Night 46: M31-40 Hallway

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Emmett left his room empty handed again. It was tougher navigating without a flashlight, but it felt more comfortable. Especially with what he was going to have to do.

Outside seemed like his best bet for hunting. The dogs that attacked them last night didn't exactly smell fresh, but their blood was slightly more appetizing-- and much more likely to be digested by his system than the human food that kept being shoved in his face. Unfortunately there was also the chance that he wouldn't be able to find a semi-living, warmblooded animal out there again. Apparently there had been some Night of the Living Dead theme going on recently. So who knew, maybe it was going to be Swampthing or Frankenstein night-- he did hear that nutjob mention some bullshit like that. If that was the case then his natural prey couldn't be ruled out as an option.

He kept to the wall as he walked down the hallway. It was still early and relatively quiet. Feeding on someone he didn't know was definitely way better than attacking a friend, he was sure the others would agree...

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[hamelinschild.livejournal.com]

Waking into consciousness was like walking headlong into a fog. Nothing seemed concrete--like a bad high where you couldn't tell if you were really awake or if you were still dreaming.

The last time Hart could actually recall smoking anything was during his short stint back in college. And with no raucous posters on the wall or people crawling out of his bed, he could only conclude that he was definitely -not- in college.

So where was he?

The bed underneath him only held warmth where Hart had been laying--namely, directly under him. The pillow was less than amply fluffed and the sheet just kept him from freezing. He blinked twice, vision still insistently blurred.

Maybe it was a safehouse, a hideout or something. Len would be in any minute to--

That couldn't be right. He'd left the rogues.

Trying again, Hart snuggled back down, wondering if Wally would--
No. Wally had been at them for-- oh god, Bart. So what if James--
James was dead.

Where was he?

Hart stretched under his sheet, an arm tucked under his pillow. When he bumped something hard and knew it was a flashlight, things began to trickle back to him. It was all bits and pieces at first; black lagoons and bits of moon-and-star glitter, with spiders and statesmen and speedsters and...

Hartley groan and turned onto his stomach, face into his pillow. Landel's. Lovely. But that still didn't explain his haze. What had happened to him?

When Hart shifted again, it became more obvious of his condition. His clothes stuck to him like he'd run a marathon. Or with the drugged feeling that still lingered, like a fever he'd sweat out.

More came with that revelation; the sounds of people around him, all dressed in whites and grays, bright lights, and the occasional pester to wake him to drink. He'd been sick. And with his having a roommate, the staff must have removed him to the infirmary until he was well enough get by without supervision.

How long had he been out?

Stretching carefully, Hartley curled back up onto his side before he shifted to sit up, sight adjusting to the low light. Nightshift? It must have been, what between the darkness and his lack of roommate. He wondered briefly if he'd been missed, or if the group had simply moved on without him. It was thought of Bart in the end, that prompted him to move, forcing himself to push aside the shiver that raced through him when bare feet touched the cold floor.

Flashlight set on his desk, he lit the room while he redressed, stepping back into his boots. Remembering his coat, he tugged that on as well, movements a bit sluggish. And lucky, oh, lucky for Hart, he still had his steel pipe. He hadn't had a case to use it yet, but he gave a mental reminder to thank the man again for it.

Bart, Hartley resolved--I ought to find Bart.

As he headed for the door, Hart pitched to the side some and stumbled.

Skin still flushed and step just a bit uneven, he realized that maybe he ought to try a little slower...

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