damned_institute | Nightshift 36: M111-120 Hallway

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Nightshift 36: M111-120 Hallway

"But I suppose they'll be plenty of nights after this, yes? Yes..."

There was a loud crackle of static, and then silence.

Akihiko sat upright in bed, awakened by what he had thought was just a tree branch hitting his window, but wasn't. There weren't any windows in the room he was currently in, and that meant it couldn't possibly be his own.

"...where the hell am I?"

No one answered. It was too dark to see much of anything, and the silence in the room was more than a bit unnerving. The fact that this couldn't be the work of a Shadow, unless they were breaking their pattern of only appearing on full moons, only added to that feeling. It wasn't that he was scared - concerned, yes, on edge, yes, but not scared - it was that he was honestly perplexed. This couldn't be Strega's doing, either. They wouldn't try kidnapping any of SEES' members a second time, not after the first time had led to them losing one of their own. They also weren't stupid; they wouldn't come anywhere near the dormitory, not after what had happened the night before last. They knew better than to do that.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to figure out what had happened. Akihiko threw off the covers, bracing one hand against the pillow and swinging his legs off the side of the bed - and that was when he realized that not only was the setting unfamiliar, the clothes he was wearing were unfamiliar. That didn't matter, though; as long as they didn't hinder his ability to fight if he needed to, and they wouldn't, that was fine. There was something else that struck him - the hard object underneath the pillow. A...flashlight? Why would there be a flashlight under his pillow? It certainly couldn't hurt to take it with him, he thought, then paused. If this was the Dark Hour, it wouldn't work, but more importantly, it would keep him from fighting effectively. He decided to leave it there, thinking that if he needed it, he could always come back for it.

He nodded. This was just like any other challenge, and he hadn't met one yet that he didn't think he could face. If anything, he was more resolved to face them head-on now. It's what you would want me to do, isn't that right, Miki and Shinji?

With that, he stood and walked to the door, turning the handle. There didn't seem to be anyone outside when he stepped out. He took a few steps forward, looking in both directions. The end of the hallway wasn't too far away, it seemed. He nodded to himself and then walked in that direction.

[to here]

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A loud crackle of static overhead was what woke him up. Headquarters didn't have fancy things like intercoms; mostly because they didn't need them. Everyone knew where they were supposed to go and where they were supposed to be and when they were supposed to be there. All thanks to oh so wonderful supervisors, like William, who just happened to be complete bores about keeping to schedule. Grell groaned as he remembered the beating he'd only just received a day or two ago and the mountain of paperwork still ahead of him. He was to be placed on "leave" to retrain him into "proper behavior" or some load of--

Wait a minute. He'd heard static.

Sitting up, the death god realized two things almost immediately. One, he wasn't in his own room and this wasn't Headquarters. Two, his clothes were missing and replaced with some sort of low quality cotton substitute that couldn't be defined as fashionable by any millenium's standards. Pushing himself onto his knees, he pulled the shirt forward and clicked his tongue at the appalling face looking back at him. Grey and yellow were not in the issued uniforms as far as he knew, and even if he were being punished, there was no way Will would ever break protocol to put him into this monstrosity.

It took a moment or two more before Grell realized the third and, quite possibly, most important thing that was different, but when he did, he started screaming. He had a heartbeat. A heartbeat. A disgusting, mortal, bleeding heart-- which was quite romantic, if he thought about it, but for practicality's sake, he wasn't supposed to have one. He was a death god! Not some, some...

Turning to the door, Grell jumped off the bed, ran to it and threw it open before shouting, "WILLIAM T. SPEARS! IF THIS IS YOUR IDEA OF PUNISHMENT, I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR FACE IN."

His voice echoed down the dark hall and Grell sneered, reaching for his scythe - only to find it wasn't there. No matter how hard he called it, his baby wouldn't come to him. This wasn't fair! This wasn't fair at all! Robbed of his immortality, forced to wear appalling clothes, and now his scythe was gone?! This wasn't punishment, it was a death sentence! Stalking back inside, Grell slammed the door shut and threw himself on the bed in a huff. Any second now, Will would come in and explain how long this punishment was to last and how many more forms Grell had to fill out before it was over.

The death god waited. And waited some more. And finally got impatient and started pacing in the room. Will wasn't showing up and that wasn't like him. Going to the door, Grell opened it again and peered out into the hall. "Will?" No answer. "William?"

Stepping into the hall, Grell's eyes glowed a dull green as he tried to peer into the dark. He could see, but not as well as he was used to. Were his powers sealed as part of his atonement, too? Another grievance to add to the list. "William! Will! COME OUT ALREADY."

to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/491056.html?thread=39751984#t39751984)

Now I’m going to tell you one last time. Get. Out. Of. My. Head!

A torrent of data ripped free from his mind, temporarily blinding him and shorting out several sensors, leaving him aware of nothing but a white fog which slowly began to fade.

His eyes opened and Brainiac 5 found himself in a darkened room staring up at a blank white ceiling. That didn’t make any sense, according to his memory files, they’d last been in space somewhere in the vicinity of Colu. Unless he’d been offline for much longer than he’d calculated, he should have been in the Legion medical bay. He closed his eyes again, intending to run a system scan just to be on the safe side, but rather than the familiar streams of code, all he could see were the backs of his own eyelids.

With a sudden stab of panic, Brainiac 5 realised what had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since he’d opened his eyes: he couldn’t sense any of his systems. There was no comforting data from scans of the area of internal systems checks, just what his eyes and ears could detect. But if he had no sensors online, then how could he even utilise those?

He sat up and brought a hand to his face, deciding that a manual examination of his eyes was in order, but aborted the action as he suddenly notice his hand for the first time. It was pale and obviously human, lacking the familiar protection of his external casing.

“This can’t be happening,” he said, fighting to remain calm in spite of his rising panic. “There has to be a rational explanation.” He examined the other hand then the rest of his body, rolling up the loose grey pants to study his feet and legs and using his hands to brush over his face and hair. There was no doubt about the matter, he was apparently completely and utterly human, possibly even right down to the genetic level, though he was unable to establish that for certain without his scanning devices. Somehow he’d been removed from the middle of a battle, brought here without his knowledge and changed into human form. The first two points alone were highly unusual, but the last was completely impossible. There just wasn’t the technology to alter someone’s physiology on that level.

And as for when he’d been taken... Brainiac 5’s face clouded, his mind casting back to the fight with his ancestor. The battle had been waged in his mind for the most part, as Superman and Kel-El struggled to free him from his ancestor’s control, finally succeeding. But at what cost? Even he’d been uncertain if destroying his ancestor’s influence would free the digitised people and planets. What if he had inadvertently caused the destruction of billions of innocent people? He swallowed hard, that thought and the panic from waking up in this unknown place making him feel decidedly ill. He hadn’t realised that human emotions would have such a strong effect on their bodies. Under other circumstances he’d have been interested in learning more from the situation, but it was clear that he had more important matters to concentrate on at the moment. Namely locating whoever had brought him here and done this to him and finding a way to reverse it and return home.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up. Though moving around was no different then what he was used to, the absence of his sensors and external casing made him feel particularly vulnerable. He would have to handle it, he’d be back to normal soon enough.

A quick search of the room turned up a primitive Earth device which, after a moment of searching through his memory, he identified it as a flashlight, another ancient Earth object which proved to be a radio, a blank book as well as a collection of writing implements, and several sets of clothing all featuring the same yellow logo.

“All items from 21st century Earth,” he mused aloud, privately glad that the Legion’s interest in that time period as well as Superman’s time with the team had given him enough reason to learn about the distant past; otherwise he would have had little chance of identifying the items at all.

Deciding that the flashlight was the only item he would really need in order to find his way around, Brainiac 5 switched it on after a moment of examination and pushed open the door. The hallway beyond was empty, but as there was only one direction to go there was little choice but to head that way, examining the area with vague interest as he went and keeping an eye out for other people.

Groaning, Kon blinked up at the ceiling, feeling no small measure of relief to see that the worlds had finally stopped spinning. Sitting up, the first thing he noticed was that the hypertime jacket – along with the rest of his costume - was missing.

“I hate it when people strip me when I'm out cold. Least they could do is wait 'till I'm awake.” Tugging at the lame outfit he'd been changed into he shrugged, continuing “At least I have pants this time. They probably got all their ogling in while I was out of it. Wonder who 'they' is? Maybe I was caught by Black Zero?”

Bounding to his feet, Kon looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was now. Looked like some sort of hospital room. That or a seriously cheap hotel. Investigating the room only produced more of the same outfit he was wearing now. “I'm thinking some sort of prison. Definitely not my scene.”

Something else – besides that he'd been stripped naked and ogled while he was out of it - was off, something he couldn't quite place. Rubbing at his arms, he muttered nervously “I feel kinda naked here. Definitely got pants on though.” Shaking it off, Kon bounced on his toes, pushing himself up into the air to float towards the door.

Except – his feet remained firmly planted on the floor. Glaring down at them, Kon tried again, searching for the familiar sense of weightlessness, of freedom, that came with flying.

Nada.

Again. Nothing.

“What's going on?” he yelped. “What's happened to me? I can't fly!”

It – something was seriously wrong here! He was Superboy, therefore he flew. Him not being able fly was like – like Robin not being creepy or Impulse not being, well, impulsive! It was wrong! Had to be something Black Zero had done to keep him here. Well, he'd learn you didn't mess with Superboy!

Stalking towards the door, Kon was about to knock it straight off its hinges and through the next wall when he paused, shrugged, and tried the handle. It was open? “Some prison. Didn't even have to use my tactile telekinesis to bust out of here.”

It was pretty dark out there. Hadn't he seen a flashlight in the room? Turning back, he rummaged around, eventually unearthing the it from beneath the pillow. “Weird place to leave a flashlight. Maybe someone's tryin' to help me out. Might explain why the door's open. Heh, my incredible good looks must've won over one of the babes forced to work for Zero.”

It maybe could've been Knockout, the one who'd been waiting for him - the other Superboy, really – but leaving the door unlocked wasn't her style. Breaking in, knocking down half the building and dragging him out, that was her style. That meant it was someone else and, whoever they were, they obviously wanted him to track them, or Black Zero, down so there was no point wasting time here.

Stepping out into the hallway he declared “Soon as I find him, Black Zero is in for a serious pounding courtesy of my tactile telekinesis.”

Speaking of the hallway, “Man, this place is like something out of that episode of Wendy where they were trapped in the possessed hospital!” Something about it was seriously creepy and considering how naked and exposed – and not in the good way, either – Kon was already feeling, it was not making him feel any better about being ground-bound.

Twitching at a distant noise, Kon shook his head, it wasn't like anything here could actually harm him – he was Superboy! Resting one hand on the wall, he started walking along towards the next hall he could distantly see, shining the flashlight ahead of him.

“Trapped, alone in the demonic prison of the Prince of Hell himself, I had no choice but to go it alone. I knew my partner, Wendy, would be looking for me, but we both knew that it was more important to banish the evil plaguing this place from the world, once and for all!”

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/491056.html?thread=39875888#t39875888)]

Sangamon Taylor rolled over, and fluffed his pillow in an attempt to dislodge it from the tree branch or rock or whatever Debbie had apparently pitched the tent on. He slid over, trying to find her. Whether it was to whine at her about the accommodations, or just for some old-fashioned sharing the warmth, he hadn't quite made up his mind. But she wasn't there. And it had been months since the last camping trip. Besides, he'd sworn he wasn't going anywhere without room service and a honeymoon suite without a really good reason.

So why was there a flashlight under his pillow? Why was his bed trying to supplement the already-astronomical salaries of the local practitioners of Chiropractic? He rolled his head, emitting a series of satisfying popping noises from gases releasing in the synovial membranes in his neck, and opened his eyes.

This wasn't the Least Insulated Studio Apartment in Brighton. He really did need to do something about those windows. Come winter, he'd be bleeding cash on heating oil like Union Oil's Platform A had bled oil all over the California coast. Nor was it Debbie's apartment. It looked like a dorm room, but without the tell-tale scent of stale beer and heaps of unwashed laundry. Just a little bit of antiseptic and soap -- some of it coming from his own skin. And the artificial chemical freshness of cheap laundry detergent. Clearly, whoever owned this place didn't give a fuck about dumping massive amounts of phosphates into the local water system. Where the fuck was he, anyways?

He got out of bed and took stock of the room. Flashlight, spare shirts -- he pulled a long-sleeved shirt on over the short-sleeve one he was already wearing. "Very retro," he said, to the yellow face on the shirt. It had been evidently been long enough since the 70's for nostalgia. Hopefully miniskirts would be next. The desk coughed up paper and pen, and then paydirt -- a radio. S.T. flicked it on, and started twirling the dials. Static. Just static. Radio fucking silence across all bands, like they were in the middle of a blackout. Cover the windows and turn out the lights and put your head under the bed. Even on the res they'd picked up a half-dozen stations loud and clear, and a dozen more if you didn't mind your news intercut with country music. Like watching scrambled porn on cable television; the message still got through, but it wasn't nearly as satisfying.

He shut the static off and listened. Not only was there nothing on the radio, there wasn't much noise at all. A few sounds of people moving outside the door. He'd go out in a minute, but if this was all some elaborate joke by Debbie and Tricia -- no, Bart -- this was a guy's prank, he wanted to be ready to show them the error of their ways. Otherwise, it really was quiet. Too fucking quiet. He should have noticed it a long time ago. The usual sounds of the city were completely gone. No slamming car doors, fire engine sirens, immigrants chewing out small children or spouses in every language imaginable. Just silence, and that wasn't easy to counterfeit. He snapped his fingers by one ear and then the other -- tympanic membrane, auditory nerve, and temporal lobe all accounted for and functioning normally.

Time to figure out what the game was. The hallway beyond was dark. Maybe they really were in a blackout. But then when had the U.S. gone to war, and why didn't he remember it? Why hadn't he been invited to any protest marches? He went back for the flashlight, switched it on, and left the room. There were a handful of people in the hall, none of whom he recognized. Politely avoiding eye contact, he walked towards the nearest intersection.

[to here]

Edited 2008-11-02 16:36 (UTC)

Phoenix followed New Guy back down the hall. That reminded him -- people usually introduced themselves to new acquaintances, evil mental hospital or no. He had no doubt that the man would call him insane, but it wouldn't be the same kind of insane as the bag lady who insisted that she was Mother Teresa. More like a tinfoil hat kind of insane. It was an important distinction.

"My name's Phoenix Wright, by the way," he introduced himself, nodding as a substitute for the handshake that would have been awkward while walking. He lifted the beam of his flashlight to scan down the hall, but it seemed pretty empty. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but saying that kind of thing between prisoners probably sounds a little weird."

"Sangamon Taylor. From GEE, International." Phoenix -- that was a new one on the list of hippie names the 60's had inflicted on his generation (the last new entry had been a poor bastard saddled with "Side", which wouldn't have been so bad if his last name hadn't been "Rhodes".) He made a mental note to himself to be completely sober if he ever had to name a kid. Then he made a second note by the first note to never reproduce. He'd probably twisted his genes beyond recognition, anyways.

Before Phoenix could try to mangle his first name, he added, "Most people call me S.T. Cops and executive vice-presidents excluded." And asshole attorneys general who want me to do their dirty work for them. It was a bit of a disappointment not to be recognized, though. He'd saved the fucking planet, that's what he'd done. For real, not just by putting his empty beer bottles in a bin and letting the local indigent population fight over who was going to take them back for the nickel deposit. And after a few weeks of being the media darling, he'd gone back to obscurity. A footnote. What the fuck, he could do better work without being recognized.

"Prisoners? What the fuck did I get accused of, and where the hell were the trained attack lawyers? That's their job." His voice was full of righteous indignation. "We don't do 'direct action' at GEE," he said, as they got to the right door. He opened it and stepped inside, jerking his head to invite Phoenix to follow.

The way he introduced himself, terse summaries and anticipation of error, combined with the wholly unfamiliar company name to make Phoenix wonder first if this person wasn't a businessman wherever he came from. But he had a feeling that wasn't the right job at all. S.T. carried himself like someone who was used to moving himself from place to place, beyond walking to the train station or stepping in the way of traffic on his way between office buildings.

The phrase "trained attack lawyers" elicited a smirk that he tried very hard to wrestle back down immediately, fueled by the thought of yeah, I'm pretty sure I know a couple of those. He followed him inside the room and leaned in the doorjamb, turning off his flashlight and resting the head of his bat against the floor. There was something paradoxically relaxing about the tense, demanding energy the man emitted. It was honest.

"Nobody who's here has been formally accused of anything. Officially, this place is a mental hospital. But tomorrow morning, all of the nurses are going to call you a name that isn't yours. They'll ignore most of what you say, including when you ask for your wallet and a phone call. They'll tell you that you're crazy and that you're here to get better, and not much else. Ask to leave and they don't let you. Try to escape and they sedate you." He scratched at the back of his head briefly, at the small hairs there that kept itching the nape of his neck without anything to hold them straight back. His hair kept itself mostly in the right shape, but it wasn't perfect. "They don't call it a prison, but I can't think of a better word for it."

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Yes...

Something about the voice in his dreams woke Bruce with a start. Sparing but a moment in that dimly lit space between consciousnesses, Bruce found himself abruptly awake—suddenly, without explanation or delay—sitting fully upright in a small, hard bed, alarmed and tense. There was no one else in the room, and the bed was cold despite the fact he’d fallen asleep warm. He was somewhere very dark and very wrong, even though Bruce couldn’t immediately pinpoint why.

...wait. That was it, wasn’t it? Eyes narrowing as he took his first good, careful look at his surroundings, Bruce realized finally why he hadn’t been able to pinpoint the feeling. No, it wasn’t just the bed, or the smell, or the voice or the heat...

...the entire room was wrong.

Windows and portraits replaced with blank, plain walls. Antiseptic instead of cologne. A radio in place of the alarm clock; a flashlight under the pillow. Even the circulation system was wrong—Bruce had long upgraded the Manor’s systems to the latest WayneTech technology, and a cursory glance at the obscure dark shapes against the ceiling was enough to determine that not only was this room not in Wayne Manor, but nowhere in any of Gotham's hospitals.

The first wild, irrational thought that crossed his mind was that perhaps he’d been discovered. That Batman had been captured in Bruce Wayne’s sleep, that he was being now held captive and someone—maybe Two-Face or the Joker or someone new and deadlier—had the Batman at his or her mercy. There were no new wounds on his body, nor the lingering headache and numbness that characterized the after-effects of many favorite gases. But Bruce did not immediately dismiss the notion.

He checked the door: unlocked. So he wasn’t trapped, and to all appearances the door would have opened if only he’d pushed it farther. Not a kidnapping then—or, at least, not a competent one.

Despite his initial relief, the discovery raised more questions than it answered. Keeping his footsteps muffled and silent, Bruce walked slowly about the room, searching it for clues to the place’s identity. There were voices beyond the door, but the sounds were garbled and unintelligible. It’d be a great risk to step outside the room now, without any knowledge of where he was or what he was doing here. No one made any attempts to enter, though he took the precaution of jamming the back of one of the chairs under the doorknob. After a comprehensive sweep he took the items he’d found and sat back down on the bed, grim.

Batteries for the flashlight. Pens—at least thirty. A blank journal and a key ring. Slippers, coats, sweaters—various necessary grey clothing. None of it was particularly revealing, including the radio, which emitted only static sounds on every channel. The closest place to Gotham City that could nullify radio signals was the Air Base, and even there the disrupter only worked for certain designated wavelengths. The pens were unlabeled, as were the other items—no brands, no tags or identifying information of any sort. The only decoration on the shirts was the large and prominent smiley-face in the middle, but like everything else it revealed nothing and only served to remind Bruce of—

...Arkham.

The resemblance was striking, but subtle. It was nothing definite, and yet Bruce could feel it—the dank, uneasy quiet that pervaded this room was much like that of the familiar asylum. But this wasn’t Arkham—he knew the layout, the designs and inmates and scent of the entire sorry complex. This room hadn’t the same air temperature and was much cleaner than Arkham’s cells of similar size, though...

...it was a frightening day, Bruce noted with irony, when the Batman preferred Arkham to solitude.

Even more disturbing was the gap in his memory. Bruce was not always a light sleeper, but for the past couple of weeks his sleeping schedule had been model and regular (he had Ivy and his photosynthetic “wife” to thank for that). As such, he should have slept lightly last night—should have awoken at even the slightest disturbance or unusual sound. At the very least, with a few moments’ concentration, he should have been able to remember at least some vague hint of how he’d gotten here, whether or not he’d been unconscious at the time. But the only hint he had was the sibilant whispered Yes he’d heard right before he’d awoken.

Patients....subjects...

...he was thinking in circles, and there was no way out but the obvious. Preparation was key, and Bruce took as many precautions as he could without burdening himself. The radio he left behind, taking only the flashlight and two pens that he concealed against his palm. Whoever had imprisoned him knew he was Bruce Wayne for certain, and he’d have to keep that in mind. If he was patient or a captive, there was the possibility of camera surveillance in the rooms, but none were visible and if Bruce had missed any, it was too late to change that now. From now on, he’d take care not to carry himself with Batman’s practiced agility, so long as it didn’t interfere with his other priorities.

Not getting killed, for example.

With quick, deliberate efficiency Bruce opened the door—quiet, but not silent.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/491056.html?thread=39751984#t39751984)]

They said you got over loss.

Dean Winchester said they were friggen liars.

You didn't get over it, no matter how often you stared it in the face day after day. Sure, Dean knew he was probably all kinds of messed up in the head after the stuff he'd seen, but a person had to be a little screwy to even do this job - much less kick ass at it. After a while you got used to the blood and guts of it. But Dean hadn't ever got used to the loss part, the part where he was supposed to watch his family die around him and be okay with it, take it and keep coming like Dad. It hurt in a way no broken bones or gun shot wound ever could. It twisted in his gut, dull at first. It'd spike whenever he couldn't keep busy and the pain then was solid. Like getting stabbed. That was how it'd been with Dad, when he had to put on his game face for Sammy. It ached and ached and sometimes Dean wanted to do something, but all he could do was keep hunting and look after his little brother. Whatever he did, Dad wasn't coming back. Too late, too late, Dean had told Sam once, but he'd been thinking about himself too even as he ripped his brother a new one.

It'd almost been too little too late again with Sam. It was like losing Dad all over, and yet it was even worse this time around.

Only this time he'd actually been able to do something about it and he guessed maybe he had Dad's fine example to thank for that. What was important was Sammy was back.

So why did he still get that heavy pit in his stomach, like his brother was still lying cold on that bed?

Dean hadn't gotten much sleep over the past couple of days. He didn't see how he was supposed to, considering he'd just seen Sam get stabbed in the back. Despite all the weird shit, all the blood he'd seen in his line of work, it was different this time around. Dean felt sick just thinking about it even as he watched Sam gather up the trash strewn around the crappy room in the crappy-ass shack they'd holed up in. It felt good to see his brother up and on his feet again. But then Dean would always think back to last night, the long hours after, and his relief soured because there was no way to erase that memory even if things had been put as right as they could be. No, he hadn't got much sleep and he wasn't sure he could still get any. It was stupid. A part of him was afraid if he did, something would happen. Sammy would pull another vanishing act, maybe, or just something would go wrong if he so much as closed his eyes for a bit. Eventually he'd have to - or Sam would make him - but until then, Dean couldn't sleep.

He couldn't just sit there like dead weight either. All Sam knew was he'd barely pulled through a bad injury - he didn't need to get tipped off to the fact that maybe he hadn't, or that Dean wasn't doing a very good job holding it together right now. He still hadn't quite come to terms with the deal he'd just made either because it hadn't sunk in yet. It didn't feel real, actually, even though sometimes he still swore he could taste that bitch-demoness's lips on his. It was too big to think about. So he didn't. Not yet.

Dean busied himself packing their things and erasing their presence. The last thing he did was take Sam's bloodied shirt out back and burn it. Watching the flames flicker and crackle in the dented-up bucket, Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and waited until the shirt was reduced to ashes before coming back inside.

"I'm driving," Sam said, taking one good look at him.

Dean didn't feel up to arguing. "Why?" he asked anyway.

Sam just fixed him with one of those looks. The one that he'd gotten so used to, the one that said Sam thought he was being stubborn for no damn good reason. "Because you look like crap, Dean, and it's a long drive, that's why."

"I'm good," Dean said.

"Yeah right. Gimme the keys."

Dean was a lot more tired than he thought, because he surprised even himself when he handed over the car keys. Funny, he didn't even remember taking them out; the next thing he knew, Sam was already pocketing them before he could change his mind. He knew sleep deprivation could jack up a guy, but he hadn't ever spaced out before like this.

There wasn't that much to pack into the Impala, and pretty soon Dean found himself slouched in the passenger's seat as Sam pulled onto the open road. The car's engine rumbled as it picked up speed. Bobby's was still a good chunk of distance away, which meant there wasn't really a lot to do when you were riding shotgun. Usually he'd be discussing the case with Sam - only this wasn't a case, and neither of them was much in the mood for talking to begin with, leaving Dean with the option of sitting there and watching the scenery. Wasn't much to see. Every now and then he couldn't help glancing over at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, and the sense of pure relief he felt just seeing his geek brother sitting at the wheel almost jolted him awake. But after awhile, between the purring of the Impala's engine and the Van Halen Sammy had on the radio after the first hour, Dean just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

They drifted shut as he leaned his head against the window.

It was the kind of sleep where you just went dead to the world, when the body flat-out said "screw it" and shut down, and there wasn't any room for nightmares.

Trying to wake up was like trying to swim his way out through mud. Thick, soupy-this-side-of-chunky mud. Dean struggled back to consciousness, trying to sort out what was where; his body felt heavy, weighed down and his thoughts sluggish. It took a few long seconds - way longer than normal - to realize it wasn't just the sleep messing with his head and that something was wrong here. For starters, he wasn't getting a nice set of neck cramps from using the window as a pillow. And he was lying down...in a real bed. The thought wandered around for a bit before it just clicked. No Van Halen. No Impala.

Where was Sam?

Dean bolted upright, fresh panic starting to arise. Looking around wildly, he saw no sign of his little brother, just a small white room he didn't recognize. It looked like some kinda hospital, the other bed was unoccupied, the sheets made. So he had a roommate. So he didn't give a flying fuck 'cause Sammy was missing again and he was about two seconds away from a meltdown. There was only so much a guy could take; Dean's limits had already been stretched so past the breaking point in the last 24 hours it wasn't even funny. Was this one of that bitch-demoness's games? Or was it old Yellow-Eyes, considering everything Sam told him a few hours ago?

Where the hell was Sam?

He wasn't used to panicking, to feeling like he was losing control of a situation - or that maybe he hadn't ever had it in the first place, that maybe everything he'd done up till now didn't mean jack shit. Usually he didn't lose his cool or second-guess. Not on a job. Not in his home turf. But everything changed once Sam came back into his life and somewhere along the line, his priorities shifted from hunting down evil to protecting his family. Or what was left of it. Sammy was his responsibility, all that mattered when you got down to it, and now he was gone. Again. Nausea, solid and thick and real, welled up. Dean allowed himself a few seconds to stew, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms so hard his eyes watered. Crazy. This was just crazy, even by his standards. What was he supposed to do? He'd done everything he humanly could! Dean gritted his teeth, running his hands through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut.

But that was all that he gave himself. Just a few seconds to stew in that helpless rage and he was done.

Okay, so it was still there. And he didn't feel done. But he wouldn't do anyone any good if he just sat here.

You don't know what's goin' on anyway, Dean thought as if that was supposed to make it any better, ordering himself to buck up.

It was pretty hard when all he could think about was what it'd felt like when Sam was taken from him -

Dammit, he had to focus.

Getting to his feet, Dean distracted himself by taking stock of the situation, pacing the room in a slow circle and taking careful note of everything. Clothes? Weren't his, instead some kinda grey getup with a smilie face plastered on there, like it was supposed to make him feel better. There was two of everything to go along with that whole roommate theme he was seeing here. Prison? But he'd already been there and prison hadn't been nowhere near as cushy as this gig, which was pretty much first-class compared to last time. Testing the door, he found it locked from the other side. Searching about for something to pick the lock, Dean went about a sweep of the room (cell, whatever), turning the place upside down. Considering all the potential weapons he was already coming up with without even trying, like the pens, batteries, and radio, he was getting pretty convinced the prison idea was a crap idea. No self-respecting prison would leave all this out. An inmate would have a field day. Like an ax-murderer in an ax-store or wherever it was convicts got their kicks from. Flipping through the journal he'd pulled up from the desk, half-hoping against hope maybe there was some kinda message, something to clue him in on Sammy's whereabouts, Dean was only disappointed to find it blank.

No luck there.

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kindalikedit - 2008-11-04 08:44 (UTC) - Expand

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kindalikedit - 2008-11-04 08:44 (UTC) - Expand

Mumbling a bit in his sleep, Dib rolled over, tangling himself in the sheets on his bed. He smacked his lips together, sighed, and rolled over again, entangling himself even further. The sheets, wrapped now around his legs, held him tightly, and when he tried to move, the limited range of movement caused him to wake with a start. He yawned widely and blinked down at his legs, then reached down and tugged the sheets into a more comfortable spot. Snuggling back down into the pillow, he closed his eyes again and tried to get back to sleep, but for some reason, he found that he just didn't feel tired anymore.

Or rather, he still felt tired, but there was something weird going on. He grumbled a bit and squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, and rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. Wait. Hey... wait a second... The pillow smelled weird. Different. It wasn't something he was entirely aware that he'd picked up on, but the pillow definitely didn't smell like the pillow at home. Well, okay, maybe his dad had done laundry or something. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to wake him up.

Except he was already awake. He rolled back over, staring up at the ceiling, arms resting on his stomach. Funny. He didn't remember the ceiling looking like that before. Glancing over at the walls, he wondered groggily where all his posters had gone. Gaz? No, she wouldn't do that. ...would she?

He sat up suddenly, mouth dropping open as he stared at the exact spot his computer should have occupied. Not there. Crud. Crud, crud, crud. Something was really, totally, definitely wrong. Seriously wrong. This wasn't home. This was... this...

Crud.

He'd been abducted. That was the only explanation. He was obviously aboard some kind of freaky alien vessel, probably miles above the Earth by now... Zim. Leave it to that stupid alien to do something like this. But... Dib looked down at himself, wondering why Zim would go to all the trouble to abduct him and then not tie him down. Or something. "This is really weird," he whispered, studying the clothes he was now dressed in. The outfit was definitely not the pjs he'd gone to bed in.

He slipped out of bed, crept toward the door. What would be behind it? Armies of raging alien monsters? Was it even unlocked? Could he escape? "Only one way to find out," he muttered, reaching for the door handle. His fingertips brushed it, and he hesitated. He was safe in this room, at least for the time being. Maybe it would be better to... "No. I gotta find a way out of this place. Whatever it is."

To his surprise, the door opened easily. He poked his head out, looked up and down the hallway. It seemed pretty deserted. Huh. This was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. Still, there wasn't really much to do except go and explore, or stay cooped up in a room that wasn't even his. He backed away from the hallway and shut the door. It would be a good idea to see if there was anything useful in the room, first, and while he was at it, he could check for hidden cameras, or wiretaps.

The search didn't produce any evidence that he was being watched, although he did find a journal and a package of batteries in the desk. "Weird... wonder what these go to?" He kept up the search, though, thinking that he might find something else useful in the desk, but the only other thing he found was a bunch of pens. The closet and dresser produced nothing but some clothes, indentical to the outfit he was wearing. There was a coat, and although it was a bit too big, he put it on anyway. He just didn't feel right without his trenchcoat. He slipped the journal and a couple of the pens into the coat, then scoured the room for anything else of interest.

Eventually, he found a small radio and a flashlight. The flashlight worked. He slipped it into his other coat pocket and left the radio sitting on the desk, since he really couldn't think of any reason to take it. It wasn't like it was a walkie-talkie, and without some makeshift equipment, he couldn't program it to broadcast a distress signal. An extra set of batteries for the flashlight went into his pocket with the journal, and then he slipped out the door and into the hallway.

[to here] (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/491056.html?thread=40319792#t40319792)

[from here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/491056.html?thread=40363056#t40363056)]

To think, Bruce was into those sorts of things. How childish - and Donna, too. Ugh, maybe they weren't as high class as he'd thought. Bruce and Donna both defected to him to go first and Grell smirked. Smart of them, if they let him go last, he'd likely have snapped someone's neck. Curtsying despite the lack of a dress, he walked through, eyes squinting through the dark for a moment before his night vision kicked in. Like the other rooms then. The sheets would have to do. He moved immediately to the bed on the left and pulled off the upper sheet, wasting no time in ripping it into strips. "I never would have pegged you both for reading the dreadfuls, you know," he called back. "Especially you, Ms. Noble. Aren't you a bit old to be associating with what all those street boys are reading? A lady like you should be attending the balls, not reading that trash."

"American," Donna echoed, though she was referring more to the stereotypical, fights for justice, always gets the girl, fasterthanaspeedingbulletbutcan'ttakeaglowinggreenrock kind. Those were definitely American. And tights. Tights were a big thing too. She took a moment to think of Bruce and Grell in their respective uniforms (as they were forever Batman and Boy Wonder in her head now), but it only left her wishing she hadn't.

Donna entered the room next and, seeing that Grell understood the need for a room, did the same thing to the right bedsheets, only in a much slower manner. The torch she set down on the desk to keep things illuminated as she worked. "You can take a chair or a bed, Mr. Wayne. We'll get those injuries seen to in no time." And hopefully he'd be a lot nicer word-wise than Arlene had been earlier.

The only real problem Donna was having was with the woman on the other side of the room. If there was one thing Donna didn't tolerate, it was being talked down to. She left the half-torn sheets for a moment and whirled about, lips pursed angrily. "Well excuse me for having some common knowledge!" Donna snorted, getting annoyed now.

So Donna knew a bit about American Superheroes? Big deal! Who didn't nowadays?!

"And just what century are you living in, Madam?" If Grell didn't want Donna to be calling "her" on missing endowments, then Grell had no right to get on the real woman in the room for not being all prim and proper!

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M120

Re: M120

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