DAMNED || LANDEL'S INSTITUTE

A Multifandom Asylum RPG


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Day 44: Arts and Crafts Room, 4th Shift
this L is Damned, gray shirt
quarter_english wrote in damned
The day had been slow for L so far, slower than he required: the events of the previous night were traumatic, but they did not outweigh his need for information and a useful way in which to apply whatever he might learn.

When the nurse shepherded him from the cafeteria, through the Sun Room, and over towards the door of the Arts and Crafts Room, he experienced a small internal wince: this was the room where it had happened the night before. Unpleasant, yes, but likely to be irrelevant in terms of my own welfare, except in terms of what I can learn from it, he reminded himself.

He had the impression that he could avoid the room if he wanted to, but there were several convincing reasons to push past his reluctance: his meeting with Lunge was necessary, the opportunity to see the room in more usual circumstances might be valuable, and he did not want the staff to see that he had been affected. He wasn't sure how they were tied to the events of the previous night, but the buzz of information around the Institute suggested some kind of strong connection.

As he stepped into the room, feet feeling imprisoned in the slippers that the staff kept insisting that he wear, he avoided the area where he had collapsed. Instead, he turned to the right and proceeded as far into the room as he could, then left, then took a seat in the back corner.

If the nurses pressed him to be more creative, he would take up painting. However, he expected to express his creativity in other ways.

[For Lunge.]

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The concept of 'Arts and Crafts' was a foreign one to Exile. Though he was used to being humanoid, art had never really entered into his experience as a Road Rover. But he went along anyway, allowing himself to be sat down by his nurse and presented with construction paper. He frowned at it. What was he supposed to do with this? Write on it?

"Comrade Nurse," he said, "is there a special thing I am supposed to be doing with this paper?"

She smiled indulgently at him. "Whatever you like, Mr. Ovechkin. Be creative!"

"In such case, I need scissors."

"Please be careful with them, Mr. Ovechkin," she said, and handed him some kiddy safety scissors.

"Da, thank you," he said distractedly, and began to cut the paper into no particular shape. He was really interested in the scissors, though, and when she was far enough away, he glared at the blades, trying to use his heat vision. Nothing happened. "Bolshoi."

[for a certain Scarecrow!]

The Scarecrow had a seat at a table with only one other person, setting down the construction paper his nurse had collected for him. He had no idea what he was going to do with the paper or the marker he'd been handed by his nurse, but the chance to have a little creative freedom was enticing. He was still getting used to writing with his flesh-and-blood hands.

Taking the cap off the thick marker, he decided to introduce himself. It couldn't hurt to make more acquaintances, after all.

"Hello there," he said to the other man pleasantly.

[sorry about the long response time!]

Exile looked up from his scissors. "Ah, good afternoon, comrade," he said cheerfully, or as cheerfully as possible under the circumstances. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you know wtaht we are supposed to be doing? I feel like two left thumbskis." The mixed metaphor was even more muddled up than usual for him, but of course he didn't notice.

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