A Multifandom Asylum RPG

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Nightshift 46: Stairwell by Waiting Room/Lobby 1
trains passing
toxicspiderman wrote in damned
[from here]

This was the part where S.T. hesitated. The meeting hadn't gotten anywhere near actual planning. It hadn't devolved into logo-design and acronym debates, but it'd been close. Not that a group of Holmes wannabes made ideal bodyguard fodder, but this place had dropped his standards. Any backup he could get was good backup. Ability to hold a test tube right-end-up was just a bonus.

If he got the chance, he'd never bitch at Tess or Debbie or any of the girls for cruising a parking garage. Park by the damn elevator, under the security lights, screw the gas mileage.

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[From here]

Only one other group on the stairwell right now. Good. Made it easier to maneuver the three of them down the stairs, joined at the shoulders like a combiner gone wrong.

"This is the last time they screw with us," he muttered, though just who the 'us' referred to he couldn't say. All Depth Charge knew was that, somehow, carrying the Scarecrow across his shoulders with S.T. on the other side, a line had been crossed. And that meant war. "They won't get away with this. They won't."

"No, they won't." Humans formed power structures. History was written by the ones who'd managed more advances in methods of efficient killing. But nothing went under the rug forever. The information was there; it just took a forensic archaeologist to put it back together.

The hard part was stopping it before their genetically-warped corpses were the data points. He leaned behind the Scarecrow's head and stage-whispered. "There's a guy collecting all the data. Name's Javert. He's a cop -- one of the good ones. When he's ready, send him over." S.T. would lay good odds on the Scarecrow being one of the talkers. Old-fashioned stoic virtue and children's morality plays (and/or populist propaganda) were like AM and FM. You could get both on the radio, but not at the same time.

"I appreciate the sentiment," the Scarecrow said, his voice sounding unnatural to his own ears, "Though I'm not sure what we can do against witches and the like." So far, the score seemed far in favor of the Wizard Landel and his minions- he'd been here a week, and the former strawman was no closer to finding his body or getting home. From what he'd heard from other patients, he wasn't the only one.

He was thankful to reach the bottom of the stairs- he couldn't hear the rest of what S.T. was saying over the clatter running through his head.

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