damned_institute | Night 65: M91-M100 Hallway

As the intercom died away, the Once-ler grabbed his crutch and hobbled over to the door. Poking his head out briefly, he glanced up and down the dark hallway before retreating back in and shutting the door.

“Just Once-ler is fine,” he said in response to the other man, still facing the door. “And again, you are?”

While he waited for a reply, he mulled over the intercom’s message. It sounded like the sickness was a twisted experiment, and five people would ‘turn’. The Once-ler was not certain exactly what the Head Doctor meant, but found himself hoping that Soma was not among that number. Sora also hadn’t been feeling well, he recalled.

Hopefully whatever was in the X-ray room tonight would prove useful. There was so much wrong with experimenting on people and making them sick, and there had to be a better solution than amateur stomach surgery.

The Once-ler’s thoughts were interrupted when the other man spoke up again. He turned around to see that his roommate had gone pale. It sounded like he was afraid of the sickness going around. “Not really, no. I was traveling with someone sick last night, but she said it probably wasn’t contagious. I feel fine. Aside from the injuries, obviously.”

Speaking of Soma, hadn’t she had a flashlight last night? That would make navigating the hallways much easier, and safer too. “You don’t know where I could get a flashlight, do you?”

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Thanks to the jackhammer in his skull, waking became an unusual chore. Even as consciousness hit and with it various wrongs, it took him time to dislodge the last dregs of sleep, the groggy aftertaste. Adrenaline helped, adrenaline pumped by the certainty of an unfamiliar (yet familiar) bed, of a stark drop in spirit pressure (unfamiliar, yet familiar). Uryuu's hand lifted from the sheets, nearing his head, as if to grip it in its aching, but lurched instead, jerking beneath the pillow.

As he thought it would, his fingers met the cool shaft of what was unmistakably a flashlight. That jolted him upright, shoving back much of the sheets and blanket as he peered into the dark, his hands now groping for his glasses, which he crammed onto his face. Next, clicking on the light, which he swept around the room, his heartbeat matching the rapid pulse behind his eyes.

As if the drab grey shirt, as if the two hospital beds, as if that same room layout wasn't enough. He wouldn't have, didn't need any of it: only once place had such low spirit pressure in the air. The weight of his pendant against the chain of his bracelet served as a calming constant, even with the memory of his reduced powers.

It shouldn't have been, and wasn't necessarily, a surprise to wake here. Only, it had been morning, he thought. Morning, breakfast with Kratos-san and the information relayed by the bulletin board, and then...? Time and memory blurred. Perhaps the food had been drugged. Perhaps something else. Intuition, or hyperactive dread, begged paranoia over the latter, but he kept it at bay as he stood, making a quick round of his side of the room.

No evidence of dinner, nor of Kudou-san, or any other person who might have shared the room. He found the same assortment of clothes in the drawers, the same pens and journal at the desk, the same coats and boots in the closet. He did not find, even with a search of closet, drawers, and beneath the bed, the backpack found in the forest. Not the backpack, and not Kratos-san's cloak, both of which had been in his closet that morning. The man had said the clothing had simply appeared one day; had it returned to him? But what of the bag? Opening the journal yielded another curiosity: he had torn out two pages, before. This journal showed no evidence of it. Its pages were blank, without any of the writing of just that morning in the Sun Room.

Uryuu shook his head, but did not remain idle as he pondered it. Walking to the door, he pulled it open, directing the light over the number. M100. Not M77, the room which he'd been assigned the night before, and had woke in the past couple of days. If it was only a matter of changed rooms, wouldn't his "belongings" have transferred?

Unable to think it so simple, he gathered supplies. Something told him Kratos-san would not be waiting. Perhaps he would see him on the way to the file rooms. Whatever had affected him (had he been- every possibility should be an option, but if he had been convinced and released, wouldn't he remember it? Remember thinking himself Gerard Way?) could not be deduced in this moment, thus he resolved to stay with his original plan for the night.

A moment spent, thoughtful, at the desk. If any information of note was found, rather than take the files, he would do better to copy them. Taking only a few pages might not be enough, or prove annoying to write on. Flipping open the journal, he penned M100, along with a quick recollection of what he'd learned earlier: Kurosaki - ?, Inoue-san - Amaya, Abarai - Kyle, Kuchiki-san - Shiori, Ururu-san - Karen, Kuchiki Byakuya - ?, Senna-san - ? (from Karakura). Hitsugaya-san, Yamada-kun, Matsumoto-san, Hinamori-san.

Then, he tugged off a pillow case, depositing the radio then the journal. Setting it aside, he put on the boots and considered the coat, the harsh memory of his idiocy the night prior (or some night prior) clear. Although he had no intention of going outside... he stared at the sweatshirts. The coat, for practicality, must still be dismissed as too restrictive. The sweatshirts more the ignoble status as some of the ugliest things he'd ever seen. Almost completely shapeless. Yet.

He would not be unprepared again. Gritting his teeth, he yanked one down and folded it into his pillow case. ...Then, just in case, the second. Suppose something ripped through the first? It lacked the appeal of a spare cape, but he couldn't overlook the possible use.

Two pens pocketed, along with the keyring. A second shirt taken from a drawer, pulled on over the one he already wore, and the undershirt beneath it. Then he lifted the pillow case, considering its opening. With a few hard wrenches, he tore ribbons, which he wound and tied into a short loop, one he just managed to get over his shoulder. It would do as a bag, and to keep his hands free.

That done, he snapped off the flashlight and stepped into the hallway.

[ creepin' here! ]

Edited 2012-10-24 13:15 (UTC)