001: still I'm dying with every step I take, but I don't look back [holo]
If there's one thing I've learned in 85 years, it's that what we want doesn't always matter. Yeah. You can say that again.
It had been a good twenty something hours, all things considered. He’d saved the day, saved the girl, gone on the strangest roller coaster ride of his life - literally - and at the end of it, he got a curve ball to rival all others. It came in the shape of a kiss.
Soft, warm lips touching his; there one second, gone the next, over before it had even started, and absolutely, positively perfect. For the duration of that one, precious little moment, with Beth’s heartbeat vibrant and loud in his ears and palpable on his lips, she’d made him forget everything else. All his worries evaporated, all his troubles went poof! Gone. Just like that.
He’d said goodbye.
He’d gone home, fighting the dopey smile that kept tugging at his lips, stars in his eyes when there were none to be seen in the polluted LA sky. He’d felt more alive on the drive home than he had in decades.
And now this.
There one second, gone the next; the hallway leading to his apartment, poof! Gone. Replaced by a metallic cylinder taken right out of one of those dentist horror flicks, or one of the sci-fi double features of the ‘50s. A weird, Star Trek type thing right above him, stairs right in front of him.
“I think someone needs to have a serious chat with Scotty,” he murmurs to himself, his pale blue eyes widening slightly as confusion creeps into the shell shocked disbelief. He’s had some weird fever dreams over the years, but this has got to be the single weirdest one of all. A raised platform, a circular room (cylindrical, that’s what it is, like some kind of test tube gone wrong) - and for a moment his mind races in panic: Is it silver? No, it can’t be. He’d be able to smell it (burning flesh and blood and silver oxide and gun powder, and the smell is just a memory but it makes him feel sick). He moves, pushes himself out of the daze and takes the steps two at a time. His eyes never stop moving, gliding over too shiny surfaces that look too Weird Science even for his taste, and the light from above reflects too brightly on the elaborate white gold ring on his index finger. ...and is that a bracelet? Fused into his wrist? “--what the Hell?”
Time to breathe. Don’t panic. It’s just a metallic room with no visible way out. “Hello? Is there anyone there?”
It’s the first rule of horror movies, I know. ‘Never ask if there’s anyone there’, ‘cause there always is. The guy with the axe hiding behind the curtain. The zombies pouring out of the only house for miles. The vampire trapped in a tomb, just waiting to be let out.
Bad example.
“Look, I’m sure there’s some way we can figure something out,” he adds with a crooked smile - it’s a bit of bravado, of course it is, but it’s either that or literally climbing the walls to look for an exit. The last thing he wants is to show his captors that they got one up on him, which they did, but a guy’s got his pride.
“I like the iPad. And the, uh, accessory. Nice touch, but not exactly my style.”
Sometimes what we want doesn't matter. But sometimes... Sometimes it's the only thing that does.
((OOC: 1 AM means my brain refuses to put together good enough tags for my liking. I'm calling slow-times, and I'll keep tagging everyone tomorrow morning. And remember: it is never too late to leave a placeholder tag. :3))
It had been a good twenty something hours, all things considered. He’d saved the day, saved the girl, gone on the strangest roller coaster ride of his life - literally - and at the end of it, he got a curve ball to rival all others. It came in the shape of a kiss.
Soft, warm lips touching his; there one second, gone the next, over before it had even started, and absolutely, positively perfect. For the duration of that one, precious little moment, with Beth’s heartbeat vibrant and loud in his ears and palpable on his lips, she’d made him forget everything else. All his worries evaporated, all his troubles went poof! Gone. Just like that.
He’d said goodbye.
He’d gone home, fighting the dopey smile that kept tugging at his lips, stars in his eyes when there were none to be seen in the polluted LA sky. He’d felt more alive on the drive home than he had in decades.
And now this.
There one second, gone the next; the hallway leading to his apartment, poof! Gone. Replaced by a metallic cylinder taken right out of one of those dentist horror flicks, or one of the sci-fi double features of the ‘50s. A weird, Star Trek type thing right above him, stairs right in front of him.
“I think someone needs to have a serious chat with Scotty,” he murmurs to himself, his pale blue eyes widening slightly as confusion creeps into the shell shocked disbelief. He’s had some weird fever dreams over the years, but this has got to be the single weirdest one of all. A raised platform, a circular room (cylindrical, that’s what it is, like some kind of test tube gone wrong) - and for a moment his mind races in panic: Is it silver? No, it can’t be. He’d be able to smell it (burning flesh and blood and silver oxide and gun powder, and the smell is just a memory but it makes him feel sick). He moves, pushes himself out of the daze and takes the steps two at a time. His eyes never stop moving, gliding over too shiny surfaces that look too Weird Science even for his taste, and the light from above reflects too brightly on the elaborate white gold ring on his index finger. ...and is that a bracelet? Fused into his wrist? “--what the Hell?”
Time to breathe. Don’t panic. It’s just a metallic room with no visible way out. “Hello? Is there anyone there?”
It’s the first rule of horror movies, I know. ‘Never ask if there’s anyone there’, ‘cause there always is. The guy with the axe hiding behind the curtain. The zombies pouring out of the only house for miles. The vampire trapped in a tomb, just waiting to be let out.
Bad example.
“Look, I’m sure there’s some way we can figure something out,” he adds with a crooked smile - it’s a bit of bravado, of course it is, but it’s either that or literally climbing the walls to look for an exit. The last thing he wants is to show his captors that they got one up on him, which they did, but a guy’s got his pride.
“I like the iPad. And the, uh, accessory. Nice touch, but not exactly my style.”
Sometimes what we want doesn't matter. But sometimes... Sometimes it's the only thing that does.
((OOC: 1 AM means my brain refuses to put together good enough tags for my liking. I'm calling slow-times, and I'll keep tagging everyone tomorrow morning. And remember: it is never too late to leave a placeholder tag. :3))