damned_institute | Day 58: Mission #1 [Scarecrow and Depth Charge]

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Day 58: Mission #1 [Scarecrow and Depth Charge]

[From here.]

It was not the hallway they found on the other side of the door. The crossing of the threshold was accompanied by that spinning sensation in the Scarecrow's middle— similar to feeling he'd had the night the doors were enchanted— and it was no mystery of why: they had been spirited away to somewhere else entirely. Decorated tables, adorned with small flowers and surrounded by wooden chairs, were a far cry from the grey ones of the institute; the room was filled with the quiet chatter of other people, the occasional chink of metal and glass heard over their soft conversations. Windows bathed the room in light, giving it a far more welcoming atmosphere than any place he'd imagined for the mission.

The floor creaked as the Scarecrow took another step in. Only after his second step had been taken did he notice even more surprises: their outfits had been changed in the span of that moment to something resembling the Doyleton clothes, presumably by magic as well. It could certainly do some strange things. Gone was his tight military uniform, replaced with a brown jacket and black pants. There was a brief moment of inner dread before he realized his bandages and stitchings were covered by his long sleeves. While he was fine with just about anything he was given to wear, he had to admit that he wouldn't miss the military-issued boots and their complicated laces.

A couple of patrons noticed their entrance, but their attention returned to their meals quickly. Whatever smell that was wafting through the room was just delightful. The Scarecrow looked over his shoulder to the doorway, as though expecting to find the previous room still on the other side; the only sight that awaited him was Depth Charge and the closing door. There was no turning back now.

As he opened his mouth to ask Depth Charge for some direction (he was the one with the working brain, after all- it seemed reasonable to ask him what they ought to do), they were approached by the waitress. She pulled the pen from her hair, scribbling on the pad she carried as she scanned them up and down. "Table for two?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Depth Charge knew that there was no point in reading into it too much when their entire argument was a performance for the benefit of their their audience of one, but at this point being reasonable was like putting the pin back in a grenade. Maybe this was how the Scarecrow went about things- too nice to say it up front, but too concerned to waste a channel to pour his thoughts through. Or maybe he was just that frustrated. Pit, he was frustrated with himself.

It was probably a good thing that the Scarecrow had dropped their key phrase into his side of the argument then- he'd have struggled to come up with a good enough rebuttal after that. And sure enough, mercifully distracting, their fish took the bait.

Rosemarie turned and smiled at them, throwing out a little wit as though it were wisdom. He'd have had a short answer for that at least, if they hadn't been undercover, but for the sake of the mission he reigned it in and went with natural response number two: looking suitably, gruffly embarrassed that they'd been caught out. "Looks like we got a little carried away there. Sorry about that," he said, lowering himself back into his own seat. He jerked his thumb at the Scarecrow. "I can't take this guy anywhere."

Though relieved Rosemarie seemed to have taken the bait, the Scarecrow couldn't help but feel a bit sheepish at their behavior, even if it had been an act. It had been, hadn't it? Well, it was clear they had a lot that needed to be said later; for now, there was more on the table than a few sore feelings between the two of them, and their concerns about each other would just have to wait.

The question was: now what did they do? They had her attention, but that wasn't enough.

"You can't take me?" he asked, turning his head back to Depth Charge a moment, still standing next to his seat. "You're the one who can't be taken anywhere." He paused for only a second, rethinking his words. "Though I guess if we're both acting like this, I suppose neither of us ought to be in public."

He turned where he stood, facing Rosemarie and giving her a rueful look. "I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll have to forgive us if we ruined your meal or anything- Richard and I just get caught up sometimes in our own problems."

It was another accidental truth, one that rang in his ears for several moments after he'd said it.

The two appeared to be in the nice range when it came to gentlemen; they at least has the gumption to offer their apologies for disrupting the patrons. Granted, a disruption was the last in her list of priorities, but for everyone involved, they had to keep up appearances, no? She laughed good naturally at the pair, waving off their apologies with her free hand.

"No harm done," replied Rosemarie. "You both sound incredibly stressed, though. Why not take a breather and enjoy your drinks?"

With forced pleasantries out of the way, she launched into the real matter. Obviously, these were the ones he had told her to look out for. Since they had so graciously dropped the code into her lap, the woman might as well follow-through. "Too much stress," she continued without pause, "will turn even an athlete into a guaranteed walking heart attack, you know. My ex-husband can vouch for that."

Stressed? Rosemarie didn't know the half of it.

You try watching a kid fight a guy to the death all night, being blackmailed into doing some ridiculous army supervillain's dirty work and keep up with some ridiculous code, all while pretending to be a completely different species and therefore trying not to out both you and your roommate.

He'd tried to ignore the Scarecrow's final comment, as if that could protect his mood.

Still, they'd reeled her in. Now what? Yeah, they were supposed to get the name of some client of hers, but how? They didn't even know what said client was hiring her for- bomb expertise, private eye work, fixing their slagging moped? That particular part they had to navigate all without letting her know that they were angling for info. They could play it safe and nudge her towards the right way slowly, but who knew what would set her off? Or how much time they had?

Depth Charge opted for a cool laugh, as if he wasn't silently churning with possibilities and the strain of caution. "You're telling me. Work's crazy enough there days without this guy following me around." He rolled his eyes in the Scarecrow's direction- affectionately, this time. "It's nice to find time to relax."

The Scarecrow could see the change in Depth Charge's tone, his eyes less steely than they'd been only moments before: he was putting aside the argument for what needed to be done, as they should have before it got out of hand. The former strawman allowed himself a small smile- leave it to Depth Charge to have a good head on his shoulders.

Also putting their spat out of mind, the Scarecrow clung to Rosemarie's words, trying to grasp at any lead as to how they should go about asking for the information they needed. It was a touchy thing, the tricky conversation, especially when so much was foreign to him. What was an ex-husband? Or a heart attack, for that matter? Were those two related to their task, somehow? And was it something he ought to be concerned about, being that he was human and therefore had a heart?

Maybe that last bit could wait until he could ask someone who might know better- with his experiences at Landel's, he had a feeling questioning it at that second would ruin any chance they had at passing for regular flesh-and-blood folk. It would most certainly earn him a strange look.

He decided to take a safer route, tagging onto what Depth Charge was saying. "When we can, of course. Not much time for relaxing these days, especially with some of the people we work with."

The gears in the Scarecrow's mind turned, working his way toward their goal. The only idea that crossed his mind was being direct, and that didn't seem like a good one in the least; however, he supposed if they got nowhere fast (just how much time did they have to accomplish this, anyway? Surely they wouldn't leave patients out overnight) that risks would have to be taken.

Fortunately for the men, Rosemarie was going to simplify matters. She had, after all, a task to complete in this little exchange as well as time constraints of her own. Of course, the woman couldn't just give away the name. No, they had to pass a criteria first.

Then they could have what was sought.

"I know what you mean," she said, nodding in their general direction. Her book was thoroughly ignored. "I'm working with a man right now. High-profile, apparently. He has some strange obsession with Monet paintings." The woman smirked in a mix of pain and affection, a bittersweet expression. "Real crazy, this man. He wouldn't let me sleep for two days until I found Camille Monet on her deathbed. Disturbing little picture."

With a strange look on her face still in place, Rosemarie paused. "Military officers are strange people. Avoid them at all cost."

Sounded as though the Scarecrow was on the same tack as him: easy does it. Not Depth Charge's favourite strategy, but he wasn't stupid. They moved the conversation like safe-crackers, turning the dial a fraction and listening carefully for the click that would hopefully signify a breakthrough- or a security system being alerted and aiming all weapons in their direction.

It came sooner than expected, at Rosemarie's own pace.

The woman's expression struck Depth Charge before the contents of her answer, a cocktail of emotions he could half-empathise with- and then the pause. Military officers...?

Click.

Slag it. He'd spent all this time assuming she wasn't going to want to talk, that they were going to have to lead her into it- but was she here specifically to tell them what they needed to know? And did that mean that she'd been talking in code this whole time while they'd rambled about some false rivalry and work?

Tilting his head a fraction, he made to catch the Scarecrow's eye. She hadn't run yet- if the redhead had laced something into the conversation, she seemed to think they'd fielded it well enough without even realising, though maybe the Scarecrow had picked up on it without saying anything. Presumably he'd have kicked him if he'd really screwed up. But this was far more direct.

Depth Charge didn't know who Monet was and he'd never seen the painting, but he knew about the military. Boy did he ever know.

"Strange and dangerous," he agreed. His tone had dropped out of casual jostling and into something almost bitter, though he'd tried to curb that. He hated this, the way that every enunciation seemed weighted- would be weighed, even. "Who knows what goes on under those caps?"

Or maybe a risk wouldn't have to be taken: rather than letting them work their way into the topic, it was Rosemarie who, in a surprising turn, brought up the military. The Scarecrow couldn't stifle his look of astonishment quickly enough as the implication that she might know why they were there- and possibly what they were looking for- hit him. There was no way to really tell for sure, unfortunately.

But was she working for the General, or a patient on a mission of her own? Now there was a thought the Scarecrow didn't like at all, that she was in a situation no better than they were and was being forced into the conversation as well. Perhaps she was looking for information that they were unintentionally keeping from her, or her mission was something else entirely. Either way, she hadn't left yet- they had to be doing something right, he reasoned. He certainly didn't want for their fellow patients to face punishment; even more so did he want to keep Depth Charge from having to use the gun they'd been given. He knew enough about humans to know it'd be trouble for anyone on the receiving end, and if that anyone was supposed to be Rosemarie...

Depth Charge caught his eyes, but the Scarecrow wasn't sure how to interpret his roommate's glance, whether it was that he knew something and couldn't share it, or if he was looking for answers himself. Though he was piecing together bits in his mind— like how she mentioned a painting and having to find it, so perhaps that was what she did for the rest of her clients— there wasn't much to be shared with Depth Charge even if he could.

So instead, he went for something that fell between truth and fiction. "Are they really all that bad?" the Scarecrow asked with a curious look. It was true that, given his limited experience, he couldn't be a fair judge on the soldiers; however, he hoped Rosemarie might know more than they did. It was worth a shot.

Anyone with an eye could see: the men had caught onto her attempt at code. It was poor at best, but the one who had sent her wanted the words to be simple. For a child to understand. Rosemarie was not here to make small talk or discuss the intricacies of business. Rather, she existed to pass on a message.

One she hadn't a clue was now falling into the wrong hand.

Rosemarie tilted her head forward, contemplating their answers. "Who knows, right?" She laughed nervously. "I don't think even the public understands their movements. Though--" The skinner man was acknowledged, and the woman nodded at his statement. "--not all are that bad. There are a few good men, if you'll excuse the cheesy reference.

"Like my Monet fanatic. He's in it for the right reasons."

It probably helped, having the Scarecrow's gentle trust to temper the Maximal's own flat cynicism; if he'd been by himself, Depth Charge had to admit, he'd have been monitoring himself and his words to the point of infuriating himself. Oh, he was still tense, but perhaps not quite in the way he might have been. Anyway. Tension did terrible things to him.

But he wasn't the only one whose nerves were playing up, and realised he shouldn't have been so surprised when he finally picked up on the anxiety underpinning Rosemarie's answers. Of course she was nervous. She was supposed to deliver information from the databanks of Aguilar's army. It was only with her last comment, though, that he truly understood what they were doing here. Her Monet fanatic... he was in the military. And if they wanted his name, that meant he was probably some kind of plant himself or something- which meant that there was a chance that they were simply fishing for a name to put on the death warrant.

The worst part dawned on him a nanoklik later. Looked like Rosemarie knew him personally- and thinking about it like that, with the perspective flipped, made Depth Charge sick to his stomach. But what could they do now? It was so sneaky- so underhanded- so-

Typical. It was slagging typical.

At least he didn't have to dredge up an appropriately sober expression. "I don't doubt." Does Monet boy have a name? was how he would have finished it. Instead, he said, "We all do things for some 'greater good' that we'd sooner forget."

Listening to both Depth Charge and Rosemarie, the Scarecrow took another tentative sip of his drink, only to have his nose crinkle a second time as he remembered why he'd stopped after the first one. He admittedly knew about as much about the military as he did about being human: very little, as neither operated the same way they did in Oz. That feeling of inadequacy rose in him again, as though nothing he did would make things work in the way they hoped. He may as well have been stuck on a pole in a cornfield again for as much good as he felt he could do.

And so, the former strawman sat silently for another moment as the conversation went on, pondering the entire concept of the 'greater good' and wondering if they really were doing the right thing. They were to get a name, to accomplish a goal and thusly avoid punishment for themselves and their fellow patients, but what if they didn't get it? Or what if giving the name the General the name was the wrong choice? After all, it was apparent that, like with the Wizard of Oz, they were being used. The consequences had been beneficial then: the Winkies were freed, the Wicked Witch no longer terrorized the people of Oz, Dorothy ultimately did return to Kansas... The same could not be said of what Aguilar would do if they accomplished their goal for him.

Creased formed in his face, his brow knitting as the alternative still weighed on the brain he was so sure he didn't have. They'd been given a gun, presumably to use it if they had to. But on who? The area and other patrons looked pleasant enough. His mind told him Rosemarie was the logical answer; he'd told himself that again only moments ago. The matter was that he just couldn't believe it- no, he couldn't accept it. If they failed, what were they expected to do? She wasn't a witch, wasn't someone who had to be defeated in order to bring about peace or to get a lost little girl home; she didn't look like she'd hurt them even if she could, and certainly didn't sound dangerous as she spoke of her friend. Was his name the one they were looking for?

The Scarecrow's frown deepened- it etched across him, no matter how much he tried to hide it behind the mug in his hands. He couldn't fathom it- how could that be right? It wasn't for the greater good, having to possibly harm someone they'd just met in order to avoid some sort of sanction. He knew so little about death, but Abe had impressed upon him that there was a permanence to it that couldn't be avoided. Though his time at the Institute only measured a few weeks, the Scarecrow had learned for himself just how fragile a flesh-and-blood body could be. Humans couldn't be put back together. It wasn't so simple.

His hands were shaking as he brought the mug to his lips again. He chose to occupy himself with his drink, no matter how awful it tasted. It was easier to swallow than the grim reality they were facing.

Her expression turned wistful, an unspoken want behind her seemingly pleasant facade. "You're right," Rosemarie replied, voice soft. If only their actions could be forgotten, even at the cost of a better perspective...

Here, her eyes wandered to the book in her hands. As if struck by a thought, the woman reached in and pulled out her laminated bookmark. This should fulfill the objective quite nicely, as much as the men had passed her criteria. "Sorry to have chosen something depressing as a distracting topic, gentlemen. Hopefully my suffering has made you feel better at least," she said as Rosemarie held the object out to the pair. "Here. A gift."

It was an ordinary bookmark with a bright red tassel. On one side was the aforementioned Camille Monet on her deathbed (http://i.imgur.com/3kMX7.jpg). The other contained the words "Prescott Gallery" with the signature of its most prized patron:

Major Claude P. Harrington.

Depth Charge could see the Scarecrow's hands shaking in his peripheral vision; if he listened carefully below the clatter of the cafe, below the thrum of his own thoughts, he would probably hear the man's teeth clinking uncomfortably against the rim. It was unlike the Scarecrow to be so quiet, so obviously nervous without any obvious danger.

Well. Any obvious danger to them.

He didn't need to look straight at Rosemarie to know they were through- it was clear enough from her voice, and then, as she reached for her book, from her 'gift'.

The Maximal took it with a nod, doing his best to conceal the fact that he'd never seen an object like it before though its function seemed clear enough. As he turned it over in his hands, though, its real purpose in their conversation became clear- and his blood turned cold with acceptance. Major. They were sniffing out a traitor.

He didn't want to look at it anymore. Instead, he got up abruptly and thrust the marker at the Scarecrow. "Good luck," was all he said to Rosemarie; he didn't trust himself to say anything more than two words when they could so easily turn into something worse. A warning- or maybe an apology. "C'mon."

With all those second thoughts getting to him, the Scarecrow almost didn't realize the conversation had abruptly ended until Depth Charge was on his feet, handing over the strip Rosemarie had given him- well, not so much of handing or offering as silently demanding his roommate take it. The picture had no true meaning to the former strawman; he turned it over in his hand, apprehension building in him from what he might find on the other side.

And waiting there was exactly what they'd been looking for, he presumed: the name. Harrington... He'd heard it before, hadn't he? But where?

Rising from his seat, the Scarecrow gave Rosemarie a polite bow, doing his best to seem grateful for her 'gift,' even if he wasn't sure he wanted it. "It's awful dangerous out there, ma'am. You take care of yourself." With that, he started for the door, ready to follow Depth Charge across the threshold and hopefully to somewhere familiar, somewhere they would recognize, where they would turn in their name and be done with Aguilar's business.

Two steps from the table, then three- the Scarecrow stopped, looking to the 'gift' he still held in his hand, trying to swallow that lump in his throat. It wasn't so simple, was it? Nothing as innocent as a young girl accidentally causing the demise of a wicked witch by throwing water on her in an attempt to put out a fire before it consumed her friend; they were willingly bringing back a name that the General clearly wanted. Why did he want it, and what would he do to the person to whom the name belonged? The Scarecrow couldn't be sure of either of those, even if he'd had a brain. What would he do if he didn't get it? The officer had threatened them- and their fellow patients- with a punishment; however, there were worse consequences than anything the soldiers might assign. That was the part that refused to settle in his chest.

It clawed more at him now that they'd spoken to Rosemarie. Before, she'd been a faceless entity, and any damage they could do to her or her friend didn't seem as real. She cared for him, though. To put a face and a voice with the name was much—

Oh, that Major Harrington! It suddenly clicked in the Scarecrow's mind: the General's replacement for Nurse Lydia on the intercom, who had apparently tried to help at night them under the name Jill. The sounds of her anguish rang through his ears as if he'd heard them right then.

More pieces fell into place, the realizations that landed on his shoulders making it harder to move. General Aguilar had used them to get the information from Rosemarie because he either couldn't get it himself, or he couldn't be bothered. Either way, it had been up to them to get the name, and they had. Major Harrington— assuming the one from the intercom and the one whose name was before him were the same person, though it seemed like an awfully strange coincidence otherwise— must have been up to something behind Aguilar's back- but what? Was he trying to help the patients as well? And if caught, would he suffer in the way Jill had?

The Scarecrow thought for half a second he would turn around, warn Rosemarie somehow- however, he was frozen on the spot, the hand that held the 'gift' still trembling. His eyes searched Depth Charge for an answer; he opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of what to say, or even curse his brain for its incapacity. The Scarecrow couldn't let down the other patients and his roommate- he couldn't stand to see one of his dearest friends chastised because he'd been unable to pull himself together at the last moment.

However, he also couldn't bring himself to hurt another- accidentally or unintentionally, even if that someone was a person he didn't know. To think someone else might end up in the same state as Jill, and that he'd be at fault was just too much.

The Scarecrow's eyes fell; it took all he had to bring them from the floor. "Depth- Richard." He corrected himself with a breath, his throat full of knots. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I know I probably shouldn't try to manage things, but... I don't know if this is the right thing to do."

The Scarecrow seemed to be a couple of steps back from him, but so long as he could hear the man's footsteps Depth Charge didn't worry- or rather, he didn't allocate any more of his processor for worrying about that particular thing. There was enough for him to think about already without the additional concern, particularly when he knew that the Scarecrow could probably walk to the slagging door without needing his hand held. It had occurred to him earlier that the guy'd done well so far, that maybe he'd been worrying too much in general, but even that fell by the wayside as they made their way to the exit.

The Scarecrow fell by the wayside too, out of step for a moment before he started to speak- still using their code names, he really was on the ball. And Depth Charge's gut wrenched.

Why did Rosemarie have to do this? They'd have done fine if she'd just handed over the name without saying anything, if she'd just shut up and spilled. Then they could have left with their heads held high, not exactly happy of course but still relatively satisfied that they'd done the right thing. They'd saved the rest of the patients from some Primus-forsaken, unspoken punishment, right?

But no. She'd had to go and chat. Give them a face to go with the name, a history. Major P. Harrington: up until that moment he'd maybe still been telling himself this was just a test, no real names used, but they knew a Harrington- Pit, they'd heard him rambling his spark out just that morning. There was no pretending with that sort of evidence: if they handed the name over and the man suddenly vanished from the intercom, they'd feel it. The blood on their hands wouldn't just be hypothetical.

It would also be the first death he'd directly caused himself since Protoform X.

He swallowed, though his mouth felt unbearably dry. Another peril of human biology. "Me either. Feels all wrong." He dropped back a little so that he could keep his eyes on the Scarecrow, though not for safety's sake- a part of him, Depth Charge realised suddenly, needed the support. "What if he's with Marc? We can't just- just turn him over, can we?"

Even with as complicated as the situation was, the answer the Scarecrow was looking for came easily enough. One look at the mention of the Rebel's name, and he could tell Depth Charge was thinking the same thing: that taking the steps to accomplish one goal could set everyone further back than they'd ever expected. It was a dangerous task, sending a little girl and her newfound companions to face a witch for a chance at some brains- and in the end whether he got them or not, he'd decided then that he'd help Dorothy get home either way.

But what was he willing to face to help his friends and fellow patients at Landel's? While the sound of being punished for failing the mission wasn't ideal, he had to admit that if it made things easier later, it was probably better to fail on purpose. Another tricky part presented itself: if they were being watched— and the Scarecrow did expect they were, so they couldn't escape— then could they make it look as though they'd never gotten the name at all? Or warn Rosemarie somehow without being caught? So much for that simplicity.

"No, I don't think we can," the Scarecrow answered, more determination present in his voice than he'd felt in some time. "We need all the help we can get with the institute, and if it turns out that we're turning in someone who is trying to help us... Well, that just isn't bright. We'll be avoiding one punishment, but making things worse for everybody down the road."

That still left the question of what to do about the situation. "Do ya think there's any way we can warn her? I wouldn't count on us being alone here, but there's got to be something we can do. We probably oughtta get rid of this—" he shook the strip in his hand— "if nothing else."

Crazy as it seemed to him now, Depth Charge was glad that it was the Scarecrow with him at that moment- someone he could trust not to overthink the situation, because how could you overthink something when you didn't even think you had the equipment to think at all? This was just one big game of second-guessing, third-guessing, fourth-guessing at the sort of reaction either action would get.

But maybe things weren't that complicated. He'd never been much of a long-term thinker- hadn't lived for much more than the next nanoklik for years now, not since he dropped his title back home- but even he could see how crazy it would be to hand over the guy's name for the sake of preventing one round of pain. The punishment they'd dished out after the food-fight hadn't exactly been a piece of cake, but a repeat of that had to be better than sacrificing someone on the inside- someone who, just maybe, could actually make an impact.

Besides. He wasn't sure if he could ever look Marc in the eye again if they chose to hand it over.

At the Scarecrow's question, Depth Charge just about resisted the impulse to look back over his shoulder to where she sat; they probably were being monitored, and the last thing they needed was to draw attention to their hesitance. "It's probably too late for that," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "As far as they know we've got the name, so maybe they'll just let her leave." Maybe. So long as they don't come back later to cover their tracks. "We've seriously gotta get rid of that thing, though."

The determination in both of their voices was clearer now, even at a whisper. Depth Charge squared his shoulders. "Think we could rip the signature up and drop it somewhere? Bring the top back instead and play dumb?"

As much as he didn't want to admit it, the Scarecrow knew what Depth Charge was saying was probably true: that it was too late to warn Rosemarie, and that keeping her friend's identity a secret was now on their shoulders. Another weight added, each one more tangible than the last. He could only hope that the second part of what Depth Charge said was just as likely- that maybe if they didn't draw her back into it, anyone watching them might just let her leave. After all, the military had sent them on the mission in the first place to get the name without raising suspicion, right? Surely they'd only take action if they thought they really had to.

Well, at least that was what the former strawman liked to believe. How strange it seemed to him now that only a few weeks before, he was sitting on an emerald throne in a magnificent city, feeling that even though he was clearly the wisest in Oz, he still wasn't doing enough. The feeling of powerlessness that nestled in his chest on a daily basis, growing since his arrival at Landel's, continued to claw its way up. He had lost his diploma, and his human brain wasn't in the best of condition. If they could protect Rosemarie and her friend the Major somehow, would he be satisfied?

He couldn't know yet. The Scarecrow gave tearing the strip a try; however, no matter how much twisting and turning he gave it, he couldn't manage to rip the gift in half, the coating giving it more than enough durability to withstand his efforts. "This thing is tougher than it looks," he noted, his mind scrambling to think of another plan.

"Excuse me, sirs?" The Scarecrow stifled a jump as the waitress materialized behind him, on edge from the ever-worsening situation. "You nearly forgot your bill." She produced a piece of paper from the tray, handing it to them with a smile.

"Oh, um." The Scarecrow paused, taking the scrap and looking it over. There were an awful lot of numbers on it, but he wasn't sure exactly what it was or what he ought to do with it. "Thank you." It was more of a reflex, his thanking her, but he supposed manners couldn't make things worse.

Another moment passed in silence, and she didn't leave. The Scarecrow eyed Depth Charge for a second before an idea came to mind: she was looking for something in return, he reasoned. She'd have left, otherwise. Reaching into his pocket, the strawman removed the wallet and handed it to her, card inside and all. "And could you do me a favor, ma'am?" he asked politely.

She stared at the wallet, a bit puzzled at his offer. She glanced inside- there was a card, at least. She wasn't going to question someone who came off as 'country folk' too much, so long as the payment was good. "Sure. What else can I do for you today?"

"Could you maybe throw this away for me?" He handed her Rosemarie's gift, the strip now crinkled from his attempt to tear it into pieces.

The waitress gave him another odd look, accompanied by a nod and a smile. "Of course. Be right back with your receipt."

With that, she turned and headed back the way she came. Relief, however minor, washed over the Scarecrow, his empty hands still trembling slightly from the mounting stress of the situation. He returned his attention to his roommate, trying not to look as worried as he felt. "All right, now what?"

That was a no to the ripping part, then, though by this point Depth Charge was probably riding on enough nervous energy to tear through three of them at once. Slag, if he'd had them on hand with the waitress' sudden arrival in the mix he could probably have managed ten. She really had a thing for bad timing, huh? Couldn't say handing over the whole wallet wasn't exactly inconspicuous, either. Even so, it was a relief to see the bookmark finally vanish off with her- good thinking on the Scarecrow's part.

As he watched her head back towards the front of cafe, though, he couldn't help but feel a creep of of suspicion sneak back into place. What if she was a plant? They'd already decided that this place was probably full of soldiers, so for all they knew their waitress was just going to hand it straight to one of those officers when they got back, and no amount of playing dumb would save them then, or the other patients. And when the entire point of this mission for him had been to keep the Scarecrow safe...

No. Keep it together, DC. Don't turn into a conspiracy theorist. Keeping his head together was vital when they still needed to plan what they'd do when they returned, what they'd say, but it was easy to fall back into that nasty little web of doubt again. This was why he hated undercover work: that endless spiral of falsehood, lies prettied up to be convincing enough even to those involved. Total slag.

"We need to come up with an excuse or a false name," he said, well-aware of what he was about to say- but this was a necessary lie. For a moment he broke off, trailing through his memory for the names he'd seen on the bulletin board most often. "Maybe 'Peter' or something? Heard that twice now." Hopefully both Peters involved would understand. "If they ask for more we can say she seemed edgy and we didn't want to push it."

And if that failed... Depth Charge didn't know. But he did know that the longer they stood around, the more suspicious they'd look to any hovering agents.

Another false name- they certainly were handy, weren't they? The Scarecrow nodded at Depth Charge's suggestion, sure that his roommate knew best, even if his expression seemed grim at times. It had to be the stress of the situation they were in, he reasoned: the thought that someone could be hurt— someone who could make a difference and actually help the patients trapped in Landel's, or at least was trying— was a lot to handle, probably even more so on a brain that was in proper working order. How Depth Charge managed himself was something the Scarecrow was sure he'd never know.

"Peter sounds good," the Scarecrow agreed with a nod. "I only know of one person with that name, and he helped me come up with a fake name once before. Let's just say I'm not very good at it on my own. Names here are more unusual than they are in Oz, you know. I'm afraid anything I come up with might be suspicious." There was the lingering concern that they would inadvertently land someone else in hot water— hopefully not either of the Peters they knew— but if there was more than one, perhaps it was a common name and they'd never know which was which. It was a hope he had to cling to- there wasn't much else.

He headed for the door, waiting for Depth Charge to follow. "Ready?"

Depth Charge couldn't help but smile a little at that. "I know a Peter, too. Maybe they're the same guy." It didn't seem all that unlikely that Peter would be happy to sit and help the Scarecrow come up with an alias, knowing the guy; not many people would shrug that kind of thing off and actually be useful rather than just nodding and smiling, but he had patience for three. Had to, if he was a medic of some sort. Kind of made him feel a little guilty about the number of medics whose days he'd turned into a disaster zone, to be honest.

He still wasn't sure if using that name would make things difficult for the Peters still in the Institute, but at such short notice it was the only reasonably convincing name that either of them could come up with. And anyway, surely they wouldn't seriously think to associate the name with any of the patients? They knew them. They had them on file, for Primus' sake.

With a quiet breath, he followed the Scarecrow to the door. "Ready." Then he opened it and stepped back through.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Day 58: Mission #1 [Scarecrow and Depth Charge]

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