Night 18: Hallway Near Waiting Room 2/Doctor's Offices
"Hell if I know," Cid growled back, not quite liking the demanding tone Brock was taking but at the same time likening it to his own mode of speech. "Didn't you hear the announcement on the intercom earlier? Fucker's insinuating some weird shit and I'm guessing the patients he mentioned are a part of it."
The pilot wanted to stop, take a breather, maybe lean against the wall in hopes that whatever (or whoever) the nurses had sicced on the other patients was distracted enough to leave the two unlikely allies alone. The problem with that, however, was Cid's conscience, which was a curiously strong thing for a man so irreverent. It'd taken down dreams and rockets alike, made him join up with a group of numbskulls and helped him save the world--or so he liked to believe.
Now it might just get his ass in the worst bit of trouble it had seen in a long time.
He continued walking, quickly, one arm holding his side in a way that might have appeared as nervousness to a man who didn't know Cid Highwind and his smug, self-satisfied nature. In truth, his chest hurt like fuck, but he wasn't about to let anyone know that. For now, he pressed on, figuring he'd cover as much ground as he could before he collapsed rather than go slowly and drain his energy to the point that he wasn't useful anymore.
Did that even make sense? He hoped it did.
Where the hell was that Gothfucker? Shit.
[ From here.]
The pilot wanted to stop, take a breather, maybe lean against the wall in hopes that whatever (or whoever) the nurses had sicced on the other patients was distracted enough to leave the two unlikely allies alone. The problem with that, however, was Cid's conscience, which was a curiously strong thing for a man so irreverent. It'd taken down dreams and rockets alike, made him join up with a group of numbskulls and helped him save the world--or so he liked to believe.
Now it might just get his ass in the worst bit of trouble it had seen in a long time.
He continued walking, quickly, one arm holding his side in a way that might have appeared as nervousness to a man who didn't know Cid Highwind and his smug, self-satisfied nature. In truth, his chest hurt like fuck, but he wasn't about to let anyone know that. For now, he pressed on, figuring he'd cover as much ground as he could before he collapsed rather than go slowly and drain his energy to the point that he wasn't useful anymore.
Did that even make sense? He hoped it did.
Where the hell was that Gothfucker? Shit.
[ From here.]