[Holo: the Sanctuary] // You can check out any time you like but you can never leave
The room is large, and empty, and overwhelmingly clinical and sterile, and Wikus' immediate thought is that they have caught up with him again. The last thing he remembers is going to sleep, finding shelter in one of the abandoned hovels in the camp and wrapping himself in whatever ragged, filthy blankets he could find against the chill and wishing, hoping, with all his might that he would wake up in the morning and find it had all been nothing but a terrible dream. He had been on the move for at least twelve hours, no time for rest or relaxation or stopping for more than scavenged scraps of food and water, and he was exhausted, ready to drop at any instant, the blasted arm, the source of all his misery, nothing but an aching, throbbing mass at the end of his shoulder.
But he wakes, and things are worse than he could have imagined.
"No, not again," he murmurs piteously, as if the universe will somehow listen and grant his wish if he only denies the facts enough. "This cannot be happening again, I got out..."
The former paper pusher stands, scrambling to his feet and tucking the Hated Thing away up close to his body, obscuring the twisted, alien appendage from view. His gaze darts around the room, never resting too long over any one thing, furtive glances and shifty movements coupled with the inability since this whole thing started to bathe or rest for more than a few hours at a time giving him the appearance of either a drug addict in severe need of a fix or someone carrying some kind of violently infectious disease.
"Hello?" Wikus' voice is uncertain, not surprising given that he had hoped never to end up in a place like this ever again. "Is anyone there? I...I think there has been some kind of misunderstanding..."
But he wakes, and things are worse than he could have imagined.
"No, not again," he murmurs piteously, as if the universe will somehow listen and grant his wish if he only denies the facts enough. "This cannot be happening again, I got out..."
The former paper pusher stands, scrambling to his feet and tucking the Hated Thing away up close to his body, obscuring the twisted, alien appendage from view. His gaze darts around the room, never resting too long over any one thing, furtive glances and shifty movements coupled with the inability since this whole thing started to bathe or rest for more than a few hours at a time giving him the appearance of either a drug addict in severe need of a fix or someone carrying some kind of violently infectious disease.
"Hello?" Wikus' voice is uncertain, not surprising given that he had hoped never to end up in a place like this ever again. "Is anyone there? I...I think there has been some kind of misunderstanding..."