OOCish: D_M Prompt 10, Round 1
Prompted by nightflowering: Four things that woke Gale up, and one he slept through.
1.
Everything shakes. A few unused bullets strewn on a table rattle and roll from the surface. The clink of metal hitting the poured cement floor is muted by the commotion of the grinding gears, hissing hydraulics, and humming generators.
A much lesser noise would have awakened Gale. He knows almost exactly what the context is: lookouts detected enemy movement -- either approaching tank units, surface-to-surface missiles, or any other large-scale threat. As is protocol, they immediately reported to base, and Muladhara's overhead defensive structure was activated. More simply, Muladhara is now closing its mouth. Once done, the only indications that the subterranean base had been there at all are some less vital surface structures and the meandering seam of "teeth" in the ground.
Gale recognizes the inherent flaws of this kind of fortification, especially in the context of seige and chemical warfare, hence his present haste to wake and arm himself. The particulars of the situation will need to be reviewed, and measures will need to be taken to deter the enemy before they can be entrenched out of the reach of Muladhara's surface gun turrets.
He pulls on the pieces of his standard-issue armor, zipping his chest plate, clicking circular fasteners into place. He takes up his assault rifle. Though rushed, the motions are businesslike and practiced.
No one gets a full night of sleep in purgatory.
2.
Sirens, car alarms, dogs barking . . . every unfamiliar sound wrenches Gale from his sleep. He reaches for his gun, and pauses when his fingertips touch the metal. His eyes open to see the glowing slats of the drawn blinds glowing across the room. He's not in the Junkyard anymore. There's no Junkyard to be in.
I am currently residing in Manhattan, in the state of New York. Immediate threats are minimal. As such, my gun is unloaded. Use of excessive force in this territory will result in conflicts with local law enforcement agencies.
After repeating that mantra to himself, his fingertips leave his gun, and he rolls onto his side.
He falls asleep again.
3.
Gale could only liken it to his experience of waking up. Like retrieving lost senses. Or putting on a pair of prescription glasses for the first time . . . but he doesn't know what glasses are in a concrete sense. He tells himself he's probably thinking about binoculars . . . probably.
What Lupa's saying is common sense. Then why does it seem so foreign at the same time? It's uncomfortable. It debunks everything that's regulated his reality.
The agitation of his perception feels -- for lack of a better word, stimulating; to be motivated by an abstractions. The Embryon, the assimilated tribes aren't soldiers, they're comrades. Loyalty isn't a law, it's a choice. Life is inherently valuable.
This isn't logic, it's honor.
4.
Victoria's voice penetrates his dreaming consciousness -- agitated, agonized noises ranging from whimpers to growls. His dreams bend and change to incorporate the sounds until an especially sharp cry jolts him awake. They've rolled apart, and half of the sheets have twisted around Victoria like a cocoon.
He eases himself across the bed next to her. This is almost a game of sorts, trying to reorient her without waking her up. He determines the clockwise twist of the sheets, and hand on her hip, slowly rolls her on one side to loosen them. As usual, this generates more muttering.
Thus liberated from her linen confinement, he settles down on his side, one forearm draped over her middle, and his palm finds its natural position at the incurvature of her waist. He draws himself up against her back, feeling her faster respiration in dissonace with his own. He breathes slowly, meditatively. Whether or not this has any effect on Victoria's quality of sleep, the reclined posture, close proximity, and breath control has a soporific effect on Gale.
He falls asleep again.
5.
The pants were easy enough. Two legs, a zipper.
But now he can see his hands fumbling drunkenly at his boot laces. There's an angry tension buzzing in his head. He needs to leave and feed, but he can't go out without his boots. It's a strained compromise.
His body is exhausted after being recently glutted with endorphins and this adds to his agitation. Half of him doesn't want to leave the warm bed, Victoria's warm body, the warm cabin, but the hunger aches so much. He gives in to somnambulistic pacing for a moment, abandoning his half-tied boots. He stumbles out the door, all but tripping over his shoelaces. He bends and tucks the ends into the tops of his boots. His eyes glance, unfocussed on the shattered, green lines pulsing on his leg.
Boots won't matter soon.
---
Note: #2 is on his first arrival in New York. #5 is a) the un-RPed part of Gale and Vic's Valentines-Day-gone-wrong and b) supposed to be the one he didn't actually wake up for, but that's pushing it.
1.
Everything shakes. A few unused bullets strewn on a table rattle and roll from the surface. The clink of metal hitting the poured cement floor is muted by the commotion of the grinding gears, hissing hydraulics, and humming generators.
A much lesser noise would have awakened Gale. He knows almost exactly what the context is: lookouts detected enemy movement -- either approaching tank units, surface-to-surface missiles, or any other large-scale threat. As is protocol, they immediately reported to base, and Muladhara's overhead defensive structure was activated. More simply, Muladhara is now closing its mouth. Once done, the only indications that the subterranean base had been there at all are some less vital surface structures and the meandering seam of "teeth" in the ground.
Gale recognizes the inherent flaws of this kind of fortification, especially in the context of seige and chemical warfare, hence his present haste to wake and arm himself. The particulars of the situation will need to be reviewed, and measures will need to be taken to deter the enemy before they can be entrenched out of the reach of Muladhara's surface gun turrets.
He pulls on the pieces of his standard-issue armor, zipping his chest plate, clicking circular fasteners into place. He takes up his assault rifle. Though rushed, the motions are businesslike and practiced.
No one gets a full night of sleep in purgatory.
2.
Sirens, car alarms, dogs barking . . . every unfamiliar sound wrenches Gale from his sleep. He reaches for his gun, and pauses when his fingertips touch the metal. His eyes open to see the glowing slats of the drawn blinds glowing across the room. He's not in the Junkyard anymore. There's no Junkyard to be in.
I am currently residing in Manhattan, in the state of New York. Immediate threats are minimal. As such, my gun is unloaded. Use of excessive force in this territory will result in conflicts with local law enforcement agencies.
After repeating that mantra to himself, his fingertips leave his gun, and he rolls onto his side.
He falls asleep again.
3.
Gale could only liken it to his experience of waking up. Like retrieving lost senses. Or putting on a pair of prescription glasses for the first time . . . but he doesn't know what glasses are in a concrete sense. He tells himself he's probably thinking about binoculars . . . probably.
What Lupa's saying is common sense. Then why does it seem so foreign at the same time? It's uncomfortable. It debunks everything that's regulated his reality.
The agitation of his perception feels -- for lack of a better word, stimulating; to be motivated by an abstractions. The Embryon, the assimilated tribes aren't soldiers, they're comrades. Loyalty isn't a law, it's a choice. Life is inherently valuable.
This isn't logic, it's honor.
4.
Victoria's voice penetrates his dreaming consciousness -- agitated, agonized noises ranging from whimpers to growls. His dreams bend and change to incorporate the sounds until an especially sharp cry jolts him awake. They've rolled apart, and half of the sheets have twisted around Victoria like a cocoon.
He eases himself across the bed next to her. This is almost a game of sorts, trying to reorient her without waking her up. He determines the clockwise twist of the sheets, and hand on her hip, slowly rolls her on one side to loosen them. As usual, this generates more muttering.
Thus liberated from her linen confinement, he settles down on his side, one forearm draped over her middle, and his palm finds its natural position at the incurvature of her waist. He draws himself up against her back, feeling her faster respiration in dissonace with his own. He breathes slowly, meditatively. Whether or not this has any effect on Victoria's quality of sleep, the reclined posture, close proximity, and breath control has a soporific effect on Gale.
He falls asleep again.
5.
The pants were easy enough. Two legs, a zipper.
But now he can see his hands fumbling drunkenly at his boot laces. There's an angry tension buzzing in his head. He needs to leave and feed, but he can't go out without his boots. It's a strained compromise.
His body is exhausted after being recently glutted with endorphins and this adds to his agitation. Half of him doesn't want to leave the warm bed, Victoria's warm body, the warm cabin, but the hunger aches so much. He gives in to somnambulistic pacing for a moment, abandoning his half-tied boots. He stumbles out the door, all but tripping over his shoelaces. He bends and tucks the ends into the tops of his boots. His eyes glance, unfocussed on the shattered, green lines pulsing on his leg.
Boots won't matter soon.
---
Note: #2 is on his first arrival in New York. #5 is a) the un-RPed part of Gale and Vic's Valentines-Day-gone-wrong and b) supposed to be the one he didn't actually wake up for, but that's pushing it.