Night 52: Intercom, Early Night
The static once again began to make noise on the intercom system, bringing with it the sound of heavy breathing. It wasn't the Head Doctor's.
"Been hard at work tonight. That new fellow, Marc - he hasn't been all that helpful, has he? Oh, no, no. Our dear old Jack would venture onto the premises and risk his own life for your safety, but I'm not yet sure if I'm convinced that our new plucky rebel has the stuff to handle such an operation. The one before him certainly didn't."
He paused, considering. The hard breathing in the background continued. The Head Doctor made a rustling noise, as if he was turning. "What do you think, Jill?"
The breathing gave way to a long, pained groan. The Head Doctor chuckled.
"That's what I thought."
A slap. A cry of pain, muffled. The Head Doctor seemed a little farther away from the microphone, as if he was leaning in toward something else.
"It isn't so easy to play 'hero' now, is it?"
The sound of metal on wood; a head slumping. "This sad specimen is what we'd call a 'hypocrite.'" Another movement, then the sound of pacing. With each new step, the Head Doctor's voice increased in volume. "Unfortunately, there is no shortage of people like this. They're... common, really. And easy to see through." He turned away from the mic again. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I had your number, didn't I?"
A pause.
"Too bad Alec wasn't as fortunate."
The sound of wheels on a plastic surface, like an office chair being shoved away. The thud of the Head Doctor's palms on his desk. He leaned in toward the mic.
"I have all of your numbers. All of you underdogs, you self-proclaimed heroes, you warriors against some unknown 'evil' without any knowledge of the outside world and the methods it's been forced to employ. All of you: contradictions in the flesh; all of you: hypocrites."
He considered. Chuckled.
"But perhaps, instead, I should show you."
The last two words echoed in the hallways several times as the intercom's crackle slowly faded. Then, like a sudden burst of lightning, the lights all around the Institute and the nearby town lit up with a high-pitched whine.
One bulb burst, then another. Some fluorescent lights cracked from one side and swung down from the other. Even some flashlights seemed to lose power for a second before coming back to life.
Finally, the whine began to fade. The remaining bulbs dimmed, but didn't go out - not completely. Half of the Institute's lights, left intact after the power surge, flickered sporadically, casting a steady glow in some areas while intermittently leaving others in darkness. Regardless, the Institute was better lit this Nightshift than it had ever been before, especially in the patient rooms, where the lights seemed to have survived the onslaught better than the rest. Surely, explorers tonight had caught an unintentional lucky break due to the Head Doctor's melodrama.
At least, that's what the patients might think at first. Some others might sense a more sinister force at work: they might notice something... off about their surroundings. Their shadow, on the wall, in the corner of their vision - was that... a sudden movement in the wrong direction? A small step to the left when the shadow-caster had gone right?
But then, when they looked straight at their shadow, it would seem perfectly normal. If they asked their friends, they would have noticed no difference at all. Probably just a trick of the light...
Except that all of the patients who might have such an experience would have something in common. If they searched their histories, their memories, the recollection of their comrades, they might find something they wouldn't want to admit to. One or more sins, perhaps concealed, perhaps not - but in all cases, an offense that had either ended in profound pain or death. The reasons didn't matter: only the results.
Betrayers, thieves, liars, and killers. These were the people whose shadows slid out of sync on the Institute's walls.
[See this lounge post for detailed guidelines on the event.]
"Been hard at work tonight. That new fellow, Marc - he hasn't been all that helpful, has he? Oh, no, no. Our dear old Jack would venture onto the premises and risk his own life for your safety, but I'm not yet sure if I'm convinced that our new plucky rebel has the stuff to handle such an operation. The one before him certainly didn't."
He paused, considering. The hard breathing in the background continued. The Head Doctor made a rustling noise, as if he was turning. "What do you think, Jill?"
The breathing gave way to a long, pained groan. The Head Doctor chuckled.
"That's what I thought."
A slap. A cry of pain, muffled. The Head Doctor seemed a little farther away from the microphone, as if he was leaning in toward something else.
"It isn't so easy to play 'hero' now, is it?"
The sound of metal on wood; a head slumping. "This sad specimen is what we'd call a 'hypocrite.'" Another movement, then the sound of pacing. With each new step, the Head Doctor's voice increased in volume. "Unfortunately, there is no shortage of people like this. They're... common, really. And easy to see through." He turned away from the mic again. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I had your number, didn't I?"
A pause.
"Too bad Alec wasn't as fortunate."
The sound of wheels on a plastic surface, like an office chair being shoved away. The thud of the Head Doctor's palms on his desk. He leaned in toward the mic.
"I have all of your numbers. All of you underdogs, you self-proclaimed heroes, you warriors against some unknown 'evil' without any knowledge of the outside world and the methods it's been forced to employ. All of you: contradictions in the flesh; all of you: hypocrites."
He considered. Chuckled.
"But perhaps, instead, I should show you."
The last two words echoed in the hallways several times as the intercom's crackle slowly faded. Then, like a sudden burst of lightning, the lights all around the Institute and the nearby town lit up with a high-pitched whine.
One bulb burst, then another. Some fluorescent lights cracked from one side and swung down from the other. Even some flashlights seemed to lose power for a second before coming back to life.
Finally, the whine began to fade. The remaining bulbs dimmed, but didn't go out - not completely. Half of the Institute's lights, left intact after the power surge, flickered sporadically, casting a steady glow in some areas while intermittently leaving others in darkness. Regardless, the Institute was better lit this Nightshift than it had ever been before, especially in the patient rooms, where the lights seemed to have survived the onslaught better than the rest. Surely, explorers tonight had caught an unintentional lucky break due to the Head Doctor's melodrama.
At least, that's what the patients might think at first. Some others might sense a more sinister force at work: they might notice something... off about their surroundings. Their shadow, on the wall, in the corner of their vision - was that... a sudden movement in the wrong direction? A small step to the left when the shadow-caster had gone right?
But then, when they looked straight at their shadow, it would seem perfectly normal. If they asked their friends, they would have noticed no difference at all. Probably just a trick of the light...
Except that all of the patients who might have such an experience would have something in common. If they searched their histories, their memories, the recollection of their comrades, they might find something they wouldn't want to admit to. One or more sins, perhaps concealed, perhaps not - but in all cases, an offense that had either ended in profound pain or death. The reasons didn't matter: only the results.
Betrayers, thieves, liars, and killers. These were the people whose shadows slid out of sync on the Institute's walls.
[See this lounge post for detailed guidelines on the event.]