Night 44: M71-M80 Hallway

[sitard3d]

This was a really, really bad idea.

Of course, Demyx wasn't the type to have very many good ideas, or at least ones that didn't pertain to music or ducking out of work. He knew he wasn't the brightest guy - something that had always been thrown into sharp relief in the Organization, full of scientists and people with no emotions or, in most cases

Comments

[cigarettes_plz]

Nightshift preparations went by pretty quickly. Badou loaded up the new water pistol with the remaining acid - pleasedon'tburnthroughtheplastic - and tucked his smokes and lighter and folded-up maps into his pockets, and that was that. His flashlight was gone, and he didn't exactly have a spare weapon for Haine, but whatever. Haine could just bark at the monsters until they went away or something.

As for the announcement... Well, it was still kinda lacking maniacal laughter but he didn't believe a word of it except maybe the protection part. It would suck for them if their subjects just broke before they were ready and considering the last few nights... Badou wanted to stay in his room. He could lay there and smoke all night if he didn't have to go and find his parter.

He inhaled smoke and started down the hallway.

[to here]

[i_dont_paint]

Though there was more than enough for Tony to work on that night, especially in light of how little he'd gotten done during the previous one, he found the last thing he wanted was to stay in his room. He pushed himself up off of the bed (which should have been bloodstained, with as much as he'd lost, but wasn't, the evidence had vanished just like the evidence of everything else) and grabbed his flashlight and journal on the way to the door

[i_dont_paint]

The light alerted Tony to another patient's presence, even before the teen spoke up. He looked sharply over, wariness clear in his expression before it submerged beneath an empty grin as he realized this was someone he recognized. "Hey...Peter, right?" He was pretty sure that was the right name, though he had to admit, if only privately, that recalling what people went by wasn't his forte. Better to be sure now than find out when he shouted for the wrong person to duck.

"Decide to cut curfew?" he asked, wry humor slowly shading into his voice as he forced aside thoughts of death and zombies and things that went bump in the night. "Are you up to anything good?"

M77

[meitantei]

Shinichi hated to admit it, of course, but he was enjoying himself immensely. He was on a case, a real, honest-to-God murder, and he was himself. No Conan. No voice changing bowtie. No Kougorou to sedate.

Just him, Hattori, and the occasional consult by a tubercular dead guy. Fun times.

Well, no time to waste. They needed to get a move on.

[skipping all the way here because of time constraints.]