The line of questioning that Rita had begun at breakfast still plagued Loki, as did his own uncomfortable feelings about the entire concept of people being transformed into monsters. It wasn't a useful line of thought, and he needed a better direction to consider.

Hopefully, conversation with Soma would provide that. While she seemed quite stern at times, Loki found her presence oddly relaxing.

Though he had to wonder if perhaps he wouldn't end up seeing her this shift after all, since she might be included in the group that was being herded to the showers. (As much as the statement also was one he greeted with relief, since he was wondering when he'd get an opportunity to bathe. The thought of being trapped in a building with a great many mortals and no bathing facilities had been too horrifying to contemplate.) He'd always been a bit bad at guessing the ages of mortals, mostly because they were so ridiculously short-lived.

Having already established a neurotic fear of the cold with his nurse, there was no difficulty convincing her that he'd be much better off in the Sun Room. Loki settled into his habitual seat, taking a moment to coax one of the cats into his lap. All settled in, he propped his notebook on the arm of the chair and went back to writing.

[Soma?]

A misplaced sense of familiarity met Barnaby the moment he opened his eyes, and the sight of the blank, white ceiling from yesterday morning greeted him. After rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Barnaby sat up and felt around for his glasses. Had he blacked out again and wasted an entire night? Where was Kotetsu? And what had become of the man who had seemingly vanished before his very eyes at the end of dinner?

Once Barnaby slipped his frames onto his face, the world came into clearer focus, even if he didn’t get any answers out of it. He was in his room, and someone had apparently stripped him out of his street clothes in favor of the hideous hospital pajamas. Barnaby wasn't sure what he found more offensive -- that someone here had once again touched his things without his permission, or that he’d been undressed while unconscious for the second time since his arrival.

The thought made his skin crawl.

Just as he looked over to find a lump in the bed next to him, though, his assigned nurse came to retrieve him. He would have to confirm Klavier Gavin's whereabouts later. For now, he had no choice but to allow the nurse to escort him into the cafeteria. Strangely, she seemed to be under the impression that he and the other patients had slept soundly the whole night. While he might have assumed it was an act, Barnaby got the feeling that she genuinely believed what she was saying.

Regardless of her intentions, he knew she wasn't going to be any help. Instead of trying to ask her anymore questions, Barnaby left a note on the bulletin board concerning his roommate. If his observations from yesterday were any indication, he'd get some responses, at least. While he could have taken the time to leave something for Kotetsu, Barnaby didn't feel inclined to do so, especially when he knew he probably wouldn't check the board anyway.

He had no appetite this morning, but his nurse wouldn't leave him alone until she'd assembled a tray of fresh, fluffy pancakes for him. Honestly, Barnaby didn't see why some people felt the need to butt into his personal choices like this. At least there wasn't anyone forcing him to eat -- for now, at any rate. He sat down at an empty table close to the wall after setting his food down, privately hoping that she wouldn't try to find a "friend" for him to eat with this morning. He was tucked out of the way, so maybe she would forget about him for a few minutes as long as he didn't draw any unnecessary attention to himself.

Hands neatly clasped on the table, Barnaby didn't look at anyone in particular as patients filtered into the cafeteria for their morning meal. There were too many questions buzzing in his mind for him to focus on the names and faces of people he didn't care about. If Kotetsu wanted to find him, he could. It wasn't like Barnaby was going anywhere.

[For Kotetsu.]

Like clockwork, the intercom came on at the end of the hour. And like clockwork, the Head Doctor began the first of his concluding daytime announcements with abnormal levels of cheer and good will.

"Good evening, everyone! What a fun-filled day we've had, hm? You must all be tuckered out and ready for bed."

Why, the man seemed unwilling to say.

"Never fear. We're nearing the end." He paused thoughtfully. "The main course of our dinner menu tonight is gourmet spaghetti topped with our signature marinara sauce. We have garlic bread and Caesar salad for your sides as well as your choice of vanilla, strawberry, or chocolate ice cream for dessert. As usual, we will have our assortment of drinks and vegetarian alternatives. If you're partial to that little extra omph, we have parmesian cheese available upon request."

There was another pause, this time with papers rustling in the background. "Take care not to stain your letters now. Bon appétit!"

The intercom clicked off.

Needless to say, her night was a bust.

It wasn't that Ramona was trying to turn it into an absolutely safe evening in which she got nothing done. A part of her wanted to test the limits of her abilities and see what she could actually do in this place, but outside of the absolute confirmation that subspace was no longer a go, she couldn't bring herself to go much farther. Scott's words hung over her heavily. The fact that he had made it clear that he was going to continue being as affectionate as possible wanted to remove any chance of her dealing with anyone. So, though she hit another hall, she turned back around and headed back to her room. Ramona was the type of person who sometimes preferred sulking with company, but that wasn't on the plate for the night. (And she didn't want to call it sulking, either.)

She wasn't certain when she fell asleep, but when she woke up, she was sure the people in charge here had some kind of fast-forward button that they could hit whenever they got bored. That was definitely not the entire night, nor had it been the night before. Sometimes night just ended. Of course, Ramona could appreciate the need for a scene change. This place was already running on enough lame clichés to last it a lifetime. Sometimes they need to return to the daytime status quo to hit reset.

That all said, she was getting the feeling that her own waking up process was a little boring. Ramona was glad that her hair was short now because it made her feel a lot less neurotic about the lack of allowed primping. She cast a glance in the direction of her roommate's bed before she plodded out after her nurse. The woman was kind looking, which, of course, meant that she was evil. Then again, anyone could be evil. Ramona just wanted everyone to be evil right now.

(Maybe she was still sulking.)

"We've noticed that you haven't been socializing as much, Sandra," the woman said while grabbing her attention, and it was as if Ramona finally clued in that a conversation was supposed to be happening. Great, she was fitting the bill for crazy on top of incredibly irritated already. The nurse was definitely evil. And maybe a bitch, with the way her fingers freed her shoulder and she stepped back, snorted softly, and gave a shake of her head. "It's always when you're new that it's hard," the nurse added. "And we can tell you're rebellious."

"Wow, it's been a while since someone thought I was a punk rocker. Don't worry. I can socialize," Ramona assured her as she hit the cafeteria. But it looked like she was one of the first arrivals.

Ramona decided she'd get the woman off her back by grabbing a tray of food and not sitting too far from it. At least people might stumble upon talking to her if she looked available enough.

(And hopefully, that someone wouldn't be Scott. Even though she highly doubted his ability to get out of bed, he seemed to acclimate to this place enough to make an appearance with his face and his smiles and his stupid "I love you"s.)

[for America]

[From here]

As they descended the stairs, Scott's eyes darted away from the marble doors on the ballroom's south side. He couldn't help looking back up at Indy as his head turned, almost as if to make sure the man wasn't secretly a ghost that would disappear on them at any moment. ...Then again, if he was a ghost, wasn't turning around supposed to make Indy disappear anyway? Or was that the wrong type of ghost? Either way, Scott didn't look back for long, assuring himself that they weren't going to lose the adventurer again.

As his gaze moved back down, however, the black doors on the opposite side of the ballroom didn't inspire much more confidence. They didn't have any of the ornate imagery that the other doors had. Instead, they formed solid, heavy black slabs in the wall, like twin monoliths, or those creepy "SOUND ONLY" things from that one anime Envy liked.

He gripped Senna's sword and slipped his flashlight into his pocket as the party reached the bottom of the stairs, facing the ominous doors. Scott's mouth was getting dry again as flashes of that other night played in his head. "Well. Here we are," he said. Even at a volume just above a whisper, his voice seemed to fill the space.

[from here]

Another part he'd rehearsed enough: finding the loose tile. Depth Charge didn't waste any time bothering about the cold before heading in its general direction, crowbar at the ready to pry it back once he found it. Or someone found it. Truth was, he wasn't sure exactly where to look. At least this time he had the grace to give someone else the room to look at the same time. Hey, he'd never been one for filling in the details so long as the overall picture looked good.

Again, he glanced back at the rest of the good, frowning a little against the shadow as he counted off heads, one taking a second glance before he remembered that the kid had left his outfit behind. Still, it was unnerving. At least he'd been able to willfully ignore that Spider-Man was young before. In fact, was he really even a Spider-Man anymore?

Still, so far, so good.

[from here]

The pantry was free of cockroaches, spiders (not counting Peter) and ephemeral naked gonzo journalists. Which was good, because there was barely enough room for six of them, and materializing in the middle of any of those was Star Trek season three material. Transporter accidents were the future's airplanes -- unless terrorists were involved, safer than taking a shower in your own house, but people didn't understand how it worked.

They didn't understand hydrostatic pressure, but turning a shower knob looked easier than a Christmas tree of dials and lights sunfished across a cockpit or a console.

He shoved the tines of the ring into the back of his hand and pulled out a glittering red stone. "Looks like we're all in one piece." Separate individual pieces, too. Always important.

"Kreuger actually here, or is this some kind of Canadian hockey mask allusion thing?" With S.T. as the racist American hick. Or it could really be Nightmare on Elm Street 5: Where Do Dreams Go When They Die?

It was based on a real medical oddity -- bunch of Cambodian refugees with understandably fucked up nightmares had heart attacks in their sleep, and a porno/art-film nobody had a smash hit. Better to think about that than the plot, which hit a little too close to the truth here for comfort. It was going to be a while before he could watch another horror flick and be able to laugh at people's heads getting blown off.

[From here.]

Just like the last time, Guy's feet hit the uneven sand as he took in that unmistakable smell of dampness. This area was almost dead quiet when compared to the hallway that they'd just come from, but he still could make out the lapping of water and the creaking of the dock. All of those sensations just reminded him of the fact that they were going to have to offer up another toll, though. If they were doing this all fairly, then it was Anise's turn, but what would she have to give up?

Guy figured that they should double-check the rules for that, since he didn't want the ferryman to jerk them around too much. He had already tricked them once, so they were going to have to watch their phrasing.

"Guess we'd better go find that guy," he said with a sigh, making it clear that he wasn't a fan of the skeleton. He doubted Anise and Claude felt any better about it themselves. "Let's be careful with asking him how it all works before we offer up anything, okay?" He doubted that he needed to remind either of them of what had happened last time. With that out in the air, Guy took off across the sand.

As the day began drawing to a close, the intercom flickered to life. Instead of Harrington's voice, however, Berg's calm tone filtered through the speakers.

"Attention all personnel: please escort subjects to their quarters for the duration of dinner shift. After that, you are expected to report to your stations -- no exceptions. Anyone caught away from his or her post without direct orders will have to personally answer to the general."

An odd tension hung in the air, but Berg didn't say anything more than that. Once the intercom clicked off, soldiers began to gather up the patients and bring them to their rooms. Most didn't know why Harrington wasn't handling the announcements, or why Berg sounded particularly serious this evening, though no one would admit that to the subjects themselves.

The few who did know had more pressing matters to contend with.

Anise couldn't get out of the Cafeteria fast enough. The stench of rotted food was overwhelming, and she was starting to feel sick. Most of her nausea came from seeing the people around her eating it, though. Even her friends! Anise didn't know what to do... What if lunch ended up being the same?

The Sun Room didn't feel like it was nearly far enough from all the rot, and Anise was convinced she could still smell it even after leaving the Cafeteria. She considered ducking into that blanket fort to get away from it (wait, blanket fort?), but decided distance was a better buffer than a pile of sheets and cushions (but seriously, blanket fort?). After giving the bulletin a quick look-over (No one had said anything about the food yet. It wasn't just her, was it...?) she decided to duck into the Library. With her privileges, Anise probably could have run off to wherever she wanted, but she figured it would be too boring to do that if she wouldn't have anyone to talk to.

Come to think of it, Anise hardly ever came to the Library, even though she liked reading. It just never felt like there was enough time to read. The first and last time she came was the day she had that fight with Aidou. She wondered how he was doing. Maybe it was about time they made up...

The last time she came, she'd been looking up Earth myths and legends. Anise wandered back to that section, looking over the rows of books as she considered giving that another shot.

While she stood there, her stomach growled, and she set a hand on it with a groan. "Like I could even stomach a meal right now..."

[Tear.]

Billy surfaced into wakefulness. Sleep receded like an inky tide, and it didn't say anything to him before it was gone. His dreams had been nothing but the sensation of water, rocking him restlessly in his bottle. There seemed to be an ocean beyond his confines, but he couldn't see it and couldn't reach it. He pawed at the glass, but any progress he'd made had been washed out of his memory.

He tried not to be disturbed by the deja vu, but it wasn't the sort of thing one was in full control of. And yet, his heart didn't race. His nose didn't bleed. His hands were shaking, but with a different tenor than the last time he had concentrated on them. Everything felt still, and whole, and maybe not right, but for the first time in weeks Billy breathed without trouble. There was no weight of a terrified, dying universe crawling over his shoulders and clamoring for attention. He laid there in bed for a long time. Victory. Not his victory, but someone else's, and that was good enough. He hadn't needed to be the one who saved it, he was just doing what he had to. Truthfully, he was glad to have not seen it. There was a lot Billy wished he hadn't seen.

He couldn't bring himself to react much to the fact that he was still here. Billy glanced around a couple times, vision blurred without his glasses, but saw that the room was basically the same. This time lit up, of course, although it didn't help him to gather many precise details. He would have almost said his aimless adventure with Captain Kirk during the night had been a dream, but it was all wrong, thematically speaking. Maybe if Kirk had been a squid dressed in gold lamé, he'd believe it. It really didn't matter what his dreams meant anymore, though.

( Kraken spoiler cut for those who mentioned wanting to read it. )

Any further thoughts were interrupted by a soldier he hadn't noticed entering.

"Get dressed."

Billy stared at the military blues from the night before. Clean and fresh, no sign of any blood, not that he'd been the one injured. There was even a little hat that he had missed the night before. He was going to look ridiculous, he could feel it.

"I think you'll probably find I'm not actually registered here," he tried to tell the guard, who was not impressed by Billy's claim. The soldier wasn't even moved by Billy pointing out that the dog tags didn't have his name on them. (Frederick Aldrich? An eerie coincidence that made Billy quietly comply with demands for a few minutes.) The man spoke in nothing but orders, which were easy to follow when you weren't particularly attached to any final aim. Billy was listless. Flotsam and jetsam. Getting back to London was an eventual goal, but he'd put in a call to someone later, and go back to whatever. His life, he supposed. He was already exasperated by the taciturn and far too serious military man. Once upon a time he would have wanted to gain purchase with him through inoffensive smiles and falsely friendly comments. Today, he could only give the man a tired look and equally brusque answers that didn't hide his irritation. Did he really look young enough to be pressed into a military academy?

He was led down cleaner versions of the hallways he had seen the night before, and into a large cafeteria, basically devoid of anyone beside himself and the assembled guards. Billy uncomfortably found a seat, and took a few seconds to just hide his face in his hands and block everything else out. The tray he had been given was immediately forgotten, just to the side of him, and he blamed his turning stomach on the adrenaline that was still working its way out of his system. It was so fantastically quiet in the large room, he wanted to drown in it. He only peered through his fingers when someone else in powder blue passed close to his table.

[For Castiel.]

[From here.]

It was not the hallway they found on the other side of the door. The crossing of the threshold was accompanied by that spinning sensation in the Scarecrow's middle— similar to feeling he'd had the night the doors were enchanted— and it was no mystery of why: they had been spirited away to somewhere else entirely. Decorated tables, adorned with small flowers and surrounded by wooden chairs, were a far cry from the grey ones of the institute; the room was filled with the quiet chatter of other people, the occasional chink of metal and glass heard over their soft conversations. Windows bathed the room in light, giving it a far more welcoming atmosphere than any place he'd imagined for the mission.

The floor creaked as the Scarecrow took another step in. Only after his second step had been taken did he notice even more surprises: their outfits had been changed in the span of that moment to something resembling the Doyleton clothes, presumably by magic as well. It could certainly do some strange things. Gone was his tight military uniform, replaced with a brown jacket and black pants. There was a brief moment of inner dread before he realized his bandages and stitchings were covered by his long sleeves. While he was fine with just about anything he was given to wear, he had to admit that he wouldn't miss the military-issued boots and their complicated laces.

A couple of patrons noticed their entrance, but their attention returned to their meals quickly. Whatever smell that was wafting through the room was just delightful. The Scarecrow looked over his shoulder to the doorway, as though expecting to find the previous room still on the other side; the only sight that awaited him was Depth Charge and the closing door. There was no turning back now.

As he opened his mouth to ask Depth Charge for some direction (he was the one with the working brain, after all- it seemed reasonable to ask him what they ought to do), they were approached by the waitress. She pulled the pen from her hair, scribbling on the pad she carried as she scanned them up and down. "Table for two?"

Depth Charge knew he was supposed to struggle. It was the only appropriate response.

After what had happened- after what he’d watched- how the slag was he supposed to react went the first thing he saw on opening his eyes was a soldier standing in his doorway, waiting patiently for him to wake up? Smile and ask him how his night had been? With the fight winded from him by Jones’ death he hadn’t been planning on turning this into some sort of miniature revolution, he couldn’t change anything now, but something about seeing those uniforms, so perfectly neat and controlled-- it flipped a switch inside of him for just long enough that none of that seemed to matter. Just.

He’d only been out of bed for a split second before he threw his punch (good and strong and balanced, Akihiko would have been proud) but someone must have phoned his frustration in from a mile away because the soldier sidestepped it smoothly and without fracturing that seamlessly even countenance. Depth Charge resisted the urge to spit and spread his legs in a show of defiance, ready to answer whatever punishment he was gonna get for that one with another pointless swing- make my day, Aguilar, c’mon. Like I haven’t got enough reason to hate you this morning- but the soldier didn’t move. The indifference was galling. If he'd been punished he could have gone on hating, but maybe the guy’d figured he was all attitude already; it had taken the Maximal twice as long to accept he didn't have it in him to keep it up.

The wave subsided- looked like he'd exhausted his store of resistance already when he should have been saving it up, stupid idea, but who cared. In sullen, serious silence Depth Charge let himself be marched out, up the stairs, and into a staff room- though that felt like the greatest insult, being considered ‘staff’ enough to be allowed in. Was this about last night? Primus, were they stupid enough that they hadn’t already figured out that they’d shut him up for now? He was alive, yeah, but that seemed like a pretty hollow victory when they could just keep taking and taking without so much as denting. How was he supposed to keep up with that kind of score, anyway, with his record?

Truth was, he'd left his fight in the coliseum's stands. The most he could manage was a cursory gesture, refusing to sit down at the central table. There was a queasy familiarity to the set-up; he could easily superimpose the the Maximal High Council onto the officers waiting patiently across from him, calm and officious.

He said nothing, watching resentfully from under the heavy hoods of his eyelids.

[From here and here.]

Well this was not as expected. The last hall he'd trekked through down here at least had those swell picture stories about death to entertain them on their way. Here, Peter had to settle for whatever amusement could be drawn from a pitch black room and all the adults holding the flashlights. So much for the Peter Parker Finger Puppet Show. At least the floor wasn't spongy enough to be the inside of a giant throat. Hooray for small miracles.

"Cozy," he remarked lightly. "Reminds me of my favourite locker I used to get shoved in at school."

Taura jogged down the stairs, and looked around. The room seemed far too large to belong down here. More benefits of being at the bottom of a gravity well -- space was cheap, and air was free. The fountains wouldn't be out of place in a fancy hotel lobby, though the rest of the decor was a little macabre.

"There's a maze down here somewhere, but I don't know where, and that's all I've got. I say we pick a door and go for it." She didn't like having no idea what might be back there, but that was true of any door here. If they could put wormholes in doorframes, all of them were a gamble, and Taura wasn't about to hide in her room all night.

Fortune favors the bold, as Commodore Tung sometimes said, and then he would turn around and quip that chance favors the well-prepared, which never quite made sense, except that both sounded very nice but were a little removed from practical application. In a sense, they were as prepared as they could be, so bold was the best plan.

That didn't stop the pit of her stomach from feeling like her dinner was tap-dancing on her diaphragm.

[from here]

The cold storage was, as usual, cold. Taura stopped to make herself a second snack: several kinds of what looked like vat-meat from how even the loaves were, wrapped around some sliced cheese, like a sandwich with lighter meat substituting for the bread around the darker. She held it in her mouth as she grabbed a box of fudge ripple ice cream and waved it. Her voice was a little muffled, and she knew it looked ridiculous, but she only had so many hands, and one of them was covered in blades. "C'mon, Goku, there's good stuff in here, too. D'you like chocolate?"

That might be a dangerous proposition; he could be there all night, but she could always carry him -- and the ice cream -- along. What she'd heard hadn't said anything beyond three people being needed for the doors. They didn't have to be paying attention, just present.

[from ]

They landed hard, in a tangle of limbs that generally required a lot more booze than they'd had last night for S.T. to be O.K. with. It had more passenger space than the Omni, and better fuel efficiency, but there wasn't anywhere to pin a seatbelt.

Speaking of fuel, a refuel was in order. S.T. peeled off a chunk of cuticle with his teeth, loaded the ring. He poked his bleeding finger of something. Corn meal. He didn't need to shine the flashlight over to tell. Even raw the smell was unmistakable. It stuck to the cut, and a lick got the taste of blood out of his mouth. The hole left behind slowly leaked golden onto the shelves as S.T. shoved his way through the forest of elbows to do a little shopping for Our Lady of Perpetual Indulgence (a.k.a. Tifa). O.J. and cranberry concentrate, enough to make a few gallons of juice. And a few bags of pretzels. No bar or discount airplane would make it off the ground without high-sodium crap.

He shook out the shopping bag and loaded it up. If anyone wanted to give him shit about it, now would be the time, when he could point out that they owed him.

[from here]

Here, Rita turned her flashlight on and left it on. Since this was going to be their meeting place, it was important that she made sure it was clear of enemies or other dangers.

Once she was reasonably sure that the area wasn't hiding anything too dangerous, she was finally able to address another important issue: she was really hungry.

The fortunate part? She was currently right next to the building's main food storage. Between the pantries and the refrigerator, Rita was sure she could find something to fill her stomach. And since she had her backpack, she could bring some food for later, so she wouldn't have to keep making trips back.

[to here]

Touching the sandy grounds of the coliseum was a catalyst, and the progression of day did not mean the end of the process. By fortune or otherwise, this group's efforts were not allowed to halt simply due to the rising sun. Therefore, when nighttime was pronounced, those who had undergone the beginnings of an incomplete trial were pulled from their rooms, to be deposited without warning in the spots they had held in the previous night.

And at the center of it all, under the glint of the coliseum's light, stood the Eagle.

Unlike his impassioned speech, the General appeared relatively cold, the picture perfect image of an indifferent man. With arms crossed against his chest and nose high in the air, one might have assumed Aguilar to be displeased with the overall setup. Playing the part of Landel, after all, had never suited him. In truth, he was merely tired of waiting. Five individuals shouldn't take such time to recover from a simple "trip".

But recover they eventually did, and the man waved a hand as if to call attention to the south-center seats of the stadium, an aspect unneeded thanks to his projected voice.

"You're late."

Luckily for Harvey, Lunge didn't have much interest in chatting over dinner. It was possible that he'd picked up on his mood or just realized that he'd needed some time to himself -- and he really had. He'd forced as much of the food down as he could, and after that he'd resorted to pacing the small space that their room offered until he threw himself onto his bed and let the time while away. He needed to get his mind off of Bruce and everything that his visit implied. He couldn't be distracted tonight.

The intercom coming on had been a good way to gear Harvey's thoughts back toward the task at hand. It wasn't often that Aguilar spoke, it seemed, but every time he did it was usually to mock Landel. Harvey couldn't argue with that, but it didn't mean that he liked the man. However, when it officially turned to night and the general's message became more pointed, Harvey found himself feeling a little impressed.

They were people, that was true. Their actions had consequences and apparently they could be rewarded for them as well. Aguilar was giving them a chance to put that into practice, and yet Harvey had other plans. It wasn't something he could back out of now, nor was he ever a fan of drugs. But it was still interesting, to see how the general was treating them with more respect while still rubbing into their faces the fact that they were little more than test subjects.

Heading for the basement seemed to be following Landel's track rather than Aguilar's. Harvey wished that he could find an option that didn't benefit either one, but thus far he'd come up with nothing. Either way, he had no intention of letting Aguilar's offer pull him from his own plans. He had a ragtag group to meet, and so he continued to say nothing to his roommate as he moved off of his bed and gathered his inventory for the night.

First, though, he made sure to change from the old, drab uniform into what the military had given them, finding it more comfortable and better fitted to the job. He made sure to pull the boots on as well. As for items, the flashlight was a no-brainer, but he decided to leave his radio since he was sure one of the others would bring one. His gun was tucked into the band of his pants and he finally grabbed his axe from under his bed, not knowing if it would be needed but not wanting to take any chances.

Finally, he turned to Lunge. "We're heading to the last part of the basement tonight." There was something implied there; if he didn't show up tomorrow, at least his roommate would know why. He didn't think it would be that bad, but it was still better to get the word out. "I'll give you the details tomorrow," he continued after a pause, since he was certainly planning to get out of this alive.

With that all taken care of, Harvey exited his room and moved down the hall. He was going to make sure he wasn't the last person to arrive.

[To here.]