Smith follows Mr. Locke through the door, but on reaching the other side, it's apparent that the other man is nowhere to be seen, and the room is by no means large enough to have afforded him the chance to hide. Because... Locke is so very much the sort of person to play hide and seek in an evil hospital. Yes, John, that's it exactly.
"--breath. Great."
Just to punctuate things, the door finishes closing behind him, with a definite click that indicates... yes, in fact, the door is locked. He considers trying to see if he can either use the bone saw to unlock the door like a credit card, but the flickering of light behind him gives him pause, and he turns around to take stock of... wherever he was
( ... )
And that was when they found the fields. They'd all been plowed flat, with nothing growing on them. According to the records, the location was chosen entirely for the size of its buildings and the ready availability of people in the town
( ... )
Suddenly and soundlessly, all the screens flicker to life, and the room is lit with the low jumping light of a wall full of static. It's with a mixture of dread and fascination that Locke slowly approaches the console, the fall of his footsteps echoing in spite of the small space. He should ignore this until he's got the door open, work on re-establishing contact with John Smith, but... Antinora seems to have something it wants to say, and Locke wants to listen
( ... )
When it resolves to yield a coherent picture, Locke's hands curl and his whole face goes slack. It looks like security camera footage all right, shot from the corner of a bleak white room's ceiling.
"I'm sorry, but he could be anywhere in the world right now." It's Mason... How could she be on this thing? And worse yet, Kincaid walks onscreen, young and energetic, and opens the blinds on the windows. "All right detectives, that's enough. Mr. Locke has work to do today." The police file out with their regrets, though the bruised and bandaged patient has said nothing, too despondent to even turn his head to look at them. "John, John, John. We have got ourselves quite a day ahead of us my friend. It's a fine time to get you up out of that bed
( ... )
And then they wake up. The transition between walking through the door of the security room and having gone unconscious is not one which Smith, at least, might remember.
The first thing to be noticed about the room is the noise. There is a very large, very unbalanced, and therefore very loud and very rickety fan spinning on the ceiling. Its blades are quite shiny, and they look like they could be very sharp.
The second thing -- and the third, and the fourth, etc. etc. -- is the wheelchairs, of which there are many. They're all empty and yet they're somehow moving about on their own. That can't be good.
In fact, Smith is increasingly sure, in the first few moments of new consciousness, that none of this is any good at all, and that all of it is very very bad, in ways that he's really not used to experiencing.
Locke doesn't hear the crash; he jolts awake, sucking in a surprised gasp. What the... but he wasn't unconscious... Well, at least it did what he asked it to. He won't have a look in this horse's mouth.
Or so he thinks, until he turns his head and gets a look at his new surroundings. Fear rushes unbidden through every last nerve ending in his body, and for a long moment, he can only look on in surprise. Mother of mercy, how could they be...
Alarm turns to sheer, unbridled horror when he tries to sit up, and meets resistance. He grimaces with effort, but his shoulders only barely get up off the floor. As he stares at his boots, it's with only one thought on his mind. This. Isn't. Happening...
Yes. Sheer, unbridled horror. It's an excellent feeling, best felt with friends or at least good acquaintances. Wait, no, it's not really excellent at all! It's actually rather, well, horrible! And yet here Smith is, also scared out of his wits. At first, he stands up. Then he sees the fan, and he crouches back down again. That's pretty much more or less where he's stuck now, aside from the occasional bout of frightened, spastic wheelchair dodging.
Over the sound of the fan, as best he can, he shouts, nearly screaming, "MR. LOCKE! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!"
Mr. Locke would like dearly to get out of here. But as several of those wheelchairs start circling around him like clicking buzzards, he continues to lie there, struggling to lift more than his head up off the floor. "This isn't happening... This... isn't..."
But it is. His legs, no matter how he tries, won't move, won't even tremble. As he tries to grab hold of the legs of his pants for leverage to pull himself upright, the scrabbling of his fingers transmits no sensation.
But he's not, he is not going to say what any rational person would in this situation to alert his partner as to what's going on. Goddammit, goddammit all to Hell, John Locke isn't going to tell Smith that he can't.
"I'm trying..." he grunts, straining against uncooperative musculature but he manages to get himself up onto his elbows, at least. "There's something wrong... with my" with my back "my legs..."
"I'm afraid it is! Afraid--" Something about that seems inordinately funny to Smith, though for no readily comprehensible reason, and he starts laughing about it, somewhat hysterically. The laughter is cut short as another wheelchair nearly runs him down. Smith cries out in fear, then shakes his head. Apparently some part of his wits have finally woken up.
You just concentrate on holding tight to that little part right at the center, the old lesson from Sgt. Crenson went. The rest doesn't matter; they're going to take the rest anyway. He's not used to being so afraid, but he has been there before; even despite the level of training they received, none of them in the special forces group were expected to undertake any particular missions until they'd at least seen some front-line combat action. They'd all been at least a little cocky, until those first times that they faced real threats, dodged live fire and in turn taken lives without expectation that their enemies would get up when the exercise was over. After that, they were scared
( ... )
The noise they're making, crowding around him, is just deafening. How are the wheels drowning out nearly everything else? He doesn't remember them sounding like this, like collisions and snapping. Everything's spinning, he doesn't know which one, he doesn't know where to look at, which one to look at, what is... what is going on...
taking it back...
It's taking it back.
"No..." Panting with exertion, he finally manages to get himself sitting upright. "No, you... you can't... you can't do this to me!" One of the chairs, plainer and slower than the others, wheels over to him, and stops at his feet. If a chair could stare, it would be staring at him expectantly. Locke scowls back at it. "You can't do this to me! I haven't strayed, I haven't... You have to give me another chance! I'll find it! I'll find it!He looks to Smith, then, close to panicked. "You... you've got to...!" He doesn't want to be in that chair, doesn't dare to get back in that chair, can't ask for that... but to be dragged or carried, right now, would
( ... )
Smith has no fucking idea what Locke is babbling about. Strayed? Finding... something?
Who cares right now! Wheelchairs and fan of death! A wheelchair that seems to want to help! Why? Who cares! Smith looks at the chair, and then at Locke.
"Got to what? Get you in the chair here? Works for me!" He moves to get one of the other man's arms around his shoulders, after which, if not stopped, he'll stand up and maneuver Locke to get him into the wheelchair.
Locke doesn't have the wherewithal to even try to stop him. This ranks, without a doubt, as one of the most terrifying moments of his life. What if getting in that chair means he'll never get back out? What if this is punishment, for miracles taken for granted? What if he's been on a countdown all along? What if he's meant to defy this? What if this is a sacrifice he's supposed to make? No, that couldn't be right, if that were true then he'dve been in a chair for a long time before now... This is a test. This must be a test. He's meant to overcome. It's showing him something, but whatThis wheelchair seems to have lost whatever was animating it before. It's just an object now, while the others are clacking and wheeling quickly towards them. Locke, consumed for the moment by the staggering possibilities of a puzzle he just can't solve, doesn't lift his arms to wheel himself out of the room. Looks like Smith's going to have to push-and-run. Once seated, Locke balls his hands into fists and howls in furious despair, all but
( ... )
As far as Smith's concerned, the hows and whys of Locke's problem can wait until they're in slightly less immediate-seeming danger. Locke gets settled into the chair, buckling any and all seat belts or other mechanisms to make sure the chair's passenger isn't accidentally dumped out, because as soon as everything's as set as can be, he grabs hold of the back of the chair (or any handles there that might be available), and does, in fact, push-and-run
( ... )
The chapel, unlike the nondenominational faith spaces that hospitals these days tend towards, looks like something straight out of an abandoned cathedral. It's adorned with Christian icons and idols. Stained glass windows, the statues of Jesus and his saintly pals, an elaborate wooden crucifix on the wall. A metal box where you put your prayers for loved ones. The locks on it look vaguely rusted and bloody and the box is trembling as if there were something on the inside trying to get out, but after a moment, that slows to a halt
( ... )
Smith's looking pretty freaked out, too, but yeah, no more injured than he already is. "Sorry. Sorry. Thought I'd had a better hand on it. Sorry
( ... )
The text begins taking a turn for the worse before too long. Sweat beads on Locke's forehead as the screams from the glass swell around him like rivers. His finger quakes as he draws it along the page, and blood begins to seep through the tops of his boots. In his present condition, though, he doesn't feel any pain. And being so intently focused on his task, nor does he notice that he ought to. Above the mournful wail of Mary at Golgotha, he shouts out, "Doubt... he's talking about doubt! He's drinking... every day after work. His words on the page are shaking with his hands
( ... )
Smith follows Mr. Locke through the door, but on reaching the other side, it's apparent that the other man is nowhere to be seen, and the room is by no means large enough to have afforded him the chance to hide. Because... Locke is so very much the sort of person to play hide and seek in an evil hospital. Yes, John, that's it exactly.
"--breath. Great."
Just to punctuate things, the door finishes closing behind him, with a definite click that indicates... yes, in fact, the door is locked. He considers trying to see if he can either use the bone saw to unlock the door like a credit card, but the flickering of light behind him gives him pause, and he turns around to take stock of... wherever he was ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Reply
"I'm sorry, but he could be anywhere in the world right now." It's Mason... How could she be on this thing? And worse yet, Kincaid walks onscreen, young and energetic, and opens the blinds on the windows. "All right detectives, that's enough. Mr. Locke has work to do today." The police file out with their regrets, though the bruised and bandaged patient has said nothing, too despondent to even turn his head to look at them. "John, John, John. We have got ourselves quite a day ahead of us my friend. It's a fine time to get you up out of that bed ( ... )
Reply
The first thing to be noticed about the room is the noise. There is a very large, very unbalanced, and therefore very loud and very rickety fan spinning on the ceiling. Its blades are quite shiny, and they look like they could be very sharp.
The second thing -- and the third, and the fourth, etc. etc. -- is the wheelchairs, of which there are many. They're all empty and yet they're somehow moving about on their own. That can't be good.
In fact, Smith is increasingly sure, in the first few moments of new consciousness, that none of this is any good at all, and that all of it is very very bad, in ways that he's really not used to experiencing.
Reply
Locke doesn't hear the crash; he jolts awake, sucking in a surprised gasp. What the... but he wasn't unconscious... Well, at least it did what he asked it to. He won't have a look in this horse's mouth.
Or so he thinks, until he turns his head and gets a look at his new surroundings. Fear rushes unbidden through every last nerve ending in his body, and for a long moment, he can only look on in surprise. Mother of mercy, how could they be...
Alarm turns to sheer, unbridled horror when he tries to sit up, and meets resistance. He grimaces with effort, but his shoulders only barely get up off the floor. As he stares at his boots, it's with only one thought on his mind. This. Isn't. Happening...
Reply
Over the sound of the fan, as best he can, he shouts, nearly screaming, "MR. LOCKE! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!"
Reply
But it is. His legs, no matter how he tries, won't move, won't even tremble. As he tries to grab hold of the legs of his pants for leverage to pull himself upright, the scrabbling of his fingers transmits no sensation.
But he's not, he is not going to say what any rational person would in this situation to alert his partner as to what's going on. Goddammit, goddammit all to Hell, John Locke isn't going to tell Smith that he can't.
"I'm trying..." he grunts, straining against uncooperative musculature but he manages to get himself up onto his elbows, at least. "There's something wrong... with my" with my back "my legs..."
Reply
You just concentrate on holding tight to that little part right at the center, the old lesson from Sgt. Crenson went. The rest doesn't matter; they're going to take the rest anyway. He's not used to being so afraid, but he has been there before; even despite the level of training they received, none of them in the special forces group were expected to undertake any particular missions until they'd at least seen some front-line combat action. They'd all been at least a little cocky, until those first times that they faced real threats, dodged live fire and in turn taken lives without expectation that their enemies would get up when the exercise was over. After that, they were scared ( ... )
Reply
taking it back...
It's taking it back.
"No..." Panting with exertion, he finally manages to get himself sitting upright. "No, you... you can't... you can't do this to me!" One of the chairs, plainer and slower than the others, wheels over to him, and stops at his feet. If a chair could stare, it would be staring at him expectantly. Locke scowls back at it. "You can't do this to me! I haven't strayed, I haven't... You have to give me another chance! I'll find it! I'll find it!He looks to Smith, then, close to panicked. "You... you've got to...!" He doesn't want to be in that chair, doesn't dare to get back in that chair, can't ask for that... but to be dragged or carried, right now, would ( ... )
Reply
Who cares right now! Wheelchairs and fan of death! A wheelchair that seems to want to help! Why? Who cares! Smith looks at the chair, and then at Locke.
"Got to what? Get you in the chair here? Works for me!" He moves to get one of the other man's arms around his shoulders, after which, if not stopped, he'll stand up and maneuver Locke to get him into the wheelchair.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment