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taxonomites2009-08-04 11:54 am
dci-gene-hunt.livejournal.com) wrote in taxonomites2009-08-04 11:54 am
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On it's own, number one. [Holo]
"Bolly! Bolly! BOLLY!" Gene contemplated actually shaking the female Detective lying in the Intensive Care unit to stir her into some kind of reaction. She had to wake up. Fucking hell Alex, wake the fuck up now damn you!
Gene dragged his fingers down his eye sockets, the DCI was knackered, he hadn't slept since the shooting and the pressure was starting to show. If she didn't come out of this, he was as fucked as Debbie in her hay day in bleeding Dallas. Frustration chose to express itself through aggression, and Gene sent his fist flying into the flimsy MDF wall of the hospital cubicle wall.
Only it didn't make contact. Gene found himself standing in a cylindrical clinical looking room, or rather stumbling forwards when his fist met thin air and set him off balance.
"What the fuckin' 'ells goin' on 'ere?" Gene's face looked like it was set in stone, permanently etched with the expression of a man who wasn't impressed by events at all and could just as easily shoot his way out of the room. Gene's had his fair share of DI's that are a pork pie short of a picnic, not a full shilling, devoid of a full set of marbles - but not him. He's not the one who hallucinates - maybe he passed out from exhaustion. That can't be right though, he might have been tired and stressed but he's not a southern pansy that passes out just because he's a bit tired.
"Whichever cowardly prick hasn't got the balls to attack from the front had better show their miserable little worm of a face, pronto." The words are spat out with venom as he fiddles with the fancy 'pong' machine sat on the pedestal, already making his way to the door, gun in hand and ready for anything. He didn't expect it to be open, he'd expected to be locked in, even if the cell was nothing like any police cell he'd ever seen. Just where the fuck had he ended up?
Gene dragged his fingers down his eye sockets, the DCI was knackered, he hadn't slept since the shooting and the pressure was starting to show. If she didn't come out of this, he was as fucked as Debbie in her hay day in bleeding Dallas. Frustration chose to express itself through aggression, and Gene sent his fist flying into the flimsy MDF wall of the hospital cubicle wall.
Only it didn't make contact. Gene found himself standing in a cylindrical clinical looking room, or rather stumbling forwards when his fist met thin air and set him off balance.
"What the fuckin' 'ells goin' on 'ere?" Gene's face looked like it was set in stone, permanently etched with the expression of a man who wasn't impressed by events at all and could just as easily shoot his way out of the room. Gene's had his fair share of DI's that are a pork pie short of a picnic, not a full shilling, devoid of a full set of marbles - but not him. He's not the one who hallucinates - maybe he passed out from exhaustion. That can't be right though, he might have been tired and stressed but he's not a southern pansy that passes out just because he's a bit tired.
"Whichever cowardly prick hasn't got the balls to attack from the front had better show their miserable little worm of a face, pronto." The words are spat out with venom as he fiddles with the fancy 'pong' machine sat on the pedestal, already making his way to the door, gun in hand and ready for anything. He didn't expect it to be open, he'd expected to be locked in, even if the cell was nothing like any police cell he'd ever seen. Just where the fuck had he ended up?