oo1; [holo]; careful what you wish for
When the power goes out in the complex and Ethan's senses are thrown off-centre, it's no surprise that when the lights return he nearly lands on his ass. He barely has time to take in the new, unfamiliar chamber around him before he's grabbing the nearest available thing - which would be the pedestal with the tablet on - and gritting his teeth in annoyance. He lets out a low growl of frustration.
"The fuck is it now..."
Ethan, at the moment clad in a white t-shirt and hospital scrubs, looks a hint better than death warmed over. The dark circles under his eyes are particularly noticeable as he straightens, standing directly in range of the tablet, and squints around the bright room. If this is another series of tests, he thinks, he really is going to murder every one of them.
He scans the area; the small, circular room, the clinical feel of it, vaguely notices the device he'd nearly landed on. But then Ethan's attention is pulled between two things. The metal band on his right wrist that wasn't there a minute ago - fuck, it itches - and the... what is that, a doll in his left hand? For God's sake, how much more did they plan to humiliate --
-- He freezes. The image in his mind is like a photograph, hundreds of years old, floating back to the surface. A doll, a little girl. A family. Clara. The sister Ethan Ford the Human (version one) had died for. Feeling disgusted -- violated, even, Ethan flings the doll down the steps and it hits the metal doorway with a satisfying clong. As the echo dies, his expression turns from disgusted shock to just plain anger. They could inject him with things and force him into the sunlight and throw him into fights he'll always lose, but this... this, he refuses to take.
"No. This is it. I've had it, all right? I've fucking had it!" He glares around the featureless room, looking to be on the edge of losing his mind, sure that someone, somewhere is watching this, hearing this. He shifts his weight, debates heading for that door. But that would be too easy.
"Get down here, you cowards! I'm going to fucking tear you apart!"
"The fuck is it now..."
Ethan, at the moment clad in a white t-shirt and hospital scrubs, looks a hint better than death warmed over. The dark circles under his eyes are particularly noticeable as he straightens, standing directly in range of the tablet, and squints around the bright room. If this is another series of tests, he thinks, he really is going to murder every one of them.
He scans the area; the small, circular room, the clinical feel of it, vaguely notices the device he'd nearly landed on. But then Ethan's attention is pulled between two things. The metal band on his right wrist that wasn't there a minute ago - fuck, it itches - and the... what is that, a doll in his left hand? For God's sake, how much more did they plan to humiliate --
-- He freezes. The image in his mind is like a photograph, hundreds of years old, floating back to the surface. A doll, a little girl. A family. Clara. The sister Ethan Ford the Human (version one) had died for. Feeling disgusted -- violated, even, Ethan flings the doll down the steps and it hits the metal doorway with a satisfying clong. As the echo dies, his expression turns from disgusted shock to just plain anger. They could inject him with things and force him into the sunlight and throw him into fights he'll always lose, but this... this, he refuses to take.
"No. This is it. I've had it, all right? I've fucking had it!" He glares around the featureless room, looking to be on the edge of losing his mind, sure that someone, somewhere is watching this, hearing this. He shifts his weight, debates heading for that door. But that would be too easy.
"Get down here, you cowards! I'm going to fucking tear you apart!"