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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[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."