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damned_institute2010-10-14 06:08 pm
dual-worlds.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2010-10-14 06:08 pm
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."
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."
STILL LATE, but reposted now
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.
FINALLY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.
"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.
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.
no subject
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]
no subject
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)]
no subject
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.]