Night 57: M71-80 Hallway
Aw, poor Aguilar. You could hear the big, wet pout he had going on through the fuzzy speakers.
Yeah yeah yeah, the military treated them with such wondrous respect and reverence for their special snowflake individuality. That's why they had them in identical military uniforms. That's why they kept going right ahead with the brain washing and the experimentation and the pepto bismol sludge that may or may not be recycled kittens from the sun room. Because they loved them for who they are.
Douchebutts.
Well, Peter certainly knew better than to follow the orders of a faceless man telling him to run up to a hospital and try out all the pills he liked. That only had two endings: rivers of tears and surprise superpowers. Having achieved both results at the same time, Peter figured that he would pass and carry on with his totally independent quest for suicide. The basement awaited.
First, though, was the nigh unsolvable problem of Brainiac 5 and how to keep him from kicking the bucket. This was more difficult than it seemed.
Peter had the customary pillow case slung over his shoulder, this time with the radio included in the swag, as well as the extra flashlight and radio he'd found in Brainy's side of the room and the sword-lite from the basement conquest. He tied the ends together to fit his arm through it, shouldering it like a clumsy purse. Duffel bag. Yes, duffel bag. Purses were for girls. He needed his arms free to gently scoop up his roommate from the bed. Which, creepily enough, still wasn't enough to wake him. It was difficult to not immediately imagine a thousand terrible causes for this. Should he be watching out for suspiciously placed spinning wheels?
Whatever. The important thing now was speed. Peter jolted Brainy closer, carrying him bridal style (because even asleep, he knew the boy would hate him if he threw him over his shoulder and let his face bump into his butt the whole time) and reaching out with all the dexterity of a T-Rex to fiddle with the doorknob. He cautiously slid it open, peering into the dark as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He didn't want to be caught. A flashlight at this point would be an idiot beam.
Silently and surprisingly nimble for such heavy cargo, Peter slipped into the hall with his sleeping roommate in his arms. No sign of Grell. No sign of anyone. He tiptoed to the opposite side of the hall and examined the number plates there with squinted eyes. Last time they had found an empty room, it was M78. The patient population hadn't seemed to suffer any huge influx since their little rendezvous with Dr. Creeptastic, so with any luck the room would still be empty.
The perfect place to hide your comatose pal from a scalpel enthusiast on the warpath. Should Grell sashay his merry way down to M71 and find it free of persons on his double whammy hit list, he would assume both had left for the night and stomp off in a totally fabulous rage. Probably while swearing in British, calling them limey gits and loads of tosh and other such adorable epithets.
How was this now his greatest nemesis?
After a number of haphazard grabs at what was clearly pure wall, Peter's hand finally wrapped around the cool metal of a door handle, the shadowed number above reading M78. He swiftly clicked it open, forming a sliver of a window into the room.
No sound. No movement. And soon enough, there was nothing in the hall either.
Moments later, Peter emerged alone, clutching at the strap of his pillowcase bag. He was down a roommate and a spare flashlight and radio combo, but his confidence reserves had now doubled. If he'd had to leave Brainy in the room when Grell was on the prowl, Peter would be about as useful as a squid on land the whole night. He'd flop over and cry, and that would be the end of it. At least now his friend had earned two more survival points, which should put him at a two on a scale of fifty. Short of carrying him down to the basement with them, there was nothing more that Peter could do.
He hurried on his way, hoping the note he'd left on his chest would suffice for explanations. He'd done it for the greater good.
[To here.]
Yeah yeah yeah, the military treated them with such wondrous respect and reverence for their special snowflake individuality. That's why they had them in identical military uniforms. That's why they kept going right ahead with the brain washing and the experimentation and the pepto bismol sludge that may or may not be recycled kittens from the sun room. Because they loved them for who they are.
Douchebutts.
Well, Peter certainly knew better than to follow the orders of a faceless man telling him to run up to a hospital and try out all the pills he liked. That only had two endings: rivers of tears and surprise superpowers. Having achieved both results at the same time, Peter figured that he would pass and carry on with his totally independent quest for suicide. The basement awaited.
First, though, was the nigh unsolvable problem of Brainiac 5 and how to keep him from kicking the bucket. This was more difficult than it seemed.
Peter had the customary pillow case slung over his shoulder, this time with the radio included in the swag, as well as the extra flashlight and radio he'd found in Brainy's side of the room and the sword-lite from the basement conquest. He tied the ends together to fit his arm through it, shouldering it like a clumsy purse. Duffel bag. Yes, duffel bag. Purses were for girls. He needed his arms free to gently scoop up his roommate from the bed. Which, creepily enough, still wasn't enough to wake him. It was difficult to not immediately imagine a thousand terrible causes for this. Should he be watching out for suspiciously placed spinning wheels?
Whatever. The important thing now was speed. Peter jolted Brainy closer, carrying him bridal style (because even asleep, he knew the boy would hate him if he threw him over his shoulder and let his face bump into his butt the whole time) and reaching out with all the dexterity of a T-Rex to fiddle with the doorknob. He cautiously slid it open, peering into the dark as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He didn't want to be caught. A flashlight at this point would be an idiot beam.
Silently and surprisingly nimble for such heavy cargo, Peter slipped into the hall with his sleeping roommate in his arms. No sign of Grell. No sign of anyone. He tiptoed to the opposite side of the hall and examined the number plates there with squinted eyes. Last time they had found an empty room, it was M78. The patient population hadn't seemed to suffer any huge influx since their little rendezvous with Dr. Creeptastic, so with any luck the room would still be empty.
The perfect place to hide your comatose pal from a scalpel enthusiast on the warpath. Should Grell sashay his merry way down to M71 and find it free of persons on his double whammy hit list, he would assume both had left for the night and stomp off in a totally fabulous rage. Probably while swearing in British, calling them limey gits and loads of tosh and other such adorable epithets.
How was this now his greatest nemesis?
After a number of haphazard grabs at what was clearly pure wall, Peter's hand finally wrapped around the cool metal of a door handle, the shadowed number above reading M78. He swiftly clicked it open, forming a sliver of a window into the room.
No sound. No movement. And soon enough, there was nothing in the hall either.
Moments later, Peter emerged alone, clutching at the strap of his pillowcase bag. He was down a roommate and a spare flashlight and radio combo, but his confidence reserves had now doubled. If he'd had to leave Brainy in the room when Grell was on the prowl, Peter would be about as useful as a squid on land the whole night. He'd flop over and cry, and that would be the end of it. At least now his friend had earned two more survival points, which should put him at a two on a scale of fifty. Short of carrying him down to the basement with them, there was nothing more that Peter could do.
He hurried on his way, hoping the note he'd left on his chest would suffice for explanations. He'd done it for the greater good.
[To here.]