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angry_saladThe body has a hard time orienting when your center of gravity shifts from zero to--well, actual gravity. It's why the moment he's transported he squats down, eyes wide, holding a hand to the ground. It's not ground, it's a harsh metal, and Arthur doesn't even so much as breathe for a moment as he tries to scan the area.
Had the dream shifted? He had been in the middle of combating Fischers' subconscious in a hotel corridor. This certainly wasn't a hotel corridor. This was something else...
"Ariadne." The word came out of his mouth but he knew it wasn't really true--Ariadne was good. Very good, even for someone who'd had minimal training. Certainly not stupid enough to turn this dream into a sci-fi adventure.
"Shit." It's clipped and Arthur remembers to breathe again, going on instincts. It's a job. It's still a job and he's holding the gun. He straightens, holding it up, scanning the area, checking for people. Nothing.
The gun gets tucked into the back of his suit pants, wishing he was still wearing his jacket instead of shrugging it off. It's an unconscious habit, but he rolls his sleeves up, loosens his tie. No projections, no need to worry about neatness. The pedestal before him is a perfect surface, and he strolls to it with purpose, brushing the phone-like device off of it and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a simple red die.
"C'mon," the annoyance is hidden by the fact that the phrase is underneath his breath, and he rolls it, staring at the outcome.
This isn't a dream.
No--it had to be. Someone, somewhere, had messed with his totem. Nothing looked like this in the outside world. It had to be a dream. And the PASIV? Where was that? Taking a deep breath, Arthur closes his eyes and pulls out the gun from the waistband of his pants, putting it to his temple, finger on the trigger.
He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten here.
Speak up now, citizens of Taxon, or Arthur's going hold the record for the shortest lifespan.
Had the dream shifted? He had been in the middle of combating Fischers' subconscious in a hotel corridor. This certainly wasn't a hotel corridor. This was something else...
"Ariadne." The word came out of his mouth but he knew it wasn't really true--Ariadne was good. Very good, even for someone who'd had minimal training. Certainly not stupid enough to turn this dream into a sci-fi adventure.
"Shit." It's clipped and Arthur remembers to breathe again, going on instincts. It's a job. It's still a job and he's holding the gun. He straightens, holding it up, scanning the area, checking for people. Nothing.
The gun gets tucked into the back of his suit pants, wishing he was still wearing his jacket instead of shrugging it off. It's an unconscious habit, but he rolls his sleeves up, loosens his tie. No projections, no need to worry about neatness. The pedestal before him is a perfect surface, and he strolls to it with purpose, brushing the phone-like device off of it and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a simple red die.
"C'mon," the annoyance is hidden by the fact that the phrase is underneath his breath, and he rolls it, staring at the outcome.
This isn't a dream.
No--it had to be. Someone, somewhere, had messed with his totem. Nothing looked like this in the outside world. It had to be a dream. And the PASIV? Where was that? Taking a deep breath, Arthur closes his eyes and pulls out the gun from the waistband of his pants, putting it to his temple, finger on the trigger.
He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten here.
Speak up now, citizens of Taxon, or Arthur's going hold the record for the shortest lifespan.
