William
"Uh... Sunrise. Or 12AM everyday- nah, nighttime is longer during winter, I'm pretty sure about it." She would've added more to the whole 'nighttime and seasons' thing if it wasn't for the mention of 'hydrazine', which, even to the lack of knowledge to what it is, Margarita still assumed it's still a poison considering what kid of Stories she hears from Silas' mouth. "Making what- don't tell me you're making poison are you?"

Thankfully, he wasn't, which is a fact that became apparent as he continued onto his sentence.

"Oh, uh... Yeah, sure, *Grazie*." She replied as she took the warm kettle with one hand, her other grabbing a nearby cup as she left her head seemingly levitating over some of the equipment, busy exploring the desktop's apparatus as her hands did their thing. "This is some Breaking good type shit you got here. What are you making other than tea anyways? And uh, sorry for the neck thing. I left myself stretched out and... Yeah."

Once could get really creative with the names when it comes to her and her abilities. Margarita is honestly surprised she hasn't got mad at almost all of them.

Taking a sip of the slightly burnt tea, she put the cup down just beside the warm kettle and drank it down, her expression something like tasting hard alcohol for the first time. "Do brits like you like your tea burnt? Sheesh. Not bad though."
Stephen
◆ "So that's where ya draw the line, huh?" He looked up at her, his own thoughts dangling off his lips like trails of drool in a particularly boring class. "I've always thought that days are best divided into three sections: morning, day, and night. Morning is from four AM to noon, day is from noon to eight PM, then night's from there to four AM. Then you have your divisions as well, like... Evening's kinda between day and night, for example. I've put too much fuckin' thought into this."

□ He sure had, and that was just one of the many effects of long late nights spent with the soft glow of one twenty hertz monitors and candles across his desk. He had a lot of time to think, to read, to really hone the mind that clutched onto the sciences with a raptor grip, and sometimes that oddly brilliant mind latched onto something as weird as day-night divisions. No matter. "Fuck no, hydrazine is a common rocket fuel. Apparently it can be synthesized from urea and tert-butyl hypochlorite, and I have both of those on hand. Kinda." He'd explain further, sipping his tea with the air of an actual chemistry professor, albeit an unusual, dangerous one.

▪︎ It was fitting; he *Was* Aiming for a career as a chemist, after all.

◆ "Yeah, it's definitely a set-up, mate." He laughed softly, his naturally fuzzy voice mingling with the whirring of the fume hood left on by mistake. "I was messing around with chlorinations not long before you sauntered in like the fuckin' coked out string bean you are, so." He chuckled. "Y'know. That's why this whole awareness that I could turn a few chemicals I have on hand into a crazy potent crazy toxic fuel by sunrise is so dangerous. Like, fuckin' hell... Anyways, God no, Mum would probably yell at me for burning it, I just didn't feel like walking to the kitchen to brew a pot."
Judith
Detention is held in the basement, far below the building, far away from where anyone can hear you scream. A single classroom is carved out here, with space for quite a few more than will be in there this time. Usually, it's used for teaching people about their powers - how to use them, how not to, when not to. (Which is most of the time.) Detention is held here to keep the people assigned to detention inside detention - and it works. No one's managed to sneak out yet.

The elevator leaves log files.

Oliver is in charge of this particular detention. He volunteered for it. Really, he asked for it, and he knows why. There's a pang of something gnawing at his soul, that awful feeling he's come to known as remorse. His dearest would want him to apologize. He hasn't told her yet. He couldn't tell her what he'd done.

He should. But... Detention. He's responsible for detention. That comes first.

Three little glass bulbs of water, neat, in a row, ready. He always does this when he handles detention. This time, it feels more barbaric than usual, but... It's only a demonstration. It won't hurt.

*Uriel.* With a friend, but... Still *Uriel.* Even more *Uriel.* It would be so easy to torture them, to get everything out and then some, and...

No, no, no. No.

It's only detention. Not torture. Just detention. He's just there to make sure they don't get out. Right? Right.
Mary
"You don't know anything." 

It's the one thing Uriel has said during the elevator ride down. The whole time, they've been eerily still— tired, grey eyes completely glazed over, the only noise coming from them being the barest sound of their breath.

"Please, just.. Promise me that you'll say as such. I don't want to worry about what'll happen to you." They're not looking at Owen as they talk, instead facing the elevator doors with the same expression a man walking to the gallows would have. 

The whole time they've approached the detention site, they've felt their consciousness slowly begin to rise from their body. It was almost like being a machine— their limb movements being controlled via remote control, the part of them *Thinking* Standing up and taking a step back from whatever internal screen that displayed what Uriel was seeing. 

*Please don't be Oliver. Please be Graham, please be Graham, please be Graham.*

It would be one thing if Uriel was alone. They could handle whatever Oliver had planned— any pain they'd receive would leave a mark, and Oliver wasn't stupid enough to leave a record of their own torture. Even if he tried, Uriel was certain they'd be able to take it, even if they weren't able to hit back.

But *Owen* Was there. Owen, who couldn't step away from his controls and divorce themselves from physical sensations. Owen, who Uriel had shown to be their weakness. Owen, who if anything would happen to him, would haunt Uriel like the nightmares they were so adept at creating. 

*Please, please be Graham.*
Wai
Uriel's voice sounded as underwater as Owen's thoughts on the endless elevator ride down to the underworld. This was a terrible time to have a song stuck in his head; the incessant repetition of 
*"When the priest comes to read me the last rites/
Take a look through the bars at the last sights/
Of a world that has gone very wrong for me"*
Was sure to make him lose his mind faster than anything the staff here could cook up. 

"Of course." Was all he could manage to squeak in response. He could see Uriel doing it again, preparing to swan dive under the bus because they thought they had to; he mentally resolved to ..Uh... Somehow not let them do that. 

The fidget cube in his pocket clicked incessantly, his stock-still body trying to vent some of its energy out of the one exit. It wasn't working as well as he silently pleaded it would, but it was better than nothing. 

He stood straight as a board, shoulders squared, legs apart, head set dead ahead. Zipped up tight across his chest was his black leather jacket, his armour, merciful pressure keeping him from flying out of his body at every little mechanical shake of the lift. He could feel his shield aching to bloom across his chest, pushing at his skin from the inside, and he busied himself trying to quell the insistent sparks of panic; he only hoped that his front was working. His usually flushed cheeks, unbeknownst to him, were pale and grey as a sheet. 


*Would they call his moms? Would they mail his ashes back to them after this? He'd told them enough times how much he loved them, right? They knew?*

The doors opened, and his legs somehow moved him out of the box. Cold, stagnant air brushed the back of his throat, bristling the downy hairs on the back of his neck. Out he went- no use cowering now.


*What a stupid reason to be incinerated.*
Mary
The doors open. 

Uriel cuts in front of Owen, shielding him with their body. They walk into the room, and notice two things:

1) Oliver — *Of course it was Oliver, why wouldn't it be*— is at the front of the classroom. Something chemistry related is sitting on the table, but whatever use it could have escapes Uriel.

2) The room is completely empty. As Uriel assumed, no one else was there. It was just Uriel, Owen, and Oliver. *Lovely.*

Uriel— actual Uriel, not a dream representation of Uriel— looks a bit different from what Oliver saw. Their eyes were sunken in, grey bags making them seem almost lifeless. Their movements were sluggish and deliberate, their face completely pallid and pale. As Uriel's eyes passed over Oliver, their expression remains stone cold. 

"I assume I'm in the right place. My name is Uriel Melancon, and I'm here for detention. I don't believe we've met before, though— you are?" The tone is stilted and formal, their French accent prominent in their voice. 

They stand in the doorway, perfectly still. Would Oliver remain true on their desire to "Pretend it didn't happen"? Uriel didn't know, but could only hope.
Judith
Uriel looked worse for wear. Not really surprising. What was at least somewhat surprising was Uriel's insistence on pretending Oliver was a complete stranger.

Oliver mulled over the options in his head. He could either let Uriel get away with it and introduce himself, or he could correct Uriel. It would certainly be easier to pretend nothing had ever happened, but...

No, that wasn't a luxury Oliver was going to get. He looked up from the table, and toward Uriel, then back down again. 

"Come in, both of you." Oliver wasn't quite the same in real life as in dreams, either. He looked more human, surprisingly. He couldn't hide all the imperfections, the redness where he had scratched his light stubble, the cuts and scrapes and burns on his hands, the tired look in his eyes.

"I believe we very much *Have* Met, Uriel, but I don't believe I've met the gentleman behind you." He turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and began writing his name. "My name is Oliver Rask, and I'm the one who's gonna be keeping the two of you from leaving today. Or spending the time in dreamland, since that appears to be relevant today."

"Some people, when it's their first time down here, think they can get away with running off, 'cause it's two on one and I can't stop you." He picked up one of the round, water-filled robots, and showed it off. "These," He stressed, "Are what's stopping you. Let me show you."

He put the robot down again, then retrieved a sheet of metal from behind the teacher's desk. "This is a sheet of stainless steel," He explained, balancing it between two of the classroom tables. He put the little robot onto the sheet and gently pressed a button. Its servos whirred to life. "Cover your ears."

Within seconds, the water level in the robot's glass dome was lowering, and a screech of death was emanating from the sheet of steel. A few more seconds, and there were *Two* Sheets of steel.

"That's what you're up against if you try to skip detention. I assume we're clear on that?"
Wai
Owen snapped himself back into his head when Oliver spoke. Though he was a good three inches taller, the unfamiliar rumble of his voice in his skull drove in *Hard* That this wasn't a bad dream. Uriel was still trying to convince him it was, though- the barrier they were trying to set between him and Oliver did not go unnoticed. Putting a hand on their shoulder, he squeezed once and stepped out from behind them, snatching it away quicker than he would have wanted. Still, though, for a fraction of a second, a restless digit lingered on their shoulder blade. 

*Sorry, Uriel, you can't take all of it. I'm the living shield, right? Have a little faith.*

"Owen Edris- we, uh, definitely haven't met yet," He managed to crank out. Was talking always so *Manual*? It now felt rusty and laborious. He found it funny how though his and Uriel's accents were so different but somehow carried the same notes of tangled nerves. 

Taking a seat, he continued to fiddle and click like a man possessed. His composure now relied entirely on the little cube and the leg now bouncing softly yet rapidly, betraying his wildly swirling guts from behind the relatively blank look on his face. 

Without his headphones in, he could hear all the lights in the room buzzing cruelly, the unforgiving din doing no wonders for his already frayed edges. He fought the urge to hum or dig the heels of his palms into his eyes to cut the sensation, but remained quiet and attentive as his executioner gave him the rundown. 

And then, a mechanical demon clawed a jagged hole in the fabric of space and screamed with its soulless maw of steel and cold hatred. 

His hands pressing into his ears didn't do enough, not nearly, and he swallowed a strangled noise as he squeezed his eyes shut. It painfully ripped through his head, his body, beating into his skull until- oh, it stopped. Digging his nails into his scalp, Owen quickly glanced at Uriel, his only friend in this pit, and snapped back to face the front again.

"All right, I get it, you didn't have to-"

Immediate regret. The scream hadn't died down in his body, and the echoing fury fell out of his mouth before he had the chance to quell it. *Stupid, stupid...* Shaking fingers grabbed at strands of red hair before remembering themselves and finding their way back into the cool leather pockets. Back to clicking the cube, faster this time. 

"I'm sorry, I- that-that hurt. Didn't.. Mean to snap," He mumbled, much quieter than the panicked sparks that he had spat. Mouth shut in a tight line, he abashedly averted his gaze. Now to not talk for another month. Not a word. Can't be trusted.
Mary
Uriel pauses. They didn't expect Oliver to broach the subject so... Casually.

"...Hm. I guess it slipped my mind, then. You did say you'd pretend nothing happened— I figured I'd offer a simple courtesy of allowing a narrative of your choice." 

Owen responds, and even from the first syllable that comes out of his mouth, Uriel can tell *He's not alright.* They scoot their desk closer towards Owen's, removing a gloved hand from under the safety of their poncho to brush against Owen's back. 

Uriel promptly forgets about Oliver as priority number one immediately shifts onto Owen. The... Thing far away at their metaphorical controls flicks a switch, and Uriel's face forms a soft smile. 

It's not genuine, no. But it shows that Uriel still has some semblance of control, still able to change their expressions in a poignant manner. They haven't started panicking, not yet— and neither should Owen. 

"It's only detention, alright? From my understanding, we sit here in complete silence for a couple of hours, and promptly leave after enough time has passed. Just silence. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing to fear." 

Uriel turns back to the front of the room, the briefest glimpse of a micro-expression as they once again acknowledge the metaphorical elephant in the room. Their eyes bore into Oliver's, and despite the neutral expression they don, it's not hard to figure out what the eye contact means. 

*Don't involve him in this.*

"Now, if I am correct in such understanding of detention, I suppose we can start with the punishment and remain in complete and total silence until we're allowed to leave." 

Owen was already almost at his limit, and Oliver hadn't even *Started* Whatever he was planning— and of course he was planning something, or else why would he be here?