(no subject)
Tommy had emerged from the caves after the all clear and separated, almost at once, from the rest of the crowd. It was clear that nobody had been harmed and some other people were beginning to filter away, back to their huts and homes, assuring Tommy it would be alright to return to bed, where he had been when the evacuation began. His head had barely touched the pillow and he was out like a light, his shoes still on and sticking out of the end of his sheets.
It was three or four hours before he stirred, the Compound lights turning on burning through his eyelids and waking him with a groan of discomfort. He slipped out of bed, blurry-eyed and bumped into his own bedside table, which had been moved into the middle of his room by… someone. The same person had also cleared the usual strewn pocket contents onto the opposite, unused bed and in their place stood a brand new, bright red typewriter. Beside it stood a stack of fresh, white paper, a piece of which was loaded into the machine with some words typed down the centre. Tommy drew closer and bent to read;
OLIVETTI VALENTINE
Property of C. Thomas Flood.
Tommy’s mouth hung open as he read the words, touching its cool black keys gently with the tips of his fingers. A great smile spread across his face and an incredulous laugh escaped him. The exact same typewriter marked the moment in his life when Tommy had first decided to become a writer. It had been centre stage of a department store window display which he had passed one summer as a child, and it could have simply been the colour, but he just knew he was born to tap those keys.
Tommy moved the table aside and drew back the curtain which separated his private space from the corridor on level four of the Compound, glancing up and down for sight of the month-late Santa Claus. When nobody was to be seen, he stood there with a hand in his hair and laughed with delight.
Once tidying his room back to its original state, Tommy had taken his new gift and a couple sheets of paper down to his favourite haunt; the rec room. After simply touching it and squeeing privately for about twenty minutes, Tommy finally loaded some paper in and began to type. The noise was beautiful. Each snap sent a shiver up his spine and made for a wider smile. He also made an effort to keep an eye on the doorway, surveying everybody who entered or passed and the likeliness of it being them who had given him this joy of a machine.
[OOC: Just wanted to squeeze Tommy's NDPD in before the end of the month. He'll still be pretty shook about the space station thing, but... guys! It's a typewriter!!!!]
It was three or four hours before he stirred, the Compound lights turning on burning through his eyelids and waking him with a groan of discomfort. He slipped out of bed, blurry-eyed and bumped into his own bedside table, which had been moved into the middle of his room by… someone. The same person had also cleared the usual strewn pocket contents onto the opposite, unused bed and in their place stood a brand new, bright red typewriter. Beside it stood a stack of fresh, white paper, a piece of which was loaded into the machine with some words typed down the centre. Tommy drew closer and bent to read;
OLIVETTI VALENTINE
Property of C. Thomas Flood.
Tommy’s mouth hung open as he read the words, touching its cool black keys gently with the tips of his fingers. A great smile spread across his face and an incredulous laugh escaped him. The exact same typewriter marked the moment in his life when Tommy had first decided to become a writer. It had been centre stage of a department store window display which he had passed one summer as a child, and it could have simply been the colour, but he just knew he was born to tap those keys.
Tommy moved the table aside and drew back the curtain which separated his private space from the corridor on level four of the Compound, glancing up and down for sight of the month-late Santa Claus. When nobody was to be seen, he stood there with a hand in his hair and laughed with delight.
Once tidying his room back to its original state, Tommy had taken his new gift and a couple sheets of paper down to his favourite haunt; the rec room. After simply touching it and squeeing privately for about twenty minutes, Tommy finally loaded some paper in and began to type. The noise was beautiful. Each snap sent a shiver up his spine and made for a wider smile. He also made an effort to keep an eye on the doorway, surveying everybody who entered or passed and the likeliness of it being them who had given him this joy of a machine.
[OOC: Just wanted to squeeze Tommy's NDPD in before the end of the month. He'll still be pretty shook about the space station thing, but... guys! It's a typewriter!!!!]