[From here]

It was before long Xemnas reached the final corridor he required to pass through in order to reach his destination. Though he was only three doors away from his goal, it hardly meant that the Nobody would already delusion himself with the fact that he had accomplished all this easily. Furthermore, he couldn't tell with certainty whether the Janitor's Closet would hold the supplies he required.

The Superior paused at the third door, discovering it to be locked. A rather weak and useless lock, however; a lock that would easily break under the pressure of force. It was only but a small hindrance that would be easy to take care of. Were they present, it might have been amusing to his subordinates that their leader would have to resort to breaking open a door by physical force, but Xemnas hardly considered such a fact relevant. The lock gave in easily, the door sweeping open and allowing him entrance to the room that lay beyond.

He had doubtlessly caused a significant amount of noise by breaking open this door, alerting potential threats lying in wait within the darkness of his presence. The Nobody didn't waste time going through the newly acquired entrance and close the door behind him.

[To here]

[From here]

What Xemnas encountered upon entering the small, narrow room cluttered with many items was a distinct lack of any organization. In the mess, they were bearing no sense of apparent logic in the way they were stored. The Nobody carefully squeezed through the room to get a better look at its contents, keeping an eye upon the narrow shelving unit that contained more items than it was able to bear; its contents threatened to fall out of the unit were he to move too carelessly.

The small radiance of his flash light revealed the various items one would expect to find in a janitor's closet; mainly materials for the cleaning and maintenance of this facility's interior. The Superior swept the thin beam over the cluttered area, taking note of the existence of various items before finally locating the supplies he had been seeking; several metal pipes ranging from 4 inches to 3 feet in length. The pipes were, however, hollow from the inside, which meant he would likely need quite the few of them in order to provide enough metal for the blades he had requested. Pulling out the pillowcase he had the foresight of taking with him, Xemnas stocked up on more metal pipes than he had estimated to need.

After he was finished, he allowed his gaze to wander over the room once more, estimating the use of the remaining items. It was before long he discovered the existence of a tool kit, and after a brief investigation the Nobody moved nearly all of its contents to the pillow case he carried, concluding the tools to be of likely use to him some time in the future.

[From here.]

Blue and white were the winning colors picked for the bathroom, which would've been great if he was anywhere near Tunica and hankering for collard greens and chicken and dumplings (though he could have been near Tunica for all the hell he knew. He wouldn't have minded a few casinos; they were the best kind of haunts for the corrupted. And... old habits died hard?) Too bad he wasn't skimming route 61 and in the mood to stop by the little Blue & White restaurant.

That would have been his thought process, at least, if he could see a damn thing and had previously made use of the human facility. All he knew about the bathroom through general blind exploration was that it was cold and wet, which was not ever a really good combination.

The archangel hit his hip on one of the sinks, but eventually found one of the things he was looking for. So getting over the whole without the powers of a demigod had taken a moment of deliberation, but had also made him put to use his own amazing powers of thriftiness. For what he wanted (and since the muttonheads had made it kind of clear it was something he was definitely going to need), scraps were required. Or something that he could steal easily and get away with without hair-zombie-ghost interference.

Yeah, the bruises on his wrists still hurt. Bitch.

Some rather handy investigation wielded the discovery of the pipes underneath the sink, as cold and wet as the rest of the place but squeaky and loose enough for even his dainty, wing-covered feet to kick one off.

Dainty probably wasn't a bad adjective, since he bit his tongue once he had kicked the pipe off. Bunny slippers and metal did not a good combination make.

((From here.))

As soon as the door opened, they were met with a wall of cold air. The temperature felt no higher than 4 degrees Celsius -- low enough to be considered uncomfortable for a human, and even more so for a Vulcan. Spock's first instinct was to ignore it. Instead, he smoothly regained his balance and retrieved the items he'd set down moments ago. Once that was finished, he held his flashlight up and scanned the area. Three empty beds, an area lined with cabinets, and clean floors -- at first glance, nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

"This indeed appears to be the morgue," he murmured. While he had not necessary doubted the maps, it was still satisfying to verify their accuracy.

His light's beam fell onto a pair of doors to the south. "And those are most likely the autopsy rooms." Eyebrows faintly furrowing, he glanced over to McCoy. "Perhaps we should search those first."

The static once again began to make noise on the intercom system, bringing with it the sound of heavy breathing. It wasn't the Head Doctor's.

"Been hard at work tonight. That new fellow, Marc – he hasn't been all that helpful, has he? Oh, no, no. Our dear old Jack would venture onto the premises and risk his own life for your safety, but I'm not yet sure if I'm convinced that our new plucky rebel has the stuff to handle such an operation. The one before him certainly didn't."

He paused, considering. The hard breathing in the background continued. The Head Doctor made a rustling noise, as if he was turning. "What do you think, Jill?"

The breathing gave way to a long, pained groan. The Head Doctor chuckled.

"That's what I thought."

A slap. A cry of pain, muffled. The Head Doctor seemed a little farther away from the microphone, as if he was leaning in toward something else.

"It isn't so easy to play 'hero' now, is it?"

The sound of metal on wood; a head slumping. "This sad specimen is what we'd call a 'hypocrite.'" Another movement, then the sound of pacing. With each new step, the Head Doctor's voice increased in volume. "Unfortunately, there is no shortage of people like this. They're... common, really. And easy to see through." He turned away from the mic again. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I had your number, didn't I?"

A pause.

"Too bad Alec wasn't as fortunate."

The sound of wheels on a plastic surface, like an office chair being shoved away. The thud of the Head Doctor's palms on his desk. He leaned in toward the mic.

"I have all of your numbers. All of you underdogs, you self-proclaimed heroes, you warriors against some unknown 'evil' without any knowledge of the outside world and the methods it's been forced to employ. All of you: contradictions in the flesh; all of you: hypocrites."

He considered. Chuckled.

"But perhaps, instead, I should show you."

The last two words echoed in the hallways several times as the intercom's crackle slowly faded. Then, like a sudden burst of lightning, the lights all around the Institute and the nearby town lit up with a high-pitched whine.

One bulb burst, then another. Some fluorescent lights cracked from one side and swung down from the other. Even some flashlights seemed to lose power for a second before coming back to life.

Finally, the whine began to fade. The remaining bulbs dimmed, but didn't go out – not completely. Half of the Institute's lights, left intact after the power surge, flickered sporadically, casting a steady glow in some areas while intermittently leaving others in darkness. Regardless, the Institute was better lit this Nightshift than it had ever been before, especially in the patient rooms, where the lights seemed to have survived the onslaught better than the rest. Surely, explorers tonight had caught an unintentional lucky break due to the Head Doctor's melodrama.

At least, that's what the patients might think at first. Some others might sense a more sinister force at work: they might notice something... off about their surroundings. Their shadow, on the wall, in the corner of their vision – was that... a sudden movement in the wrong direction? A small step to the left when the shadow-caster had gone right?

But then, when they looked straight at their shadow, it would seem perfectly normal. If they asked their friends, they would have noticed no difference at all. Probably just a trick of the light...

Except that all of the patients who might have such an experience would have something in common. If they searched their histories, their memories, the recollection of their comrades, they might find something they wouldn't want to admit to. One or more sins, perhaps concealed, perhaps not – but in all cases, an offense that had either ended in profound pain or death. The reasons didn't matter: only the results.

Betrayers, thieves, liars, and killers. These were the people whose shadows slid out of sync on the Institute's walls.

[See this lounge post for detailed guidelines on the event.]

[From here.]

While it was his first time heading up the stairs, Castiel felt no trepidation. Even if he was alone and it was deathly quiet, he was used to unsettling situations and saw no reason to slow his march upward. Though at the sound of footsteps, he did glance over his shoulder for a split second, to see another patient who was taking the same path as him.

Not completely alone, then, and yet Castiel saw no reason to call out to the man. Even though he did take note of the coat he was wearing, immediately being reminded of his own.

Not, it wasn't his; it had been Jimmy Novac's, but that had been in another time and place.

Turning his gaze forward again, Castiel continued to climb up. He would find the chapel in one way or another.