[from here]

Before being overran was a well enough warning any other night. Here, however, tonight-- The Digimon's reflexes were higher, tighter; she could feel the lack of general lag like a set of weights being removed. She was assured of her own speed and agility--of shifting from this reality if need be--and if she was utterly honest with herself, there were a few other things she was sure she could use again as well. She planned to move quickly, check for what three others had asked of her, and do as much as could be done before the night ended.

This did not allow for any interruptions. Like the straggling, moaning zombi a store down as soon as she stepped outside. If Renamon slipped from the visible spectrum there was no problem to be seen. However, she had a human with her that couldn't hide as well. There existed, briefly, a slow grin upon her features. No matter, then. It wouldn't be as subtle, but give her her dues. It wasn't as if she wasn't going to try at some point.

Renamon dashed forward a few steps, then leapt up into the air, hovering for a moment at roof level. Her limbs curled inward, a light glow surrounding them, before she thrust them out. As she did, what looked like ice chips appeared in front of her. The Digimon smirked. This fight had now become one-sided. "Diamond Storm!" The chips hardened, shining like glass, and tore down into the zombi below, ripping them to nothing but shreds. Renamon dropped down, landing lightly on her feet, looking over her work. The same amount of damage. If she hadn't still been in a human body, she would have thought everything was back to normal. As things were....

She glanced back to the man, briefly concerned.

By the time lunch rolled around, things still weren't getting any better. The voices hadn't gone away; instead, Firo was pretty sure they were getting more frequent. Ennis had been silent since last night, but Czes's voice had been an insistent buzz in his ear all morning.

He'd spent the morning alone, trying to ignore any cutting remarks from a boy who wasn't there as he puzzled through things. Were the drugs responsible after all? A note on the bulletin had confirmed that someone else who'd been forced into the trial had been hearing things too, but Hakkai...

The call for lunch had been welcome; the day was barely half over, and Firo was already feeling exhausted. At this rate, maybe it would be best to just wait it out instead of trying to figure out what was causing it. If it was the drug, it should wear off after a while.

He accepted his gruel quietly, looking it over as he headed across the cafeteria—Hakkai had said it looked spoiled, but he couldn't tell any difference from what they'd served morning, noon, and night every day. Maybe the man was still seeing things after all, or maybe he was the one seeing things. It could have been bad and only looked alright. Or maybe it was just the color after all...

As took a seat, a new voice called out to him: "There's no point in you trying to figure it out, Firo. You're a real idiot, you know?"

Firo scowled. "I don't want to hear that from you, Berga," he growled under his breath.

[For Peter Petrelli ;_;]

[from here]

Mikado kept near to the man, half wondering if, like American fun houses, something would jump out at every turn. Nothing, in the end, and other than the creepy demeanor of the place, Mikado was wondering if there was really anything to be concerned with. It was another aspect that was just... off about this place, but it didn't seem as if there was anything really altogether strange.

He peered at Izaya nervously. "Where was it... that you were going to, Orihara-san?"

[from here]

The room he walked into was larger than he'd expected, but it wasn't hard to guess its purpose, not with the very deliberate arrangement of long red pews. A chapel. Stefan's grip on his knife still didn't relax as he wandered further inside. He'd been in a few churches in his time — what faith in God he'd possessed as a child had waned with too many decades of undead existence, but... call him cliché, he liked Gothic architecture. In his worst moments, he'd enjoyed hunting for victims in church, for the spice of ironic pleasure in knowing they believed themselves to be in a safe house, protected by all those popular fiction vampire deterrents. Save for wooden stakes, fire and the sun, they were all myths. Not that there were any crosses he could see from his cursory glance from the door, or even...

Holy water.

In the dark, the liquid burble of the fountain could've been confused for normal water — or, to the least, one of the less threatening noises in the hospital. You could even convince yourself that the sinister shape rising out of the water was something else from this distance, but Stefan, being able to see in the dark, had no such luxury. Still, the demonic face of the statue barely registered to his mind as he came closer to the fountain. He walked slowly, circling around it, unaware of what he was doing. All of his attention was fixed on the liquid churning in the fountain. Black, blacker than water should've been in the darkness. A deep red flooded the whites of Stefan's eyes. His gums itched. The scent of blood — human blood — hung so heavily in the air around him, he could hardly breathe.

Of course he could tell. Damon might joke that his taste buds had shriveled up after so many years of his diet, but it might as well have been the difference between white wine and vinegar. Human blood and animal blood. And it hadn't been so long either since the last time he'd had a taste of the former, fresh from the vein...

...but he couldn't do it again. Never, no matter how desperate he was. He was starving, yes, four nights and counting, but if he started it up now, under these conditions... There was no guarantee he could reclaim himself again. And he thought of his brother, trying to scheme his way out for all of them, and of Elena, putting on a brave face for their sakes, and of adding another burden on their shoulders. Stefan slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, which helped just enough to let him turn his face away.

Keep fighting.

Stefan spun around, almost faster than humanly possible, and ran.

[to here]

[from here]

The first difference Kurogane noted in comparing this hallway with its lower counterpart was how open it appeared. The usual walls of the Sun Room were absent, replaced with new hallways bordering a railing that overlooked the Sun Room - another area that he had made a point of avoiding after one too many incidents. Above that opening the dim glow of the night sky filtered through the windows, improving the visibility enough to see that no other patients were around. Their absence furthered the feeling of openness and set the ninja even more on edge than he'd been upon entering the hall. He was so used to the enclosed spaces and shadows of the lower floor that made movement easy. This hallway had nothing of that, and created too much vulnerability.

Moving more cautiously, the ninja kept his weapon ready, concealed beneath his cloak as he turned down the first of the hallways. Out of his peripheral view he spotted the Chapel doors positioned behind the back railing and moved for them as he kept a watch on the open hallway and the area over the Sun Room. He didn't know what was in the below room, but he knew something usually took up residence there, and couldn't overlook the possibility that it might move at him.

[gone here]

[from here]

Snow reached the top of the stairs within moments. This was the part where he was supposed to start raising hell and kicking in doors. If he had still been as infuriated as he had been when first leaving his room, he probably would have done that immediately. Right now, there was a slight delay. Maybe it was just an after effect of... the thing he wasn't thinking about, but he found himself being slightly more self-conscious right now. Or at least a little more aware of his surroundings.

There were two generally irrelevant issues at hand here. One was that the upstairs split off in several different directions, and he'd have to pick one first before he got started. That one didn't much matter since he was probably going to be searching every place possible anyway, so who cared which way he started from? And two was that he was pretty damn sure there were guards patrolling the upstairs. This is where they kept things hidden, right? So there had to be guards. Right now, he was kinda hoping there were. He could really, really use the catharsis.

...Though maybe he should be trying to get some information out of whatever guards he found rather than using them as punching bags, but meh.

So Snow only took a few steps away from the stairs before stopping entirely, crouched forward slightly and ready for an attack. He was listening for the sounds of footsteps or conversation. Something that indicated where soldiers might be wandering around.

Come on. He knows you're there. Don't hide. Bring it on. He wanted it. Just give him one damn excuse.

[Nataliaaa]

[from here]

The confusion had fizzled out his anger momentarily. But that didn't make him any less determined to press forward. If anything, Snow was treating it like a random lapse of concentration and was plenty ready to forget about it. Which was pretty damn easy once he got himself focused on a particular subject.

He ran up the stairs (the completely pitch black stairs) with a renewed fervor, taking them two at a time as he went along. How he didn't miss, trip, fall, and break his neck was anyone's guess. Call it the power of love. Call it the power of a hero's heart.

...Or call it the power of idiot luck. Whichever.

[to here]

[ from here ]

Sesshoumaru had not been in the building for nearly long enough to really know it, and his knowledge had not been expanded yesterday as it might otherwise have been, because of the poisons that had been fed into his system - poisons that somehow worked, which had been a disconcerting and unpleasant experience. In the end, though, all it meant was that he had one more person to kill - whoever it was who had invented the poison capable of subduing him.

He either avoided or ignored the memory of last night, of Niikura telling him he might as well be a human now. Avoided thinking of how weak he had become.

Sesshoumaru absently flexed his fingers, and felt his poison began to pump. If he was not still immune to toxins, surely his own venom would burn him, sear his veins and his hands, but it did not appear to have any more affect on him than it had ever. Just like always, the poison might as well have been blood, or water, for all the harm it did to him personally. This was not a double-edged sword. It was designed to harm others, not the wielder.

A thread of sweetness curled through the bite of the cleaner as Sesshoumaru stood for a moment, his claws becoming saturated with their natural poison. In any case, claiming that he was - that he could be - so weak as that was ridiculous. He was Sesshoumaru.

[ for Terra ]

((From here.))

As he stealthily moved through the hall, Spock noted that it was quiet and dark. He didn't detect other patients, nor any hostile lifeforms. Perhaps the rest of the way leading to Dr. McCoy's quarters was in a similar state.

Regardless, it was best to move as quickly as possible. The early portions of the shift tended to be the quietest, which meant Spock needed to take advantage of the still hallways while he could. He hadn't forgotten about the military's cryptic message, or the unusual silence toward the end of their meal period. It was possible something would interrupt their plans later, which made time of the essence. If they were caught in the middle of a meld, the results could be disastrous.

Walking at a brisk pace, Spock allowed his light to illuminate his immediate path and continued ahead.

((To here.))

[From here.]

He set off, a little man with a toothpick and a flashlight, past his room's hallway and into the adjoining one. To be frank, he hadn't really cared where Castiel was cooped up before. Of course the lack of knowledge was going to bite him in the ass. Big surprise there. While he didn't intend to stand in the hallway all night, leaning next to the bathroom door, he could stay long enough to make sure Michael wasn't going to pass by on an innocent route to exploration.

Besides, he was probably having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that the doors unlocked when night hit. It was too bad he wasn't going to have a fun power-trip via intercom to contend with in his logical, human mind as well. That would've been amusing.

As one hundred percent thrilled as he was to find that his recent thirteen year old victim of good ol' traditional slaughter was alive and, unfortunately, not in pieces, Gabriel was significantly more thrilled that he had self-established himself as a guardian angel for the night to one very, very hapless human.

The irony was not lost on him. It was actually about as subtle as he usually was.

Of course, he could have stuck with the vague hope that Michael was intelligent enough - or boring enough, which seemed more accurate - to stay in his room and not venture out into the darkened hallways of a freaking mental asylum. Even if he was brainwashed, Castiel's habit of making sincerely bad decisions was, for all intents and purposes, very likely to continue.

This had better only last one night. Seriously.

Luckily for him, his angelic blade was still only on its second night of transformation so he didn't have to waste twenty minutes curled up on the floor, sucking his thumb. It didn't have near the familiarity of what he had wielded last night. There was a definite pang of disappointment that he was ignoring. What could you expect from a chained-up archangel? Last night had been his night for his peacock ass to fly. And he had. And it was Very Good.

So now it was back to the shitter. C'est la vie.

[To here.]

[From here.]

The room was mainly empty when Michael reached it, which was fine by him. It wasn't that he didn't feel sympathy for the other patients, but he also didn't know if it would be helpful for him to talk to them. The staff seemed to think that forming bonds amongst themselves would lead to recovery, but to him it felt more like they would end up feeding on each other's delusions.

Of course, being reclusive was a problem of his in general. He threw himself into work, into dealing with the scum of the Earth; rape, murder, assault. Someone had to deal with those people and make them pay for their misdeeds, of course, but --

No, he was thinking too much like Castiel. Thinking in a vocabulary that most normal people wouldn't. As he found a couch and fell onto it, Michael winced his eyes shut and realized that the shower hadn't helped as much as he would have liked.

Either way, he couldn't say he was in the mood for talking to anyone.

[For his bro.]

By the time that breakfast had ended, Michael didn't really know what to think.

The good part of him -- the part that went to church every Sunday and prayed that he could find justice for his clients -- wanted to feel for those two boys. They were going through Hell (and not the literal kind that they were thinking of) and he really did hold out hope that they would get their acts together. But the rest of him wanted to forget all about them and focus on himself. They weren't his responsibility anymore, now that the case had been dropped. The very idea of a killer had been a fantasy, after all. It wasn't his job to worry about them.

He certainly wasn't some guardian angel, either. He had never signed up for that and he had no idea why his mind had decided that was the case. Figuring that out was probably his key to getting healthy again, but it seemed like an uphill journey at this point.

Either way, it was good to get away from Matt and Eric. He needed some breathing room, some time to just let his mind clear out all of that crazy angel and demon stuff. Being religious was one thing; this was another, and he knew it wasn't right. He tried not to think about what his parents probably thought of him, but for all he knew they weren't even aware that he was here. In fact, Michael couldn't even remember who had admitted him. It was possible he'd just brought himself here.

A shower sounded like a real blessing, though, and he didn't hesitate to strip out of the uniform and find shelter under the hot spray of one of the shower heads. It was definitely more than just washing off; it felt like a cleansing experience, like he was scrubbing the very idea of Castiel out of his skin. He knew it wasn't that easy, that he could relapse at any point, and yet he tried anyway.

However, once he'd washed his body and shampooed his hair, he realized that he needed to give up the shower space for someone else who might need it. As much as he would have liked to spend the entire shift there, he did the right thing and went back to get dressed once he was finished, heading out into the Sun Room on a soldier's heels.

[To here.]

Anise woke up feeling lucky to be alive. She still felt a bit waterlogged, even though her skin, hair, and clothes were completely dry. During last night's adventures, she'd swallowed a lot of water, and it still felt heavy and disgusting in her stomach. Her arms and legs were tired from treading water. Lying still in her bed, she still kind of felt like she was floating and bobbing in the water.

But she was alive.

Knowing how close she came to death last night, and remembering the lengths her friends had gone to in order to save her, there was no way Anise could let a little discomfort get her down. She had to be at her best today so she wouldn't seem ungrateful to Guy and Claude. On that note, she had to remember to thank them properly, now that she was better able to express herself.

While getting ready, Anise was surprised to actually run into Claude that morning. He came to her room asking for the notebook he stored there (or maybe it was an excuse to see her cute face again), so Anise happily located it and handed it over. She was pretty tired, but the big smile she gave him was genuine. Who wouldn't be happy to see her savior so soon after a dramatic rescue?

After he left, Anise finished re-tying her pigtails into a low position so the military beret would fit on her head, and then she was ready! Even though her stomach wasn't feeling that great, she figured sitting down to a decent meal would help normalize it. And luckily for her, she was among the few who had the privilege of eating such a meal. Anise filled a plate with french toast topped with syrup and fruit, accompanied by small portions of each of the available side dishes.

It looked like she was early, which meant there weren't a lot of people around. That was okay, though. Anise could get a good head start on her meal before any company came around. She sat down at a table by herself and started on her sausage first.

[for Tolten!]

[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."

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."

Easing into his work shirt and jacket was less painful than it'd been last night. It still didn't feel good. Indy went back to the box, coiled his makeshift whip over his right shoulder and tucked the holstered brush axe through one of his belt loops. That and the shield were all the gear he planned to take. He doubted he'd be making too many notes in the journal tonight even if he brought it; there'd be time to write about whatever he saw tomorrow. Assuming they didn't all get themselves killed by whatever death trap Landel had planned next.

You had to admit, Aguilar almost had a point.

At least the first leg of the trip would be a short one. Indy picked up his hat, brushed it off with a few practiced swipes, and settled it on his head. He'd better get a move on so they'd have as much of the night to work with as possible. With a familiar mix of excitement and trepidation, Indy made for the door.

He had a bad feeling about this.

[to here]

[ from here ]

As Erika approached the meeting spot, she was pleased to see that she was, indeed, first to reach there. This was to be expected: Erika was closest to this particular hallway and she could have given the others a minute's head start and still probably beat them while walking at a leisurely pace. But Erika had hurried to get here and set up camp anyway, directing her flashlight to the ceiling while dropping her bag next to her feet.

Perhaps the detective was so anxious to get there first in an effort to get back at Sync for implying that he more or less found her useless. Yet he followed her around anyway! Hopefully, this would be the last "team exercise" she would be expected to perform in this place so she could finally rid herself of him.

This hallway was as empty as the last one, but Erika knew she was going to see some traffic very soon. There was only one place on her map where a med wing was and it was east, just as Aguilar said. It was definitely a place that she would visit sometime soon so she could collect more of those pins, but not tonight. After all, Erika wasn't so desperate for a pin that she would willingly subject herself to Unknown Drug X. Let the other idiots work out the side effects and she'd be more than happy to step in if the risks were really worth it.

[From here.]

Empty. Again.

Whoop-de-doo.

Less witnesses, good thing, yadda yadda yadda. Peter just wanted to get it all over with and get down to the good stuff. (Good being a subjective word here.) The basement. The coliseum of...whatever the coliseum had in store. A fight. Probably with lions. Three headed lions. The point was that they were finally getting somewhere, and now that the hour had come all Peter wanted to do was slice through every other bogus problem barreling his way and head straight for it. He was sick of worrying about Grell, about monsters, about the godawful crap Jessica and her attitude had brought him, about all the people that had left. Being fiction. Kirk had put a better spin on it, but that still did little to ease the grip on his insides every time the subject popped up. And if Captain freaking Kirk couldn't assuage him, then what could?

Getting down to business might. A chance to get answers would be even better.

[To here.]

They hadn't handed him a cane this morning, and they'd been right.  His knee was healing.  It ached, but it held his weight.  Going out to the greenhouse and standing on it for a few hours was a bad idea, though.  If it gave out on him tonight, what would he say.  "Sorry, dudes, a bunch of tomatoes were more important.  Like actual tomatoes."  That sounded stupid in his head, so he'd stay indoors.  

His hands itched. For something to do. Metaphorical sense, not a rash.  Volunteering for KP would be a) pointless, b) not fix the standing-up problem, and c) suck, so he didn't.  It was almost worth trying just to see the expressions on  the goons faces, but the slim possibility that they'd take him up on it outweighed the chance to look under the mask Landel/Aguilar had put on the place by day.  

Instead, he limped over to the craft room and hassled them into bringing out the tray labeled 'Paul Quincy'.  Expressionless surprise was a funny expression.  You could tell new cops by it.  A little widening of the eyes, an absence of fidgeting for a few seconds.  The old ones weren't surprised by anything.  These guys had expected him to try and shoot the place up with a set of safety scissors or something.  Not to pull out craft supplies and ignore them completely, except for a glance or two at their initial reactions.   

A Zodiac wasn't much more than an inflatable pool raft with a big fucking motor on the back.  Put enough power back there and you could make one out of a brick.  No grace, but it went like he'll.  S.T. liked them. 

The boat that was taking shape on the table was of a different lineage.  About the right size for G.I. Joe to take his  entire platoon along when he went canoodling with Barbie while Ken was off on a business trip, it was long and slim.  Right now it was indistinguishable from a dinosaur-model ribcage, given that he'd started at the spine -- oops, keel -- and worked up.

[Free]