The intercom didn't come on for quite a long while after the radio made its declaration of war, and when it did, the static that pervaded its broadcast was even worse than usual. Finally, the Head Doctor's voice came through, though his sentences were broken and his words hard to hear.

"...you... ....dare... ...I won't allow for... "

The intercom clicked off, then on again a few seconds later. The quality of the sound wasn't any better, and some kind of soft jazz was intermittently drowning out what did come through.

"Goddamn you... ....kill you... feedback... can't.....locked... ..the DOOR...."

On and off the intercom went, and for the next minute, anything the Head Doctor said was unintelligible. He did, however, seem to be yelling quite loudly.

Finally, some words came through.

"What... control is... ....that's preposterous... ...he's... ...no, I'll fire you once... ...what do you mean, you can't control the grid? Power's out for us too? What is he using, some kind of virus? The animals, too, they... Are you saying he's infiltrated our computers and we're stuck here, and... The new patients? Yes, they're in their temporary rooms, thank..."

The Head Doctor trailed off just as the intercom came back to full clarity. The sound of pounding footsteps could be heard, along with mad scrabbling.

"How is this still on--"

The intercom went silent.

[ All introduction posts for this batch of patients go in comments to this post. As we haven't yet assigned rooms, please pick an unoccupied room at random for your character to start in. ]

[M???]

Ken was used to strange nightly transitions, but even he had to admit, it was never up to this caliber. The Dark Hour was one thing; Landel's was entirely another. Certainly, the power outages were the same, but he couldn't recall a time a voice announced its arrival as well. There was occasionally Fuuka, of course, but she only spoke in a melodic tone and kind words. None of the harsh, grating threats he heard tonight.

Still, the aggressive words and the click of the door's lock did little to sway Ken's sensibilities (though her last words caused his heart to skip a beat), and the boy remained partly unconvinced. There was definitely something wrong with hospital--oh, no doubt now--but the monster issue was still worth skepticism. An outside investigation was his only option.

He hadn't forgotten Argilla's warning, however, and Ken began to prepare himself in case a dangerous threat was waiting for him that night. The boy briefly scoured the room for a makeshift weapon, finding a working flashlight after a five-minute search. It had a fairly good beam (not that Nemesis didn't already provide well-enough night vision), and it seemed durable. The range was nothing compared to his naginata, but it would have to do.

Flashlight armed and ready, the boy stepped out into the hallway and began to make his way down. He needed to find someone, anyone.

[To here.]

The door was unlocked, but the sign hanging on the front of it read "The Doctor is OUT," as if the person inside was banking on the disgusting timidity of humans to keep his peace and quiet. Of course, "peace" and "quiet" were relative terms; cheesy music and badly-delivered dialogue came out strong from the small television that sat on the edge of a cluttered desk. Across from it sat a man in a chair, one leg in, one leg out, and two hands busying themselves with tossing an oversized tennis ball back and forth.

"He means pneumonia, not ammonia." The man berated the screen. He paused briefly from the ball-tossing as a hand reached out to grab a half of a sandwich from the tupperware container next to his computer. He took a large bite as his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, speaking as he chewed. "If you had ammonia, he could knock you out; put you out of your idiocy."

Speaking of idiocy... House leaned back slightly as he brought up his wrist and checked the time on his watch, dropping it again like a numb limb once he saw that only fifteen minutes had passed. Seriously, Cuddy needed to figure out more imaginative forms of torture: The whole temporary-transferral thing sounded great on paper, but it was ten times more agonizing in practice than it was civil in theory, and he'd much rather come back to his team with lewd stories of Cuddy's team of amazonian warrior women and their hundred forms of erotic punishment rather than talk about his fun-filled summer chatting with the crazies.

And he couldn't even cut away the time like he had with clinic hours. Coming in late would mean he couldn't sucker Wilson into giving him rides to work, which would mean he'd have to stop stealing his lunch.

House took another bite of the sandwich. Cold meat heaven, which is exactly what Princeton-Plainsboro would be if Cuddy didn't regain her senses soon and beg for him back. Which she would.

House looked back to the television.

"I... I just don't know what do do about this... this ammonia!"

"Pneumonia, or I'll shove it down your throat." House grumbled.


[ OOC: For Dante Sparda, Henry, Lust, Reno, Roxas, Schuldig, Sora, and Yuffie. ]

[ .........................Good luck. 8D ]

Scar felt as if he'd passed out as soon as he'd gotten to his bed due to the admittedly strong fatigue and pain that having a badly injured arm tended to cause a person to feel, even one as conditioned and battle-worn as the stern-faced Ishbalan. He woke up feeling rested but regretful, and his fear that he'd wasted a Nightshift ripe with the possibility of discovered items and means of escape was confirmed as the intercom's metallic voice came forth and a bright-faced nurse opened the door and beckoned him towards the burly orderlies who were supposed to take him to breakfast.

The Ishbalan frowned a deep, dark frown. He wasn't quite sure if he could count the shameful number of days that he'd spent like an animal in a cage, and at this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He'd been tired lately, after all; perhaps some of the sentiment of hopelessness that certain other patients tended to exude was contagious for those who had seen more than their fair share of life and its losses. But no; simply wading in self-pity was no way to get things done; to use one's own self-loathing and use it as a motivation in the struggle for redemption--that was the salvation that Scar truly sought. Last night had fallen victim to physical exhaustion, but tonight he would increase his efforts tenfold to make up for the lapse into lethargy.

First, however--pancakes.

The days of the breadbasket seemed to be long gone as Scar entered the near-empty cafeteria with some feeling of foreboding that he was the first one to get his meal and sit down. He'd gotten pancakes and sausage, and more than a few fruits, not for the fact that he especially trusted the food here but for the fact that fresh goods had been few and far in between upon the harsh lands of Ishbal.

Scar's red eyes darted from the nearest nurse to the main entrance, and with hunger and thirst that no logic could quench, began starting in on the food.

"Heh," the voice of the Head Doctor came through the static with a slight bite to it. "No point in being cryptic now. Night's almost over, after all! And you all should be thankful for that, believe you me..."

The doctor coughed, then cleared his throat as the rustling of papers could be heard.

"Allen Carter, Sarah Johnsen, Gina Torres, Raymond Turner, and Max Watson are all new fowl to be slain, new birds to be roasted. Heh. Say grace for them."

The intercom clicked off again.