damned_institute | Night 52: West Wing, South Hall 2-B

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Night 52: West Wing, South Hall 2-B

((From here.))

This corridor was empty as well, which was not surprising when one took into account the lack of activity in the previous area. They passed a door to their left, one that lacked a clear label on the maps Spock had seen. While there were several possibilities of what it entailed, Spock knew he would need to make some inquiries from patients who had been here longer than himself. He certainly could have attempted to open it now, but it was better to start further north and work their way down. There would be less time wasted backtracking through previously explored territory that way.

"If the maps are correct," and so far that appeared to be the case, "then we should find a morgue and two autopsy rooms in at the end of the hall ahead."

After a few moments of walking, though, they reached a closed door. Spock adjusted his items long enough to free one of his hands. Grasping onto the knob, he only need to try opening it once to realize it was locked. However, the door did not feel particularly strong, not unlike the one that led into the pharmacy.

Spock leaned down and propped some of his possessions against the wall. "It seems we will have to force our way through."

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It looked like Spock had everything planned out, and just assumed he'd follow. Spock just turned and walked down the corridor. He was right, McCoy was tagging along anyway, even if he could have sworn their orders included splitting up and investigating. The doctor hurried to catch up.

He was sure Spock had a list ready for why it was completely logical to travel together. Safety, different minds to come at a problem from a different angle, and it was a good thing he hadn't encountered that "Weeping Angel" last night, because having another pair of eyes would have been added to that list of his.

They stopped in front of a door. The door didn't give. McCoy sighed silently. More busting doors down. His joints gave a phantom ache at just the memory of the last time they had to do this. He was just a doctor, but at the rate they were going, he could turn over that blue tunic for a red one.

McCoy readied himself. "I'm getting too old to be busting doors down, Mr. Spock."

Spock glanced at McCoy with a raised brow. "If you are capable of serving on board a starship, then doors should be no trouble for you, Doctor," he said simply. Not to mention he doubted McCoy wanted to stand in this hallway any longer than necessary, and the fact remained that they would be able to move on faster if they employed two bodies instead of one. So long as Spock's own strength was reduced to a third of what it once was, there was little else he could do except ask for assistance when it was needed.

Regardless, it appeared McCoy was willing to lend his help. Spock positioned his shoulder to where it facing the door and waited for the other officer to do the same. "On the count of three," he instructed. "One, two, three--"

As soon as he'd finished counting, he threw his weight against the door's surface in unison with McCoy.

McCoy threw himself at the door on 'three'. Both of their bodies impacted on it with a dull thud. The door shuddered, gave a little, but didn't quite open. McCoy gave Spock a Look. This kind of thing had happened at the pharmacy too. It hadn't caved on the first try either. Locked, but it hadn't been that strong.

Hopefully this was the same, because if it wasn't, they could very well be here all night.

They didn't waste time counting to three again. Together, they threw their weight at it again and...

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/995324.html)]

Edited 2010-10-15 04:23 (UTC)

[From here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/994023.html?thread=73695463#t73695463)]

This hallway was in the same condition as the previous ones; flickering lights and shards of smashed lightbulb littering the grimy floor. He stepped over the flecks of glass with an expression of distaste. What he wouldn't give for a pair of decent boots at the moment. The shoes that he did had were adequate for light use but he doubted that this counted. He really did not want to find out if Tetanus could be fatal for him as he was now.

He turned back to glance at Minako, frowning a little as a though came to him. "Did you ah- did you speak with Alfred after that night at all?" America hadn't seemed to be any closer to accepting the lies of this place than he had when they'd spoken that night, but maybe he'd missed something.

Minako grimaced and side-stepped the fragments of broken glass with over-elaborate care. The lights were still flickering down here, too, and it was no less disquieting to have their shadows shifting like that against the walls. But really, was that the best Dr. Landel could do? Dramatics and shadow puppets?

Well, and torturing some poor woman wherever he was hiding. Couldn't forget that part, especially since Minako would really, really have liked to find them and put a stop to that. What kind of defender of justice knew that sort of stuff was going on and just walked away?

She glanced up at Arthur's question and wrinkled her nose slightly. "Talk to him? No... didn't think he'd really be interested in talking to me, all things considered." If he could talk all that well, after the way she'd kind of kicked him in the face.

Howl was announced by the sound of glass sliding across the tiled floor, propelled by a breeze that seemed to touch nothing else. It gave the whole thing a look as though the shards of broken bulbs were politely stepping out of the way of the man who was now walking down the hallway, straight towards the pair. He moved with purpose, but beyond that, Howl knew he was impossible to miss, particularly in a hall as dreary as this. The deep red of his suit, the unnatural gold of his hair, it all served to make the grey surroundings look that much more muted. He actually liked the image in his head quite a bit.

Still, his confidence was not so great that he wished to get too close to these individuals. He stopped a safe distance down the hall, beneath one of the lights that hadn't been overwhelmed by the power surge. It wasn't the best light, but it still made his hair glow with a striking golden halo. (Or so he hoped. In fact, he was certain it did if he was a wizard worth his salt, which he was. He cut no corners with his spellwork, unless he specifically knew they were cuttable.)

"That's about far enough." Howl's voice rang through the hall, clear and pleasant. He raised a hand to gesture for them to stop, sleeve hanging down delicately from his arm. How he hoped they would turn and run. That would make his evening easier than he could possibly articulate. Besides, he was sure that his responsibilities were ranked above whatever these poor souls had been convinced to do. "Return from where you came. For my sake and for yours," he continued, although there was an edge in his voice now, joining in with his accent. The sharpness in his eyes was infrequently present, and spoke of something almost like determination. He felt cornered like this. No choices, no options, no escape. But it was for the best, really.

Despite himself, England's face fell at the news. He'd hoped that maybe he'd spoken to someone, given some sign. As it was, all that he had to go on was the word of the nurses that he was even... no, he was alive. Nations didn't die easily, even when they weren't really nations anymore. "Oh I... I just wondered," he replied a little awkwardly. "He... they said he was released," he added in an undertone.

He still didn't know how that could be. He didn't even know why he was telling Minako, except that she had helped them and he was grateful for that. Ah, he was all muddled. Things used to be much much easier. Another thing to curse this place for.

The sudden sound of glass made England whip round, immediately on guard, eyes narrowed as the man approached. He was very well dressed for a prisoner which suggested he either wasn't one, or was getting some rather drastic perks.

And that accent. Oh joy. It was like looking at the bastard child of France and Wales and neither of them had ever been his favourite people.

England scowled, folding his arms over his chest and looking entirely unimpressed. "If I wanted advice from a Welshman I'd- I never want advice from a Welshman so piss off."

Released? Minako's eyes narrowed at that; she'd been here long enough to know that "released" was code for "brainwashed" and sent off to... wherever people went when they were brainwashed. Outside of the Institute, at least, which was the important part here. So, what, Alfred didn't think he was a country anymore? It was probably an improvement, but it seemed to have disturbed Arthur and he was friend enough by now that that annoyed her on his behalf.

"I hadn't seen him, so...." And there she paused, alerted to the arrival of another -- and one kind of familiar. Except he looked a lot nicer now than he had the last time they'd spoken, and he'd managed to get some new clothes, too. How did he get so lucky? And why was he trying to get them to leave? Was there something down this hallway that he was trying to protect?

Minako tilted her head to one side a little, giving the man a curious look and completely ignoring Arthur's own annoyance. "Howl-san? What's down there?"

Howl greatly desired to focus on the lovely young woman that knew his name and yet was not spitting venom at him or crying, but his eyes were still set on the man. The dark corners of the room, as few as they were, seemed to deepen, and the glass on the floor trembled. Howl opened and closed his hands, feeling the magic that built up in his veins and fingertips. He could almost hear Calcifer in his ears, roaring and ready, egging him on. Where Howl expected to hear a voice and some acerbic commentary though, there was only the fire in his head. It didn't bother him much when there were other annoyances occupying his mind.

The energy in the room built swiftly as Howl filled it. He no longer had to ask, it just came to him. He recalled the years of pleading and coercing the magic to do as he willed, but now he only needed to focus on his anger and they joined hands naturally. Howl lifted his arm across his body, pulling as though there was a great weight behind it. He still smiled, but it had grown overtly false and dangerous. Not a bit of it reached his eyes. The Witch's involvement in his life could be blamed on no one but himself, but Howl's terror sometimes felt like anger or desperation. If he thought about it in the right way, it became something manageable. At the moment, the insult was more than he was willing to bear.

"None of your concern, my dear," he said distractedly to the lady, with only a slight strain in his voice. His mind swiftly went over the calculations, feeling the energy he had gathered and stopping short of anything that would cause irreparable damage. The tension was perfect, as was his intuition for this sort of thing.

"But I must teach your companion a lesson that's been a long time coming, I believe. He'll think twice next time he opens that unsightly mouth and inflicts us all with his stupidity," and in time with that final word, Howl threw his arm outwards against the magic, projecting it, throwing it. A wave of forced rippled through the hall, focused and precise, sweeping past the girl and right towards the man beside her.

Minako knew this bloody ponce? England raised one eyebrow incredulously, his lips tightening into a harsh line as the man approached. So he was someone that Minako knew which did rather suggest that he was a patient. Or potentially that Minako was some kind of spy who was very very bad at pretending not to know people. No-one could be that bad a spy, could they? He'd give her the benefit of the doubt for now perhaps. No sense alienating someone over uncertainties. Not yet at least.

He shifted his stance as the man drew just a little closer, an almost unconscious movement honed by centuries of warfare. He didn't have a weapon, which was a plus, but neither did England which... well, he'd rather have a weapon in most situations.

His scowl only deepened at the insulting imperious words from the brat standing in front of him, acting like he owned the fucking world. He opened his mouth to reply only for the blast of force to hit him, sending him sharply backwards to hit the wall. He struck it hard, gasping as the impact knocked the breath from his body. He hadn't seen that coming which meant...

He painfully pushed himself back up to his feet, licking the blood away from his lip where he'd bitten through it, a morbid smile on his lips. "Two thousand years Wales has been trying to teach me the same lesson and it hasn't taken yet. He used to send armies and the greatest of sorcerers after me, and this is all he has left? One little wizard?" He might possibly regret those comments later when he checked the damage, but really, he'd never been one to keep his mouth shut.

Okay, now this was different. Kind of familiar, too, in a disturbing way, and not something she'd expected from Howl. There'd been no sense of anything evil or nasty about him when she'd met the man, and there still wasn't now. Maybe her ability to notice an enemy was as much on the fritz as her ability to transform? What she wouldn't give to have Rei there right now -- or, well, any of the senshi would be pretty welcome. Even Artemis would be good.

Still, no time to think about that. Minako had automatically lifted her arms to protect herself as the blast of force headed her direction, but when it passed her by and knocked back her companion instead it alarmed her all the more. In but a moment she'd shrugged the chain off her shoulder and stretched it between both hands, taking up a defensive stance that placed her directly in front of Arthur. He was injured and she wasn't, even though he sounded quite determined to take down the... wizard? himself.

"You can't just go picking on someone for no good reason!" she declared, thoroughly wishing that she had the real and not broken version of her chain right about now. "I can't stand by for that kind of thing! In the name of love and justice and the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, I will punish you!" Maybe he wouldn't attack. Sometimes they didn't. But if he did, she was ready to fight as best as she could.

"You two are both so quick to judge others," Howl complained, looking up from straightening his suit. Some dust had gotten on it, kicked up by the magic, but as soon as Howl realized it was there it was gone again. "One runs about making insults and boasts, and the other comes to defend him when he gets what he deserves. Quite a pair."

Howl was quite determined to show that their attitudes would get them nowhere, but he was equally interested in comforting his bruised ego. The man was still spitting insults at him, and while Howl felt his home had never been terribly kind to him, he couldn't resist the defensiveness boiling inside him. Meanwhile, this young lady rushed to her unsavory companion's aid despite the verbal abuse being slung at Howl! Verbal abuse that contained some bizarre references, he realized.

Regardless, Howl needed to demonstrate that he was not merely some garden variety kitchen wizard. "Now, both of you, leave," he commanded. The lines between his body and the magic blurred, and when Howl lunged forward toward them, he had dissolved into a coiling cloud of black smoke aimed right for the pair. Ideally, they would run, and Howl could put them out of his mind.

A scowl crossed England's face when Minako came to stand in front of him, defending him like he were some defenceless child. She'd saved him once, admittedly, but that was when he had been unprepared. Now it just rankled on his sense of pride. To be defended from a childish magician by a teenager of all things. It was intolerable! Despite the pain, he drew himself up to stand straight and tall, and moved to stand next to Minako, expression dark and angry. He wasn't about to let himself be humiliated by this man, no matter what power he wielded.

And, well, the mention of the Anglo-Japanese alliance made him feel rather nostalgic. He had to hold up his end if this slip of a girl was going to be fighting too.

In the corner of his eyes, the shadows danced, a guttural whisper reaching him. He pushed his discomfort away though, focussing on their assailant.

"I don't boast," England snapped. "Not when it comes to talk of subjugating my brothers." He was entirely truthful then because he liked talking about how honestly he'd dragged them down.

He blinked, trying to summon some of his oft-ill used magic to his fingertips, determined to show this brat exactly who he was dealing with and make him regret his words, only for nothing to come. There was nothing there, no crackle or burn and the cursed man was changing, shifting to something intangible and it was really hard to kick the arse of smoke.

Without thinking, he turned, putting himself between Minako and the approaching cloud with roiled with power. He might survive. He wasn't about to take the risk that she would too.

Considering that Arthur was injured and all Minako wasn't terribly pleased when he moved up to stand beside her, but she didn't argue the point. It was partially because she realized that he probably didn't want to look weak, whether in front of her or Howl (if it really was Howl; she wasn't quite positive about that) and partially because she found herself distracted for a moment by the way the shadows slid and shifted against the wall nearby. That looked almost like -- but that had to be impossible, she was just imagining things. And imagining things at a really bad time, too.

She frowned, grip tightening on the chain she held as she cast a sidelong glance toward Arthur. There he was not making sense again, but... whatever. Crazy or not, he didn't seem like there was any harm to it. And besides, there were more important things to worry about. Things like Howl attacking them, maybe.

"Maybe we should go, Arthur-san," she hissed, but anything else she might have said was choked off in a soft gasp as Howl started to change. This was something she couldn't face as just herself with a broken chain -- she couldn't even figure out what she should try to hit, much less how hitting smoke would do anything anyway. It was almost an automatic reaction to danger by now: she lifted one hand in the air, releasing that end of the chain, and called out, "Venus Crystal Power, MAKE UP!"

She felt the Venus Crystal throb once like a second heartbeat, warm and full of power, and then... nothing. Once again she could do nothing, and she only stared at the oncoming darkness, eyes wide as Arthur stepped in front of her.

[From here.]

As L made the turn in the corridor, he kept pace with the other two as well as he could, and engaged in a conscious effort to control his own breathing. There was no reason for panic to claw at him; nothing to fear now that he had already been behind the second door on the left. Nonetheless, his hands curled into tight balls, fingernails pressing into the palms, and he felt nauseated.

No one would fault him if he suffered from an acute stress reaction, but the emotion that rose wasn't terror. Now that they'd drugged him past the point of dignity, pushed a needle into his spine, cut into his head, and left an unwelcome gift as a souvenir of their visit, his response to passing the place where it must have happened was a brief rush of fury.

The involuntary clench of his jaw intensified his headache, so he took another deep breath and tried to relax, still moving towards the door at the other end of the hall. Anger was as normal a response to trauma as fear. Even if that weren't the case, giving reign to his temper was useless: an inefficient, distracting use of time and energy. He could focus on it once he had Landel where he wanted him, and the leisure to decide what to do with him.

"To be honest, I don't think I could tolerate that place tonight." He sounded more nonchalant than he felt. His foot came into contact with a piece of glass, which skittered down the hall and hit the wall with a tinkle. "I would, if it were necessary, but... other goals are more pressing."

They were close to the lab, and had had no trouble at all. Therefore, we will be met there by--what? A three-headed dog? At this point, it wouldn't surprise him.

Edited 2010-10-24 09:13 (UTC)

Sometimes it paid to just do things instead of talking about them. Though Sangamon had to admit he hadn't been thinking much when he'd picked up that trash can. Oh fuck didn't count.

"Four times. Myself three, someone else once. I think it was Miles, but he might have just ended up carrying the bag. Some of the lunatics behind the needles are more careful than others."

Yeah, they were all veterans. Three men, three slight twitches at nothing more than S.T. glanced down the hall. He'd been there enough times for repetition to make that no less difficult than sticking a gloved hand into toxic sludge that would put that crap in Who Framed Roger Rabbit out of a job.

It looked different in full light. "No-one in there tonight. Not worth the mental scarring." Unless they were staging for tomorrow, but the docs could teleport in, so why the fuck would they risk it? "I head up there whenever I can with a first-aid kit and an evidence locker." He hoisted the toolkit so it rattled. Redundant gesture, but Lunge was still looking at him like he was a dirty hippie (which he was, but that wasn't the point). Maybe between the evidence and the gear he'd get the picture.

Of course Javert would have the details. He would have known that if he had chased up their appointment to discuss his own experiences. Lunge's mouth tensed slightly in the corner; it wasn't that he was running away from it, of course not, he didn't run from anything, but... but he needed to prepare his answers. Yes. It wasn't going to be a summary as it had been for Dent, or even L, and he needed to remember as much as possible before had.

Believing that was a stretch, even for him.

It was almost a relief to sense L twitch beside him- some kind of strange vindication to see something in L's face, something so close to what he was almost certain had crossed his own only a few nights before in this same corridor. A tension, the white balls of fists, the breath to dispel it. He knew the signs, he'd lived them. But there was something else there that differed, something he couldn't quite touch on in the dim, flickering light of the hallway. Indignance?

Instead of thinking about it, Lunge nodded at Taylor's gesture. Definitely The Scientist. "I see. Have you managed to analyse anything yet? Blood samples? Fingerprints?" The doctors who carry out the sessions had to have left traces of some kind in their wake. Evidence of their existence. Locard would have blushed. In all of his years on the force there had only ever been one exception to that rule, and that there could be more than one of that exception out there, under this roof, was-

Static, muffled and from two places at once. Not the intercom, so- immediately, he pulled the radio (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1003089.html) out of his pocket in time to catch the beginning of Marc's broadcast. He thinks he's pretty clever... it wasn't surprising that the man sounded so aerated, given what was happening at that very moment. Still very loyal to Jill, wasn't he? Again, the suggestion seemed to be that she was a double agent of some sort but there would undoubtedly be an answer from the Head Doctor soon enough, he wouldn't let himself be upstaged- which would probably also explain what the man had in store.

Eventually, he looked up again. "Shall we continue?"

"I'm afraid this is as far as you go, gentlemen," Howl corrected with the sigh of someone who was in the middle of his work day and was addressing the next task. Casually insincere exhaustion was evident in his posture. Meanwhile, the lack of shadows in the hallway didn't seem to have impeded Howl's ability to step out of them in any significant way. He didn't exactly appear out of nothingness, but skipped some space just to get close enough to hold a conversation (and no closer). The residual travel left a breeze in his hair, and he calmly brushed the escaped strands back in with the rest. They stayed there perfectly without a single objection. Even under the weak light that had been provided, Howl shone as though it were high noon, although he was unable to see that it highlighted the emptiness in his eyes.

The trio consisted of three men, two of which were only in their mid to late twenties. The third was a good deal older, a dignified sort, Howl supposed. He had overheard some of their chatter, although without context it was impossible to say anything too specific about them. They were intelligent, articulate, and cooperative amongst themselves. Howl could have compared the mood to any number of professional gatherings. The one with the light hair was more casual than the others, but it was apparent to Howl that beneath the clipped sentences he was keeping up with his associates. The one that looked ready to roll over and die without Howl even lifting a finger was rather stilted, and spoke in a light monotone. Still, Howl was not willing to write any of off as harmless or helpless or hapless. The Witch was more fond of deception than Howl personally cared for.

In the end, all Howl could say was that they were intelligent and an odd combination. Why did he even attempt to read people? It ended in frustration, inaccuracies, and disappointment. Not that it mattered. He had no reason to tolerate these strangers socially. The sooner he sent them back the other way, the better off he was.

He raised his hand in what he felt was a moderately threatening gesture if one in the group was familiar with magic. It was the precursor to a quick punishment if any thought to test him. "Off with all of you. Hurry now," he warned, but not too kindly.

Before L had the chance to say anything about Taylor's evidence—or, more to the point, to begin to deconstruct the details of how Taylor had processed any evidence he had collected, and what conclusions he might have come to—the radio crackled, and Marc began to speak. L paused and stood attentive, his head tilted to the side. The palm of his hand rested against the wall for support, but he didn't lean on it.

He isn't saying much, is he? L thought, and his frown deepened as he listened. We have little proof of Jill's ability apart from her word and his, and some inconsistent rumors. Also, nobody here needs to be told to be careful.

Something else stood out, though: Like Landel, Marc is using a computer, one which enables him to track "readings" about the Institute itself. The apparatus involved in taking independent readings would be complicated and cumbersome, so it's more likely that Marc has found a way to patch into the system itself, probably the same system Landel uses to control everything. Logically, I could do the same thing—if I can find the means and the opportunity.

However, it also implies that, with this broadcast, Marc has tipped his hand about this ability.... Landel is aware, then, that Marc has bypassed his security? He is... complicit?

It wouldn't be the first indication that he isn't surprised by the extent of their abilities. Maybe he incorporates it in his plans.

The broadcast ended. Still looking displeased, he began to move towards their destination again. He opened his mouth, intending to voice his thoughts about Landel to Lunge and Taylor, but before he could speak, Howell materialized in front of them, and L stopped in his tracks.

Materialized? No, he must have been in the next corridor, past the door... yet it was as if his initial appearance had been much closer than that, and he hadn't advanced on them at all. Could I have missed his approach? I didn't feel dizzy.... No. I should have noticed.

His insistence that we turn back... is this...?
In this hallway? Not the Sun Room or the balconies above it?
—Would he have any other motivation?

Howell had demonstrated some genuine magical ability, and had claimed that he should ordinarily possess more. How much that would be, L couldn't say; it was foolish to give credence to claims of any kind of supernatural power without observing tangible proof of its existence. If Howell's access to his abilities had been restored as part of Special Counseling, and if he had instructions to put those powers into play against anyone who tried to pass him, he could be very dangerous indeed—which meant that antagonizing him would just be stupid. L murmured to Lunge, in a rueful tone, "It's possible that we're about to have a repetition of Sunday night."

For the moment, he decided not to reach for the gun that was strapped to his back. Howell probably wasn't acting on his own behalf; therefore, he couldn't be held responsible for his behavior. There was no point in delivering a serious wound to an ally who would be himself again in the morning. Also, if Howell felt as if any of them posed a danger to his life, his reaction might be unpredictable: L himself might not be able to take much of what he might throw at them. That, and the near-impossibility of replacing the Walther if it was lost or destroyed, made it the wrong weapon for this encounter.

L kept his hands loose at his sides, his expression neutral, trying to appear relaxed. He didn't step forward. He lacked the energy to muster much insincere friendliness, much cheerful enthusiasm for being accosted in a corridor by someone who was trying to dictate his movements. However, he could still test Howell to see if his suspicion about Special Counseling was correct, then decide what to do based on Howell's reaction.

"Howell. We'll just be needing to get by—but if you'd like to join us in the lab, we could use your help." L kept his tone light, but his look, under his dark hair and the halo of bandages, was appraising.

Edited 2010-10-28 07:05 (UTC)

"Tell you later," he shot back at Lunge. When they'd hit the lab and he was watching Mr. Hacker From The Future dick around with the PC in the lab. S.T. would be worse than useless. Twenty years or so back, a guy named Moore had made a prediction that sounded like pipe dream. That for ten years, the number of transistors you could acid-etch into a chunk of silicon would double annually. Transistors -- well, the math was complicated, but calling it a doubling in everything a computer could do was close enough. The manufacturing guys practically pissed themselves in excitement, as it had been tough to sell people a new typewriter every year when all they needed was a new ribbon. Now they could convince people to treat computers like annual planners with fancier guts -- by the time you'd worked out a system, the damn thing was obsolete.

After twice as long as postulated, the only thing he'd fucked up was the duration. Moore's Law was still tracking so steady S.T. suspected collusion, but even if the curve eventually went flaccid, a desktop here could run a cut and paste word processor for every man, woman, child, and zombie in a five mile radius and not blow a capacitor. Sangamon's knowledge belonged in a museum, as far as these computers were concerned.

Then the radio did its sympathetic resonance thing and produced sound of thin (and more importantly highly compressible) air out of a little radiation. Or electromagnetic waves, when talking to people who heard "radiation" and started building bomb shelters out of canned processed meat food. Never mind that they'd all die of scurvy before they ran out of SPAM.

Marc tried to one-up the Head Bastard in a contest of stating the obvious, threw in some cryptic bullshit for good measured, and switched off without even a sign-off. The static alone could have told them there were electrical disturbances. Even if they hadn't been able to see the lights. Or maybe he meant the beam-me-down-Scotty trick some suit had just pulled. L recognized him, which meant brainwashed patient rather than thrilling radio spy drama. The guy looked absolutely confident, which S.T. was willing to take at face value.

"There's other PCs in the building, unless you two had your hearts set on inconclusive amateur forensics." He stepped back a little, giving Howell an extra buffer of personal space to avoid backsplash in case Lunge lived up to his name or Howell got bored.

The sound of a voice caught Lunge's attention immediately and his head jerked towards the speaker, thoughts of forensic science or those "electrical surges" immediately lost in the face of more immediate danger- quite literally the face, given that, in what he could have sworn was an empty space a second before, a young man had suddenly materialised. As for his identity- tall, lean, blond-haired, elegant features- even if the hair colour was different today and those eyes were even less human up close, the description matched to the Howell that the man had picked out for him in their first week. In very elegant clothing, no less, which indicated (had his warning not been enough) that they were looking at yet another brainwashed patient.

He held in a sigh and gave L a sideways glance. "Not a total repetition, I hope." Not that he'd come to any harm in the Sun Room, of course, but the last thing they needed now was to split the group- even with seven people it had been deeply inconvenient. And looking been the three of them, there didn't seem to be a single 'fighter' among them, unless Taylor had a better arm than he looked and had filled his toolbox with bricks.

It was only natural then, he supposed, that L would be the one to try and talk them out of this one, though what good that would do Lunge couldn't possibly say; Landel wouldn't have allowed his brainwashed guards to be simply 'talked' down by an acquaintance of one week, and he was sure L realised that. He could see it on his face. Which meant... a distraction? Any other purpose would be illogical, but it seemed a crude plan for L to devise, never mind that he hadn't seemed the self-sacrificing sort at all. Nonetheless, he was willing- just barely willing- to place his trust in the man. They'd catch his drift sooner or later.

This time he turned his head a fraction towards Taylor, now standing level with him, voice still lowered. "Not so much that I'd stake a fight on it." The whole time he kept his eyes on Howell, who, he was reminded, had some sort of 'magical' power. He'd leave the talking to L, yes, but that wasn't the body language of a bluff and he wasn't going to lower his guard for a single moment.

Howl was startled that the man had known his name. It was the second time that night where he had been forced to consider when he had so liberally given out his name to strangers. More than that, the slight difference in pronunciation hadn't escaped him. The frail one hadn't called him Horrible Howl, scourge of the countryside who preyed upon young women, but Howell. Howell of a world devoid of magic, and therefore the name of a man similarly lacking in importance. He surely would have recognized this man, no matter how much he had sought to distance himself from Wales.

"Wouldn't that be convenient for you? But no, I must decline," he responded with politeness that was cold and empty. It was certainly not born of any desire to protect this stranger's feelings. He could feel the irrational anger towards this man building in him, and it easily extended to the others as well. Of course, he knew it was not truly anger. It was a less useful emotion that he was intentionally misinterpreting. Lashing out was so much more productive than cowering.

"It doesn't seem as though any of you intend to listen to me without a practical application," he lamented, as though they were the ones standing in his way, rather than the other way around. Even as he spoke, the air around him rippled with his restraint. It was so much easier to simply accept destructiveness, but he wouldn't have them go and die on him. "Please remember that you could have avoided all of this," he added, a bit cheekily as he recovered from his earlier fright. It was then that the contents of the hallway before him were abruptly ripped backwards. Men, broken lights, and debris stripped from the walls and ceiling, giving Howl five or so yards of extra space. He quickly filled the newly born no man's land with a creature that was mostly composed of scales, sharp teeth and an implied ability to sunder men with ease.

The first time L had met up with Howell for the night, Howell had demonstrated his magical abilities by changing his own haircolor from brown to blond. Tonight, it was as if that transformation had gone a few steps further. His hair gleamed, and his eyes were bright, with a weird, glassy quality. It was hard for L to decide how much he should attribute to his own condition—were his perceptions off? He had the distinct impression that he had been seeing things out of the corner of his eye since leaving his room. The omnipresent threat of vertigo didn't help.

When the corridor expanded in length, he felt unsteady enough, or unsure of how steady he might or might not be, that he experienced a slight delay in processing what had happened. Being pushed about five meters backwards without the use of any pressure felt like being on a train, or maybe a boat: the sensation that the stability of the ground beneath their feet was illusory combined with the sensation of being in two places at once.

He reached out a hand to steady himself with the wall, again, and that was when he saw his shadow—even as a distressed female voice echoed out from the intercom, advising caution.

His shadow had moved with them, almost as if it was trying to keep up with them. That was normal; the remarkable part was its formlessness and the nature of its movement. The shadow was unusually soft at the edges, and it didn't seem to be as related to the source of light as it should be: the broken lights had stopped wavering, but the shadow hadn't. The darkness in it seemed to be pressing at its edges and leaking out.

He glanced at Lunge, but a shard of his attention was caught by Lunge's shadow, which was as weird as L's own. Another flicker of a glance showed L that Taylor's shadow was normal, stable, sharp, and located precisely where it should be.

It was obviously that the sudden appearance of empty space in the hall was Howell's work; so was the nasty-looking thing that now filled that space, watching and waiting. L always appreciated a practical demonstration, particularly if he could observe it unscathed and at a distance. This would have been too close and personal even on the best of days, and it took his attention away from the question of the shadows.

His suspicion of Special Counseling, at least, had been confirmed. That being the case, sticking around to see what Howell could do was pointless: Howell wouldn't be able to repeat the performance in any useful way some other night, when he was once again free to choose his own allegiances.

In the meantime, the creature in front of them looked as it if would be more than happy to treat them as snacks or playthings. Special Counseling... it's possible for us to be injured, but the primary goal is to impede our progress, not to wound or kill us—isn't it? His experience with the affected patients had indicated as much. Jones's friend had displayed genuine concern over injuries he had caused, and the woman in the Sun Room Sunday night had been more playful than menacing. Therefore, it was likely that all the claws and teeth were for show. Likely—but not certain.

L's natural curiosity, along with his unwillingness to back down from a clear challenge, made him want to stay and taunt Howell, but his pragmatism wouldn't allow it; he concluded, with reluctance, that a test was a bad idea. Either the creature can't hurt us, or it will hurt us. Why provoke an attack when information would probably be available for the asking the next day? Even on a good day, it would be a stupid, self-indulgent decision: if they could avoid an intensive confrontation, they should. With his existing wounds, his weakness and his awareness of his own fragility, a gratuitous fight could be catastrophic for him, and he needed to save what energy he had for whatever it was that Landel planned to throw at them.

All of his surprise and discomfort showed on his face, in his frown and his wide eyes and the slight tremble in his hands. "Unfortunately similar," he murmured to Lunge. Addressing everyone in the hall, he added, "A change of plans, then."

Behind him, his shadow shifted and swirled.

Edited 2010-11-07 08:47 (UTC)

There was a crazy man making threats in the hallway, torture porn on the airwaves, and the structural integrity of the building was suspect. Just another average night at Landel's Institute. There'd been masculine posturing all around. None of them had wanted to be the one to back down, even if three brains and no brawn made a lopsided attack squad. Then the glowing Ken doll had lost his sense of humor. The world bucked like a Zode taking a fifteen-foot swell -- hang on and wherever you ended up was fine, as long as it was upright. It was stranger on dry land. Usually it took a six-pack plus a decent share of a Hefty bag before his feet cut this loose from his neurons.

The other two guys were a little green around the gills, if their shadows were any indication. S.T. stared Howell down as Jill's gasps faded. Then something that ate two-headed fish for breakfast in the toxic mutation department teleported in. Fuck no. Sounded like Ryuzaki had (finally) turned up the same conclusion.

"Dodge, getting the hell out of?" Someone had to blink. He turned around, giving Howell a clear shot if he wanted to take S.T.'s fucking head off, which he probably could do to his face, and walked out.

[to here]

Lunge had barely recovered from the shift in space- don't think about how, you have other things to worry about, logistics are irrelevant- when several things happened at once. First of all the intercom switched on, and it was the woman's voice that caught his attention in full. Jill, sounding more broken and desperate than he'd ever heard from her, all gasps and moans and strangled words. But the content, that was what he needed, and it was as vague as ever. Other questions were already drumming away in his skull. How did she get to the microphone? Did he leave her unattended? Why would he do that, if, as thought, the controls are all in his office? What is he doing at this very moment?

But the man in front of them- this Howell- wasn't about to leave him room to think. When Lunge next looked up, there was a large, scaled, creature filling out the space. 'Unfortunately familiar' was right. Last time he'd found himself wondering how much of the woman in the Sun Room's power had been illusory between the butterfly and the lightshow, only to be given exactly the answer he didn't want to hear.

His hand kept on typing, even if his eyes remained fixed on the scaled thing in part-horror, part-fascination. He had never in his life been a stranger to risk, but now there was really only one option.

"It looks like it," he agreed, so L's face and Taylor's back as the latter beat a hasty retreat. He backed out of the hallway, only turning his back when he was sure he was out of reach.

[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/994023.html?thread=73996519#t74002151)]

[Skipping Howl with permission.]

As Taylor and Lunge left, L gave Howell another narrow, calculating look. Howell's large new friend filled most of the space between them. It struck him, then, that Howell didn't appear to recognize him at all. He frowned, then exhaled on a soft "Hmph," his shoulders drooping more than usual.

Turning his back on Howell and his beast, even to leave, seemed like a bad idea, but staying was worse; L wanted to distance himself from this place, and he couldn't afford to let the others get too far ahead of him. Still supporting himself with a hand against the wall, he made a slow pivot. Then, he walked towards the open end of the corridor, glancing ahead and behind, on the lookout for danger. He let his hand fall from the wall to his pocket, the one that held the five bullets in their clip. The fact that he wouldn't be able to draw the gun quickly enough to protect himself, and that an attempt to do so might make things worse, made the exercise less reassuring than it might have been.

[To here.]

[ from here ]

Erika's irritation had long faded when she heard a burst of static coming from her bag. The detective carelessly threw the bag onto the floor and dug through it to retrieve the radio, listening carefully to the broadcast. A smile grew on her face, remaining there as she listened carefully. Of course, Marc didn't tell her anything that she didn't know already but he was the closest thing to a reliability authority figure in this place. Landel was purposely trying to throw them off track with some sort of trick, and Marc was confirming this. Good enough.

"< Good. > It's nothing new, but that puts me on the right track." Erika didn't have to really think on why Landel was intimidating the patients like this: It was simply to scare them. However, she thought it contributed to the purpose of this place. If she was able to gain access to the rooms within, then it would confirm a thought that she had about the true purpose of this gameboard. At least, the surface purpose...

Erika examined the lock on the first door, finding it to be the same as the other rusted locks. She once again dropped her bag, and took out the flashlight. Tonight, it would have a different purpose. It seemed like blunt force was easier to use for these locks, rather than trying to show off fancy swordsmanship she didn't have.

"Have you wondered why we're relying on rebels to save us, Stephen?" It wasn't really a question going by Erika's tone as she started to make quick work of the lock, slamming down onto it with the handle of her flashlight.

Edited 2010-10-30 23:09 (UTC)

Erika's response was both expected and not, though it wasn't like he'd be completely sure given that he'd never even heard of zombies before he was attacked by a few hundred of them.

"Why's that? This place has done plenty of improbable things." Which meant that anything was a possibility if Landel permitted it to be. It made figuring out the place a lot trickier, as having something akin to an omnipotent figure stunted most progress. As they continued down the hall he heard the latter's radio come to life, paying no mind to his own as he watched the fumbling girl. In the end there wasn't much to offer, and so he allowed Erika to say her piece before continuing along.

He followed her until she stopped in front of a locked door, keeping a fair distance in case the other patient had a particularly bad aim. Sync listened to her ask her question, catching that tone and shrugging once in the process.

"I'm guessing you've got a theory?"

"Improbable does not mean impossible," Erika responded back, and she might have further argued her point had she not been focused on both opening the door and talking about her other theory. The zombie mystery would be irrelevant if she could just crack open the rest of the gameboard. This theory was a start, though not the true answer she wanted to reach yet.

"If this place was a true hospital, it would have been found out quickly. There's no way a facility like this could exist without support of some kind. In other words, there are a lot of people besides Landel who wants this place to exist."

She was slowly working at the lock while she spoke, jiggling and banging it until it finally gave way with a crack. The detective carelessly threw the door open, though not with enough force to have it bang on the wall behind it. She wasn't that stupid to attract the 'monsters' running about.

"The only people who are trying to help us are operating from the shadows. They are not getting help from the public outside. They're working in secret. It's a common theme in fiction, isn't it? Rebel forces fighting against the dystopian government."

A quick check with the flashlight revealed there was nothing of note in the room waiting for them, and Erika quickly stepped into the shadows.

[ to here ]

Edited 2010-11-05 18:37 (UTC)

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Night 52: West Wing, South Hall 2-B

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STILL LATE, but reposted now

FINALLY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

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