It'd look like a hotel if there weren't little indications to the contrary scattered here and there. The sign at the entrance, for one. Upped security around the perimeter. The presence of nurses, the occasional doctor. The illusion is pretty much shattered in Krieg's room, where the medical equipment makes enough of the furnishings to make it look like a really homely hospital room. Residents wave to Gaige as she passes by; now they know better than to pester her with their fanboying, even if the temptation is still there.
The television is on, but muted, while Krieg rests in his bed. It's not clear if he's asleep or not, but he does have Gaige's music player clutched in his hand, buds nested into his ears. A gift she had tucked into his hand back when he was effectively unresponsive, and while it was technically contraband...well, they let it slide on the premise that it would stay in his room. Not like the cord of earbuds was going to fit around his thick neck enough times to do any real damage.
The little gift helps more than she might've realized. Keeps the voices down, keeps the invasive thoughts away. In the music...he remembers the high he used to get. The one that didn't come from a needle, a pill, a bottle. The real one, made by his body in moments of eustress--in response to the beat, the harmony, the roaring crowd. His body's too racked to do it now, but maybe...one day...once all of this is over, he'll get to know the rewarding joy of hard work once again.
Krieg stirs when he--for the first time in weeks--actually feels the presence of another person in his midst. Gaige. He gives her a smile, and even though it's tired, it's genuine, and he's actually there instead of responding to drug-addled stimuli. He pauses the music and nudges the buds out.]
deusexmechina
It'd look like a hotel if there weren't little indications to the contrary scattered here and there. The sign at the entrance, for one. Upped security around the perimeter. The presence of nurses, the occasional doctor. The illusion is pretty much shattered in Krieg's room, where the medical equipment makes enough of the furnishings to make it look like a really homely hospital room. Residents wave to Gaige as she passes by; now they know better than to pester her with their fanboying, even if the temptation is still there.
The television is on, but muted, while Krieg rests in his bed. It's not clear if he's asleep or not, but he does have Gaige's music player clutched in his hand, buds nested into his ears. A gift she had tucked into his hand back when he was effectively unresponsive, and while it was technically contraband...well, they let it slide on the premise that it would stay in his room. Not like the cord of earbuds was going to fit around his thick neck enough times to do any real damage.
The little gift helps more than she might've realized. Keeps the voices down, keeps the invasive thoughts away. In the music...he remembers the high he used to get. The one that didn't come from a needle, a pill, a bottle. The real one, made by his body in moments of eustress--in response to the beat, the harmony, the roaring crowd. His body's too racked to do it now, but maybe...one day...once all of this is over, he'll get to know the rewarding joy of hard work once again.
Krieg stirs when he--for the first time in weeks--actually feels the presence of another person in his midst. Gaige. He gives her a smile, and even though it's tired, it's genuine, and he's actually there instead of responding to drug-addled stimuli. He pauses the music and nudges the buds out.]
Hey.