damned_institute | Night 49: Bill's Hardware

Matt blinked in mild surprise as he took in their new surroundings. Slightly puzzled, he looked directly at Mello as he started forward, down one of the aisles - the one with the drills and bits and... was that a sledgehammer? Turning and looking around a bit more, he asked, "Do you always have such damn good luck when you're running around this place?"

Something told Matt the answer was a resounding no, but he just couldn't help the slight grin that was working its way onto his face. Mello's just got the touch tonight, I guess, he mused as he looked over the sledgehammer. Setting his loot down on the floor, the grin reached full capacity as he took the sledgehammer by the handle and hefted it up off the rack. "Y'know what, don't answer that. I'll just... keep stickin' with you once night hits."

Unless he could figure out a way out of the place before night fell again. Fat chance of that, but hoping illogically was a talent that Matt had somehow retained, despite his stint at Wammy's.

"Yeah, every night's a fuckin' party," Mello said, dryly, knowing full well that Matt already knew better. What a night for his first one here, the whole Institute gone non-linear. Mello was still trying to find any pattern in the jumps, clinging stubbornly to the belief that there had to be a reason for it, some governing principle. But maybe the point was simply to watch the prisoners get tossed around, not know which way was up all night, and drive themselves insane for real, trying to find meaning it in when there was none. Par for the course, on a bigger scale than usual. Mello still couldn't bear the idea that his whole life had been turned upside down for no better reason than that Landel could. It felt true, but that didn't mean he had to believe it.

That defiance still working in him, Mello clicked his flashlight on and grabbed a few bags from by the register before heading down the closest aisle. A chainsaw was a tempting prospect--he hadn't forgotten that fucking maniac who'd cracked his arm--but hardly practical, and it would slow them way down. Instead he chose nails, lighter fluid, a couple wheels of electrical tape, some wire, the biggest bottle of Liquid Plumber they had, and a plastic pipe, about three feet long. Halfway to a pipe bomb, and though the part of his mind that refused to shut up was certain someone would've tried this by now (probably that other one), having the means to do something did help.

"Chop chop, Matty, time's a-wastin'."

The grin faded at that, his eyes narrowing at Mello as he set the sledgehammer back down, deciding against taking it. The thing would be more than useful, but it was pretty heavy, and he wasn't all too sure he was strong enough to utilize it fully. Hell, it seemed the kind of thing that not even Mello could really use properly. Momentarily gazing at the sledgehammer, Matt moved on, knowing well that it would seem more fun that it probably was.

Waltzing down the next aisle leisurely - mostly to spite Mello for urging him along almost constantly - he found exactly what he could use. The grin returned, even broader than before, as he stepped up the shelf, taking one of the crowbars in his hand and settling it against his shoulder.

Returning to where Mello was standing close to his pile of pantry goodies, Matt grabbed them back up into his arms, juggling the items with relative ease. The grin remained as he nodded. "Ready."

Edited 2010-05-27 21:36 (UTC)

Mello thought he might have hit a sour note with that whole I'm the general, you're my troops, move out thing. Overacting at playing himself, how pathetic would that be? But Matt wasn't doing any more about it than the expected, dawdling along like a smartass. Funny how easy it was to fall back into familiar patterns. Mello imagined any psychiatrist, even the quacks at Landel's, would have a field day with it, if he ever admitted that being himself was easier when he wasn't alone. It wasn't as though he didn't know it; what he resented was having it thrown into sharp relief.

He gave Matt an approving nod. Mello's own weapon of choice these last few nights had been the pipe (he fought back a pang of anger and frustration to think that his real weapon of choice had been given back to him all but useless): portable, practical. "Let's see what else we can get, then." He headed for the door.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/909425.html?thread=69740657#t69740657)]

Edited 2010-05-28 04:23 (UTC)

[From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/898861.html?thread=69705517#t69705517).]

The first thing Remy noticed was the dizziness, yet again, and he began to understand it. Hey, it happens every time we go through a door.

The other thing that happened every time he went through a door was that he found himself in an unexpected place, and this was no different. If his eyes hadn't told him, his nose would have. The scent in the air had changed completely, becoming more earthy: wood and -- he sniffed -- oil, but not olive oil. It presented a strong contrast from the suggestive ghost of a culinary smell that had filled his nostrils just seconds earlier.

Scarecrow kept bumping into him and falling on him. It reminded Remy of Linguini. He took a step to the side, so he'd be out of the way this time.

The room was full of all kinds of things, and he ran the beam of the flashlight over it, trying to put names to what he saw. Some of the items were familiar, but not from Paris -- no, from the farm.

From the arrangement of the room, he guessed that they were in Doyleton again, in some other kind of shop. Oh, Kibitoshin wasn't going to be happy about this.

The Scarecrow was so sure Remy and Kibitoshin had been right that they'd somehow made it back to the Institute- he'd been wondering that himself- but as they stepped through the next doorway, he found himself questioning his own judgment. It had to be that recurring lightheadedness that happened as- as they stepped through the door! There had to be a connection.

The room they'd entered had a heavy smell in the air that he couldn't quite identify (it was noticeably different than the previous room), though he recognized a few of the items around them: screws, hammers, nails, planks of wood. A window was partially obscured by the various tools, but it was apparent from the sound of rain and the still-present shadows outside that they were in Doyleton again.

There was a slim chance the two areas had been connected by that single room, with it acting as some sort of back passage; however, he somehow doubted that was the case. It was more likely his other suspicion.

"It looks like we're in Doyleton again," he said in a hushed tone. He reflexively looked over his shoulder for Kibitoshin, feeling his friend's courage might not hold out when he learned they were back in town. "The Wizard Landel must be causing this with his magic, I just know it. Why would he send us out of the Institute, though? You'd think that's just give us more of a chance to get away."

Kibitoshin would have been perfectly happy to stay in that nice, small, safe room in the Institute (wow, he never thought he'd ever put 'safe' and 'Institute' in the same sentence) all nice- no monsters, no chance of warping, and all he'd have to do was sit the whole thing out. Admittedly, it wasn't the bravest or not Kaioshin-ly thing to do, but given that he was still damp and muddy he couldn't help but feel that he was owed a favour for once.

His teammates, however, had other ideas. They'd barely even been in the room for more than a few minutes before Remy charged off towards another door, followed by the Scarecrow almost straight away. Kibitoshin could only stare at their backs in horror; w-why? How could they be so brave? What if they ended up somewhere even worse? They'd been relatively lucky so far, all things considered, and this place was probably the safest one they'd been in all n-

... damn it! Being alone would be even worse!

He hurtled after them through the door, tenser than a coiled spring just in case they ended up... in Doyleton again. A different store, yes, but it was definitely Doyleton.

Kibitoshin instantly deflated like a week-old balloon. "Maybe it's just to confuse us. Or because there are zombies here," he suggested mournfully. "The zombies are definitely the worst part."

Remy sighed, then addressed the Scarecrow. "I think we'd better get Kibitoshin out of here. We end up somewhere different every time we go through a door -- well, the first time was over a wall, but we were going from one place to another, right? I bet if we go right back out the door, we won't be in the street with the 'zombies.' We'll be somewhere else. And if not, we can always come back inside."

As he spoke, he moved back towards the door, his hand already on the knob.

"There are lots of things here that we could use as tools."

The Scarecrow nodded, agreeing with both Remy's theory on the doors and the notion that they should leave before Kibitoshin collapsed from fright. Carrying someone who'd fainted from terror hadn't been easy as a scarecrow- he had no doubt it would be even worse as a human in the middle of a possibly life-threatening situation.

"I think Remy's right about the doors," he said, taking Kibitoshin's arm reassuringly. "It couldn't hurt to give it a try, right?"

With that, he headed for the door, encouraging Kibitoshin to do the same. Stepping through as Remy opened it, he hoped he wasn't completely wrong about that couldn't hurt part.

[And back to Landel's!]

Edited 2010-05-30 09:03 (UTC)

After the momentary confusion, Forte was glad to find himself dry and relatively warm. From the sound of the storm, they were Doyleton again, or somewhere else with big windows. Hopefully something worth wrecking or stealing from. He shone his flashlight around to assess the situation.

He dropped his plank.

"I can do puzzle-solving part for ya then," Sechs said as he followed Forte out the door, "I've thought myself out of tight spots in battle before. We'll get this glitch figured out!"

The spinning sensation came over Sechs once again, giving way to another unforeseen location. Sechs had tromped through the door just before Forte dropped his wooden board. Sechs paused, alert for any danger, but once he saw where they had ended up, he relaxed as a vicious grin crawled over his pained face.

"Heh! Looks like we ended up in the hardware store!" Sechs exclaimed, taking in the wonderful scent of all the saw dust, oil cans and metal blades, "I pretty much got all that I need. Go knock yourself out, kid!"

Stepping away to take a glance out of one of the mended windows, Sechs managed to get his brain back on track over what they were dealing with. "That creep Landel did say something about repairing some stuff in the institute..." Sechs brooded to himself, "Could that be affecting how all the doors are acting like portals now? All because of some leaks...?"

Forte walked through the aisles like a kid in... well, like a kid in an unattended hardware store. There were all kinds of metal, plastic, and wood tools, of various shapes and sizes. He could imagine jabbing some of them into a monster's head, or using them as blunt instruments. Of course, the axes were tempting, being both sharp and hefty. But somehow he felt he couldn't just grab the same thing as Sechs.

Or... or the torches. He recognized the welding torches from Dr. Wily's workshop, and that would be fun. Hell, he might even be able to burn the whole building down. Of course, looking them over more, he realized he had no idea how to use them, and he'd need to carry around fuel anyway.

A little disappointed, he moved on to find... sledgehammers. Yes, these would do nicely too. He picked one up and felt its weight. It took a bit of effort to carry, but he liked the powerful feeling it gave him.

Edited 2010-05-30 18:58 (UTC)

As Forte did some impromptu shopping for makeshift weapons, Sechs kept on his brooding while occasionally having a look out for any threats through the window. The town was dark and almost still except for the steady rainfall outside. No crawling or shuffling of zombies could be seen within the dark curtain of rain.

"But if the doors are acting like random portals, does that mean they were always portals in the first place?" Sechs pondered, his amber eyes watching a trail of raindrops trickle down the window glass, "Or some line of code in a virtual reality that's supposed to act as an average door but ended up going haywire?" Shit! There was that awful "stuck in a computer simulation" theory again!

But then... Landel must have some teleportation technology to get everyone out from their worlds and into his institute. Maybe something went wrong with whatever machine he had for that purpose and it ended up screwing up all the doors? "Hmm... No, that can't be right..."

The darkness inside Sechs wasn't too keen on his theories. "You'll never figure it out, you dumbass."

With unusual restraint, Forte found a smaller sledgehammmer, that would be easier to carry around all night instead of the largest one he could find. He nodded sternly, then went back to the front of the store where Sechs was waiting, grinning like an idiot.

"Alright, I'm ready to go." He glanced at the window and considered whether they'd be able to smash through and get out to the town. But if that did work, they'd be out in the wet and the cold, which would probably aggravate the poison so he didn't mention it.

Sechs resurfaced from his troubled thoughts at the sound of Forte's approach. He would have to figure this portal thing as it came. Turning away from the window, Sechs gave an approving nod to Forte's choice of weaponry. "Heh heh. That outta smash open some monster skulls!" he observed with a chortle.

Shifting his axe on another part of his shoulder guard, Sechs made his way towards the door. "Okay!" he roguishly kicked the door open with a heavy boot, "Let's go find that son of a bitch doctor and his boss Landel!"

Edited 2010-05-31 23:45 (UTC)

[From here.]

After having grown accustomed to seeing rooms that logically fit in an institute, the sudden change made his head spin far more jarringly, to the point that he had to grab onto something in order to keep his balance. Once his vision cleared, he realized what the loud noise he'd been hearing through his disorientation was: rain.

While there had been low rumblings of thunder within the institute, this was much louder, and it became clear why. They were in the one of the stores at town, which meant there was only a door between them and that downpour.

More than that, there was only a door between them and more zombies. Hell, they might even be in the store with them. Harvey exchanged a startled glance with Jones, and then used his flashlight to take note of the bad state the store was in. It was a far cry from what they'd seen earlier that day, that was for sure.

He paused and listened for movement, not liking the idea of tussling with one of those things one bit. If he'd had his gun, maybe... but he'd had no idea this was what his night would turn out to be when he'd left his room earlier. "We might not be alone," he said, tense and on the alert for any signs of approaching undead.

On the other hand, they were in a hardware store, which meant there might be some useful items in here. "If you want to grab something, do it fast," he added. He needed to think fast and figure out what would be the most helpful thing to take that wouldn't be too cumbersome to carry.

That was something that he was never going to get used to, was he? Allelujah winced as the world span and shifted within the space of a step and resolved itself into a completely different room. He stumbled forward a step, moving out of the way of the door, and blinked owlishly into the dark room, waiting for it to resolve itself into something solid.

Shelves and racks of tools and... Oh... oh dear. This wasn't good. The only thing that kept it from being horrifically bad was that the ravenous undead hordes hadn't managed to get inside yet, or at least hadn't noticed their presence.

Maybe he should have brought the beer pump.

He grabbed one of the bottles of acid from the sling at his hip, taking a few steps further into the room warily. "Don't need to tell me that," he said with a faint smirk, every line of his body ready for combat.

Too much would weigh him down, and he didn't want anything which would have to be powered, so he settled on grabbing a heavy metal crowbar, twirling it around with apparent ease for a moment to get a feel for it.

"Jesus Christ," Indy breathed to himself when the dizziness faded enough for him to get his bearings. A hardware store. There was no place at Landel's like this--it had to be Doyleton. How the hell had they landed in Doyleton?

A few feet away, Dent was shooting him a stunned look, which Indy returned wholeheartedly. It could be the hardware store was one of the only ones that hadn't been fixed up, but he doubted it--surely they would've heard about, or even noticed in passing on the street, residual damage this bad. A quick succession of theories came to mind, each more improbable in the last. There'd be plenty to pore over tomorrow, that was for sure.

But right now they had bigger things to worry about.

He couldn't hear any of last week's telltale groaning and shuffling over the din of the storm, but that didn't mean there weren't any Zombis around. Indy didn't waste time answering Dent's suggestion, just bolted for a likely-looking aisle, running his free hand over the shelves as he searched and shoving unnecessary clutter to one side. It didn't take long to find something he could use--a curved blade (http://www.amazon.com/Fiskars-7860-Brush-Axe/dp/B000F99IEU/) with a plastic sheath over it. Indy jerked the clasp open and freed the blade. Sharp. Lightweight. Good handle. Not exactly a machete, but he'd take whatever he could get.

"Ready," he grunted to Dent as he headed back for the door.

When the other two jumped to action, Harvey made sure to do the same. It would have been hypocritical of him to hurry them and then take his sweet time. Not wanting to get tripped up, he made sure to head to a part of the store that the other two weren't trying to get to, and ended up over by one of the side walls. There were a variety of tools hung up on the wall, from hammers to rakes to...

An axe. Well, that would be on the heavier side, but it was also the sort of thing that would be handy to have. He already had a metal pipe, after all, and rakes could probably be found on the institute grounds (not that he would want one). Just thinking about how easy opening those locked doors would be with something like that was enough to urge him to grab the thing off of the wall, though not before tucking his metal pipe under his arm.

The one issue with this was that it was hard to hold with one hand, but he figured he'd decide on whether or not to take it out with him depending on what he was doing on any given night. For now, it would serve him well if he ran into any more zombies. While it would have been preferable to just be able to shoot them from a distance, he was going to work with what he had.

He quickly reconvened with the other two. It looked like the kid could hold his own, though Harvey realized that push hadn't come to shove quite yet. That all depended on what happened when they left this place.

"We ready to get out of here?" he asked. Jones seemed to have found something that he looked comfortable with (a blade of some sort -- not really Harvey's style, but at least it wasn't a knife), so he was pretty sure they could put this place behind them.

Axes and knives were all very well, but Allelujah would go for blunt force trauma in this case. At least crowbars didn't need sharpening after trying to cut through anything a little tough. You could always bludgeon things to death. He slid the acid bottle back into the pouch and took a detour via the window, peering out into the darkness. He couldn't see very much, but there were occasional flickers of movement out there in the shadows, occasional scraping groaning noises which did not inspire confidence in the pilot.

He turned back to his companions, keeping his footsteps light and loose, ready for an attack at any moments. The creatures were relatively stupid he'd found, but they were strong and relentless and could overwhelm with sheer numbers disturbingly easily.

Not to mention it would be just their luck that this would be the door which didn't spirit them away to somewhere else, and would leave them out in the pouring rain with the undead hordes.

No, that was never going to get any easier to say.

He pulled open the door and stepped out.

[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/898189.html?thread=70046093#t70046093)]

Their entrance to wherever it was they had been turned out into was greeted by both a wave of nausea and a throaty rumble of thunder in the middle distance. They'd missed the preceded lightning and their immediate surroundings were unnervingly dark and open, with a backdrop of raindrops beating on glass (glass?) like bullets. The smell, however, was unmistakeable, all metal and grease.

With a dim sense of bewilderment, Lunge realised that they were in Doyleton's Hardware store. He at least had the presence of mind to step out of the way for L, but as for keeping his thoughts as thoughts- "What?" The word sounded accusatory in the quiet of the store; he remembered too late to drop his voice.

Calm down. First things first. Work through the logic: they'd been moved from the second floor of the Institute to Doyleton. So did that mean that Landel's power extended to the town as well? Or was the town an expression of that power, created by him? Either possibility was unpalatable.

Having regained his balance, Lunge turned to L with a pensive look. "It's not dangerous here, but," was what he started to say, before something else came to mind and he interrupted himself. "Are there still zombies here?"

The queasy, disoriented feeling hit L as he stepped into the hardware store; it was now obvious that it was a side effect of traveling through the doors. He teetered, unable to place his weight on either foot with certainty, then reeled, and was only able to right himself by clutching at the glass of the window behind him.

Stability achieved, he took in his new surroundings. The state of the store suggested that someone had been through it already -- perhaps a number of people. Lunge was saying something about zombies. L blinked at him, then registered the question.

"I really can't say. The 'zombie' situation occurred the night before I was abducted. The other patients displayed heightened anxiety earlier today; they seemed to think that there was a reasonable chance that it might happen again. Yet little that happens here seems to happen twice."

He looked over his shoulder, trying to orient himself better. They appeared to be in Doyleton. He could see the Sheriff's Office across the street, and, if he squinted, the kitchen shop somewhat further away. A number of unpleasant conclusions followed: Landel's control of Doyleton might not be perfect, but should not be underestimated. That being the case, who are the residents?

A flash of lightening lit the street, and then he saw, at some distance, a few shuffling figures.

Surprised and frustrated, he spoke with urgency. "Take what you want and keep the lights low. I think we can find weapons here, but it would be better to leave as soon as we can." He was already moving towards the back of the store, scanning the aisles for useful items. Almost anything here might be serviceable in some way in their day-to-day situation, but he could only carry so much, so he kept his eyes open for -- what? A hammer? He would prefer something that could do more damage if he landed a blow, something that would allow him to strike from a greater distance. The trouble with the knife he carried was that if something was close enough for him to strike at it, there was a good chance that it was already too late.

Discussing Landel's purpose would have to wait until their circumstances did not have as much immediate potential to turn critical. They would have to find the balance between grasping the present opportunity and not being overtaken by its hazards.

Edited 2010-06-04 21:16 (UTC)

More a rhetorical question, but having L make such a sensible reply was sobering enough that Lunge remembered himself and nodded again, more as a physical aid to snapping back out of the nauseous haze to match the mental one. "Of course. If we're lucky-" and it really is down to, though I hate to admit it, pure luck, "- we might have dodged a second flush of-"

Bright white light filled the store and suddenly the hunched figures beyond the glass came into sight, silhouettes mottled by rain but most definitely there. He stared for a moment, morbidly fascinated; how could he not be? What he was seeing was the impossible, the walking dead. Hollywood fodder moving before his very eyes.

And in the same instant the light vanished, and they were once again alone in the dark of the hardware store, flashlights pointed down. L's face was dark against the dim light from the window, but the tension in his words was almost tangible. Without question, he made his way down the aisle with him. "If they'd made it in here already, there would be signs of it," he said in a low voice. "A smell, for one thing. There might be a shopkeeper to deal with but for now we have time."

As he spoke he ran his light along the shelves for potential weapons: one side of the aisle sold nuts and bolts and the occasional crowbar, standard fair, but the other... "What's this?" Sitting on the was a knife (http://www.acehardware.com/product/index.jsp?productId=1402179) in casing- the blade wasn't quite the length of his fingers, but it looked sharp, and that was what counted. It was certainly better than the kitchen knife. "One moment."

Removing the casing, he took the knife out and gave it a better look. Most likely it was intended for hunting and it admittedly wasn't a gun, but it would do well for whatever the Institute deigned to throw at them. It occurred to Lunge briefly, as he exchanged the kitchen knife for the new one, that this was probably some sort of stealing- but it hardly mattered when the storekeeper was, by all definitions, clinically dead. He glanced at L, smiling in spite of himself. "Found anything?"

"It's ridiculous that we should have to consider it at all." There was undisguised bitterness in L's voice. "When the esoteric becomes a factor, almost anything is a possibility. It amplifies the difficulty of our situation by several orders of magnitude."

He made his way through the aisles as efficiently as he could, shielding his light; it would be better if the people outside didn't see a moving source of illumination indoors. Nuts, bolts, screwdrivers... a spanner might be heavy, but a hammer would do more effective damage. Whatever he chose, they had no time to waste.

But this was a small hardware store in a small town. Shops like this had to meet the needs of the community, and as far as he could tell, there were no other stores offering tools of any kind. That meant that it would probably stock landscaping tools, some of which might have sharp blades. It didn't take him long to find them, and when he did, he lowered his pillowcase to the floor.

He heard Lunge, some distance away, saying, "What's this?", and his own gaze snapped over in momentary alarm -- but no, it was only that Lunge had found something that might be useful. From the looks of it, it was small, glinting in the darkness. A knife.

The rack in front of L was full of pruning shears and small axes, and he hesitated, frustrated that the situation was too pressing to allow him to make anything but a hasty decision. Utility should take precedence over perfection, he thought. Nothing with a wooden handle -- I might die anyway, but relying on a weapon that can be shattered increases the probability by a significant margin.

He shifted the fingers covering the head of his torch, letting out dim, filtered strips of illumination, which he kept as close to the rack as he could. His flesh gave the light a faint pinkish cast.

With more visibility, it wasn't difficult to choose. The curving blade of the brush axe was almost the length of his forearm, and its packaging advertised an unbreakable handle; he felt a small burst of satisfaction in spite of himself.

He picked up his pillowcase and set it on the top shelf, then used it to shield the beam of the flashlight until it gave off nothing more than a soft glow. Now that both hands were free, he removed the axe from its heavy plastic sheath. A delicate touch of the tip of his index finger to the fore-edge of the blade told him that it was as sharp as he would have hoped. Swinging the axe up and down a few times, close to the floor, left him satisfied with its balance and the feel of it in his hand. It wasn't a gun, but it would do; better, its usefulness wouldn't rely on careful aim, or bullets that would inevitably be in short supply.

When he retrieved his pillowcase from the shelf, he continued to use it to shield the light, then padded back up the aisle toward Lunge, holding his new prize down at his side.

"Yes. It's a kind of machete, I think. Do we risk leaving through the front door? The trouble is that if we wind up on the street, we will have drawn attention to ourselves, but in any case, it may be our best chance."

Edited 2010-06-07 19:59 (UTC)

Lunge sighed, ddd. "When the impossible can and will happen, efficient preparation for it becomes impossible." How was one supposed to plan for a zombie attack, for example? That would require predicting it in the first place, which would be out of the question. The best they could do was sufficiently arm themselves and will that coping with whatever Landel threw their way next wouldn't be beyond their capabilities. Which was utterly preposterous, of course, but complaining about it now was pointless- and maybe, just a little, a small part of him rather enjoyed the challenge. A very, very small part of him, of course, but a part of him nonetheless.

Arming himself with a worthwhile weapon was one step towards adequate preparation, at least. He turned his flashlight on the blade, holding it close to his body to prevent stray rays of light escaping too far and attracting the wrong attention: the size was manageable, and since it folded he could carry it in his pocket rather than in his waistband. Much better. He glanced to where L was as he answered, eyes falling on the object in his hand- now that was a weapon. Watching L test the feel of it in his hand was enough to put any concerns he might have had about its practicality to rest, though; he trusted the man not to overestimate his ability, and he seemed to have a good grip on it.

"Something good came out of tonight, then," Lunge commented, gaze moving briefly back to L's face before he looked to the front door. "It looks as though the doors are rigged to randomise the location anyone who steps through them ends up at. It's a risk, yes, but only in the sense that there's a very slim chance the door might take us to the outside anyway. We can't stay in here all night."

Quietly, he made his way to the door and glanced through the store-front window, where he could just see those shadowy figures from before moving through the rain. Not that many, but enough that they were outnumbered.

Well. What was life, at times, but a game of chances? "Let's go." Gripping the handle (a touch tighter than he needed to, perhaps), he pushed it down and opened the door, stepping out into the rain.

[From here.]

The Scarecrow moved through the doorway, finding himself in a familiar building. He bit his lip in brief frustration- they'd already been here once tonight. There really was no rhyme or reason to pattern to where they would go- it seemed no matter what door they took, there was always a chance of returning to Doyleton and to places previously visited.

He turned quickly to Kibitoshin and Remy, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself. "Back here again. We've got to keep moving. Should we go back, or look for another door?"

It was good to have someone like the Scarecrow to bolster both of them up with his optimism. Kibitoshin had been all but ready to give up and spend the rest of the night in that mail-room-type-place, and it looked like Remy had been (was still?) just about there too; having someone around who was so positive was perfect for putting things in perspective. They couldn't give up now, no way! They still hadn't found that kitchen!

Admittedly, it was slightly disheartened to then end up right back in Doyleton, but this time Kibitoshin was more than ready to try and face his demo- er, zombies. "Maybe we should look around a little this time?" he suggested, peering through the darkness of the shop for something worth checking out. "There might be something useful in here."

This place, again? Remy's disgust was visible in his expression and his defeated posture. This time, he was so annoyed that he forgot to be afraid at all. He was tired of seeing the same weird places over and over. In spite of the fact that nobody would even recognize him anymore, he felt a wave of longing for home, for the stones that paved the alley behind Gusteau's, for the little sleeping area Linguini had made for him -- heck, he'd even be happy to live in Linguini's toque again.

"Do you guys even know what this place is? A few of these things look familiar, but I don't know what most of it is good for." As he spoke, he began to walk further into the store. Some of the items were familiar, but in many cases, he'd never seen them before.

"I've been to Doyleton twice now- aside from tonight, that is- and I don't recognize this place," the Scarecrow admitted, following Kibitoshin's suggestion of looking around. "Then again, I've not been in many places. Last time, I spent the whole day in one place. Today, I met a man in the park and we went to a restaurant. There's a good chance this is just one of the many buildings I've not been to yet."

He walked down a cluttered aisle- had it been this messy just a short while ago? "I know what a few of these things are, too," he said, picking up a hammer (it was a lot heavier than he thought it'd be!). "Most of this stuff is pretty strange-looking, though. I can't imagine what some of these tools are for."

As he returned the hammer to a shelf, he spotted a stray can of oil- there was that homesick feeling again. Against his better judgment, he took another look at the strange box he'd found earlier, holding it under his flickering light: yes, that was definitely the Tin Man, rusty joints and all. The Scarecrow hoped his friend was keeping oiled in his absence and not crying over his lost friend. He had such a soft heart.

"I think it's a tool shop," Kibitoshin suggested, peering uncertainly around the aisle the Scarecrow and Remy were heading down, since even if they were looking around this time, he didn't want them to get separated some place so dangerous. He picked a wrench (or a spanner, maybe? He wasn't sure) off of the shelf nearby and held it up demonstratively (although exactly what he was demonstrating he wasn't certain). "I'm pretty sure this is a wrench or something like that. You know, for putting things together or taking them apart. And this is definitely a vice, for holding things. I think."

Still, it was pretty surprising that neither of them seemed to recognise exactly what they were- okay, so he wasn't one hundred percent sure either, but he was still in training, and he kind of knew some of it. The Scarecrow, on the other hand, seemed totally puzzled by it all. It might be rude to ask about it, but...

There was no contest. His curiosity won out against his manners, and before he could stop himself Kibitoshin was hurrying along beside his partners, still holding the wrench. "You haven't seen any of these before? Don't they have them where you're from?"

Remy frowned. "Well... I grew up on a farm, but I didn't use tools, myself... I've seen some of this stuff before, but I don't know how to use it. I was more interested in the kitchen. When I ha-- when I came to Paris, I mostly just learned how to use kitchen tools."

It was time to tread carefully; there were only so many questions about his past that Remy could answer without getting into deep water. To cover, he began to examine the shelves and racks.

"What sorts of things have you run into aside from zombies? I came across a guy with a gun once, but I haven't seen any of these monsters that people are always complaining about. If they're real, though, and not just a lot of talk... some of the things here might be useful." He picked up a thin metal bar with a curved, tapered head, and held it up so the other two could see it. "Like this."

Well, it seemed the Scarecrow and Remy had something in common! "My early days were on a farm as well," he said with a small smile, returning the box to his pocket as he reached the end of the aisle, where he carefully stepped over some knocked-over cans of paint. "That's where I recognize some of these tools, like the hammers and axes. I've never used any of them, but I've seen them at work."

The Scarecrow took hold of a small hatchet- it was a little like the Tin Man's, but smaller and with a wooden handle rather than one of metal. He returned it to the shelf a moment later, as it made him homesick again. He couldn't see himself using it (he had trouble picturing himself hurting anything. He was more of a thinker than a fighter).

"I'm not sure these will do any good against some of the things I've seen wandering the halls at night, though," he said, a tingling running through him at the mere thought. "The second floor is downright cursed! There's this Mangled Witch, who was disguised as some sort of hairy something and tried to suffocate Depth Charge and I with her magic, and these little somethings that nipped at Kaiji and I were up there..."

The Scarecrow trailed off, briefly disheartened when he mentioned his former roommate. He hoped Depth Charge was safe and that the magicked doors hadn't taken him somewhere ultimately unpleasant. He continued after a short pause: "It couldn't hurt to try to use something here to defend yourself. My flashlight didn't do a thing to the Mangled Witch, but something like an axe might."

So both of them came from farms... well, that should have been fairly obvious with the Scarecrow (unless he was some kind of terrifyingly futuristic robot scarecrow or something, or unless his name was a trap) but that did leave Kibitoshin wondering what Remy was, since he wasn't human. An animal, maybe?

"I don't think I've even been on a farm before," he confessed, "but I guess I learned about it all from my training. I do cook a little, though!" he added, nodding triumphantly at Remy. That was something, wasn't it? Even if he didn't quite know where Paris was on Earth. It... was on Earth, right?

Thank goodness the subject changed almost straight away! There was no way he wanted to be caught out if Remy asked any more about the cooking-in-Paris thing. The subject matter wasn't exactly the most palatable, but he could cope with that. Hopefully.

"A hairy suffocating mangled witch? And things that bite?" Kibitoshin stared at the Scarecrow, swallowed hard, then looked down at the spanner-wrench in his hand anxiously. "I guess I'll be sticking with this, then. I hope the storekeeper doesn't mind me taking it."

Remy glanced again at the bar he was holding, listened to the Scarecrow's description of why he called the place upstairs 'The Horrible Hallway.' Then, he took a quick look at the tool Scarecrow had held up, and frowned: it was like a cleaver. That was OK when you needed to cut meat to cook it up, but he didn't want to be the one to hurt anyone that badly. That made his decision easy.

"I'm going to stick with the metal thing. Are you guys ready to go?"

Without waiting for an answer, he marched towards the door. Since he'd given up on the kitchen, maybe this time he'd wind up back in his room, where he could get a good night's sleep.

[To Meeting Room 2, 2nd Floor (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/893720.html?thread=70096408#t70096408).]

Night 49: Bill's Hardware

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject