[VIDEO] Episode 9: In which Bhamba figured it was bad to mix business with pleasure, but whooo!
[ In the last two days Bhamba has been EXTREMELY busy with his ADAM research. So far he's been able to do a thorough autopsy on Sander Cohen, compare spliced and unspliced tissue sample of one Alex Kralie and analyse one spliced cop brain, one odd ADAM-esque substance, two Sinclair blood samples and the blood of somebody who's supposedly resistant
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What have you done?!
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Science!
Science!
Science!
[ The feed is dead. The echo of Bhamba's last word still remains. ]
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That can't possibly be good.
[SO GUESS WHO'S EXTREMELY INTERESTED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENED and is meandering to the lab as we speak!
When he gets there, he cautiously tries the door.]
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You see, Bhamba's got a normal wooden door first, then a small living area and then the door to the lab. The door to the lab opens and closes via a sensor which is currently... a little on the malfunctioning side.
The door slides open automatically.... and closes shut instantly. Sliiiiide.... AND CLOSE! Sliiiiide.... haaaalt.... CLOSE! SLIDECLOSESLIDE!! Sliiiiide.... well, what's Sinclair waiting for? Try and run past without getting crushed too much!
The lab beyond the door, as far as Sinclair can see, is shrouded in darkness with a faint electrical buzzing filling the air. ]
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Sinclair walks to the closet and pulls out a metal cane, trying to jab it into the opening to jam it.]
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Poking his head in, he raises an eyebrow, and then returns to the closet across the way to fetch a flashlight. Stepping into the lab, he clicks in on, a trail of smoke following him from his cigarette holder.]
..Hello?
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A hissing sound comes from somewhere in the pitch darkness of the lab. After a moment it stops.
Coming closer Sinclair will likely tread on glass, many small explosions having destroyed some of the frailer lab equipment.
For the briefest instance one of the ceiling light flickers and on the floor an orange gleam is visible. There's a drip-
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
-as the last drops of orange liquid drip onto the floor, out of the burst container.
If Sinclair shines his light on the chair now he will find it empty. The IV lines are dangling from the seat or lying on the floor. There is a trail, just a small trail, of blood leading first to a cupboad, then deeper into the lab.
His question elicits no response. ]
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Good God.
[Carefully he treads over the glass and towards the trail of blood. This looks and feels way too familiar.]
...You wouldn't happen t'be in here, would you, sport? [he calls again, wildly unsure of himself now, no matter how calm he sounds.]
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THEN!
Footsteps behind Sinclair. Heavy. Fast. Cracking the glass under them.
AND SUDDENLY!
A heavy object being swung at his head. ]
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Oh hell!
He stumbles forward after the - well, whatever it is - hits him square in the back of the head, and, for a moment, dizzy as all hell, Sinclair wobbles on his feet, taking one little half-step before plummeting forward and twisting in the air, landing heavily on his back.
For a moment he can't breathe but he can see, kind of, the light wildly bouncing away, and he lets out a tiny, confused noise, and then he's out.]
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HA!
That will teach you to--
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...
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[ Sigh. ]
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On a table nearby a strange orb, similar to a lava lamp, is now illuminating the surrounding area. A fire extinguisher has been left on a chair a little further away. So much for that object anyway.
Bhamba is yet again nowhere in immediate sight, but this time footsteps and whistling can be heard quite clearly from somewhere in the room. He'll be with Sinclair in a moment. ]
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[Uneasily he comes back to life, tasting copper (from where he bit his tongue). A slight cough, and he twitches, eyes lazily working themselves open. I mean, cmon, you HIT HIM WITH A FIRE EXTINGUISHER!
The whistling is making his head hurt like you wouldn't believe, and it's already throbbing in pain. Slowly, Sinclair touches the back of his head, surprised he doesn't find blood there. Patting his pockets, he pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one uneasily, taking a shaky breath.]
...what the hell was that for, [he croaks, looking over his shoulder but, of course, finding no one.]
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