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/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."

The childlike figure drifted closer at the encouraging gesture, reaching out to cling to the offered hand -- but its own insubstantial hands only passed through flesh and bone alike. Its touch was colder than even ice, cold enough to sear living flesh, but the keening wail it gave as it found no purchase was even colder still.

The sound of it pierced ear and mind alike, driving deep into Okita's own memories, resonating against old griefs and remembered pain. It was a sound that demanded the listener fall as deep into chill despair as the spectre itself.

The pain was intense and Okita snapped his hand back, his fingers shaking involuntarily at the sudden loss of heat and the unbearable burning sensation. There had been no flame and yet his skin felt like it was on fire. Bringing his hand to his chest, he cradled it there, seeking comfort in his own clothes as if that would heal the ache.

It did nothing, however, to block out and soothe the wounds that soulful wail dredged up. Memories welled up against his wishes, called by the sound of the child's inconsolable grief. It reminded him of the day when his father died. The way his sisters looked at him. The sound of their grief tinged with reserve because the one responsible for it was sitting right next to them.

It reminded him of that night when he'd first killed a man and the screams that had echoed in the forest clearing.

The sound dug its way into his soul and settled in his chest, heavy and scratching at his insides with nails like knives. The pain drove further into his chest and then...it caught. The cold pressed in from all sides and he felt his throat constrict, strain and finally give under the pressure. Even with the child right in front of him, he couldn't stop himself as he began coughing, the cold having wreaked havoc on his lungs.

The spectre's cry echoed into silence as its hands lifted to cover its face, the pale light giving it an outline slowly fading away into darkness. Even once it had vanished the bitter cold persisted for several minutes longer, as though in memory of where the creature had been.

He was freezing, literally freezing. His hand burned like he'd passed it through flame and no matter how close he held himself, there was no warmth to be had. That thing, that child, had been a trap after all and he'd stupidly walked right into it. A child that wept and pleaded for comfort where none was to be had. It vanished into the night, but the cold - and the memories - remained.

Backing up slowly, feeling his legs tremble from the strain of activity when all they wanted to do was collapse, Okita tried to stop the coughing. It felt deep this time, worse than before. His back hit the wall and he doubled over, both to try and preserve what little warmth he still had and out of pain and realization that it was starting.

With one last great upheaval of his lungs, the fit ended and Okita closed his hand. He didn't have to look to know what was in his palm. He could feel it this time, warm and slick. He could smell it, too. His head felt dizzy and he slid down to the floor, pulling his limbs inward as he hid his hand from view. The cold was eating away at his consciousness, bringing back memories he didn't want to see.

Thankfully, the intercom clicked on overhead soon after. While he couldn't hear what the woman said, for the first time, he was glad the night was ending so soon.

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Night 51: West Wing, North Hall 1-A

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