Night 55: M41-M50 Hallway

[corvus_veritas]

.....Ow. Okay, uh. Was all that static really necessary? If that guy was hoping to give everyone a migraine, he was certainly on the right track. He excelled at being annoying as much as he did delivering creepy, cryptic messages. Alright. Good for you, whoever you were.

But no matter. The strange speech over the intercom was the least of the

Comments

[scarefaux]

Unable to find words at that moment, the Scarecrow simply nodded as Depth Charge headed out the door. As always, he'd say he was going to try his best at taking care of himself; however, the moment he was alone, he'd head blindly into the night again, knowing the hallways were patrolled by witches, somethings and other beings capable of ruining a human body. Seeing his original form in pieces on the floor was even more of a reminder of how frail flesh-and-blood men really were.

The more the former strawman looked at the ensemble, the more uncomfortable he felt; however, he couldn't determine any reason for it. He'd been unstuffed before, taken apart and strewn here and there by the Wicked Witch of the West's flying monkeys. Why was it that he felt so distant from himself now? It had to be the time he'd spent at Landel's, he reasoned. Perhaps being human and having a human brain was what was doing it. Or had he been human all along?

No, he wasn't going to go thinking that again. The Institute- whether led by Wizard Landel or General Aguilar- was not to be trusted, especially when his friends were disappearing. Despite not being a professional, he was still around- his determination to not give up had to count for something, even without his proper brains.

The Scarecrow gathered up his various parts, tucking them carefully into the box, as though they were made of glass. Last went the gloves- he kept one in his hand, comparing the new to the old. Well, he had his body now. All that searching, only for it to be handed to him for reasons unknown. And what could he do with it? He slowly pulled the glove onto his hand- the texture inside was scratchy, some straw bits of straw poking him from the ends of the fingers. He had to admit that it fit him neither figuratively nor literally.

He pulled the glove off quickly, as though keeping it on would somehow ruin his human frame. Why did it feel so different? He hadn't been able to feel anything before, so how could he know something was wrong about the situation at all? It didn't settle well, and he had no idea why.

The Scarecrow chose his items for the night: flashlight, two-way radio, and watch. There was a pause of consideration before he added the folding knife to his collection, setting it into the bottom of his pocket. He pulled the coat from the closet, as well. Since he had his body, he decided he'd spend the night outside, rather than searching the upstairs hallways for a way to the third floor. The snow would surely help him think, and it was a joy to experience as a human.

As he headed out the door, another thought crossed him: the longer he was Hunk Howard, the harder it seemed to imagine going back to being the Scarecrow.

[To here.]