damned_institute | Night 57: M11-M20 Hallway

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Night 57: M11-M20 Hallway

Easing into his work shirt and jacket was less painful than it'd been last night. It still didn't feel good. Indy went back to the box, coiled his makeshift whip over his right shoulder and tucked the holstered brush axe through one of his belt loops. That and the shield were all the gear he planned to take. He doubted he'd be making too many notes in the journal tonight even if he brought it; there'd be time to write about whatever he saw tomorrow. Assuming they didn't all get themselves killed by whatever death trap Landel had planned next.

You had to admit, Aguilar almost had a point.

At least the first leg of the trip would be a short one. Indy picked up his hat, brushed it off with a few practiced swipes, and settled it on his head. He'd better get a move on so they'd have as much of the night to work with as possible. With a familiar mix of excitement and trepidation, Indy made for the door.

He had a bad feeling about this.

[to here]

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[A small timeskip after the roomie has left because I... forgot I what I was doing tonight.]

Considering how very much the cat was now out of the bag, Gabriel did a spectacular job of ~~hiding~~ spending the rest of the day not looking anyone in the face. He wasn't very excited about the whole family bonding thing, considering what all of it put together meant.

And if Castiel thought he was going to push the belief that Dad had went and resurrected both of them? Ugh. Not that he thought it could happen, but -

Whatever. He wasn't impressed with whoever-the-hell was making this new, psychotic announcement, and the whole megalomaniac thing was so old that Vincent Price was probably rolling in his grave from the sheer amount of cliche coming from the speakers. The only silver lining about being conscious at all was that his little thirteen year old friend who didn't have spider powers had actually had a plan worth following.

No time to waste, then. With the roommate gone, he could take the moment he needed to pop that old, rusted pipe back into the shape of his angel blade. Less holy, but still just as pointy. Just like before, the strength drained from his limbs temporarily, rendering him a boneless puppet - but feeling returned after a moment, enough that he could walk without looking like he was carrying a pretzel in his ass.

[To here.]

Javert awoke to the easily recognizable voice of Aguilar. Berating the patients for something, he thought drowsily. Something about more tests...

That didn't sound like a morning announcement.

He opened his eyes, pushing himself up instinctively and turning towards the door. He had always been an early riser, but now he had grown to heartily despise mornings--or at least it was supposed to be morning. The tray of cooling food on his desk told him otherwise.

He frowned at the sight, an altogether too-familiar unease creeping into his chest. How long had he been asleep? A day? Two days? A week? Time wasted, in any case, and no opportunities to coordinate a Search and Rescue effort. Assuming the experimental trials were even taking place tonight; with no mention of them in the announcements and no clue how many days had passed since he had fallen unconscious, there was little he could go on.

The former inspector grit his teeth. That hadn't been voluntary; of that much he was certain. Sliding out of bed, he seated himself at his desk and forced himself to eat. If the medical wing was open tonight, he least he could do would be to investigate it. If nothing else, he might be able to procure some samples for Taylor to work his magic on.

[Backward dated from before Javert wakes up.]

The paper cutter blade wasn't the best of weapons. Badd's hands were used to a gun, to seeking out targets long range rather than close range. You had to think differently when you fought up close.

Still, better than nothing. Badd put the picture and the letter out of his mind as he geared up for another night of exploration. He tuned out Aguilar's babbling as the usual nighttime intercom rambling came out. Treating them like human beings? More like lab rats with a different white-coat presiding over the matter, nothing had changed and Badd still didn't care. He was just poised for the moment that the door opened--there.

He'd get to Byrne, offer him the new tidbit, and they'd go off on a new adventure. Maybe he'd finally get to finish that story.

[To here. (http://damned.livejournal.com/1130939.html)]

[Beepwood reporting, running in from here. Sorry about the wait!]

Despite the run from the main hallway to Javert's room, Guybrush managed to keep himself from simply busting in unannounced. "Better not," he told himself. "Even worse than walking in and finding him missing would be walking in and finding him changing into that outfit he wears. One shower here filled my quota of that for the rest of my life."

Instead, he stood up straight- his back gave a crack as he did, but it was nothing compared to how he'd been a day or so ago- and rapped on the door with his hook once, then twice, then again and again with an increasingly rapid pace.

"Helloooo? Mr. Javert?" The rapping continuing. "Are you in there? Are you asleep? Or did you get kidnapped and brainwashed? If you don't answer, I am going to assume the latter!"

Knowing how dangerous Scott had been during his brainwashing, Guybrush wasn't even sure he wanted to know what Javert would be like. More experienced, for one, and probably with even less tolerance for pirates.

Luck, as it turned out, was smiling on Guybrush; Javert had finished his meal and was in the process of buttoning up his waistcoat when the knock came. Multiple, in fact.

It was the first time he found himself relieved when a completely unmistakable voice floated through the door, punctuated by a barrage of insistent knocking. Though--and it was impossible to brush the thought aside--if the pirate was looking for him and that concerned, he must have been unconscious for longer than he'd thought.

"I am here and my brains are entirely unwashed, Threepwood," he replied dryly, pulling on his greatcoat. At the very least, he'd get some answers now. "You can come in, you know; that door won't be standing much longer if you persist in attacking it."

Guybrush smiled sheepishly as he stepped into the room, a little surprised (and thankful, given the image of a brainwashed Javert dancing through his head) to find the inspector alive and well. He sheathed his sword through a loop in the underwear, looking the other man up and down just to make sure he really was as fine as he insisted.

"Sorry about that." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hook. Boy, did he feel paranoid. Having one's wife and nemesis disappear without a trace would do that to a guy. "I just noticed you didn't post anything on the board like you usually do, and figured you might be dead. Or taken for a sleep study. Or attacking unsuspecting patients who come looking for you. Or some combination of those."

"Remarkably perceptive of you." Javert's tone of voice was still dry, but there was a note of approval there that hadn't been present before. Threepwood's decision to track him down had saved him time. Practically considerate, for a pirate.

He straightened the lapels of his greatcoat fastidiously. Perhaps the regular uniform here was more practical, but there was a certain familiarity to having his own clothing here, and damned if he wasn't going to take advantage of it. "When did you see or hear from me last? I don't know how long I've been out; I vaguely remember leaving my room the night we returned from Doyleton, and little else."

"Well, if you remember Doyleton, then you've only missed today," Guybrush answered, watching Javert fiddle with his coat, a smug grin crossing his face from the approving tone of the inspector's prior comment. It was hard to differentiate pure sarcasm from dry wit when it came to Javert, but for now, Guybrush decided to assume he'd done something right. Maybe Javert wouldn't be inclined to turn him over to the proper authorities when they finally did manage to bring down the institute.

"Though I guess you didn't miss much," he continued. "Just the visitors, the fact that they pretended Landel was still running the place by using a recording of his voice, the letters that some people got with all useful tidbits of information conveniently marked out, and the part where Aguilar explained the pins, ranking, and the opening of the medical wing."

Javert didn't precisely relax, but some of the tension in his shoulders dissipated. One day wasn't as bad as most--unless it had been a week and a day, but he suspected Threepwood would have mentioned not hearing from him for a week.

More announcements--he would, he thought, have to ask Lunge about those later. "I awoke in time to catch the last one," he said, knotting his saber to his side with a strip of sheet. "I suppose I can ask you about the rest later. Have you any plans for the night? I shouldn't keep you any longer, now that you've established that I am alive and in possession of all my faculties."

"I do have plans," Guybrush confirmed, as though his plans were more concrete than they had been before his little run to Javert's room. "That bit about the medical wing? Aguilar said we could earn pins or a weapon there by trying some sort of concoction he's got laid out for us. I was kind of hoping to get some pins, since you supposedly get better treatment with more of them." He grimaced as he put his hand on his stomach, which rumbled in dissatisfaction. "I'm on the pink gruel diet, and am getting pretty desperate. And that's coming from someone who drinks grog on a regular basis."

Though he wasn't sure if the inspector would go along with it, he thought he'd ask. "You're welcome to come, if you want. It's probably safer not to shove mystery potions down your throat by yourself, in case one of them leaves you unable to grab the antidote, granted there is one."

Javert fixed Threepwood with a dubious stare. "Somehow," he said after a moment, "attempting to acquire proper meals by consuming something even more dangerous than pink gruel seems counterproductive to me."

He took a step toward the door. "It's just as well I'm headed for the medical wing regardless, though my intentions lay more along the lines of taking a sample for later investigation. Now I can drag your corpse to the morgue afterward if you insist on swallowing whatever they've set up for us.

"And if you're that desperate," he added as something of an afterthought, "drop by earlier next time and I'll save you the pudding. Or whatever else is for dinner tomorrow; I can't keep the meals here straight."

The Bokor was in the middle of draping his coat on when dinner was over, and the voice on the speaker began his speech. Both Facilier and his Shadow paused, listening carefully to the stranger's words. By the rigid, professionalism of the man's tone, Facilier recognized him as the new "owner" of the institute; and what he had to say was quite enlightening...

So the whole day was a charade! (Although, Facilier would have strongly begged to differ on the "loved ones" part of the speech...) The witch doctor rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, taking in every word and storing it away for his sharp mind to reference when needed. He was finally beginning to understand at least one part of this new world. And so far, he wasn't exactly comforted by what he learned so far.

According to Facilier's view, this world was a pocket of limbo in the afterlife, once ruled by a doctor who focused on the so-called "psychology" of his prisoners, now taken over by a military force that was out to use their captives. That was the best Facilier could think of so far, but there was so many other factors that were left blank to Facilier, and the visit with "Great-grandma Odelia" didn't help much either...

However, the general's ending words left Facilier chuckling to himself, shaking his head as he fitted his top hat over his hair. Facilier knew better than to take some unknown concoction from some stranger! He himself should know! After all, he had sold countless potions and powders that left his poor clients worse off than before! He wasn't going to fall for that ol' trick!

The mentioning of the potions and the possible award did intrigue Facilier though, but he had other matters with higher priority to attend to. He had a map of the institute this time, and during his dinner, Facilier had checked off areas of interest which he planned to visit. If he could gather what he needed from those rooms, then perhaps he could risk a little trip to the medical wing -- not to consume a potion of course, but to take one for himself and analyze it...

With one last poke at his comatose roommate, Facilier gave up trying to wake up the sleeping man and gathered up his belongings. With the maps and radio tucked away inside his coat, and a pillow case and flashlight held in one hand, Facilier slunk to the door and exited, his living Shadow following suit.

Edited 2011-07-18 18:55 (UTC)

Tolten seemed like a decent sort of man, and for once, Kratos had found himself actually talking a little longer than he'd intended to. Thankfully, the lengthy intercom message was a good enough reminder that he was on a schedule...as well as informative.

Actually, "bait" was a better description. He'd seen this kind of strategy before: first, create the illusion that the prisoner's situation had improved; second, appeal under the veneer of benevolence. It was time-tested and true, although he doubted that many would fall for the offer. There were always one or two truly desperate souls, though, and those one or two people were all that Aguilar and his men needed for this experiment to be considered a success.

Even so, at least he didn't need to worry about Sora suddenly getting ideas - and hopefully not his friend either - so as soon as the intercom fell silent, Kratos began the task of preparing for another night's venture with his usual nonchalance. His uniform first - there was a slight twinge of pain in his left arm as he moved, but it was ignorable - then his sword, then the flashlight. Everything was in working order; he'd let Sora and their third teammate wait long enough for him. As he'd often done with Kenshin, he left with only a nod to his teammate.

[to here (http://damned.livejournal.com/1131146.html?thread=78935946#t78935946)]

Edited 2011-07-19 08:02 (UTC)

With a nod to Gren, Edgar stepped into the hallway, taking a moment to adjust his equipment as the door closed behind him. The flashlight was attached to his shovel with tape, allowing him to use both hands for wielding the implement as a weapon; as for the radio, it tied nicely to the belt of the military uniform he'd opted to wear for the evening. With the doctor's coat for the pockets and heavy boots for trekking through the snow, he was ready to face the night.

Dinner had been quiet as the roommates digested all that was handed to them that day. Now knowing more about Gren's background, it was easy to see why the persistent military involvement was hard on him, especially when the patients were treated as test subjects. As for Edgar, he had other concerns on his mind, namely the revelations from the nightly announcements.

Aguilar had laid his cards on the table. Of course, that was assuming he was telling the truth- and it was hard for Edgar to put any trust in the general's words, considering how dubious the entire situation- staff, false identities- had been thus far. Still, Aguilar seemed to be actively working against Landel, and vice versa; the general was less cryptic than the head doctor ever had been- another point in his favor. Aguilar had also confirmed the patients were resources to be used- they were being tested, watched, groomed for something yet to be revealed. They were tasked to rise to the occasion, challenged to make use of their skills, threatened to either work with the system or suffer the consequences.

Even with the revelations, there were still questions to be answered. The show, as guessed, was admittedly for the visitors. That didn't settle well with Edgar, who continued to play the scenario in the back of his mind where March's brother was really his own twin, that Sabin had somehow fallen prey to the institute prior to his arrival and had been released into the world as someone else entirely.

Revealed as some sign of charity was the medical wing of the building, and the promise of a reward there if those willing would make themselves useful. While tempted to investigate, if for no other reason than to see if Aguilar really would stay true to his word, Edgar had other plans for the night: to make his way outside to test the results of his Magitek infusion. As the night fell, the pressure of the heat in his chest came back, just like the previous night; however, he was feeling well enough to give casting a try. Not knowing just how well he would be able to handle it, as it was neither fair nor safe to assume it was the same as magic learned through Magicite, was enough to convince him to practice outside. Setting his room ablaze would only make matters worse.

But if he could learn to control it, magic would be a definite asset. If not, it would possibly serve as his downfall.

[To here.]

The closer night drew, the less willing he was to play more of the sit and wait game. Plus, when most of his productivity went into getting blood—let's just say it made things about as efficient as the Council's vampire hunting. At least tonight, it wouldn't be a bet. Rick could bail on him. Of course he could. But he wouldn't. The threat of dead blonde girls worked wonders for motivation.

Granted, there might be a dead blonde girl regardless, but not until he got out of her a) this long lost twin business and b) eliminated her as a prospective donor. She still had promise. And while he knew he could always use Rick—it wasn't the same.

Damon would be the first to say it wasn't just about blood. It was part of why he'd agreed to hunt with Stefan the other night, when he could have stood better than puppy blood.

When the lights went out, he didn't rush to leave, but he didn't hesitate, either. He left the knife, the radio, and the flashlight where they were. One day, Klavier was gonna notice he never used the light—or maybe he already had—but it wasn't enough of a concern for him to bother with.

He blinked once, eyes adjusting to the dark. He didn't technically know where Rick was rooming, but a simple push of two or three doors took care of that. M17. Noted.

His gaze fell on Alaric. The bandage remained around his throat where the cat had clawed it out. Damon wondered if Rick had thought yet about collecting for that. He knew he would've, if he were him.

But then, it never would've been him there in the first place, would it.

"Good evening, Mr. Saltzman." The fact that he couldn't enter the room didn't stop him from lounging against the door frame as if he belonged there. "Join me for dinner?"

It was a cliché, but: saying he wasn't looking forward to this was an understatement. What a lot of people probably wouldn't understand is that a good portion of his - whatever - with Damon relied on the fact that he made an effort of separating himself from the vampire aspects. That was about as difficult as someone could expect it to be. As it was, he had never watched Damon drink blood. That was... kind of an important detail. It helped to remember that there was something human in him, under all the issues and a century of being a complete dick.

And it was gross. Human squeamishness. People didn't want to see other people eating parts of other other people. Sue him.

But now? Well, today was his first time being blackmailed into donating blood. Usually there were cookies and orange juice involved, which worked a hell of a lot better motivating him. Any way he looked at it, it was blackmail. Damon knew he couldn't let some other patient give up their life for the sake of hunger. Here he was, all nice and convenient and willing, and if anything unfortunate happened he'd just pop back, whole again.

Mostly whole. The bandages on his neck reminded him the ring was working with some limitations now.

Somehow he didn't make much of a move when his door creaked open all creepy, well-oiled like. Of course it was Damon. He just had to have his little clever, quippy entrance. The downward turn of Alaric's mouth showed just about how impressed he was.

"Don't. Don't try to turn this into a joke." Like he didn't feel weird enough about this already. Making a note of not looking at Damon, Alaric rose off his bed and rummaged underneath it, bringing out the black garbage bag of crap he'd stolen. The toolbox was red and heavy in the bottom, making it easy to find even by the light of only his flashlight. It had been smart thinking, grabbing that. Once he had had a free moment without his roommate in the room - not that he thought Indiana Jones was interested in nicking a monkey wrench from him unless it was encrusted with ancient Aztec emeralds - Alaric had rearranged everything, making sure the syringes were tucked safely in the box. He took a few out now, laying them on the bed.

Too bad he hadn't studied medicine in Duke. He was going to do this based on watching a few donations coming from his own vein. No way this could go badly, right?

"You're not coming in," he said, finally looking up at Damon. "Just in case you were expecting otherwise."

Edited 2011-08-03 06:54 (UTC)

The way he was reacting, you'd think Damon had asked to take a bite out of him instead of being a polite ten feet away and waiting, which was not, he'd like to point out, something he did very often when it came to feeding. And by not very often, he meant not at all.

Damon raised a hand in a placating gesture—completely genuine. Of course. But hey, he did let it go, so if there was a smile playing on his lips, that was small thing to put up with.

He thought so, anyway.

"Oh, I can keep you company well enough from over here." He walked his fingers up the invisible barrier. A little like touching solid air. He watched, one eyebrow raised, as Rick pull out the syringes. Could the man move any slower? But if he was impatient, it only showed in a lightly tapping finger against the door frame.

Points for the method, though. Drawing blood was one way to do it and, to Rick, it must've seemed less like throwing himself to the sharks than putting a blade to his wrist.

To Damon? Same either way. He supposed it made a slight difference, if there wasn't fresh blood dripping—but really, he had better control than that, even as hungry as he was. His impulses were selective.

Edited 2011-08-04 02:02 (UTC)

"Lucky me," he grumbled with a tone that suggested he wasn't exactly all that lucky. Alaric concentrated on not letting Damon's presence distract him; he fist his hand, allowing the easiest vein he knew - the one near the joint of the elbow - to come to the surface. Even though he couldn't really see it... and he was doing this without a tourniquet. Good life choices and him didn't really go together well.

Whatever. He plunged the needle in with a quick motion. The puncture pain was pretty short, and not a lot to pay attention to compared with other things. Drowning in blood came to mind. Pulling back on the syringe to begin the draw using the same hand holding the damn needle was easier said than done, but with a lot of uncomfortable jiggling he was successful.

His arm was also starting to turn purple. That was... probably a bad sign. If he punctured an artery donating blood to a vampire, did that count as a supernatural death?

Of course not. He was really, really stupid.

Keeping the full syringe steady in one hand, he rummaged back in the bag for some of the bandages he'd gotten with the bruised one, which was going beyond just being purple and was beginning to feel sore. Ow. Since all he could do now was press down on the leftover hole with the bandages, that was what he would do.

Alaric moved to the barrier, noting exactly where Damon's fingers had been pressing against the air like a mime. Between two fingers, he held the syringe out past the barrier.

"Is that enough? I mean, skipping all the it's never going to be enough, vampire insatiability, et cetera."

Edited 2011-08-06 07:08 (UTC)

Well, that was a healthy color.

"Not that we didn't already cover this, but yes. It will do." For tonight, at any rate.

Damon took the syringe between the same two fingers with a delicate flourish. The smell of blood was metallic and sharp for a few seconds. A drop clung to the tip of the needle without falling.

"Thank you." Barest hint of sincerity there, but that it was said at all was worth marking on the calendar.

And how long was Rick planning on staying inside his room, anyway? Really, now. For one, he was no more interested in killing Rick than he'd been a week ago. For another, people always overestimated the kind of protection the little invitation rules provided and forgot that if you were determined enough, it wasn't that hard to let out a bit of one's inner pyromania.

But hey, whatever made him feel better while Damon was drinking his blood—which he did now, tipping the syringe into his mouth. An actual glass might've been nice, but it'd been days, thank you, and the blood was warm over his tongue. Mm. Sort of made him wonder if Isobel had ever thought about having a taste of her ex.

Or not. She undoubtedly had.

He could use more—he knew Rick would give more if he said he needed it; wouldn't do to have him slaughter anyone, of course—but this wasn't the first time he'd done the whole...long-term commitment thing. He knew how much someone could give without turning into Morticia Addams by the end of the day. Damon was all for using Rick, but he wasn't interested in using him up.

He flipped the empty syringe, stained red, over in his hand and tossed it towards Rick.

"I wouldn't throw that away just yet." He started away from the door. "You coming, or are you still flattering yourself thinking I'll kill you over a pinprick of your blood?"

The teacher rolled his eyes, nursing the bruised arm with gentle ministrations of his fingers. Yeah, that was gonna sting for a couple of days. Maybe next time he should just split open a finger. The whole point was he didn't want Damon's mouth near him. Ever.

And it wasn't... flattery. It was vampire hunter wariness. It probably didn't help that Alaric's main interactions with vampires had been with newbies - like Logan - and those who couldn't drink human blood reasonably - Stefan.

Okay, look. He just was completely out of his element here. He could admit that.

"I don't think you even need the excuse to kill me," he responded nonchalantly, placing the caught needle back in the toolbox. He'd have to figure a way to clean it somehow without questions. Yeah. Easier said than done, he was sure. Alaric grabbed his flashlight and the box cutter he'd nicked, being a little less nonchalant about crossing through the barrier out of his room.

"And what is your grand scheme for tonight? More random exploration?"

Damon threw Rick a faux-offended look. "What're you talking about, I always have an excuse for killing people. Like boredom."

He never said they were good excuses to the general public. Although they were perfectly valid in his opinion. Anyway, he'd only killed Rick when RIck had tried to kill him first, so he was hardly the one in the wrong here.

With that thought, Damon shifted about half an inch to let Rick through, forcing him to brush by. Oh, was he supposed to give more room than that? His mistake. Also, wow. Box cutter, huh. Arming yourself to the teeth, Rick. You could definitely defend yourself if UPS attacked.

His eyes followed Rick out, and then he moved to join him.

"You say that like you've had better plans. Or you know. Plans in general." Look, so far, he was the only one recruiting various people to get shit done. The fact that a good percentage of it had fallen through or that Rick had died a couple of times was irrelevant. That was not his fault. Nobody told Rick to play human shield. Plus, he came back.

Damon gestured to the left at a fork in the hallway. "That way. We're making a house call."

One Elena and Stefan hadn't specifically asked for, but that was...also irrelevant. They needed to talk, so they were gonna talk. The two of them playing at lovebirds could wait.

[To here.]

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Night 57: M11-M20 Hallway

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