(Untitled)

[machineasman]

The Machine waits.

The Machine has waited since the beginning, when it could not think. Since the time of memory, when it surfaced from the dark pool that is oblivion and thought. Since the time it became aware, and saw the world into which it had been born. Since the time of blood, and the time of walls.

And it waits still, some long-forgotten line

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[somanyghosts]

Plourr was in the lobby when the change happened. The big hunk of metal and plastic on the desk -- it's a monitor of some sort, she's sure of it, and she has dedicated her time in recent days in trying to get the damn thing to work.

No luck yet.

She'd just put her hands on the casing when she hears the click, senses the movement; feels the air on her face. She's moving in a split second, ducking behind the reception desk and drawing her blaster.

But nothing comes, and she slowly rises into a higher crouch, looking over the top of the desk.

That door was always locked before.

[OOC: Anyone who wants to explode new ground? Tag in!]

[somanyghosts]

Plourr stood at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway of closed doors, her shoulders tense and metaphorical hackles raised, blaster firmly in hand. Those dark red-brown stains spattered all over the place, they're unmistakable, and so are the deep marks scratched and gouged into the walls, the floor -- even the ceiling.

She's halfway to the end of the hall -- and the shape that she's pretty damn sure should still be attached to a body somewhere (a body that, given the smell, is probably around here somewhere) -- when she hears the voices from downstairs and glances sharply over her shoulder.

[grabber_fray]

Remember her? The bossy girl with the babies?

Not so much with the babies right now. She's got a fire-axe modified in the same way that Spoon did for her a year ago: the wooden handle sharpened to a point, and she's taking the stairs three at a time without any awkwardness.

"What's the situation?"

[somanyghosts]

"Nothing yet," she says brusquely. "That door just opened with no warning." Trusting that the other woman (probably) isn't going to throw that axe at her from behind after all that talk of unity, she heads back down toward the end of the hall. She crouches down a meter or two from the leg, and, her back safely to the other woman, Plourr winces at it, and at the smell.

She looks over her shoulder again. "Severed leg. Looks humanoid." She shakes her head tightly, eyes rising to the bloody, rent walls. "What the hell is this place?"

[grabber_fray]

"'What' doesn't worry me long as our legs stay attached."

Mel moves around Plourr, holding her breath against the smell, and pokes at it gently with the sharpened handle of her axe.

"Cut's not clean. That's been torn."

[somanyghosts]

"No kidding." She rises. "How much you want to bet the rest of the body's around here somewhere?"

[grabber_fray]

Mel stands slowly after spending longer than she'd want to examining the tear.

"I'd be more worried if it wasn't," she says, studying the hallway carefully, before nodding at the door opposite her. "Shall we?"

[somanyghosts]

Plourr nods once, putting her hand on the knob of the door marked 214. It turns willingly under a little pressure, and her eyes flick to the power gauge of her blaster--safety off, fully charged, set to kill--and to the other woman for a brief second.

She may not know Mel, but it doesn't pay to throw open a door in a situation like this unless you're sure that your wing, temporary or not, is ready for it.

[grabber_fray]

Sometimes Mel really wishes she hadn't given her gun to her brother. But then sometimes the old weapons are better.

The axe is tossed to her left hand and she pulls a stake out of her bandoleer.

Then she nods.

[somanyghosts]

A nod in response and she shoves the door open and steps in and out of the doorway quickly, blaster up in an authoritative two-handed grip.

It's a room. An empty one, from the looks of it, which looks just like the ones downstairs. Double bed, dresser, closet, couch, and a door ajar that looks like it leads to a 'fresher.

[grabber_fray]

When Plourr doesn't get instantly killed, Mel ducks past and into the room, walking slowly as she checks the area, even looking up.

"Looks empty," she says, sheathing a stake to lift up the bed one-handed and look under.

[somanyghosts]

Her eyebrows rise faintly at the show of strength, but she sticks her head through the door into the primitive 'fresher. There are toiletries--toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, shampoo, some other little things--lined up on the counter, and -- a scrap of paper taped to the mirror. She frowns and plucks it off, stepping back into the bedroom, studying the note.

She holds it out. "Can you read this?"

[grabber_fray]

It wasn't a conscious show - she just had something in her other hand, is all.

"Yeah," Mel says with a nod, and takes the note with her free hand. "It's a list of names and times," and then she reads it out loud. "Where was it?"

[somanyghosts]

"Adhered to the mirror." She takes another look at the note, pointless as doing so is. "Not the names of anybody here, is it?"

[grabber_fray]

"Not that I recognise," Mel says, placing the paper down on the dresser. "Don't know everyone, though."

She glances around the room again.

"This one looks harmless, though. Let's hope the others are as empty."

[somanyghosts]

"Yeah," she says, ducking back out into the hall to place her hand on the doorknob to room number 213. "Wouldn't count on it, though. Ready?"