damned_institute | Night 49: M81-M90 Hallway

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Night 49: M81-M90 Hallway

[M85]

All right! One pair of sweats and two pairs of underpants later, and Guybrush had an ingenious way to carry everything he needed. "Just one more thing," he said to himself as he wrapped the pants-sash over his shoulder like a beauty pageant winner. Grabbing his beloved shovel, he carefully slid the long handle through the loops provided by the knotted undergarments. The shovel stayed in place, strapped to his back.

"Hah! Take that, broken clothing! Guybrush: one, clothing: three! Or maybe four. Close enough." He beamed at his own resourcefulness, proud of his major achievement so early in the evening. Sure, it looked a little silly (and his nurse was going to throw a fit if inexplicably he ran out of underwear in the middle of the week), but it was practical. No more juggling to carry everything- the shovel could go on his back, sword in his hand, and flashlight carried in his hook.

Pleased with his new invention, he had one more quick task before he could depart. "Well Scott," Guybrush said, turning to his still-sleeping roommate, "It's been great catching up with you, but I've got a sword to return. You sure you're going to be all right by yourself in here?"

Continued snoozing from the mighty bassist. "Hopefully, the room won't set itself ablaze and you won't die a painful, fiery death. Or maybe you'll wake up if that does happen. Either way, I'll probably come back here after I swing by Javert's. You know, just to make sure."

With that, Guybrush snatched the flashlight from atop his desk and headed out the door.

[The Dread Pirate LeChuck!]

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It had been a mostly uneventful day for Ronixis, although catching up with Guy had been a pleasant way to spend some of the time. Nothing could beat the sheer sense of relief that he'd felt upon arriving back at the Institute with no mishaps. No walking dead at least, although the storm was a little disconcerting. Almost as disconcerting as being relieved to be back but ah, warm clothes and a hot meal was better than being stuck in the town while zombies tried to eat them.

He'd ended up falling asleep as soon as he arrived in his room. He really was getting too old for this.

Still, there was no sense moping around in the room all night and he didn't plan to spend another night fast asleep and missing everything. It might have been a little late when he woke up, but he still hauled himself out of bed and headed to the door.

[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/883371.html?thread=69166763#t69166763)]

Tim gathered his supplies (utility belt, closet rod, flashlight, map) and headed out. He felt more aware of things than he had been recently - probably because he hadn't been knocked out all day.

In a way, he felt like this whole thing was hopeless. People he cared about kept disappearing, and he had no answers. At least when people disappeared back home, there were clues, or trails, or something. Here, there was...nothing at all.

He pushed his frustration to the back of his mind and headed out. He had the feeling it was going to be a long night.

[moved to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/882475.html?thread=69142827#t69142827)]

Edited 2010-05-17 19:13 (UTC)

LeChuck was considering waking his sleeping roommate, who was unlikely to be more helpful than the other man LeChuck had talked to, when that doctor came back on yet again - this was going to get real annoying, real fast.

The message was different this time, though, and not just because the system seemed to have broke. It sounded more like some ominous but vague villainous gloating, not a doctor talking to patients.

"That was... unexpected."

Of course, even more interesting was that LeChuck, reaching for the bed and wondering if he should really allow himself to sleep, found a hefty flashlight tucked under the pillow. More interesting still was the fact that the door unlocked a moment later.

Cautious of some kind of trap but wanting out of this suffocating hospital if possible, he took the light, and stepped out into the hall.

As Guybrush's door closed behind him with a solid click, another door two rooms down did the same. He casually glanced at the other door, still a little suspicious of the entire hallway after the previous night's explosive event. His quick glance led to an immediate double take.

About his height, stocky frame, smug face, and that immaculate beard: there was no way it was anyone but--

"LeChuck!?" Guybrush asked loudly, incredulous. He raised his light, illuminating the other man. "You murderous swine!" His blood boiled as he reached quickly for Javert's sword, readying to plunge it right into the dread pirate's gullet... only to realize he'd left it in the room. Crud.

"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily with a threatening wave of his dulled hook. A bit of his initial hatred dissolved into befuddlement. "And... doing human again?"

The pirate had barely stepped out and closed his door, when he heard another door closing, and turned his light in that direction.

Almost simultaneously, he dropped his fake demeanor and snarled, "Yarrr, Threepwood! You incompetent lilly-liver!" Although he didn't have a real weapon, he set one foot back and raised the torch, keeping it pointed like a sword at Guybrush.

"How should I know? I just got here, though I'd expect you and your wenches had something to do with it!"

As he took in the other pirate, he realized he was wearing the same grey patient outfit, albeit with some kind of... bizarre sash.

"And what the devil are ye wearing?"

"This," Guybrush said irritably, taking hold of his new prize with his hook, "is a sash. I use it to carry things. I'm sure you'd be able to figure that out if you were clever enough to solve your way out of a paper bag." Okay, so his comebacks were a little rusty, but that was hardly the point anymore. The point was LeChuck was here and human.

Wait, maybe it was a good thing he was human. Or maybe he just looked human. That meant he didn't have the Voodoo from La Esponja Grande coursing through him. He definitely sounded like his normal ghost/zombie self, complete with yarrr and ye. Guybrush wasn't going to be tricked again.

He approached LeChuck quickly, ire in him overriding any sense of caution he had. "I know you're behind this. You think you can trick me with that cheap disguise and cheaper clothing, but I know you're here to finish what you started. Well, it'll be a cold day in Heck before you manage to off Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate!"

"If ye'd have the decency to not copy greater pirates and just stay dead, I'd be happy to oblige!"

LeChuck didn't back off, circling Guybrush once he approached. He'd already played his hand, so he knew the "cured" routine wouldn't work again. But he could take on Threepwood easily, even with that hook of his.

Looking at him more thoroughly, his hook was different, more claw-like and less pointy, and he had a shovel strapped to his back, while the 'sash' was clearly made of other clothing. He'd obviously been here longer than an hour, at least long enough to do his kleptomaniac act, taking whatever he could get his hands on and sticking them together. Still, that meant he knew more than LeChuck, and as much as the demon pirate hated to admit it, he was handy at working his way out of whatever problem he was in.

He flicked his light up to Guybrush's eyes, mostly to be annoying. "Tell you what, Driftweed. You tell me what you know about this place, and I'll rethink killing you again to see if sticks this time."

Guybrush squinted as the light hit his eyes, but he kept them glued on LeChuck. Knowing him, he probably had a Voodoo doll with a hook or the Cursed Frisbee of Flotsam Island or something possibly more implausible and deadly up his sleeves, human or not.

"That's where you're wrong, LeChuck!" he said with a cocky smile and another menacing wave of his hook. "You can't rekill me if I've not been dead in the first place. You threw your worst at me, and I still didn't die! I woke up feeling better than I had in ages, despite being run through with your cutlass. And now you're mad."

He had a short laugh to himself, rubbing his hook nonchalantly on the front of his sash. "So see, if I wanted to copy some greater pirate, I'd copy somebody who hasn't failed repeatedly at every goal he's ever had. Marrying Elaine? Nope. Killing me? Zip. Taking over the world? No way."

Edited 2010-05-20 01:43 (UTC)

That wasn't the reaction LeChuck had been expecting, although he growled at the insults.

"I don't know how you revived yer body, but when ye escape from the afterlife as a formless spirit, it's time to accept ye've died. The lifeless body was a pretty big clue fer me as well."

... What in the world was LeChuck talking about?

"Oookay, I'm starting to think we're on two different pages," Guybrush said with a confused look. "I'm pretty sure I didn't die. That really seems like something I'd remember doing."

He scratched his head, wondering what sort of game LeChuck was playing now. Was he trying to catch him off guard, or was he really not involved in this whole spooky-asylum-complete-with-creepy-doctors charade? It did seem like something right up his alley (or De Singe's, given the whole hospital angle and his penchant for macabre operations, but the fact that he was in several pieces sort of prevented him from coming back into diabolical villain status), but the parts where he was mentioning Guybrush being dead and dying and not being alive were unsettling.

"Last thing I recall, I was getting backstabbed by you on Flotsam, both figuratively and literally. Well, it was more of a frontstab, now that I think about it. Then I woke up here. You're saying I was dead dead then? Or am I dead dead now and this is just some sort of freaky afterlife after all?"

Edited 2010-05-21 05:09 (UTC)

LeChuck raised an eybrow - this was getting stranger and stranger. Something had affected the boy's memory, or somehow he was talking to him from an earlier time. It mostly concerned LeChuck in how he might have been affected - other than, obviously, being voodoo-free again.

"Guybrush, ye've been dead for months. I've been terrorizing the Caribbean and wooing Elaine, and the last the thing I remember-" he stopped to consider how much he should say; he needn't reveal the details of his own defeat to his worst enemy, especially if he didn't remember himself, "-was you coming back as a spirit to try to stop me."

"I what??" Guybrush asked incredulously. As cool as returning from the dead as a spirit sounded, the news that he'd died, been dead, and came back as a spirit come as a bit of a shock. Then again, this admission was from his nemesis. Anything he said had to be taken with a grain of salt.

Guybrush had to admit that it did sort of explain how he couldn't remember actually arriving at the aforementioned institution. Not really, but 'I've been dead for months, which is plenty of time to haul a body elsewhere and use Voodoo stuff to bring them from the brink of death' made slightly more sense than 'I got stabbed and miraculously didn't die because of some combination of plot armor and complete ineptitude on LeChuck's part and was brought to a creepy asylum for reasons unknown because escaping Monkey Island is a specialty of mine.'

Guybrush gave LeChuck a suspicious glare as he circled him. He really did seem completely human... for now. The mighty pirate crossed his arms stiffly. "I still think your story is bogus. And you're still a jerk. I could maybe buy into the angle that this is some sort of bizarro pirate Hell, but if I've supposedly been dead for months and been here the whole time- and believe me, I've only been here a few days, not months- then how could I show up as a spirit later? I'm pretty sure my ghost and my body can't be in two places at once."

... Unless what Javert said about this place bringing people back from the dead was true. He drew his own conclusion: "Or maybe I did die, was dead for months and a ghost, brought here and revived through some method I don't think I want to know about, and just don't remember the being dead part." Leave it to LeChuck to show up and complicate everything.

Edited 2010-05-21 20:39 (UTC)

Suspicion was reasonable, but this was just getting obnoxious.

"How the blazes should I know! I haven't been here an hour! Why am I human and not coursing with more voodoo energy than the world has ever seen before? We all got problems!"

Although, messing with the flow of time wasn't totally unheard of - he'd heard about the Mysts o' Tyme Marshe. But the important how and why were still missing. Or perhaps it had to do with their own deaths, seeing as time is relative to the dead in the Crossroads (it didn't explain how Guybrush could end up here and in the Crossroads, though)

"This ain't no pirate afterlife I've ever seen, anyway." He didn't sound very sure of himself, given the evidence, but it was true and he'd done more research than most into voodoo and the art of being dead.

"So, Steep-good, if you're such an expert, why did the doors unlock? What's the point of all this hospital nonsense if we can just leave?"

Guybrush kept his arms crossed, still not sure he believed what LeChuck was saying. He had to admit that if there was anyone who'd be an expert in complicated workings of the pirate afterlife, it would definitely be LeChuck. He'd experienced it in every way conceivable by now (as well as in some ways that only entered the 'conceivable' list because of his exploits). Still... he sounded like he could be telling the truth this time.

"As far as I know, the doors like that open every night," he answered. "Leaving is hard, nurses become monsters or something- I wasn't really listening when most people were telling me about this place. They said some guy named Landel runs the show, but I kiiind of thought that might be another one of your lame disguises and that I could handle whatever you had planned with the only hand I have left tied behind my back."

He put his hand and hook on his waist. "Look," he said irritably, "Elaine isn't here, I've got stuff to do, and you said yourself that you're not coursing with Voodoo anymore and you don't look like you could hurt me much at this point. It's been nice talking to you, but I'm gonna get going."

Edited 2010-05-23 08:14 (UTC)

Oh, that was it. He had tried to be civil, but even after giving up some much-needed information, there was always just something about Guybrush that grated on LeChuck. Even if he thought the boy could be useful, he couldn't help but try to torture him.

So, he grinned patronizingly. "Of course, what can I do without my voodoo? I'm just a helpless mortal, just ask that friend of yours - what was her name, Mo-something? Of course, she was looking a little pale the last time I saw her."

"Morgan," Guybrush corrected, the cogs in his mind turning. What was LeChuck getting at? He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. "But what would you know about her? She was murdered by that creep, De Singe. And then he got sucked into his own machine and shredded horribly, so since she's been avenged, Mo can rest in peace. And in De Singe's case, pieces."

He kept his arms crossed, still eyeing LeChuck warily. Why would he bring up Morgan? If LeChuck was telling the truth and he really was from the future or something, had he seen Morgan's spirit as well? Time travel made everything obnoxiously complicated. Or maybe... nah.

Getting the vibe that LeChuck was about to start blabbering about his latest plans of how he intended to do some long-distance wooing and take out his greatest enemy from within the walls of the asylum, Guybrush turned away from him. "I don't have time to listen to your boring lectures tonight, LeChuck," he called over his shoulder. "You've got plenty of institution to wander around without pestering me. While I'm sure you'd love to see me dead again- and that's if I really did die in the first place, mind you- it should be obvious that there's not much you can do here, so see ya. Farewell. So long. Bye bye now."

This was pathetic. Not only was he being infuriatingly dismissive of his greatest foe, the idiot was actually too clueless to antagonize. What was the point of gloating, when the gloatee didn't even know what you were gloating about?

Well, if he'd learned one thing dealing with Guybrush, it was that beating around the bush never got him anywhere.

"Alright, Guybrush. If I need ta spell it out for ye, so be it."

Taking a step forward, he pulled his arm back and swung at the adventurer's face, mindful of the shovel on his back. He also wondered, idly, why he ever bothered with the speeches and explanations. Noone ever listened.

Guybrush barely had time to think about LeChuck's words before the dread pirate's fist connected with the side of his face. His neck twisted and his body followed suit, spinning a full circle on one heel before he fell to the floor. He groaned as he sat up a moment later, rubbing his jaw with his good hand.

"Ow!" He stayed sitting on the floor, looking up at LeChuck with a grimace. "What'd you do that for?" It seemed like a dumb question, given LeChuck's usual inclination to beat the stew out of Guybrush as he desperately tried to put together a way to defeat his enemy, but it was worth asking.

Having hopefully made his point, LeChuck shook his hand casually while he waited for Guybrush to recover. He'd forgotten that that could sting a little now that he was human.

Now that he had his audience's attention, he went into full exposition mode, towering over the sad excuse for a buccaneer.

"Listen up, ye sissy scallywag! Yer no match fer me, voodoo or not! But, as much as I'd hate ta admit it, ye've got a way of escaping bizarre circumstances, not to mention that... thing ye do... ye know, with all the junk ye pick up. So I'm gonna propose this once, and ye can decide what we do. We can work together, with my strength and cunning, and yer... uh... blind luck. Or I can kill you with my bare hands, or even yer own shovel if ye prefer, and work it out on my own. What'll it be?"

Guybrush glared sourly. He didn't like the fact that he'd been smacked around yet again by LeChuck. He didn't enjoy being threatened or having his honed methods referred to as 'blind luck.' He was also nearly balked at the mere suggestion that he team up with his mortal enemy. Nearly.

Only nearly because LeChuck had a point. That was the worst part.

Despite his Mighty Pirate™ title, Guybrush knew well enough that he was nowhere near a match for the brute physical force LeChuck had at his disposal. While he preferred his usual method of talking to people/solving problems/committing several counts of grand larceny in order to get what he needed, he had to admit that some of the patients he'd seen were crazier than some of the Pox-riddled pirates of the Caribbean. Force seemed to be an easier way of handling them; however, there were no rubber-tree masts to save him now. If LeChuck really had no part in the whole spooky fake asylum scheme, then this was something bigger than just two mortal enemies facing off in a battle of Voodoo prowess and unadulterated wit.

"Ugh... fine," Guybrush grumbled, getting to his feet. "But you try anything funny, and I'm ramming this hook up your human nose. Got it?"

LeChuck smiled, a wide, too-genuine-to-be-real smile. If only to annoy Guybrush, he affected his friendly, 'good LeChuck' voice.

"Of course, Guybrush, I wouldn't dream of it! Now, shall we continue into the night together?"

He strode happily past Guybrush, and down to the exit of the hallway. The only thing better than tricking Threepwood into helping him willingly was getting him to help unwillingly.

Keman had been taken. Leon didn't even know what to do. It seemed impossible to rescue people before they were experimented on. The incident with Ashton came to mind. This was infuriating.

Leon peered out his door cautiously, taking in anyone who might already be in the hall. Perhaps it wasn't the best of ideas, and perhaps he should just be resting in his room for the night he has free, but... he just can't get himself to do it. It seemed like such a waste of time, especially when Keman could be having who-knew-what done to him at that moment. There had to be something he could do.

Claude might scold him for this - or he might not. Who knew? Either way, he thought he'd try checking in with Haseo and the others instead, just long enough to let them know he was all right. (And possibly to ask for their help finding Keman...)

He'd thrown on one of his doctor's coats, then grabbed a pillowcase, his radio, his journal, and his flashlight. That was about as ready as he was getting. Now it was time to run to the room Haseo has said was his.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/883371.html?thread=69312427#t69312427)]

Edited 2010-05-19 04:58 (UTC)

One his roommate had disappeared for the night Raph wasted no time in getting together his things to head out himself. Tonight, he'd find a weapon and something to--

He stopped, staring as he found something stashed away in his side of the closet. The sword from the other night, fighting that weird girl and the shadow thing...

"Looks like I got a souvenir," he chuckled, lifting the weapon out and hefting it experimentally. "Finally, somethin' I can use!"

He took a few swings with it, still grinning in satisfaction, before grabbing his flashlight and heading out into the hallways. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/884585.html?thread=69346921#t69346921)]

Edited 2010-05-19 13:58 (UTC)

Muraki woke all at once from a dark and dreamless sleep, disorientation sinking rapidly into dull understanding. It was no surprise to be alive and drained of power. The former being the reason for the latter, he didn't question the providence that had taken him from the flames and renewed him once again. That cursed mechanism... He should be pleased.

A bark of laughter escaped him as he sat up, hand over his mouth, as if he'd managed to startle even himself. Twice now Saki's death had been snatched out of his hands. The first time, Muraki had saved enough of him for that cold glass prison somewhere between life and death. This time, even if he returned immediately, there would be nothing to save. If Saki was cold now, it was because the fires of hell couldn't warm his blood.

The doctor's head lolled back, limp as a doll's. He stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. Everything he had worked for was gone. Yet none of it mattered, ultimately. He was alive. It was time to begin again.

He fisted the sheet as he stood up, sweeping it aside carelessly. It was only then he spared the room a glance. It was unfamiliar and unremarkable save for what it lacked: equipment or monitors of any sort. He was wearing a uniform, but not one he recognized. Where was he? How could he have stayed here for the days or weeks it took the knife wound in his side to heal? He'd no real plans for the aftermath of Kyoto. No one had expected him to return this time.

Wherever he was, it was interesting that most of the furniture was bolted to the floor. He tucked his hair behind his left ear and located a pair of shoes and snatched his glasses from the desk as he passed. When he tried the door, it was unlocked, and the hallway wasn't empty.

He noted the room number and, bypassing a pair of bickering lovers, moved on into the next hall.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/884585.html?thread=69414761#t69414761)]

Edited 2010-06-19 21:14 (UTC)

"...Mmrgh, painful, fiery death. Got it..." Scott mumbled into his pillow after Guybrush left. For another few moments, there were no other indicators that the mighty bassist might have been anywhere near awake.

"Wait, painful, fiery death?!"

Scott suddenly bolted upright in bed. Had he dreamed those words? Everything was still dark around him. Were his eyes even open yet? He blinked. Then blinked a little harder, just to make sure. No, it was just that dark.

Oh wait, crap! That means nightshift already started! Scott thought, his chest tensing up at the realization. Who knew how much time he had already wasted? He could have been out having awesomely butt-kicking adventures with Indy, Keman, Peter, Kurt, or Logan, and instead he was letting the exhaustion his brain had suffered earlier get the better of him. Heck, he could have been punching Martin Landel in the balls at this point for all he knew!

"CrapcrapcrapcrapCRAP!" Scott grabbed his flashlight and scrambled for the closet, practically ripping off his Institute uniform and changing into his normal clothing like Clark Kent in a phone booth (or at least, that's how it felt to Scott). When that was done, he reached down for the supplies in his closet, only to wrench his hand back in surprise when his fingers hit something blackened and crumbly. "ACK! What the...?"

Shining his light into the closet for a closer look revealed something he really hadn't expected - the charred remains of a bleach bottle, extension cord, and squeegee. There was also a single charred red mitten, its twin nowhere to be found. None of what he saw there really made any sense. The closets never got that hot anytime, right? He never remembered anyone trying to light anything on fire, either. Maybe Guybrush had something to do with it? He did kind of have a thing about using or ruining other people's things without qualms if he thought it would help him solve a puzzle.

Whatever, he didn't have time to worry about that right now, he thought as he grabbed for his (thankfully intact) metal pipe. He could ask Guybrush later if whatever he had done had been worth it. For right now, all that mattered was getting somewhere, and doing something. He didn't know where or what yet, but he figured it would come to him on the way there.

Scott was in such a hurry on the way out that he completely missed the scene unfolding between a certain Mighty Pirate™ and a man with a truly magnificent beard.

[To here]

Edited 2010-05-24 09:50 (UTC)

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Night 49: M81-M90 Hallway

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