James T. Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doneinthree) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2010-08-28 03:35 am
doneinthree) wrote in damned_institute2010-08-28 03:35 am
Night 51: M61-M70 Hallway
[M66]
For the first time, the crackling of the intercom over Kirk's head wasn't accompanied by a scene of him rushing through his final preparations for the night. Instead, he lay on his bed, both hands folded lightly on top of his bandaged stomach as he tried to rest. It had been a quiet dinner. He'd eaten without hurry, making up for his neglect during breakfast and lunch by packing away everything except the caramel apple.
He should've been able to enjoy himself more — to the least, he'd never been able to enjoy his meals when he knew he'd be venturing into certain danger come nightfall. Yet even without that imminent danger, his mind wouldn't stop wandering... worrying. All throughout dinner, his head kept playing through every scenario, rational or irrational, of what could happen to one of his crew tonight. By the time he'd gotten to dessert, his appetite was shot. Even now, having finally settled on top of the covers, Kirk couldn't stop:
Sleep studies. People drugged and taken from their rooms, then carted off somewhere else in the hospital to be tortured. No... more than just simple torture. Experimentation. Could they take Spock? Bones?
New arrivals. More prisoners, yanked unceremoniously from their times and worlds to join the rest of them in this hell. Why continually feed the patient population? Why also continually "release" patients without any apparent rhyme or reason?
Radio Man. Marc. The rebel Spock had met in Doyleton, and the man who'd broadcast the single radio message last night. Before then, all the broadcasts had been conducted by...
"God, what I wouldn't do for a shot of whiskey right now," Kirk interrupted, one fist going out to punch the wall beside him in irritation. His body wasn't even trying to pretend to sleep anymore. He sighed. That gasp... at the end of the intercom announcement... barely anything, but even without Landel's ominous words, somehow Kirk would've known anyway that it was a woman.
He sat up, not even caring that about the quiet protest of his wounds, but the pain was still enough to remind him that he was in no state for heroics. His small crew was more than competent, and Kirk being out there too would make no difference to how they fared tonight. In fact, heading out like this practically guaranteed that some giant monster would chase him down while he was barely fit to run, and then what would Spock and Bones do? Not praise the captain's wisdom, that was for sure.
Kirk reached out to grab his journal from the desk, and ripped out a blank page.
For the first time, the crackling of the intercom over Kirk's head wasn't accompanied by a scene of him rushing through his final preparations for the night. Instead, he lay on his bed, both hands folded lightly on top of his bandaged stomach as he tried to rest. It had been a quiet dinner. He'd eaten without hurry, making up for his neglect during breakfast and lunch by packing away everything except the caramel apple.
He should've been able to enjoy himself more — to the least, he'd never been able to enjoy his meals when he knew he'd be venturing into certain danger come nightfall. Yet even without that imminent danger, his mind wouldn't stop wandering... worrying. All throughout dinner, his head kept playing through every scenario, rational or irrational, of what could happen to one of his crew tonight. By the time he'd gotten to dessert, his appetite was shot. Even now, having finally settled on top of the covers, Kirk couldn't stop:
Sleep studies. People drugged and taken from their rooms, then carted off somewhere else in the hospital to be tortured. No... more than just simple torture. Experimentation. Could they take Spock? Bones?
New arrivals. More prisoners, yanked unceremoniously from their times and worlds to join the rest of them in this hell. Why continually feed the patient population? Why also continually "release" patients without any apparent rhyme or reason?
Radio Man. Marc. The rebel Spock had met in Doyleton, and the man who'd broadcast the single radio message last night. Before then, all the broadcasts had been conducted by...
"God, what I wouldn't do for a shot of whiskey right now," Kirk interrupted, one fist going out to punch the wall beside him in irritation. His body wasn't even trying to pretend to sleep anymore. He sighed. That gasp... at the end of the intercom announcement... barely anything, but even without Landel's ominous words, somehow Kirk would've known anyway that it was a woman.
He sat up, not even caring that about the quiet protest of his wounds, but the pain was still enough to remind him that he was in no state for heroics. His small crew was more than competent, and Kirk being out there too would make no difference to how they fared tonight. In fact, heading out like this practically guaranteed that some giant monster would chase him down while he was barely fit to run, and then what would Spock and Bones do? Not praise the captain's wisdom, that was for sure.
Kirk reached out to grab his journal from the desk, and ripped out a blank page.
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But he wasn't going to start the night off on a depressing note. Natalia might be able to undo some of the damage that the institute had done, and it sounded like Tear might be meeting up with them as well. Then Claude would get the chance to get to know (and possibly even see) two of his dearest friends. Seeing how he already knew Jade, Luke, and Anise... Well, Tear completed the Abyssman set.
Asch didn't count, but Claude had even known him, hadn't he?
Enough of that, though. Even though he didn't have far to travel to Claude's room, he still wanted to be quick about it. He had some news for his friend, mainly in regards to his father. Guy hadn't expected Ronixis to respond, honestly, but he had been thrilled to see the man's penmanship in reply to his note. He even had the man's room number, in case Claude was feeling up to making a trip over to see him. That all depended on whether or not Ronixis stayed put, but it might be worth a shot. Guy got the feeling that his friend would be pretty eager to talk to the man.
The point was, he had to get moving. With his flashlight, radio, and short sword all grabbed up, Guy gave a full-handed wave to his roommate and then stepped out the hallway and moved down it at a quick, confident pace. He was far too used to this.
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So he had to make sure he didn't give him the time to do anything stupid.
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M62
Furthermore, he was quite displeased to learn that Ms. Taura had been out of commission the entire day, which explained why she hadn't replied to his note. A simple query to the nurse about "Ms. Katherine Jackson" revealed that the young woman had been in the medical wing all day but that "your lovely friend should be well enough tomorrow for you to see her!" As he scoffed at the insinuation that Ms. Taura was his friend -- she was a worthy associate, not a friend, blast it! -- he seethed inside even more at the History Club, which was no doubt responsible for her condition. He had noted that Mr. Homura's lackey was posting in the stead of the organization's leader -- could it be that Homura had finally paid the price for his sheer ineptitude? Good riddance!
At least von Karma had gotten some respite during dinner. Mr. Ratchet seemed to have the good sense not to bother him this evening for a change. Plus, most of the food was palatable, save for that sticky, cloying caramel apple, which von Karma shoved away on his plate. Even had he the taste for such disgusting confections, he would rather maintain his distinction for being one of the few men over the age of sixty who still had all of their natural teeth and in flawless condition at that.
After finishing his dinner, he went over his notes in his journal once more. Without an assistant to help him collect metal, there was little point in leaving his room tonight. Since he had one more night before his appointment to have his weapon made, he needed to determine the most convenient source of metal... as well as a back-up plan in case the damned nurse was lying to him about Ms. Taura.
No, there was no point at all in going out tonight... except for an insufferable call of nature. One that certainly wouldn't wait until daylight. Yet another curse of aging!
Grumbling, he closed his notebook and started preparing to head out into the hallway, dressing himself in his court attire and gathering the various items that he might need on his way to the men's room. True, he could have just gone out in the wretched hospital uniform, but who knew who he might run into en route? No matter what, a von Karma had to look his best. And only in a hellhole like this, where dangers lurked around every corner even in the patient blocks, did anyone in his right mind have to arm himself just for a short trip to the facilities.
Flashlight in one hand, cane in the other, and overcoat covering his courtroom finery, von Karma headed out into the hall, locking the door behind him.
[To here]
From M68
Thus he paced and thought about what to do first.
Two notes on the board: one from Donna, to give her the ring back in return for his specs, and then one from Dean. Something about a 'gift basket'. The Doctor wasn't quite sure why the man hadn't mentioned it when they'd spoken at lunch, but if Dean had forgotten until later, well... There wasn't much to be done about that.
The question was whom to visit first. If he went to Donna first, she might want to tag along again when he went to Dean, and after seeing how well that had turned out last night with Brainiac 5... Well, not everyone was going to get along with everyone else, and he certainly couldn't fault either one his friends for that. On the other hand, if Dean had more than just this 'gift basket' in mind, or if 'all that jazz' was meant as code for some other plan, he might not be able to make it to Donna's at all. Or, worse, he might keep her waiting.
Getting an earful from Donna about waiting for him wasn't exactly something he wanted right now.
When the doors unlocked, the Doctor set out with flashlight in hand. It was to be Donna's room first.
[To here]
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Reaching behind him, Okita sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. His designs on life had never included becoming the leader of anything, especially not with what was going on with him. Ayumu being killed, Hijikata disappearing, Homura vanishing into the air, all those who knew he wasn't long for this world were almost gone - all but one.
As much as it pained him to talk to that man, he knew he had to. He had to tell Himura that should anything happen to him, the leadership of the club would fall to him. He had to set up a chain of command. He had to think of what the others would have done in his position.
His fingers curled against his temples, nails scraping down his skin as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Homura-san...what would you want me to do?" He had no time to grieve, no time to do anything but to push forward when all he wanted to do was close his eyes and dream of a happier time. It almost made him want to give up to go back to that, but he knew he couldn't do that. If he left...
"You'd never forgive me, would you?" he sighed, lowering his hands. "Either of you."
He breathed out slowly, trying to release the tension in his shoulders and then he stood, just as slowly. He had things to gather tonight and tomorrow it would be time to strike deals and learn the ways of being a commander. Taking his sword out from under the bed, Okita dressed and turned to face the door. He had to go out there even if he didn't want to. He felt bad that he had refused Hayashi's offer, but in his current state, the last thing he wanted was to be seen by anyone. He wanted to finish his tasks and come back quickly, which was all he was going to do tonight if he could help it.
One more breath and he reached for the knob, opened the door and stepped out into the darkness.
[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/965330.html?thread=72700370#t72700370)]
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Two days now. Two days of not knowing what had been changed about him. If he didn't figure it out soon he was going to go absolutely mad.
When he was certain he was alone, Grell dressed, slipping the extra scalpels down his sleeves and into his pockets. He took his time and used his bedsheet to polish his boots, even taking the extra care to comb his hair out. Another stunning annoyance was that he was getting split ends. He hated split ends.
And with nothing else to do, he gathered himself and headed out. Perhaps there would be entertainment to be found among the scrabbling masses as they attempted to wing their ways home and failed miserably. It would cheer him up at least.
[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/966029.html?thread=72487053#t72487053)]
M66
He leaned back against the wall, still on his bed, trying to mentally imprint her graceful lines on the clumsy folds and refolds of the origami ship in his hand. The strength of her under his feet as he walked her halls, the soothing sounds of her engines and systems all around him, and that chair at the center of the bridge, holding him like he belonged there. How long had he been her captain? For a few hours... two hundred hours ago.
Better than six minutes, right? and Kirk rolled his eyes, but set his paper model of the Enterprise on his desk with gentle care, along with most of the other origami ships he'd made, of various classes and origins. That bar where he'd first met Pike had been one of his favourites, not because of the steady stream of cadets looking to slum it, but because of the aircraft models hanging from its ceiling, everything from the Wright brothers' first flier to the legendary USS Kelvin.
It was in the process of arranging his own single-nacelle origami Kelvin that the radio on his desk crackled to life. Maybe if he'd done the smart thing and slept, he would've missed the message. Did it matter? The radio man wasn't even telling them anything new, but it was enough. A reminder that while he was voluntarily serving himself rest, their sadistic game was still rolling.
"To hell with this," Kirk breathed. He scrambled out of bed, scattering scraps of paper, and paused only long enough to grab his flashlight before shoving his cell door back open. A quick wave of the light told him the hallway was empty, and he was headed out of the block without another second wasted.
[to here]