Night 52: Stairwell by Waiting Room/Lobby 1

[poorexample]

[From here.]While it was his first time heading up the stairs, Castiel felt no trepidation. Even if he was alone and it was deathly quiet, he was used to unsettling situations and saw no reason to slow his march upward. Though at the sound of footsteps, he did glance over his shoulder for a split second, to see another patient who was taking the

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[quarter_english]

As Landel spoke, L's expression shifted from weary to irritated.

His own methods were always as clear to him as his goals, or as clear as they could be in terms of the information he had at the time. He did what had to be done, or he delegated it; he worked with the available materials and checked and double-checked the results. He was tenacious and pragmatic, moving to the next plan if the first one failed. Even when he became frustrated, the best way to deal with a failure was to keep at it until he reversed it, or at least reversed its effects on his work. If the loss of a resource made a failure appear to be irreversible, he didn't admit defeat: he changed his approach.

He couldn't accept anything less than a complete solution to any case. Battles might be lost, there might indeed be regrettable casualties, yet so far, he had won every war.

A small element of L's resentment came from his rejection of Landel's hypothesis, primarily from the suggestion that they were 'just the same.'
This was a common claim on the part of his opponents, and not accurate enough to merit deep examination.

The greater part came from his suspicion that he was about to be subjected to yet another melodramatic demonstration of whatever the Head Doctor's latest point happened to be. Landel might be insane, but he was also lucid; his plans for a night tended to follow a rational, calculated path, and tonight was no different. To L, the eerie quality of the end of the announcement felt contrived, but even cheap tricks could be effective--especially with a captive audience.

Soft whispers rose and coalesced into a single, familiar voice, the voice of self-doubt and difficult decisions. "How can you be sure? Certainty is necessary. You can't move without it."

L's shadow warped, and twitched, and performed a maneuver similar to that of Lunge's shadow, stepping out of the wall--less a shadow now, more an insubstantial doppelganger. While it had L's thin figure and stooped posture, it looked healthier. No bandages were wound around its head, and it appeared to be as well-rested as its owner had ever been, if nowhere near as substantial.

It raised its long, slender index finger to its lips, then pressed the pad at the tip against a delighted smile. "This is interesting," it murmured, staring wide-eyed at L. It had his voice, too. The look he gave it in return was perturbed and unamused.

At that moment, Taylor tossed something at Lunge's shadow. The sudden movement drew a flicker of L's gaze. As soon as it left the shadow, the shadow's expression changed, all pleasure in it replaced by contempt.

L let out a heavy sigh. He suspected that he already knew how the rest of the evening would go.

[herr_inspektor]

Inspector Lunge had not, before arriving in the Institute, ever expected to be standing in a hallway locking eyes with himself. That this was likely one of the more obvious cards Landel could have played didn't seem to matter particularly now. The shadow version of himself didn't say anything, either, and it took him a moment to realise that he was being sized up. Studied. And then he had to ask, just what had he managed to give away already? He hadn't even thought to control his reaction, for goodness' sake. Immediately he rearranged his expression into something more neutral, as though the damage hadn't already been done- just in time for a roll of tape to scythe clean through the shadow's face with barely a ripple.

It was just enough to break the spell of eye contact. Lunge blinked once then turned sharply to the side, back towards the sound of L's voice. Or rather, Ls' voices, as he soon discovered: one bandaged, slumped and carrying a vague sense of resignation, the other only just solid and wearing scorn like a medal of honour. Taylor, just beyond him, was the only one without a living shadow.

His own shadow spoke before he'd even opened his mouth. "Interesting and disappointing. The one thing I didn't anticipate was for you to be surprised, Heinrich."

It made a careful point of enunciating his name. That stung, in a childish sort of way. Lunge narrowed his eyes at the shadow for a moment- then made a careful point of looking straight back to L and Taylor instead, straight through the shadows. "I doubt there's any obvious way to get rid of them- not immediately, at least. Marc might have something useful to add."

It was an obvious observation aimed at no one in particular, perhaps, but now that the initial shock was wearing off a new and equally unwanted sense of unease was slowly but surely taking its place. Look at things you've never wanted to face. Landel couldn't make him face anything he didn't want to face. He refused to get into another argument with himself.

[quarter_english]

"Maybe." He dragged the word out just enough to demonstrate his doubt. "It's a ridiculous trick--more annoying than anything. I'm not sure what the point is, but it seems like it could go on for a while."

Much of Landel's rambling tonight seemed to have been about hypocrisy; the woman had mentioned "looking at things you've never wanted to face." Taken in that sense, the use of their shadows was literal, almost to a depressing degree. Heavy-handed, showing a lack of originality, inspiring nothing like the cautious flutter of hope that L had tried to ignore as he'd felt the cool tile of the floor of his headquarters under his feet. His experiences Saturday night had been genuinely unsettling; the same was true of his time as an experimental subject. In comparison, this was nothing. He doubted that he had many illusions about himself.

The shadow shot a resentful look at L, as if it understood his dismissal. Then, an idea seemed to strike it, and its glare made a slow shift, curling into an unpleasant smile. When it spoke again, its words came out in a rapid murmur, a near-monotone.

"These two are assisting you? Hm. Are they aware of their prospects? Thirteen out of seventeen--Misora doesn't count, and--Tailor would have died anyway, of course. What percent chance of death is that? Never mind, L, don't bother to calculate it--just tell them it's five percent. No. Three."

L began to speak over the shadow's chatter; his voice was still calm and soft, but it held a frosty note. "Mr. Lunge--I assume that your colleagues are aware that they're risking their lives when they take up police work. Do they often die in the line of duty?"

The question was rhetorical, intended as a comment on what the shadow was saying. It was true that more than three-quarters of the officers who had worked directly under him during the Kira case had been killed, but he hadn't been the one to do the killing. If he had been able to solve the case without the use of outside assistance, he would have. Every officer involved had been aware of the dangers.

Meanwhile, the shadow continued, as if L wasn't trying to ignore it. "You must remember how Mr. Ukita tried to call for your assistance as he fell to the ground. He had been so eager to go to Sakura TV to help. It was interesting to watch him from the safety of your hotel room, wasn't it? It's always interesting to see someone die, particularly when they trusted you to protect them. If nothing else, at least that kind of death gives you another chance to observe the perpetrator's methods."

He did remember it: his own mounting horror and agitation, that day, when Amane--he was almost certain it had been Amane--had killed news anchors who had disagreed with Kira. They had died on live television. Any officers who had tried to break her hold on Sakura TV had been killed, too, and that included Ukita, who had rushed to the front doors of the station without question after taking L's urgent wish to stop Amane's broadcast to heart. Aizawa would also have died, if L hadn't stopped him from following Ukita. It had been a terrible day, the most distressing in the investigation even up to this point--"interesting" wasn't the word he would have used. Yet he couldn't deny that Ukita's death (the way his right hand flailed at his waist for a moment, trying to press the button on his belt before he fell) had led to a new, significant, alarming clue: sometimes Kira could kill without a name.

L looked at his companions rather than at either shadow, and shifted his weight from one foot to another, his impatience beginning to outweigh his current physical fragility. This was the second time he had tried to reach the lab and been unable to; it was shaping up to be the third wasted night in a row. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the time they had left humoring the whims of a pair of smug, condescending, confrontational chimeras--especially considering that at least one of the two seemed to lack a sense of discretion.

"I'm really tired of this." Coming out of L's mouth, the words were clipped and vexed, and he now looked as put out as his shadow had a few moments earlier. "I think we should try to move along. Taylor--where were we going?"

[herr_inspektor]

At first, it wasn't clear just how much of L's response was a facade, with that flat, outright bored tone that could easily have been forced. His shadow's response cleared that up, at least- it looked put out, as though its counterpart had ruined the punchline already. It wasn't long before it thought up the next subject in its routine (one that, Lunge didn't doubt, wouldn't be put off so easily- if the shadow was anything like L himself, it wouldn't give up without a fight). Death.

Lunge didn't flinch- not externally, at least. Internally... well. Dissection eased the shock value after a moment or two. In fact, kneejerk reaction aside, there was something fascinating in it. Thirteen deaths within the police alone, not including the presumably-greater number of victims up to that point, was easily large enough to warrant interest: was this the 'Kira case' the man had mentioned as from his home world? The security levels in the base (reconstruction of a base) they'd found themselves in had certainly indicated an enormous case. And then there was the body count. Either this was an exceptionally clever killer or L was, contrary to what he had seen so far, spectacularly incompetent.

At any rate, that one seemed to have hit its mark, albeit slightly off center- L looked more irritated than distraught at the revelation, as though he'd been sure his shadow would go on missing, fidgeting just a little more than was necessary for something brought on by pure impatience.

A voice cut through his thoughts. He could hear the knife’s-edge smile, all barely-concealed predation, sliced into every word. "It isn't dead colleagues the Inspector should worry about. He doesn’t even need a serial killer to lose people. Wouldn’t you agree? You can’t argue with the evidence, after all. One wife, one daughter, one grandson. How clumsy.”

He refused to give himself away in front of L or Taylor. Utterly refused. Lunge turned his eyes, beady and focused to the extreme, onto the latter. "I would think the most likely places to find computers on the ground floor are the doctor's offices."

Over his shoulder, the shadow made the sound close to a chuckle he'd made a couple of times before on the job- usually when he had an ace up his sleeve. "You're very good at ignoring the obvious, for a BKA agent. Just like you did for Doctor Tenma."

Lunge's hands clenched ghost-white, but he carried on as though he hadn't heard a thing. "I haven't seen any of them yet, but I would be surprised if not even one doctor had one."

[toxicspiderman]

When intellectuals got self-deprecating, it was usually complete bullshit.  An elaborate competitive dance, like a peacock mating ritual with pseudo insults for feathers.  This one felt a little more honest, courtesy of Martin Landel, but it didn't make it less boring, even in quadraphony.

Ryuuzaki's evil twin finished the opening posturing first, and started in with a list of names and dates.  Patronizing little bastard.  Claiming responsibility for the deaths of what -- coworkers?  Grown men and women who had free will,  though perhaps no sense of self-preservation.  Sangamon Taylor was a survivor.  And if he took a bullet to the brain (or carcinogenic time bomb to the nucleotides), he wanted it to go down as his own fucking fault.

DUCK, DUCK SQUEEZER
NOTED ENVIRONMENTAL ACTIVIST KILLED IN FREAK BANNER ACCIDENT

Besides, the list was anecdotal bullshit, not a statistically significant sample.  So the guy had crap luck in co-workers.  Big deal.  It didn't bother S.T., and neither did the accusation of being insensitive.  The guy was a geek, through and through.  Give him a problem and he'd solve it first, cry later.  If the latter was even appropriate.  People only had so much capacity for caring, whatever preaches might claim. S.T. wanted to save the world, and by extension, as many of the overcrowded huddling masses as he could; it didn't mean he enjoyed being stuck on a Red Line train with any of them, whether they were banks or panhandlers.

Lunge stole his thunder, leaving S.T. the job of yes-man rather than strategist.  "That's exactly what I was going to suggest.  The Boy Wonder's got one.  Doctor Daedulus Yu-something."  He jogged down the stairs and opened the fire door for his biologically-based compatriots.  He'd lay money the animated shadows could walk through walls as easily as out of them, but he wasn't going to give them the courtesy.    "There's one upstairs in a boardroom, but it was on the other side of that machine-gun fire.  So unless you two gentlemen," he said, addressing the shadows, "are willing to shut up and pull your weight as decoys, the offices it is."