L slumped in the chair, his cheek resting against the desk's cool surface, as he waited for Lunge's arrival. It was easy to feel drowsy when the room was lit only by the dim glow of his flashlight; natural, considering what the previous twenty-four hours had been like. The small amount of caffeine in his system might not be enough to keep him awake on its own, but he could feel the push of nervous energy that radiated from his core. He was inclined to obey it, rather than forcing himself to rest.
The intercom crackled to life. He anticipated Landel's nighttime announcements, the swings between pomposity and menace, but every new twist meant two things: the night was likely to be more difficult than usual, and it was likely to present valuable clues to unraveling their predicament. Tonight, Landel seemed to be embracing the role of torturer in a more personal sense than usual.
So that was Jill. Yet... there isn't any proof, only the suggestion and claim that he has her. We are meant to believe that he's striking her. Without seeing her, though, there's no way of knowing what's really happening, and because her identity wasn't confirmed in the past, he could produce a prisoner, and we would have no way of knowing whether or not it was her. Voice recognition analysis is out of the question, under the circumstances. There was a photograph--? It might have been planted....
It's convenient that it all turns up at once, isn't it? As to his lecture on hypocrisy, if we don't have any knowledge of the outside world here, whose fault is th--?
Bright light and a high-pitched whine filled the room around him, causing a sudden shock of pain behind his eyes and deeper in his head. He pressed his eyelids shut; in a frantic movement, his hand covered them. Strange noises came through the closed door from the corridor--a crackle, a snap, the tinkle and crunch of glass hitting the floor. It took him a wincing moment to piece together what must have happened. An impressive power surge. The ballasts failed? If that's the case, I should be able to smell it in the hall. He opened his eyes, then opened his fingers enough to let in a small slit of light.
Just as his eyes began to adjust, he heard footsteps, then the knock, then Lunge's low voice at the door. He replied, "Yes. I'm coming."
The lights were on now, but with no guarantee that they would stay on, he'd need his flashlight. He retrieved it from the desk, then tugged at the handle of his desk drawer to confirm that he had locked it.
As he opened the door, he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye--something on the floor, chasing at the edge of his shadow and scurrying out of sight. His gaze flicked to it. There was nothing except a gentle rush of dizziness, gone as soon as it arrived, and more doubt about whether or not he was in any condition to be out of bed.
"Let's go. Taylor is waiting," he said to Lunge, glancing at the other man's pocket to confirm that at least one of them was carrying a radio. There was glass on the floor in the hall, as he'd expected. Some of the bulbs were hanging from their housings, and the illumination there was dimmer and less consistent than it had been in his room, where the fixtures remained intact. "We'll talk more on the way."
The intercom crackled to life. He anticipated Landel's nighttime announcements, the swings between pomposity and menace, but every new twist meant two things: the night was likely to be more difficult than usual, and it was likely to present valuable clues to unraveling their predicament. Tonight, Landel seemed to be embracing the role of torturer in a more personal sense than usual.
So that was Jill. Yet... there isn't any proof, only the suggestion and claim that he has her. We are meant to believe that he's striking her. Without seeing her, though, there's no way of knowing what's really happening, and because her identity wasn't confirmed in the past, he could produce a prisoner, and we would have no way of knowing whether or not it was her. Voice recognition analysis is out of the question, under the circumstances. There was a photograph--? It might have been planted....
It's convenient that it all turns up at once, isn't it? As to his lecture on hypocrisy, if we don't have any knowledge of the outside world here, whose fault is th--?
Bright light and a high-pitched whine filled the room around him, causing a sudden shock of pain behind his eyes and deeper in his head. He pressed his eyelids shut; in a frantic movement, his hand covered them. Strange noises came through the closed door from the corridor--a crackle, a snap, the tinkle and crunch of glass hitting the floor. It took him a wincing moment to piece together what must have happened. An impressive power surge. The ballasts failed? If that's the case, I should be able to smell it in the hall. He opened his eyes, then opened his fingers enough to let in a small slit of light.
Just as his eyes began to adjust, he heard footsteps, then the knock, then Lunge's low voice at the door. He replied, "Yes. I'm coming."
The lights were on now, but with no guarantee that they would stay on, he'd need his flashlight. He retrieved it from the desk, then tugged at the handle of his desk drawer to confirm that he had locked it.
As he opened the door, he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye--something on the floor, chasing at the edge of his shadow and scurrying out of sight. His gaze flicked to it. There was nothing except a gentle rush of dizziness, gone as soon as it arrived, and more doubt about whether or not he was in any condition to be out of bed.
"Let's go. Taylor is waiting," he said to Lunge, glancing at the other man's pocket to confirm that at least one of them was carrying a radio. There was glass on the floor in the hall, as he'd expected. Some of the bulbs were hanging from their housings, and the illumination there was dimmer and less consistent than it had been in his room, where the fixtures remained intact. "We'll talk more on the way."
[To here.]
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