The conversation with Dean had been long overdue, and yet Castiel still felt like he hadn't had enough time with the man. There was simply too much to go over, too many facts that Dean needed to be filled on. It seemed like he would never reach a point where he was more or less on the same page with the man, and getting back to the point that they had been at when their timelines had matched up seemed impossible.

He also wasn't certain if he'd really accomplished that much, but Castiel was nothing if not persistent. He would track Dean down the following day and continue his work to get him on his side, because he wasn't certain he would be able to get anywhere without his help. Sam was... another story entirely, seeing how he was still so far under Ruby's spell. That was likely something that only Dean could snap him out of.

While he'd wanted Dean to accompany him back to the sheriff's office to see if it was now open, the man had apparently had his own plans, and so he'd been forced to part ways. It wasn't ideal, but he could hardly force Dean's hand before this; here it would more or less be impossible.

And so he headed to the sheriff's office on his own, walking up the three steps onto the porch and then peering inside through the window to see if it was open. It seemed that there were some people moving around inside, though most of them looked busy. That wasn't enough to stop Castiel, however. The office resembled some of the small town ones he'd seen while working alongside the Winchesters, so he would have to hope that he could get some information out of them.

First, though, he needed to decide on his strategy. Castiel lingered near the door as he thought through it. Should he ask about possible omens, signs of the Horsemen? Or would it be better to see if they had any idea of what was happening in Landel's Institute? What was his priority at this point?

[For Kaworu.]

Of all the sensible, benefiting activities he could have done in the space of hours, walking around in the cold proved the least of possibilities. By the time he found a suitable prospective to rest in without being badgered with questions, Nigredo never wanted to see/feel snow ever again. He hated the cold. Despised the prickling sensations and the block against merging comfort that came when his mind settled. Moreover, aside from the conversation with Battler, Doyleton was making itself to be incredibly boring. One would think a past setting covered in white would be interesting. After the first hour, it became quite the opposite.

That, or the child was simply anxious. He wasn't willing to entertain those reasons, not until a certain person was available.

Before he had the chance to actually step within ten feet the door, a sight caught him off center. There was a...creature of some sort idling in the side area of the building. From his vantage point, he couldn't tell what type of animal it happened to be. It was large. It was dark. It had four legs and carried itself with a kind of grace rare for a living thing. Though Nigredo should have moved closer to figure out the creature's identity, the boy stayed as he was, eyes fixed as though hypnotized.

[For the gay incest fiend.]

After extricating himself from Harvey's company, Peter found himself at an utter loss for what to do. He drifted away from the park (too cold for that), munching on his breakfast muffin and searching out some place where $15 might be useful. The coupon pack was about as helpful as it had ever been. He wandered past Pearl's Prettification Parlour, took a long look at the matching coupon, and kept on walking.

Nope.

He was having trouble deciding what to do at all, actually. With his breakfast soon gone, he wasn't in the mood for food. That cut out the restaurants. And the grocer. And he didn't particularly like the idea of staying outside. Not just for the cold, but...memories took longer to fade than he'd like. Injured as he was and paranoid as ever, Peter could almost feel the rotten bodies pressing in from every side. And Harry had been right over there.

Peter paused, staring at the pristine walls and streets covered in snow. It had only been two weeks. Shouldn't there still be some sign that it happened at all?

Standing around digging at old wounds would help no one today. He had money, and he should make use of it. Yet the rest of the fare in Doyleton was a little kitschy for his liking, so he kept on walking, hoping to strike gold or have miraculously missed a store on his last few trips in. In the span of ten minutes, he'd already hit the other side of town.

What was this magic. How could anyone survive in a hamlet like this? They didn't even have a proper hot dog stand. Were really those so hard to get? God, he missed New York. If Peter had fifteen dollars and was in New York right now, that money would have vanished lickety split. Here, the pickings were so slim he was actually contemplating screwing it all and buying himself a pack of Cheetos and a coke. If they even sold that.

Maybe he'd overlooked something. Didn't think a possibility through. Peter turned right around and started trekking back the way he came, scanning each shop front with great care and quietly wondering if they could ever take a field trip to somewhere worthwhile.

[FOR SAKURA HARUNO.]

Previously, on Peter Parker's Sucky Life:

Pain, pain, fourth wall bulldozing, fire and pain, and teeny useless swords.

Yeah, so Peter wasn't feeling so hot today. It was a marked improvement on waking up after getting shanked by Grell, but this was in no way a good morning. They had all made it through the basement trials and got their dinky rewards, but man did they pay a hefty price for it. All of them. (Scott and the others had to fight robot raptors? What the hell...) Peter rose from his bed oh so delicately and with much wincing, thanking whoever it was that carried them back to bed every night for putting him belly down on his mattress.

His back, oh god. Peter seethed and hissed and grunted in pain. It felt like it was scabbing over, and the bandages yanked at the tender skin with every minute muscle spasm, every move he made. Cripes. Better his back than his arms or legs, but still. It was going to make things so difficult if they got stuck in Doyleton all over again.

Brainy was so thoroughly wrapped in his blankets on the other side of the room that Peter couldn't make heads or tails of his current state. But he'd stayed in the whole night, right? He should be fine.

Sometimes he just needed extra convincing of that. Considering the guy's track record and all.

From the sounds of it, this Aguilar guy wasn't changing too much of the routine. Being field trip day, Peter had wondered how the new man in charge would handle it (or how General Lieutenant Burger would, apparently). If he planned on letting them out at all. The announcement squashed that theory, and so did the orderly tromping in with a second-hand change of clothes. The burly man passed him the goods without so much as a word, stomping right back outside to wait behind the door. Guess they weren't going in military gear.

...Orderly? Peter pushed the door open again after performing the hastiest change of clothes he could manage in his state, peering at the man. That guy was in an army uniform yesterday. He remembered him. His buzz cut was uneven and he had a pointy old mole on the back of his neck.

"Uh. Are you going incognito?"

He was suddenly on the end of such a pointed look Peter could swear he was talking to Nick Fury. If Nick Fury was white and still had both eyes. "...Right. Okay. Lead the way, hombre."

So undercover it was. The people of Doyleton didn't know this was a military operation. Briefly, he wondered what the advantages of revealing that to the townsfolk could be, but then he remembered how they'd all up and morphed into the living dead at sundown. Put to rest any usefulness they might have had. They were just puppets, the same as the rest of the creepy crawlies in this hellhole.

Though that did beg the question as to why you would have to hide your secrets from puppets in the first place.

He was bequeathed with the usual paper bag lunch and packet of coupons, though he was still surprised to find himself a $15 gift card in the mix. Intercom Dude wasn't kidding about that?

He had money?

...What would he even do with money in Doyleton? What was fifteen dollars and worth buying that wasn't a gourmet burger? Peter boggled at the card as he clambered onto the bus. He'd never gone through the town with any inclination to window shop, so he couldn't even say what was available. He might actually have to look around. Even something simple might be a big help.

The orderly-formerly-known-as-Private-Dwight followed him on tucked a pillow into his seat for him. "Sit down. And don't do anything stupid. You'll heal a lot faster if you don't agitate it."

Peter fidgeted, but quietly settled into the pillow. This was kind of awkward. "Um. Thank you. I deeply appreciate your concern." The man nodded, and was gone.

Peter was the only one on the bus so far. The emptiness was kind of creeping him out.

[Reserved for Harvey Dent. WHY AM I TOP POSTING EVERYTHING YOU JERKS.]

[From here.]

Yep. Still the only one here. He supposed that could be a good thing. That meant there would be less people to notice the teenage boy strolling into the bathroom and the schmuck in tights that came out two minutes later. He was all for less people noticing that.

[To here.]

Erika had no interest of going out in the courtyard, where it was snowing. Snow meant that it was cold, wet, and exceedingly unpleasant, so when she was presented with the option, she refused at light speed. Unfortunately, she also wasn't one of the lucky ones who got to roam freely, so the Sun Room was the only option left. Erika supposed it wasn't so bad, since she had business there. And the first order of business was on the bulletin, where she went about her daily task of reading everyone else’s messages before reading her own, because it was left up in a public space and that meant she had every right to read it. It helped her kill time while she waited for her mysterious “friend” to show up, at least.

There were few in this place who would recognize her signature, and it was very odd that this person didn’t want to name themselves on this board. In fact, that whole conversation had been a little odd… The person knew her, but Erika had the feeling that she didn’t know them. It was just a feeling she had, since there was really nothing in their conversation that hinted towards that. Still, it was just odd to her that this person refused to name themselves on the board, yet was willing to arrange a meeting. She supposed it was just something that would be better explained in person, though Erika couldn’t imagine what that was. It wasn’t like she minded a face to face meeting, anyway.

Since this person knew who she was, that hopefully meant they knew what she looked like, so all Erika could do was wait patiently for her “guest” to show up. In the meantime, she was more than happy to bully stupid people on the bulletin to pass her time, like that moron who threw juice at her hair. Oh, she was going to have fun with him…

It would have been very hard for anyone to miss the sight of Erika making creepy faces at the bulletin board.

[ hi lion…. ]

For once, HK was working very hard to hide a giddy facial expression as he met his nurse at the door. He'd already hidden his scalpels in his clothing. The wonderful, sharp implements of doom would be needed today. “Statement: Despite my reticence towards all processed meat and plant products, I am experiencing intolerable levels of hunger,” he informed his nurse. “I require an especially large meal.”

It was the easiest and best excuse to load his food tray with several of these 'inglish muffin sandwiches', and two glasses of white milk. He then found a table strategically located in the center of the refueling area, and waited. He needed the room as full as possible before the Evil Plan could begin.

[Free, but planning doom upon all.]

[From here.]

It was the third (fourth?) time he had been in this stair way. Above them, most of what he knew was unclear. The memories were changed by bias and emotion, and he had not seen cause to observe all the details. It was nothing that was relevant now, except one incident. That time had been spent within himself, with questions that had no answers. Questions that had been useless to ask, but still stayed with him. He was the only one who truly knew, but the doubt that had been created then was returning to him. It sometimes did, in brief moments, but it was strong now. The feeling of a flaw within him, and what had been wrong even before they had come for him, came to him in force. Kaworu's hand rose to his chest, as the other rested faintly on the railing. The cool feeling of the metal and the grime of the rust and flaking paint under his fingers woke him for a moment.

He had decided he would not stop. Kaworu looked up into the darkness as he took the first step. He was not alone, and that was a comfort.

[From here.]

At one point Sora might have noted how the hall was particularly empty, but as things stood, he just made his way around the corner and toward the block's exit without really thinking about it. The fact of the matter was that he'd seen this hall in so many different states (empty, packed full of people, streaked with blood after a fight) that it hardly registered. He could have tried to analyze the situation, but in the end there wasn't much that could be determined this early in the night.

When he thought about it, he hadn't done something this routine since he'd been in school. (Which was a sad enough realization on its own, but it was true.) His life as a Keyblade Master had been constantly changing. Sure, there had been a pattern (move to the next world, fight Heartless, move on again), but at least he'd generally been exposed to brand new places each time.

This place, on the other hand, was as drab as could be. Until something bad happened, of course.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Sora opened the door and then slipped out into the next corridor.

[To here.]

[ from here ]

This hall, she concluded based on the younger Peter's directions, she concluded, was where her uncle's room was. She took a quick look at the nurse's station as she passed it, and the door that led to the patient block. It was the same as on her end, so really, there was nothing special to see, but it was something she committed to memory for the future when she needed to go check on him.

She considered doing it now, seeing if she could catch him before he went out with his little search and rescue crew to heal people. But, it wasn't the best of ideas, and she had to remind herself that helping the younger Peter with his flashlight troubles was her priority for the night -- not checking up on those villas of blood her uncle had drawn.

So, she kept walking, straight through the open doors into the next hall.

[ to here ]

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]

[from here]

And again, quiet. Silence broken only by far off footsteps and the creak of a building settling. There was more in the darkness, Ayanami knew this, but currently nothing had stepped forward to show itself. This night was too similar to another, and her hand raised to her neck without meaning to. There was nothing like trauma in this, she told herself. It was only that she had become wary of empty halls, had become distrustful of others in the dark.

More than before, it seemed. Still, Rei moved slowly, satisfied with checking the hall thoroughly before passing through.

[Eva pilots!~]

Sleep came and left Kaworu easily. He couldn't remember most of the time he had spent there in bed, but he acknowledged the absence of experience. Nothing had happened that day. A person had told him to sleep, and laid a hand on his head. He had felt nothing. He only stayed still, and waited for the bleed of identities that did not come. He was instead left there alone, until the silence led him back to sleep.

At times he stirred, reacting to a noise, reaching out to its source. Before, it had escaped him, and he would forget his desire to know what was happening outside of his room, outside of his own awareness, which was shallow and tired. Now, though, it was more than just the murmur of life outside, or the hinges of the door. It was a voice, full of familiarity but without any warmth. It was routine to hear this man, to be spoken to by him every day. Never, though, would Kaworu speak to him. An individual who was significant to him through exposure and his control over Kaworu's life. And yet, Kaworu was only a piece of a whole. Like the Lilim. They were all one.

Kaworu rose from the bed. Blankets fell off his body as he went to engage in more familiarity. More habits. The tone of Landel's voice had told him where he was, in which world they existed now, although Kaworu couldn't recall his words. He believed their meaning was the same as it always had been.

He found the flashlight. It was weak now. It faded to yellow, and made the shadows in the room watery and uneasy. The gray surrounded him and framed a sliver of blue, drawing his eyes towards the only thing that had changed. The door was cold and unwilling, and seemed to ache under the weight of Kaworu's push, but it yielded. His fingertips still hovered over its sharp edge as he stared at the shape of the plugsuit in the closet. Even empty and dead, its relevance removed, Kaworu reached for it. He was conscious again of how his hands were bare and he was exposed, not to that which was tactile under his fingers, but to the others that they would allow in with little discretion.

Kaworu discarded the clothing he had been wearing, and stepped into the plugsuit, one bare foot, then the other. It hung unnaturally off his hands, distorting the outline that he knew existed. Even when it sealed itself tightly around him, his hands didn't seem to be his own.

There was nothing else he needed.

[To here.]

With sigh that toed the ambiguous no-mans-land between soft and explosive, Yuffie collected a plateful of waffles with all the toppings. She was sure that, if nothing else, it'd making a pretty satisfying splat if—when?—she launched it at somebody's face, and that was all that counted.

"Hanna, isn't that a little much?" Plucky asked, doubtfully.

"Uhhm. No. About, like... a little while ago, I managed five caramel apple pies with ice cream and berries and, y'know, I think there was a gallon of soda involved at some point." It wasn't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There really had been five caramel apple pies, but Cloud had ended up wearing two and a half and the third had taken a vacation to Boobsville (Tifa had loved it. Really. Really). The moral of the story (as she'd told Marlene and Denzel later) was that anything was game, just as long as you could run fast enough afterwards.

The nurse nodded slowly. "I… suppose. Well, I'll leave you to it. See that you behave, won't you, dear? You need to set a good example for the new batch of patients."

"My examples are the best examples," Yuffie proclaimed, with the dark-bright grin that still came so easily, no matter how little she felt really felt it. It lingered even when the nurse had flitted off to deal with another charge, but there was an edge to it. What the edge was, Yuffie couldn't say. Didn't want to say, after what'd gone down last night. Nah, she had better things to do; things like sitting down and waiting, just waiting, for Cloud or some other sucker of an easy target to walk through the door.

[HARLEY HARTWELL o/]

[M22]

The History Club was a temporary solution, Zevran reassured himself.

Loyalty had never been one of his strongest traits, he had been told on multiple occasions. He already had countless betrayals under his belt, and guessed that there would be many more to come in his lifetime. They varied in significance, and Zevran typically didn't count the small ones. The small ones meaning those where he had planned to turn on the person from the very first moment he smiled at them. All of them were marks, plenty of which were quick enough to take him to bed, and that tended to fog their judgment. They didn't consider Zevran to be anything more than a silly, easy elf, and they assigned him with whichever imagined motivations suited them. Lust, greed, desperation, but rarely murder. Zevran would readily take advantage, and felt no guilt afterward. It was simply a means to an end. His own personal strategy, if you will. All killers and warriors had their own way of handling what they must. At the end of the day, death was a business, and not just for an assassin. If you wanted to survive, you needed to kill or accept those that did the killing for you. Speaking of killing, Zevran gathered his meager supplies, and hoped they would do the trick. He needed better armaments if he expected to come out of this alive. If the Maker was merciful, then Asuka and Agatha would be able to take care of themselves.

Zevran had met too many people willing to judge those who dealt in death. He could almost understand why they gave him those judging looks, but only if he took into account their assumption that he was paid handsomely for each dead soul. It was not strictly true, of course, but he would never lie and say he hadn't benefited, or even enjoyed it. But it all blurred together with time.

The betrayals that stayed with him had sometimes involved death, other times not. He regretted some and cherished others, even if they had amounted to nothing. He didn't wish to think of leaving the Crows as a pointless event, but then he had ended up here, where everything was made pointless. He knew nothing of where he was, he was apparently alone, and his surroundings were dizzily unfamiliar. Zevran was becoming convinced that he was the lone elf.

And yet still, he felt discomfort signing up with another entity, having not even had the chance to properly turn on Amell and cause him great danger and turmoil. It was bitter humor that made him think he ought to have at least quit the warden's company more memorably if he were to never return. But now that he thought about it, seducing him and then disappearing come morning was rather dramatic, in and of itself. Perhaps Zevran would not be so easily forgotten after all. He hadn't hoped for anything else from the tryst, but there was something to be said for the man's company...

And that was why he was letting someone else hold his leash, Zevran supposed. If all he wanted was to run, then there seemed to be no further place than this. But Zevran had to acknowledge that what he truly desired the shabby sort of freedom he had found previously, and then been ripped away from. It would be so much easier to call it a wash and see about running off into the woods (for all it was worth), but no. He had to make things difficult for himself. He really should have thought about how difficult this would be before he decided to let himself get comfortable back home. Zevran would need to be more careful in the future, and control his weakness for pretty faces and aching sincerity.

[To here.]

[From here]

"Hmmm..." Goku walked down the hallway with short steps, stubby arms crossed over his chest, as he wandered down the dismally dark corridor that seemed to just continue on forever. This was where he had met Spock last night, but he couldn't really sense anyone else in the hall with him. He took another sniff, but decided to just keep searching elsewhere for a companion for the night. The monkey boy had seen plenty his first night in the institute a few hallways away. That would be the best place to start looking.

With a destination in mind, Goku quickly jogged down the hall and opened to door ahead of him.

[To here]

[from here]

It was a race. A fight against patience and a Song's call. Still, the sedation's dredges churned through him. Two close at hand had a potent effect--much like the night that they were left in that town, and the morning after. Rubedo had came then. Came for them like something out of place, and wasn't that so ironic afterwards--when Albedo knew what he knew now? How many times would a twin appear to abandon him to harshly? How many times would Rubedo make promises only to break them--tear them to pieces like he did Albedo--in the perfectly precise way of those who knew how to break you down because they knew you so perfectly.

Was that how Rubedo had killed him? Or had Albedo forced him to it? His twin wouldn't say before, and asking now was too much like dead blood rotting in veins--he no longer cared, no longer needed to know how easily it was for his twin to rip him asunder. How joyous Rubedo must have been. If that night was any hint, his twin hated him with a passion to rival man's hatred toward god. And wasn't it the same. This. In ways it was the same. An existence meted out, for what it's worth, and then you were simply trapped in it. Trapped in it and stuck stagnant where you were, bound by that other, unless you forced your hatred forward to strike down the other.

To kill god? It seemed too quaint to entertain.

Be it that he woke as the last shift was ending, Albedo had been escorted to the cafeteria early. He took what was offered without a word, sat in the back without a sound, and sipped at the water put in front of him politely; a hand curled around the cup lightly, fingers loose. Eyes burned into the entrance--for Nigredo or Rubedo, either would suffice. The doubt that his twin would come to him was faulty--to ignore them for a week and then vanish as if they were nothing spoke of only distain, whatever Nigredo chose to believe. The eldest of them hated them both. This was truth. The only truth that Rubedo had shown Albedo, in thought, word, action, and deed, in the two weeks that they had shared here.

So Rubedo was to kill him. Well. Never say Albedo accepted his destiny. Yes, he would die by his twin's hand. But first he would rip Rubedo's throat out, claw out his eyes and press them into his beloved's mouth--see the lies you spew--lift his tenderly beating heart for all to see and then crush it.

This, Rubedo, is what you've done to me.

[...for the twin.]

How one's body could maintain a waking schedule when sleep came unnaturally and in a room without windows, must surely be a mystery. Yet, as if working on cue, Natalia stirred well before her nurse arrived. That was normal. Less so, the weight that sought to press her eyelids closed again, the heaviness of her limbs that made lifting her hands to her face an effort. She put her wrist to her forehead with a frown, then attempted a jolt of energy – to swiftly dig her hands into the mattress and shove herself into a seated position, and from there, to her feet.

Not to overexert herself once again, but to refuse that it could be possible after sleeping. Happily, though all still felt leaden, her head did not swim. Encouraged, Natalia put on her slippers, rearranged the bedding, and waited. There came the announcement (reminding her, suddenly, of what she had last heard, and the guilt that had twisted in her gut, Jill--), and her face wrinkled with disgust at the hacking sound. Therapy and breakfast. Food would surely help.

Natalia did not wait long before her nurse opened the door, and after exchanging cursory “Good Morning”s (with rather more enthusiasm on the other woman's part), they began the walk to the Cafeteria. With, of course, the essential rest room stop, where water was splashed and scrubbed over her face, and her hair toyed with to no great satisfaction. At least the shower had renewed its body.

Separating in the Cafeteria, Natalia took her place in line and loaded her plate: eggs, fruit salad, fried “tater tots” (potatoes?), and curious meat wrapped in cooked dough. Some of everything, with juice and water. She thanked her servers, collected utensils and napkins, and found a seat at an empty table. It was early yet.

Sparing a brief look around to be sure no one she recognized had arrived – though she remained eager to greet every patient, at the moment she chose to focus on the possible strength gained from the meal – Natalia began to cut up the items and eat with a refined gusto. Entirely possible!

[Claude!]