damned_institute | Day 44: Arts and Crafts Room, 4th Shift

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Day 44: Arts and Crafts Room, 4th Shift

The day had been slow for L so far, slower than he required: the events of the previous night were traumatic, but they did not outweigh his need for information and a useful way in which to apply whatever he might learn.

When the nurse shepherded him from the cafeteria, through the Sun Room, and over towards the door of the Arts and Crafts Room, he experienced a small internal wince: this was the room where it had happened the night before. Unpleasant, yes, but likely to be irrelevant in terms of my own welfare, except in terms of what I can learn from it, he reminded himself.

He had the impression that he could avoid the room if he wanted to, but there were several convincing reasons to push past his reluctance: his meeting with Lunge was necessary, the opportunity to see the room in more usual circumstances might be valuable, and he did not want the staff to see that he had been affected. He wasn't sure how they were tied to the events of the previous night, but the buzz of information around the Institute suggested some kind of strong connection.

As he stepped into the room, feet feeling imprisoned in the slippers that the staff kept insisting that he wear, he avoided the area where he had collapsed. Instead, he turned to the right and proceeded as far into the room as he could, then left, then took a seat in the back corner.

If the nurses pressed him to be more creative, he would take up painting. However, he expected to express his creativity in other ways.

[For Lunge.]

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Lunge couldn't decide what irritated him more- the fact that Wayne was potentially perfectly trustworthy and that he was possibly (god forbid) over-analysing the situation, or the fact that there was an equal chance of him being a better liar than he was. He had never been the competitive sort, that much was true, but the idea that the man had the potential to outwit him while he was still working out just where the two of them stood...

There was something curiously troubling about a roomful of adults offset by that faint yet unmistakable children's-play-house smell of poster paints and clay. Fortunately, it didn't take long to spot L, distinctive as he was, seated in the far corner. Provided his night had been as... eventful... as his own had been, they wouldn't be short on conversation.

He took a seat opposite, resting his elbows neatly between colourful sheets of paper and packets of glitter with his fingers bridged together. "Interesting night?" he asked casually, substituting the usual 'good' for something rather less redundant.

A number of people entered the room before Lunge, and when L saw Porky, he had the feeling that this was the other man who had died in the Arts and Crafts Room the night before. It was difficult to tell without the damage, but his frame appeared to be about the same size. L also saw Howell; since they had just communicated on the bulletin board, he thought a conversation could wait.

Then Lunge appeared, and L found himself curious and relieved all at once.

"Interesting is an appropriate term. I learned a number of things... I suppose the same is true for you? I have been able to have useful conversations with several people, but not as useful as I would have liked."

Lunge managed a wry smile. 'Useful, but not useful enough' just about covered the way the majority of his day had gone. Two of the three of his scheduled meetings had been interrupted in some way, and while speaking with Lelouch had been enlightening he hadn't walked away from him with much more than a set of notes.

"Virtually. I found my own patient file, though I haven't had the chance to read it, and-", reluctantly, "- confirmed the monster sightings in person. What about you?" He leaned forward, almost more interested in spite of himself in learning which direction L had chosen to take than in the more practical question of where that direction had taken him.

L pressed his lips together, also experiencing some reluctance. "I have confirmed that at least two people here who claim to have supernatural abilities do possess them, but perhaps not to the extent that they claim. Howell -- " With a tip of his head, L indicated Howl -- "and a teenage boy called Keman. Howell was able to change the color of his hair by running his hands through it, and Keman is able to create an independent source of illumination, which follows him. They also appear to have some defensive capabilities. I was able to establish this because we had the misfortune of running into a Special Counseling patient in the Sun Room."

That was, of course, just the beginning of what he had learned. He would explain more about his activities if he was asked -- how Howell had felt there was a chance of escape, then a possible return -- but it would be more important to address what he had learned from Bruce Wayne and Indiana Jones.

Eventually, he would approach the topic of Lunge's poll. He poked at a packet of glitter, pretending to show interest in it. "The skylight in the other room -- it cracked last night. The room itself was largely demolished." He sounded a little less secure as he finished, "Somehow, that strikes me as more singular than anything else: almost everything that was destroyed last night was good as new this morning."

Including me.

"You found your patient file... what are they calling you here? And what sort of creatures did you see?"

Of course. What better way to follow up monsters than with supernatural powers? Trying not to look excessively cynical, Lunge followed L's nod with his eyes to where a man (long brown hair, tall, attractive) sat with another man. While he certainly didn't fit with how he would have imagined a magic user, he was willing to trust L's judgement. For now. It helped that the type of ability to attributed to him- changing his hair colour, of all things- seemed so very... believable.

"That wouldn't happen to have been the acrobatic young man in the Sun Room, would it? I got a look at him last night, albeit a brief one before the room was destroyed." And who could have forgotten that? The entire building had shaken to what seemed like its foundations with the impact.

"It seems as though any damage done to the Institute at night regenerates itself before morning, either to further the illusion that all is well during the day or for other, less clear reasons. Either way, it means that attempts to break into restricted parts of the building will have to be planned for one night only."

Difficult, yes, but not impossible. But that was a long way off. He sighed.

"Otto Jung. And you?" You'll excuse me if I don't laugh, Doctor. There were more than enough famous Ottos to draw inspiration from, but the thinly-veiled reference to psychology didn't even need explaining. His hand, still laced with the other, began to twitch with recall: "There were three of them: around two foot high and armless, but with scythed claws on their feet and sharp teeth. They seemed to communicate through a kind of chittering sound." God, how he wished he were lying. But even now, with the advantage of daylight to scatter illusions back to the shadows, he could still hear the rattle of claws and the crunch of metal crushing bone. They were real, alright. "What else did you learn?"

The acrobatic young man... "Yes, that is a good way of describing him." L had not, as yet, been able to establish which of the patients was Spider-Man. "I asked him if he could remember any of the procedure that is performed on Special Counseling patients, but he wasn't able to. It is a shame -- if we were able to collect enough data -- "

He shrugged. That would, of course, all depend on the cooperation of past and future Special Counseling patients, as well as their relative degrees of memory loss, and it might not be a line of inquiry worth pursuing. It seemed too early to rule out any potential leads, though.

Following Lunge's topics, he addressed the idea of breaking into restricted parts of the building. "Yes. In a general sense, it seems that careful planning would be in order -- both in terms of what we hope to achieve, and in terms of the possible hazards. A group operation might be best."

He frowned at the description of the creatures. "How were you able to defeat them? I did not encounter anything of that nature last night, but -- " His lips pressed together again, and he brought his right hand to his mouth, nipping at the tip of his thumb, a gesture that might indicate mild agitation. "This room was the destination. I saw something else -- over there." He moved his hand from his mouth to gesture to the wall opposite the door.

L had never been sentimental about his parents -- not in the least -- but it seemed strange to be relaying a false name, one which he had not even chosen for himself as part of his work -- in the room where he had seen his mother's death less than a full day earlier. "They are calling me Daniel Laurier." He gave the surname a French pronunciation, two syllables, and did not mention how uncomfortably close it was to his real name. After a pause, he let out a soft sigh.

"I have spoken to a few people since our last conversation, but I think that, before we discuss those things, it would be best for me to respond to your poll."

"You spoke to him?" Lunge stopped to give L a quizzical, vaguely comical look. The image of L stopping to speak to a brain-washed, costumed avenger hanging from the ceiling was downright surreal, no matter how he tried to wash it over and view it professionally.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted the other man's slight aggravated tic. Something could have been bothering him, but it was equally likely that this was just more of the childlike fidgeting he seemed so prone to. Lunge stored the observation for later. "I pushed a cabinet onto their leader. The other two fled."

If there was one thing more worrying than the Institute cultivating monsters, it was the Institute cultivating intelligent monsters. What might have been put down to mutation or bizarre experimentation suddenly stretched far beyond anything he could ever have thought he would experience in his lifetime. Mildly distracted by the thought, it was only by mentally replaying L's words that he caught the important ending.

"... so you experienced something." In here, from the sound of it, no less. Spending the afternoon in the room that, less than twelve hours ago, he had actually died in must have been testing, to say the least of it, but to the casual observer L would have seemed perfectly at ease. He was coping well- controlling himself very well indeed. Impressive.

Finally, he sat back with his right hand splayed on the table top. It seemed they had reached the crux of their discussion. Back to business. There was nothing but clipped impartiality in his voice as he began his questioning. "Before you 'died', what was it that you saw?"

"He left an apology on the bulletin board, because he broke Keman's arm. I took the opportunity to question him -- not an ideal scenario, I will admit."

L nipped at his thumb again, frowning. The questions had nagged at him all day. That he had experienced death from his mother's point of view -- her death, not his own -- was more troubling than he would admit to himself. The experience of death was... persuasive... but after all, like so many other things at Landel's, its purpose wasn't to kill me, or anyone else who experienced it. It was to... what? To unsettle me? To torture me? To make me feel powerless? Or... is it more outlandish or less to suggest that it was simply something that happened, with no specific aim at all, and no action or intent behind it?

How frightening is death, really, when you do not die? It was the pain that was notable.

With a soft sigh, and a faint air of reluctance, he began to speak again. "My parents were killed in a car accident when I was a young boy." He had no intention of stating his exact age, or the time of year when it had happened. He was relatively certain that all of the records of the accident had vanished; even if they had not, Lunge might never be able to find them. Still, if something had been left behind, and if someone were interested in L's true identity, a skilled investigator might be able to dig up the information.

"My father sat in front of me, and I do not think that I ever saw his body, but my mother... she was in the passenger seat, and I watched her die. She had a number of injuries. I saw her as she looked, at the time, and then I experienced her death from her point of view." His speech, in his low, cultured voice, was careful, as if he made a precise choice of each of his words before saying them. "I would call it a convincing hallucination, except that Keman and Howell both watched me die. It was... bloody."

All in all, he seemed more pensive than traumatized.

Edited 2009-10-02 20:01 (UTC)

So it began. L was understandably reluctant to talk and Lunge had never expected to have to question him on his past, but if that was where his investigation had taken him, so be it.

L started his description, understandably hesitant, of his night and of his beginnings, and Lunge listened intently. Throughout the description, L would find his words punctuated by the steady, rhythmic tapping of Lunge's fingertips on the table, diligently logging every letter and every nuance of the memory into the inspector's own vast database with inhuman, detached care. Taking in L's calm, cautious voice as it hesitated before letting each word escape him and enter the testimony.

Well. At the very least, he could now say that the pattern was unmistakable. The death of a loved one in front of one's very eyes, replayed to those with the misfortune of having witnessed it before, only to force it on them afterwards. As torture, if torture it was, the idea was fiendishly simple. A guilt trip with an edge. But why had it been chosen? It required planning and research, and when there were several more obvious and easily executed methods of hurting the patients. Why had they targeted guilty consciences? Was there any relevance in there at all?

"And the next thing you remember is waking up?" he asked once he was sure L had finished. While he may have been careful to avoid leading questions in a written poll he trusted the man's intelligence enough to not have to worry about skewing the answer. It occurred to Lunge that he had been treating the man as both witness and victim rather than colleague up until this point. Perhaps that had been for the best in this case.

"Yes, precisely." After another brief hesitation, and well aware that Lunge was 'recording' everything he said, he added, "I have not had the opportunity to speak about this with anyone else who experienced it, although I have had several other interesting conversations since the last time we met -- possible leads that are worth discussing.

"On reflection, though, I think it is likely that the individual circumstances of last night's events matter less than the overall pattern. Too many people have been affected. Those who were affected, for whatever reason, are probably victims of circumstance... or, if it was some kind of... targeted attack, it is feasible that it was only important to injure a small number of people. If someone caused it on purpose, however that would be accomplished, either they were clumsy, or they did not care about collateral damage -- a phrase we have heard before, but we do not know how it fits in with everything else. There isn't enough information about this hypothetical perpetrator to make a firm decision in either direction.

"What do you think of the theory that it was caused by the release of a gaseous agent of some kind?" L, himself, disliked the idea, and it showed in his tone, which developed a scornful note.

Edited 2009-10-02 21:07 (UTC)

"I'm inclined to agree." L raised an interesting point. Understanding who the target was was vital to understanding what the ever-ambiguous 'they' had hoped to achieve. The dead can be more alive for us, more powerful, more scary, than the living. It is the question of ghosts. Just who had they been speaking to? The populace, or an individual? "If there's one target out there, I have yet to find them- other than one response-" I saw two ghosts, but I didn't die or hear anything weird, "- all of the stories have been virtually identical. Determining that for certain would be almost impossible without further enlightenment."

But then, wasn't that what his job was about? Juggling uncertainties? Discerning the most appropriate causes and consequences in the face of dire probabilities? Psychological analysis was not, unfortunately, an exact science. But he was digressing.

On the subject of alternate causes, Lunge's expression seemed to brighten a touch. It was good to see his opinion wasn't a solitary one. "Unlikely. Never mind the kind of chemical engineering required to produce such an agent, those affected very clearly suffered some form of exterior injury. The cause of death for case five, for example, was recorded as 'small arms fire'; imitating the effects of a gunshot wound would be virtually impossible."

Further speculation would not provide an answer, not for the moment. Lunge spread his hands, mentally saving the data for later and starting afresh. "Your other leads. What are they?"

L had nothing to add to Lunge's thoughts about a possible chemical agent, so he simply responded with a quick, sharp nod before moving to the topic of what he had learned.

"Two conversations. I went outside for a walk yesterday -- the nurses seem to approve of exercise, but my primary goal was to attempt to get some kind of look at this place from its exterior. I met a man named Bruce Wayne. He is -- I think there is more to him than meets the eye. Much of what we discussed seems irrelevant in light of the fact that Landel made a reappearance of sorts this morning, but at the very least, I think Wayne may be a valuable contact." He paused, looking characteristically pensive, still biting on the tip of his thumb.

As he spoke, his thoughts continued to move at a rapid pace, unable to stop dwelling on his "death" the night before. It is impossible to tell yet whether I should regard my experience last night as the signal event in my imprisonment here, or as a distraction, or as only an element which must be considered. The latter is probably best, but -- how to tell? How to calibrate its importance? There is every indication that I may be here for a while... in that case, learning more, and finding where it fits, will be best. The blood spilling out of his mother's mouth as she choked out her last few breaths played in his mind, again. His inability to push it from his consciousness irritated him; his intellect should not be derailed by an emotional response to what had probably been, in some way, a dirty psychological trick. -- It's only natural that I cannot think of anything else in this room.

At this point, a nurse loomed over them. "Daniel, it's nice that you've made a friend, but the two of you are wasting your time with this chit-chat. I'd like to see you both getting your feelings out on paper." She tapped a stack of drawing paper with a box of markers. "You already have the glitter and glue if you want it... or maybe one of you knows how to crochet?" She ended on a bright tone, her hand resting on a ball of yarn.

L gave her a flat, unamused look, but he picked up the box of markers between the tips of his thumb and index finger, opened it, and began to shuffle through it as he continued to speak. An outward attempt to play the role of a dutiful patient, interested in his own recovery, will enable me to proceed with as little interference as possible. But what will they expect from me? Perhaps more rebellion, here and there. Not today. No, not until I can achieve something with it.

The nurse moved away again, satisfied.

"I also met a man at breakfast named Indiana Jones -- an archaeologist. He has been able to leave the grounds of the institute, and has managed to see something that may or may not be relevant."

He selected a few markers from the box: black, grey, blue, brown.

"So you've met Wayne as well?" The corner of Lunge’s mouth twitched at both his own memory and at the coincidence. "I had the pleasure of speaking to him at lunch. You’re right. He's… an interesting man. I can't seem to get any sort of reading reading from him just yet." The just yet prevented it from being an admission of failure, but the low hint of chagrin in this voice made a fair indicator of his displeasure. "There's no doubting his intelligence, though."

All the while he continued to scan L’s face, eyes searching for the cracks they could not find. Just how deeply do the scars from last night run? Just how much is bearing down on your shoulders? Moreover, they weren’t just from last night- they were from years of grief and pain. They had reduced Miles Edgeworth (Miles Edgeworth, prosecutor: organised, controlled, intelligent) to tears over breakfast and forced Lelouch Lamperouge (Lelouch Lamperouge: likewise) to breaking point. Emotions were running on high. The power L had to keep his own passions down really was remarkable.

The sudden appearance of a nurse broke that particular link in his chain of thought and jostled him into action with a quiet sigh, even if the temptation to ask the her if he looked as though he would know how to crochet ran strong. Black, grey, blue and brown. Melancholy colours, but melancholia is as thoughtful as it is despondent. He moved to take a single black pen but then, after a little thought, picked up markers in red, blue and yellow and lined them neatly side by side on his side of the table.

Rather more promising than his creative leanings, however, was the new topic of conversation. Lunge leaned in enquiringly, making no attempt to hide that the man had his attention hooked. "What kind of something?" The possibilities were endless in this sort of place, where reality seemed to warp itself around its puppetmaster's whims.

"What did the two of you speak about?" L asked, his tone cool, belying his interest. "And your other meetings... how did they go?"

That Lunge had found Wayne unreadable was not a comfort to L; as serious and even talented as it seemed the other investigator might be -- How easy it is to think of him as an investigator in earnest, after only a day -- he was not, could not be, a detective of L's caliber. Yet he had the impression that Lunge would be one of his favorite consultants if he knew him in everyday life, although perhaps not completely amenable to working as L's subordinate. All of that aside, L was still disappointed by his own inability to profile Bruce Wayne with as much facility as he might have. He moved on to the other topic.

"Dr. Jones found a town in the woods to the east of the Institute -- ruined, but perhaps not as ruined as it should be. He says that the artifacts seem to date from about the 1920s, yet there is a church full of skeletons which have no obvious signs of injury -- he described them as 'perfect enough to look like lab specimens.' Paper, also, has failed to deteriorate in an expected way. Structures are mostly intact, yet there is definite evidence of upheaval: smashed windows, broken furniture. 'YOU WILL BOTH BURN' is painted on a wall."

He picked up the black marker, holding its end with his fingertips, and began to draw a triangle on the paper in front of him, then to mark equidistant dots on each of the sides of the shape. His intention was to draw parabolic arcs with straight lines.

"It's interesting," he concluded, mild and conversational. "My first thought was that it might have been staged in some way. Then, the question is: why?"

"Last night, albeit very briefly. We spoke for what was less than five or ten minutes." Not nearly as long as he would have liked, and not nearly long enough to make a fair assessment of either his personality or his motives. Damn.

Well. He would have timed to correct that. Lunge moved on. "My meeting with Edgeworth has been postponed. Apparently he was affected last night. My nurse deemed him unfit to speak with me." Fancy that. It was unfortunate that he happened to be in a position where, for once, he couldn’t force his way through anyway. "Instead, I spoke again with another police officer here by the name of Inspector Javert- he’s suspicious of me but I wouldn’t expect any less. Nonetheless he's sharp and, in my mind, trustworthy. He should be a worthwhile contact." And finally… he shifted in his seat. "I walked away from Lamperouge with his notes, but little of his insight. He was sedated at breakfast and could barely stay vertical, let alone share his thoughts. I'll be reading through his journal tonight, however."

With that out of the way, he listened carefully to L’s description. A town? And not, he presumed, the neighbouring Doyleton either. Broken buildings, death… the first chords of chill remembrance began to play up Lunge’s spine, and for one blindingly clear moment he didn’t hear another word L said over the rain and silence of another time. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone- L was speaking and he was silently pressing down the moment in the back of his memories, out of sight and out of mind. As far as he was concerned, it hadn’t happened.

"The most obvious reason would be as a red herring," he said when L had finished, taking up the red pen and idly sketching out a long, curving line. “But since it would be careless to write them off without seeing them first hand, I would propose a firsthand investigation. I’d particularly like to get a look at that message.”

You will both burn. Written in a firm, confident tense, it will happen. The inclusion of ‘both’ placed emphasis on two individuals; leaving it at an ambiguous ‘you’ obviously wasn’t enough. Burning brought with it connotations of hell and of sinning- it would be interesting to see whether they was literal or not and whether there was any evidence of fire in the town.

L gave his head a single quick, disappointed shake. "So, you did not have much more time with him than I did. At some point, perhaps when we know more, I think it would be advantageous to arrange another meeting with him."

As they spoke, he picked up a nearby bottle of glue, then used it to draw lines, which were more or less straight, between various sides of the triangle. "If it is possible, I would like to read through Lamperouge's journal myself; if not, maybe you will share a summary... how it differs from what he has posted on the bulletin board, for example. Although I suspect that if he is allowing you to read it, it will present the same face.

"Also, how would I recognize him?"

He set down the glue, then retrieved some sapphire-blue glitter and began to shake it over the lines. "I will try to speak to Javert. -- Did you have any indication that he might be under the delusion that he is, ah, that Javert?"

L's interest in literature did not go beyond what he needed to use in his work; he rarely had time to read for pleasure. When the leisure presented itself, other activities were often more attractive. However, given his profession and predilections, it had been nearly impossible for him to avoid awareness of Victor Hugo's invention -- a relentless and vengeful detective, fictional, but not, in the end, entirely dissimilar to him.

Then again, the name could be a coincidence. In the event that the man did believe himself to be the same Javert, perhaps there was no point in mentioning it: threatening his constructed identity would not help L, or anyone else. It might be possible to make a subtle approach to the topic, by asking about Javert's current work. Because this line of thought distracted L, he decided to disregard for the time being. There is no point in making a decision until it becomes relevant, he thought.

In response to Lunge's proposal, L gave a slow nod. "It will be dangerous; perhaps not so much the town itself as the attempt to reach it. Last night it was difficult for three of us to move from our rooms to this one, and that isn't a long trip.

"In terms of the ruins being a red herring, I thought -- there have been rumors that there was a purge of the entire patient population in the past, several months ago. Dr. Jones did not think that the skeletons might be related to it, but I would like to examine them myself, to be sure. There is nothing to say that anything we see or experience from a distance here is not in some way an elaborate performance, and either way, I believe that learning more about the motivations of various... players... is crucial."

As he spoke, he lifted the page and shook the glitter onto the top of the table, careful not to send any in Lunge's direction. It could be passed off as ineptitude, or inexperience with the sort of craft supplies that were usually reserved for seven-year-old girls, and it gave him a faint flicker of pleasure to think of one of his jailers having to clean it. All of my blood is gone now; they are efficient, if nothing else.

He was struck, suddenly, by an inconceivable thought, and a troubled, startled look passed over his face: Is it possible that the evidence of my "death" was removed by the same process that caused me to see momentary changes in the structure of the walls last night?

The potential implications of this were unsettling, questions that went to the nature of reality itself. He wanted to think them over in detail before bringing them up with anyone, if he ever elected to do so. The moment was gone as soon as it came, and he picked up the conversation after only the briefest pause, eyeing what Lunge was drawing.

"The message... it may be related to what you heard the night before last. Someone felt that it might refer to Martin Landel and to Alec Doyle, because they were once partners and because Landel is allegedly responsible for Doyle's recent death." He added in a more thoughtful tone, "In some ways, I think Doyle might be the key."

Lunge nodded. “Of course. He’s said he wants it back by lunch tomorrow, but I’d be happy to prepare a summary of sorts for you.” As for how to recognise him… it may have barely ghosted across his face for a second, but the twitch to the inspector’s mouth would have been obvious to someone as observant as L. “Young. No older than eighteen. Tall, dark hair, pur- violet eyes.” It was hardly a lie, and there was nothing wrong with rationalising the impossible.

Just as he was certain that they had wandered back onto more sure territory with Javert, however, L’s questions took a… very strange turn. “That Javert?” He pressed his fingertips together lightly, mildly perplexed and more than a little irritated that he had apparently missed something obvious. Was the man an important historical figure? “I hadn’t heard the name before. However, he claims that he is from the nineteenth century.”

Claims. Had he not been so very aware of every word that passed his lips he would almost have missed that important little distinction. As trustworthy as the man had seemed to him (and as he would have liked to have thought he was), Javert was still under observation when it came to his perception of reality. More troubling, however, was that his story was becoming more and more plausible with every second he spent in this place.

Hmm.

He nodded as L explained his own ideas on the town, carefully storing them away with his own theories. “A purge?” Well, that was something new. He sat up a little straighter, leaning in over his art. “What do you know about it?”

“Looking into Doyle is one of my top priorities. Unfortunately, there isn’t much information about the man in circulation, but I’ve been told he was hardly an angel.” Javert again. “Given that his was the voice IDed as Landel’s attacker, I’m inclined to believe that. I’m also inclined to believe that he was possibly behind last night’s events.”

While L reached for the glitter, Lunge drew in a few more curves, blots and lines, mirrored it on the other side of the page and blocked in the colours. There. Filling in the last few spots, Lunge laid down his pen and held up his new makeshift Rorschach ink blot with a hooded smile. “What do you see?”

Given the information about Lamperouge, L sighed. "Yes, I would appreciate a summary: anything that seems like it might be useful, and everything that seems like it will not. We cannot be sure. As to Javert -- I have heard the name before, but it must be a coincidence." The more he considered the topic, the less important it seemed. What was important was, as usual, Javert's potential value -- in terms of knowledge about the Institute, and in terms of any plans they might make in the future.

The conversation turned to the possibility of a past patient purge. "Lamperouge mentioned it in the timeline that he put on the bulletin board yesterday -- an allegation that a large number of patients were replaced about three and a half weeks ago. From our point of view, it is impossible to say what might have happened to them. We were also told that some of yesterday's visitors were former patients.

"That past abductees might in some way comprise the skeletons in the woods is a worst-case scenario, and it would involve methods of preparation that would leave definite signs -- the better, more subtle methods take a little longer. But it should still be considered." He assumed that they both knew that the chances an abductee would be returned, particularly when it did not seem that they were being held for ransom, became vanishingly small as time went on. The odds were always worse for children, but never really favorable for anyone.

Still, if the goal were to dispose of people, it would be easier to bury bodies in a pit or burn them in a furnace than to process them with care and use the remains as props. The number of insects needed to clean a church full of skeletons in a week or two is dauntingly large, unlikely to go unnoticed. It all suggests a different motivation behind the conditions in the ruined town.

"As to Doyle, the best idea I have at the moment is to attempt to find people who were here when he was alive. There may not be many, and even if they are willing to come forward and discuss him, the information might not be accurate."

He nodded at the suggestion that Doyle might have been behind the events of the previous night. "Yet... if he is dead, how? He seems to have reappeared the night you arrived, when the dead were walking, and as I said, the whole situation fits the concept of collateral damage.

"I mentioned clumsiness earlier. Death could certainly make someone clumsy" -- his soft, low voice took on a hint of exasperation, caused by the fact that they were now discussing something as absurd as the hypothetical actions of the walking dead -- "but in that case, I would want to know how he did what he did, why it affected a number of people in the building. It might be reasonable to assume that it affected everyone who was capable of being affected by it, even if the only real target was Landel himself."

The words had been pouring out of him, but at this point, his thoughts on the topic came to a halt.

As Lunge held up his "art," L widened his eyes, then replied in a cool, ironic tone, "To be honest, I can't see much of anything. A dermestid beetle, perhaps."

It looked like nothing of the kind.

Edited 2009-10-11 09:12 (UTC)

It wasn’t long before L suggested the thought that had crossed his own mind at the mention of the purge. He nodded. “Even if it a logical conclusion to draw, it still leaves far too many questions unanswered. To go from body to skeleton in three weeks is virtually impossible. But we have no reason to rule anything out until we’ve seen the dump site firsthand, especially not when the Institute is so liable to throw a curve ball when you least expect it.”

Dump site. How unfortunate that they couldn’t say ‘scene of the crime’ with any real certainty; walking in the footsteps of a killer was easiest when the footprints were fresh. But whether or not the skeletons belonged to the vanished patients, Lunge wasn’t sure how appropriate the term ‘abductee’ was. Abducted they had been, but give the Institute’s track record he didn’t much like their chances of still being alive. ‘Victim’, even in all its ambiguity, seemed more probable.

And then there was the fact that deciding on a COD from corpses as old as L was suggesting would prove challenging for a master pathologist, never mind someone untrained and without resources, and without any obvious injuries the jury would still be out. Well. At any rate, seeing the skeletons with his own eyes would shed a little light on the town. Simply walking amongst the dead- and alongside the ghost of the man or even men that put them there- had the potential to be an enlightening experience. Ritualism would be the key thing to look for, even if signs of post-mortem posing would be the only thing he could look at in any real detail.

“I discussed Doyle with Javert on my first day,” he answered. “According to him, his broadcasts were usually accurate from what he’s seen, but apparently there was more to him than met the eye, if you’ll excuse the expression.” His eyes glinted dully as he leaned forward in an almost furtive manner, as though shielding his words from outside of the world that was their discussion. “Javert didn’t trust him- said he was “of the impression that he was using the patients for his own ends”. It isn’t hard to imagine that, were that an accurate observation, such a man wouldn’t hesitate to let the prisoners here take the fallout from an attack on Landel”

As for whether or not said attack was even possible… Lunge sighed, flexed his fingers thoughtfully. “That hinges on whether or not the dead were capable of speech on the night they appeared. One witness described them as typical ‘movie’ zombies. If she was right and they could not speak at all…“ He smiled emptily. “… you can see where I’m going with this. But, yes. Working out how such a large-scale attack was carried out is vital. From what I understand, Doyle used to work with Landel; I wouldn’t be surprised if the man was well-versed in the Institute’s inner workings.”

The Rorschach print was still in his hands. As if only just noticing it again, Lunge dropped it dismissively onto the table with a smile that widened into what was almost a sneer, in appreciation of L’s answer but also at something that the other man probably wouldn’t quite have been able to place. “Not a butterfly?”

"No. Perhaps a Death's Head Moth." It didn't much resemble that, either, but gallows humor sometimes came easily to L.

"As to the town -- I agree that we should try to see it as soon as we can," he replied.

"There is also the possibility that the bodies are the result of a purge of patients from the Institute, but not the patients of a few weeks ago that Lamperouge mentioned... they might be months or years old. Perhaps even the cause or the initial effect of the enmity between Landel and Doyle." He sighed again. "What we need is information that will point us in a specific direction. It is difficult to sort out what is and is not important."

Given the details about Doyle, he could do little but listen and nod along. Once he had heart what Lunge had to say, he simply said, "It appears that they are both that sort of man, even if their methods or reasons are different. We shouldn't be surprised that they had common ground in the past. I believe if we learn one thing, we may learn the other: either why they collaborated, or why they ceased to collaborate. One leads into the other, and back."

His hand had strayed back to his mouth as he took in what information Lunge had about Doyle, and now, he found himself biting the tip of his index finger, almost as if fitting his teeth around it was soothing, or as if it helped him think. It was more a habit than anything, though.

"I suspect our time may be growing short. Someone -- Edgeworth, I think -- suggested that we be sure that at least one or two people are aware of the names they are calling us and the rooms they have assigned. For me, it is Daniel Laurier and M26." The necessity of giving away even this kind of information -- patently false but still in some ways personally revealing -- rankled, but he felt Lunge could be trusted as much as anyone else, if not more.

Also, he seemed unlikely to forget what he was told.

He nodded along with L’s suggestions, frowning slightly as he sighed. Knowing just where to start was something Lunge had been struggling with himself. As it was, he couldn’t help but feel like a scent hound tracking a criminal in a perfumery. “The town seems like the strongest lead for now, even if only to use as a jumping off point. If it is truly there, it serves a purpose. I’d also suggest finding the document supposedly recovered from the morgue after Doyle’s death, although tracking it down might prove somewhat more challenging.”

"Tomorrow night,” he continued, “among other things, I'll be collecting equipment for gathering evidence at the scene." Scalpels, plastic bags, pliers- anything that could be used to take samples. The message, for example, needed more thorough investigation; the gully between 'looks like blood' and 'actually blood' was immense. "There very likely is someone here with at least rudimentary forensic skills. I’d like to know just how real the town is."

Had they the time, he would have gladly planned every detail of their expedition. But L was right. Out of the corner of his eye Lunge could see his regular nurse beginning to circle the room, like a buzzard waiting for her prey to give up the ghost and collapse. Still, if it bothered him at all he didn't let it show; he continued speaking in the usual calm, deliberate monotone as ever before. One got the distinct impression that, were the world about to end, fate would have to send the two of them a letter of notice two weeks beforehand just to let them finish their conversation.

"I think I may have already mentioned that the name was 'Otto Jung'. Currently, my room number is M50, although given the rate at which patients appear to go through roommates..." Unfortunately, Lunge got the distinct impression that he and Dent were in it for the long haul. How unfortunate for Dent. Hopefully, L's roommate was less troublesome.

But then, not much troubles you, does it, L? He let his mind wander over that for a moment, watching beadily as the man bit lightly on the tip of his finger. The focus on hands was, in a way, almost fetishistic. Freud would call it an extension of oral fixation but, even without the pitfalls inherent in that little theory, you don't seem particularly anxious. The contrary, in fact. How much of that is a smokescreen, I wond-

The thought was left half-formed as, on cue, his nurse descended. Wearing her day-glo smile and perfect uniform like a medal of honour, she epitomised everything wholesome and institutionalised. "I think the shift's almost up now, Mr. Jung. You'd better start packing everything away and say goodbye to Daniel." As she clucked him up out of his chair she picked up his 'art', positively beaming. "What a lovely painting! I didn't know you were a cat person."

'Mr. Jung' grimaced ruefully in L's direction, not even attempting to sell it as a smile.

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Day 44: Arts and Crafts Room, 4th Shift

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