damned_institute | NIGHTSHIFT 28: M31-M40 HALLWAY

Very well.

If he wasn't going to get anything done during the day, then he should at least work to find a way out at night. First, he would need to find a weapon. He'd gotten lucky with the shovel before; now, he was less fortunate. And he didn't really want to go out to the courtyard again and risk his life on another traitorous patient. Instead, he decided to stick around the cell blocks. Everyone had vanished for the day, and none had returned; it was likely that they were tied up somewhere else, and their rooms - and spoils - were ripe for the picking.

Caim wasn't opposed to this now. He was desperate for a weapon and a way out. He would find both tonight.

Carefully, he climbed out of the bed where he had been laying for some time and opened the door to his room. Had he delayed that long? There were already people coming back. He glanced over and saw a young man departing from the room next door, disappearing down the hallway with the door closed behind him.

There. That was his first target. A freshly-empty room, probably with something inside to take.

As soon as he was sure Artemis was really going to leave, and not stick around to yak some more, Farfarello set to preparing himself for the rest of the night. Damn that kid talked a lot, though. Almost as bad as Schuldig and ShinRa when they both got going. Hope you're having more fun than I am, partner.

Since he actually had a decent pair of boots tonight instead of useless slippers, Farfarello left those on rather than going barefoot and wrapping his ankles. The little monster claws went on his left hand again, held on firmly by torn strips of bedsheet, which he then continued to wrap until his wrist was properly supported. The filleting knife and box cutter he bound to the outside of his right thigh with more strips from the sheets, and with that he was ready to go and have some fun, finally.

But first, a quick swig of that lovely Irish whiskey he'd stolen from Lecter. He needed it, after the frustrating night he'd had thus far. He figured he might as well take the opportunity to properly hide the bottle of nailpolish, too. He'd hidden the whiskey fairly deep in the closet, so he was halfway concealed by the hanging clothes when the door to his room opened. What the fuck...?

As Caim stepped into the room, he cast a quick glance around. No-one on the left, no-one on the right ... although on the right the closet door was open. The boy must have left it open before he left the room, which meant it was most likely empty. There was another, undisturbed closet, though, the likely recipient of any hidden tools or weapons.

He didn't see Farfarello, given that the man was mostly hidden by the clothes and opened doors of the closet. Caim shut the door behind him quietly and made his way over to the other closet, one hand moving out to pull at the handles so he could investigate further.

Farfarello straightened up, turning to watch the man as he moved over to Roland's closet. That other patients would be attempting the same thing as Schuldig and Crawford didn't surprise him, but it was quite the interesting coincidence that he knew the culprit. "Well, now. That's not nice, coming into a guy's room without knocking."

Flexing his clawed left hand, Farfarello smiled at Caim cruelly. "You're going to have to be taught some manners, I think."

The voice cut into his thoughts, and Caim whipped around. How had he not seen -- ?! But that wasn't important. The room was occupied, and he ...

... knew this man. Very vaguely - they'd met once, briefly, and talked over a meal. (Talked being a relative term.) Caim had almost believed him a decent person, aside from the obvious insanity in the man's one remaining eye, but now, with that expression on his face and those weapons bound to his hand (how?), doubt quickly crashed onto the scene.

Caim tightened his jaw and balled his own hands into fists. So, it was a fight he wanted? Then a fight he would get.

Farfarello hooked the desk chair with one foot and kicked it at Caim's head. While the chair was still in the air Farfarello dashed in close, striking at the silent man's face with his clawed hand. He wondered how good this proud, stiff man was at this sort of improvisational, close-quarters fighting.

Well. He'd find out soon enough.

Fast! Caim ducked the chair as it flew toward his head only to see Farfarello coming straight at him, clawed hand outstretched. He flung up one arm to block the claws and ground his teeth together with the pain as they pierced his skin. As soon as he had the opportunity, he swung his own arm out, attmpting to catch Farfarello in the jaw or elbow - jaw was the aim, elbow if he tried to pull back.

Stupid. Caim fought like it was some sort of bar brawl, and not a matter of life or death--aiming to hurt instead of incapacitate. Farfarello only turned his head slightly, letting the punch slide along his jaw, bruising it badly and very nearly dislocating it, but not shattering the bone. His teeth cut into the inside of his cheek and he tasted blood on his tongue, but that only brought a smile to his face.

As the momentum of Caim's punch moved the man closer to Farfarello, he lashed out again with the claws, this time at Caim's soft, unarmoured belly. Do you understand yet? Farfarello was playing for keeps right from the start.

He hit, and grinned even though he didn't feel bones shattering under his fist. He'd made a mark; that would probably disorient Farfarello just long enough for him to --

Was he smiling?

Suddenly the clawed fist shot down and went straight for his stomach. Caim treated every battle as one he would win simply be incapacitating the enemy, whether incapacitating meant knocking them out or killing them; he never held back. And for the first time in his life, Caim caught himself in a battle with someone who treated life the same way ... and was actually a threat.

The claws dug into his stomach even as he shoved himself backwards, and his mouth opened with a silent growl of pain. Caim immediately threw himself forward again, both fists out and aiming for Farfarello's chest and stomach. He couldn't get any real damage done until he had at least knocked the man over.

Farfarello's smile turned into a smirk as Caim proceeded to make the same mistake so many dead men had made, when facing him--he expected Farfarello to shy away from pain the way normal people did, and he expected the pain of being hit to slow Farfarello down.

The punch aimed at his chest wasn't going to hit him directly over the heart and thus presented little threat, so Farfarello only pulled back just enough for the impact to break his ribs without driving them through his lung. The other punch could possibly end up winding him, so that one he deflected down and outwards, away from his body.

And Caim wanted to take the fight to the ground, where his greater reach would be useless, did he? Farfarello was quite happy to indulge him, letting himself fall back in a controlled manner as the larger man sought to knock him down, while keeping a firm grip on Caim's shirt with his free hand. As he used Caim's momentum to help pull him down along with him, Farfarello got one knee up to his chest, aiming to strike Caim in the solar plexus as the heavier man landed on top of him.

People didn't usually try to drag him down with them. Sure, when he'd been younger and wrestling with his friends, it was a common maneuver. And why was this situation any different? The look on Farfarello's face was both utterly unfamiliar and totally familiar at the same time - a look that read of pure bloodlust and malice, sadism and death.

As Caim was pulled toward the floor, he saw the knee come up. He had barely a second to make the decision to either move and avoid being nailed in the chest but lose his opportunity to be on top, or not get hurt but slam into the ground instead. Grinding his teeth together again (he had taken a moment's worth of joy in feeling Farfarello's ribs crack under his fist, but there wasn't any time to enjoy it now), Caim jerked himself to the side and avoided the knee in his stomach.

Not winded but now at a diadvantage, Caim attempted to whip out an arm to crush Farfarello's neck under his palm. Or, if that failed, strangle him into unconsciousness ... and rend him asunder after that.

Farfarello just laughed and rolled out of the way of Caim's strike at his neck, having been prepared to move from the moment his back touched the ground, unlike Caim who had to change plans and direction at the last second. Back on his feet in a heartbeat, Farfarello aimed a kick at Caim's head. "Is this all you've got? Flailing around, hoping to hit me? I'm just a human, you know. How did you expect to kill gods and demons with only this level of skill?"

The kick landed, nailing him in the forehead and shoving him across the floor. Momentarily concussed, Caim grabbed his forehead and struggled to his feet, glaring at Farfarello out of his one good eye. He may have been injured, but he could hear every word said.

He had a sword. His skills with a sword had always been his pride, his strength, the one thing that kept him alive and proud. If he had something now, Farfarello wouldn't have stood a chance. Not for half a minute.

Caim bared his teeth and considered whether or not to throw himself at Farfarello again. Then again, this man was vicious; fighting him head-on had proved problematic. Escaping was an option, but Caim refused to run ... yet.

The chair ...

Caim darted to the side and snatched up the chair that Farfarello had previously hurled at his own head and threw it, going for the desk he was closest to. He would use it as a weapon, or possibly a barrier - whichever one became more useful.

Swords could be taken away. Weapons were as dangerous to the wielder as to the opponent, if you came to rely on them too much. Farfarello smiled again at Caim's obvious loss of temper, batting the chair away from his face with the back of one forearm. The chair hit hard enough to bruise the bone, no doubt, but being airborne it lacked the leverage to snap the radius or ulna. Splinters lodged in Farfarello's skin, but none hit the tender underside of his arm or the major veins and arteries located there, so Farfarello was unconcerned.

As Caim sprinted for the desk, Farfarello moved to the side and leapt up onto the railed footboard of the bed closest to that desk, perching on it easily. Caim would benefit little by hiding behind the desk, with Farfarello having the high ground, so the man could either take the fight up a level by getting on the desk himself, or use the desk itself as a weapon. Farfarello was prepared for either, and had finally drawn the box cutter, having weapons in or on both hands now.

Damn! This bastard was faster than any opponent Caim had faced in a long while. No sense in trying to duck behind the desk anymore and use it as a moving shield. Instead, Caim's eye darted from the claws bound to the back of Farfarello's hand to the small but lethal knife in his other and finally back down to the desk. He paused for a few seconds, then ducked down, seized one of the handles of the desk drawer, and pulled.

The drawer came out, caught, and then splintered free. Caim swung up with it, attmpting to nail Farfarello in the crotch and at least make him bleed. Clearly, this man felt no pain; given that Caim did, he was at a severe disadvantage. His other hand went for another drawer, attempting to snap it free as well if the first failed to hit its mark.

Caim's strike was low, in more ways than one--because it was aimed at the lower half of his body, Farfarello was able to jump over it, knees tucked up against his chest as he did. High jumps and descending strikes were among the things he was best at, after all. The ceiling was fairly low, so he was careful to curl in on himself to avoid hitting his head as he leapt, landing lightly on the desk itself.

Balancing on the ball of one foot, Farfarello spun and aimed a vicious roundhouse kick at Caim's head, all of his weight and the momentum of the turn thrown into the kick. A strike like that could break a man's neck if it hit just right, but Farfarello assumed Caim would be able to dodge it at least enough to prevent that--such a quick end to this would be terribly dull.

Farfarello's leap startled Caim - it was so high, and then to land without snapping the desk in two with the power he used to land ... he dragged his mind away from any sense of surprise and back to the present. He knew something would happen - something bad - so he brought up the second broken drawer and leaned back just as Farfarello's leg rocketed through the air in front of him. It hit the drawer and shattered it.

A chance! Caim leapt as Farfarello was on the tail end of his kick and tried to ram the original broken drawer into the closest leg. If he couldn't rip out something critical, he could at least make him buckle and slip. And that was when Caim would crush his head.

More splinters lodged in Farfarello's heel, but he ignored these as much as he had the ones in his arm. Caim was clearly learning, though, as his next strike aimed to take out one of Farfarello's legs, limiting his mobility. Farfarello launched himself into a back flip, the drawer hitting him in the shin hard, drawing blood, but he managed to land on his feet on the bed.

The lack of springs in the mattress meant Farfarello couldn't use the slight bounce to push back into another flip, and he had to settle for dropping into a crouch where he landed. His leg was bleeding, and he could tell the bone was bruised as well. The bruised limbs would eventually swell, stiffen up and slow him down, even if they didn't hurt, so it was time to end this fight. He'd allow Caim to tackle him, if he tried to do so, as this would get Caim within range of claws and boxcutter both.

Caim watched with some satisfaction as now Farfarello dodged an attack, landing with a sickening stillness on the bed. He threw down the broken drawer and gripped the still mostly-together one in both hands. There was an opportunity here for him to charge at this bastard and tear him to shreds, but given what had happened the last few times he'd charged ... he was less than willing to do it now.

Instead, he took a step back and away, watching Farfarello darkly. This fight could potentially go on forever. If he didn't get his hands on a decent weapon - a drawer wasn't going to cut it - his advantage would be lost. Still, Farfarello's legs looked to be in poor shape. If Caim kept up his barrage, the bastard would slow down eventually; hell, he might have already started to.

Deciding to take an advantage when he probably had it, Caim lunged at the bed - and as he did so, hurled the drawer at Farfarello's head. Avoid that! I'll get you when you move.

Farfarello let himself fall backwards onto the mattress, the drawer clipping his forehead as it whipped past him. Blood trickled down Farfarello's face, but he didn't feel as though he was concussed. Good thing, that, since Caim was finally putting up a decent fight.

He made no effort to dodge Caim's lunge, however, only shifted slightly so that the man wouldn't land on his already-broken ribs and possibly drive them into his lung. Come on, you dumb fuck, get close, and overconfident.

The drawer hit and Farfarello fell (or was it the other way around?) and Caim grinned then, smirked like he was a demon out of hell. He flung himself onto the collapsed body on the bed. Certainly this would be a poor move in most situations, but Caim genuinely believed that Farfarello was momentarily stunned. The knife, the claws -- Caim lunged out his hands to try and rip them away, thinking Farfarello couldn't fight back for the moment. He didn't necessarily want to reclaim them for his own, although the knife would be useful for ending this fight now.

How little he truly knew.

Farfarello smiled faintly, though Caim's weight forced the air out of his lungs and left him winded. He didn't need air to do what he planned, though--he only had to move very slightly to benefit from Caim's ill-advised tackle.

Twisting his right wrist subtly, Farfarello turned the box cutter so that Caim's lunging hand was coming down at the point of the blade rather than the handle. He let Caim grab at the claws, as they were quite well secured anyway, and just folded his fingers around Caim's a moment later, gripping his hand and digging the claws in.

With both of Caim's hands thus occupied, Farfarello snapped his head forward, not going for the more predictable headbutt, but instead aiming to fasten his teeth on Caim's throat.

The knife cut into his palm; the claws dug into his skin. Caim realized too late that he was dealing with a true demon and found his hands trapped. Farfarello's smirk, the deadly gleam in his eyes, the sudden, almost-invisible gleam of teeth - Caim was reminded of the battles on the field, the demons and sycophants he cut down in countless numbers. But they fought with blades and magic, and he had a sword, and he rode on her back.

Something had gone very wrong.

As Farfarello lunged up to take a bite out of his throat, Caim lurched back, ripping his hand out of the knife with a silent cry of pain. His other hand was still firmly caught in Farfarello's, so he took advantage of what he had and tried to slam his newly-freed and bloody fist into Farfarello's face. Curling his hand into a fist was excruciating, but he couldn't let the pain stop him. He had to get away - had to get a weapon --

Farfarello took the punch, feeling his cheekbone breaking under the force of Caim's fist. His smile faded on that side of his face, not so much because he was less pleased but because the break damaged the mucles there.

But if Caim had one hand free, so did Farfarello. He drove the knife towards Caim's torso, aiming for the soft, unprotected tissue just below the ribs, the blade angled in and up so that, if the strike was successful, the knife would be driven into Caim's lung.

Meanwhile, Farfarello twisted the hand still grasping Caim's, reaching for the tendons on the back of his opponent's hand. If he could sever even one of those, both of Caim's hands would have somewhat reduced mobility.

Yes, his punch broke Farfarello's cheekbone. The face shattered, and Caim's inner vision imagined it crumpling into the skull, leaving a vast, dark hole of blood and bone and tissue. He grinned with the very thought, drawing his hand back for another blow.

He had forgotten about the knife.

It came up and pierced him, going through the flimsy cloth of his shirt and the fragile bindings of his body - through skin and flesh and finally through into his body. Caim's mouth opened again in a silent howl of pain as the blade drove in further, and he desperately tried to wrench his body back and away - but his other hand was still caught, and the claws were driving further and further into him, scissoring and sawing.

Caim quickly threw himself to the side, off the bed and off of Farfarello. The knife didn't hit its mark, but now Caim was on his back on the floor, head cracking against the solid ground painfully. And his entrapped hand ... by falling, he had twisted his arm back, forcing the claws deeper into the back of his hand. Things were breaking and tearing, and it was painful - more painful than he'd thought something so small would be.

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