A Multifandom Asylum RPG

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Nightshift 41: West Wing South Hall 2-B
iwascloned wrote in damned
[from here]

Now that he'd made his daring escape, Spider began considering important questions. Questions like, "where the fuck am I?" "where the fuck are my drugs?" and "did I accidentally smear shit all over myself instead of blood?" The third question would require a second opinion, and the second question depended wholly on figuring out the first question, and so Spider began looking for things he recognized.

Unfortunately, since he had last traveled through this hallway under the influence of a cocktail of rather powerful narcotics and hallucinogens, all Spider could remember about this hallway was that it was frequented by a happy-go-lucky talking wheelbarrow full of guns. At the moment, this was not particularly helpful. But the hallway dead-ended to the north, and Spider's keen journalistic instincts told him that he could not run through walls right now. So he went south.

[to here]

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[from here]

Alfred stopped once the pair had rounded the corner into the new hallway. Their position should be secure for now, and they could keep an eye on the larger halls without appearing too conspicuous. Also, should the need arise, there seemed to be plenty of doors off the hallway, indicating that a hiding spot wouldn't be too difficult to find.

"Perhaps it would be best if we stop here for now, and keep watch, momentarily, in order to insure that nothing intends to follow us."

[from here.]

Bruce's hands kept slipping on the body because of the blood, but luckily he had experience enough to know that between constantly juggling his grip and stepping lightly, the problem was manageable. There were men's voices in the hallway, which meant that he was going in the right direction. He thought of the medical wing, but Jason was already dead. What he needed was a Lazarus Pit, not a bandage, but as connected as Ra's was Bruce doubted even he could find his Caped Crusader in a place like this.

No, all that mattered was getting this boy to a place with people who cared about him. And even if Bruce didn't know who or what the boy was asides from being Jason, he could manage finding at least where Landel was keeping his loved ones. There was a reason the teenager followed the script to his death, and Bruce intended to find out.

It was the least he could do.

It was the least he could do.

"Perhaps it would be best if we stop here for now, and keep watch, momentarily, in order to insure that nothing intends to follow us."

...after awhile, all the voices blended together and became familiar. Bruce's eyes were stony as he spotted a pair of patients nearby, walking. He was naked, and his blood had mingled with Jason's (don't you mean a total stranger's?).

He didn't have time to waste.

Bruce didn't even turn his head as he passed them.

His arms were getting tired.

"Right." Keep watch. Yeah.

Perhaps he should have expected people coming from the other direction (it was the night they experimented on others, wasn't it?) but it still surprised him to see some appear, especially bloodied up as they were. Eyes widening, he took a step towards them without even thinking about it.

"Hey! Are you all right? What happened?" They were just words, really. The man might not even want to tell him what had happened, and clearly they weren't all right.

Alfred was still looking over his shoulder when he heard a door open and footsteps approaching. Nothing seemed to be coming at them from the larger hallways so he turned his attention forward. The man appeared to be carrying a body and, although he was cloaked in shadows he had the same build as (could be Batman's-) He was - and the shadows that hid him - familiar in a way that was impossible.

Hadn't Jason said, earlier, something about Bruce? And then the man was moving past them, carrying the dead boy, much like Batman had been when he'd... Jason. Alfred's eyes moved to Bruce's face (no that was Batman's face) and his jaw dropped in shock, because this was - Bruce was - There was a clatter as the flashlight fell from his suddenly limp fingers. It rolled to stop against his foot as the pillowcase of supplies joined it with a soft thump. "Dear Lord... Master Bruce?" What happened is that... Jason?

What kind of place was this?

Weakness muted pain. There was an irony to that—the body needed pain the same way criminals needed warnings. Robbing the deserving of pain was equivalent to robbing them of second chances: at life, at atonement.

He should be hurting more—physically. It would give both him and Jason something to focus on—mentally.

One of the bystanders (where had they come from?) shouted something, suddenly, and stood in their way. Bruce looked up and into where he thought the man's eyes should be: he was having difficulty seeing faces. Perhaps he'd been searching too diligently for the corpses'. More likely, though, it was simply too dark to see.

.......yes. It was dark.

Bruce said nothing, unsure of what to say. The man's hair color alternated from black to gray to a dim, eerie white. He seemed more like a ghost than anything. Which was a stupid and illogical thought, but that was how this whole thing was.

Especially considering the ghost next to him.

"Dear Lord...Master Bruce?"

Master Bruce?

...........there was only one man that voice could belong to, because there was only one man in the world who called him "Master." Feet planted, Bruce at last turned to face him, eyes dull and naked.

At least he knew it was an illusion now. There was no other place in the world like Alfred, because Alfred was a place. So long a symbol, so long an anchor. The last piece of stability Bruce had always thought he could count on, the one thing he had never questioned, except perhaps he should have questioned, because then he would know that he would inevitably lose him.

................ah, well. So long as it was an illusion.

An illusion it would be.

Alfred, he said, and fainted.


We're home.

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