damned_institute | Night 50: M101-M110 Hallway

Entry tags:

Night 50: M101-M110 Hallway

Weapons in hand, Heat was out in the hall the moment the doors opened. There had to be something, a scent in the air that might alert him to the presence of one of Landel's creations. His hunger wouldn't be denied for another night. Though he was still without his flashlight, that didn't really matter. His other senses should be enough to find what he needed. And he would find something. No other patients were even going to be looked at until he had.

Whatever the head doctor meant about those rings, it didn't matter to Heat. He hadn't been in a group the night before, and even if he had been he hadn't gotten more than a couple halls. What would be the point of being able to transport himself there when he could walk the distance just as quickly? No, it couldn't help him, and if it couldn't help him it didn't interest him. Chances were they were all just another trick of the Institute's anyway.

The demon paused outside his doorway, nose to the air as he decided on a direction.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Russia had waited expectantly as he ate his dinner, wondering when Pavel might show up, but there'd only been one tray, and it'd been very quiet and still until the announcements crackled on the air, breaking the silence. He might have spent a good portion of his life alone, but that was not the way he preferred it, if he was completely honest. There was something almost instinctive in him that begged, needed to be around others. And when making friends didn't work, force was sometimes required. Maybe it was because he'd been alone so long that he was desperate not to let it happen again.

Whatever the reason, Ivan's temper had only improved slightly after his stomach was full. He took up a flashlight, more for the feel of a blunt instrument in his hands than the meager light it provided. He pulled on a coat and the boots from the closet over the ridiculously thin fabric of the uniforms they were required to wear here, and pushed open the door.

M17 was where the other countries were going to meet up and he was certainly not about to let any important planning go on without his knowledge. Deliciously hateful stares and pointed comments aside, it hardly mattered, but it would still be interesting to see how the others reacted to this new set of circumstances.

His right hand fidgeted with the flashlight. He really missed that baseball bat.

[[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/940944.html?thread=70935696#t70935696)]]

[from here]

It was quieter down this way, which — considering their reasons for being here — didn't exactly provide Kirk with a whole lot of comfort. On the other hand, it made this as good a time as any to bring up his concerns about Spock. Somehow Kirk doubted that he would've told Bones about it on his own. Like himself and the doctor, Spock seemed like a man who preferred keeping his personal life private.

Normally, this was something Kirk would respect. But while he didn't doubt that Spock could do his job, he knew from his own mind-screw incident that whatever had been done to them didn't end just there. Bones had spent the last several nights in Spock's company, and was a doctor to boot. If anyone would know what to look for...

"It was another nighttime 'experiment'." Kirk moved down the hallway, counting off the door numbers as he passed. "Before you arrived here. Several prisoners ended up... experiencing the deaths of someone they'd known. Out of nowhere, almost without warning, they would incur the same wounds, and then die in the same way." At M108, he stopped, but met Bones' eyes instead of opening the door. "Spock... was one of them. He reappeared the next morning — he remembered what happened but was otherwise physically fine. If I hadn't seen it for myself... I wouldn't have believed it to be real."

Only the quietness of his voice hinted at what that night had been like.

McCoy jerked to a halt and rounded on Kirk in the same movement.

"He was experimented on? And neither you or Spock thought it important to let me know this ahead of time?!" he exclaimed, aghast. McCoy fixed him with a glare, and put his hand on the door, more to stop the captain from trying to open it the next chance he got. "Jim, I need to know this sort of thing! The crews' health is my responsibility. I don't care if the staff took care of his wounds, and I don't care if he's half-Vulcan, you don't go walking off an experience like that!"

McCoy looked like he was on the verge of completely telling him off, but was also doing his best to calm down and think it over. He was undecided on who to get angry at, Jim or Spock, for the lapse in common sense. These experiments weren't to be taken lightly. These people had no sense of ethics, patient rights. And from what Jim was telling him, this was the most horrific one yet. Spock liked to assume his Vulcan half would take care of everything, but there was a very human part in there. Worried, McCoy reviewed what he'd witnessed of the man the past few days.

The First Officer had looked healthy as a horse. Looking at him, it was hard to imagine that they'd actually replicated a death. Spock hadn't shown any signs of external injuries, or anything hinting of an internal one, but knowing his Vulcans, he'd probably act like a severed arm wasn't a big deal either. He'd seen the evidence of Vulcan control personally back during that Deneva business. The scans had showed that Spock had been suffering a massive amount of pain from the creature linked to him, and yet he'd managed to suppress the agony after awhile, enough to function and think straight. If he did have any internal injuries, he could be covering them up.

Then again, it could be like the captain, Spock had been given accelerated healing.

Jim hadn't said just how bad the wounds are. He'd only said that Spock had died, but not the manner. There was another alternative, that it had happened all in the mind. Normally, McCoy would have said it impossible, or failing that, very difficult to kill someone like that. He wasn't any expert at telepathy, that was more Spock's specialty, but he knew the brain to be a powerful piece of equipment, and with it, a cussed stubborn survival instinct to go with. Vulcans were probably even more stubborn about it than the standard human.

It was just a theory, and he couldn't believe it would ever be sanctioned by any right-minded authority, but if you could make the brain believe it was that badly hurt, it could shut itself down, create its death. With enough manipulation, a perfectly health person might believe themselves into their own death.

This wasn't exactly familiar territory. McCoy wanted a look at Spock's neural pattern especially, but that wasn't looking possible without equipment.

Horror at what the facility had done warred with anger at them and the two officers. The doctor took a breath to cool off. He spoke again. "What kind of wounds are we talking about? Was he showing any abnormal behavior after? Anything else you feel like sharing, captain?"

Edited 2010-07-16 00:50 (UTC)

Kirk didn't pull back when McCoy's hand suddenly came between him and the door, but his face clearly showed surprise at the doctor's outburst, before shifting to something more contemplative as the doctor went on. Having Bones tell him off wasn't exactly a new experience, and he knew well enough that negligence in medical matters was the one thing that was guaranteed to trigger him. What he wasn't used to, however, was having to tell Bones about these things.

By their second year at the Academy, Bones had found a way to get notified every time "Kirk, James T." was admitted to medical services — a gesture which he'd assured Jim had less to do with concern and more with not wanting to be liable if his young friend passed out from a concussion while they were out. Kirk had known he was full of crap, of course. Even when he deliberately tried to hide his injuries, Bones had a way of sussing it out anyway. One would be mistaken to think from his prickly bedside manner that Leonard McCoy didn't care or pay close attention to his patients — even while on the bridge, powwowing with the rest of them on how to take out Nero, Bones had known exactly what was going on in his sickbay.

In normal circumstances, no doubt Bones would've already learned of Spock's incident and performed a check-up himself. Following up on the crew's health was part of the captain's duties too, and Kirk just... hadn't thought of it beyond that one conversation immediately after Spock had "died," not with everything else that immediately followed. He shouldn't have let it slip his mind, but he hadn't yet spent years learning and internalizing all the different parts of his role — although, he imagined that, had the course of his life gone uninterrupted, having Bones as his freakishly efficient CMO would've made up for his inexperience.

But nothing about their present circumstances was normal, and the four of them really only had each other to rely on when it came to the well-being of the crew. Bones only had them to rely on. He was right, they should've told him about this before now. But Kirk, being James Kirk, couldn't completely let go of that need to come out on top of every argument.

"I expected Spock to have told you by now," he answered calmly. And probably if Spock had had any intention of letting Bones know himself, he would've, but Kirk was apparently right about his first officer's reticence. When wasn't Kirk right about something?

He folded his arms, eyes closing briefly as he remembered. It had been awhile ago, but it would be awhile more before he forgot everything which had happened. "It was two nights before you'd arrived. Before the... attack... Spock mentioned feeling a sudden drop of temperature, and appeared to see something neither myself nor Mister Chekov could detect. We then heard and felt a series of explosions hit the building, but when I ordered us to move, I could already see the bruises appearing out of nowhere on Spock's skin. He suffered... broken bones and internal bleeding all over his body, like he was..." Kirk fell silent for a moment, but quickly continued: "He was dead within a matter of minutes. The next day, Spock reappeared and reported himself to be uninjured and suffering from no abnormal side-effects. As far as I can tell, he hasn't seemed any different since then.

"And my hand is bruised from punching a hard surface about an hour ago," Kirk added. Despite the seriousness of the subject, there was a rueful, somewhat forced smile as he regarded the other man. "Bones. Can we continue this inside?"

Edited 2010-07-17 22:28 (UTC)

The doctor listened with a growing sense of horror as the captain laid out what happened. He'd never seen the like himself, someone dying like that in front of someone. And for Spock to have to go through it, and Jim to have to witness it...

Jim actually looked astounded that he'd been told off. Like he'd just been rapped across the knuckles by a school marm for drifting off, not neglecting to mention that his best friend had been experimented on. And expecting Spock to do the logical thing here? Spock could be as bad as he was, and when it came down to this matter, the two tended to enable each other. Normally it was taking incredible risks, but it also covered a reluctance to admit when they'd been injured.

"Mr. Spock's got as much common sense as you when it comes to his own health. Absolutely none," McCoy snapped. "You're both goddamn fools."

None of this fit with anything he'd seen before. Maybe the encounter with the Empress' son, Clark had been injured, all internal damage, but a gut feeling was saying that they weren't involved on this level. Jim was saying that there was bruising, broken bones that he could see. Those observations already didn't fit in with the Kaleiyan related injury.

He wouldn't have believed it if it'd come from any other person. In fact, he was still hard pressed to believe it: Spock had looked about the same as ever, sunny Vulcan out look and all. No indication of any emotional trauma, which knowing a Vulcan, was repressed deep down, and not a single sign of physical trauma. He was going to track Spock down the next moment he got, check him out and try and squeeze it out of him. Spock needed help. Maybe he seemed fine now, but you didn't just keel over out of the blue.

McCoy frowned at Jim getting smart with him. This wasn't the time or place. Despite that, he found himself already taking the captain's hand in his own instinctively. He appraised it for a moment, then let it drop.

"You'll live," he said gruffly. "I'd like to check Spock out sometime. Last I checked, you weren't a doctor."

Frankly, he was perfectly happy to continue this conversation out here, but he obliged, moving his hand away from the door.

Edited 2010-07-18 07:37 (UTC)

Kirk let it all roll off his back with another wry half-smile, glad for the harsh words but smart enough not to mention it. An impatient, pissed off Bones could scare off many a timid cadet, but Kirk had long since learned how to read the worry underneath the exasperation. As angry as the doctor might be, this was familiar enough between them — although it was kind of unexpected to have Spock lumped in with his carelessness. Bones made them sound like co-conspirators, instead of the rivals they'd been.

"I'll be sure to warn him," Kirk answered wryly.

He flexed his right hand after Bones let go of it, already having known that he would be fine but somehow reassured nonetheless by the assessment. The little pops of pain that came with every movement seemed duller already, and he used that same hand to push open the door to M108.

Even before shining his flashlight into the room, Kirk expected it to be empty. Still, he held onto that small thread of optimism anyway: maybe Chekov had slept through the raised voices outside, maybe he had other reasons for not stepping out when he heard them, but a quick scan revealed no one inside. Of the two beds and chairs, the set on the right side showed no signs of recent use — not that that meant anything.

"Chekov mentioned that his roommate disappeared a couple of nights ago," said Kirk as he headed inside to quickly poke around the righthand desk. If the ensign did have whatever it was Landel had hinted at, most likely he would've found it already, but it didn't hurt to check. "It sounded as though it was preceded by the same signs I mentioned to you earlier, from the 'primer' that used to be on the bulletin."

Despite the AWOL status of his navigator, Kirk's voice was even, his walk confident. He had to believe that there were warning signs. He had to believe that the person who wrote the primer knew what they were talking about. He had to believe in what he'd told Chekov that night: that if there was anything to be done to prevent a prisoner from simply vanishing, then there was no goddamn way Kirk would let it happen to one of his men.

He snapped the desk drawer closed again, having found nothing interesting. "So Chekov must've headed out already."

McCoy didn't think the news of Spock suffering an experiment was anything to smile at. Just because Spock was (reportedly) healed by the facility didn't mean the event never happened. Jim had witnessed it himself, and judging from how he'd talked about it, it had affected him. He was still a human under that rank, and McCoy couldn't say he approved at all of how Spock and Jim were treating the aftermath.

"Warn him and he'll find a way to worm his way out. He'll argue the sanity right out of me," he grumbled, following him inside.

The room didn't look at all different than his. Sure enough, there wasn't any sign of the ensign. No note or anything he could see but there wasn't any reason to leave one. If he'd followed Kirk's orders, then it was fairly routine to carry it out. What they'd find on their own might not be, but leaving a note didn't seem necessary. It'd imply he expected to get checked in on. Maybe even trouble.

Chekov obviously wasn't here.

"We'll have to wait for tomorrow's check in," he gently touched the desk drawer, but didn't touch the belongings. "Did he or that primer of yours happen mention what might have happened to people who disappeared?"

Doubted it, but it was worth asking. He'd been thinking something along the lines of experiments, escape, or death. Maybe just dumping them all back where they were found, although that was asking too much.

Edited 2010-07-20 04:43 (UTC)

Kirk paused, his fingers still on the handle of the desk drawer. In their earlier conversation about the disappearances, he'd had much the same pessimistic thoughts over what happened — death, limbo — and hadn't heard anyone offer real answers. That is, until earlier today, when he'd been talking with Bones. At the time, he'd been so angry over the capture and brainwashing of his friend that he hadn't made the connection.

"On the bulletin, it's called getting 'released'. At first, I thought it was just a euphemism to get past the censorship." He looked up at the other McCoy, but his face still seemed to be considering something as he continued: "But now I think there's more to it. They get brainwashed and let go, but they're still stuck in this world... this version of Earth."

It wasn't a coincidence that Bones had visited on the same day they'd lost contact with Chekov. And if it wasn't a coincidence, then it was almost a warning.

Kirk stepped away from the desk, the distant thoughtfulness gone, and was all purpose and determination again. "Let's get moving," he ordered, already halfway to the exit, but pulled up short outside when his coat pocket emitted a sudden burst of static. Kirk took his radio out and turned so Bones could hear the message too. Not "Jill" this time but "Marc", the same man Spock had spoken to Doyleton, the same one who had told him that the planet they stood on now was the same one he'd left before boarding the Enterprise.

When the broadcast cut off, Kirk pulled the radio away from both their ears, wincing at both the noise and the way it echoed in the dark hallway. It sounded as though someone didn't want Marc revealing too many secrets, but he'd still had time to say enough.

"Rings," Kirk repeated. "Is that the 'reward' Landel mentioned earlier?"

That was another option he hadn't thought of. McCoy instantly thought back to his little girl. Joanna thinking she was "Leanne", that he was still together with Jocelyn, that Jocelyn would actually take on a name like "Linda" in her lifetime. Joanna must have been here before, except that was impossible. Neither her school or Starfleet reported her missing to her family before he'd been stolen. McCoy was sure he'd arrived here before she had. He'd been gone for several days himself, so it was possible she'd been taken in that time frame, but before?

If she'd arrived here after, he'd have seen her. Wouldn't he? It's a big institute and you know it, he thought. A lot of patients here. McCoy didn't think he could miss his daughter, but with this many people here and the constant shuffling around, he easily could have. That left him with a new problem, one that complicated things a lot. Even if they found a way off this rock, there was still Joanna. Since she wasn't a "patient" (anymore?), it wasn't going to be so easy to just call everyone together on that bulletin board. He had to find her again.

He hurried after Jim, out into the hallway. "If that turns out to be the case,Jim, there's a problem," McCoy began urgently. He was cut off the the radio squawking to life. The doctor's mouth snapped shut.

It looked like that friend of hers had gotten help, and for that, he was glad. At least something good had happened recently. There wasn't one more death here.

The broadcast wasn't a long one. Neither was it exactly enlightening.The doctor lifted the first aid kit, opened it enough to reach for the mentioned ring, and drew it out. It was still red and unremarkable.

McCoy didn't put it on. "This thing?"

The crackle of the radio not only signified the beginning and abrupt end of an announcement; it also helped to cover the sound of something moving closer to the two patients in the hallway.

They should have stayed in the room. They'd have been safe there, in one of the few places the monsters didn't go to. But they hadn't stayed inside, which meant they were fair prey to things like the predator approaching on soft feet.

A subtle, low growl started up behind the closest patient, quiet enough to be difficult to pinpoint where it was coming from, but that didn't last for long. Both men would have only had enough time to realise the noise meant they weren't alone anymore before it rose to an inhuman shriek and the cat propelled itself from the shadows to try and latch onto the closest of them.

Kirk's eyes caught the glint of silver, and he moved his light away from the hallway to get a better look at the tiny object in Bones' hand. "Let me see that," he said, taking the ring from Bones. The Head Doctor had called it an "alien object" earlier, but all he could see was an ordinary-looking piece of jewelry with a single red stone. If Landel and Marc were to be believed, then breaking the stone would transport them back the last place they'd been the previous night. For him and Roxas, it was the burger place in Doyleton. For Chekov... the labyrinth.

He wanted to ask where it would take Bones and Spock, but he wasn't so fixated on whatever this creepy new tool entailed that he'd forgotten the earlier urgency in Bones' voice. Kirk looked up from the ring, and back to his friend's serious face. "You said something about a problem...?"

McCoy didn't get the time to answer. A strange low noise overlapped with Kirk's last word, and he had barely a second to wonder about it before something slammed into him. Something alive — he heard the shrieking animal(?) sounds, felt the soft-hard warmth of it as it clamped down on his left arm, and was caught enough off-guard that he stumbled and fell, hitting the ground with a pained groan.

"What the hell—!" Luckily, his coat absorbed the worst of the impact, but Kirk still had both hands full (one holding his flashlight, the other the ring) as he tried to fight the creature off.

There was nothing at first, and Heat was about ready to move on to the next hall when all of a sudden he heard a sound from further down. That was what he was looking for - the inhuman growl and the stench of decay that accompanied so many of Landel's monsters. That is wasn't the sort of demon he was used to didn't matter. It would stop the hunger.

It had found its own prey already, it seemed, and the sudden tang of blood on the air had his mouth watering. If they weren't careful, it might become difficult to differentiate patient from animal. No matter what Landel thought, or how often he got away with forcing Heat to do things against his will, the demon was sure that he was at least still at the top of the food chain here.

A roar from the red-head accompanied the cat's own cries as he dove at it with both clawed weapons. The attack was just as animalistic as the creature's had been, and the two men were ignored in favor of his target. That he'd be helping them in the process of tonight's hunt didn't even matter. He refused to lose himself to his demon here, though one might assume from looking at him that he already had.

Edited 2010-07-22 02:23 (UTC)

Several things happened at once. The captain was looking at him, ring in his hand. The question was just barely out of his mouth when they both heard it, a low growl followed by the most ungodly noise he'd ever heard in his life, something that sounded more like Death personified than anything else. It was followed by a rush of air and the sense of something heavy going right past him, launching itself at Kirk. McCoy barely had time to register that it was distinctly feline in the darkness, and that it was latching onto the captain.

"Jim!" he cried out. Jim was on the ground, trying to shake the thing off.

There wasn't much time to think. He didn't want to hurt the thing, but there weren't too many options. Nothing to startle it anyway. The doctor rushed forward, managed to get his fingers digging into the scruff of the creature's neck, and was doing his damnedest to pull it off him. It only occurred to him after he'd gotten a grip on it that it could easily tag him with its teeth or claws.

An almost inhuman roar came behind him. McCoy silently swore up and down. It was just their luck, he was stuck trying to wrangle this blasted thing off and these things apparently came in pairs. He was going to get claws into his back any moment now-

It didn't happen. Something humanoid, with a shock of red hair, came blurring past and landed on the animal. McCoy nearly lost his grip on the creature.

The cat's teeth bit into the thicker fabric covering Kirk's arm and it locked its jaw tight around the limb. It might not be able to penetrate the material quite enough to rip and tear like it wanted, but it could keep a hold of its prey while its claws did the rest of the work. And long, sharp claws they were as well, like wicked scythes as they slashed through the thinner material of the patient's shirt where the jacket was open, the smell of blood filling the air as they found skin.

The cat growled deep and feral in its throat at that, the blood helping to drive its hunger. So much so it had all but forgotten the second patient, who made himself known when he made a grab for the back of the cat's neck. The cat's jaw clenched tighter with that, stubbornly refusing to let go of the prey it had, its hind legs kicking at Kirk's stomach in an effort to do more damage.

Soon enough it would do enough damage it could leave this one and take out the foolish human trying to grab it, then it could--

A blur of movement accompanied by a roar hit it suddenly, wrenching the cat free of Kirk's arm (though leaving a few rotten teeth buried into the fabric). It snarled and twisted around, trying to catch a hold of the thing attacking it and fight back.

He heard Bones call out his name as if his voice were coming from a distance, at least compared to the thrashing, snarling thing on top of him. With those teeth buried in the arm that was holding his flashlight, Kirk couldn't get a good look at it, not that he needed one to know that it was a monster bent on eating him.

Ignoring the grinding pain of its jaws, Kirk shoved at it with his other arm, but all this managed to do was to save his throat from getting shredded when it lashed back. If Kirk had the presence of mind to be thankful for this, it was lost in the blinding white agony which now crisscrossed his torso. "Augh, mother—!" The rest of the swear choked in his throat as something slammed his stomach and knocked the air out of him.

Still fighting past the pain, Kirk was barely aware of his body going limp from the multiple attacks, but he did feel it when the weight of the creature was suddenly off of him. There was barely a half-second of relief before his mind caught on to the roaring happening somewhere above him, mingled with the screams of the thing which had attacked him.

"Bones," he gasped.

Once the creature was pulled away from the other two men, they were put out of Heat's mind completely. The cat scratched and clawed in his grip, but the demon was unrelenting. He jabbed one of his blades into the animal's abdomen, twisting and ripping while keeping the other hand held tight around its neck.

One flailing limb was caught in Heat's jaws, sharpened teeth finding purchase and digging deep. This one had been unlucky, choosing this hallway to do its hunting when this territory belonged to a greater beast. Transforming even his arm would have made the process all the easier, but there was no need to waste the energy here. He didn't need the demon's form to attack with the demon's voracity. The clawed weapons alone would do, though he figured he could have taken the creature with just his hands.

The meal was pulled to the side, out of the way of anyone else who might try to rob him of it (instinctual - he was the only one of his kind here) and away from the smell of human blood that was just as tantalizing, if not more so, than the decaying monster he sought to devour. It was only a very small part of him, that little bit of remaining restraint, that kept him focused on Landel's creation.

Edited 2010-07-22 08:10 (UTC)

He had to let go; the way animal was getting twisted, he was going to end up with a broken wrist. McCoy got a glimpse of something humanoid tearing into the animal as it let go of Kirk. He didn't hesitate. McCoy grasped Jim under the shoulders and heaved. Moving a patient was something he'd prefer to avoid, but it was either that or leave him right under the fighting.

The doctor strained, dragging him several feet back from the fight before he let him down. Jim wasn't fat, but he was packing enough muscle weight to make it no easy thing to drag him solo while he was wounded. Ideally he could have gotten him further off, but he needed to check the wounds first.

A glance back showed that the patient (a male?) was bodily pulling the cat away from them, seemingly undisturbed by the smell of rot and blood coming from it. He couldn't get a clear glimpse of his face just yet. He'd yet to see a patient that would run to another's rescue like that, and even though he was thankful for it, he couldn't say he liked the idea of this man running headlong in like that.

He had to move fast while the animal was distracted. He turned back to the captain, tearing the shirt the rest of the way off. Blood stained Jim's torso and his arms. Not immediately life-threatening, but bleeding out and possibly infected. He hurriedly opened the first aid kit, and snapping on gloves, probed the wound. Ragged around the edges, some teeth caught in the fabric..

Edited 2010-07-22 21:30 (UTC)

Alone and expecting only to take down two unarmed, unaware patients, the cat found itself completely outclassed by the new arrival. Predator becoming prey, it screamed as the blade tore it open and clawed at its attacker with one last burst of dying strength before its struggles weakened and stopped.

A frenzy of noise and movement filled the hallway, the misaimed flashlight in his hand throwing strange shadows on everything around him. Move, Kirk silently screamed at himself. He still didn't know what the hell was happening, but he wasn't going to just lie around and wait for them to get killed. He laid one hand flat on the tiled floor and managed to inch up onto his elbows before something grabbed him again, and by instinct, he struggled against it before realizing that the arms now hauling him up belonged to Bones.

By the time he'd pulled them both out of danger, Kirk had caught his breath again, with his wits just a little slower coming. He stared up, half-dazed but recognizing that look of concentration on Bones' face as he did away with the shreds of what was once Kirk's smiley face shirt. "What's... going on?" The burning in his chest and arm told him clearly enough that he was hurt, but right now he was less worried about his own hemorrhaging than why he wasn't in a worse state. Heedless of the doctor's ministrations, Kirk lifted his head to look past Bones.

He had a sudden vision of Roxas from the previous night — a blur in black, throwing sparks — but whoever his saviour was now stood taller, and was distinctly red-haired even in the darkness. His efforts to judge the fight from the beast's yowling were interrupted when the intercom suddenly emitted static, drowning out everything else, and Kirk's eyes closed again as he listened to Landel speak...

The beast had stopped yowling, but Heat hardly noticed. Alive or dead, he'd already been pulling rotting flesh away with his teeth. This place made him go too long without proper meals. The fact that it wasn't the usual fresh demon kill didn't matter as much as that it settled in his stomach. Filling. Though really, it still wasn't all that large. He would have preferred a bigger meal, but beggars couldn't be choosers. It was enough to keep him sane, for as relative as that was.

Teeth met bone and didn't stop there. A demon of the Junkyard wasted nothing, and his powerful jaws crunched up everything quickly. Taking his time with a meal was also rarely an option. It wasn't until he'd gotten a good portion of it down and had settled some that he realized his own arm was bleeding. The cat's claws had raked it well in the original attack. The smell of his own blood served to help drown out that of the other patient in the hall, which was a good thing. Once he was done eating, he could tend to the injury.

Someone was speaking - not one of the others in the hall, he realized. The voice was coming from the intercom, belonging to the head doctor. A part of him insisted he should listen, as it might be important, but he was still far too focused on the carcass in front of him. That is, until a shrill, piercing noise cut through everything else. The demon quickly covered his ears, growling out a low "Son of a bitch." It was probably the most human sound he'd made yet that night.

"Don't talk," McCoy told him. His gaze flicked up for a moment, in time to see the patient hunched over the corpse, practically swimming in its blood and, Lord above, actually tearing into it. He could hear the wet chewing from here, along with the splatter of blood. The humanoid's back looked familiar, but with a patient on his hands, he couldn't mull it over further just yet. For now, that male patient was busy gorging himself on that creature. His attention wasn't on them just yet. He might have saved them, but he'd torn into that feline with a feral single-minded drive that McCoy didn't feel at all comfortable with.

The doctor looked back down at the wounds below. He couldn't say he liked the look of the rotted flesh fragments littering the nearby epidermal tissue. He cleaned them off as best he could, and quickly, before reaching for the first aid kit. It wasn't any substitute for a full on steri-field, but he had to stop that bleeding first. The sterilized gloves were already streaked with red.

The intercom crackled to life, and McCoy listened to it as best he could. He was more concerned with treating Jim, but he'd learned in the field that keeping an ear and eye out out could mean a difference between life and death. Tunnel visioning could be dangerous, ranging from finding out too late a hostile life form was creeping up behind you, to medical equipment suddenly failing, to a rocking ship in the middle of a surgery. Keeping an eye on your surroundings wasn't something you could ignore.

The Head Doctor ended up confirming what had happened last night. Portals though, he'd been wrong about transporters being involved. The result didn't do all that much for his stomach.

The noise that followed the announcement was almost enough to make him lose his focus. It was ear-splitting, seemed to hammer through his head, rattle his skull around. His fingers froze for a moment, clenched, before McCoy forced himself to continue. He pressed a gauze against the wounds, applying pressure to it, eyes watering from the high-pitched whine.

The intercom message saved McCoy from having to listen to Kirk shoot back a smart aleck comment; although given the choice, Bones probably would've chosen a contrary captain over whatever the hell Landel was doing. For a certainty, Kirk could've done without that piece of aural torture, even if you could argue that noise ripping through your skull wasn't really any worse than bleeding out from ragged gashes all over your chest. Why did so many moments of his life seem to involve comparing the pain level of the things which happened to him?

Kirk let escape a pained groan as the noise intensified, but the pressure of Bones' hands on his wounds served to keep some part of his mind focused on where he was, and what was happening. It wasn't just him, at least — he could see that from the look on Bones' face, and the way the third man seemed to have his hands over his ears. No doubt patients all over the institute were now cursing Martin Landel's name.

And then in an instant, it was over, and as the Head Doctor's voice faded from the intercom, Kirk realized that the hallway was now silent. No shrieking, no growling, no screaming. He almost thought the creature had ran during the distraction, but he could vaguely make out a shape lying in front of the other patient and — as he carefully pointed his flashlight in the man's direction — the splatter of blood all over the floor and on the man's clothes.

Something in Kirk's instincts shied from staring too long at the scene, so he switched his attention back to Bones instead. "Something's changed." That was obvious enough, but what he meant was the content of Landel's broadcast, before the sudden high-pitched noise. The message had been vague as usual, but it didn't take a genius to see that some other unpleasant surprise awaited them tonight.

"We have to... get out of here." Nowhere in this place was safe, but he'd feel safer not lying in a hallway filled with blood. Kirk moved to push himself up, as if intending to just walk out in his current state, but his injuries quickly reminded him what a stupid idea that would be and he forced himself to settle down again.

Or as settled as Kirk ever was, anyway. He shot Bones an ironic, maybe half-apologetic smile, and looked over at the red-haired man. "Hey! You alright?"

Edited 2010-07-26 22:23 (UTC)

There was nothing left of the cat soon enough, as Heat returned to his meal after the noise had died down. When Kirk addressed him, he was licking blood - a dark, rotting ichor - from his wrist up to his fingers. He could ignore the taste as he just tried to get down every bit of nourishment he could. What the other two men thought of this didn't matter.

The concern was surprising, given that it came from the most injured of them. Though his right arm was bleeding freely, they weren't terribly deep scratches. He'd deal with them later, if they didn't heal up on their own after having eaten. The Institute seemed to dampen that side-effect as well. "Worry about yourself," he answered gruffly. "I'm fine."

The demon got back on his feet. He thought about removing his own blood-covered shirt, but as long as there were others bleeding nearby it'd be good to have that smell to keep himself focused away from them. Though he was feeling better now, that cat hadn't been nearly the size of the demons he was used to. Though he wasn't too worried, it couldn't hurt to be careful.

It was only now that he was paying better attention to the men that he realized he recognized one of them. It was the doctor from the bus, and it looked like he at least hadn't been lying about his job. He was handling the other's injury with a certain amount of professionalism. It was a shame Argilla was still around. She might still have had some of her healing abilities available, and she might have even been willing to waste some energy on a man they didn't know.

On that note, he wasn't entirely sure why he was still standing there, watching the two of them. Perhaps it was because he'd already finished the task he'd set out to do that night and therefore had nothing else to hurry on to. Whatever the reason had been, he had a better one now. He shot the doctor a toothy grin. What had his name been again? Mc-something?

The sound didn't go on much longer. The intercom mercifully clicked off, leaving the hallway silent, except for the ringing in his ears. McCoy began wrapping bandages around Jim's torso, just when he decided it was a good idea to try and get up.

Thankfully if Kirk wasn't going to have some any sense, his body was going to settle the matter for him. After a moment, the captain sank backwards. McCoy gave him a knowing look.

"I know," the ringing was slowly dying out, but he was certain he'd just spoken too loud. "But I'm not moving you unless I absolutely have to," he added.

The doctor was just finishing up tying off the bandages when Jim looked away and spoke. McCoy turned to look as well. He saw the mangled remains of the creature first. There wasn't much left. Just a giant splatter of blood. For a moment, the doctor stared at it, as if it had been something other than a giant cat. You didn't see a complete destruction of a corpse like that often. It tugged at his memory, an odd, alien sensation in his mind, as if he'd seen this sort of thing at the hands of one officers itching for promotion, a particularly brutal assassination that was more human rage than a calculated move. The strangest part was that he hadn't been at all surprised or disgusted at it, just looked at it with as much emotion as a computer....

The memory flared up, seemed right at home in that moment, then faded away. He frowned. It didn't seem like something that would have happened on his Enterprise. In fact, he was sure he never seen anyone do such a thing, and yet the memory felt very real.

McCoy forced his eyes upwards. He finally had a chance to take a proper look at the patient. He'd been right, there had been something very familiar about him. That hair and those eyes. They'd looked wild before, but now, they almost looked inhuman. He might be covered in guts and body fluids, but he could see the man underneath.

"I know you. You're that man from the bus," McCoy said, more casually than he should to a man who'd just about torn the throat out of that cat and devoured it. The doctor shifted, silently putting himself between the patient and the captain. "Heat, wasn't it?"

It was a mundane thing to say. It had to be, especially since he'd just ripped that thing to shreds. McCoy already had knew that there was something wrong with Heat. He hadn't expected him to act it out quite like that. He'd actually not only killed the animal with his bare hands, but he'd actually eaten it, rotting flesh and all. McCoy didn't know just how far Heat's mental illness went or what would set it off against them.

Edited 2010-07-27 06:14 (UTC)

When the man answered, Kirk gave a wry laugh and finally conceded, letting his head fall back onto the hospital tile. Besides, his doctor had told him that he wasn't moving, and while Kirk knew many ways to win an argument against Bones, he also knew when not to bother trying. The bandages wrapped around his torso felt good and tight, although the place where the animal had bitten him probably still needed a look.

Only when the red-haired man stood up did Kirk finally see what was left of the cat. Or rather, what wasn't, which was apparently everything except a whole lot of blood, almost black in the low light. His blue eyes flicked back to the approaching man as he realized what he'd done. Sure, it was possible that the cat had escaped into the shadows, but Kirk had a feeling that the creature wouldn't have gotten away from that fight without leaving a long trail to follow. Whatever traces remained smeared the floor and the other patient's face and shirt and arms. In any other context, the grin Heat flashed McCoy then might have been friendly. Might.

"You know this guy?" Kirk blurted, still too wrapped up in the lack of painkillers to hide the incredulity in his voice. Sure, the people Kirk had met here had been pretty colourful in their own right, but at least none of them would consume stinking, half-alive animals. Well. Maybe. In all of their conversations about food, somehow Kirk hadn't quite yet learned what Admiral ZEX ate, but...

Never mind. He didn't miss the way Bones moved between him and the other patient. Despite them apparently having met, his CMO was still wary. Seeing a man eat a monster whole ranked high on the red flag list, and Kirk wasn't ignorant of how his wounds were still bleeding out under his bandages. If this guy could swallow an entire wildcat like it was nothing, a grown man might prove only slightly more of a challenge.

But Heat's response to his earlier question (his name was Heat, really?) hadn't been that of an irrational monster. It wasn't the most tactful word choice for a member of Starfleet, but after the up-close-and-personal experience, monster seemed more than appropriate for the thing which had attacked both of them. But not this man. Not yet.

Kirk had heard the humanity in his voice. And even if Heat had been more focused on food than charity, he'd still saved them. Kirk grabbed Bones' arm and pulled himself up to a sitting position, grunting only slightly with the effort. "I guess if you already know my doctor, I can introduce just myself. Captain James T. Kirk," he said, his voice steady. If he was wrong and Heat did intend to make their night worse, then Kirk could at least try not to appear weak. "Thanks."

He eased his coat off his shoulders (ragged and blood-stained, but at least usable, unlike his shirt), and gingerly peeled the left sleeve from his bite wound to get a closer look. The teeth had managed to pierce through to skin, but not deeply. He could still get rabies, but that was something to worry about later.

Kirk glanced over at Heat again. "Looks like it got a good swipe in you too."

Edited 2010-07-28 04:31 (UTC)

Captain. That was a rank, like colonel. These men worked together in some sort of military unit. Heat could respect that, as much as he respected anything. He raised a hand and gave the captain something of a mock salute. "Kirk," he repeated, letting them know he understood. "And... McCoy." The other's name came back to him as the bloodlust faded. They wouldn't be getting any titles for now, though. Not from him. After all, he wasn't a part of their tribe.

He licked what blood he could from his lips, before wiping the rest away on the edge of his shirt.

The demon didn't miss the way the doctor placed himself purposefully between him and his captain, and he couldn't say it wasn't a smart move even if neither of them had anything to fear from him now. It was much like a mother animal protecting her young from a predator, a sound analogy that came more from the mind of his own inner doctor than the A.I. The grin on his face lost some of its original feralness, becoming more of a smirk. He had no problem being seen as a predator even in friendly situations.

It was amusing, in a way. McCoy was clearly still disturbed by him, despite the fact that he'd just proven what he'd said on the bus. Would he still deny that there were monsters in these halls? While he could understand the aversion to him having devoured the creature, he certainly hadn't eaten anything remotely resembling a human. That would be signing his death warrant here... never mind what Seraph might think. Had the doctor really just not been around long enough to know that not everyone here was as human as he was, and that most things had a more monstrous form once the lights went out?

He took a step toward the man on the floor, then held out his arm for a handshake. The captain had yet to make any breaches in etiquette, not that Heat normally followed any such thing. For added effect, and for McCoy's sake, the atma marking on his forearm glowed bright red for a moment before returning to normal. If he felt like wasting energy for the sake of proving a point, he could always transform his arm completely. But not yet.

"And yeah. I'm Heat." The comment about his other arm was ignored. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't worth bothering with.

Edited 2010-07-28 06:21 (UTC)

"In a way, captain. Met him on the way into town," McCoy told him. It looked like Heat remembered him too. He wasn't entirely comfortable with this particular man remembering his face. That conversation at the bus had hinted at problems, anger management problems, and tendencies towards violence and cannibalism, if you took him at his word. While Heat had torn the animal apart and devoured it, McCoy was glad to say that the last claim was still unproven.

He could believe he was capable of it, however.

The doctor had his hands busy now with the wounds on Jim's arm. He also wasn't about to go contaminating the gloves with the remains on Heat either. McCoy lifted his hands, in explanation, then resumed work.

The options were that Heat was either truly in need of help, mentally ill, or that he was another species transplanted into a human body, like ZEX. It didn't necessarily account for the violence or eating habits (that could be a mental condition, and humans were capable of it), but it did account for the strange mark on his arm. Of course, there were plenty of aliens out there who looked perfectly human on the outside, but this build didn't lend itself that well to the attack he'd witnessed.

"Suppose I should be thanking you," he drawled. McCoy didn't move himself from Jim's side. He might be raised well, a man from the South, born and bred, but he also wasn't a fool; politeness and manners only went so far. Heat was violent and unpredictable as far as he was concerned. He was getting the impression that Heat hadn't set out to save them, because who the devil ate the thing he'd been fighting? And then decide to check out the people he'd saved after?

He did look back up at him, disapprovingly. "You didn't need to kill that animal, Mr. Heat."

Taking a life should be a last resort. The creature hadn't seemed sentient, so he doubted there was any reasoning with it, but surely it could have been driven off. Or escaped from. Anything was better than what was left of the animal smeared on the floor.

Kirk's gaze flicked down at the mark on Heat's outstretched arm, watching it flash, yet his smile when he met those strange red eyes again was immediate, and friendly — easy enough, with the practice he'd had. "Nice to meet you," Kirk answered, not bothering to hide his bemusement at the situation, but he grasped the man's hand in a sure grip and shook. He didn't know the meaning of the symbol, or why it glowed, but one thing was clear enough: Heat had wanted them to see it, to know whatever it signified. With the blood cleaned from his face, he appeared almost human, and a canny one at that. Kirk didn't believe Heat would have offered his hand and shown off his mark carelessly.

But the gesture, whatever its ulterior implications, also said that he wasn't looking for a fight just yet, and Kirk could accept that. Of course... if Bones wanted to start an argument, he wouldn't stop him either. Curiosity about other people admittedly tended to override his self-preservation instinct. He'd smelled the creature when it had been on top of him — no normal human could've gulped that down without wanting to gag. Heat appeared fine... more than fine. "Normal" didn't classify men who would tear apart a large creature in a matter of minutes, and swallow it raw, pointy bits and all. Dangerous? Sure. But also interesting.

Kirk held his arm still as Bones treated the small punctures, only giving it a flex after the bandages were tied off. His body still hurt all over, but he'd survive. "Here, you should probably hold onto this," he said, passing the blood-smudged ring back to Bones before he closed the first aid kit again. It sounded as if the Head Doctor had cut off Marc's efforts to communicate, but until the radio man found a way to continue his explanation of the ring, he'd feel safer having it back in Bones' care.

That done, he pulled his coat back on and reached for his friend's shoulder. "Help me up."

If he could walk (and Kirk was confident of his ability to manage that much), then there wasn't much more reason to stay here. Maybe the smell of blood would attract other predators, maybe Heat's enthusiastic display had scared off any half-sentient creatures — either way, there was still a building to search. Bones might recommend bed rest instead, but Kirk wasn't in the mood to hasten the end of the night. Besides, Landel would be putting him back there soon enough anyway.

Since Bones didn't always respond well to logic, Kirk opted for a confident grin instead. "If you've no objections, doctor, I'd like to get out of here now." He looked back at Heat. He didn't trust the man, especially not with Bones eyeing him like that, but Kirk also didn't weigh his debts lightly. "Were you headed anywhere, Mr. Heat?"

Red eyes darted back to McCoy, and Heat stared at him incredulously. "No, of course not. I could have ignored the only meal I might get tonight and risked losing my mind. I could have left it to kill both of you, unless you think you could have talked it to sleep." What sort of ridiculous statement had that been? It didn't need to die? Landel's creatures only had one agenda. They couldn't be shooed away or reasoned with.

The doctor was still incredibly wary of him, and he could understand that. He wouldn't hold it against the man, though he'd be sure to push the role of alpha male as much as possible. If only to keep making him uncomfortable. If McCoy wouldn't believe him, then Heat was only going to force his side of things so much before he stopped caring.

The captain, at least, seemed more reasonable. Either that or he was just too trusting for his own good. The demon was just glad he recognized that Heat didn't intend to do them any harm. It wasn't that he cared, of course. They just weren't worth it. And if it meant something to do for the rest of the night, then why not stick around?

He shook his head. "Nope. I'm done with my goal for tonight. Are you asking me to come along?"

"Who said anything about talking to it? There had to be other options before killing it," McCoy frowned. And eating it like that? That wasn't even in any of those. They could have stunned it or dazed it if there had been the opportunity, but Heat had shot in like a bat out of hell and there hadn't been any such chance.

Losing his mind? Could be truth, could be exaggeration, because, human, alien, or something else, Heat had seemed plenty fine eating earlier, displayed no adverse reactions to the "human" food. Food that at least wasn't still alive when he tucked in. He hadn't seemed like he was going mad either, just angry and mildly sulky about the taste.

McCoy shot him one last look, then tucked the first aid kit under an arm. His first priority was Jim, not standing around here arguing. The doctor turned back to him, helping him up, arm wrapped around his waist gently. He cast a glance at the surrounding rooms. The patients were already out and about. Borrowing a room to let the captain rest was looking like a better idea the more he looked at it.

"I'm thinking we should get you somewhere you could sit down, captain," McCoy said. Jim had other ideas, instead asking where Heat was off to. The doctor suppressed a frown when Heat replied. Heat might have saved their lives but it had seemed like a happy accident with him. If he was an alien jammed in another body, and not just mentally ill, it still left him as violent and unpredictable.

McCoy remained silent, however. It was the captain's decision what to do next, not his.

"Why not?" Kirk said easily, in response to Heat's question. Sure, his impulsive decision to be unpredictable tonight had so far landed him with bruises and multiple lacerations, but that could hardly be considered Heat's fault. The man had piqued Kirk's curiosity with his talk of goals and losing his mind, and Kirk was convinced that part of the key of understanding their prison lay in understanding who it was they'd been imprisoned with. Heat definitely offered something new to think about.

Also, he wasn't discounting the fact that Heat's weapons and fighting ability could be useful if they ran into more trouble, but there was no need to put that part so bluntly. It was a risk to accompany an injured man, but that was Heat's choice, just as it was Kirk's choice to go on with the mission instead of taking Bones' recommendation for rest, big risk or not.

Bones' shoulder was tense under his hand, not that Kirk needed to be currently leaning on him to read his disapproval. His face and words said that clearly enough. He didn't usually ignore his friend's instincts, but he knew Bones trusted him and would follow whatever course of action he chose. Mostly. Eventually. As soon as Kirk regained his bearings, he pulled away from Bones and placed his hands on his hips, trying again to appear strong enough to continue.

"Something's changed," he repeated. "During the announcement, there were sounds of computer use while Landel spoke of 'implementing' something. With the way we've seen him manipulate the properties of the building, I have no doubt that this change deals with our surroundings again. I want to find out what it is. If you don't mind travelling in a group, Mr. Heat, you're welcome to join us. You and Bones can continue your philosophical discussion," he suggested brightly, and turned to leave before anyone could argue. "Let's go."

Heat could already tell why Kirk was the Captain rather than the other man, and he was glad for it. Not that it mattered, since he wasn't required to follow either of them, but the difference was amusing. He almost liked Kirk and the way he was willing to just take the demon along without further questions. An attitude like that would get them places here. McCoy's would not.

The announcement had been nearly forgotten even after that earsplitting noise, so Heat was unable to think back and recall what had been said. It didn't bother him, though, seeing as figuring out Landel's agenda wasn't even at the top of his list at the moment, and Kirk appeared to have understood it just fine. It was a bit surprising, but not entirely unexpected, that he so easily fell into the role of a follower again when someone with the right amount of charisma stepped forward and started giving directions. It was in his blood, he supposed. ...Or perhaps his programming.

"Hmph. As long as you two can keep up." He cleaned the blades of his weapons off on the edge of his shirt, checking them for nicks at the same time. They looked all right, the bones of the rotting cat not having been as strong as they could have been. It was good to be able to put them to use. If he'd just been stuck with his own hands and limited abilities it would have made hunting a whole lot more difficult. Not impossible, but difficult.

It should have been made clear at this point that he was willing to go with them, and more importantly that he was willing to take a secondary position. Even if nothing else happened that night, finding further means of making McCoy disgruntled would be amusing.

It looked like Kirk had made up his mind, both about Heat and his own injuries. While they weren't immediately life-threatening, they also weren't going to get any better if strained. The doctor let him pull away. He seemed to be standing fine on his own, for now.

McCoy only lifted a skeptical eyebrow at Jim. He might be the captain, and most of the time, he and the rest of the crew were willing to follow him to hell and back. It wasn't the first time he'd pulled a surprise decision. Usually they ended up brilliant, but they also didn't usually involve a young man with a violent tendencies and a taste for flesh that was still living. A hot head who thought he knew it all. McCoy had seen a number of those before, and most of them crashed and burned. This Kirk might be a version of his own captain, but he was younger and, he felt, less experienced.

McCoy caught up with Jim as he started walking. "I hope you know what you're doing, Jim," he muttered to him.

Despite spoiling for a fight - desperate, even - Forte stopped to actually think about what to do. He didn't even bother with the drawer, he was already feeling like all the stuff he had was charity. But the important thing was the special counseling - that was when people were taken, and turned against the other patients, wasn't it? That was what he'd have to find. He couldn't find any monsters all of a sudden, but he'd prefer to fight a person anyway.

So, where would he find these special counseling patients? He'd been in the halls upstairs, and never met one. The monsters tended to jump out from the dark in the far corners, so maybe they were more common in the halls. For a real fight, they'd need a bigger area. So, he'd have to explore a different direction - the field or the sun room would be the best arenas. With at least a vague idea about where to go, he loaded his scalpels into his pockets, grabbed his hammer, and set out.

He didn't like feeling like a charity case, but he wouldn't pass up being a more dangerous adversary either.

An explanation for the "construction" that had been happening last night. It seemed too good to be true, especially knowing that the Head Doctor had no intention of simply letting them go. What was the point of giving them something they could use to their advantage? This was different from asking other patients from help or finding things on his own.

Minato sat up from his bed after his roommate left, rummaging through his closet to check his inventory as he did every night. His sword's makeshift handle was losing what little cushioning it had given before; he would need to replace it with something. A few socks, maybe? ...He found that he much preferred the idea of using one of those smiley-faced shirts. At least socks didn't seem like they were mocking him.

The fruit and water bottles he had taken the other day were now in his hidden inventory, along with the lavender lotion he had been looking at before the zombie appeared. He had completely forgotten about it in the ensuing confusion. Once he had secured his bag and Evoker to his pouch, Minato carefully hid everything again and shut his closet. He then opened up his desk drawer, peering into it with a frown.

A silver ring sat between his extra pens and used batteries. Upon closer inspection, he could see the red, overl-shaped jewel set on top of it. The Head Doctor's words rang in his head again. If he had it, that meant Brook didn't.

All things considered, he doubted Brook would be heartbroken about that. Especially if it had the properties the Head Doctor had mentioned.

Slipping it on, Minato retrieved his flashlight and headed out.

[skipping to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/940944.html?thread=71001232#t71001232)]

It probably said something about his life, Oliver reflected, that he could identify a hospital room on waking by nothing more than the heavy scent of antiseptic and the scratchy feel of overly starched bedclothes beneath his cheek. It probably said a great deal more about his life that these cues had long since ceased to provoke a moment of dislocated panic; instead, he found himself performing a swift physical assessment. Hands, legs, torso and head all accounted for, the last one protesting the trek back into wakefulness with a grumpy viciousness that suggested either too long spent unconscious, or too many toxins pumped through his veins.

And that was strange, wasn't it? His recollections of the end of the fight that had surely landed him in the hospital (again!) were spotty, but the fire and pain seared into his memory made him sure that it shouldn't be his head that was hurting the worst. In fact, he was feeling positively healthy, and he was familiar enough with the many ways in which he could injure himself or be injured to be certain this shouldn't be the case. Certainly not without massive doses of drugs that would leave him incapable of forming any thought more coherent than "lights pretty". Considering his brain was gearing up at a speed consistent with waking after a long night, he could be pretty sure that if he had been drugged, it had long since worn off. Stimulants to counteract narcotics? He considered the possibility for a few seconds, then rejected it. He was familiar with that, too, and though unease was slowly seeping in at the peculiarity of the state in which he found himself, he wasn't feeling nearly jittery enough.

The lack of a zombie apocalypse looming on the horizon wasn't enough to explain that lack of chemical jitters, either.

He stretched, paying particular attention to the play of muscles and the beginnings of any twinges that might hint at injuries newly healed. Nothing. He was a little stiff, but not so stiff as to suggest he'd been unconscious long enough for the wounds he should have had to have healed. What lassitude he felt was already fading away to wherever his unconsciousness had retreated. Something wound tight within his chest eased; he had not, then, been under long enough to have healed, a process that would have taken weeks, even months. He hadn't woken up into a war. They were still on the leading edge of it, could still stop it.

Still, that brought back 'round the question of how he was suddenly whole. Regenerative drugs? He knew better than anyone how rapidly those could heal someone. It seemed the most likely possibility so far, even if he hadn't heard of anything new being put into production. He added 'keep track of stray homicidal urges' to his slowly-growing mental checklist.

His eyes opened, finally, and he strained to see through the pitch black of the room. That was unusual; hospital rooms weren't usually quite so dark. He pushed himself up, hand groping along the near wall for a light switch, or a lamp, or a call button. His other hand, still beneath the pillow, hit something round and metal, and for a few seconds, he froze. Then he traced the shape, and let out a nigh-inaudible sigh of relief. Flashlight. Which was strange as hell, but not ominous in and of itself. Maybe there was a power failure, then. That would explain the pitch dark, though not why the light had been under his pillow, of all places. He could ask about that when he found someone. For the time being, he switched the flashlight on, and swept it over the room. Still dim, two-person, with beds and desks and (now that was strange, too) no spare beds for visitors.

Okay, so. Hospital, of some sort. No lights. No wounds. And even from that quick observation of the room, he could tell the ward, wherever it was, was neither in Metropolis General nor in Star City. (Add that to the list of things that say something about Oliver Queen's life, he told himself. You can recognize what city you're in by its hospital rooms. At least you haven't added Gotham to the list yet.)

He pushed himself the rest of the way up, swinging out of bed with a caution that allowed him to test his balance. Still no weakness, no light-headedness. A quick visual check reinforced what he'd already determined: he was unharmed, without even a bandage scrape to hint at just how badly off he'd been before he lost consciousness. He also was not in a traditional hospital gown, something that had escaped his notice earlier. Maybe it was just nerves born of frustration and confusion, but the smiley face on the gray shirt looked somehow ominous. A quick check around the room revealed none of his own clothing, nor any other personal effects, and that unease mounted. The lack of any of his own belongings, any familiar faces, and any windows had "prison" slowly worming its way into his thoughts alongside "hospital".

That would explain why he hadn't heard about any new regenerative treatments. His contacts were good, but not secret government agency good.

Oliver considered the furniture in a new light. It was carefully constructed, none of it likely to be a convenient weapon. Looked like stealth would be the name of the game, until he figured out what was going on. Fine. He could deal with that. He swapped the slippers for the pair of white lace-up shoes, shoes that wouldn't fall off if he had to run. And somehow, he thought he would probably have to run.

“Here goes,” he muttered, and reached for the doorknob. It couldn't hurt to try. At least, it couldn't hurt to try as long as the door wasn't electrified.

It wasn't, and to his surprise, it opened easily enough. He'd expected to at least have to pick it. The hallway outside was as pitch black as the room, without even the glow of exit signs to mar the gloom. That leant weight to the prison theory. That, or whatever had knocked out the lights had knocked out the auxiliary power, too.

Hopefully this place, whatever it was, didn't have a critical care facility. That would suck.

In the silence following Kurosaki's departure, Uryuu diverted his attention with care. He observed Inoue-san without staring, he noted the stains and tears in his uniform, he adjusted his eyes to the sight of his arm without its hand, felt as if he was curling his fingers when nothing moved. As Inoue-san worked, and slowly the wound through him closed, and slowly his wrist shaped, and his palm, knuckles, fingers joint by joint, he flexed his fingers, pressing them into his palm-

-they dug instead into cloth. Uryuu's eyes opened, but hadn't they been open?, to a dark ceiling. It had been dark above the dome, but his eyes needed still to adjust. Even before, he knew: it wasn't a ceiling he recognized. A multitude of impulses seized him and left him, for the moment, motionless. To jerk upright, and undoubtedly fall from the bed in a spasm, to shout, to close his eyes, to pinch himself. It had not been a dream. His racing thoughts overlapped and twisted, tangled; in that moment of inaction and empty-mindedness, he noted the coarse material of the sheets, the medicinal smell in the too cool air, the unfamiliar feel of his clothing.

That Uryuu cared little for hospitals was clearly the least of his worries. Drawing in a steadying breath, he raised his left hand over his face. He bent each finger, ending by digging his nails painfully into his palm, then pinched his right arm. That confirmed, Uryuu flung the covers from his body with, perhaps, too much force (they flopped to the floor), and sprang from the bed.

The air's spirit energy was completely different from Hueco Mundo. It more closely resembled earth, without matching the human world; allowing for the possibility that his senses had been tampered with, Uryuu understood that to be the damning piece. Not that with the piece, he could better understand the puzzle. The weight of his pendant reassured while arousing suspicion; why change his clothes, why take him (how? an obvious culprit would be Kurotsuchi Mayuri, but this wasn't his style, nor the Octava's whose fall he'd witnessed-unless the Espada had managed--no), but leave him his weapon?

Attempting to make sense of it would lead only to frustration; this he knew. Search the room, confirm his bow's reach (if his ability to sense had been damaged, then-), and--

Uryuu jumped backward, crashing into his desk and chair, upending the latter despite a clumsy, reflexive attempt to catch it. He'd turned with the intent to summon his bow, and at that moment, noticed that the other bed was occupied. Though aware that there had been a second bed, his eyes had not yet taken to the dark, and once standing, the intensity of his focus on spirit pressure (there were others) while facing the opposite wall had left him shamefully ignorant. Controlling his breathing, he swept his eyes thoroughly over the room. No one else. But something protruding from beneath his disturbed pillow. Uryuu stepped forward, lifted it, and was further confused.

A flashlight. How generous.

The set-up little allowed for the other occupant to be an enemy, yet Uryuu kept his distance as he switched on the light. He directed it over the other boy's face.

He stood by the hook of the old warehouse crane a little longer, drenched and staring at the characters some triumphant young fool must have spray-painted there months ago: The Blue Dynasty is dead. The sky has fallen. There was no right answer to which color he'd label the dead by... and this time, he wouldn't make bets on blue, yellow or whatever color represented no-color-at-all. He even vaguely entertained knowing better than that.

But it was useless hoping to keep the others calm, not after the Dullahan and the Slasher appeared before them like that. Masaomi's faith in the Yellow Scarves went only as far as to trust that if a fight was brought to them, they would fight back. So he said little else and went home, rain doing nothing to speed him there. He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep that night. He wanted to go see Saki, but visiting hours were over. A smaller, weaker part of him wanted to call Mikado, wanted to tell him to stay close, or maybe to stay away... majestic and masterful though Masaomi knew himself to be, he was back to being up to no good lately....

....And he must have drifted off — must have shut his eyes and dreamed — must have kept dreaming — because the next moment he opened his eyes, he was not in his room. It was dark but he could tell, in the way someone who's used to places keeping still could tell: his desk wasn't where his desk was supposed to be. His table wasn't where his table was supposed to be. And his bed — which also wasn't where it was supposed to be — had no business dumping him in a foreign one, much less when its occupant wasn't looking. More importantly, he could hear someone else in the room, breathing and moving.

Masaomi laid sedately and blinked slowly for what felt like a long, long while. Not the longest of his life, no, but pretty close. He'd heard of lucid dreaming, where a person could control what they saw in their sleep, after all. So he imagined himself on a bright beach — Tateyama's beach, two hours from Ikebukuro by train. Saki (and not any weird... kidnapper) beside him, smiling, wearing a cute bikini and straw hat or something like that. Nothing changed.

There was a loud, wooden noise — the other person knocking about. Masaomi ignored it and raised both hands to pinch his own cheeks. Nothing... changed.

He bit his tongue and poked himself in the eye before giving up. He might as well accept that he was stuck in a two-thumbs down version of a Hanejima Yuuhei movie for now. Maybe the Dullahan did something, maybe there was something in the myth he didn't know. Maybe this was a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. Maybe he'd gone mad. Maybe he was dead. Did the dead get stuck in two-thumbs down versions of Hanejima Yuuhei movies?

A light being clicked on and pointed right at his eyes derailed him from the thought, and Masaomi shielded his face with one arm as he pushed himself upright with the other. "Hey, hey, those stage lights are waaay too bright! What's with that?" He laughed as suddenly as he started calculating the chances he'd get killed, especially if he wasn't dead yet... and felt around for something he could fight with, just in case. "Ahh, I don't have a contract, you know, but I'm first in line to sign up if you've got a Juliet, asking wherefore art thou, Romeo~!"

About his age, dyed hair (Kurosaki's may have been natural, but though Uryuu's expertise laid more with fabrics, he knew at once), and those initial details were all he managed before the boy began to move and speak. (Those details not blurry because despite a failure to detail it before, upon waking, one of the first things performed was an instinctive search for and donning of his glasses). It took Uryuu a moment to understand; though they spoke the same language, he was talking nonsense. Stage lights? Romeo and Juliet?

Obliging at least this far, Uryuu dropped the light from the guy's face, catching a grey shirt with a yellow smiley face symbol. Having taken stock of his own unfamiliar clothing, he knew they matched. Prisoners? The smell indicated that, if so, they were in a hospital.

"What?" he hissed, whispering on instinct - despite the fact that he'd just made more than enough noise with his graceful propulsion into the desk. Then, the frank if irritable query: "Are you insane? That would explain..." no, not an awful lot, as Uryuu knew, knew that he was not mad, that it had not been a dream, his fingers twitched, "...a little."

Again struck by two divergent impulses: to take a seat in chair or on his bed, overcome by all of it, sort out his thoughts, or to busy himself with some shape of effective action. He shook his head, turning back to the desk, aiming the light as he pulled open the drawer. Without looking back, Uryuu added dryly, "If you aren't, then consider that this may not be the right time for Shakespeare."

Edited 2010-07-18 13:08 (UTC)

Masaomi dropped his arm slightly once the light was lowered, peering over his forearm to see what he could of the other person. A kid around his age (an irritated one at that), pale and sporting a smiley shirt. It contrasted with the guy's tone, even if it matched the oddness of the situation. Had he also been kidnapped?

"Then what?" Masaomi asked, after a moment, ignoring the jab at his sanity. Mikado often commented on it too. "You're not a stalker, are you? If that's the tragic case, forgive me, I've promised my heart to someone else...." And he found he couldn't even joke about sharing his body, especially not when he didn't know where he was.

His searching hand found a metallic object by his knee, and after a little deliberation, he brought it out from under the covers to glance at. A flashlight for him too? Since the other kid didn't seem like he'd be flipping out on him anytime soon, Masaomi snapped the flashlight on and shined it around the room. It really looked like a hospital....

There were shoes which weren't his beside the bed, though he decided he'd wear them anyway. Finally tugging at his covers, he noticed he the clothes he was wearing weren't the ones he'd had on before either. Total surprise. His shirt had the silly smiley too, even if Masaomi would never buy anything like it.

There was no avoiding the question, it seemed. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

Edited 2010-07-19 04:33 (UTC)

A stalker. It did not cross Uryuu's mind that there were some who might accuse him of it. He ignored the question, in part because of its ridiculous finish, and in part because no, of course not. A cursory understanding of the situation (or, no, there was no understanding, thus of the observable facts) ought to have shown that they were in the same position. Not that Uryuu could rule out a possibility of a plant. A dramatic suspicion, but considering everything, why not?

A flashlight for the other guy, too. Uryuu paused in taking stock of the room and his ostensible possessions (given that one side mirrored the other, it seemed reasonable that little would differ), to try the light switch beside the door. Flipped up, flipped down. Either on automatic control, and this period served as lights out, or a power-outage. Either way, if he was a prisoner (and he must be), it seemed strange to provide a flashlight. Especially one per bed.

In the closet: shirts, sweatshirts, coat, shoes. Pens, keyring, and batteries in the desk drawer, a journal and radio on top of the desk. Uryuu moved to the single dressed and pulled open each draw, sifting through undergarments and sweat pants, searching for anything else. At one point, he held up a pair of smiley-face patterned boxers, his expression twisted into clear distaste. As a last measure, he took a pair of underwear, an undershirt, and a pair of sweat pants, scrutinizing each item (cheap, but without labels detailing fabric and brand) before folding them on his bed.

"I don't know," he answered, finally, walking back around to his desk, which he bent over as he turned on the radio. Static. Uryuu fiddled with the knobs, trying other frequencies. "I don't recognize the logo."

Not that he knew every logo in the world. Perhaps, he ventured mentally, something occurred in Karakura. Something with Aizen, something that shook through all worlds, something that had displaced him, but into this? He needed to find Inoue-san. That was vital; he couldn't sense her, but he wasn't completely confident in that. Not with such bizarrely low concentrations, not with the odd presences he could sense.

"It smells like a hospital. It doesn't feel..." no, leave spirits out of this, "Nothing" on the radio. Switching it off, he marched over the door, not very surprised that it opened. Uryuu swung the light along the hall, then up over the room number, then let the door close as he retraced his steps to the desk. A moment as he surveyed the items again. Turning to his bed, he took hold of the pillow and pulled off its case. In went the folded items, more to follow. Pivoting again, to set the case down on his desk. A pause as he pushed at his glasses, and looked over his shoulder. For once, dramatic speech outside of battle sounded near appropriate (well, it always did to his ears).

"The power is out, or it's lights out, indicating a prison. I've never heard of any prison or hospital that provided flashlights to each patient... though, I'm not an expert. If this were a medical hospital, then there would be machines, we ought to have been monitored. It smells like it, however, suggesting a psychiatric hospital. If so, the doors should have been bolted. Even if the power failed, a back-up generator, and if that had failed, orderlies. I've already made plenty of noise." As if he'd done it on purpose. "In sum, not a bit about this makes sense, never mind other technicalities. I assume that as you asked where we are, that you don't know this place, and thus I assume that you also have no memory of arriving, or even of being abducted."

Uryuu stopped, focusing again on his desk. He shook his head, and crossed to his closet. "Whoever they are, they want us disoriented and they want us to leave this room. I've little intention to stay, though the trap seems obvious."

Contrary to being reassured that he was with, for all intents and purposes, what sounded like a pretty logical guy, Masaomi found himself a little put off by the prognosis. This guy was calm for an abductee too. Did he have experience with this sort of occurrence? If so, maybe it was just a lame reality show set in a hospital-prison. Stranger things had happened in Ikebukuro. Probably.

Putting the shoes on and stretching as he got up, he ruffled his hair and wasn't shocked that it was completely dry, though it'd been damp when he laid down. "I see, I see. There's no point in staying. It must've been a few hours since I got here too."

Either that or a timewarp, which didn't sound so strange, the longer he thought about how he could've gotten here in the first place. He didn't feel sluggish — wouldn't he, if he'd been drugged? Or magic? Could it be? What kind of evil witch did this, and where was his fairy godmother? Taking his flashlight with him, Masaomi walked over to the door and opened it again, taking a look for himself.

"And if someone was going to hurt us, they would've come in and done it by now." He didn't believe that enough to be convincing — he wasn't inclined to paranoia, but that was, probably, what this ominous "they" wanted them to think. A mental hospital was starting to seem like the most likely situation. Masaomi didn't think he was the sort of person who'd be useful for collecting a ransom, at least.

Turning halfway to face the other boy, he pointed down the hallway. "We might even find someone who actually knows what's going on." Left or right, right or left... might as well turn right. "Don't worry! I, Kida Masaomi, will take it upon myself to lead the way~!"

At "his" closet, Uryuu removed a sweatshirt and t-shirt from their hangers, draped them over his arm, then bent, putting on the boots and picking up the sneakers. He folded the shirt and sweatshirt, tucked them into his pillow case, followed by the sneakers, then the keyring, ten of thirty pens, the journal, a set of batteries, and the radio. It was an irritation, not having his standard belongings, that would include a portable first aid kit as well as a sewing kit. At the very least, he would make to be prepared with what he had. Satisfied, he bunched one end of the case and twisted it around his hand.

How the other guy had come to the conclusion that it had been a few hours, Uryuu wasn't sure, but the specifics of that didn't seem to matter. Standing back, he observed the guy at the door. It wasn't a bad observation, though; that they had been easy targets, lying in bed. It only made the outside more ominous. Despite recent advances in the field of teamwork, instinct still left Uryuu disinclined to work with someone else; especially a stranger. The vapid vigor displayed could very well be an act, along with the ignorance.

Yet, he could deduce no clear advantage to either going it alone or going with his "roommate". When the guy turned back to him, introducing himself along with an obnoxious declaration of leadership (his eyes narrowed), Uryuu stepped forward, switched off his flashlight, and pocketed it.

"We'll only need one." Let Kida-san use his batteries, as the leader. Stating the obvious, but: "Someone, information, a way out... there's bound to be more out there. Then I, Ishida Uryuu, will follow you, Kida-san. I recommend refraining from speaking from here on out, and if we must, then whispering."

By following, he could watch Kida-san. Anyway, as an archer, it made better sense to hang behind.

Edited 2010-07-19 06:48 (UTC)

Hearing the other (Ishida-san, now) follow, Masaomi waved a hand forward, quieting, creeped out enough to think it a good idea. These halls were bare, white and empty, though there were doors to what he assumed were other rooms lining one side. But no windows. Was it a big place? Did people actually live here? Even Raira General wasn't like this. He couldn't imagine leaving Saki alone there so long if it had been, even though they'd broken up.

He angled the flashlight so it pointed at the floor, just enough to light their way and not be so noticeable to anyone who might be lurking around the corner. Once they got to one, he paused to listen for any other noises. Less numb to the fact that he was here in the first place, the anxiety in Masaomi's gut reared and made itself home as he cautiously lifted the flashlight to illuminate the next corridor.

There wasn't anything that popped out at him, nothing he could see in either direction. Just another empty hall. A couple more doors, though, spread out further from each other than the rest had been. That merited checking out, right?

So he headed toward the closest and pulled the door open, slowly, glad it didn't creak. Sound effects were the last thing they needed. Aside from a slight echo, when no noise yielded from there either, he put one foot past the door frame and looked about with the flashlight. A restroom. Also empty.

He turned around, minding his volume. "Nothing to see here, Ishida-san, unless you need the restroom."

A row of doors and empty hallways. Did the numbers on the doors suggest that there were at least one hundred rooms, or did these function as those on the first floor of a hotel, 100s for the first floor? If there were over one hundred, were there that many prisoners, at least two hundred? Uyruu filed away the questions; without a way to answer them, they were only distractions.

As Kida-san moved to examine the near door, Uryuu shifted his stance. Already tense as they crept through the hall, he made ready to shoot if needed, to drop his sack and gather spirit energy into a bow. He did not feel silly when told it was a restroom; perhaps a little let down.

Something aggravated by his esteemed leader's commentary. His lips thinned, until Uryuu found himself thinking about it. It wouldn't have been a surprise if he'd needed to, it had been a long time in Hueco Mundo, and who knew how long here. Fortunately, he did not "need the restroom", but it struck him that a cursory once over with the flashlight may not be enough. Without answering, Uryuu pulled free his flashlight (switched on) and walked closer, dropping the pillowcase before entering.

[brbing to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/948765.html) ... annnd back!]

Switching off the flashlight and again pocketing it, Uryuu stepped past Kida-san with an arc of his eyebrows. With a tone that suggested he believed the guy could probably use one, "Showers as well, if you're so inclined."

Not that he believed Kida-san would be. Uryuu redirected his attention to the new hallway.

[which is over here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/941058.html?view=71288834#t71288834)! SORRY FOR 100 EDITS.]

Edited 2010-07-21 10:03 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Night 50: M101-M110 Hallway

M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

Re: M108

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

M109

Re: M109

Re: M109

M??

Re: M??

M??

Re: M??

Re: M??

Re: M??

Re: M??

Re: M??

M??

Re: M??

Re: M??