Sangamon Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toxicspiderman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2010-12-12 11:08 pm
toxicspiderman) wrote in damned_institute2010-12-12 11:08 pm
Entry tags:
Night 53: M21-M30 Hallway
S.T. was lying in his bed, eyes closed, while his stomach made gurgling noises turning tryptophan into serotonin and melatonin. He wasn't asleep, although passers-by could be excused for making the wrong assumption. Metabolizing and meditating. Not sulking. He felt pretty good for being a lab rat.
The intercom dinged its way to life. S.T. started paying attention, although he didn't move. What would it be this time? Threats? More philosophy?
Landel was looking for someone to blame. Sign number one in identifying things going pear-shaped. He was grabbing in both directions, too. Bitching at Lydia and letting slip a new tidbit.
Could all be another ruse, but what the fuck for? This Codename Eagle guy? If he was the kind of boss to micromanage intercom announcements, Landel was fucked. If he wasn't, Landel had just spent several minutes of his ostensibly precious time blathering. Again. Tomorrow they'd see. Tonight, unless Landel had been so careless as to forget, there were a bunch of poor bastards doing an Eddie van Halen number on their vocal cords upstairs.
Fuck, he hated this gig. He'd take mixing concrete chained to a rock face half-underwater while thunder boomed like the mother of all rock concerts all night over ten minutes dealing with other humans. At least there wasn't any resistance. It was one thing to play hero, it was another thing to get shot for the trouble. He'd done that, too, going after Basco, but he still didn't plan to make a habit of it.
S.T. crouched down and flicked open the hinges on his toolkit. Everything was accounted for, so he popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth as a good-luck token and dry-swallowed them as he headed for the door.
[to here]
The intercom dinged its way to life. S.T. started paying attention, although he didn't move. What would it be this time? Threats? More philosophy?
Landel was looking for someone to blame. Sign number one in identifying things going pear-shaped. He was grabbing in both directions, too. Bitching at Lydia and letting slip a new tidbit.
Could all be another ruse, but what the fuck for? This Codename Eagle guy? If he was the kind of boss to micromanage intercom announcements, Landel was fucked. If he wasn't, Landel had just spent several minutes of his ostensibly precious time blathering. Again. Tomorrow they'd see. Tonight, unless Landel had been so careless as to forget, there were a bunch of poor bastards doing an Eddie van Halen number on their vocal cords upstairs.
Fuck, he hated this gig. He'd take mixing concrete chained to a rock face half-underwater while thunder boomed like the mother of all rock concerts all night over ten minutes dealing with other humans. At least there wasn't any resistance. It was one thing to play hero, it was another thing to get shot for the trouble. He'd done that, too, going after Basco, but he still didn't plan to make a habit of it.
S.T. crouched down and flicked open the hinges on his toolkit. Everything was accounted for, so he popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth as a good-luck token and dry-swallowed them as he headed for the door.
[to here]
no subject
Kaworu hadn't needed to consider his destination. There was nowhere else he wanted to be, or needed to be. In the absence of Adam, Kaworu thought he had found an absence of self. Time passed, however, and he realized that the void was not permanent. He did not miss that pull, although he disliked the constant sense of aimlessness that permeated his life. Reasons to live, or to die, seemed less absolute now. But this was how he would live, and he didn't mind it. There was something close to comfort in the simple pursuit of survival, which came easily here. As always, there were Lilim who facilitated his daily needs. Things that he could not survive without, and yet he felt nothing for these things or the people who provided them.
Instead, he was drawn only to that which he understood he could exist without. His body did not need to be in Shinji's company to survive. It did not benefit his health when Shinji would touch him. And yet, he felt as though he spent most of his time waiting for this connection to be sparked. If not with Shinji, then with another Lilim who might speak with him. It was these moments, unnecessary for living, that he lived for. It was similar for all of them, but he recognized the unusual intensity he had for Shinji. It was why he now stood outside his door. He believed it was love.
He remembered the happiness apparent on Shinji's face when he had come here last. It was a happiness they shared solely in one another's presence. The morning before, Shinji had taken his hand, and they had remained that way for a long while. The memory was made unclear with echoes of fears that were not truly his, but Kaworu could recognize the emotions that were born from him. (Couldn't he?)
He lingered outside a moment longer, but nothing stirred. The differences between this night and the last made themselves clear. Instead, Kaworu reached out for the door, and found what something deep inside him had already guessed. The room was empty. Two beds, one of them occupied. The dark hair of the sleeping figure lured Kaworu in two more steps, but even then, he recognized it was not the one he had hoped for.
Discomfort began to replace anticipation. Shinji was not here. Kaworu withdrew from the space, the door swinging shut behind him with a finality that left no questions. The hall was very still that night, so that Kaworu could hear his own breathing. He was alone.
There was nothing to do but leave, although he hesitated before finally going.
[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1017510.html?thread=74763942#t74763942).]
no subject
Which he realized he was about to go do again, but he couldn't let those obstacles deter him from helping out people in need. He was already so limited that holding back completely was out of the picture.
Sam seemed to be doing well enough when taking into account what he'd been through, though. Whether that was because he'd had the whole day to sort through it or because he was just that used to keeping his most inner feelings locked up tight was hard to say, but Peter couldn't start hovering over him. He had places to be.
"He's been acting weird," Peter muttered half to himself and half to his roommate as the intercom announcement ended and the lights turned off. He used his flashlight to gather all of his supplies, once again having to resort to stuffing them into a pillow case. He really needed to get himself a proper bag, but that would have to wait for another time.
Just like going to the pharmacy. Why did he keep putting that off? Tomorrow night he'd go for sure.
Even though Peter was still unclear on who he was meeting up with, he knew where to go, and so that was enough. With his pillow case in one hand and his shovel in the other, he turned to Sam and nodded. "I'm taking off. I'll see you tomorrow." Now, how to express sympathy for what his roommate had been through without overdoing it? "...Be careful."
It wasn't much, but maybe that was for the best. And so Peter headed out the door and turned down the hall, ignoring the clanking noises of his supplies moving around in his bag.
no subject
At least if they didn't, he'd have someone else to work with. The mutant hardly knew her, but that still put her a step above just about everyone else. In any case, he shouldn't keep her waiting. He still had the deck of cards from before, and as soon as he got the robe out of the closet he'd be ready to...
Opening the closet door caused him to stand for a moment or two and stare at the contents. Inside, hanging neatly from a hanger as if it had belonged there the whole time, was his X-Men uniform and trench coat. Forgetting all matters of haste, he pulled the items out gently to check them over. If they weren't his real clothes than they were identical, right down to the belt-- or not. Almost. Apparently he'd kept a few too many pouches for Landel's liking, and some had been removed. It seemed a little silly in the long run. There were plenty of other methods of carrying things here.
Did he have time to change into it? Should he? After some thought, and a little regret, he placed the clothes back in the closet and pulled out a robe as he'd originally planned. He didn't know why they'd suddenly appeared, and maybe he'd regret it later, but he didn't want to end up stepping into any ridiculous traps. He'd learn if the same thing had happened to anyone else first.
For now, the robe would hold all he needed - cards, radio, and flashlight. He headed out into the hall cautiously, wary of curious shadows.
[to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1014975.html?thread=74771647#t74771647)]
M27
It would make sense that there were others Landel answered to. A facility with power of this scale and magnitude doubtlessly held the support of others beyond the man behind the intercom. Why they had not shown themselves before now remained to be seen, though Spock did not discount the possibility that there were other "hospitals" such as this one. There were obviously a myriad of social and political factors that had contributed to the birth of Landel's Institute, so it would have been short-sighted to automatically assume that this was an isolated incident.
Regardless, they likely weren't going to be able to learn more about those facets of Landel's until tomorrow at the very earliest (even then, that was supposing this Eagle would choose to show themselves at some point). Spock was more focused on making certain his preparations for tonight were complete. By now, changing into his Starfleet uniform and gathering his possessions was becoming part of his nightly routine, which meant his movements were that much more concise and deliberate.
Items now in hand, Spock opened the door and stepped into the hall.
((To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1018567.html?thread=74788039#t74788039).))
M23
He attached his pins, pocketing the rest, and with any luck, he wouldn't run into anyone with pink anti-psychic shields tonight.
[jumping to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1020174.html?thread=74796814#t74796814)]
Re: M23
What did that say, anyway? M28? No, that didn't look quite right. Could be a 26. Minako frowned at her hand in the flashlight's beam, trying to decipher the smudged writing there. Maybe this would be easier if she had better handwriting to begin with, but really, who was good at writing neatly on their hand?
She finally decided to go with what she thought she remembered, cautiously tapping on the door of M23 and waiting for a moment before opening the door. No Neku, but there was a note on one of the chairs with her name on it and underneath that a map. Not the prettiest thing ever, but it'd definitely do (it was certainly more legible than the note on her hand).
The note, however, made her grin. She'd assumed that the "scary" part was referring to the mecha thing he'd mentioned, but he was just... so serious that she couldn't resist teasing him. Minako borrowed one of the pens from his drawer to leave him a note at the bottom congratulating him on his bravery and thanking him for the map, signed it with her name and a little smiling face with a heart, then left both pen and note on the desk for him to (hopefully) find later.
Off again, then. Time to see what good this map was going to do for her.
[and back to here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/1017510.html?thread=74810278#t74810278) again]
M23
He'd really lucked out that someone had posted a hand-drawn map of the institute early that day, or else Roxas wouldn't have really been able to follow Sora's advice about that kitchen on the second floor. Of course he wasn't exactly sure if the map was one hundred percent accurate, but it was a lot more than Roxas himself had. This way he was prepared to at least go in a new general area, and as far as what he'd seen the hallways and their positions looked right.
Besides, he wanted to look somewhat competent for Ruby. He had to make a good example of the arts and crafts club, and he felt - almost knew - Sora would want him to do his best to help someone else, especially one of the new patients.
Knowing he didn't want to keep her waiting either, the Nobody was quick to slip into his Organization coat, not even waiting for the doctor to finish his first few words once the door had given its telltale click. He grabbed his pipe in one hand and flashlight in the other, only pausing to look back at the gun he'd snatched from the sheriff's office, going back and forth on whether to bring it or not... but she'd said she was a "slash and stab" kind of girl. It could wait.
no subject
He took his gun, as usual, along with his knife (his, the one Skuld had made, not Ruby's—for obvious reasons). He lingered for a minute or two, just in case either Dean or Ruby suddenly had to swing by, but he left shortly after that, letting the door swing gently shut behind him.
If there was ever a time to give either the files or the computers another try, now was it. Maybe even the library? He needed resources, information. Without information, there wasn't much he could do. There had to be something here. There had to be.
Tonight, he'd...try to drop the issue of Dean's soul. Just for tonight. He couldn't do anything about it immediately, so he'd focus on this. He had Ruby and she knew there was no deal without Dean. They could sort it out together later.
If there is a later. But no, he wasn't going there. That was a dead end he didn't need to think about right now.
[going here.]
M25
That wasn't the only mystery presented by the intercom announcements today. Yesterday, Lydia—presumably Lydia, unless they'd been fed false information, which was always possible—had been strung up and abused, but today she'd seemed to be in charge. Landel's self-justification had verged on self-aggrandizement when the shadows appeared, but through the day, he had shown a weakness of personality that was unusual for him. What changed? We are forced to trust our ears... allowances must be made for that, and that to some extent this might be an elaborate show... but if they are, what's the purpose of presenting these particular events? What do they mean if we take them at face value?
As always, the need for more information than he could acquire with his current resources frustrated him.
Because the plan was to make another attempt to investigate the ruins, he would have to stop dwelling on the intercom announcements, for the time being, and to get ready as quickly as possible. That meant warmer clothes. The trek across country hadn't been too dangerous on his previous visits, but it was long enough that the cold itself could be, if it made his progress too slow, or caused his muscles to stiffen. The first step was to get a sweatshirt and the coat and boots from the closet. However, as he lifted the coat from its hook, he was surprised by what he found hanging under it: a bit of fine white cotton jersey. A closer look revealed it to be a long-sleeved white t-shirt, accompanied by a pair of blue jeans.
He fixed the shirt and jeans with a perturbed stare, then looked away, then looked back to them again, not sure of how much to trust what he saw. Pulling them out of the closet, he checked the label on the jeans. They were his usual brand. The shirt's label had been cut out for comfort. Both items were of good quality, their expense belied by their simple appearance, and as far as he could tell, everything was as it should be. He put the shirt and jeans on, still suspicious of them, then added one of the Institute-issue sweatshirts and a pair of boots.
He had seen a number of people wearing what seemed like it might be their own clothing at night, had discussed the matter with Jones, and had briefly worn a simulacrum of this outfit on Saturday, but finding it was still a surprise. Why has it been provided?
As he considered it, he put on the coat. The radio and a few plastic bags went in one pocket; the gun in the other, separate from its clip. He didn't want to accidentally break the stone of the portal ring while trying to climb over the wall, so he ran the length of bandage through it again, tied the bandage off, looped it around his neck, and tucked the ring under his sweatshirt. It would be more protected there than it was on his hand. The spare, broken portal ring would go into one of his trouser pockets, along with one of the small first aid kits.
When he had the supplies that he thought would be the most useful, he locked the drawer and pocketed the key, picked up the flashlight and the brush axe, and left the room.
[Skipping ahead to here.]