damned_institute | Night 58: M41-M50 Hallway

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Night 58: M41-M50 Hallway

[M41]

For the first time that Byrne could remember in the four or five days he'd been here, the night began without any sort of dramatic fanfare. No mysterious intercom broadcast, no creepy static, no doctors coming in to drag him away again, no nothing. Just the usual unlocking of the doors and silence.

The staff were trying to find new ways to scare people, huh? Well it wasn't going to work for this patient. Try being scary all you want. Nothing could match last night's torture session, and he was past that now. See if he cared!

...So he thought to himself as he let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh thank god. Never had he been so thankful to know that night was here. Dinner had ended without anyone coming for him, and he could now be free to seek out the one man he trusted more than anyone else. It was a lucky break. What could go wrong now?

Byrne collected himself mentally, then searched his desk drawer out of habit for that damn flashlight that was never there. It appeared for everyone else, didn't it? They were just screwing with him now, he bet. No matter. He'd survive. The Yatagarasu didn't need flashlights! The light of truth and justice could shine in any sort of darkness...

After yet another inner pep talk, he nodded his head at his roommate and then made his way out to the hall.

Hang tight, Badd. I'll be there soon.

[Skipping ahead to here.]

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((From here (http://damned.livejournal.com/1162099.html).))

After entering the block, Spock did a routine sweep with his flashlight in order to make certain that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Fortunately, the area appeared clear, and he continued into the next hallway that would lead him to McCoy's quarters.

The room was toward the end of the hall, but labeled clearly as M41. Although it was customary for humans to knock, Spock had never fallen into the habit of doing so, particularly since most doors in Starfleet were automated. Instead, he straightened his posture and verbally announced his presence.

"Dr. McCoy," he said, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door, but still quiet enough not to draw any unnecessary attention from surrounding patients. "This is Commander Spock. May I enter your quarters?"

McCoy huddled on the bed, legs drawn up, and arms wrapped around his head. It didn't do a thing for the migraine. He was pretty sure by now that, short of something strong enough to put a horse down, nothing would work, and he didn't have those on hand that he thought he could safely use. At least, McCoy tried to be optimistic, he was still at the point where he was thinking about safe dosage. Other than prevent his head from coming off his spine, curling up like this didn't do much. He tightened his arms and tried to stop thinking.

It worked for all of about a few seconds, and his mind was racing, thundering on like some Klingon war machine. He hadn't slept a wink. He hadn't thought of anything else since lunch shift other than what he'd done, the incredibly stupid, irresponsible, desperate thing he'd asked for. Even by his books, he couldn't think of anything so stupid. Jim and Spock, even on their worst stunts on away missions, suddenly looked like pinnacles of common sense.

He was insane. He had to be to even consider letting a Vulcan, and Spock too, into his head, like he was qualified to go haring around in his brain, which McCoy knew he damn well wasn't. He might as well let Jim or Chekov have a go. No right minded physician would let any officer who didn't know a thing about surgery operate on a patient, least of all someone who had abilities like Spock's. He wasn't even sure they could qualify as a legitimate, medical treatment under Starfleet Medical's books. Maybe he might kill him. McCoy was thinking the worst case scenario was Spock slipped a fraction, or however it worked, and left him a vegetable the rest of his life. What happened to Joanna then?

McCoy's head was pounding again. He didn't trust Spock. Not enough with his life or his daughter's. This time there was a rhythm to each throb and jerk of pain. McCoy clenched his eyes shut. He tried to make sense of it this time, tried to locate where the hurt came from within his skull or brain(frontal lobe or maybe it was from the occipital lobe, although thenext throb felt like the left zygomatic arch was vibrating under his skin) was, as if that would help distance himself from the hurt. Then he realized it was perfectly timed to whoever was trying to break the damn door down.

McCoy practically bounded to the door and yanked it open. Spock stood there, right on the dot if McCoy actually had a way to tell the exact time, and somehow that just pissed him off even more. The man, McCoy was startled to find, was nowhere near knocking the door. Spock didn't knock on doors like humans, he remembered, and he should've known that. Who was making all that noise on the door?

The doctor barred the door way with his hand. He realized belatedly he should have brought the broken flashlight with him, just in case Spock wouldn't leave. "No. You need to leave. I changed my mind, you goddamn, green blooded hobgoblin! I don't want your help."

Although he had been fully prepared to enter the man's quarters and begin preparations for their meld, McCoy imposed his body in the doorway, apparently fixated and keeping him outside. Spock's eyebrows faintly knit together, but he gave no further outward reaction toward the scathing insults.

Perhaps it would have been better to wait to conduct a meld until Jim responded to his notes -- but, then, perhaps not. The doctor's mental condition would likely worsen if they delayed treating him for much longer; in fact, his mood swings had become much more pronounced since he and Jim initially discussed McCoy's situation. Even without performing a meld, Spock knew the prognosis was not good so long as they did nothing to help him.

That was why Spock didn't find their CMO's sudden change so unexpected. Even so, he couldn't immediately leave. McCoy wasn't fit for duty, and he was rapidly approaching the point where he wasn't fit to be left alone, either.

"Why have you changed your mind?" Spock calmly asked instead, dropping his hands to his sides as he adopted a more neutral posture. "Was there not a reason you asked for my help earlier today?"

Spock was supposed to leave. McCoy nervously shifted from one foot to the other when Spock remained where he was.

"Look, you half-breed," McCoy began. Either he'd get Spock to violence if he went far enough, which would probably leave McCoy dead: infinitely better than being rendered a vegetable, or he'd get him to leave. Seemed like a win-win considering the alternative. "What part of 'no' didn't you get?"

Even though Spock might be Vulcan (part Vulcan, not even a full one, McCoy thought viciously), he had enough human in there to have some pride, and nothing got to him quite like going after it, like pushing a finger into an entry wound. The doctor knew what made Spock tick, more than anyone else had any right to. He knew him well too, almost intimately, and he knew just what lay under the surface. Doubt, pride, and a whole lotta pesky human emotions, and above all, self consciousness and a low self-esteem brewing under the surface. All of which led to the burning need to be accepted, the very need that made him try to outdo every other Vulcan alive just to prove how Vulcan he really was. The sad truth was the Vulcans would never accept him as one of their own. He'd always be that mongrel oddity that happened to be the best officer in the Empire.

He hesitated despite himself. McCoy hadn't forgotten why he'd asked. How could he forget? Carter and the morphine. His brain not relaying the right tactile sensation from his hands or not translating the message right. The anger and frustration tinged itself with fear. He might have some damn good reasons to want Spock gone, but who was to say this wasn't the same problem? And when had he ever said these things to Spock? It wasn't like he'd never taken pot shots at his heritage, but he'd never meant it, not really. It never got this vicious. This was different. McCoy was aiming to hurt him as much as he could. His chest felt tight at just the thought. Was this really him all along or were his brain functions deteriorating even more? Hell, he might even be talking to thin air.

The doctor didn't drop his hand from the door, but his arm drooped a little. McCoy's jaw worked. He didn't want to admit to Spock he was terrified of the meld, or what could happen. As far as he was concerned, being in a permanent vegetative state was a fate worse than death. But even if it was Spock, he couldn't bring himself to hide what he'd nearly done, or why he'd asked.

"I asked you because I was desperate," he had to admit. "Something bad nearly happened last night because of me. I don't want to hurt anyone, and it's either you or asking the staff for help." Or waiting in his room for it get worse. But even that wasn't a safe bet. He could hurt Byrne. Or any of the staff.

Although Spock recognized the malicious intent behind McCoy's words, he understood the doctor had already lost much of his capacity for rational thought. After what he'd experienced in the wake of Vulcan's destruction, it would take more than a few ill-crafted insults regarding his mixed heritage to draw an emotional reaction. Spock straightened his shoulders as he stayed alert, but his hands remained steady at his sides. After all, any sudden movements ran the risk of further provoking McCoy.

Despite McCoy's hesitation, however, the doctor eventually divulged his reasons for reaching out to Spock in the first place. The Vulcan silently listened. "Something bad nearly happened" held a myriad of potential meanings. Did he make an attempt on another patient's life? Did he nearly injure himself during one of his bouts of instability? Although he could have asked for clarification, Spock knew he likely wouldn't get any clear answers until McCoy returned to his normal mental state. Instead, he needed to keep the man's reasons for asking his help in the forefront of his mind.

"The staff will not help you," the Vulcan promptly pointed out, glancing toward McCoy's loosened arm. "In all likelihood, they would simply ignore your request, or outright refuse to provide adequate treatment for your condition." There was even a strong possibility they were responsible for what had happened to him, but Spock didn't have enough evidence to say for certain. Rather than delve into that, though, the science officer continued speaking.

"You are our Chief Medical Officer." His gaze burned with a quiet intensity as he focused on McCoy. "Neither Jim nor Lieutenant Uhura have responded to my messages. We have reached a point where your assistance is necessary for our escape, and perhaps even our survival."

Spock paused, his grip subtly tightening on his flashlight. "However, I did not come here to force my aid on you. If you insist that I leave, then I shall do so, and attempt to locate our missing crew alone. But know this, Doctor: your mental faculties will continue to deteriorate, and it will only be a matter of time before you hurt either yourself or someone else. The choice is yours."

Adequate treatment, as if Spock was guaranteed to give it instead, McCoy thought disdainfully. At least the medical staff, while unethical, or at least, their boss was, had actual training. But they had generally ignored his requests before. McCoy was banking on the new "management", who, aside from the drug trials last night, seemed less interested in experiment on them and more interested in keeping them in one piece for some purpose. The odds were better. Not a lot, but a little change was an improvement.

When Spock turned his gaze on him, McCoy found himself shrinking back. He stubbornly tried to meet the Vulcan's eyes, because dammit if he'd let himself get intimidated by the man. He lasted a grand total of five seconds.

They hadn't responded, which, no matter what McCoy thought of his qualifications, wasn't like Kirk. It certainly wasn't like Uhura, who lived and breathed professionalism, even with Sulu breathing down her neck. They could be in danger. Knowing Jim, he'd gone down to the basement on that fool's mission of his and dragged along Uhura for the ride, but what McCoy couldn't figure out was why he'd ignore Spock, much less not take the man with him. And now Spock was telling him flat out that they couldn't afford to wait on him anymore.

Despite the logic, Spock had it in him to leave if he insisted. McCoy's heart sank. This wasn't just about himself or his daughter. It was the rest of the crew, and Spock didn't need to say it any more clearly, the whole outweighed the few. It wasn't like McCoy hadn't put himself at risk to save a majority before anyway, and last time he knew he could have killed himself if he'd gotten the drug wrong, so why was this any different? Of course, the chances of going into a PVS at the time were comparatively low compared to death. And if he was already deteriorating past this point, he could easily hurt someone.

McCoy had to wrestle with the urge to tell Spock to get lost. After a long moment, McCoy dropped his arm and stepped aside to give Spock room to come in, a silent admission.

McCoy had difficulty making eye contact, but so far he wasn't showing signs of becoming physically violent. Even so, Spock remained still as he patiently waited for the doctor to respond to his assessment. At this point, the Vulcan understood he needed to be ready to handle a variety of outcomes. If McCoy sent him on his way, then perhaps there would be future opportunities to correct his condition. But with his current instability, Spock believed the odds of McCoy approaching him again decreased with each passing day.

However, his words seemed to have some impact on McCoy's decision. Despite his initial reluctance, the doctor dropped his arm and silently granted him entrance into his quarters. Maintaining his neutral stance and expression, Spock slowly stepped in after him, glancing around the room. As he'd suspected, they were alone. In all likelihood, McCoy's assigned roommate had left for the evening. Provided their captors chose not to administer any facility-wide experiments this evening, they could work uninterrupted.

While under normal circumstances Spock would have liked to close the door behind him, he didn't want to risk provoking McCoy into another frenzy by giving the mistaken impression that he was trapped in here. Instead, he deliberately left the door somewhat ajar.

"I will guide you through the procedure in order to minimize any discomfort or surprise," Spock explained after a moment. "You may sit, lie down, or remain standing -- whichever you prefer."

McCoy couldn't help it. He started to tense like a overly wound spring as Spock came in. The urge to strike him, or at least, get that flash light and knock him cold, run, was strong. He could see it happening as clearly as if he'd only just gone through with it. It wouldn't be easy. Spock was fast, and he'd have to do it before he got nerve pinched again. Just make a mad dash for the flashlight,and turn on Spock, who'd probably be on him by then, bring it down his skull, just like Jim had with that ceramic in sickbay. McCoy felt his weight shift towards where he'd left the heavy light. He had to fold his arms across his chest to stop himself. After a moment, he let Spock go past him, keeping the door closer to McCoy's back as the First Officer settled inside the room.

The doctor looked back at the door, the open space between door and the frame like a breath of freedom. Last time they'd done this, in this very room actually, Spock had the door closed. Even had a single ensign and a doctor standing guard. He sincerely doubted that Spock just forgot to close it. He didn't know the logistics of a mind meld, much less the exact science behind it, but he didn't know if Spock could do anything while in the meld, which left him open to outside influences. There was a certain amount of privacy Spock wanted, but despite what he preferred, he'd left it open.

A fleeting, grateful look passed over the doctor's face before it was replaced with apprehension. Spock was waiting. McCoy wandered closer, slowly, as if coming up to a creature he wasn't sure was going to bite him.

"I saw you do it to Jim and Geller before," McCoy said uncomfortably, more to break the silence. He considered his options. As much as he preferred the option to be able to leave, and that was a lot easier standing, it also wasn't anyway to conduct any procedure when it came to a patient. If he'd had to operate on nervous patient ready to make a run for it off the table any moment, he'd probably have killed more than half of them. Lying down, that was too vulnerable. So was sitting. He decided to take the other option, "I'd rather kneel."

At least he'd be in that half-way state, so he could get up if he had to. McCoy knelt, legs resisting as if they were leaden and not flesh and blood.

Although Spock would have preferred to keep the door shut for privacy reasons, he caught the grateful expression on McCoy's face. So far he was making every effort to proceed as delicately as possible, and it appeared he had yet to outright provoke the doctor. That did not mean he could let his guard down, however. During the course of the meld, they would both be in a vulnerable position.

The Vulcan knew he was taking a risk by initiating this form of contact without a third party present, but the situation he'd presented to McCoy applied to him as well: either he could refuse to help and let their CMO's condition further deteriorate, or he could lend his aid so they could continue to work together in the future. The choice was obvious.

When McCoy referenced Geller, Spock recalled the name from his previous mental exchange with Kirk. The doctor was clearly not eager to participate despite being familiar with what was involved, yet he at least agreed to kneel for now. "Very well," he quietly agreed, and he joined him on the floor, resting his knees against the hard surface. His movements were slow but precise, and he maintained his straight posture.

"As you may know," Spock added after a moment, "I have received formal training. Once we have determined the issue, the procedure should be quick and painless." He averted his gaze for a moment. "Please allow me a moment to prepare, so I am able to reduce the amount of emotional transference between us."

As long as he remained communicative during these crucial moments, Spock believed they could soon smoothly transition into the meld. He closed his eyes and centered himself.

McCoy didn't look at all reassured that Spock had "formal training". What was that supposed to even mean? By who? The Vulcan Science Institute? And what did that mean to everyone non-Vulcan, cause it didn't mean a damn thing to McCoy. It wasn't like the Vulcans were that forthcoming about their society or medical issues, like pon farr, so really, Spock could have said he was certified to sell Tiberian snake oil for all the good it did him.

Quick and painless. Hell, he didn't believe the meld itself was going to be "quick and painless", much less fixing the problem. Why didn't he believe that? Jim made it seem painless. Geller had too, in that zombie-fied kind of way, but who knew. At least he'd never done intrusive or especially delicate surgery while the patient was conscience, and in every single case he'd seen to date, each meld victim was conscious. And what the hell was he talking about? emotional transference? This Spock was so damned sure he didn't have emotions, that it seemed like all he had to worry about was whatever was coming from McCoy himself. Lord, he made it sound like McCoy was a leper.

While Spock gathered himself, McCoy looked back at the door desperately. The crack was looking awfully small, but even with Spock this close, McCoy was sure he could make it out before Spock got to his feet. He didn't have to do this. There was still time to back out. Spock's words paraded around the front of his mind again. The needs of the many.

Damn the man. Damn him to hell.

"Spock. Can we just get this over with?" McCoy broke in after a few seconds. This felt cruel, like drawing someone's blood the old fashioned way, and letting them watch and wonder when you were going to jab the needle in.

Impatience would only increase the chances for mistakes later, which was why Spock was careful and deliberate during his preparations. Fortunately, McCoy didn't need to wait much longer. He opened his eyes and looked to the doctor. "Yes," he quietly answered. With their close proximity, it wasn't necessary to move much closer. "I will raise my hand to initiate the meld now."

Pale fingers brushed against the side of McCoy's face, until the tips settled upon the points located above and below his left eye, as well as near the corner of his mouth. "My mind to your mind," he murmured, staring straight ahead as he spoke. "My thoughts...to your thoughts..."

Like liquid from two glasses poured into a single container, the shift was smooth and quick. Two minds merged together into one consciousness. Fear, anxiety, paranoia -- such emotions immediately assaulted the Vulcan, as intensely as though they were his own. Although he had experienced a small amount of stress and apprehension during his meld with Kirk, such a strong reaction indicated that McCoy was indeed unwell. This was where Spock's training became crucial -- despite the tumultuous waves pulling him in, he managed to retain his sense of self enough to navigate the waters of McCoy's tortured mind.

His movement cautious, Spock carefully extended himself, reaching for any potential anomalies or injuries -- something that could cause him a great deal of pain, not unlike a venomous thorn stuck in his side. Even if they were the sorts of issues McCoy could not identify alone, Spock's own expertise and self-awareness could serve as a way for them to locate any disturbances.

For now, a single question permeated the waters of their joining, acting as a current that would lead them from here. Why are you so afraid?

Why did he open his big mouth? This was a bad idea. The worst idea he'd ever come up with, and that was saying a lot over his life time. McCoy couldn't help it. He started to recoil, just a little, when long fingers came at his face, and then, before he could scoot back on his butt, they were on his face.

It was instant. Their minds were one before Spock finished his sentence. Spock was like a three foot by three foot space of calm in a roiling landmass. McCoy couldn't stop the torrent of images that followed. He'd been just a simple motion away, all he had to do was depress the syringe, from overdosing Carter. The Empress wanted to say sorry, as if that was gonna put Clark's bones back together. How was he supposed to make this miracle happen, the one Clark needed, the one Spock and Jim expected, and McCoy didn't even have a clue where to start, if they had him wasting time as diplomat?!

Someone was leading him down the Enterprise corridors. It wasn't so much leading as dragging. McCoy was about as useful as a drunk, and he couldn't take a single step without stumbling. The only thing keeping him from going to the floor was the strong hand wrapped around his upper arm. He just wished he'd slow down. He could stop tripping the man up if he'd just give him five minutes to rest.

Spock flowed in along with him like a cool water. It was such a temperature change, that it was like being thrown into the Arctic. Why are you so afraid? His sense were starting to steady themselves. McCoy was able to walk a few steps, able to start hearing more and actually see something more than blurs. He looked at the Man dragging him. Took in the angular face and crisp cut hair, the pointed ears. Why are you so afraid? He knew this man. Hell, the man was helping him back!

The reaction was a violent one.

Because of you.

McCoy tried to resist the moment he felt Spock alongside him. It was a clumsy, knee jerk reaction to stop Spock from getting anything out of him. The violent attempt crumbled almost immediately. Once, he'd been able to put up more of a fight, but now, it was like trying to run on an ankle you'd recently broken, and for all your troubles, just ended up breaking it again. There was a jagged flash of pain down the link.

Spock saw a flood of images -- snapshots of life aboard the other Enterprise they'd once visited together, as clear and real as if they were his own. This alone was not unusual, however, and the Vulcan allowed himself to soak in the new information.

When they were being led down the corridor by a man who bore a startling resemblance to Spock (who was Spock), he began to gain a clearer understanding of the irrational fears coloring McCoy's thoughts, feelings and actions. This man (this Spock) was the root of McCoy's pain. He had done something, something to upset the balance of McCoy's entire psyche, something that now sent powerful waves crashing against the corners of their joined minds.

Even in the face of McCoy's fitful reaction, though, Spock stood his ground and further extended his tranquil presence. Anyone less skilled could have been swept away, but he'd been prepared for this possibility.

Something happened. That much was clear, but Spock was still trying to sort through McCoy's scattered thoughts in order to gain a better perspective of where the damage rested.

The doctor felt Spock's presence settle over the chaos like a smothering blanket. McCoy wanted to rail against it, even as he calmed. He didn't want to share Spock's serenity. Maybe it would have been soothing any other time, but to McCoy, it was about the same as being hit with tranquilizer dart. Abrupt, invasive, and someone else's doing. Bad enough Spock even had the ability to get close to someone on this level in the first place, but to get someone to feel his mood? It wasn't right, he thought placidly.

Maybe I don't wanna, Spock, McCoy thought at him.

McCoy's mind turned in on itself, at a loss, going everywhere at once, although not quite at the same frantic pace. Carter, the morphine. Almost killed him. What about Joanna? If escape comes and she's not with us, I'm not goin'. Jim's probably long gone. I'm MIA for sure. I wonder who they picked to replace me?

Probably M'benga. Chapel would make a great CMO eventually. Wait, this wasn't what they were here for. Wished he knew. Of course, if he knew for sure, he wouldn't have to go to these lengths in the first place just to find out.

What am I supposed to do?

What was he supposed to do? Leave Spock to die or stay behind a few minutes? Vulcan or not, if he didn't get treatment, Spock would certainly die.

McCoy could see Jim's brain working, going through every single tactical angle within a few seconds as his eyes flicked between the two men. He knew the Captain well enough to know that inside, Jim briefly even considered ordering McCoy to go with them. To leave Spock for dead. This wasn't their Spock, and although he hadn't tried to kill them yet, he had figured out something was up.

Jim seemed to come to a decision a split second later. Do the right thing. Five minutes wouldn't hurt.

McCoy had been the one to permit contact, and yet he wasn't acting terribly cooperative. That was another reason to go through his thoughts as quickly as possible. Normally it was an instantaneous process, like his meld with one of Nero's men, and more recently his joining with Kirk shortly after his lapse in identity. However, the CMO wasn't in his normal state of mind. They needed to proceed with caution.

More fragmented memories, some blending in and running into each other like the canvas of a chaotic painting. Thoughts of his daughter, his anxieties concerning his absence from the Enterprise, and the bearded Spock from a different universe flashed through their joined minds. Although they betrayed the mixture of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, they did little to help Spock assess the situation.

Something happened, he thought again, gently, as a way to steer their journey in a more steady direction. What was it?

You were hurt. Couldn't leave you there to die. McCoy thought back frantically. You were probably the only honorable one in that hell. Couldn't leave you to die. He could see it again, just as if it was only a few minutes ago. That other Spock out on the table while he promised Jim he'd be there in five minutes. Jim and the rest of the crew leaving them alone. 'd just administered the drug. The effects should only take a minute. He'd be gone before Spock could finish what he started.

McCoy looked up at the life signs above the bio bed. They'd suddenly shot up, far faster than he'd have thought possible in Spock's condition. It was the only warning that Spock was coming around. With a feeling that could only be dread, McCoy knew there wasn't any time to move away from the bio-bed, much less out of the room. He caught a sudden motion out of the corner of his eye. Even as McCoy started to back away, the Vulcan sat up. He did so with a grace that was inhuman and dangerous, swung his legs off the table as if he hadn't just been brained. McCoy found himself face to face with dark, glittering eyes. The dread intensified.

'Why did the captain let me live?" Spock demanded. His fingers wrapped around the doctor's wrist like a trap.

He didn't answer. Instead, McCoy tried to wrench his arm from that grasp. Spock wasn't having it, his fingers tightened, resisted. For a moment, McCoy thought he was going to break his wrist. A spasm of pain went right up it and to his shoulder. The Vulcan advanced on McCoy, his wrist flaring, forced him to follow where Spock led or risk his wrist breaking for real. The doctor found himself suddenly backed against a bulkhead, trapped between it and Spock. Spock was staring at him coldly. It reminded him of the way a man might stare at something to be dissected.

It looked like he wasn't going to be making that five minute mark now. McCoy kept his mouth shut. At the very least he could give Jim and the others enough time to escape. McCoy had no doubt that Spock would kill him when this was over. He'd get what he was looking for before then, but McCoy was going to damn well make sure it was too late to be of any use--

Spock raised his hand.

Edited 2011-09-22 22:08 (UTC)

The Vulcan pressed his fingers to the doctor's face before he even had time to feel even the least bit surprised. Spock was pushing into his mind, probing with little regard for memories and thoughts. The first thing McCoy was aware of was how much it hurt. His mind felt like it was on fire, excruciating pain flooding him at the intrusion. His first instinct was to fight back with everything he had.

And Spock was already in there. He examined each memory and thought that McCoy had kept private, hidden or didn't want anyone else to know. Spock saw his father dying, saw what McCoy had done. He saw the niggling uncertainty McCoy sometimes harbored. He saw that occasional doubt that he may have gone too far now and then with ribbing his Spock on. McCoy flinched as Spock paused, examining the relationship he had with his Vulcan back home with something that felt like aloof disdain. Spock knew then. He wasn't from their universe.

It felt wrong, as if this was something he shouldn't be looking at and judging. It passed; Spock was moving on. He continued his searing path through his mind, dismantling every single barrier, peering into every dark corner. He saw the friendship he had with Jim. He analyzed this with the same scrutiny one would give an insect. Every single patient he saved popped up. Just as rapidly, the ones he couldn't. Spock saw the grief he felt at each lost patient and coldly dismissed it as sentimental, soft, illogical. He saw the pain of his divorce. Spock witnessed McCoy's joy at Joanna's birth. The Vulcan was even suddenly there, holding his daughter in his arms. Spock discarded it as useless, not relevant to the information he needed. He continued tearing through his mind, ripping raw holes right through. McCoy felt that memory weaken and slip away. He couldn't remember what Joanna's little hand felt like that day anymore. Terror filled him.

Everything that made him who he was, everything good and bad, it was all exposed to Spock. There was nowhere McCoy could retreat to. Spock knew everything about him. And he didn't care if any of it was damaged or destroyed as he searched for his answers about Jim's plan. Through the agony, McCoy knew Spock was just getting started. His mind was burning.

As Spock relived McCoy's previous experiences, he could feel their CMO's anxiety and dread building up in the pit of his stomach as though it were his own. A forced mind meld was no trivial matter, and that was exactly what had happened to McCoy while he'd been fully conscious, fully exposed. Irrational as it may have been, McCoy's subconscious equation between this alternate Spock and himself felt real enough to him to become reality. His erratic behavior over the past several days began to make a degree of sense when viewed within that context.

It was strange that this Spock would show such little regard for McCoy's privacy, that he would feel entitled to rummage through his mind as if he had a claim to it. Had he possessed the necessary training in order to minimize the chances for damage? Perhaps he simply hadn't cared. Perhaps Landel's had somehow exacerbated McCoy's mental instability instead.

Regardless, there was no need to continue down this painful train of thought, no need to force McCoy to endure more than necessary. These memories had initially been blocked for a reason. I understand now. The thought was calm and serene, though a tinge of regret colored his message. As McCoy's commanding officer, he should not have allowed his condition to progress to this point. They should have intervened sooner.

But it was not too late. Spock could still restore order to McCoy's chaotic mind and repair the damage his counterpart had left behind. The brain was like a computer in many ways. If damaged or laden with errors, the correct functions still existed within its memory banks. It was possible to return it to working order.

Spock's fingers slowly shifted against the points on McCoy's face as he redirected his energy from sifting through the man's memories. Instead, he focused on repairing the injury the other Spock had inflicted, weaving the tears within the fabric of his mind. It was a relatively simple process for someone with his background, but still one that required a great deal of concentration.

Spock didn't say much. He was always a man of few words if it could be helped, but his thoughts were so well well ordered and logical that there was something calming about it. Any extra words were unnecessary. The tranquility that followed wasn't all Spock's. A sense of peace settled over McCoy. He slumped. He understood too. It was going to be all right.

Anyway if it wasn't, he'd be in no position to notice the difference anyway. It was a load off his shoulders.

All that floated up to Spock was a wordless sense of relief and gratitude.

McCoy opened his eyes and found himself lying face up on the floor. He stared mutely up at the ceiling. Well now, he seemed to be alive still, so Spock hadn't killed him. Not brain dead. His head felt sore. So did his neck. The migraine was mercifully gone, replaced by a low, more manageable throb that was fading with each passing second. The burn that had been going through his brain was gone.

He remembered everything that had happened in that sickbay. Now he found himself almost wishing he hadn't.

"Well," McCoy began weakly then fell silent. Once again it struck him that he really was out of his element. At heart, he was just an old doctor from the South. He appreciated solid earth under his feet, simple food and good company. He wasn't meant to go running through transporters, time traveling, going through other universes or watching his own mind nearly collapse on itself. He felt tired and a little foolish. What did a man say after reliving one of the worst experiences in his life?

He should probably say something. McCoy's eyes searched then found Spock. "Vulcan interrogation, huh?"

Edited 2011-09-25 20:43 (UTC)

Spock remained sitting on his knees, his posture upright and straight as he assessed the doctor's condition. He believed his efforts to repair the damage were successful, and so he had severed the link once he'd finished. Naturally, however, he couldn't be certain of the result unless he observed McCoy's behavior afterward on a first-hand basis. At the very least, the CMO was no longer acting irrational or paranoid. Tired, and perhaps unsettled by what he'd learned during their meld, yes, but he no longer wore the wild, wide-eyed expression of a cornered animal.

Upon hearing his comment, the Vulcan's dark eyes shifted to meet McCoy's gaze. "Like any tool, a mind meld can be used for many purposes," he quietly explained. "Neither good nor bad, it simply is." He glanced away for a moment, his expression stoic. "That another version of myself used his ability in such a way, however, is...regrettable."

He had initiated a mind meld with an unwilling participant before, unfortunately -- but the circumstances were far different, and Spock only retrieved the information he'd needed to save Earth from destruction.

"How are you now?" Spock asked, deciding it would be better to focus on the matter at hand. Once he confirmed the doctor's physical condition, then they could move onto other topics as they saw fit.

It still felt strange looking at Spock, but the residual uneasiness was fading. The other Spock had a calculated edge, a cruelty under the surface, about him that this one didn't have, and frankly, this Spock just had a virtual free pass at his brain, and could have done anything or searched for anything. As far as McCoy knew, Spock hadn't. Even after all the mouthing off too. He really called the man a half-breed, didn't he? McCoy's mouth tugged into a grimace.

McCoy's eyes went back to the ceiling. Regrettable. Regrettable was not being able to save a limb or fully heal a bad break in a bone. He wouldn't call what happened to him just "regrettable", but that was Vulcan understatement for you. "I'm sure he would have said it was only the most logical course of action." Realizing he'd just implied this Spock could ever be in the same boat, McCoy muttered a sheepish "Sorry."

What a loaded question. McCoy was feeling exhausted, embarrassed he ever thought the other Spock had any honor in him, stunned by what happened, sore like he had whiplash; he could go on and on. He could still feel the memory of Joana's hand slipping away, just like he had the first time. He searched around and found it was still gone. So where some of his other memories. Spock couldn't restore something that had been clean burnt out, but he had done what he could. McCoy didn't think he could complain. The alternative, completely losing his mind, was much worse.

None of which were what Spock as asking. He'd be interested in the more literal aspect, the physical portion. What McCoy did emotionally wasn't something he'd be interested in. "Like I've got the mother of all hangovers. Help me up, will you?"

Edited 2011-09-27 01:13 (UTC)

As far as Spock was concerned, there wasn't any need to apologize. The Vulcan understood that he still retained his individual identity, regardless of what any counterpart of his did. Perhaps, in his own way, the bearded Spock believed his actions were the most logical. That did not, of course, mean Spock condoned what he did.

Even so, McCoy appeared to be in acceptable physical condition, despite some of his current symptoms. Under normal circumstances, such uncomfortable sensations were only momentary, but Spock did not know whether that remained the same within the institute's walls.

When McCoy requested his help, however, Spock brought himself to a stand. Unexpectedly, the sudden movement brought a wave of dizziness, and he actually wobbled as his body instinctively fought to keep balance. After a moment, his senses settled, and he reached out to grasp McCoy's arm as though it hadn't happened. In fact, he took care to angle himself in a way that the doctor could easily grasp onto Spock's own arm in turn for further support.

McCoy might be a lot of things right now, but he wasn't blind. He caught the wobble, the lightheaded sensation Spock must have just experienced. And Spock was the hardest out of the entire crew, and if he wasn't, he was the most stubborn when it came to acting like nothing got to him. If it was enough to slip out past his control, or take him by surprise, it was bad news.

He got to his feet, and quickly found his bearings just in case Spock had another wave of weakness. His legs felt stronger, or maybe it was his balance and coordination that had been out the window before. McCoy made sure he was ready to walk, holding onto Spock's arm whenever it felt shaky. He guided them to one of the beds, bracing himself to support Spock if the tables turned.

McCoy sat down the moment he could, hoping Spock would get the hint and sit down too. The doctor held his head for a moment. Universe's worst hangover was right, but unlike the migraines before, it wasn't growing in strength. He could feel it slowly, slowly tapering off. After a moment, McCoy looked up at Spock, studying his face, his eyes. What had the man done to himself in order help?

"Are you okay?" McCoy tentatively asked.

Edited 2011-09-28 06:11 (UTC)

Fortunately, their efforts to support one another as they moved proved adequate, and they reached a sturdy place to sit without any further incident. His body felt heavy as he sank onto the place beside McCoy, though the only outward indication he gave was a brief close of his eyes.

The question was not unexpected. Although Spock generally did not wish for others to concern themselves about his health, he took that as another sign that McCoy had returned to his senses after all. Provided their captors did not tamper with their efforts, Spock saw no reason that he wouldn't be fully recovered by tomorrow. With that finished, they could focus on making contact with Jim and Nyota.

"Yes, I am," he quietly answered. His voice didn't come out as strong as he would have preferred, and for a moment spots swam before his eyes. Signs of fatigue and overexertion, no doubt. Simple rest would likely set those right, which meant there was little reason to focus on that now. "My stamina is admittedly not what it was before our capture, but there is no cause for alarm, Doctor."

Spock actually sat down next to him. That was either a good sign he'd come to his senses about acting like he wasn't having a problem or a bad sign, that he really was that badly off. It was something the other Spock would never have done. A sign of weakness in their universe. McCoy thought it was common sense. When Spock closed his eyes as if marshaling himself against the dizziness, McCoy's concern rose.

"Are you just sayin' that to get out of a physical?" McCoy asked. He was only half joking. Spock had overexerted himself, possible more than was safe for a human if it got to him on this level, to help him. It was his fault Spock was like this. If Spock became seriously ill because of him, or worse, maybe he should have left McCoy to it. He couldn't ask anyone to hurt or kill themselves through work for him.

"I am saying that because it is the truth," Spock answered as easily as completing a simple mathematical equation. "Since I first awoke here, my strength has been reduced to a third of what it once was. It is only logical that I would experience some degree of fatigue after guiding us through a mind meld of that intensity."

True, he hadn't suffered any ill effects after his meld with Jim. However, the captain had been in a stable frame of mind, and Spock hadn't had to correct any damage, either.

"I do not expect it to continue beyond tonight," Spock added. With his balance stabilized, the Vulcan was able to fully straighten his posture now. "Given your apparent recovery, the benefits clearly outweigh any temporary discomfort."

The conversation with Lunge was hardly what Harvey had been expecting, mainly because it wasn't even allowed to happen. He couldn't explain how he could be physically incapable of talking about what had gone on, but it was definitely enough to piss him off all over again. Here they'd been through something horrible and they weren't even able to warn people off from following in their idiotic footsteps.

At least now he knew why they'd never heard that much about the basement. Harvey should have recognized that as a bad sign and stayed the hell away, but no -- he was always too goddamn curious and ended up sticking his neck in places where it didn't belong.

Which meant he was now down one ally and directionless. The people he'd been teaming up with were all trying to avoid each other and he had no idea what to do with his night. Still, this latest development -- the inability to talk about what had happened, even if he wanted to (which, for the most part, he didn't) -- had riled him up enough that he knew sleep wasn't an option.

In other words, he was back to pointless wandering. He'd be going out there to search for a man who couldn't be found -- Aguilar. There was always a chance that he could track down Landel now that he was off in hiding somewhere, but even that seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Either way, Harvey found himself grabbing for his gun, flashlight, and radio as the lights died out and night officially started. He realized that right now all he was interested in finding was a familiar face; someone who he didn't have to do the whole song and dance of first meetings with. Someone who didn't ask many questions would also be a plus, but he was probably expecting too much there.

Honestly, he wouldn't even mind running into Grell.

"Sorry I wasn't of much help," he said to Lunge before shrugging his shoulders and leaving the room. And so he headed down the hall, just like a rat on its wheel.

[To here.]

Only the soft click from their door and unnerving silence from the intercom signified the beginning of night. Claude had done his best to eat what he could of his dinner, as well as offer some to his roommate, but the uncertainty from those forced injections made his stomach churn with anxiety. He wondered if others suffered from similar treatment, or if he and Firo had unluckily been singled out. Claude remembered some of the horrible stories floating around on the bulletin board.

Was that going to happen to them, too?

The thought made his heart pound in his chest, but he couldn't exactly let those fears paralyze him. Claude intended to stay in tonight, which was why he didn't pressure Firo to stick close to him. For all he knew, his roommate had other plans, and at least he'd agreed that finding a buddy would be best. Still, as Claude tucked away his gun and picked up his sword with his uninjured hand, he realized he likely wouldn't be getting far with his heraldry practice. With weird drugs pumping through his body, though, that was probably for the best. With that decided, he left Leon's journal and Rita's notes on his desk.

Since his injuries made it difficult to easily change clothes, Claude was forced to stick with slipping his simple red headband under his bangs, as well as his Federation jacket over the military-issue shirt. The trousers, shoes and shirt would have to stay in his box tonight.

After saying good-bye to his roommate, Claude pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway.

((To here (http://damned.livejournal.com/1160277.html?thread=79926613#t79926613).))

Edited 2011-09-09 03:17 (UTC)

[From here]

Goku had a hunch Kibitoshin was behind this door. It smelled like him the way nothing else did, as if he had rolled around on the door like an excited dog. So without another thought, the young boy barged in with a loud "Hey!" that no one acknowledged.

"Are?" Surprised, he took a few more steps inside, but there was no movement on either bed. Apparently they had other things to do, like eating! Or maybe they were hunting down some monsters? Yeah, monster hunting!! That sounded so exciting, and, truly, Goku was jealous. What if there weren't enough monsters to go around? He needed to get to them sooner rather than later! First, though, he needed to retrieve his grandpa's memento.

He looked inside the lock box that smelled most like his friend, but his treasured weapon was not there. The lid was closed and then quickly re-opened. Nope, nothing... Maybe if he--! Nope, still not there. Huh...

Tail twitching, the young boy waddled around the whole room, looking under beds, tables, chairs, but he found nothing. The only place left were the big wardrobes against the wall. The first one was empty of everything but clothes. The next one, though, held a nice surprise. When his big vacant eyes caught sight of the red pole, Goku shrieked with delight and grabbed for it.

It was perfectly intact and even had it's holster. This was such a perfect day! He had a chocolate bar melted on his hands, he had his nyoibo back, and best of all he had time to go beat up a monster with it.

"Here I come, monsters!" he cried liek a declaration of war and ran out of the room.

Hakkai awoke with a start. Something was missing. Jeep. The tiny dragon had curled up next to him that night when he'd gone to bed, and now that small warm weight was gone. Hopefully he'd just moved to the floor, but after all they'd been through lately... maybe better just to check. And then he could go back to sleep and not worry. He reached out a hand for his monocle on the nightstand - and hit wall. Ah, he'd probably rolled over in his sleep. He reached out the other way, and wrapped his fingers around the thin frame of his glasses. Huh, that was funny - he didn't remember laying them out there... Regardless, he slipped them on, and sat up, blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness.

When his eyes finally adjusted, he realized this was most definitely not the room at the inn. Too small, for one - and Gojyo should have been sleeping in the other bed. Instead it was perfectly neatly made, like it hadn't been used at all - and that, he knew, was definitely not something Gojyo would bother with. He couldn't see Jeep, either. Worrying, this was all very worrying. He stood up, and realized he was already dressed - button-down shirt rather than his usual tunic, though, it seemed. He rubbed his forehead in worry. None of them would sleep through a night attack - but this could be another illusion-trap. He'd have to explore deeper, find the cracks to break the spell open. As he considered this, he started making the bed - force of habit, really. He paused, however, when he realized there was something hard under the pillow. He lifted it, carefully - he knew where Sanzo kept his gun sometime, and he really did not want a misfire in the dark. But no - just a flashlight. Well, that was something. He took it, shoving the end into a pants-pocket until he'd finished making the bed - slipping a hand under the mattress, just in case - and then flicked it on to survey the room.

Under inspection of light... this looked like a hospital room. Or a particularly nice prison cell. He wasn't sure which alternative he preferred - either way, he shouldn't be here. The dresser his glasses had been on was first on the list - there was a beret on top of it, too, but he ignored that for now. Not a hat person, really. The drawers revealed several sets of clean underclothes, and neatly pressed dressed pants. Feeling around the edges and bottoms didn't reveal anything else. Well, he had to respect the attention to neatness, at least. Desks at the foot of the beds - those were next. Both identical, with identical journals and small radios on top. Both journals were blank - he left them be. He did, however, pocket one of the radios, asking silent forgiveness for taking it. He pulled open the single drawer on the desk and checked inside - pens, two of which went in his pocket; batteries, likewise - it never hurt to be prepared! - and a keyring with two keys on it. Now that was interesting. Keys meant locks - locks he could open now. Well, locks he could open without having to damage them, more accurately, but... semantics. There was a keyhole on the front of the desk drawer. He tried the first key - it didn't fit. The second one did, though, and turned, too. Hmmm. He went to the other desk, to try the first key there - no luck, and the second one didn't work either. It's drawer had the same assortment of things the first desk had - along with another set of keys. One fit the desk lock, the other didn't. The two unknown keys looked the same - and holding them up revealed the teeth were the same. He'd have to find what it went to later.

And, lastly - closets. Shirts and jackets on wall-hooks - no need for those right now. And ah, shoes. He took the pair of boots from one of them, and laced them up quickly. Nothing else from the looks of it - all in all, a very odd room. What this illusion was supposed to be... he wasn't quite sure, really. The room had a door, though, which implied there was more something out there. Hopefully he wouldn't have to break it down, that was always dreadfully messy. Thankfully, the handle turned, and he pulled the door open, stepping out into an equally unlit corridor.

Firo had felt pretty glad that there had been nothing else from the intercom after dinner: no more code 1-8, and especially no cheery-sounding man wishing them a good night (ha!). He gave Claude a wave and half a smile when his roommate headed out, but made no move to follow him.

Instead, he turned to the bed, slumping heavily onto it.

If the drug that had been forced upon him was going to affect him at all, how long would it take to start working? And then—how long would it last? He'd thought before that waiting it out in the room would be best, or maybe even sleep it off, but... What if it didn't do anything at all? Spending the whole night in the room would be fine if there was a reason for it, but he didn't like to think that it might turn out to be pointless after all.

He shifted to a more comfortable position, burying his head in the pillow and reaching up to loosen his collar. Maybe he'd just sleep for a while, and if he woke up before morning, he'd see how he felt then......

"Firo...?"

At the faint sound of his name, Firo was up like a shot, any remnants of sleepiness cleared away. That voice—it had sounded like... "Ennis!?"

He was on his feet in an instant, snatching up his flashlight and heading for the door. How could Ennis be here? It was true that he'd ended up here, and Claire had, but... No; she was supposed to be safe and sound at home in New York, not here...

The hall was dark and almost completely empty. Firo shone the light around desperately to catch some glimpse of Ennis—but if she was here, she might have already moved on; the only other person in the hall was a tall, dark-haired man.

"Excuse me!" he called out to the stranger, taking a few steps towards him. "Did you happen to see a young woman out here a moment ago?"

Hakkai's flashlight caught a younger man coming out of one of the doors. He was younger than Hakkai - though probably not by much - and dressed in the same clothes Hakkai had found in the closest and drawers. Which, Hakkai realized, was probably what he was wearing too - he hadn't bothered to check, really.

He gave the young man a polite smile. "Ah, no... you're the first person I've seen in this place so far, actually. I take it you're looking for someone?" He wasn't sure if this was another trap, or if it wasn't, if whoever the man was seeking was actually here - but he needed allies for the moment, and politeness never went amiss.

"Ah... Yeah," Firo answered. "A lady with reddish hair who looks a little older than me; I thought I heard her voice out here."

Despite not wanting Ennis to be here in the first place, Firo felt a little disappointed at the news that this man hadn't seen her. He glanced down towards the open end of the hall, pointing the light that way just in case he'd missed catching sight of her, but then the full implication of what the other man had said caught up with him.

The first person he'd seen, not 'tonight' but 'in this place'. Maybe he'd just meant the hallway, but...

...No, he was getting ahead of himself and jumping to conclusions. He'd probably just misunderstood, and asking the man to clarify was a simple matter. "Hey, when you said I was the first person you've seen here... What did you mean?"

Hakkai tapped a finger on his lip thoughtfully. "Hmm. No, I didn't hear anyone either. Though if this is illusion magic..." He trailed off, and then blinked, as the other man's question finally fully registered.

"Aha, just what I said. I woke up in that room -" he pointed at a door one down the hall. "-instead of the inn, maybe ten minutes ago. I haven't seen anyone else. I think this may be an illusion-trap, which would explain why you heard something I didn't." Despite the predicament he was in, his tone was still cheerful. He'd faced things like this before - he'd find a way out again.

Firo was getting a sinking feeling about what the man meant since asking for clarification—and that clarification only confirmed it. The guy really was new after all, if he'd thought he was supposed to be in an inn right now and that all of this was just an illusion.

He barely kept a grimace from showing on his face. How was he supposed to explain anything when he didn't fully understand everything that was going on himself? He could repeat the things he'd been told, but there was a good chance he'd leave something important out or wouldn't be able to answer any questions the man had.

"This isn't an illusion. Even if you were somewhere else before, you're a prisoner here now," he stated. There was no good way of putting the situation, so it was best to just put it plainly.

Firo glanced down towards the end of the hall one last time. The new guy said he hadn't heard her, either, but... He couldn't just have imagined it, right? If she really was here, he was just going to lose her trail if he wasted too much time.

He finally looked back at the other man. "I can try to explain, but you'll have to come with me. If that really was my friend that I heard, I need to find her right away."

Prisoners? That begged... well, a number of questions, really. 'How' and 'why' were near the top of the list, and he rather hoped the young man had some slightly more concrete evidence as to the nature of this place. Ginkaku's soul-jar had seemed flawless from the inside, and that hadn't even trapped material form. 'Who' was next on the list - but, ah, there were more pressing concerns for the moment.

"Aha, of course. I'm happy to be of assistance if I can," he offered with a polite smile. He needed more time to analyze the situation - and if the other man could tell him anything useful, it was best for both of them if they worked together.

Firo let out a small sigh of relief at the man's response—at least he was going to be agreeable about coming along with him. He gestured for the man to follow him, and then started down towards the end of the hall.

"There are other people who can tell you a lot more than I can," he said on the way. "But I can at least fill you in on some of the basics."

[To here]

[From here.]

Once in the hallway where his room was located, the Scarecrow couldn't keep himself from running straight to the door, knocking on it loudly before trying the handle. "Depth Charge! Are you in there?"

To his surprise, the door opened just fine- even more shocking was that his roommate was alive, well, and apparently asleep in his bed. Had he been returned to the room immediately after they left? And if so, why not both of them? It was puzzling to the point where the Scarecrow wasn't sure he believed it. Though he didn't know if it was rude or not to awaken those sleeping, but he wanted answers.

Crossing the room in a few steps, he stopped by Depth Charge's bedside, putting a hand on his roommate's shoulder. "Hey, Depth Charge. Surely you can't be asleep now!"

And yet, he was. Though the Scarecrow thought he wouldn't sleep for a week after the events of the day— too many thoughts running through him, and far too much to think about said thoughts— it appeared Depth Charge had no problems with it; however, something was strange. In spite of all the shaking, he didn't budge. It was too similar to the poppy field to be a coincidence. They had to have magicked him back to his room and put him to sleep for one reason or another. But what was that reason?

It seemed the Scarecrow wouldn't be finding out yet as the intercom chimed to life.

Oh, so he did have blue hair. Now Carter remembered seeing flashes of him in the cafeteria, though always moving too fast in a mass of other prisoners to be paid more than a moment's attention. With a name like Depth Charge he probably actually was an alien, a matter he would have to question the large man on once he was awake.

But for now, he seemed intent on sleeping. Carter watched Frank with mild confusion. When the shaking produced no effect, he went to try and pull the limber man back from his friend. "Maybe he just wants to sleep. He'll be safe here, you know, nobody comes into the rooms." He'd spent a full night cowering in his cell, until he'd finally nodded off with his crowbar cradled in his arms.

The intercom clicked on and Carter listened to the message with a slight frown. He wasn't sure what they were talking about, but the intercom always talked about random things he didn't understand. At least the basic concepts translated well to a 1940s spy. "Hope nobody snitches. I wouldn't, but there's some guys around here who aren't the nicest."

The Scarecrow took a step from the bed as Carter pulled him back, his look of utter confusion over Depth Charge becoming one of mild panic as the intercom spoke of something far too close to what had happened to be a coincidence. Somehow, the military knew they'd been given a false name. He wasn't sure how, but that, unfortunately, made the most sense with what the General was saying.

Though from the sound of it, they hadn't been able to figure out on their own who the traitor was, since he was the one the patients were instructed to see about turning the name in. There was relief to be found in that fact, however small. A part of him wanted to race to the Chapel, to tell Major Harrington that Rosemarie might be in danger and that he ought to take whatever steps were necessary to keep something bad from happening to her; however, he reasoned that would only make things worse, possibly even raising suspicion about Harrington's identity. He couldn't let that happen.

That left taking the opposite approach: getting as far from the institute for the night as possible. He didn't know what consequences the patients would be facing for his and Depth Charge's refusal- to be honest, he didn't want to know. The thought was too horrible to think of.

He put on a smile, though even he could feel it was transparent. "Y- you're right. I'm sure no one would do that, especially if the person is trying to help us." He grabbed his flashlight from the drawer and his coat from the closet, then headed for the box on his bed and grabbed the watch. He turned the knob on the side a few times, the ticking sound a familiarity for which he was grateful.

He then returned to Carter's side. "I'm ready anytime you are."

"Right!"

Carter made sure he had his notebook and his radio on him before taking Frank's hand. He braced himself, then punched the wall with his ring hand.

[To here. (http://damned.livejournal.com/1174058.html)]

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Night 58: M41-M50 Hallway

M41

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M44

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Unassigned room on the hallway

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M42

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