now i rock a house party at the drop of a hat.
It's around five o'clock in the morning when the citizens of Taxon find themselves inexplicably transported into rooms within the Sanctuary. Doors are left open and beds unmade, food abandoned and lights left on, still shining brightly for those who were awake and are no longer present. The Extras don't seem to notice the captive population's
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Don wakes up.
He cracks open an eye and rolls onto his back. He's in a hospital bed. No. The room is bare. He lies still a moment, silence piling up around him. He stumbles out of bed and to the door, sighs with relief when it opens. Hesitates before retrieving his tablet.
The hall funnels him through a cafeteria, the tile cold beneath his feet, and into a kitchen. He starts opening cupboards: they're fully stocked. Some of the foods he recognizes; some he doesn't. He moves on to the fridge, now inventorying supplies. The blood is behind a lettuce crisper and to the right of a block of cheddar cheese.
Don steps back, the door still hanging open, looks around without seeing anything. He turns on the faucet and splashes water over his face. Then he begins washing blood down the sink.
(Minutes later he'll switch his tablet on-the message no comfort now-and prop it next to the sink, affording a view of his hands, the line of buttons climbing his white pajamas, and the steady flow of blood as if from some inexhaustible wound.)
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"Hey... what are you doing?"
That looks like... blood... in a kitchen?
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"Shit," he mutters.
He finishes off the bag, snips open another with a pair of scissors. As he resumes pouring he picks up the tablet with his free hand, studying the young woman on the screen, committing her face to memory.
"I'm doing us all a favor," he says grimly.
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That's just not cool. By now, she's made it to the floor below her own. The scenery is shifting around her as she walks, though, and she's wearing a rather upset expression.
"You can't do that!"
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When he gets to Don's broadcast, he stares a moment, trying to sort out what he's seeing.... reminds him of nothing so much as old classes, lab, dumping out chemicals, and scenes in the morgue, washing blood off...
Quick tablet punching-- that's Don Draper's feed, what the hell, is he bleeding?? No, that's not arterial spurt, not even the jugular vein would just pour like that.
Paul stabs at a button with a finger while using the map to figure out what floor Don is on.
"Mister Draper, this is Paul Smecker; the hell are you doing?"
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(There's blood under his nails; a dark streak runs down his right pajama sleeve.)
"Where are you? Anything look familiar?"
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"Don," Paul says, voice flat and urgent as he starts walking, then after a second jogging through the halls. Oh crap, he's using a first name.
"What you're doing is an incredibly bad idea and for your own safety I'd advise you to stop, now. Put it the fuck back in the fridge."
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He's thinking of Dawn despite himself-- not Dawn as she is, but Dawn as she was for those horrifying minutes-- and wondering how many vampires there are in the building. With them.
He switches it up from a jog to a run, his voice over the tablet getting a little ragged because while in many respects Paul is in excellent shape for a man his age, his cardiovascular has not been helped by chronic smoking.
"Do not dump any more, for the love of Christ--" There, he rounds the corner, and bursts into the kitchen. Dramatic entrance is a bit spoiled by socks sliding on the smooth kitchen floor.
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[ she's in support of the vra, sir. BAD FORM. ]
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[Between the accent and the use of his name he knows who it is, but that's no excuse for the lack of manners.]
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[ your rudeness cancels out her rudeness MEANING SHE CAN GET SAUCY. hah. ]
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Excuse me?
[His hands don't pause their work.]
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I don't rip out people's throats and leave them to die in alleys.
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