001 -- [Accidental Voice - Back-dated just after the sirens)
[It's about ten to fifteen minutes after the Siren, and one lone drummer is wandering around outside with his NV running in his pocket, observing his surroundings with the type of impressed silence of a tourist walking through the Hermitage Museum, or somewhere equally impressive. Pickles had experienced some very trippy things in his lifetime of smoking, swallowing and injecting everything he could get his hands on, and this was right up there. He watched fucking rust rise from the earth, things go from normal to decayed, and the air smelled toxic and singed--like Hell in a bottle. It was pretty badass.
Obviously that guy who met him on home plate and tried to drag him inside was also tripping and couldn't handle his drugs. So far, this wasn't so bad.
He stops because something that looks like a plucked, greasy duck with a worm-tail is waddling towards him. A solid hallucination like that might've freaked someone out, but Pickles was still convinced this was all an elaborate trip that he just needed to ride out until the end. He spent five hours once talking to his toilet about clouds. So this thing was kind of funny--kind of cute, even. He snickers at it.] Pffft. Well hey d'ere, ugly. What's yer name? [And he bends down to poke it. The bird-rat bites his hand: hard. He feels flesh tear when he jerks back, and sees blood pouring from a large nick in the webbing between his thumb and index finger.
And it was real blood, which is jarring. He wasn't imagining the fluid or the pain. He was a little bit horrified, but mostly he's just pissed off right now. He turns red in the face, dodges the bird-rat as it snaps at him again; then lashes out at it with his foot.]
Fuckin' shit! Asshole! [Pickles is deeply satisfied feeling his sneaker connect with soft flesh and watching the bird-rat bounce and scurry off into the shadows.] Damn right, you better run! [Antagonizing it even further, he reaches for an empty bottle on the ground and tosses it after the stupid animal, though he misses it by a wide arch.
The bottle clatters, and there is a vacuum of silence. He's dumb enough to just stand there and squint into the darkness, trying to see past it, even when he hears ominous scratching against the pavement.
Even more bird-rats come out in a swarm. Fortunately nobody he knew was there, because the following leap in mid-air and turn to run was not metal. Nor was the sound that tears from his throat.] NYEEEEEEEEH.
Obviously that guy who met him on home plate and tried to drag him inside was also tripping and couldn't handle his drugs. So far, this wasn't so bad.
He stops because something that looks like a plucked, greasy duck with a worm-tail is waddling towards him. A solid hallucination like that might've freaked someone out, but Pickles was still convinced this was all an elaborate trip that he just needed to ride out until the end. He spent five hours once talking to his toilet about clouds. So this thing was kind of funny--kind of cute, even. He snickers at it.] Pffft. Well hey d'ere, ugly. What's yer name? [And he bends down to poke it. The bird-rat bites his hand: hard. He feels flesh tear when he jerks back, and sees blood pouring from a large nick in the webbing between his thumb and index finger.
And it was real blood, which is jarring. He wasn't imagining the fluid or the pain. He was a little bit horrified, but mostly he's just pissed off right now. He turns red in the face, dodges the bird-rat as it snaps at him again; then lashes out at it with his foot.]
Fuckin' shit! Asshole! [Pickles is deeply satisfied feeling his sneaker connect with soft flesh and watching the bird-rat bounce and scurry off into the shadows.] Damn right, you better run! [Antagonizing it even further, he reaches for an empty bottle on the ground and tosses it after the stupid animal, though he misses it by a wide arch.
The bottle clatters, and there is a vacuum of silence. He's dumb enough to just stand there and squint into the darkness, trying to see past it, even when he hears ominous scratching against the pavement.
Even more bird-rats come out in a swarm. Fortunately nobody he knew was there, because the following leap in mid-air and turn to run was not metal. Nor was the sound that tears from his throat.] NYEEEEEEEEH.