Night 64: M71-M80 Hallway

[ryuuzaki]

So Lingormr left the way he'd come in: dragged by several staff members. L watched, expressionless, as the door closed behind them.

It meant one of two things: a sleep study, or special counseling. In the case of the former, it would depend on the nature of the procedure, but from the victim's point of view, it was mainly a question of endurance. If it were the latter, however, it meant that something like his roommate's full abilities might be on display—somewhere, and possibly to the detriment of anyone who encountered him.

He remembered the way Parker had broken Keman's arm that first night. Thinking of it made him feel the barest twinge of pity: however Parker had died, it seemed unlikely that he had deserved it. Howell had been there, and he was gone too, but not killed, just "released." Each of them had displayed impressive skills under Special Counseling. It would be better to avoid the danger inherent in encountering someone in those circumstances, especially if you were injured, but if guard duty was Lingormr's destiny tonight, it would be interesting to know what he was capable of, and what that might mean on a more typical evening. It might be possible to find out on the bulletin board in the morning.

The intercom announcement interrupted his thoughts.

[Continuing in comments.]

Comments

M73

[ryuuzaki]

[From above.]

Harrington...? That had been the name of one of Aguilar's underlings, one well-known to the patients, because he had done a lot of intercom announcements. And then, the last night of military rule, patients had encountered two notable people leaving the Institute: two people worth discussing. Statements from both Landel and Marc had made it obvious that one of the people must have been Lydia, the former head nurse, who had used the alias Jill. The other seemed to be someone named Claude, but his identity was less obvious.

Harrington's interruption had a tone and content consistent with Marc's previous radio communications, and none of this had any whiff of Aguilar's involvement about it. That could mean that Harrington was really offering assistance—that he was Claude—or it could be a trick.

Landel's apparent anger supported the idea that the message was real, but the reaction might have been feigned, and whether or not that was the case, it was almost a given that something nasty would now be guarding the medical wing. That wouldn't necessarily mean that Harrington's assistance couldn't be trusted: they would have to judge that from the quality of the information, once they acquired it. But it meant that they would have to be prepared to work for it, and that getting it would be risky.

Edgar would probably be up for a change in plans, but Nina... L didn't yet know her well enough to say. He turned to finish getting ready.

His box was full to the brim now, so packed that it was almost inconvenient to sift through it, between his surviving Doyleton purchases and the items which were apparently being passed to him now that Lunge was gone. The small shield that they'd won from the Sphinx and the ring that connected to the basement were the two most important things, and seeing them inspired an enormous sense of relief. Less vital, but still good to have, were the papers and notes that had been in Lunge's possession and the hunting knife from the hardware store.

The sling incapacitated L's arm, to an extent, but the support it provided was valuable enough that he decided to wear it. Changing out of the Institute uniform that he'd worn all day without help would be too difficult and inconvenient, so he only added the leather belt from the military uniform. It held the holstered Walther, and once it was around his waist, he draped the hem of his sweatshirt over the gun to make its presence less obvious. Having only one free hand meant the brush axe would have to stay in the room for the night. It probably wouldn't matter: the gun was the more effective weapon, Edgar had weapons and magic of his own, and Nina would have Abe's bat.

He hesitated to give her the bat. There was always the possibility that Nina could turn on her companions, in which case arming her in any way would be dangerous, but so far, it seemed improbable that she would; there was nothing in their conversation or his observations of her that set off any serious warning bells. Also, any weapon that provided more than a negligible degree of self-defense would always make someone a threat to their companions, but that kind of self-defense was necessary here. In the immediate future, there probably wasn't much middle ground between trusting her and feeling responsible for her death.

If she tried to hurt anyone, he could always shoot her.

But he also had to prepare for the possibility that he would be the one to turn on them. He'd worn the Doyleton ring as a last resort in the past, for his safety, and he'd used it for the more mundane purpose of fast travel. He'd wear it as a safeguard again tonight, but with a difference: not only would it be available if he needed it to get out of a sticky situation, he could also use it to spare the others if he felt a sticky situation starting to develop. He could be far away from them at the first sign that it would be necessary.

He still felt ill, but his long nap and the medication he'd taken after dinner had helped. The anxiety that went along with the sickness couldn't be helped, and Landel's determined efforts to intensify it backfired in at least one way: it made L want to ignore his symptoms as much as he could, out of spite. Easier said than done, but he would try. In spite of the fast healing, his shoulder still hurt.

When he reached into the closet for the lightweight boots (which he had decided to wear because they would be easiest for him to fasten), his hand brushed against something hung on a far hook. He peered at it, bringing up the beam of the flashlight, then frowned: it was a long overcoat, Lunge's overcoat. There wouldn't be much use for it here, and he had no sentimental attachment to it, and finding it in his closet made him feel like Landel was mocking him. Nothing here is permanent; progress is illusory. You'll be cured, or you'll die, and none of it matters.

Matt had told him that he, L, had died, at home; it was almost the first thing he had learned. It had made him feel like much of his time in the Institute might be borrowed, like he had been given the kind of rescue he never would have asked for. For a while before he had been brought there, he'd felt as if he might be staring his own death in the face in a depressingly literal way—Yagami had been omnipresent even after L was no longer forcing him to be—and it seemed that, without intervention, that feeling would have been correct. In other, more distant ways, L had spent years knowing that his life was at risk. The idea that he could change was both terrifying and slightly unreal, causing a tug of war between fear and disbelief, but it made him want to do as much about his situation as possible. And even though Landel had never claimed that everyone would change, talk of a cure offered hope—Harrington offered hope.

Anything hard to replace went into the drawer, which he locked before pocketing the keys. Roommates wouldn't be a problem tonight, but someone could still loot the room. The condition of his shoulder meant that the backpack would be impossible to carry, so he settled for his flashlight: Edgar would probably have his radio, and they could always double back.

That left the lollipop from dinner. He discarded the wrapper and popped it into his mouth—cherry. Tucking the bat under his incapacitated arm, and taking his flashlight from the desk, he left the room.

[To here.]