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damned_institute2011-07-14 03:17 pm
human-sponge.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2011-07-14 03:17 pm
Entry tags:
- izaya,
- japan,
- l,
- peter petrelli,
- s.t.
Night 57: M21-M30 Hallway
Speaking with Sam every night at dinner was almost always bound to be interesting, but this time really took the cake. Peter couldn't believe that his roommate had actually gotten to talk to one of Aguilar's highly ranked men. He wondered if that was going to become a trend or if it had been a one-time thing -- and even after hearing Sam's theories, it was still hard to pinpoint what they'd hoped to gain from the whole thing. Information, yes, but there had to be more to it than that.
The timing seemed even more deliberate when the intercom came on and it was Aguilar who spoke. The man hadn't asserted himself very much up until this point, but now he was in full force. Peter couldn't help but stare up at the intercom as the general became more and more forceful with his words.
He seemed to think he was somehow better than Landel because he punished and rewarded them depending on how useful they were, but in the end they were still caught here, being tortured and messed with in every way possible. Aguilar offered an option to go test some drugs of his like it was the most tempting of prospects, and yet it just disgusted Peter.
Drug trials were things that were supposed to be treated with care. Subjects were picked out carefully and monitored closely, along with being compared to a control group. Aguilar was turning into some free-for-all where he was basically forcing desperate patients to try something potentially dangerous because they needed a weapon.
And maybe Peter did too. He could have done with something other than his shovel, but there was no way in hell he was stooping that low. He wouldn't blame others for going for it, even if it made him sick just thinking about it. He, however, had people to save. Aguilar might have been tooting his own horn, but that was while he was busy kidnapping people to experiment. Peter had been there waiting outside those exam rooms for a few people already, and he was going to keep up the trend, seeing how it seemed to be the best use of his skills thus far.
His duffel bag had to be repacked seeing how all of his items were taken in the morning and then shoved into that metal box each night, but at least Peter had worked out a system now. He didn't know if he'd run into anyone on the way, but he was willing to go on his own (against his own advice) if that was what it took.
Granted, he had agreed to meet up with at least one person, and that was Albedo. The boy kind of gave Peter the creeps -- he wasn't afraid to admit it, at least not to himself. Still, that shotgun that was sitting under his bed belonged to him, even if Peter didn't like the idea of someone so young actually using it. He couldn't just take it from the kid if it was his only form of protection, and so he'd arranged to return it despite his reservations.
Before leaving, Peter took a moment to change into the military uniform. Even if he didn't agree with Aguilar's methods, he preferred the way the blue shirt and slacks fit when compared to the gray shirt and sweatpants. Once he was dressed appropriately, he slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his shovel with one hand and the shotgun with the other. Finally, he glanced to Sam with a crooked smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." In all seriousness, he hoped that Sam's meeting earlier wouldn't lead him to making any reckless moves. Hopefully his roommate would be able to pick up on his concern, even if he wasn't verbalizing it.
He had places to be, though, and so that was all he said before turning to the door, stepping through it, and heading down the hall.
[To here.]
The timing seemed even more deliberate when the intercom came on and it was Aguilar who spoke. The man hadn't asserted himself very much up until this point, but now he was in full force. Peter couldn't help but stare up at the intercom as the general became more and more forceful with his words.
He seemed to think he was somehow better than Landel because he punished and rewarded them depending on how useful they were, but in the end they were still caught here, being tortured and messed with in every way possible. Aguilar offered an option to go test some drugs of his like it was the most tempting of prospects, and yet it just disgusted Peter.
Drug trials were things that were supposed to be treated with care. Subjects were picked out carefully and monitored closely, along with being compared to a control group. Aguilar was turning into some free-for-all where he was basically forcing desperate patients to try something potentially dangerous because they needed a weapon.
And maybe Peter did too. He could have done with something other than his shovel, but there was no way in hell he was stooping that low. He wouldn't blame others for going for it, even if it made him sick just thinking about it. He, however, had people to save. Aguilar might have been tooting his own horn, but that was while he was busy kidnapping people to experiment. Peter had been there waiting outside those exam rooms for a few people already, and he was going to keep up the trend, seeing how it seemed to be the best use of his skills thus far.
His duffel bag had to be repacked seeing how all of his items were taken in the morning and then shoved into that metal box each night, but at least Peter had worked out a system now. He didn't know if he'd run into anyone on the way, but he was willing to go on his own (against his own advice) if that was what it took.
Granted, he had agreed to meet up with at least one person, and that was Albedo. The boy kind of gave Peter the creeps -- he wasn't afraid to admit it, at least not to himself. Still, that shotgun that was sitting under his bed belonged to him, even if Peter didn't like the idea of someone so young actually using it. He couldn't just take it from the kid if it was his only form of protection, and so he'd arranged to return it despite his reservations.
Before leaving, Peter took a moment to change into the military uniform. Even if he didn't agree with Aguilar's methods, he preferred the way the blue shirt and slacks fit when compared to the gray shirt and sweatpants. Once he was dressed appropriately, he slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his shovel with one hand and the shotgun with the other. Finally, he glanced to Sam with a crooked smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." In all seriousness, he hoped that Sam's meeting earlier wouldn't lead him to making any reckless moves. Hopefully his roommate would be able to pick up on his concern, even if he wasn't verbalizing it.
He had places to be, though, and so that was all he said before turning to the door, stepping through it, and heading down the hall.
[To here.]
no subject
And weapons, but there were a lot of those already in circulation. S.T.'s own were waiting. This time he was going loaded. Not for bear, as the saying went, because anyone stupid enough to attack a bear deserved what they got. The black ones up in New Hampshire were omnivorous, but that was only a problem if you were a chicken. They hadn't killed anyone in at least two centuries, but city boys in expensive hiking boots still wore out a lot of shoe rubber either running away from them or pestering them and then running away.
He'd set his things out during dinner. Well-understood drugs, back pocket. Flashlight, other back pocket. The belt made a sturdier attachment point for the ammonia-based glass cleaner holster, so it came along too. He put his shopping bag over his arm and looked through the box. There wasn't as much vodka left as he thought there should be. Bring it along or not? Made a better antiseptic than a drink, even with juice. He tossed it in the bag, picked up his pipe club, and hit the road.
[to here]
no subject
At least he had Lelouch Lamperouge's signature to make up for it, but still...! Shinji Ikari! And he'd missed him!
Then, the unimaginable happened. Japan...spilled the pink okayu at dinner. In his distress, he'd tipped the bowl over and dropped it right in his lap. He'd managed to salvage most of it, but the clothes? Were ruined. There was no way he could go out like this! If he were staying in, he could just...wear his boxers and a t-shirt and it would be fine, but going out in public with stained clothes?! Unthinkable! The only thing left to him was the Institute provided military uniform, which he changed into with some aversion. Still, it was better than wearing stained clothe--
As he sat back down at the desk, he bumped the table. As if in slow motion, he watched his glass of water tip over, the contents sloshing toward him. His hand shot out to stop it, but that only aggravated the situation and the cup fell, splashing water everywhere. It spread across the desk, filling the tray, pooling around the recently cleaned dish, slipped off the edges....and cascaded right into his lap.
"A-ah!!! No!!" Japan jumped back from the desk, tipping his chair over and...consequently tripping over it. Suddenly, he was very glad he had no roommate as the nation took a graceless fall backward, his foot banging into the desk and tossing the bowl up into the air -- only to have it land, with a decidedly disgusting splat, right on his chest.
"Why.................?" Japan lay there on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. He had no clothes left. None that the Institute provided anyway. His inventory was cleared of clothing and all he had was--
"...."
But there was no way. He couldn't be forced into wearing that! But...he couldn't sit (lie?) here with food and water seeping into the fabrics. He had to... He had...
Twenty minutes later, after much debating with himself, Japan got to his feet and stripped down. He hated to admit it, but if he was going out tonight, he had to dress in something that wasn't wet and sopping full of indistinguishable grains. He only had one thing to wear and no more food to ruin it with, meaning it was his only option left.
And so it was with a heavy heart that Japan clothed himself again, feeling the crisp starched linens against his skin. He'd gained a bit of weight and lost it again since he last put on this uniform, so it was with some surprise that he saw he was still at the same belt hole as last time. The marks in the leather were a reminder of the long years of use, well worn and fit to him like a glove. The jacket was buttoned up and clasped together, fitting as snug as it had when he first put it on. Tailored, fit, stylish, clean...
Japan sighed.
"Please don't let anyone see me like this..." he murmured to himself, grabbing his flashlight from under his pillow as he turned to leave. He had no goal in mind, but getting as far away from those drug trials as possible was a good first destination. Turning away from the mess that was his former suits of clothing, he headed out into the hallway, shuffling his way through the darkness.
[to here (http://damned.livejournal.com/1131146.html?thread=78984586#t78984586)]
From M25
The man on the intercom (was it Aguilar?) was actually sharing information. Everyone could hear the same announcement, true—but the clarification on the pins he'd seen and the differing treatment was quite welcome. Of course, it opened questions as well (such as what it was about their own survival and accomplishments that made them more valuable to their captors, and what those people planned for them at the end of it all), but it was a start. It helped.
Tucking the baffling letter he'd received into his desk drawer to puzzle over it later (or else put it out of his mind entirely), Izaya set out of his room with a clear destination in mind for once: the medical wing on the eastern end of the building. He himself had no interest in trying the 'concoction' Aguilar had mentioned—but he certainly wanted to see those who did.
[Skipping along to here]
M25
The fallacies in his presentation, the flaws, are obvious, he thought. We're the victims of his crimes--his and Landel's. Even our presence here is a serious violation of our human rights... they don't have the authority to detain us. We have no legal or moral responsibility to do as they say. It's ridiculous to insist that we should have to earn "privileges" according to their criteria. This line of thought wasn't new, but it was, he felt, the appropriate reaction to Aguilar's grandstanding. It was almost identical to Landel's, in effect, even if there were other differences between the goals of each.
The specifics of the situation might have changed, with the change in leadership, but the patients' lot was similar enough in a general sense. A swaggering speaker presented hoops to jump through for one reason or another. There were differences in stance, though, ones that made it hard for L to decide which was more cruel: Aguilar wasn't teasing the patients with the possibility of finding freedom, and short of overt deprivation of basic needs like food and water, a deprivation that would make physical activity difficult, he was doing everything he could to motivate them to put themselves in danger. Landel teased them with the idea of knowledge or freedom, when he wasn't insisting that it was a pipe dream; Aguilar's bait was a return to the status quo, with the possibility of a few irrelevant fillips. He was both less narcissistic than Landel and more authoritarian. He harbored an obvious resentment for Landel, a contempt... one which had probably been fueled by the doctor's actions the previous night, but seemed to have much deeper roots. It was plain that the feeling was mutual, maybe even tied to Doyle's original break with Landel.
He'd finished his candy bar just as the General had begun to speak; now, he licked bits of caramel from behind his molars, working the tip of his tongue against his gums. His loathing was ferocious, his muscles tense with disgust, and there was nothing new or productive he could do with it apart from the kind of steady work he'd been pursuing. The payoffs so far had been minimal, for the most part, and slow to come.
Furthermore, opening this medical wing isn't a sign of good will... he would have made a more convincing argument for that if he had tied his supposed benevolence to the cash allowances we were given for Doyleton. So he's doing this... why? Because it's the biggest thing he has? Certainly, last night showed that he doesn't have full knowledge of or complete control over every aspect of this place. Or maybe he's doing it because doing it costs him nothing, but allows him to present it as a gift. It's also possible that it allows him to save face after what Landel did.
One thing is certain, though... these "choices" he offers aren't choices at all; they're veiled threats. If enough people aren't stupid enough to test his experimental drug, he'll force the test on everyone. If you don't pursue his "accomplishments" in exchange for better treatment, there's always a chance that your treatment could be worse. It was easy to follow that line of logic all the way back to his own old suspicion of a patient purge, but there was no real evidence for one, not yet.
Re: M25
The acquisition of Laurier's backpack--A backpack "belonging" to a fictional construct, L reminded himself--had made it easier to prepare to go out for the night. He still hadn't found a way to keep the pistol at hand without a holster, but it was reasonably accessible in the front pouch; he didn't want to rely on it, nor was he optimistic about his chances in any situation that might require it (if one were to need a gun at all, a pistol with only five bullets would probably be insufficient to the task). It annoyed him to admit to himself that it would be better to wear the ring; that the way he had carried it until the incident on Wednesday night, like a pendant tucked under his shirt, had been a mistake; if he wanted to take advantage of its potential benefits, he would have to absorb the associated risks. He had become more comfortable with the idea of it in the week that he'd had it, although he still wanted to treat it as a last resort, something unreliable. He left it on the desk next to the flashlight as he got ready.
The radio went into one of the bag's side pockets. The main compartment already held all the other supplies he would need. Everything else that was small enough went back into the desk drawer, which he locked.
After a moment's thought, he changed the grey t-shirt, with its smiling yellow face, for the plain white one with longer sleeves. He kept the sweatpants on, because they allowed for good freedom of movement, and exchanged the slippers for tennis shoes. The ring went on his left hand.
The physical element of his anger had mostly faded; a few deep breaths helped him feel more focused, less on edge.
After shouldering the backpack, then picking up the flashlight and the brush axe, he left the room.
[To here.]