The dinner announcement came as something utterly unexpected. Rather than Harrington's excited tones, the calm accented voice of the General drifted through the intercom speakers
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'Code 1-8'? What did that mean? Or, more specifically: what did that mean for them? There was no use in trying to decode the message with so little context, and as such it seemed as though he'd have to rely on either tonight's experiences or testimony tomorrow- though his attempts to gather that today had fallen astray of his targets. The uncomfortable truth was, he'd found himself back in his room after breakfast, apparently asleep. He'd woken up in time to check the bulletin board during fourth shift, but it troubled him greatly that no only was he was making so little progress, he was also starting to fall victim to one of the more insidious fates that could befall a patient here. Death by disappearance, a shadow fading by morning.
Death. Lunge found himself hesitating by the door with his soldier. Jones was dead, and of course Dent would know the details. He hadn't expected 'Spider-Man' of all people to explain the matter, not so publically, but it was obvious enough that he would have to ask Dent about the circumstances. What had the basement done to them? Could it have been avoided? What might his own chances of survival be?
For a moment, as the tide of questions quietened, Lunge wondered if his hesitance wasn't a reluctance to pry at the scab. He'd sealed himself nicely after reading the news that morning, neatly folded his feelings and placed them away in the place in his mind reserved for distractions, for unnecessary reactions (nausea, disbelief, fear, shock, he could name them all like letters of the alphabet)- and what of Dent? He'd been there himself.
Which made him a witness.
Which made it the Inspector's duty to question him.
When Heinrich Lunge entered the room, Dent was lying on the bed and plucking at his bandages. He imagined soft, blackened-pink skin, like charred meat, sticking to the gauze.
Still standing by his desk, he said, "I'm sorry to hear about Dr. Jones. He was-" a useful man to know, yes, but that clearly wouldn't do- "- a good man."
As it turned out, Lunge wasn't even giving him a moment to breathe. The moment he entered the room, the first thing that came out of his mouth was about that. Harvey had done such a good job of avoiding discussion of this topic throughout the day. He'd made mentions of it, but he hadn't had to describe it in any detail -- and he realized that he was fine with that.
That was about to change, though, since he'd already told Lunge he'd give him the information that he wanted and... well, no matter the circumstances, Harvey didn't like to go back on his word.
Feeling that it would be too awkward to carry out this conversation while he was laying flat on his back, Harvey pushed himself up and then scooted back until he was leaning against the wall that his bed was pushed up against. "Yeah, well, bad things happen to good people all the time." He knew exactly what he was saying and exactly who he was really talking about, but that was his little secret.
Pulling the last of his bandages off, Harvey's wounds finally got some breathing room. He tossed the blood-caked bandages to the floor and then gave his roommate a weary look. "What do you want to know?"
A little of Lunge's tension eased as Dent forced himself upright and up against the wall. Lying prone like that, it had almost felt as though he were a therapist interviewing a patient- though looking at him now, he wondered if it wasn't worse, as though the man hadn't the strength to support himself anymore. The look he received as the remainder of the bandages peeled away, the cynical answer, said as much.
Obviously, he was reading into it too much. It didn't take careful observation and analysis to suppose how this conversation was going to go; Dent had known Jones as well as he had, probably better. As cast-iron as Dent seemed, that he'd had the wind knocked out of him by his death shouldn't have been surprising.
Lunge sat down, and forced himself to consider that he'd left his emotions standing behind him. The man at the desk was a consummate professional.
Nonetheless, he started with the easier material. For chronology.
"What happened, once you gathered the shield and sword together?"
For once, the fact that Lunge was always straight to the point was actually a bad thing. The question he'd asked was a simple enough one to answer, but Harvey knew that it was just going to get worse and worse.
Still, he had to try and pull himself away from the situation and present the facts, like he was standing in a courtroom talking about a case; like he had no investment in the whole thing, hadn't even been there but had just heard it from another party.
"Well, nothing happened immediately. We had to go back down and take it to one of the doors in the ballroom. It's what allowed us into the final room."
That was all cut and dry, something easy for Lunge to follow and replicate if he was idiotic enough to want to follow in their footsteps. The man already knew that Jones had died as a result, but that was just one half of the story. He didn't even know the worst part yet.
If he was in any way smart, he'd know to stay the hell away once he heard about what Peter had done and how the rest of them had been forced to watch.
arghh, I'm really sorry >:herr_inspektorSeptember 9 2011, 14:28:29 UTC
Lunge listened, nodded. One of the doors in the ballroom- yes, it was hard to miss those ones. The white marble, the intricate carvings he hadn't quite managed to make out at a distance, all marked them out as obvious goals. He'd have been able to work out that much even if he hadn't spoken to Dent first.
But it was important to establish the the sequence of events in perfect order, if he was to replicate them with L soon enough. That, and... well. Perhaps there was a chance that in that chain of actions he would find a loophole- a way of outsmarting the system that would prevent them from walking into the same fate that Jones had.
Unlikely- Landel had ample opportunity to iron out the wrinkles in his games before he was taken away. Even Aguilar is thorough enough that, should he be the one running the basement now, it will be near-impossible to take advantage of the system in any way.
His mouth twitched a fraction. "What happened when you walked through the doors?" This was the new territory- the part he hadn't had a chance to see with his own eyes. He looked up, waiting.
This was where it was going to get hard. Harvey knew he was just going to have to keep it clinical, deliver the facts to get it over with and keep emotions to the side. He got the feeling that Lunge would prefer an explanation like that, anyway. So, after he realized that he'd been anxiously gripping at the sheets on his bed, he forced himself to stop and then looked over at his roommate.
"We ended up in a--"
And then, before he could actually say anything useful, it was as if his throat had closed up. A hand shot up to his throat as he tried to swallow through it, force past it. He didn't think he was choking up or anything like that. There was no way this was nerves. He coughed, shook his head, and tried again.
"There was a--"
But it happened all over again, and more than that, he was starting to feel a vague pain in his head. He should have been able to blurt it all out, and yet it was almost as if he was being blocked. He frowned down at his lap and then looked at Lunge again.
"I don't think I can tell you. Not like how you're thinking, but..." He sighed, his thoughts so jumbled by this strange turn of events that it was hard to get his words out properly. "I literally can't say."
Had the traumatic segment of their night really began so early? As Dent's explanation broke off Lunge's hand flattened for a moment, mid-type, and he raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. It seemed unlikely that Jones should be killed so suddenly, without any sort of explanation or lead-in- that just wasn't in keeping with Landel's attention-drawing style at all. And yet at the same time, it didn't seem in keeping with Dent's style for the man to get so obviously nervous.
And while the first time had struck the inspector as suspicious, well- the second was downright bizarre. By this point it was obvious that the hold-up wasn't coming naturally to his roommate at all, the man frowning and struggling to put into words what the problem was.
When he did articulate the problem, though, however uncertainly, everything fell into place.
"You're saying that you're being physically blocked from telling me what happened?" he clarified, leaning forward with interest. Now this was unexpected- and enlightening. He'd half-written off his conversation on the bulletin board about being unable to speak as obvious evasion, and yet here he was, seeing it in action. "How thorough is it? Chronology aside, can you tell me what you were ultimately expected to do, for example?"
At least Lunge was smart enough to follow what he was saying almost immediately. At this point Harvey hardly had the patience for trying to explain what was going on and so he only nodded firmly in response to his roommate's question. How was Aguilar even doing this? It had to be some sort of hypnosis or mind control, and the idea that someone had messed around in his head only made his hatred of the general grow.
Of course, now Lunge was trying to get more out of him, and while the very thought of trying to push past the mental barrier again was exhausting, he could understand why the man was trying to look at it from every angle.
And so he tried again even though he already knew that it was futile. "Well, I didn't--"
But he couldn't even say that much, couldn't even admit the fact that he hadn't been a part of what had happened, had instead only watched. He sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "No, sorry, I don't think I can tell you anything about what happened after we walked through that door." He wondered if he would be able to write it down, but he was sure Aguilar would have thought of that little loophole.
Of all the things he'd expected to add to his understanding of with this conversation, his leads regarding Landel's private conversations were not one of them. An idea of the basement's M.O., a general rundown of what to expect, those were more like it, and yet in a way this was far more useful to know. After all, he would be experiencing the basement first hand when the time came, and while it would have been endlessly useful to know how things were going to go down there so that he and L could plan around it, the fact was that there was probably nothing he could have done to help their odds.
This, on the other hand, was a minor breakthrough. "How interesting," he commented after a moment, bridging his hands across his lap, one leg crossed over the other. "You're the second person I've had this conversation with today. The first was on the bulletin board," he added, unconsciously echoing Dent's thoughts, "so I doubt you'd be able to write anything down, either."
But where did that leave him? If there was no way of getting around the block, did that mean that there was no mileage left in that angle anymore? Hand Landel truly covered his tracks that well? The thought was infuriating- impossible, even.
Death. Lunge found himself hesitating by the door with his soldier. Jones was dead, and of course Dent would know the details. He hadn't expected 'Spider-Man' of all people to explain the matter, not so publically, but it was obvious enough that he would have to ask Dent about the circumstances. What had the basement done to them? Could it have been avoided? What might his own chances of survival be?
For a moment, as the tide of questions quietened, Lunge wondered if his hesitance wasn't a reluctance to pry at the scab. He'd sealed himself nicely after reading the news that morning, neatly folded his feelings and placed them away in the place in his mind reserved for distractions, for unnecessary reactions (nausea, disbelief, fear, shock, he could name them all like letters of the alphabet)- and what of Dent? He'd been there himself.
Which made him a witness.
Which made it the Inspector's duty to question him.
When Heinrich Lunge entered the room, Dent was lying on the bed and plucking at his bandages. He imagined soft, blackened-pink skin, like charred meat, sticking to the gauze.
Still standing by his desk, he said, "I'm sorry to hear about Dr. Jones. He was-" a useful man to know, yes, but that clearly wouldn't do- "- a good man."
Reply
That was about to change, though, since he'd already told Lunge he'd give him the information that he wanted and... well, no matter the circumstances, Harvey didn't like to go back on his word.
Feeling that it would be too awkward to carry out this conversation while he was laying flat on his back, Harvey pushed himself up and then scooted back until he was leaning against the wall that his bed was pushed up against. "Yeah, well, bad things happen to good people all the time." He knew exactly what he was saying and exactly who he was really talking about, but that was his little secret.
Pulling the last of his bandages off, Harvey's wounds finally got some breathing room. He tossed the blood-caked bandages to the floor and then gave his roommate a weary look. "What do you want to know?"
Reply
Obviously, he was reading into it too much. It didn't take careful observation and analysis to suppose how this conversation was going to go; Dent had known Jones as well as he had, probably better. As cast-iron as Dent seemed, that he'd had the wind knocked out of him by his death shouldn't have been surprising.
Lunge sat down, and forced himself to consider that he'd left his emotions standing behind him. The man at the desk was a consummate professional.
Nonetheless, he started with the easier material. For chronology.
"What happened, once you gathered the shield and sword together?"
Reply
Still, he had to try and pull himself away from the situation and present the facts, like he was standing in a courtroom talking about a case; like he had no investment in the whole thing, hadn't even been there but had just heard it from another party.
"Well, nothing happened immediately. We had to go back down and take it to one of the doors in the ballroom. It's what allowed us into the final room."
That was all cut and dry, something easy for Lunge to follow and replicate if he was idiotic enough to want to follow in their footsteps. The man already knew that Jones had died as a result, but that was just one half of the story. He didn't even know the worst part yet.
If he was in any way smart, he'd know to stay the hell away once he heard about what Peter had done and how the rest of them had been forced to watch.
Reply
But it was important to establish the the sequence of events in perfect order, if he was to replicate them with L soon enough. That, and... well. Perhaps there was a chance that in that chain of actions he would find a loophole- a way of outsmarting the system that would prevent them from walking into the same fate that Jones had.
Unlikely- Landel had ample opportunity to iron out the wrinkles in his games before he was taken away. Even Aguilar is thorough enough that, should he be the one running the basement now, it will be near-impossible to take advantage of the system in any way.
His mouth twitched a fraction. "What happened when you walked through the doors?" This was the new territory- the part he hadn't had a chance to see with his own eyes. He looked up, waiting.
Reply
"We ended up in a--"
And then, before he could actually say anything useful, it was as if his throat had closed up. A hand shot up to his throat as he tried to swallow through it, force past it. He didn't think he was choking up or anything like that. There was no way this was nerves. He coughed, shook his head, and tried again.
"There was a--"
But it happened all over again, and more than that, he was starting to feel a vague pain in his head. He should have been able to blurt it all out, and yet it was almost as if he was being blocked. He frowned down at his lap and then looked at Lunge again.
"I don't think I can tell you. Not like how you're thinking, but..." He sighed, his thoughts so jumbled by this strange turn of events that it was hard to get his words out properly. "I literally can't say."
Reply
And while the first time had struck the inspector as suspicious, well- the second was downright bizarre. By this point it was obvious that the hold-up wasn't coming naturally to his roommate at all, the man frowning and struggling to put into words what the problem was.
When he did articulate the problem, though, however uncertainly, everything fell into place.
"You're saying that you're being physically blocked from telling me what happened?" he clarified, leaning forward with interest. Now this was unexpected- and enlightening. He'd half-written off his conversation on the bulletin board about being unable to speak as obvious evasion, and yet here he was, seeing it in action. "How thorough is it? Chronology aside, can you tell me what you were ultimately expected to do, for example?"
Reply
Of course, now Lunge was trying to get more out of him, and while the very thought of trying to push past the mental barrier again was exhausting, he could understand why the man was trying to look at it from every angle.
And so he tried again even though he already knew that it was futile. "Well, I didn't--"
But he couldn't even say that much, couldn't even admit the fact that he hadn't been a part of what had happened, had instead only watched. He sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "No, sorry, I don't think I can tell you anything about what happened after we walked through that door." He wondered if he would be able to write it down, but he was sure Aguilar would have thought of that little loophole.
Reply
Of all the things he'd expected to add to his understanding of with this conversation, his leads regarding Landel's private conversations were not one of them. An idea of the basement's M.O., a general rundown of what to expect, those were more like it, and yet in a way this was far more useful to know. After all, he would be experiencing the basement first hand when the time came, and while it would have been endlessly useful to know how things were going to go down there so that he and L could plan around it, the fact was that there was probably nothing he could have done to help their odds.
This, on the other hand, was a minor breakthrough. "How interesting," he commented after a moment, bridging his hands across his lap, one leg crossed over the other. "You're the second person I've had this conversation with today. The first was on the bulletin board," he added, unconsciously echoing Dent's thoughts, "so I doubt you'd be able to write anything down, either."
But where did that leave him? If there was no way of getting around the block, did that mean that there was no mileage left in that angle anymore? Hand Landel truly covered his tracks that well? The thought was infuriating- impossible, even.
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