Night 55: Waiting Room/Lobby 2
[From here.]
Thankful the door opened without hassle, the Scarecrow waited for Carter to get through before slamming it shut. He then moved to the opposite side of the room, putting as much distance between himself and the Burning Man as possible. He recognized the area- it was one of the rooms where they met with visitors.
Well, he had more important things on his mind than being homesick at that moment. In good news, the flames on his arm had gone out- perhaps the Burning Man's magic didn't work through walls. Though he couldn't feel it yet, he had an inkling his arm wasn't in such good shape, given that the skin on it was in shambles: it was almost like patchwork with patches of red, black, pink, and brown, though looked more like rust in the way it crawled along the surface of his arm, eating through the layers like a flame would eat through the cloth of his shirt before reaching the stuffing inside. Aside from that, it was still attached, so maybe it wasn't that bad of an injury.
Flesh must not burn the same way as straw, he determined, or he certainly would have been nothing more than a pile of smoldering ashes within a minute. Despite having slapped the flames with it, his other hand looked okay, save for a little singeing on his palm.
The Scarecrow was silent for a moment, staring at his arms before him. He could see himself trembling, but couldn't feel the usual tingling down his back that he associated with it. "I... I don't suppose we're getting out that way," he said finally. "Are you all right, Sergeant?"
Thankful the door opened without hassle, the Scarecrow waited for Carter to get through before slamming it shut. He then moved to the opposite side of the room, putting as much distance between himself and the Burning Man as possible. He recognized the area- it was one of the rooms where they met with visitors.
Well, he had more important things on his mind than being homesick at that moment. In good news, the flames on his arm had gone out- perhaps the Burning Man's magic didn't work through walls. Though he couldn't feel it yet, he had an inkling his arm wasn't in such good shape, given that the skin on it was in shambles: it was almost like patchwork with patches of red, black, pink, and brown, though looked more like rust in the way it crawled along the surface of his arm, eating through the layers like a flame would eat through the cloth of his shirt before reaching the stuffing inside. Aside from that, it was still attached, so maybe it wasn't that bad of an injury.
Flesh must not burn the same way as straw, he determined, or he certainly would have been nothing more than a pile of smoldering ashes within a minute. Despite having slapped the flames with it, his other hand looked okay, save for a little singeing on his palm.
The Scarecrow was silent for a moment, staring at his arms before him. He could see himself trembling, but couldn't feel the usual tingling down his back that he associated with it. "I... I don't suppose we're getting out that way," he said finally. "Are you all right, Sergeant?"