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taxonomites2012-04-08 04:46 pm
drowning_dog) wrote in taxonomites2012-04-08 04:46 pm
Entry tags:
[oo1: video]
His first thought, blooming in the back of his mind as he pushes out his first breath of stale air, goes to the Retinal Resorts. Some matrix bullshit, hypnosis. Something. Fun Ghoul stands on the raised platform, perfectly still aside from the involuntarily twitch of his fingers as they hang at his sides. It's so cold. It's a long few minutes of stillness as he listens and looks.
Finally, his hand twitches up to thumb the gun in his double-breasted holster. In an environment like this, he can't believe his hosts let him keep his--
"Fuck." The familiar hum of building charge--there's nothing there. The gun is dead. Fun Ghoul's gaze snaps back over his shoulder. It scrapes around the round room, almost sharp enough to squeal against the metal walls. His gun hand drops, and he absently tugs at the bracelet they locked around his wrist. His lips purse, and he whistles a few loud, clear bars of a classic song--normally a signal to his friends, but just here it's a comfort noise, something to soothe his nerves. They're on fire.
The tablet. His heart jolts in his chest when his attention settles on it. Monitoring. "Shit." The steps toward it are clipped, body cable tense till he gets his hands on it to turn it around--
But before he actually turns it, before he can figure out how to disable this nasty little motherfuck, the door opens and there's light. It doesn't take too long to figure out that he needs to device to keep the door open, so he finally just grabs it, keeping it painfully tight in his palm. The sun. The sun. The sun.
There isn't any sun. More dead lights down clean hallways. Maybe he's home after all--or at least maybe here is somewhere unfortunately similar. Fun Ghoul's steps out of the arrival room are slow, deliberate, paced to a raise of his hands in surrender. Who is watching? "Don't fire." He hollers down the corridor for anyone (anything) detaining him, watching him.
"I'm a friend."
Finally, his hand twitches up to thumb the gun in his double-breasted holster. In an environment like this, he can't believe his hosts let him keep his--
"Fuck." The familiar hum of building charge--there's nothing there. The gun is dead. Fun Ghoul's gaze snaps back over his shoulder. It scrapes around the round room, almost sharp enough to squeal against the metal walls. His gun hand drops, and he absently tugs at the bracelet they locked around his wrist. His lips purse, and he whistles a few loud, clear bars of a classic song--normally a signal to his friends, but just here it's a comfort noise, something to soothe his nerves. They're on fire.
The tablet. His heart jolts in his chest when his attention settles on it. Monitoring. "Shit." The steps toward it are clipped, body cable tense till he gets his hands on it to turn it around--
But before he actually turns it, before he can figure out how to disable this nasty little motherfuck, the door opens and there's light. It doesn't take too long to figure out that he needs to device to keep the door open, so he finally just grabs it, keeping it painfully tight in his palm. The sun. The sun. The sun.
There isn't any sun. More dead lights down clean hallways. Maybe he's home after all--or at least maybe here is somewhere unfortunately similar. Fun Ghoul's steps out of the arrival room are slow, deliberate, paced to a raise of his hands in surrender. Who is watching? "Don't fire." He hollers down the corridor for anyone (anything) detaining him, watching him.
"I'm a friend."