"Nine-thirty," he repeats, trying to process the information like it's vital to his life, but--really, it's just because it seems like nothing sticks in his brain anymore and he wants to find some frame of reference, something to help him level out. And that seems like something important too, that idea, but he can't for the life of him remember why and it compiles onto the dizziness and the confusion and he groans, letting his head thump back against the wall.
The clatter of her instruments draws his attention though, not the sharp-eyed focus she might have come to expect, but a sort of bleary half-focused thing as he tries to puzzle out what's going on. There are files there, he can see his number stamped high on top of each of them, but there's no real reason for his technician to have anything beyond the vitals reports they always carry with their check boxes to note how all of the subjects are responding to another day of treatment.
Lacking his routine, the former agent has no frame of reference and his confusion only increases, wincing as her hand finds his chin, letting out a hiss at the twist of his head. It shouldn't hurt, the grip isn't tight, but it does, sharp pains that skitter down his spine and he wants them to stop, sometimes so desperately it actually aches somewhere deep in his chest and he knows he would do almost anything they asked if they had a way to make it stop hurting.
"What--" he replies, meeting her eyes with his own, though his are unfocused and nearly vacant. This is not the man you know, Natasha. He might be in there, somewhere, but he's buried under a chemical cocktail of secobarbital and five other things he didn't catch when the nurse rattled it off--sedatives, all of them, meant to dull the mind, to confine, contain and keep them all the perfect patients. "I don't understand the question." It's a standard answer. A safe answer. An answer that doesn't lead to any sort of punishment. It's twins are 'yes' and 'no' and nothing else beyond that. He'd gotten close, earlier, with 'what'. And he'd crossed the line with the question about the time. She's not following the rules, though, and it's thrown him off, so he clings to the pattern, trying for normalcy or what serves for it in his life now.
no subject
The clatter of her instruments draws his attention though, not the sharp-eyed focus she might have come to expect, but a sort of bleary half-focused thing as he tries to puzzle out what's going on. There are files there, he can see his number stamped high on top of each of them, but there's no real reason for his technician to have anything beyond the vitals reports they always carry with their check boxes to note how all of the subjects are responding to another day of treatment.
Lacking his routine, the former agent has no frame of reference and his confusion only increases, wincing as her hand finds his chin, letting out a hiss at the twist of his head. It shouldn't hurt, the grip isn't tight, but it does, sharp pains that skitter down his spine and he wants them to stop, sometimes so desperately it actually aches somewhere deep in his chest and he knows he would do almost anything they asked if they had a way to make it stop hurting.
"What--" he replies, meeting her eyes with his own, though his are unfocused and nearly vacant. This is not the man you know, Natasha. He might be in there, somewhere, but he's buried under a chemical cocktail of secobarbital and five other things he didn't catch when the nurse rattled it off--sedatives, all of them, meant to dull the mind, to confine, contain and keep them all the perfect patients. "I don't understand the question." It's a standard answer. A safe answer. An answer that doesn't lead to any sort of punishment. It's twins are 'yes' and 'no' and nothing else beyond that. He'd gotten close, earlier, with 'what'. And he'd crossed the line with the question about the time. She's not following the rules, though, and it's thrown him off, so he clings to the pattern, trying for normalcy or what serves for it in his life now.