Castiel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
freewill) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2011-08-21 01:09 pm
freewill) wrote in damned_institute2011-08-21 01:09 pm
Day 58: Men's Showers (Second Shift)
By the time that breakfast had ended, Michael didn't really know what to think.
The good part of him -- the part that went to church every Sunday and prayed that he could find justice for his clients -- wanted to feel for those two boys. They were going through Hell (and not the literal kind that they were thinking of) and he really did hold out hope that they would get their acts together. But the rest of him wanted to forget all about them and focus on himself. They weren't his responsibility anymore, now that the case had been dropped. The very idea of a killer had been a fantasy, after all. It wasn't his job to worry about them.
He certainly wasn't some guardian angel, either. He had never signed up for that and he had no idea why his mind had decided that was the case. Figuring that out was probably his key to getting healthy again, but it seemed like an uphill journey at this point.
Either way, it was good to get away from Matt and Eric. He needed some breathing room, some time to just let his mind clear out all of that crazy angel and demon stuff. Being religious was one thing; this was another, and he knew it wasn't right. He tried not to think about what his parents probably thought of him, but for all he knew they weren't even aware that he was here. In fact, Michael couldn't even remember who had admitted him. It was possible he'd just brought himself here.
A shower sounded like a real blessing, though, and he didn't hesitate to strip out of the uniform and find shelter under the hot spray of one of the shower heads. It was definitely more than just washing off; it felt like a cleansing experience, like he was scrubbing the very idea of Castiel out of his skin. He knew it wasn't that easy, that he could relapse at any point, and yet he tried anyway.
However, once he'd washed his body and shampooed his hair, he realized that he needed to give up the shower space for someone else who might need it. As much as he would have liked to spend the entire shift there, he did the right thing and went back to get dressed once he was finished, heading out into the Sun Room on a soldier's heels.
[To here.]
The good part of him -- the part that went to church every Sunday and prayed that he could find justice for his clients -- wanted to feel for those two boys. They were going through Hell (and not the literal kind that they were thinking of) and he really did hold out hope that they would get their acts together. But the rest of him wanted to forget all about them and focus on himself. They weren't his responsibility anymore, now that the case had been dropped. The very idea of a killer had been a fantasy, after all. It wasn't his job to worry about them.
He certainly wasn't some guardian angel, either. He had never signed up for that and he had no idea why his mind had decided that was the case. Figuring that out was probably his key to getting healthy again, but it seemed like an uphill journey at this point.
Either way, it was good to get away from Matt and Eric. He needed some breathing room, some time to just let his mind clear out all of that crazy angel and demon stuff. Being religious was one thing; this was another, and he knew it wasn't right. He tried not to think about what his parents probably thought of him, but for all he knew they weren't even aware that he was here. In fact, Michael couldn't even remember who had admitted him. It was possible he'd just brought himself here.
A shower sounded like a real blessing, though, and he didn't hesitate to strip out of the uniform and find shelter under the hot spray of one of the shower heads. It was definitely more than just washing off; it felt like a cleansing experience, like he was scrubbing the very idea of Castiel out of his skin. He knew it wasn't that easy, that he could relapse at any point, and yet he tried anyway.
However, once he'd washed his body and shampooed his hair, he realized that he needed to give up the shower space for someone else who might need it. As much as he would have liked to spend the entire shift there, he did the right thing and went back to get dressed once he was finished, heading out into the Sun Room on a soldier's heels.
[To here.]
no subject
Then, he promptly straightened and starting rinsing out his hair, not looking directly at Guybrush (what that his name, seriously?) as he worked to keep his face and voice blank as usual. "But I really don't care about that. Name's Mike, and I'm a ninja. We stick to land and fight from the shadows. Shadow warriors."
He wasn't up to really giving his full name to strangers. At first, he had, but then he decided to be more cautious as the military took over. They were plenty more dangerous than the Doctor had been, and that put Mike on edge enough to hold information back. Even if he was already dead, he didn't want to risk getting himself killed again.
no subject
He turned to his shower head, turning the water on and rinsing the shampoo out of his hair as he avoided getting his hook tangled in it. "Where I'm from, mortal enemies tend to be pirates and other pirates, or even the occasional Mighty Pirate and Ghost-Zombie-Dread Pirate. The shadow warriors part sounded neat, though. Probably works out well for you at night, too."
Guybrush paused, realizing he was talking a lot. He had to admit that it helped keep his mind of the p-p-p— the P word. And no, not that P word. The Monkey Island™ series was known for a classier brand of family-friendly comedy than that.
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"Night's my day," Mike confirmed as he finished rinsing out his hair. "... Ghost-Zombie-Dread Pirates? Seriously? You've fought zombies before?"
Mike was experiencing an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time. It took him a long moment to realize what it was. After all, he wasn't expecting, out of all the things he could feel, to be feeling it.
Jealousy.
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As fantastic as his stories sometimes were, Guybrush was all-too aware of just how they sounded at times to the more average denizens of Landel's: too bizarre to be true. Not everyone had faced the perils commonly seen in the adventure genre, and while a good yarn every now and then added spice to life, it didn't help his credibility in a place where he apparently needed a certain degree of it.
So far, it looked like Mike was meeting him at least halfway on the subject. That was encouraging. "But you're a ninja, so you've probably had some incredible fights yourself that you could tell me about. Either that, or you're just really unlucky and should probably stay away from sharp objects."
no subject
Luckily, the jealousy only lasted a moment as he remembered... he had gone through something similar. Damn, that was forever and a day ago. Mike had completely forgotten about it.
They didn't sound all that bizarre to Mike. First off, he was a mutant ninja turtle. Second off, his mortal enemy had been a pink brain-shaped alien with tentacles that moved around in an exosuit bigger than a van. Third off... he'd been around the universe a bit before everything went to hell, and things were much more believable then.
He decided not to comment on the whole "sharp objects" bit, because that likely wouldn't end well. It wasn't a snipe on his missing part of an arm--not this guy. If it wasn't another guy missing a part of an arm, though, Mike might consider getting rather ticked off.
"I'm good with sharp objects," Mike stated, then grabbed a brush and pinned the side of it with his half-arm so he could lather it up with soap. "... and now that I've thought of it, I've fought zombies, too. Was a bit gross."
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Guybrush shuddered at the thought of how he was going to deal with his own death once he got back home. At least he wasn't likely to end up as a zombie... probably.
"They do tend to be a bit gross, with the whole 'being both dead and undead' deal." He turned the tap off, wringing some of the excess water from his long hair. "It only got worse once his arm was ripped off- something I actually didn't mean to do, for a change. Well, I kinda did mean to tear the doll's arm off, but I didn't think it'd actually translate onto the original. But to be fair, it was in self defense. He was torturing me with a doll of his own. It was supposed to transport me to a dimension of infinite pain, but it just kept sending me a few rooms away. It was an annoying inconvenience and he had to be stopped."
no subject
The Shredder never would have made that mistake. He would have gotten it right the first time. Although, transporting people to other dimensions wasn't really his way of doing things. He preferred proof that his enemies were dead. He had always insisted that he watch the executions of captured Resistance leaders or those that had greatly failed him. The grunts he could care less about.
At least someone had the luck of a semi-incompetent arch nemesis. Or.. perhaps...
"It sounds like he was having a very bad day," Mike remarked. "Or does he usually have issues like that?"
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"Though I have to admit that he did end up with the upper hand that time," he continued, running his hook through his hair (finally found that tangle- he stifled a yelp as he pulled it out). "Soon after the whole arm-ripping incident, he left me stranded in a place called the Carnival of the Damned, where he'd enchanted me into thinking I was a little kid. Took me over three months to get out of that place, during which time he'd gone back to his usual shenanigans of trying to get my soon-to-be fiancé to be his undead bride. That's a plan that will never go well for him."
Guybrush wasn't sure that Elaine-of-the-Past would still marry him after all that had transpired at Landel's, but he could rest easy with one certainty: she wasn't about to head off into unholy matrimony with LeChuck.
no subject
Stealing the fiancée wasn't original, but the way he lefted him stranded was. For what he lacked in original ulterior motives and the ability to pull off fiendish plots, at least Guybrush's arch-nemesis had some original ideas on how to be, well, evil.
Mike then remembered he was supposed to be taking a shower. He put the soap aside, then grabbed the brush and began to scrub his back. It wasn't like him to get distracted like that, but it wasn't often that Mike met someone with experiences that were entirely unique, either.
"At least he makes sure you aren't bored," Mike commented. "Mine is a broken record."