashes him he lets out all the air he's been trying to conserve.

Schuldig wakes up with a jolt and tries to suck back the hoarse shout he must have just emitted as yet another Nurse Feelgood maintains the machinery maintaining him. "Save it for the debriefing," she tests the travel rumpled telepath's hearing, most of her patients can't or won't reply for the first few days.

He hears her, blinks as he resets his internal calendar from dream-time to the present; the fall in the ocean was.. at least? or probably? a couple years ago. Debriefing, why? He remembers holing up in a quiet city away from the center of everything after the last adhoc team assignment. Simple eavesdropping and reportage, the job was boring and so were the other operatives. He flexes his fingers, tries to settle his legs as best the bindings will allow- hey, no ankle straps? He picks up his head and bends his knees, experimentally sliding his feet around on the sheet.

"I wasn't on a job," he says, the mouthguard is gone, though it feels like talking through glue and his throat hurts. The nurse can hear the roughness, hnf's in reply and lifts a sippy-cup to his mouth.

"Just making small-talk, I'm not sure whose desk you'll wind up on." The water is room temperature, perfect, and as he tries to guzzle she pulls it away before he overdoes it. "You arrived in the intake courier parcel, we've unpacked you. Probably have you ready for delivery tomorrow." She pats his arm and Schu looks there, realizing he can lift his hand to his face, can push back his hair, and can't hear a thought from anyone else - didn't notice anything outside himself even when she touched him. He looks around the small room, noting something cramped about the edges of the walls and the low, slightly arched ceiling. There's more than one small device near the door, on the wall, over head, with subtle LEDs winking; dampers, sensors, scattering units, the usual, maybe even a smoke or C02 detector in the mix. His left arm is still strapped down at wrist and elbow, though it seems that's to protect a small cluster of IV's against movement while he's been unconscious. She tucks the sippy cup in his left hand on her way out the door.

"What the fuck, again?" he whines, unamused.
schmetterling: (Schuldig)
He's almost conscious, convulsing and fighting instinctively against a choking sensation and invasion of his nose and throat. A breathing tube is removed though all he knows as he wakes into panic is that too many hands and straps are holding him down and there's a lot of fuss around his head - again? Kicking against the catheter team is thwarted by the tie-downs around bony knees and ankles. His veins burn, he struggles to roll away; it's futile, he's been efficiently immobilized and restrained, physically and chemically.
He becomes aware of himself with no sense of the time or day, and no memory of several fits of semi-consciousness. His inability to lift a hand to his head or curl up against his discomfort comes as an unpleasant and familiar sensation, almost self-explanatory. Tied down? He hadn't ignored a summons, had he? Disobeyed an order to appear? Rejected an assignment? His mind skips through a number of logical reasons he might have been tranqed and tanked while the rest of him squirms, stretches, pulls, tests, HATES the restraint. Beeping monitors at the bedside broadcast and magnify his failure to maintain calm by analyzing the situation and understanding his options and opportunities - FUCK YOU, CRAWFORD, WHEREVER YOU ARE. The machines reach a crescendo and reward his "high score" with a tranquilizer dump into the IV. He fades back with a whining complaint against the mouth guard, and snorts through his nose - good one, assholes.
The next time he surfaces he's watching a special forces nurse - is that a cattle prod at his hip - change fluid bags. The nurse notices his eyes tracking and nods, acknowledging him with a wry "Good morning, sunshine," which causes him to lift a brow and grunt against the mouthguard in reply. Might as well be.. social. "I suppose you're wondering why we've brought you here today," the nurse responds, leaning in and smiling.
Schu stills and the monitors slow, betraying everything - he's going to have to yank them down or kick them over later, fucking machines.
The nurse grins suddenly, shrugging and stepping back as he thumbs open the fresh IV drip. "I have no idea, whatever, but you hang in there, red."
Schu can feel his face slack and he tries, tries so hard to swear against the mouthguard as lips numb; where the fuck does Kritiker get these assholes? What the fuck kind of nurse bastard rotten jackass..
He forgets to be grateful that he's alive, but he smiles as he sleeps.
schmetterling: (Heh)
He doesn't care; he's not flattered like some of the little twerps had hoped, or impressed by their ability to annoy him, or frightened by their ability to find him.
Between assignments when he's "free" the senior operatives will send their trainee telepaths out into the ether: find this signature, find this mind, find this unknown agent. It's partly to assess the new talents, and partly a ring of fire to keep a rattlesnake contained.
When they get too close, nearly dialed in, he shocks them silent. He knows tricks they've only heard hints of, and he's a grumpy old rattlesnake, these days. It's not worth complaining about yet, not unless their supervisors try to take him to task for damage done to fresh goods. For now both sides are comfortable pretending that nothing is happening.
schmetterling: (Heh)
He's remained in service despite breaking from not one, but two anchors. The first, Crawford, had been a catastrophic sundering. He'd barely survived. The second he wasn't entirely sure that he had survived, not yet. Not on days like these when he found himself untethered, floating out and wandering; returning to himself only to throw up from the shock of inhabiting a body, shaking his way to a can of coffee or juice from the vending machine at the end of the hall, at the bottom of the fucking stairs.


schmetterling: (Default)

March 2014

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