Who: Erran and Gemma When: 10am-ish Where: Basement What: Celebrating freedom by going to the underground gas prison?
Erran hit post on a network message just letting people know his availability, not sure if anyone would take him up on it. He didn't blame people if they were leery of it; they didn't know him, he couldn't exactly display his credentials, and for all they knew, he might be working for the assholes running this place. Which was fine, trust would either develop or it wouldn't. There was only so much he could offer. Group workshops might be more effective for convincing people that therapy might not be completely useless. Anyway, tomorrow was definitely going to be much worse, from what he'd heard about punishments, so he hoped that people were preparing in whatever way they had.
Yesterday afternoon before the power went out he'd done the sketchy-foreign-hotel thing of washing his clothes in the bathtub, since he only had his hospital gown and didn't feel great about swanning down to the utility room to use the washing machines with his ass in the breeze, in front of cameras. His shirt and pants had survived the process okay, which was why they were his airport outfit in the first place, so at least he wasn't smelly.
Downstairs in the foyer, he waited by the elevator for Gemma. He was definitely feeling weird off his meds, in that particular indescribable way that usually meant he was due for a seizure within a day or so, so getting that situation straightened out was a priority. It wasn't exactly a bad feeling, just a little vertiginous sometimes, a little spacey, and kind of like when he moved his head his brain didn't move with it. I feel like my brain is a raisin, you know? he'd said once to his neurologist, early on after the injury when he'd still been groping for words. Like a California raisin. Right? Like the way those feel. That's not good.
The neurologist hadn't understood, really, but Erran still thought it was a solid metaphor.