damned_institute | Night 59: Disciplinary Therapy Corridor

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Night 59: Disciplinary Therapy Corridor

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Instantaneous by name, instantaneous by nature. The floor seemed not to give way under his feet so much as vanish entirely- a pretty strange illusion, given that they were the ones who'd vanished- but the move was so quick that Kibitoshin didn't even see their surroundings blur before they were planted back on the ground again. The dark, narrow hall, the ominous doors thick enough to swallow any number of sounds: it looked right to him. They seemed to be in the right place.

He dared a glance at both Peter and Sam, looking from side to side to check that they were both still in one piece (and the right piece at that, with no extra parts- it had never happened before, but this place made him nervous) before letting his shoulders sag with relief- a gesture he made sure to correct as swiftly as possible when he remembered that Sam still had his hand on his shoulder. He didn't need to know that he'd been worried. Of course not. Especially not when they were still in 'first impressions' territory.

"This is it, right?" he asked after a moment anyway, frowning slightly- and not just to stop himself from admitting his uncertainty. True, he'd thought it looked right, but there were so many identical hallways here and with the pink glow they became all the more indistinguishable.

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As Ema backed away, Guybrush used his flashlight to examine the hodgepodge of pieces that made up the creature before them. None of it made sense- it was a mess of limbs and teeth, tentacles and talons, all cobbled together to create a horrifying monstrosity that left the Mighty Pirate™ gawking and feeling not as mighty as his title implied. Apprehension mounted him as he watched Javert bravely face the Nightmarish Being of Literally Indescribable Terror, and he felt his legs find their strength. Right! They were the Search & Rescue, and while he wasn't sure this sort of thing was in the contract, he'd said only moments before that he'd follow the inspector into the heart of danger. It was time to make good on that promise, even if it was much sooner than he'd ever expected.

Steeling himself, Guybrush looked through his inventory to see what he had that could take out such a beast.

Unless the monster was attracted to candy or was in need of a court-appointed attorney, Elaine's sword was the obvious choice for battle. As he pulled his beloved's blade from his pocket, Guybrush barely caught sight of the monster's clawed arm coming his way. Thinking with his survival instincts rather than any others, he plastered himself against the wall to avoid the monster's swing.

"Well, Javert?" he called. "You're the most experienced one of us! Ever seen anything like this before?"

Even a young man would have been hard-pressed to avoid both attacks, and Javert had not considered himself young for a number of years now. He stumbled back as his sword slid off of the creature's claws: enough time and distance to escape the stinger as it whistled past, tearing through his greatcoat sleeve but thankfully nothing else--but not enough to recover before the second blow struck.

The creature's claws raked his upper arm and the better half of his chest, drawing an audible hiss from Javert as he retreated clumsily. His attachment to his old clothes served him well, as they usually did; the cuts were deep, but would have been far deeper without the greatcoat and frock coat in the way. Nevertheless, it was damnably inconvenient.

"Sadly, no," he returned through clenched teeth. "It seems experience has little effect on this creature. I suggest we make ourselves scarce."

The illumination of Mr. Threepwood's flashlight beam was at once welcome and very, very much not wanted. While it was to their advantage to see exactly what they were up against, the creature proved to be a horror that defied science, ethics, and common sense. It was just a collection of random pieces haphazardly patched together and somehow given just enough life to be able to move.

Mr. Threepwood moved in, pulling a sword out of his pocket (how was he doing that?). The monster, in turn, unleashed an twofold attack on Mr. Javert. Without even realizing she'd done it until the sound hit her ears, Ema yelped when she saw the monster's claws tear across Mr. Javert's arm and chest. She took a few more instinctive steps backward, trying to put as much distance between herself and the monster as possible--even if it did leave her stupidly open from every other angle.

"I-I think Mr. Javert's right. We... we can't fight something like this!"

Nothing but cloth and the barest feel of skin and muscle. Not deep enough to kill and not nearly deep enough for the stinger to hit its mark. The other swing missed and the leftover hissed, pulling the stinger back. More words fell upon ears that could not comprehend, but one thing was certain - one of them was bleeding. The leech's mouth could taste blood on the air and that was all the creature needed to hone in on the most likely prey. The bravest were always the first to die and he would be no exception.

Surging forward, the creature began striking wherever it thought the patients were. Clawed tentacles raked through the air, swinging blindly around, looking to connect to something - anything. As it moved the leech's mouth let out a bloodcurdling shriek, the scorpion's tail rising up behind it and twitching as it waited for a sign. All it needed was one touch and it would strike, aided by the extra length of the snake's body. Fast and strong, the abomination advanced, slashing at everything in its path.

In most situations, Guybrush would have been leery about taking orders from an officer of the law, given that he was a pirate and by nature followed the direction the winds took him; however, factoring in that this was the experienced Inspector Javert who was giving the orders— a man who had already proven himself the more level-headed and practical of the two of them when faced with danger— and that the hallways of the institute had no winds to guide him, Guybrush decided to follow the elder man's advice without question or quip for a change.

"Aye aye, Inspector!" Guybrush said as he took a swing at one of the tentacles as it neared him. It was moving quickly enough that he missed- he ducked as it flew over his head, straightening up once it had passed. "Just be careful of these tentacles! If they hit you, it'll probably OOF!"

The same tentacle he'd ducked under came back for a second pass, landing sharply against the middle of his back- the claws cut through the thin fabric of the shirt, tearing through his skin and muscles cleanly. The impact knocked him to the ground, where he skidded a few feet from the force. He came to a stop along the opposite wall, now closer to Ema than Javert. It was there he finished his sentence: "... Hurt. Ow."

Another wild swing of the tentacle nearest Javert. This time he was prepared, and he flung himself aside in time. He forced himself to concentrate, attempting to shut out everything else: the creature's ear-splitting shrieks, the the feel of blood trickling down his side.

It was fast. Too fast, by the looks of it. It advanced more quickly than he would have expected of something of its bulk, and its few half-misses only seemed to have enraged it further. They were too far down the hall as it was; any attempt to run for the doors would be over before it began. He didn't need any powers to see that.

He nearly laughed, except that the motion pulled unbearably at the cuts across his chest. It stood to reason the creatures would be out in full force tonight. Their bad luck for venturing into something meant for someone considerably more powerful than they were.

In that moment, the decision was as natural as it was instantaneous. "Enough time-wasting, Threepwood. Take Mlle. Skye and run. I'll be right behind you." The tentacle came whirling around again, and this time he lashed out, swinging the blade more like a broadsword than a saber, trying to hack it off. At the very least, he would keep its attention. "And find a healer! These damned cuts sting like the blazes."

Now Mr. Threepwood had been hit by the creature. Ema ran to the pirate to (carefully!) help him to his feet, noting with no small amount of panic that he was bleeding from the slices across his back. Of all the supplies she had shoved into her bag, bandages (or even some gauze pads) were not among them. She made a mental note to correct this the next time they went to town.

Not that there was anything she could do about it now. Right now, they had to run--Mr. Javert included. It was clear from the beginning that they didn't stand a chance against this creature, and further evidence only further supported that hypothesis. "Are you sure? We can't just leave you!"

One miss, another miss...there! The blind flailing finally yielded something of worth and the leftover felt claws rake through cloth and flesh. It turned its bulky weight in that direction, but the prey moved even as the creature launched another attack. The unseen patient was thrown by the force of the blow and the stinger only struck thin air, further enraging the monster. It screeched and swept the snake's tail where it had last felt Guybrush, spitting in that direction until--

There.

A painful slash at one of its arms. A hacking move that cut deep into its flesh and spilled its blackened blood upon the floor. The pain was immense and the it screamed again, the mouth flipping instantly to face that direction, but the pain was also good. It meant it knew where to focus. It could feel where the patient was and now it knew where to strike. Even as the blade sliced through one tentacle, the leftover struck with the scorpion's stinger where it knew its assailant had to be. The remaining three bladed arms swung forward like a trap, meant to ensnare him and hold him still until the leech could bite his head off.

Guybrush pushed off the ground, trying to get to his knees. Blood trailed around his abdomen and chest, dripping into the front of his shirt as it collected at his stomach. A groan escaped him as he braced himself on Ema, uttering a word of gratitude under his breath as he made it to his feet Javert was right about those cuts stinging, to say the very least.

Leaning on the wall, he looked over his shoulder at the ongoing fight: the Nightmarish Being of Literally Indescribable Terror hissed and screeched as it faced off against the inspector, the man standing tall as a wall defending them against the inevitable. While usually a source of optimism, Guybrush knew a grim situation when it was unfolding before his eyes.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to face- the beast, or Javert if he didn't follow commands. "Right. Just don't do anything I would do, and you should be fine!" He got his hook around Ema's arm to pull her along, only to hear the creature howl again behind them. In spite of both his better judgment and the orders given to him to high-tail it out of there, he hesitated, looking back.

Javert's attempt to divert the thing's attention away from Threepwood and Ema had worked perhaps too well. The blade had lodged fast in the thrashing tentacle, and his efforts to pull it free meant left him completely open to the creature's next attack.

He had fought a scorpion once, a mere few days into his stay here. It had been the size of a large cat, but even the stinger on that had been small in comparison to the one that struck him now, like a thunderbolt. The shock of it left him reeling. Only blind luck allowed him to wrench the saber free at last as he stumbled back, and only blind luck permitted him to escape one of the bladed arms, which hurtled by overhead. It did not permit him to avoid the other two.

The tentacles curled themselves about his middle, tearing indiscriminately through cloth and flesh and bone. He hardly understood what had happened to him at first; only that he had been hit, and that he was curiously incapable of moving. Then sensation returned to him. Ignorance had been bliss. He had heard before that pain sharpened the senses. He would dearly have liked to find the dolt who had said that and switch places with him, but the fact was that three things were crystal clear in his mind.

The first was that he was going to die. This did not surprise him as much as it should have. Javert was a man well acquainted with death, particularly his own. Even if he had been able to ignore the pulsing warmth of his own blood seeping through his clothes, there was an undeniable familiarity to his darkening vision and the leaden feeling in his limbs, as if this was merely some sort of completion, some end to what he had sought to do weeks ago. In truth, he was surprised he had lasted even this long, outmatched if not outwitted by most other residents of the Institute.

The second observation came as more of a shock: He did not particularly want to die. He was unsure where this sudden rebellion had come from. He supposed he had spent the duration of his confinement here so preoccupied with other matters that the business with Valjean had simply become unimportant to him. In a place like this, as much as it pained him to admit it outright--and when else was he going to admit it except now?--the law seemed to take a back seat to other, more pressing matters. He had not thought it possible, but it was no longer something he could avoid. In some indefinable way, this place had changed him, and it was far too late to do anything about the realization.

The third was the only one that mattered at all now: He could still feel the saber in his hands, though the sensation was fading rapidly and he knew he had seconds at most. Pain was good, he decided; it meant he was still capable of movement. He refused to succumb to some disgraceful end. And if the pirate had any sense left in him, he would retain his innate sense of self-preservation and run.

He would have said something--anything--but he had very little breath left. Instead he forced his shaking arms to hold the blade upright and waited, blood singing in his ears like the roaring of so much water.

As Mr. Threepwood hesitated on following Mr. Javert's order, so did Ema. Her expression of uncertainty in leaving the latter behind was never answered; instead, she got to watch him be attacked and mortally wounded by the horror that had found them in this hallway. What little she could make out was terrible enough, with the giant stinger and swinging blades and hooked tentacles ensnaring the man and holding him still while ripping into him.

Worse, she could hear the tearing of flesh and breaking of bone. And she could smell the blood, both of Mr. Javert and of the creature. It took everything she had not to get sick right then and there.

The way this had unfolded was like that night in Chief Gant's office two years ago. Mr. Javert was about to die in order to save her, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him. She couldn't even attempt to break up the fight, given that this creature would more likely kill her than succumb to being shoved over. Really, the only course of action would be to follow his last request and get the hell out of there.

There was a problem with that course of action, however.

Ema couldn't bring herself to move and leave him alone there.

The fact that she was screaming in fear, (emotional) pain, and preemptive grief didn't help things, either.

Even after spending the past two years trying to train herself to react more effectively to a situation in which she--and other people--were in danger, all of that effort was amounting to almost nothing at the moment. The emotional burden was too much, and it was a miracle in and of itself that she hadn't fainted as her body went practically catatonic. If she was to get away, she was going to need a shock to her system. Hopefully, Mr. Threepwood was able to keep himself together well enough to provide exactly that.

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Night 59: Disciplinary Therapy Corridor

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