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[walkingthegrid]

It had been an interesting week, being briefed on the functionality of the technology, talking to two therapists who both decided to bow out of the opportunity; it was dangerous, that sort of mentality-- and agreed upon that most couldn't handle what they might see. Blood and gore were his forte, only slightly less so than that of a killer.

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[walkingthegrid]

Charles watched the predator turned captive as he was drawn in, not missing the sudden snap of his eyes or the way his mouth worked in that decidedly crooked way. He doesn't allow himself to be budged till he sees the killer, his prey and hunter, laid out on the metal slab like the dozens of bodies he had sent back to the mourge before him. A bittersweet sort of ironic image it paints, but not something he's allowed to bask in for long. All too soon there are hands at his sides, shoulders, hips; easing him down onto the chilled metal table and resting the back of his head against a small, cushioned brace curved to fit the round of his skull. He feels the IV push into his arm, puncturing a vein so easily through a small hole in the suit made for just this purpose. Then it only takes a few moments, mere seconds, before he can feel the sedatives begin to burn. The nameless cocktail of drugs they pumped into his bloodstream, burning like liquid fire though his every muscle, wrapping him up in a blanket of darkness as they laid the sheet over his eyes.

A droplet of water, then another, another, another, soon it's a steady noise, constant as the ticking of a clock. The sound echos faster, picking up like a heartbeat against the darkness. Small sparks of white dot the sky lighting up like fireworks but remaining suspended against the false sky-- pinpricks glittering against a void. He can't focus on them for more than a rare few seconds, because his legs are moving under him, treading water. Running as fast and as hard as he can, to keep himself above-- he just needs to get to safty-- the tips of his toes and the pads of his feet dipping centemeters below the surface as he ran. Struggling desperately to keep above the mirror relfection in the water. It's becoming thicker, heavier, clinging to his ankles, pulling him down, cloying with it's grip.

No no no--

He gasped, arms outstretched, grasping at anything and everything-- but he can see nothing other than the water seeping into his clothes, grabbing at him, the father it pulled him down the darker the mirror turned; the surface no longer that of water but of blood. Transforming with his every reisistance, turning thick and heavy like quicksand; pulling and straining and gasping as his gaze shoots back up--help help, goddamnit where is everyone?-- and just within his grasp is a hand. He reaches for it, for salivation in this faceless man. His fingertips curling against another's, a desperate cry tries to break free but this one is allowed no release; the quicksand already crawling up his sides, down his throat, he's suffocating even before he goes under.

He pulls at the hand again, please--

The fingers spread apart, letting his own sift through and he slips under, down into the blood, and then deeper, deeper, till it's no longer even blood-- it's just an inky blackness. There's no air for him only a burn in his chest; he's choking, fading, but just before true darkness takes him in he's breaking surface again. The whole world turned on his head as he drops from the water-- the rustling sounds that began in the darkness still echoing in his sudden freedom. His back hits the ground and he's shocked by the sudden spark of light and life.