[Semi-Closed]
Who: Badou, HUNK, Gokudera and anyone else who might be bringing smokes or clothes.
Where: Room 231
When: Morning of May 10th, following this.
What: Badou with smokes = shooting spree averted? \o/ Fallout from the mystery "date"/clothing theft event of the night before.
The last clear thing that Badou remembered from the night before was waking up to some asshole yelling through the communicator--the last logical thing. Him and Heine and the loudmouthed fruitcake: he'd complained at the time, but in hindsight, out of his waking-up options, he'd take maniacs yelling through a comm link any day, because when he woke up again it was alone in an apartment he knew he'd never seen.
Not like haunted apartment buildings didn't equal weird shit to begin with, he supposed, but from the second he'd opened his eyes he'd had the eerie sensation of being in a dream, only with more than a dream's weight and seriousness. And then he'd heard the voice, the knocking outside the door beckoning him, and even before he looked through the peephole he knew he was about to see something he really didn't want. Something untenable.
He knew it wasn't him when he opened the door. But then who's to say it wasn't after all? This place was full of ghosts, so why not this one? Why not one he knew? One he actually wanted to see. Dave.
He almost wasn't surprised when the apparition flickered and vanished before his eyes, but he hadn't been ready for the sudden cold certainty of something behind him, something malicious and hungry in the room. He wanted to walk out and never look back, not to see what it was, but in dreams you sometimes do the things you know better than to do.
Mostly what he remembered was the old woman's face, the wrinkled lines in sallow paper-thin skin, the folds around the eyes and the loose jowls, the too-sharp teeth. It didn't do him any good to fight her. He couldn't beat her off; he couldn't shield himself. And when she was gone he just sat down in the corner and waited, still feeling like it was all too dream-like, all too unreal. But the morning came without the solace of wakening, with him still sat there with knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting against them. It was uncomfortable and kind of cold, but he hadn't bothered to try and cover himself--there was nothing here for him to wear anyway.
At least smokes were on the way. Guy had said he'd bring smokes. Smokes were good. Badou's jaw gave a tiny involuntary twitch.
Smokes would make his lungs stop hurting. Maybe make him feel a bit less like he wanted to blaze a trail of bullets between here and...and...well, fuck, he didn't much care where at the moment. He'd take gunsmoke in a pinch if he couldn't find the other kind.
Shit. A smoke would taste really fucking good right now.
Where: Room 231
When: Morning of May 10th, following this.
What: Badou with smokes = shooting spree averted? \o/ Fallout from the mystery "date"/clothing theft event of the night before.
The last clear thing that Badou remembered from the night before was waking up to some asshole yelling through the communicator--the last logical thing. Him and Heine and the loudmouthed fruitcake: he'd complained at the time, but in hindsight, out of his waking-up options, he'd take maniacs yelling through a comm link any day, because when he woke up again it was alone in an apartment he knew he'd never seen.
Not like haunted apartment buildings didn't equal weird shit to begin with, he supposed, but from the second he'd opened his eyes he'd had the eerie sensation of being in a dream, only with more than a dream's weight and seriousness. And then he'd heard the voice, the knocking outside the door beckoning him, and even before he looked through the peephole he knew he was about to see something he really didn't want. Something untenable.
He knew it wasn't him when he opened the door. But then who's to say it wasn't after all? This place was full of ghosts, so why not this one? Why not one he knew? One he actually wanted to see. Dave.
He almost wasn't surprised when the apparition flickered and vanished before his eyes, but he hadn't been ready for the sudden cold certainty of something behind him, something malicious and hungry in the room. He wanted to walk out and never look back, not to see what it was, but in dreams you sometimes do the things you know better than to do.
Mostly what he remembered was the old woman's face, the wrinkled lines in sallow paper-thin skin, the folds around the eyes and the loose jowls, the too-sharp teeth. It didn't do him any good to fight her. He couldn't beat her off; he couldn't shield himself. And when she was gone he just sat down in the corner and waited, still feeling like it was all too dream-like, all too unreal. But the morning came without the solace of wakening, with him still sat there with knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting against them. It was uncomfortable and kind of cold, but he hadn't bothered to try and cover himself--there was nothing here for him to wear anyway.
At least smokes were on the way. Guy had said he'd bring smokes. Smokes were good. Badou's jaw gave a tiny involuntary twitch.
Smokes would make his lungs stop hurting. Maybe make him feel a bit less like he wanted to blaze a trail of bullets between here and...and...well, fuck, he didn't much care where at the moment. He'd take gunsmoke in a pinch if he couldn't find the other kind.
Shit. A smoke would taste really fucking good right now.