damned_institute | Day 37: Men's Showers

I wouldn't really call this a locker room. More like a bathroom with lockers. The place was uncomfortably crowded, with almost every adult male patient being hustled into the showers at once, but Phoenix wasn't as annoyed by the claustrophobic, milling throng of bodies as he might have otherwise been. Every extra person was one more person who might end up standing between himself and Edgeworth.

He knew that the prosecutor would have a fit if he found out about this. He'd known since he'd tacked that first response up on the bulletin board. And in a way, he couldn't blame him. Phoenix knew that he jumped into things all-or-nothing more often than most people. At the same time, he had some kind of reality testing. He wasn't going to learn the basics of how to defend himself and suddenly decide that he was Rambo.

He found an unoccupied locker in the southwest corner and glanced around, trying to gauge how long he could possibly stall in a locker room, looking as if he was expecting something, before people started looking at him strangely. It would have been easier if he'd known something of the description of the man he was supposed to be meeting. As it was, all he had was handwriting and a military rank, neither of which guaranteed any particular appearance.

It's not as if there was a better way to plan this, though. "Yeah, meet me by the lockers. I'll be wearing gray and a smiley face, just like about a hundred other guys."

[for Hughes]

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"I think Morrison took another night of rest, and I hardly ever see him during the day." Compared to what he was used to, the modern soap was very mild and pleasant scented. Armand didn't even seem to care that he washed his hair with body soap. It got the stickiness out of his hair, even if it left it still in knots. He'd worry about those later.

"Two nights ago, Dr. Uzuki and I were attacked by rats in the hall just outside the female dorms, and last night Morrison was up and about but we didn't get further than there either. I'm starting to get frustrated."

"Rats? Rats. Honestly. Rats," Trevelyan mused aloud. He hadn't seen any real monsters yet, which half disappointed him. Maybe he'd find something nice and gruesome tonight. Like that thing with the metal thing on its head, that seemed like nightmare fuel. Anything to prod him into action.

He sighed at Armand's comment and rubbed soap on his arms. "Me, too..." Though he was frustrated more with himself than anything else.

"They were very large rats," Armand said somewhat defensively. This time when he rinsed, his hair felt smooth and wet, not still sticky, so he moved onto cleaning the rest of his body. He had to remind himself that no one was looking at him, because no one cared what he looked like nude.

"Perhaps we can go out together tonight... I'll put a note on the bulletin board. I can't make up my mind what I want to do just yet. I hope today makes it more clear."

He did know one thing: he needed to try to persuade Morrison to give up their shield-prize for something else of value, perhaps some weapons.

"I did get on the list with the lady who makes weapons. I can't decide if I want a sword or knife. What would you recommend? You've seen my lack of skill in action."

"I wasn't questioning their menace," Alec said mildly. "Merely the imagination of someone who uses rats as antagonists." He entertained the notion of inquiring if Armand was asking him out, then rejected it. The Frenchman was from a different century - the joke wouldn't be funny if it had to be explained. And it would have required quite a lot of explaining.

"What do you mean?" he asked instead. "About today making it more clear, that is." When Armand asked him about the weapon, he paused. "Which would you feel more comfortable with?" he asked. "A sword would give you the advantage of range, though it could be unwieldy. I find knives to be more versatile, but it all would come down to personal preference. Have you fenced before?" It wasn't an unlikely possibility, but the sword he would get would likely be a sight heavier than any rapier used for play-combat...

"I have fought with a real sword before, though not one made for me. I'm not terribly good with it, which is why I thought of knives."

He lowered his gaze, looking for something else to wash, instead of immediately answering the question about making things more clear. He vaguely knew what he meant, but he didn't want to come right out and say it. "I'm hoping we'll talk later today or tonight. I feel we must resolve this or split up." When he looked up again to meet Alec's eyes, he almost seemed to be asking silently for approval.

"I would recommend the knife, then," he said. Funny, he hadn't decided to put himself up on such a list. Probably because a) he already had a knife, and b) he wasn't exactly the 'sit-around-and-wait-patiently-for-weapons' kind of person, as evidenced by his earlier theft of the GoldenEye. Why waste time and effort on creating something new if it serves the same purpose as something that's up for grabs? At least when Q Branch had made weapons for him, they had been suitably devious. Poison pens, mine-detonator watches, x-ray cameras, and so on. If he could find someone who would make those for him, well...possibilities, possibilities. But for something as crude as a sword or easily-stolen as a knife? No thank you.

Oh, what he wouldn't do for an AK-47 with a full mag...

Armand seemed to be thinking about something else entirely, so Alec shrugged. He'd puzzle it out later. "Keep me informed," he said, meeting Armand's searching gaze with a noncommittal 'I have no idea what you're talking about' look. This one was actually genuine, as opposed to the fake one he'd had to perfect through years of espionage, in case of capture and interrogation.

Day 37: Men's Showers

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