Sangamon Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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damned_institute2009-05-30 06:40 pm
toxicspiderman) wrote in damned_institute2009-05-30 06:40 pm
Night 41: M81-M90 Hallway
S.T. woke in a rush from a dream involving playing referee to a wrestling match involving two topless girls and a leviathan-sized octopus waiting for a rematch with the Nautilus or the world's largest deep-fryer and dish of butter sauce. His fingers were in his mouth and he was trying to whistle, when the intercom took over the job.
He'd slept through dinner, and the smell of uneaten fish hung in the air. That explained the dreams, at least the parts involving sea life and condiments. He made short work of the potatoes and asparagus, washing them down with the ubiquitous and still-over-chlorinated, now-lukewarm tap water.
Opening the closet doors let out a gentle wave of aromatic brewing by-products; the beer was progressing. He picked up one small bottle without agitating the breadcrumbs off the bottom, and poured a small amount into the glass. Looked like beer, smelled like beer, tasted like flat beer and stale bread. He screwed the caps down on all of them, since it seemed like the time for explosions had passed.
Then he hunted down his toolbox and repacked. The syringes went back in the trash can, labeled and sorted. A spare t-shirt went in the toolbox, pre-emptive protection against bottle-rattling. The flashlight got a new layer of tape, and the glass cleaner went in its holster. Everything ship-shape, which meant it was time to shove off.
[to here]
He'd slept through dinner, and the smell of uneaten fish hung in the air. That explained the dreams, at least the parts involving sea life and condiments. He made short work of the potatoes and asparagus, washing them down with the ubiquitous and still-over-chlorinated, now-lukewarm tap water.
Opening the closet doors let out a gentle wave of aromatic brewing by-products; the beer was progressing. He picked up one small bottle without agitating the breadcrumbs off the bottom, and poured a small amount into the glass. Looked like beer, smelled like beer, tasted like flat beer and stale bread. He screwed the caps down on all of them, since it seemed like the time for explosions had passed.
Then he hunted down his toolbox and repacked. The syringes went back in the trash can, labeled and sorted. A spare t-shirt went in the toolbox, pre-emptive protection against bottle-rattling. The flashlight got a new layer of tape, and the glass cleaner went in its holster. Everything ship-shape, which meant it was time to shove off.
[to here]
Re: M86
Another pause, before he decides that maybe a baseball bat would be fun- the rain brat from home was always toting one around, and he'd seen some of his co-workers beat people senseless with them. Still... it didn't offer him the distance he preferred, nor was it ideal for his level of physical strength... but if Leon really thought it would be wiser (not that Bel particularly trusted him), then there wasn't another solution. "Baseball bats it is, then~"
Re: M86
He agreed that they couldn't just abandon the guy, but this was kind of looking like not the best way to start out the night either.
Re: M86
Turning on his heel and stalking out the door, Leon shot back over his shoulder, "Follow us if you want, but I'm not lifting one single finger to help you! Move it, Stahn!"
Re: M86