Night 56: M21-M30 Hallway

[human_sponge]

Dinner had seemed to pass by too quickly, while night had come on quietly, with just the click of the door opening. Nonetheless, Peter had managed to get his new duffel bag packed with all of the medicine, syringes, and medical supplies that he might need without it being too heavy to manage. He still had to carry his shovel in his other hand,

Comments

[toxicspiderman]

S.T. spoke the same time Harvey did.  "Bullshit, man.  Fucking bullshit."  D.C. wasn't here to try to defend Marc's honor, so Sangamon could rip through his rant uninterrupted.  "Always knew that voice of the rebellion crap was too good to be true."

He took a sip to wash the taste of corporate spin-job out of his mouth.  It stank like plug-in air freshener over explosive diarrhea. Just a Jello mold and a crocheted toilet seat cover short of a Honeymooners sketch.

The whole traveling circus just needed Senor Aguilar to serenade them to be complete.  He probably would.  If there was any of that that hadn't come from Fred in Marketing's company picnic script, it was a direct challenge.  Not to the rats in the maze, but the kind that usually involved abstracts and lobbyist money and not-so-double-blind trials.   The rats were engineered to get cancer and die young after they'd outlived their research grants.

Fuck, this was supposed to be a party.

"Sure, there'll be something down there.  Another obstacle course with booby prizes, this time in gold."  He raised his beer.  "May the best rat win."  

[unheroed]

And suddenly, Sangamon showed an uglier side. While Harvey couldn't really judge someone for being negative, it was the "fight the man" tone to what the man was saying that made him sound like an idiot. Maybe it was because Harvey had, for so long, been one of those government workers who tried to fix things the right way, and he still hadn't quite accepted that it hadn't done a thing. But it rubbed him the wrong way.

More than that, Taylor was simplifying things. He assumed that just because the radio kid had let Landel use his equipment, that now meant the two were best of friends. There were way too many factors to consider. It was possible that Marc was trying to find the perfect moment to wedge a knife in between Landel's ribs -- or, as was more likely, he didn't have a choice because Landel was untouchable, even now.

That was a worrying thought.

"Yeah, and I'm guessing that we'll be going right through those doors once we can," he responded after a pause, taking another swig of his drink. They had to keep following the paths that were laid out for him because as far as he could tell? There weren't any other options.

Maybe this would be playing into Landel's hands, but if it meant undermining Aguilar, then Harvey might just have to take it. It would mean screwing someone over, at least.

[toxicspiderman]

It was hard to read Harvey's face, given that half of it was missing. S.T. had spent enough time knee-deep in decaying fish and raw sewage that it didn't really bother him, but it threw tinfoil in the conversational radar. Language was redundant enough to stand up to accents, valley girls, and phone lines patched back together with electrical tape, but body language took a little more doing.

So whether it was something he'd said or the broadcast that had pissed Harvey off, S.T. wasn't sure. Could just be that he didn't like being reminded that they'd all been demoted. No full-splatter press conferences, supervillain hideouts with T.V.s that turned into hang gliders.

Not Sangamon. Sangamon Taylor was used to spitting upwind. While downwind of a factory spewing out stuff that would turn his lungs into a health-class Just Say No slide. One step forward while Basco dumped another dozen toxic cocktails into the outflow pipes of America might be a fart in a hurricane, but it was something. Eyedroppers and boxcars. He made a living telling people the little things mattered, and he couldn't get up there in front of the cameras and lie his ass off. People hated him more when he told the truth, but it was what he did.

"Yeah. Soon as we can all stand up to a stiff breeze." He leaned over and grabbed a couple of cookies. "Maybe I should have picked up a Polaroid camera instead of this stuff. Write a pretty letter to the editor of the Doyleton Weekly alleging patient abuse. See if there's anyone capable of independent thought down in Zombie-Who-ville."

[unheroed]

As far as Harvey could tell, Jones and Scott were looking through some book. Jones had probably bought it at the store in town, but Harvey was wondering what was so interesting about it and he had to fight the urge not to crane his neck to get a proper look at the cover. He might not have minded the private conversation if it hadn't been going on when there were two other people in the room.

Then again, everything seemed to be annoying him tonight. Maybe he shouldn't have come, since the added pain from last night's injuries were making him more irritable than usual. (Which was saying something.)

More beer was clearly the answer, and Harvey winced as he took another sip. The alcohol burned at the edges of his mouth, causing his wounds to sting, and yet somehow this pain was the sort that he needed. He wasn't going to pretend that he understood his own masochistic tendencies and how it only worked in certain ways. Maybe it was because this pain was entirely self-inflicted, whereas last night he'd ended up hurt because of the institute.

He didn't get how Sangamon thought that sort of idea would work. It was possible the guy was just making a joke to lighten the mood, and so Harvey scoffed and shook his head. "We're taken there battered and bruised and they don't seem to care. Besides, you answered your own question. They're zombies. Their brains probably decayed a long time ago."

It was kind of depressing that that was a real explanation, but it was. He didn't know how the whole day and night switch-over worked, but it was one of the more disturbing things about this place.

[toxicspiderman]

The intelligence of small-town losers was the battleground S.T. fought on, more often than not. At least on the East coast, downtowns still had Brahmins and socialites who hadn't all fled to the suburbs, and while they pretended that if they just ignored hard enough, Chinatown would pack it's bags and move back to the hundreds of countries it called home.  That had worked so well for the Indians, but that was how people were.  So companies dumped on the fringes, or in the little towns with one streetlight and two diners.

The people there weren't mindless zombies.  Politicians and industrialists treated them like shit, and they lapped it up, but uneducated wasn't the same as stupid.  S.T. had more patience for hicks than guys who should know better, as long as it wasn't a sob story.  They knew all the answers, if you asked the right questions.  Five cases of rare cancer?  They knew who to blame.  They just didn't, because it took someone like him to swoop in on wings of silver-tongued lawyers and kick ass.  And it wouldn't unbury their dead husbands and sons and daughters.

Then again, the Doyleton crowd might actually just be zombies.  Rebooted each week to pre-decay status.

"No marketable skills.  What the fuck does a chemistry degree do here?  I can prove they're fucking with us, but unless there's a mass spectrometer in desperate need of recalibration behind secret door number three I might as well try stupid shit.  Letters to the editor.  Blowing things up.  You got a better idea?"

Most of S.T.'s tactics presupposed that cause and effect were still in bed together.  Stop up a pipe and someone had an overflow problem right where they least wanted one.  Get people pissed enough and profit margins would drop.  Re-election was only guaranteed if your name was Kennedy.  This place ate terrorism for breakfast and shat conformity, and shattered community and continuity into a stock market random walk.  

[unheroed]

As much as Harvey wanted to argue back, he had to admit that Sangamon had a point. While a chemist wasn't likely to be useful in most areas, Harvey had been a goddamn attorney. He was one of the people who should have really been able to make waves here, and yet that hadn't been the case at all. None of the other prosecutors that seemed to be scattered through the patients had, either. If anything, it was the doctors and nurses who were probably the most useful.

So if the guy wanted to write a letter to feel like he was doing something, then what was the harm? Harvey shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, even though he really hated to admit when he was wrong. It wasn't like they'd been arguing in the first place, but his pride was easily damaged these days.

"Let me know how it goes, then," he said, and as he tilted his head back for another sip from the bottle, he realized that it was almost done.

Hmm. There were only four of them in here and Scott hadn't gone for any of the booze yet. Maybe it was one of those straightedge kids. That would be fine by him, since it didn't look like Depth Charge was showing -- meaning that he, Sangamon, and Jones could each have a second one.

The conversation was going to hit an awkward silence if he didn't say something, though, and so he gave the other man a studying glance. "How are your injuries treating you?" He didn't know where exactly Sangamon had been hurt, but he did remember how he'd been using Scott for support the night before. It couldn't be good.

[toxicspiderman]

Harvey thought he was tilting at windmills. Sometimes he damn well knew he was tilting at windmills, so that was O.K.

A piece of Indy and Scott's conversation drifted over, and he had to cough to get the beer out of his sinuses. Being an arrogant asshole got you more dates in movies than in real life, but not everyone could be Harrison Ford.

"Healing at warp speed. Like normal. I dislocated a kneecap. By all rights it should still be as big around as my head and twice as sensitive." Believe it or not, people called him too sensitive almost as often as insensitive. The ones that did the latter tended to know him better, though.

He poked the knee. It didn't really hurt unless he hit the bruises, which were superficial, or tried to actually use the leg.

"I couldn't walk on it today, but I could put some weight on it. Wrap it up and I should be able to hobble down there tomorrow. Just don't expect me to wrestle anything bigger than a German Shepherd."

Eating the pink pile of nutritionally balanced predigested extruded food product over on his desk would probably help, but junk food tasted better. Part of a healthy breakfast yadda yadda.

[unheroed]

The other two were talking about meeting girls. Well, Scott was, at least. Jones was probably just humoring him at this point, but either way Harvey wasn't interested. Not that talking about wounds was any more interesting, but at least it didn't dredge up as many old memories.

No, all of his wounds were current and made themselves known as often as they could. He would have called his body a sadist if that made any sense; at this point, he was just wondering if his pain receptors would eventually get worn down, but he didn't know if it even worked that way.

"Yeah, well, be glad for it," he said with a shrug. "Not sure when we're going, but I don't know if we can put it off for another night." Scorched and bruised as he was, staying in like this was already driving him stir crazy, and he wouldn't be surprised if the others felt the same. At least there was booze. After glancing around at everyone, Harvey finally reached forward for a second beer.

"It's not like anyone's counting on the two of us for our fighting ability anyway," he pointed out. He didn't know how much Sangamon had contributed to what the other group had done last night, but Harvey was going to guess that he hadn't led the assault.

[toxicspiderman]

He hadn't needed rescuing in there, and he'd done O.K. for someone without a sword or a tailharpoon, but Harvey had a point. "If there's anything left of Landel when we win this I'll be your expert pharmacochemical witness and we can see how much a jury will squeeze out of a pile of little bloody scraps."

Had Harvey ever told him he was a D.A. Fuck. Keeping track of what he knew and what he'd read so many times with a flashlight after lights-out he couldn't reroute those neurons with anything short of a sledgehammer was a pain. He conveniently ignored the fact that they'd done just that a few nights ago, but he hadn't slowed the group down even when he had been a little hazy on his own fucking name.

"If we stay together I can zap us back to the pantry if -- when -- things get nasty. You don't have any idea what's over there either, do you?" It was barely a question.

"I tried the bulletin, but all I got was the usual inability to grasp questions that might have more than one meaning, plus some vague bullshit warnings." He drained the last of his beer, and belched gently.

[unheroed]

For a moment Harvey was ready to nod along with what Sangamon was saying, even though he knew the whole thing was a pipe dream, until he realized that he was pretty sure he'd never mentioned his occupation to this man. They'd only spoken a few times, after all, even though they had risked life and limb together. Jones had probably mentioned it to the man at some point, though, and at this point it really wasn't a huge secret. No one here seemed to recognize his name even though he'd been in the press for a while. Only Gotham's press, apparently.

"I'll hold you to that," he said before taking another sip of his second beer. He was getting a little more used to the taste, but it was going to be finished right as he actually started to find it bearable.

It was good to know that that ring could take them out of danger if it turned out that the coliseum was something beyond their means to deal with, though Harvey got the feeling that it would result in some people being left behind. He made a mental note to stay close to Sangamon when they went down there. Nothing against the others, but this was survival instinct kicking in.

"I haven't heard any more than you," he said with a shake of his head. "People seem tight-lipped about the whole thing. More than a little annoying." And unsettling, but he didn't need to voice that thought.

[toxicspiderman]

"Annoying. And weird." Peter and D.C. hadn't shown up, so he popped open his own second beer. It foamed up like phosphate contamination on a river, brown and foamy. Tasted better, though it wasn't poisonous to humans. Algae loved it, which was the problem. Too much of anything and the entire system collapsed.

He sounded like a fucking Buddhist monk, man. Definitely time for another beer.

"Either they've found something awesome down there or it's too traumatizing to talk about. Guess we'll find out."

It was still weird. People got all sorts of personal on the bulletin. One person keeping secrets was easy. A collective bowdlerization was tough, even with the Nurse Nanny brigade on the loose.

Oh, right. If he was going to sit around on his ass, he could be productive. He stood up and hopped a couple feet over to his desk and fell into the chair. The last half-labeled map he'd put up had stayed up through Landel's little passion play. Probably hadn't even been recycled. Assholes. He pulled out clean paper and a full map and started tracing, the corner held down with his beer.

[unheroed]

Well, maybe Sangamon was a bit too much of a protester for the two of them to get along beyond some random chatting over beers, but the guy wasn't an idiot. He had it on the dot: people were either hiding something good or were unwilling to talk about something terrible. Harvey knew better than to hope for the former.

Now there was only one beer left, though he got the feeling that Jones was going to go for it -- either that, or Scott would grab one before he lost his chance entirely. He probably shouldn't have been keeping such meticulous track of it in the first place, but what else was he supposed to do?

Harvey raised an eyebrow when Sangamon suddenly stood up from his seat, hobbling over to his desk so that he could start writing something down. Or was he drawing? It hardly seemed like the time, but...

He decided that he was too lazy to get up so that he could watch over the man's shoulder and just remained in his seat. "What are you doing?" he asked, cradling his beer.

[toxicspiderman]

Harvey was eyeing the last beer. S.T. ignored him, and kept tracing.

"Making another map.  Fuck if I'm going to spend half my time in this place giving new guys directions."  Worse than tourists, since they were all clutching guidebooks full of laments over the local demeanor.  He was just part of the zoo -- Homo Massholensis, in his native environment.  Occasionally (more often now) one recognized him.  He'd rattle off the Harbor weather forecast, which anyone with eyes and skin could determine from anywhere on the Freedom Trail, and they'd go away feeling like they'd had some excitement.

But it kept the checks rolling in (make that out to GEE, Int'l, please) and that meant he could eat and avoid getting a real job.  He wasn't ungrateful, or oblivious.  They just needed someone like him, all those off-duty bankers in Hawaiian shirts and their bored children.

"You've got a decent one, right?"  He held up the original, annotated in large block print.  Legible by flashlight in fog.  Or post-vomit lacrimation, which was about as common.  

[unheroed]

A map, right. So was Sangamon one of those people who posted them on the bulletin for anyone to see? Granted, that was how Harvey had gotten his copies, so he had to be grateful. It was something done out of good will rather than to gain anything, and Harvey found himself both admiring that and quietly sneering at it.

He could never quite decide on things like that anymore.

"Yeah, I've got one," he said with a nod. "Copied a set down into my journal a while ago." It had helped him a few times, though he hadn't even been taking the pieces of paper with him lately. That was because for the past few nights he'd had a specific destination in mind; he hadn't been wandering aimlessly. That was a nice feeling all on its own, wasn't it? And yet he didn't know if it was enough, or if it was even the right choice in the first place.

Either way, Sangamon had found a way to kill time and so Harvey leaned himself further back against the chair, slouching slightly as he closed his good eye. The other one would never close, but he'd gotten used to that somehow.

[its_the_mileage]

[from here]

The project turned out to be copying another map. "I copied them when I first got here too. About three weeks ago," he added. "You've been the one putting them up?"

He'd been around long enough to remember detailed notes being posted every time new patients arrived--full maps, guides to every known one of Landel's lab rats, all sorts of information compiled. It had all vanished after the censorship crackdown. Indy wondered what'd happened to it. With no sign of that material at all since then, chances were good the authors had been "released." Too bad he hadn't taken the time to make copies of all that; for all he knew, it was just gone. Damn.

[toxicspiderman]

"Yeah. Don't spread it around. I have an image to think of." He sneered at the finished outline of the Institute, and started labeling rooms. "If anyone doesn't have the complete version, they're all there."

The notebook had more than that -- copies of bulletin notes, monster descriptions, a page of notes scattered around a section where Sharpie had bled through from the previous sheet. Enough that the spots could be pieced together. Any archeologist worth his fedora could puzzle out Fuck You Callahan, in large block print.

He pulled out the next of the maps. It was the roof map. The one he'd never heard a decent explanation for. "What the fuck was this about? Either of you around for that?" It was the kind of thing Edgeworth would only have included out of the kind of thoroughness that made for good librarians and basement-dwellers who thought miniatures made better friends than live humans.