Flying Monkeys wish_verse (wish-verse has corrected spelling)
I didn't know if embarassment was a good enough feeling for this. Somehow, I'd allowed the bloody flying monkeys to make off with me, and take me away from where I was needed. Sunnydale.
I think. I came to in a very small room that smelled of old death and dust. There was faint light coming from a tiny rectangle window, about two feet above my head. I had to get up there, and see just where in the nine hells those fiends had taken me. I must have become a threat to someone, my good work with the other good guys must be irritating someone.
But why leave me alive?
I rushed the door, first trying the knob, the throwing all my weight against it. "Ouch, damnit." I only succeeded in nearly pushing my shoulder out of joint. No food, no water. Perhaps I was meant to perish here?
The window, my only hope: I pushed part of the coffin that still sat unadorned and unattched in the middle of this...this moseleium. I climbed on the box, though it was precarious at best, as most of the wood had rotted through, and I had to baby my left shoulder. But I made it to the window. Sunny. Birds. Trees. Tombstones.
"No bloody way." It was a stroke of genius on someone's part, and a terrible joke to play on the White Hats and slayers. Take me away, and have me die right next to them, in The Sunnydale Cemetary, no warning, no reason to guess that I was right here. And since there are so many cemetaries in Sunnydale, my comrades may not even hit this one until it really was too late. What a terrible thought.
The window was too small to get a good yell out of, and could barely get a few fingers through the wired pane. My pointer finger somehow ran afoul of something quite sharp, perhaps old glass, and it began to throb, joining my shoulder. And me without a tetnis shot.
I'd have to wait until sundown, until someone on my side was patrolling. Then, somehow, I'd have to signal them.
He pats himself down, looking for a pen, paper, something. He finds an old receipt.
"Damn again. No pen." Looking around, I realize my finger isn't just hurt, it's bleeding. Looking inside the delapitated coffin I found a small bone, broken just right to be used as a pen, dipped in rather personal ink.
He sits, and painstakingly writes a very short, concise note. Talking to himself "Now I wait and watch. If I do this right, perhaps I can be out of here by tonight.
Placing myself down in one of the cleaner areas of the tomb, I watch the light wan, waiting to her the sounds of fighting outside.
I think. I came to in a very small room that smelled of old death and dust. There was faint light coming from a tiny rectangle window, about two feet above my head. I had to get up there, and see just where in the nine hells those fiends had taken me. I must have become a threat to someone, my good work with the other good guys must be irritating someone.
But why leave me alive?
I rushed the door, first trying the knob, the throwing all my weight against it. "Ouch, damnit." I only succeeded in nearly pushing my shoulder out of joint. No food, no water. Perhaps I was meant to perish here?
The window, my only hope: I pushed part of the coffin that still sat unadorned and unattched in the middle of this...this moseleium. I climbed on the box, though it was precarious at best, as most of the wood had rotted through, and I had to baby my left shoulder. But I made it to the window. Sunny. Birds. Trees. Tombstones.
"No bloody way." It was a stroke of genius on someone's part, and a terrible joke to play on the White Hats and slayers. Take me away, and have me die right next to them, in The Sunnydale Cemetary, no warning, no reason to guess that I was right here. And since there are so many cemetaries in Sunnydale, my comrades may not even hit this one until it really was too late. What a terrible thought.
The window was too small to get a good yell out of, and could barely get a few fingers through the wired pane. My pointer finger somehow ran afoul of something quite sharp, perhaps old glass, and it began to throb, joining my shoulder. And me without a tetnis shot.
I'd have to wait until sundown, until someone on my side was patrolling. Then, somehow, I'd have to signal them.
He pats himself down, looking for a pen, paper, something. He finds an old receipt.
"Damn again. No pen." Looking around, I realize my finger isn't just hurt, it's bleeding. Looking inside the delapitated coffin I found a small bone, broken just right to be used as a pen, dipped in rather personal ink.
He sits, and painstakingly writes a very short, concise note. Talking to himself "Now I wait and watch. If I do this right, perhaps I can be out of here by tonight.
Placing myself down in one of the cleaner areas of the tomb, I watch the light wan, waiting to her the sounds of fighting outside.