damned_institute | Day 39: Intercom, Evening

Today had turned out just how Sanae had wanted it to: he'd found a Partner and made plenty of headway toward acquiring the All-Important Items. Granted, Godot hadn't replied back yet to his post, which made things tilt toward a Plan B, but he was sure that either way things would work out.

Jiraya wasn't in the room when he came in, so Sanae settled into his desk chair and dug in eagerly into the turkey dinner while he waited for his roommate.

Jiraiya arrived soon afterwards, looking like he was deep in thought. His discussion with Kakashi had been one he'd rather avoid, but he valued the man's opinion. Kakashi had been right that Jiraiya would have to be more careful of how long he spent with Naruto during nightshift in the future.

What was also surprising is that Kakashi didn't know what his subordinates were up to. It hadn't occurred to Jiraiya at the time, as he had been concerned with other things, but it was plainly obvious now. Sakura, Naruto, and Sai weren't working together with their captain in the slightest.

But despite that, Jiraiya still smiled when he saw his roommate, even as he gave him a somewhat annoyed look, "I'm not sure if I should be mad or happy with you."

Sanae swallowed the turkey he'd been chewing. "Feel free to be both if you like." He knew what Jiraiya was referring to, and frankly, the barista had no regrets concerning what he'd written over the board. It wasn't as if he'd said anything that was relationship-breaking, after all. ~~And Joshua would have definitely been crueler.~~

He motioned toward their dinner with his fork. "And the salad's a little wilted, but otherwise it's not too bad tonight." He would wait a bit for Jiraiya to settle in before springing Plan B on him.

Jiraiya smirked at Sanae's reply, then went to sit down at his desk. "Well, that's good to know. At least they don't feed us actual hospital food. Could be worse."

He started eating, then glanced at Sanae. "Need any weapons? Renamon and I got some last night. Scalpels, although I might be able to make some bigger knives prior to nightshift starting."

"Yeah, could be jell-o twenty-four seven," Sanae said offhandedly. He didn't have anything against jell-o, but having it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner would probably end up making him sick. And malnourished. Which would be counter-productive.

"And I think I'll take you up on the offer," he said in between bites. "Can't say I'm very good with any weapon, but I'm even worse hand-to-hand." When he'd been a Player his psych had revolved around different decals he would paint, which had effectively rendered him a long-range kind of guy.

"Also, I got a favor to ask: would you mind if I tagged along tonight? I had plans, but it looks like they've been postponed at the moment." And he really needed to get out and get a feeling for the kind of turf he'd be tagging.

Jiraiya made a face at the idea of nothing but jell-o. He continued eating, not eating horribly fast, but not eating slow, either. He didn't have time to enjoy dinner if he wanted to get things done before nightshift.

"Against some of the things I've seen, going hand to hand is suicide," Jiraiya replied easily, but he had to think about the second. "Hmm, I don't have any plans after I meet Renamon, so why the hell not? It's better to go in pairs than alone."

He then grinned a bit wickedly. "You'll probably be left outside the door for a bit when I see Renamon, if you're okay with that."

Loud (loud enough) music, a chance to close his eyes, and a plan for the evening had S.T. in a decent mood. When he got back to his room, he was humming. It would take a great musical detective to identify the fragments of notes as Kickstart My Heart. At least he wasn't humming loudly.

When he reached his room, he shut the door firmly in the nurse's face, ignored his food, and went straight for the closet. Everything was still there. He started pulling items from the closet, stacking them in sorted clumps. A half-dozen plastic containers of varying sizes filled with tap water sat to one side. The other side had an industrial-kitchen packet of bread yeast, three loaves of bread, and a bag of sugar. S.T opened the first bag of bread, pulled out a slice, and then put it back in.

He stood up straight and started looking around the room.

Well. It looked like his roommate had been busy while he'd been asleep. Bourne forced himself to eat the turkey and potatoes - good food for energy, provided he didn't overdo the turkey. He seemed to recall something far away in his memory about turkey containing a sedative when consumed in large quantities. The asset ignored the pie for now.

"What are you doing?" he asked, watching S.T. remove the odd assortment of items from his closet with great interest.

Blackbriar assets weren't exactly trained in chemistry...you couldn't make a bomb out of bread, could you?

Whoops. Two points formed a line, and that line said his roommate would always be a silent lump under the covers. And he wasn't that much of an asshole that he'd shake the guy awake.

He grinned as he crossed the room to his desk. "Making beer. Or vinegar. Hopefully the former." He pulled the dishes off the tray and tucked it under his left arm. Then he walked over to Jason and held out a hand. "Sangamon Taylor. Been here a couple of days."

Funny how quickly "GEE, International" had dropped off the boilerplate intro.

"Jason Bourne," he said, shaking his roommate's hand and saying the name with no hint of hesitation. Nobody here cared who he'd been outside these walls, as he'd found out, so why bother trying to keep it a secret? If anyone ought to know, it was probably his roommate. "I've been here for almost a week. Why are you trying to make beer?"

He'd never really had a fondness for alcohol. Bourne's senses needed to be sharp at all times, and alcohol didn't help him on that score.

The name didn't ring any bells. The guy seemed O.K., so S.T. returned the handshake firmly, and then returned to his project. The tray went down on the floor, and he sat down indian-style beside it.

"Why not?" O.K., it was kind of lame, as goals went. But what was a planning session without beer? "Besides, kitchen seemed like a good scouting mission. Only weapon I've got is this," he said, ducking his head briefly into the closet and retrieving a rolling pin. "And I didn't have that before last night."

"Besides, I'm a biochemist. It was that or explosives, and I'd need a real lab for that. One of these nights I'll whip up something for some of those doors." He hadn't really seen a point before in brewing bombs more likely to blow up his hand than any of the overgrown fauna that called this shithole home. But brute-force lockpicks he could do.

The beer-making had been interesting enough, but the mention of explosives really piqued Bourne's curiosity. A lot could be accomplished with some volatile materials...he had only mentioned it in terms of opening doors, but an improvised explosive could probably work wonders on some of the smaller creatures, and even damage a large one.

"What a coincidence," Jason said with a small smile. "I'm someone who uses explosives."

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The day hadn't been too useful, and Conklin hadn't been able to get in touch with Soma again. Typical. She was interesting enough, with what she said the future was like, and it amused him that the power blocs in her time were much the same as they were in his. The West vs. The East. Go figure. And they were both children of Russia in their own right.

The spook sat down and picked mechanically at his turkey. He thought he might try for the file room tonight, if he could, and if something didn't get him first.

It seemed that Alec was spending rather a lot of his time with Frenchmen, albeit two who were just about polar opposites. Armand was optimistic, happy, and obviously fond of hugs; Javert was...well, a bit of a bastard, just like Alec, with a healthy wit and surprising deviousness.

He hadn't seen his roommate in a while. Trevelyan looked at the turkey dinner - oh, please - but took a few token bites anyway. Not bad. A slice of wholesome down-home Americana, to be sure, but passable. He missed caviar.

Sano's sudden disappearance and Kenshin's explanation left Yahiko with a tight, hollow feeling, but he was determined not to let it affect his concentration or ability. There were lots of people here who needed his help, and letting this get between him and his drive to protect people would go against all of his beliefs and training, against everything he'd spent the last five years becoming. He was Myoujin Yahiko, practitioner and teacher of the Kamiya Kasshin-Ryu--the sword which protects.

When the nurse led him back to his room, Yahiko's expression was firm. There were a lot of things that he believed strongly in, but his primary guiding light was the fact that if he worked hard enough and never lost sight of his goal, he could get through any darkness and make the future a brighter place.

He sat at the foot of his bed and shoved his fork into the slice of pie as if proving a very important point.

He was no longer expecting a familiar pair of golden eyes to greet him when he returned to his room. When Homura told him that Goku was happy and free somewhere in the lower world, Nataku had been more than pleased for him. He hadn't known what would become of Goku and his friends, but one of the worse outcomes would have been for the other boy to be forced into the role of war prince. He didn't want to think of Goku's bright fire being drowned in blood. There were worse outcomes than the reality.

And yet as the day wore on, even as he met new and adjusted to the strangeness of the institute, Nataku couldn't help but feel a little bit empty. It was to be expected, he supposed. That was the part of him that Goku had filled up.

Well, there was still time. Someday they'd find their way back to those places that Nataku held dear. It had been a promise. For now, he could only deal with what was in front of him.

...Too bad it happened to be the Nurse's big butt. That was probably not the best omen.

Someone was already there when the nurse let him inside. He'd expected the room to be empty, but he found himself peering curiously at another boy who looked about his age. He didn't seem to be getting along with his pie. "Hey. Looks like we're roommates."

All in all, the day could have gone worse. While nothing much had been accomplished, having his presence requested at the meeting of club leaders suggested that his assumed role as a liason was being respected...that, or they were humoring him, but even if they were humoring him, it meant they considered him a force that shouldn't be trifled with.

The half-written summary of the club meeting was lying atop Mello's closed journal as he absently chewed on the end of his pen, a habit he'd nearly broken. This group of new patients was more ambitious than the last. He couldn't determine whether their intentions were innocent or malicious, but at this point, it didn't matter. They might be competition, and that was what he needed to focus on.

And B. Even the letter sent a slight flicker of uncertainty through his thoughts. B had been insane, without question, but he'd ultimately broken under the weight of his ambition to prove himself better than what others seemed to consider an impossible standard. He was a wild card in Mello's plans, unlikely to have any interest in the blond's attempts to gain control of the institute but likely to sabotage anything nearing success, if he considered Mello serious competition.

Mello took a bite of the orange-colored pie and chewed as he considered how to phrase the note and how to deal with the circumstances changing around him.

Asch wasn't really interested in his food, but he took bites of it anyway, in between making a copy of the map he had for Van. He wasn't sure how far he should take this; Van was dangerous, after all. He knew that better than anyone. He might have said he was keeping an eye on the Commandant, but that wasn't really true. There were really a million things impacting the decision he'd made regarding Van, but keeping an eye on him just wasn't one of them.

He finished with the map and stared at his pie. Orange pie? He wasn't sure what it was. The intercom had said pumpkin, but that was a type of pie he'd certainly never had. He tried it, decided it was palatable, and finally turned to Mello.

"Are you going back to the file room tonight?"

[forgive my lateness!]

Mello glanced up when the door opened and then closed, but only offered a slight nod in greeting. After the previous night's disaster, he doubted he'd be able to salvage a useful professional relationship with Asch without stooping to levels he was far too proud to stoop to. Instead, he jotted a few lines on the paper.

When Asch spoke, however, he turned his attention from the pie. They never seemed to serve chocolate here anymore, he noted with distant annoyance. "No," he said. "The number of new arrivals would make it difficult to sort through the files for familiar names before anything attacked." He again tapped the pen against his lip. "Often, monsters in some rooms need a few minutes to locate their prey." Or they just enjoyed biding their time, or possibly, they simply slept or appeared from the ether. Either way, Mello noticed that the longer one stayed in a room, the more likely they were to be attacked.

"It might be possible to use explosives to get past the doors with unpickable locks," he continued. "I'm heading to the second floor to collect supplies."

Asch took in the information. So it was possible that not all monsters were overtly intelligent. Well, they were monsters, after all; that made sense. They'd still have to be careful, of course. Zex had been here longer, but none of them actually had a decent weapon yet.

"You know how to create explosives?" he asked, carefully. Knowledge like that was useful, perhaps - but it could also be dangerous. How did Mello know, anyway?

He didn't know anything about who Mello had been in his own world, of course. It might benefit him to find out a little, especially since they had to share close quarters until further notice. Asch had no delusions that he'd be able to break out tonight. In fact, it wasn't in his plans to try to do so. He believed most of what he'd been told, and things like this needed time - no one was going to get out without using their heads, and he wasn't going to waste his time on a futile effort.

"Yes," Mello answered with a short nod. It didn't seem to be scarce knowledge around this place, but perhaps Asch was from a world that wasn't quite so violent. "I collected supplies before and another patient's taking care of them, but the more we have, the more damage we can do." That, and he needed vessels to contain the chemicals, but he'd heard there were glass vials in the place he'd first collected supplies, when he'd been touched by the wraith-like creature.

"If the answers to this place are anywhere on the premises, they're on the third floor or the basement," he continued. "We haven't found stairwells to either, so they must be behind the heaviest locks."

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For the first time in a long time, Adelheid felt excited to be heading into the night. He finally had something to look forward to; a sparring match with someone who clearly seemed to know what he was doing. It had been far, far too long since Adelheid had gotten the chance to fight against someone who didn't want to kill him; that meant, hopefully, that he could accomplish something tonight. He certainly hoped that such would be the case, anyway.

More importantly, he finally felt awake. The curse was gone, and for that, Adelheid couldn't be happier. It felt like there was finally a reason for optimism, at long last!

Snake skirted into the room after the nurse closed the door, sat on his bed, and drew his tray onto his lap. He ate, rhythmically. His stomach still hadn't settled down from earlier, but he'd eaten worse food in worse situations, and by the time he was halfway through the turkey he was honestly starting to enjoy it. It had been way too long before he'd eaten anything that wasn't a combat ration, and Zanzibar's rations had been just close enough to real food to be doubly offensive and by the time the mission was over he'd been craving a damn calorie cracker, because at least that didn't try to be anything it wasn't.

Turkey, he realised, looking at the forkful with sudden recollection. Christmas dinner. Holly. He hadn't ever wanted what Holly had wanted - or thought she should want if it had been an action movie. Irrationally, he wondered - if he'd taken her up on her offer, would he be here right now? Maybe they'd have hit it off. Maybe they'd have had something in common. But the thought of ever belonging to someone, needing someone, like that filled him with a visceral disgust - besides, he had no idea how to live like that.

And, he thought, starting on the salad - it tasted fresher than anything he'd eaten in far too long - he wouldn't have changed his mind. Now he was here, he was away from everything; miles away from the real world.

And he was with Fox.

It felt wrong somehow, like nature itself had been inverted - people who are killed are supposed to stay dead and supposed to want it. But Fox was alive, and real, and Snake knew in the pit of the stupid loyal heart that crossed electric floors and beat men to death and jumped off towers in the name of doing what it was told that he'd never be so happy to have Fox there, to have orders.

He also seemed to know a lot more than he was letting on, he thought, setting down his tray, getting up, and turning to regard the bedsheet.

Might as well dress up nicely for his hot date.

It was easy to pull the sheet up from the edge of the bed, and tear it along the weave, pulling off a long, reasonably uniform strip from the edge, a few inches thick and a yard and a half long. With some care, he tied it around his forehead, arranging his hair around it, and then set about emptying his pillowcase for use as a bag, enjoying the feeling of the tails of the makeshift bandanna playing over the back of his neck. He looked, and felt, like a soldier again, and that was what Fox needed from him.

Well, today had been the biggest waste of time in recent memory, and for once it was entirely Teisel's own fault. He'd let himself get mopey and spent the entire day...well, moping. He hadn't talked to anyone, he hadn't learned anything, he hadn't made any plans.

He could feel himself getting increasingly irritated, which at least was a change from the utter lack of anything that he'd been feeling earlier. There was no point staying depressed; he had to try to make up for his lack of progress.

First order of business: getting his files back from Zex. Reaching out to fiddle with his flashlight batteries, Teisel's hand closed, quite unexpectedly, on nothing. "Zex's room..." he sighed, remembering too late that he'd set down everything he'd been carrying on Zex's desk the night before, including the flashlight.

He'd have to walk in the dark. This was a more worrying prospect than Teisel would ever have admitted out loud, so he didn't. Ordinarily, his optics' backlights gave him at least enough illumination to make out the edges of things, but his stupid eyeballs had no such advantage. And he was a little apprehensive about blundering around in the dark when there were things in the halls that would not be blundering at all.

Even though he was trying his damnedest to crawl out of his depression, Teisel had to concede that his life really sucked lately.

Yomi awoke with the sound of oblivion in her ears, the quiet of the soul that stood in opposition to the many-tongued whispers of the sesshouseki. Peace. Finally, peace.

But it wasn’t to last.

As soon as her eyes focused, the clarity, the freedom, the echo of I love you began to fade, gently drowned behind the bloody veil that was the kyuubi’s will. At the same time, memories became clearer: the blood, the holy weapon, the surety her life was about to end. Kagura’s warm, trembling body. Death approaching.

And yet somehow Yomi lived. It’d been her desperate will to do just the opposite, but still…

What roiling emotions were gaining force and prickling at the edges of her consciousness were quickly soothed as Yomi sat up, dragging her legs along the bed covers--a bed?--to swing them over the edge. The cold floor assaulted her senses, even through the socks. A hospital bed, no shoes, only slippers lined up neatly by the bedpost… Violet eyes swept the room, taking in each detail within seconds. Whitewashed walls, two sets of furniture, two servings of food that were still warm… Clothes that weren’t her own. Yomi looked down at herself, at the lemon yellow face that frowned up at her from its upside down position. She didn’t need to look to know there was no gaping wound between her breasts, not anymore.

And no Shishiou.

Three minutes later, Yomi had gone through every corner of the room, through each dresser and desk, uncovering the flashlight under the pillow and the other assorted items, and tried and failed to bring down the locked door. After the first few tries, each more fierce than the last, Yomi had reluctantly accepted she couldn’t hear the slightest crunch of broken metal. Her, imprisoned in some kind of room, with her weapon taken away again? What was this? Exorcists didn’t play by these rules.

Nor did she.

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