☆015-Dreamweaver, I believe you can get me through the night.
[As the radio feed crackles to life there is a soft sound, as of something pouring on the ground. Dirt, sand, sugar--it has that sort of essence to it, accompanied by the barely audible whump of cloth settling. Eventually, the peaceful rhythm of pouring is interrupted by a man coughing and shifting around somewhat frantically.]
What the hell-- [He pauses, cutting himself off. When he speaks up again the tone is clearly confused. Or rather, it has been dialed down from an angry sort of confusion to a milder, more perplexed sort.] ...Blankets?
What the hell-- [He pauses, cutting himself off. When he speaks up again the tone is clearly confused. Or rather, it has been dialed down from an angry sort of confusion to a milder, more perplexed sort.] ...Blankets?