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]
no subject
What he'd do with the time, he wasn't sure. It wouldn't be the first night he'd gone off on his own, dangerous as that was. He was sure to run into someone, though. This had worked well for him in the past.
He grabbed one of his doctors robes, making certain to secure his journal in one of the pockets. His bag of metal was still stashed away, which was good. Hopefully no one would come in while he was gone and try to nab any of it. The short sword he'd created the night before was stashed under his mattress. He pulled it out now, looking it over with the flashlight. It certainly looked and felt like a proper short sword. The young mage couldn't say he knew how to properly wield any sort of bladed weapon, but if his magic was going to be so limited while he was here, it couldn't hurt to have something else to swing at monsters.
no subject