Day 58: Meeting Room 1

[scalyfishman]

Depth Charge knew he was supposed to struggle. It was the only appropriate response.

After what had happened- after what he’d watched- how the slag was he supposed to react went the first thing he saw on opening his eyes was a soldier standing in his doorway, waiting patiently for him to wake up? Smile and ask him how his night had been? With the

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[scarefaux]

The door shut with a snap, drawing the Scarecrow from his sleep. It was still so strange to him, to close his eyes for a moment and find that he'd lost time completely. He supposed initially that it might be the fact that the sleep all the patients were drawn into at night was due to a spell, and would therefore feel unnatural because it was; however, even when it occurred during the day from time to time, it still was a bizarre sensation. Some aspects of his humanity would never settle quite right

[scalyfishman]

Part of Depth Charge wanted to be cynical when the door opened again: breaking down the deception into understandable chunks was a prerequisite for survival here, and he could see the way the pieces aligned here. The only way to buck up the 'bot they'd knocked the spark out was to present him with the scraps he had left to fight for, and they knew it. Where he’d previously have been prepared to keep up the dumb insolence for the whole shift, suddenly he was shocked out of his slouch and paying attention

[scarefaux]

Decision? And just what were they being asked, exactly

[scalyfishman]

Scarecrow was right on the mark. The entire thing sounded, if the pun could be forgiven, downright fishy. Why were they being trusted with some big mission when it was obvious that Aguilar had more than enough goons to send out instead? Depth Charge could almost see the logic in choosing him for something like this- he at least had the training- but the Scarecrow? What, did secondary knowledge of witchcraft suddenly count as military expertise?

If it was a trap, it was a pretty obvious one. Depth Charge waited tensely for a response of some sort- and then frowned.

He was right to have expected a half-answer. What they got instead of facts were the usual veiled threats: consequences was the week’s buzzword, apparently. But where he’d usually have shaken them off with a sneer and a shrug he instead found himself listening carefully, working through possibilities. Consequences lurked just under the surface of the moment, like a needle under human skin. He’d seen what they could do last night. He’d watch Indiana Jones bleed out. By