damned_institute | Night 51: West Wing, North Hall 1-A

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Night 51: West Wing, North Hall 1-A

[from here.]

Here was that right turn. About the only place Logan could get to with no confusion was the bulletin board, and by extension the cafeteria: straight down the hall, take two lefts. Once he got there, there was a possibility that he'd get held up - a handful of people had all said the same thing: trying to go through that room at night was a bad idea.

Well, it was a good idea; it just also happened to be dangerous. It sounded like the crew that'd tried to hit the basement last night had gotten held up, and there was nowhere else that could happen. There were two doors in the cafeteria that indicated there was some other way to get in, but Logan had no idea what that was. There was a door way behind him, but that was the wrong direction. With any luck, Kurt would have an idea.

With his luck, both doors led to goddamn broom closets.

[To here.]

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[From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/966406.html?thread=72687366#t72687366).]

The further she walked the length of the hallway, the less people she encountered. By the time Tear arrived at the door to the second set of rooms, the area was devoid of patrons.

This hardly served as a deterrent. The soldier simply scanned the vicinity as she touched her hand to the door. After ensuring continued passage, she opened the door and slipped through.

[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/965330.html?thread=72688338#t72688338).]

Edited 2010-09-17 01:29 (UTC)

[From here.]

They had wasted too much time. That was made clear by the desolate nature of the hallway. Castiel realized that it was his fault, for fixating on a clue that they had not been meant to follow, but he didn't bother apologizing. It had been Gabriel's choice to go along with it.

It looked like the door that they were coming up on, to the left, would only lead into more rooms. They would need to keep moving, and hope that they didn't reach a dead end at the end of the corridor.

But now that they were on the move, it seemed like an ideal time to question Gabriel on something that he had been wondering about since their earlier discussion. "You questioned me about dying before," he spoke up as he walked, not bothering with a lead-in. Castiel managed to meet his brother's eyes for only a second or two before looking straight in front of him again. "What happened?"

If he caught the archangel off guard, maybe he would answer directly instead of trying to avoid the question.

Gabriel's only excuse for what he said - well, it wasn't an excuse, really. He didn't need one, after all - was some vague notion that maybe if he flooded Castiel's mind with it, the other would be able to comprehend the use and meaning of sarcasm.

So far, it wasn't working. Big surprise. He might as well have been speaking Klingon.

- thinking of it, he really needed to figure out what had been going on last night. The fact that those two kids had been speaking languages foreign to him - two different ones from what he could hear, no less! - was still quite bothersome. Not knowing what was going on was old hat, but that... that was au naturel.

The question snapped him out of his thoughts, but not enough to catch him off guard as Castiel was clearly hoping. "Call me curious. Family's been dropping off the grid lately, you know. Your whole regeneration schtick isn't exactly old hat... and for all the infinite cosmic wisdom, not knowing why something is happening is pretty damn annoying."

While it was true that there was a lot that was lost on Castiel, along with countless things that he was simply ignorant about, he wasn't stupid. He could tell that Gabriel was avoiding the heart of the question the second that the archangel started talking, and he realized that that only made his suspicions more likely to be true.

Why would Gabriel have asked about death unless it was something he'd been exposed to lately? He'd either seen a lot of their kind dying (which was unlikely, seeing how he kept his nose out of the other angels' business as much as he could), or...

"You didn't answer the question," Castiel pointed out gruffly as he continued down the hall. He wasn't going to let Gabriel slide on this, if he could help it. Something was clearly going on, and the fact that Castiel didn't know about it probably meant that it was significant.

It wasn't too much longer before they reached another door, and Castiel didn't hesitate to open it. Thankfully, this one didn't give him any trouble, but he was surprised to be greeted by a blast of cold air. So this way would take them outside as well -- presumably the back of the building. He moved to the side so that Gabriel could have a chance to see out. "Does it look like where you traveled last night?" he asked with a tilt of his head. Castiel didn't see a lake of any sort out there, but he also couldn't see very far, even with the help of the flashlight. It was worth asking.

So baby tended to talk when he was put into a corner, even if the lesson at hand should have been to shut his trap. And not just talk, but talk excessively, which was a lot considering the archangel's normal rate. But that didn't mean he was going to suddenly change his tune, either. So he did what he did best.

Totally avoided giving a direct answer ~~which was nothing like hiding.~~

He looked up at Castiel with a level gaze, though his lips remained turned upwardly at a minimal level. "You can try your charming wiles on me all you want, Rhett Butler. It's not gonna get you any answers." Yes, he was going to keep making vague allusions even when talking to a socially-retarded angel. That was just the way Gabriel rolled. He could have evoked a little more wrathful-looking irritation or a general sense of quit asking annoyingly accurate questions, but he eventually broke his gaze to examine the now open door leading outside, penetrating the darkness outside by sticking his head out the door frame. Unsurprisingly, it was cold. Not as cold as an unplanned landing in a lake, but.

Evne leaning outside didn't help, though. It was still blacko nighto as far as human eyes could see. Which he was now in possession of, unfortunately. Or human-y. Humans couldn't usually make flashlights into lockpicks without either a lot of machines or McGuyver. "It has... grass. And an outside-y feel. And it's cold and not in a building. So sure, it's totally close but not really at all in that there is not a a lake here."

The archangel's refusal to tell him anything only made the situation seem that much more dire, and yet Castiel knew that pushing it any further would only get a stubborn response. Gabriel was not the sort who caved even after being pressed into giving an answer multiple times; persistence would not work on him.

And so Castiel was willing to let it drop, if not happy about it. Then again, there wasn't much to be happy about, especially with this trap that both of them had been caught in. He could still barely believe that someone had managed to net an archangel, especially one who had managed to leave Heaven and hide from even its highest-ranked soldiers for centuries. It truly didn't bode well for them.

What they were left to do was look for a way out, and thus far, to no avail. Castiel could not forget the pain in his shoulder and arm, but the reminder was good, in a way. It told him that this wasn't going to be simple, and that he could not get through with his usual methods. But when they couldn't even get a door open with their combined efforts, it did all feel a bit dismal.

Gabriel's response was both a bother and useful. The way he said it left something to be desired, but the necessary information had still been provided: out there was not where he'd been, which meant it was new to both of them. "Then let's see what we can find," he said, moving through the door and into the cold air without a second's delay.

[To here.]

[from here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/965330.html?thread=72700370#t72700370)]

Stepping out into the hall, Okita tilted the tip of his blade toward the ground and began moving along the walls. There was no reason to draw more attention to himself than he'd already have by wearing a white kimono with dark hakama over it. He had one place in mind to go and he would get there before he came back to face what he knew would inevitably crush him for the night.

All of them. Three. All at once. He wasn't sure how to deal with that. He wasn't sure if he could. He knew he would because he had to for the sake of the group, but Okita could feel himself wearing thin along the edges if something good didn't start happening soon. Seeing Guy every day was currently the only real bright spot he had left. He couldn't let the boys know that he was being broken by this place. They would lose faith, lose...

He paused halfway down the hall and closed his eyes.

"Pull together."

He took a deep breath.

"Walk."

And he started forward again, moving on down the hall.

Quiet though the last word was, it somehow seemed to echo in the hallway, each repetition amplifying and altering subtly until it sounded half a sob. And then it abruptly cut off and there was silence, heavy and oppressive and somehow listening, the sort of silence that means someone is standing nearby and just not saying a word.

And slowly, slowly, the temperature gradually began to drop within that section of the hallway.

The air seemed to shift around him and the way his words seeped into the hall was unnatural. There was something off and Okita paused, drawing himself up against the wall as everything dissolved into silence. It wasn't a natural quiet, either. It was the kind of quiet he'd heard too many times on the streets of Kyoto. The sort that said there was someone just around the corner, holding their breath, their lamps doused to hide the glint of their blade as they waited for you to walk right into their trap.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his katana and he narrowed his eyes, trying to take in more of the dark hallway. He couldn't hear anyone or see anyone, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. Someone was there. He just had to wait them out and focus.

The sound was faint at first, gradually growing in volume and echoing sourcelessly in the silent hallway: weeping. It was the sound of a child lost and alone, sobbing in utter, abandoned despair. For an instant the child's outline seemed visible in the darkness a short distance away, but it was gone again so quickly it could have been imagined.

It took awhile for Okita to pinpoint the noise as it slowly took shape. It was a sound he'd heard often in his job, more than he'd like to admit. The sound of a child crying, alone and despairing. The sobs caught in the throat as if the child was trying to force them back not out of courtesy to others, but because there was no one to care that they were crying. It was a horrible sound and Okita cringed as he realized what it was.

Which almost made him miss the outline of someone not far off. Of course, his breath seemed to be puffing up in the air, so perhaps that was it? Maybe it wasn't anyone at all. And when had it gotten so cold here in the hallway? Shaking those thoughts off, Okita began to creep forward to where he thought he saw someone, calling out to them as he went. "Hello? Are you alright?"

At the sound of his voice the weeping abruptly halted, leaving the hallway still and quiet but for a faint echo. And then a moment later a pale blue-white light flickered to life, outlining the spectral figure of a child with hands outstretched in a plea as it gave voice to a mournful sob.

All the while the cold grew stronger, chill and bitter as the loss in the spectre's cries. A few traces of frost began to form on the walls, nearly invisible in the darkness.

He froze when the voice suddenly went quiet, not sure if this was some sort of trick or, worse, a trap. He'd never been able to ignore a child crying though, especially not like that. There were enough younger children here that it was possible that someone was lurking in the dark, crying and trying to be unseen.

Possible, but not that likely.

When he was about to turn back, a ghost flickered to life before him - a child, hands outstretched, pleading and crying for attention. Okita's blood ran cold and even as he wanted to run, his limbs were sluggish to respond and he knew better than to desert a spectre on the field. Those things tended to chase and haunt those who shunned them, but sometimes helped those who aided them. Of course, they also sometimes just ate the person, but Okita was hoping for the best here.

The cold was getting worse now. He could feel it through his clothes and in his throat, burning slightly as he breathed. He hesitated for a moment, then held a hand out to the ghost child. As he spoke, he could just barely see his breath coming out as little clouds in the air. "Here. Come here. It'll be alright."

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[From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/966406.html?thread=72728582#t72728582).]

As it turned out, the new hall was not half as informative as he had been hoping. It was a mirror image of the one he had just left, complete with a door that seemed to lead into more and more rooms. There were certainly enough people to make the place seem acceptably busy, but the overwhelmingly unpleasant mood stopped that thought right in its tracks. Busy implied activity, noise, productivity! Not a few dozen unhappy souls shuffling about like the prisoners they were. It seemed that not even getting the run of the place made people feel free. Admittedly, not even Zevran himself was behaving as an escapee. He felt as though there should have been more running and eviscerating guards going on right now.

A little fiddling with the torch caused it to light up almost violently. Ah, magic, always subtle. It provided him with a more detailed scan of the area, but when he shut it off again, he wished he hadn't used it at all. He felt vulnerable as his eyes readjusted to the darkness, and putting his back to a wall only helped a little. This place was giving him persistent chills, which he thought he had grown far beyond. He wouldn't pretend he wasn't exasperated with himself that a dark hallway could get more of a rise out of him than the Darkspawn. Of course, you see one Darkspwn, you've seen them all. Slobbering, evil, mindless things. There were worse horrors, but none quite so numerous.

They didn't seem to be a problem here, though. Nothing was burning, there were no corpses scattered about, and other signs less obvious than those. But if they came, he had a feeling this place would fall. It was more manor than fortress, and he hadn't seen a single soldier. They were right up against wilderness as well, if he recalled correctly. It was along shot, but if the place was stormed by Darkspawn, or anything else for that matter, Zevran had high hopes he could slip out and follow the tales of heroism back to Amell.

[from here]

Silence. Usually Kirk was out in these halls first thing, quick enough to beat the rush but still able to hear plenty of other people moving around behind and ahead of him. With his rest, tonight had gone on long enough that all of the other prisoners were already well on their way to other missions, far from the patient blocks. The last time he'd seen the hallways look so deserted was his first night here, looking into empty rooms and hearing his own voice echo back at him before he'd run into Chekov.

Kirk paused outside the entryway, caught off-guard by the sudden memory of the young navigator. If he were being honest with himself, he'd have to admit that thoughts of his missing crew never strayed far, but there was something to be said for Kirk's ability to not think. Since the conversation with Roxas, he hadn't let himself focus on it at all.

Wandering out here, against his better judgment — was that just more distractions to get his mind off? The pain of his barely healing chest wounds said yes, but then... what was the worst that could happen? Stitches ripping open. Hemorrhaging without a doctor on hand. Death. Kirk tried mentally repeating all this, except in Bones' voice and in his considerably more colourful manner.

It didn't change his mind, not that Kirk had expected it to. He knew himself too well. Still, he could be careful. As careful as he ever was, which apparently amounted to swinging his flashlight around a couple times and getting startled as hell when it suddenly lit up someone standing not two feet away from him.

"Geez!" On instinct, his flashlight went up in a defensive position, but Kirk dropped his combat stance again when he saw the slight build and long pale hair. And then, just as instinctively, Jim flashed a rather roguish smile. "Sorry... you startled me."

Zevran mimicked the man without thinking, ready to bury a pen deep in the offender's neck, but it seemed the reaction had been premature. Slowly, Zevran's adrenaline retreated, although it kept his heartbeat loud in his ears for a sew seconds. A part of him went straight to the battlefield, the kill, the blood lust. Even as the man apologized and Zevran lowered his weapon and reassessed the situation, his mind lingered on the violence that wasn't.

As satisfying as it might have been to take out a threat, in the end, it was more convenient that it not be one at all. Unfortunately, any progress he had made towards being able to see in the dark again had been undone neatly by the torch's beam. He kept an eye on the man's shadowed figure, watching his movements in lieu of real details to assess whether or not he'd need to defend himself after all. Hopefully there would be very little defending before he dispatched the human. A long drawn out fight might not go in his favor; he had seen the fighting stance the man had taken as well. He was a good head taller than Zevran, and had broad shoulders indicative of a fit soldier. Nice traits in a bed partner, but unpleasant ones when found in an opponent.

Luckily, he saw those shoulders relax, and they were accompanied by a handsome voice. Zevran laughed in response, more for the stranger's sake, and blinked to try and see something better than a silhouette. The ambient light from the man's torch helped, and he could see fair hair and attractive features smiling at him from the shadows. There were some aesthetic similarities to Alistair, but the smile was something entirely different. Most notably, it was not an apologetic and embarrassed plea for approval, but something more like an attempt to charm. Zevran's knew that smile well, and his amusement immediately became genuine.

"No harm done," he declared, laughter still on his voice. "If anything, you have just given me a nice compliment. I pride myself on being difficult to notice, but it is not ever day that I am so adept at it that people nearly trip over me."

The voice was a surprise. Undeniably masculine, at least by human standards, and accented in a not immediately evident way — southwestern European, Kirk thought. You ran into a lot of different accents in Starfleet, although he'd made the mistake before of assuming every humanoid he met came from Earth.

Kirk let his flashlight point at the ground just slightly off to the right of the man(?), but the glow was just enough to confirm his hunch. When it came to physical appearance, other species ran the whole gamut of multiple eyes and amphibious silhouettes to humanoid with just the slightest quirks, and this person seemed to fall into the latter category. But there was one alien trait Kirk could never mistake: his flashlight beam rose a couple of inches, illuminating more clearly the pointed shape of his ears, and also the imprint of tattoos arching up his cheek.

The last time Kirk had met someone with those features, they'd been hell bent on killing him. But the man's build was all wrong for an adult Romulan (to the least, he didn't sound like a child or woman), and his colouring too. And there of course was his tone — friendly, even teasing.

Not all Romulans were as insane as Nero, true, but they weren't exactly on friendly terms with the Federation either. "Trust me, under normal circumstances, I would've noticed you." Although Kirk's lips didn't quite lose their smile, there was a definite note of formality in the way he straightened then, and added: "I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."

He could give this person the benefit of a doubt, but a fighter knew a fighter. Maybe the guy wasn't a Romulan, but he wasn't harmless either, and Kirk wasn't about to reveal his weaknesses to him. Right now, Kirk might've been bigger, but one well-placed blow to his torn-up torso would take him out. Luckily right now the worst of his injuries were hidden under his shirt, although there was still the bandage wrapped around his left forearm from when the cat had tried to bite a chunk out of him.

Zevran raised his eyebrows at the introduction and the quick shift from casual and young, to formal and experienced. A naval captain. How unexpected. The human was still early in his years, and by any standards Zevran was familiar with, very young for his position. Captain James wasn't a child, but all of the captains Zevran had known would have seen him as one. He was either very talented, or his superiors had all died unexpectedly. One thing that always made for young officers were battlefield promotions, and it was a time of war, even for those who could flee to the waters.

He had been awfully quick to inform Zevran of his rank. Maybe he was proud of it, but Zevran suspected that James needed a bit of authority in this situation. Alone and unarmed with a stranger who had looked all too ready to fight back. Zevran had accidentally shown his hand, unfortunately. It was flattering to not be underestimated, but inconvenient. Not to mention unusual. It was rare that a human who felt the need to immediately list his rank wouldn't look at Zevran like he was dirt under his feet, but the night was still young.

"A pleasure to meet you, captain." Zevran let the last word roll off his tongue with a bit of extra emphasis. He dipped into the faintest bow, enough to appease social expectations, but not so much that he undermined the playful tone of the conversation. James didn't seem like the sort who would be enticed by outright submission, and Zevran took more enjoyment out of behaving like himself instead of a scared slave. The Crow mentality was to do anything it took to get in, but you usually made more progress if you showed a little pride.

"And I am Zevran, who has never stepped foot on a ship as anything but a guest. The officers I have known in the past were very courteous hosts, though not quite as military as you seem to be." His tone was unfailingly cheerful, and he projected obliviousness to the undercurrent of tension.

In spite of the potential danger of his situation, Kirk laughed. "'Military.' I wish some of my... superiors could hear you say that." He'd almost slipped with instructors instead, which would've sounded considerably less impressive. Sometimes he forgot that he hadn't even graduated yet, although to be fair, he was still a lot closer to a commissioned officer than he was a student. But such technical details weren't going to make anyone think twice before messing with him.

On the other hand, Kirk didn't mind letting himself seem a little less than formal. Somehow he couldn't see him as the stickler-for-the-rules type, even after ten years or however long McCoy's Kirk had been in Starfleet. Although maybe that Jim had the example of George Kirk to thank, or maybe ten years in command of 400-plus lives would change anybody.

Sometimes he wished Bones — Bones as he remembered him, no alternate timelines or brainwashing involved — was with him. One week in charge of three lives, one of which he'd just lost. Had that changed him at all? Only Bones would know him well enough to say.

Kirk looked at Zevran's smile again, and his alien-but-not-alien features. Enigmatic was the first word that came to mind, followed not-so-unexpectedly by... interesting. Dark and pale-haired and cheerful, where most Romulans (and Vulcans, at that) were pale and dark-haired and stern. Did he know the Federation, or didn't he? Kirk couldn't tell.

"So if I may ask, Mr. Zevran, where were you headed to?" He let the emphasis, and his friendly tone, convey that he'd stop prying if asked, but Kirk didn't bother masking his curiosity. He still had to get a read on this guy, and testing his boundaries was the only way to do it fast. "It's a little late in the night to be making a rendezvous."

"Keen observation," Zevran laughed as he walked past the man, fully expecting to be followed as he let his gaze linger on the man as he went. It would be disappointing if he didn't come along, and Zevran hoped that by continuing to speak, it would make the invitation perfectly clear. Well, at least one of the invitations.

"I find myself feeling a little, ah, vulnerable," he glanced back over his shoulder to smile at James with an unspecified suggestion in his look, "shall we say? Apparently it is quite dangerous at night, and while I have not seen it first hand, well, people can be just as bad as any monster." Zevran turned away again with a light step, and waved one hand to gesture to the hall and all its murmuring inhabitants.

With Captain Kirk in tow, he was all too tempted to suggest something less practical than a search for weaponry. It was tricky to resist, but Zevran wouldn't be able to relax until he had a knife in his hands, even when they might be occupied with... other things. He wasn't a fool, and he sadly had his priorities in line. "I'm hoping that there's an armory hidden in here somewhere. Failing that, a kitchen will do the trick. I'm flexible. And how about you, Captain?" Zevran let Kirk decide whether he would like to comment on his own goals or his theoretical adaptability.

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[from here]

His right leg had gone completely numb. It didn't hurt yet, but that didn't mean he was ready to race the length of the Institute and back unless he had to. He blinked furiously at the doorway as he tried to collect himself; hopefully the guy could take a hint and hadn't tripped over the... Um... th-that had been a giant spider, right...?

Gumshoe winced again when he tightened his grip on the door handle. His hands really stung. And his heart wouldn't stop racing! He tried his best to ignore it in favor of making sure the guy got out in one piece.

[From here. (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/965330.html?thread=72570322#t72570322)]

Huh?

Carter was too well-trained of a secret agent to stand around asking stupid questions. When someone on your side yelled at you to move, you moved and asked later. The bomber went plowing through the door, nearly knocking the large man over before slamming it closed behind them. Good, good, they were safe, it couldn't...

"So what were we running from?"

Relieved, Gumshoe hung his head and gave himself about five seconds to catch his breath. He didn't count on his eyes going out of focus, though. However, he made himself perk up in no time; specifically, when he realized he had to go back in there. It was his duty to make sure Prosecutor von Karma didn't violate the terms of his punishment. He couldn't just--

The door was given a serious look as Gumshoe stepped out of the stranger's way. Wait a minute! If that thing had wanted him for the main course, chances were someone else might have ended up being the entrée! The detective scratched the back of his head. ... Though he was pretty sure there hadn't been a single drop of blood on the floor when he scooped up that flashlight.

Speaking of blood... His stomach turned when he felt a sudden wetness on his right leg...

"What!?" he exclaimed, his head jerking back up so he could glare at the guy. He gulped and clenched both of his sore hands at his sides before marching through another door.

[to here]

((From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/965330.html?thread=72953810#t72953810).))

Claude's eyes darted up and down the hallway once they stepped out of the previous one. After spending so much time in darkness, it felt liberating to be able to navigate the building with his own vision. It would have been kind of a drag if he'd had to rely on Guy to literally hold his hand while he went to check on Dad. Of course, he had Natalia to thank for restoring his sight.

While the coast looked clear so far, he knew they didn't need to stick around here for long. Claude turned and began making his way toward the recreational field, expecting Guy to walk with him.

"We should probably stick to the wall, though," he remarked. "I mean, just so we don't wind up drawing any more attention to ourselves than necessary."

Guy was relieved when Claude didn't seem to have a problem with his plan, but he honestly hadn't expected his friend to protest in the first place. They tended to think pretty similarly, at least for something as basic as how to get from point A to point B; that was part of the reason why they could spend so many of the night shifts together without getting sick of each other, he imagined.

Though it took a lot for Guy to get fed up with someone in the first place. Claude didn't even get close.

When the younger man made his suggestion as they walked toward the field, Guy was quick to nod. "Sounds good to me," he said. He hadn't really been planning to race out onto the field and start waving his arms around, anyway, though he knew that wasn't really what Claude was getting at. They just needed to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Once they reached the door, Guy pulled forward to lead them out.

[To here.]

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