storiewriterkalyn:

A/N: I actually finished this in 3 days, but let it sit a couple so I could go through it later. 5 days is soon enough, I think. 

Bentley has two conversations with Dr. Fantino, whose research is probably not netting them the results they want. Dipper and Torako have their own talk with a very protective mother, and Dipper realizes that maybe he was ignoring some important calls.

Prologue // Previous // Next

Ao3

8k, so shorter than last time but still a significant read!

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Chapter 8: Dr. Fantino Conducts an Actual
Interview

           “So where are we going?” Bentley
asked, shuffling along on weakened legs. They’d stopped being so strict about
knocking him out and prohibiting all human interaction. It might have been
because he’d become prone to bouts of paralysis, where he stayed in one
position and stared out into nothing, consumed with the overwhelming feeling
that he couldn’t move, that he was frozen in place. Bentley knew he wasn’t
actually paralyzed, but also his brain and body were having fights these days
and Bentley was out of control more than he was in control. Moving around was
therefore a bit of a pleasant surprise.

           He held no illusions as to how that
pleasantry was going to end.

           “You’ll see,” the nurse guiding him
said. Bentley was almost offended by how absolutely non-threatening the nurse
was. It was like Bentley wasn’t thought of as a problem. To be fair, it was
mostly true. He didn’t even have footwear, and it was hard to be intimidating
without shoes. And shuffling. And also sometimes trapped in his own head.

           However, Bentley was content to let the
misperception regarding his capabilities lie, just in case things changed and
he needed the upper hand. He didn’t know how much he could accomplish with a
weak body and without anything to draw sigils with, but there had to be
something, eventually.

           “I’ve never been out here awake,”
Bentley said instead. He was starving for conversation that wasn’t with
himself, and the pale, hollow walls of wherever they were were as good a
conversation starter as anything. They felt unnatural, like there was really
nothing there even though they were solid. Bentley had reached out and touched
one just long enough to tell it was there.

           “I know,” the nurse said. He had
dark eyes and a thin, straight nose. They never really met Bentley’s, never
really even did more than glance at Bentley’s face. He kept his hand splayed
out between Bentley’s shoulderblades, touch professional but not overly pushy.
Bentley was kind of ashamed at how much better the contact made him feel. “But
now you are, I guess.”

           Bentley hummed. “It’s weird.”

           “Yeah,” the nurse sighed. “Yeah,
it’s really unsettling. All right, so, here’s where we’re going! You’ll be
alone inside that room, but you’ll be monitored.” The nurse looked like he
might say something but bit it back with a complicated expression on his face
that Bentley was in no shape to decipher.

           “When am I not monitored?” Bentley
asked, dry, because it was one of the few ways he could distract himself from
the frigid anger he felt at every dehumanizing aspect of his treatment. He
hadn’t physically peed in so long he missed
it.

           The nurse laughed awkwardly, and
opened the door set into the walls. The door felt more tangible, more actual,
than the hallway surrounding them. Bentley nodded his thanks and stepped in,
his hospital gown swirling around his knees. The door shut, and locked, behind
him. Bentley leaned against it and surveyed the room.

           It was bigger than the hole they’d
shut him in, but maybe only twice as much. The space was relaxing, but also
unnerving after so long—however long was—in his own room, big enough for two
twin-sized beds and nothing more. This space even had a table in the middle,
and enough room to walk around it comfortably. Bentley blew his bangs, now past
his nose, out of his eyes. The room smelled a little old, which was odd in a
place that smelled only like absence. The reason for that, Bentley realized,
was because there were some things on the table: a disfigured stuffed bear, an
old tuba, a strand of gaudy beads, a very outdated piece of technology that
Bentley didn’t even recognize, a beautiful vintage vase, and a pink bat with
nails and screws hammered into it. It took Bentley a moment to realize what was
happening.

           Once he started laughing, it was
very, very hard to stop.

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