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."
no subject
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.