NIght 50: West Wing, North Hall 1-B

[givemeoblivion.livejournal.com]

[from here]

There was no one here yet. And wasn't that strange? If she remembered correctly, there was a male patient block here. Even if it was away from the others, it should still be fairly well occupied. Were they all just staying in for the night? It was also odd that no one from the female block had come up this way yet either. Either it was just too early, or something had happened in her absence that kept others from coming this way unless they had a larger group with them (or not at all).

Callisto stopped to shine her light down into the adjacent hall, seeing if she could pick out anyone heading out of their room. She thought she heard the sounds of people moving about on the other side of the wall, so it couldn't be completely empty. Was there any point in waiting around? She didn't need someone to accompany her, and it had only slowed her up in the past anyway.

She would wait a bit, perhaps, if only to sate her own curiosity before moving on.

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[arrowonline.livejournal.com]

"I'm from Star City myself," Oliver continued, as he rounded the corner into the hall. It was the truth, if not all of it. He'd been born there, after all, and even if his base of operations had shifted over the past two years, it was still what he thought of when he thought of home.

Even as he spoke, he scanned the hall. There were more people here, and though most of them had a very definite air of passing through, no one he spotted seemed particularly ill at ease. Which was unusual; even under the best of circumstances, darkness tended to unnerve people, especially in places that typically shouldn't have been dark.

"My name's Oliver. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but the circumstances are a little less than ideal."

[scavengerbird.livejournal.com]

Zevran kept his laugh modest. He didn't trust the comfort that those further down the hall felt in this place, but for all intents and purposes, he wasn't worried. He smiled at the man, Oliver. Oliver, an honest man who was happy to entertain a bit of teasing here or there, but would not dress up his displeasure.

Star City was an unfamiliar name, but that wasn't particularly surprising. Maybe this man hailed from some Ferelden island or mountain top village with an overinflated sense of importance. Once Zevran had removed himself from this place, and dealt with countless other life-threatening issues, he could worry about geography. It would be an odd stage in his life where he had enough leisure to peruse books for a city in which there was no one to kill. If he allowed himself to be optimistic enough to assume he'd ever have that sort of free time, he hoped it wouldn't last long. Idle hands and all that.

Fortunately for Zevran, unfortunately for Oliver, he was here unwillingly as well. That, or it was a very elaborate trap. It seemed unlikely and a bit stupid, since they already had him. (If it were a trick, they had at least flattered him with handsome bait.) Zevran cautiously put aside such suspicions in favor of the much more likely scenario. Oliver was a fellow victim of this very unattractive building, and whoever occupied it.

"Then I will reintroduce myself when we are free," he promised easily, "and we can discuss how happy we are to meet. Until then, I take no offense, Oliver."

The end of the name overlapped with the sound of a disembodied voice. It bled out of the walls and echoed around them. Although poised for the attack, the weapon Zevran had chosen seemed more inadequate and flimsy than ever. His pulse quickened in anticipation, and even as the announcement went on, it took several moments before his body recognized the lack of a threat. A part of him was admittedly disappointed.

"Ah, lovely," he began, over the irritatingly cryptic threats and under his breath. Any further sarcasm was drowned out by the screech that ripped through his thought process. The cylinders he had adopted fell from his hands, but the clatter was nonexistent in the face of that noise. Pressing the heel of his palms over his ears barely discouraged it.

[arrowonline.livejournal.com]

Oliver put on a faintly lopsided grin, more reflex then genuine, though the list of people who could distinguish between the two was vanishingly small. It faded, though, along with whatever he might have said in response, at the crackle of static and the message that followed. His gaze darted upwards, scanning the walls out of reflex in search of the intercom speaker. So the blackout was engineered, then. That explained the lack of guards. The elements of the mindgame, the strange, unfamiliar location, the initial absence of clear targets for blame, the ominous, disembodied voice, all were entirely too familiar for comfort. And this time, he was certain, there wasn't a friendly hand pulling those strings.

The high-pitched squeal of sound derailed his thoughts, disrupting both kneejerk anger at being played by some invisible hand and the uptick of analysis that had begun to engage the rest of his mind. Oliver staggered against the wall at the lance of pain it induced, knuckles scraping against the rough surface as he sought to brace himself against the feeling that his legs were going to go out from under him. Or maybe that the entire hallway would just invert itself for kicks. That would be an exciting twist.

The bare few moments the sound lasted seemed interminable, and it was several moments further before Oliver reacted beyond taking a few shallow, steadying breaths and reassuring himself that his ears hadn't actually started bleeding. Then his gaze skated towards Zevran, quick and assessing and sharp with automatic concern, before his attention turned outward to search the hall again. If the sound had been meant to do anything but cause them pain, he couldn't see any immediate sign of it. The walls weren't crumbling or bleeding, no one seemed to be turning on anyone else in sudden blind, homicidal rage, and nothing was on fire. Those had to be good signs.

Somehow, the thought didn't make him relax.

"Well," he muttered, falling instinctively into flippant tones that masked shaken nerves and the lingering sense of disorientation both. "Guess he figured the usual megalomaniacal villain speech could use a little more oomph."

[scavengerbird.livejournal.com]

Zevran shook his head, but couldn't entirely dislodge the ringing that persisted. Luckily, it was only in his own mind now, and the cause of it all had mercifully left them to suffer in peace. It seemed like that was the most thoughtfulness he could expect from the mystery man. Zevran knew what that edge to his voice meant all too well. He could have said anything in that tone and Zevran would have understood that the man was out for blood, for pride, and worst, maybe even for fun. Was it too much to ask that the messes he got himself into be slightly less complex?

Oliver was still on his feet and talking, which was a bit of silver lining, but it took Zevran several moments to pay attention to the words and their meanings. He would have hated to admit that the episode had unbalanced him, but here he was, less sure with each passing moment. There were only so many more oddities that could be fit into this night before he had his fill. A quick glance at the strangers caught in the hall with them made it clear to Zevran that he and Oliver were not alone in their displeasure. He didn't like the picture it was painting.

"People like our new friend are rarely satisfied with subtlety," he sighed through the aftermath in his brain. "Although I do hope that his complimentary closer is not a habit of his. It will get very old very fast. You're well, though, yes?"

[arrowonline.livejournal.com]

"Sounds like you're familiar with the type," Oliver said, and though his tone was a little dry, he wasn't entirely surprised. While he doubted kidnapping civillians went against the already-questionable morals of people who thought kidnapping was a good recruitment strategy and auditory torture a fun party game, it probably would go against their sense of efficiency. Which really made him wonder what the actual purpose behind that noise had been, come to think of it. It had to be some kind of distraction, surely.

Oliver raised his free hand to rub at his temples, the gesture formed more by habit than any real hope that it would drive off the dregs of the ache rattling around his skull. He resisted the urge to shake his head to dislodge the ringing; it was more likely to ruin his balance.

"I'm fine," he replied after a moment. "Been worse after a bad concert. How about you? Are you good to keep moving?"