Makes You Into a Weapon [Open/Active]
Who: Eight and you!
Where: Coat closet
When: Day 001
What: Eight makes a home of an old boot.
Warnings: None
Eight gives a huff of air as he hits the floor. One moment, he was suspended in the air, being held up like an offering to the red light, certain he was about to die. The next, he's on a wood floor, with no restraints, no imminent death staring him in the face. He reaches his clinking hands up to his face, only to discover that the threads that had sewn his mouth shut are gone, though there are still puncture holes around his lips.
Instinct tells him that he is better off seeking shelter immediately than sitting around contemplating if he is actually dead. Philosophy and thinking hard are better left to One, or to any of his other, smarter comrades. He scurries beneath a table, feeling helpless with only his armor and no weapons. His scissor-spear was lost against the flying machine; his knife and magnet were somehow misplaced when he was sewn up in the Seamstress.
Under the table, he hunches down and looks quickly back and forth, examining the room. It’s unlike any building he’s been in for a long while - not run down, not half-destroyed, though dusty, like everything else he’s known. He cranes his neck to see what’s atop the table and sees dead flowers. They’re pretty. But unfortunately, they aren't weapons.
There’s a door standing ajar in front of him. After checking to make sure the coast is clear, he hurries in, finding himself in some sort of closet. Warm fabrics hang above his head, out of his reach. Boxes are stacked high, with just enough horizontal surfaces that he can climb them if he likes. Two strangely-shaped black rubber objects rise in front of him. He pokes one, and satisfied that it’s inanimate, pushes it over. A scurrying sound in the corner startles him, and he ducks behind the second black object, but there are no more sounds of approaching danger. He emerges back into the open and examines the toppled object.
The rubber thing is hollow, with soft fabric on the inside. It’s large enough for him to crawl into. After poking around some more, he decides it’s a suitable hiding spot, and stuffs himself in feet-first as far as he can go.
Still facing the entrance in case of a threat, he relaxes inside the rainboot and waits for sounds of others.
Where: Coat closet
When: Day 001
What: Eight makes a home of an old boot.
Warnings: None
Eight gives a huff of air as he hits the floor. One moment, he was suspended in the air, being held up like an offering to the red light, certain he was about to die. The next, he's on a wood floor, with no restraints, no imminent death staring him in the face. He reaches his clinking hands up to his face, only to discover that the threads that had sewn his mouth shut are gone, though there are still puncture holes around his lips.
Instinct tells him that he is better off seeking shelter immediately than sitting around contemplating if he is actually dead. Philosophy and thinking hard are better left to One, or to any of his other, smarter comrades. He scurries beneath a table, feeling helpless with only his armor and no weapons. His scissor-spear was lost against the flying machine; his knife and magnet were somehow misplaced when he was sewn up in the Seamstress.
Under the table, he hunches down and looks quickly back and forth, examining the room. It’s unlike any building he’s been in for a long while - not run down, not half-destroyed, though dusty, like everything else he’s known. He cranes his neck to see what’s atop the table and sees dead flowers. They’re pretty. But unfortunately, they aren't weapons.
There’s a door standing ajar in front of him. After checking to make sure the coast is clear, he hurries in, finding himself in some sort of closet. Warm fabrics hang above his head, out of his reach. Boxes are stacked high, with just enough horizontal surfaces that he can climb them if he likes. Two strangely-shaped black rubber objects rise in front of him. He pokes one, and satisfied that it’s inanimate, pushes it over. A scurrying sound in the corner startles him, and he ducks behind the second black object, but there are no more sounds of approaching danger. He emerges back into the open and examines the toppled object.
The rubber thing is hollow, with soft fabric on the inside. It’s large enough for him to crawl into. After poking around some more, he decides it’s a suitable hiding spot, and stuffs himself in feet-first as far as he can go.
Still facing the entrance in case of a threat, he relaxes inside the rainboot and waits for sounds of others.