damned_institute | Nightshift 44: M81-M90 Hallway

The intercom did its Texas Two-Step, and then the doors kicked in their monotonic chorus. More vague taunting bullshit, plus someone on staff had finally learned to read. The brainwashing-and-torture combo was new, but maybe that explained last night's schedule fuckup. At least it confirmed tonight's target.

S.T. poured himself another Dixie cup of beer, and chugged it.

Then another.

And another. It couldn't be more than one or two percentage points alcohol, either by volume or weight. There was only an approximately 20% difference between the two measures, which was pocket change of pocket change -- no-one but the FDA and Mormons gave a shit. No way was he getting drunk on it; it'd be a lucky break if he could get a mild buzz before his bladder hit critical. Like the stuff Ben Franklin had for breakfast, back in the days before municipal sanitation.

A toolbox packed with bottles lay open on the bed, and the web-shooter was sitting on his desk. Every once in a while S.T. picked it up, flipped it over a few times, squinted at the construction (not that ambient flashlight showed much) and set it back down.

Edited 2009-10-07 13:46 (UTC)

[from here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/726920.html?view=60096136#t60096136)]

The ninja stopped outside the door, double-checking to make certain he had the correct room before knocking. He hadn't even gotten any names from Sakura, and he realized belatedly that he probably should have.

In the long run, the only thing that mattered as far as his mission was concerned was retrieving the first aid kit. Unless the patients within were particularly demanding, names shouldn't be much of an issue. The most important name to know was hers, so that whoever was here knew who'd sent him.

"Excuse me," Sai said before the door was answered. "I was told to pick up a first aid kit here?"

There was a knock on the door, and a muffled voice percolating through two inches of door. Or whatever passed for two inches -- 2x4s had shed eighth-inches like water from Gore-tex. Peel open any triple-deck and the boards approached the nomenclature in an asymptopic series, broken only by fire and/or termites. Capitalism, long-haul trucking, and unending oil-fueled feuds in the Middle East had shrunk everything from sedans to hamburgers; the lone exceptions were movie sodas and American waistlines. Pint glasses had dropped four ounces along with ditching the British Empire, along with strong flavors in the contents, though it required diligent searching to find a bar in Boston that didn't boast at least a Guiness tap along side the cheap crap.

What all this meant was that S.T. hadn't made out the words, but the rising tone was clear. Which meant his all-purpose answer would suffice. "It's not locked."

Oh, hey, that wasn't Peter. "Beer, drugs, or have they started brainwashing people into house calls?"

[From here.]

All righty. Right up ahead was his beautiful ticket to not-being-a-useless-twat, and a man who'd read his life in a comic book and watched him die.

Somehow he'd forgotten to factor that in over the glee of 'web shooters Hooraaaay!'

Well, tough beans, Parker. It was, as they say, too late to turn back now. Besides, it wasn't as if Sangamon was some huge tool trying to bash in his fourth wall for kicks. He'd just caught him at the wrong time with all the wrong things to say. The guy tried to distract him last night too, keep him from going after Brainy, and he'd gone out of his way to grab his web shooter and actually give it back to him. If you weren't doling out the credit for that then you were the tool.

...Wait no, there was...who was that?

Peter lowered the flashlight, not wanting to blind the other guy. A boy, not much older than he was from the look of it, knocking on the door and asking for a first aid kit. Oops. Should he wait? It was probably dumb to try standing in the shadows when he'd already waved his flashlight over the other boy, but the last thing he wanted was for anyone else to see the web shooter. Too easy to put two and two together with that.

But he didn't have much of a choice, now did he? No use hiding now.

He put on a shy smile as he approached, keeping the light low and offering a quiet, "Hey," in greeting before turning to the door. "Uh, Sangamon? It's Peter."

Edited 2009-10-08 19:24 (UTC)

Sai turned to cast a wary eye on the newcomer, one hand already hovering over the machete tucked into his makeshift belt. He registered the voice on the other side, but allowed 'Peter' to enter first. Open or not, it was common courtesy for a stranger to knock first. The greeting was returned with just a nod. It looked like this boy was an acquaintance of the room's occupant - Sangamon. Well, they could take care of their own matters well enough. He wouldn't be long.

"This is the right room, correct? Sakura told me to come here. She's my teammate. I'm picking up a first aid kit on her behalf." It would be unfortunate if he had the wrong room, though surely he had the right block? If he was wrong, or if the room had moved without him being aware, he would simply go to meet the girl in the designated location and tell her. He at least had the sedative, so it wouldn't be a wasted trip.

"Yeah, come on in." S.T. let the front two legs of his chair drop back down before standing up, and spun the flashlight (lying on the desk) with a flick. It spun once, wobbling, and then came to rest pointed at the closet door. At Jason's closet door. He nudged it back to point at his own door, which he subsequently opened. "One first aid kit and one super--".

Right. Peter found the hero-worship creepy, which was entirely understandable. Sangamon Taylor was not the sort to spend weekends showing off his beer gut with spandex homages. For one, he had a girlfriend. For two, his mother hadn't had a basement for a very long time. He was a hero in his own right, even if he'd gone back to the Land That TIME Forgot as soon as the media spectacular of a real live homegrown terrorist had turned out to be complete bullshit. People liked seeing bigwigs fall, but legal proceedings and chemistry lessons bored them.

"--uh, thing. Yeah." See, he was capable of tact. The fact that this was an example worthy of note, however, was telling.

He pulled open the closet door and fished out a kit. "O.K., Sakura's no-name teammate -- this is it." It was a small packet -- three bottles and a long injector, still in a small box. A narrow strip of duct tape linked them together, and a small, handwritten sheaf of papers was attached. It contained a straightforward description of how to diagnose anaphylactic shock, bacterial and viral infections, and the comparative virtues (and side-effects) of the two painkillers. In short, it was a malpractice suit waiting to happen. If S.T. had been licensed. Since he wasn't, it was informative, assuming anyone ever bothered reading the instructions. Sakura might; if only to wave them in some ignorant male teammate's face later. "Good luck."

Peter could have died. Super thing. Yeah, totally not suspicious at all.

If the other boy was catching on, he wasn't showing it. Just standing aside to let Peter in first, face impossible to read. He took the invitation with a nod (and was reminded, to his great embarrassment, that the last person who'd been that polite to him here was Creepy Butler Man), moving to the opposite desk so he'd be out of their way.

At any rate, Sangamon wasn't acting strange, bustling around to hand off the package like things were all sunshine and daisies. Peter squinted. He looked less yellow than last night. Not as skinny either, which was weird. Seeing a guy crouching behind a balcony in the dark wasn't the best way to judge how much he weighed, but Peter was certain. You couldn't lose that much weight without starting to get all skeletal. You also couldn't lose that much weight and gain it back the next day.

And he'd been among the first of the patients to put up a note about the death-resurrection debacle, so that could have been...oh. Oh god, that had to be...at least Peter's had been quick. He looked on, wondering who had wasted away into skin and bones and why Sangamon had to watch them do it.

The exchange between the two other patients held none of Sai's interest, and he did not 'catch on' to anything. Though as he accepted the kit from Sangamon, he did realize that he was once again trying to make up for current insecurities by putting 'the mission' above everything - including formalities.

He bowed to both of them, even offering a smile when he lifted his head again (false as it was). "My name is Sai. Apologies for my rudeness and thank you for your help." The ninja wasn't sure if Sakura planned on dealing with this man again in the future, but it wouldn't do to ruin her chances either way due to his own incompetence.

Nodding once more, Sai turned and made his way back out the door. If Sangamon had anything he wanted to relay to Sakura, he would have said it already.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/726750.html?thread=60108254#t60108254)]

"Sangamon Taylor," he called, as Sai left the room. Rudeness in small transactions -- coffee shops, crosswalks, unnamed Faneuil Hall steakhouses, was par for the course. This didn't even twitch the needle; he'd just wanted a name to file alongside the face. He'd said good luck and he'd meant it. Not in a superstitious way; anything other than a dice-roll was pure bullshit. It was a benediction, not a prediction.

That left him and Peter in a dark-enhanced staring contest. To avoid awkwardness, which fell between not remembering the name of the girl you'd woken up next to and misquoting EPA regulations while on the air on the Lamer scale, he looked at the desk.

The web-shooter was sitting next to a half-full gallon jug. "Want a beer?" S.T. didn't really give a shit if Peter had hit 21 or not, but he might. "If you're old enough to save Manhattan, you're old enough to drink. It's pretty shitty." Truth in advertising; only useful in conjunction with insider intel and a (corrupt, but it went with the territory) friend on Wall Street. "Thought I'd take out my liver the old fashioned way."

"What? No - no. I'm uh, I'm fine," Peter insisted. "Thanks."

Wasn't offering him beer illegal? Not that it would matter here, but it was still an eyebrow raiser. Frankly though, it wasn't much worse than sending a teenager to get your cigarettes for you. Like Badou. Crazy cyclops.

For whatever reason, just demanding that he fork the web shooter over now would seem like a jerk move. There was something...he had to say something else. That liver joke wasn't just some offhand witticism, there was a bite to it. Considering his condition last night, he'd have every right to feel bitter about it.

"Is that what..." he started, but then he lost his nerve. Geez. They'd all died last night, but even so asking about came off like an invasion of privacy. Dying the death of a loved one. Hard to find something more personal than that.

He settled on the least nosy thing that came to mind. "I'm glad to see you're okay."

The joke had gone over like a fart in a T car, and S.T. wasn't so oblivious as to miss it. This meant a minimum of thirty seconds talking about their feelings, didn't it? "Yeah, you too. And Blondie -- Brainiac 5. I said I stopped thinking he'd attacked you about thirty seconds after you went down, but he still sounded pretty pissed when I mentioned it."

O.K., enough of that, or they'd both be moping and useless all night. He grabbed the web-shooter and thrust it towards Peter. "Here. I've got lab rats to liberate and you've got webs to sling." He yanked a camera-ready grin onto his face, but it was a social cue, not an honest emotional display.

Peter shrugged at the mention of his roommate, deciding he was better off not asking how Sangamon knew his name. "He means well. He's just not that great with people."

The grin was painfully fake. Peter wished he could spout some sage remark or a clever joke to stick a little sincerity in there, but he never was too slick in the people department. Usually that came after somebody else got the ball rolling, and Peter could tag along for the ride. All he could do was snap the web shooter around his wrist and offer a smile with a bit more oomph behind it.

"Thanks. Really. If there's ever anything I can do to pay you back, just say it, okay? And don't give me any of this 'that's not necessary' crap. I mean it."

This was still in the conversational red zone where a badminton net or a fresh-off-the boat waiter with an accent where ordering by number was still a gamble came in handy. Whatever. He poured himself another half-Dixie of beer and downed it.

"No bullshit, over and out. And I'll have my people talk to your people." That got a you're on gesture that would have more closely resembled cocking a finger-gun if he wasn't holding a cup. Plus a genuine, if caustic, grin. "If nothing else, I'm going to need to head back to the lab some time. I could use someone armed with more than quick reflexes and a healthy dose of paranoia. The vague idea what reagents not to mix without a hood would be a bonus."

Lab work?

Well, if he had to.

"Sure thing," Peter added quickly. How did he not know about the lab before? Oh god, he had to check that out yesterday. Even getting mangled by three headed dog beasts would be worth getting his hands on a decent microscope again.

He moved to the door, waving goodbye to Sangamon and his suspicious smelling beer. "Catch you later."

[Back out to here.]

One good deed down, one to go. Sangamon checked his blood alcohol levels by the straightforward experiment of waggling his head back and forth and seeing if there was any proprioceptive versus visual delay. This was not aided by the low light levels, but the results were not promising; he was still within the range of sober as defined for astronauts and fighter pilots.

Lacking more all-natural intoxicant options, he shouldered his pipe, grabbed his toolbox, and let that long and winding road carry him away.

[to here]

Edited 2009-10-12 02:57 (UTC)

[From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/726920.html?thread=60224136#t60224136)]

Well, this was the room. It was the number that she'd been given at least and she usually had a good memory for that kind of thing. It came with the job. She paused outside the door for a moment, switching the torch to her other hand before she reached up to knock lightly on the door. "Hello?" she called out, wanting to give the person some warning. "It's Cissnei." She had given her name to them after all.

"Coming!" Leon scurried to his feet, everything already prepared for the transmutation. The name and the handwriting had given him the idea that this might be a woman, and the voice cinched it. He opened the door for her, a bright smile on his face. Of course she was too old to likely be interested in him, but he felt lucky that he got to equip a very cute woman tonight.

"Like I said, I already have everything I need at the moment, so don't worry if you don't have materials." Not that it wouldn't be great if she did. The slower his own cache was depleted, the better. "I have the design you drew, but if you want to make sure its exact you're free to draw it again. The more information I have to go on, the better."

Well, he wasn't quite what she'd been expecting. Cissnei blinked down at the short, young-looking blue-haired boy in front of her before smiling widely at him. Far be it for her to dismiss someone because of their age. She knew exactly how competent young people could be and she wasn't about to insult him by insinuating otherwise, not when there was a weapon on the line.

"I'm sorry I can't repay you right now," she said as she stepped inside. "I only arrived here yesterday. But I'll definitely make sure to get you some materials in return." She wasn't entirely sure how this worked, but she was sure that she could get something that would be useful. She nodded thoughtfully. "I'll draw it again. I was being speedy on the bulletin."

"That would be very much appreciated, thank you." Leon flipped his notebook open to an empty page, ripping it out for Cissnei to use. There were plenty of pens in his drawer (still wrapped in the rubber band, even) so he pulled one out and handed both items to her. Even if the drawing wasn't perfect, he should be able to adjust based on what would actually be functional.

He checked the pieces of gardening equipment he'd already pulled out of the bag. It would be better to have too much than too little, especially when a weapon this detailed was involved. "The process itself doesn't take long. ...I'm assuming from the size that this is for both throwing and close quarter combat?" An important matter in dealing with the balance.

Cissnei nodded and took the offered paper and pen, leaning against the desk to draw out the shape of her shuriken as large as she could and with as much detail as she could give it. A moment's thought gave her the dimensions that it normally would be, the approximate weight of it, as much as she could remember of her Rekka.

Finally she handed the picture back to him. "Yes. It's my primary weapon and I use it for both. I'm surious though about how you'd make the weapon." It was a puzzle.

"Well, the process is magical in nature." Leon accepted the drawing and looked over it with a couple nods. He was already setting his pattern out on the floor. "They call it alchemy here, but normally I only use that word to describe the act of duplicating metals and gems." Though he supposed the word described what he did here just as well.

He glanced up at her once more as he laid the metal out over the symbols before him. "Doing this does wear me out," he cautioned. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

And now he had to work quickly, before she had the opportunity to feel bad and stop him. (If she even would. He'd like to think she would.) Hands held out over the pattern and materials alike, a bright glow soon lit up the room.

Magical hm? Well, that she could believe she supposed. After all, ShinRa had been synthesising materia for a while. Maybe in other worlds, weapons were the same. She definitely wasn't going to turn her nose up at it. She watched curiously as he lay out the pieces of metal, going to perch on one of the beds as he did so.

Luckily for Leon's far too kind view of her, he started the alchemy before he had time to realise that she wouldn't stop him. She'd be concerned afterwards, but getting a weapon was more important. She'd never claimed to be a nice person, just a practical one.

Her eyes widened a little as the blue glow flared up around the metal.

The weapon took form nicely, but slowly. It was more complicated than a simple sword and required more concentration than his previous creations. His hands were shaky before he'd finished, and as the glow died down he had to catch himself with a hand on either side of the weapon before he fell over.

The large shuriken fit the one in her design, and was balanced to fly through the air properly. He turned his head to the side to smile at her through the blue bangs obscuring most of his face. Moving to hand it to her didn't seem possible at the moment. She could pick it up herself.

"There... y-you go. Tell me if..." he swallowed, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "...if something's not right."

It was fascinating to watch, she had to admit, seeing the lumps of metal twist slowly to form her design. She hadn't seen anything like it, although it vaguely reminded her of the glow of materia when a spell was cast, of mako energy flowing through Midgar.

She moved over to his side when it finished, frowning in concern. Now that the weapon was made and there, she could be worried, had the luxury of it. She rested a hand on his shoulder lightly, looking into his face. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked sweetly. "I know you said it takes energy but I wasn't expecting it to be this bad."

Leon nodded, taking a ragged breath and leaning into her. "I'll be fine. Just... need to rest a bit. Didn't... want to worry you more than necessary." Closing his eyes might have been a bad idea, and leaning definitely was. His arms slipped and he crumpled over.

He was still conscious, but not willing to move for the moment. It was a little embarrassing, but at least it was a pretty woman he'd come close to falling on and not some hulk of a man.

Cissnei reached out to catch him, preventing him banging his head against the floor. The last thing they needed was for the person who made weapons to spend the night with a concussion. She picked him up in her arms, manoeuvring him into the bed carefully. "Thankyou for your hard work," she said with a sweet smile. "I'll try to get you some supplies as soon as I can." She pulled away, going to pick up the shuriken that he'd made, testing the size and weight of it in her hands. It wasn't Rekka, but it felt good, the balance of it nearly perfect. Yes, this she could work with.

Had he been less tired, Leon might have protested being lifted up by this rather small woman. ...Not that he was much to carry to begin with. He pried his eyes open to watch her as she tested her weapon. It looked good - seemed to fit her grip right, too. The young mage felt a bit of pride swell up in his chest at the success and he smiled at her.

"Don't even worry about it." His eyes slipped shut again as he relaxed. "Just... put it to good use, and... maybe..." Before he could finish his thought, that she could owe him a favor for the deed, he'd drifted off to sleep.

Cissnei chuckled softly when Leon's words trailed off and his eyes fell closed. She ruffled his hair lightly, a little amused. Just a kid, he really was just a kid, but he'd done a good job with the weapon and now she was set against most anything that chose to go against her. It seemed that that was going to be useful in this place.

She took one last glance around the room before leaving, closing the door firmly behind her.

[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/726920.html?view=60586632#t60586632)]

Tim hadn't eaten much of his dinner, which meant he'd hardly eaten today at all. Oh well. He'd just have to make up for it tomorrow, provided he didn't die horribly in the night. It wasn't really any different than the outlook he normally had, so he didn't worry too much about the thought of possibly dying. He'd spent every night for a long time in situations where he could end up dead, so what was one more?

In retrospect, it was possible that that was an argument for actually being committed, but that was neither here nor there.

He buckled on the utility belt, checked that the tools were in it, then picked up the closet rod and the flashlight. It would have to do for tonight. He figured he'd make for that janitor's closet tonight, alone or otherwise. He hadn't heard from anyone else, including Batman. Maybe he'd get lucky and run into Bats tonight, but maybe he wouldn't. He'd have to deal with that tomorrow, too. In a way, the thought that he was going against what Batman had told him was a little harder to stomach than the what if I die thing. It wasn't that he'd never disobeyed Batman at all; far from it. It was that he still wasn't sure where he stood with this Batman.

He tried to force that thought out of his head, and stepped out into the hallway. After a quick double-check of his map, he set out for real.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/726750.html?view=60371934#t60371934)]

Nightshift 44: M81-M90 Hallway

[Inside M90]

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