[125] Death Tolling Like a Motherfucker // Text/Spam
Doctor, Claire, Franklin can I speak with see you?
I'm in the infirmary.
Obviously.
[And that's all he's typing, because he doesn't want to talk to the Barge :C HE JUST HAS TO MAKE IT PUBLIC FOR LACK OF FILTERS.]
[OPEN INFIRMARY SPAM]
[Rex wouldn't call this his lowest point. After all, little could compare to his ordeal following the air strike that destroyed his body, twisted him into who he was today. Still, being beaten to death, waking up attached to a ventilator-- not his ventilator, but another, rendering him immobile, unable to speak while it was attached to him-- it was like a nightmare. That terrible, sinking feeling that hit him when he first realized that he might have to spend the remainder of his life bedridden, hooked to a machine, it washed over him again when he finally became lucid enough to take in his surroundings and circumstance-- but not yet lucid enough to realize that both his primary and secondary ventilator-- the one damaged by Nicolas when he murdered Rex-- could be repaired. For now, he felt trapped, hopeless and underneath it all, enraged. Dawsey didn't just kill him; he took away the freedom his own ventilator had offered him. He took away his voice.
And then, when he was finally well enough to look at the network, he saw it. A video of his own death, recorded for everyone's amusement. He didn't bother looking at the responses to it, just watched a few times, seemingly with cold detachment, and it took all of his willpower not to throw his communicator across the infirmary. After all, if he did that, he couldn't even get out of bed to retrieve it, not without unhooking himself from the ventilator.
What a pathetic picture he must have painted. Without all of his "mad scientist" trappings, he looked just how he felt: a skinny, weak little victim, wholly dependent on life support and the pity of others. For the first time in he didn't even know how long, he broke down, eyes watering, throat tightening, despite his best efforts. He didn't know how long it was before he collected himself, but when he finally had, he'd come to the conclusion, however rash, that he wasn't going to live like this anymore. He wasn't going to be helpless, beholden to a machine, easy prey for anyone who wanted to teach him a lesson. He was going to survive.]
[OOC: SPAM IS OPEN TO ANYONE, FOR ANY TIME. If you want to forward date something, you can. How stable/emotional/etc. Rex is depends on when you interact with him.
Oh yeah and as for his actual post: he's asking for the two people who've offered to heal him... and potentially relapsing in his V addiction.]
I'm in the infirmary.
Obviously.
[And that's all he's typing, because he doesn't want to talk to the Barge :C HE JUST HAS TO MAKE IT PUBLIC FOR LACK OF FILTERS.]
[OPEN INFIRMARY SPAM]
[Rex wouldn't call this his lowest point. After all, little could compare to his ordeal following the air strike that destroyed his body, twisted him into who he was today. Still, being beaten to death, waking up attached to a ventilator-- not his ventilator, but another, rendering him immobile, unable to speak while it was attached to him-- it was like a nightmare. That terrible, sinking feeling that hit him when he first realized that he might have to spend the remainder of his life bedridden, hooked to a machine, it washed over him again when he finally became lucid enough to take in his surroundings and circumstance-- but not yet lucid enough to realize that both his primary and secondary ventilator-- the one damaged by Nicolas when he murdered Rex-- could be repaired. For now, he felt trapped, hopeless and underneath it all, enraged. Dawsey didn't just kill him; he took away the freedom his own ventilator had offered him. He took away his voice.
And then, when he was finally well enough to look at the network, he saw it. A video of his own death, recorded for everyone's amusement. He didn't bother looking at the responses to it, just watched a few times, seemingly with cold detachment, and it took all of his willpower not to throw his communicator across the infirmary. After all, if he did that, he couldn't even get out of bed to retrieve it, not without unhooking himself from the ventilator.
What a pathetic picture he must have painted. Without all of his "mad scientist" trappings, he looked just how he felt: a skinny, weak little victim, wholly dependent on life support and the pity of others. For the first time in he didn't even know how long, he broke down, eyes watering, throat tightening, despite his best efforts. He didn't know how long it was before he collected himself, but when he finally had, he'd come to the conclusion, however rash, that he wasn't going to live like this anymore. He wasn't going to be helpless, beholden to a machine, easy prey for anyone who wanted to teach him a lesson. He was going to survive.]
[OOC: SPAM IS OPEN TO ANYONE, FOR ANY TIME. If you want to forward date something, you can. How stable/emotional/etc. Rex is depends on when you interact with him.
Oh yeah and as for his actual post: he's asking for the two people who've offered to heal him... and potentially relapsing in his V addiction.]