When the lights finally clicked off, S.T. was chasing the last bits of ice cream around the bowl with a plastic spoon. It was real green tea ice cream, with all-natural color. Plus some of the crap restaurants put on gringo plates just to see the funny faces Americans made. S.T., who had gone to Hoa's so often that he didn't bother with menus any more, had had the stuff enough times to prove himself
( ... )
Night. He'd been moved all of a sudden for dinner and that had left Japan feeling uneasy the entire shift. He'd eaten quickly and then hidden in his bed until the intercom came on and even after that he'd stayed hidden. He wasn't sure when but he'd fallen asleep and it wasn't until after his new (and so far unknown) roommate was gone that he woke up. He really was getting old, he realized with some consternation
( ... )
It was easy to slip into the routine once the lights went out, and Sam liked having the little tasks to focus on as he went about his business. Checking his weapon, making sure his flashlight wasn't starting to dim, stuff like that. Took his mind off other crap
( ... )
L flexed and stretched his ankles as he lowered his feet to the floor. When he found the hard, cool surface, he bent at the waist, slipping his weight off of the mattress, then rolled his spine until he stood upright. The pain around the site of the lumbar puncture had receded through the day. It was still there as a dull ache, but he should be able to make a simple trip upstairs without too much trouble
( ... )
There. M25. Lunge made for the door. Moments later, barely a step away, the intercom came to life. Fuzzy sound, static mixed with-- was that breathing? She was still alive. Good. Another witness. Swiftly, Lunge transferred his knife to his pocket and began to type just as the Head Doctor began to speak.
And the subject of tonight's monologue (no, dialogue): hypocrisy? ... yes. That made sense. You're the one doing the 'right thing', aren't you? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but what other people don't understand is that you have to travel that road. You have to. A pause. But it was only as personal as he let it be, and Lunge forced himself to continue. But those 'methods' you've 'been forced to employ'... you enjoy them. You admit your hands are dirty, but you can't deny that you willingly bathe them in blood each night. What's your game, Martin Landel? To what end?And where did Jill fit in? The way the man had reacted, that wasn't the closing of a net; that was angry, the sound of a man literally
( ... )
L slumped in the chair, his cheek resting against the desk's cool surface, as he waited for Lunge's arrival. It was easy to feel drowsy when the room was lit only by the dim glow of his flashlight; natural, considering what the previous twenty-four hours had been like. The small amount of caffeine in his system might not be enough to keep him awake on its own, but he could feel the push of nervous energy that radiated from his core. He was inclined to obey it, rather than forcing himself to rest.
The intercom crackled to life. He anticipated Landel's nighttime announcements, the swings between pomposity and menace, but every new twist meant two things: the night was likely to be more difficult than usual, and it was likely to present valuable clues to unraveling their predicament. Tonight, Landel seemed to be embracing the role of torturer in a more personal sense than usual.
So that was Jill. Yet... there isn't any proof, only the suggestion and claim that he has her. We are meant to believe that he's striking her. Without seeing
( ... )
Looked like what had been said about the doors opening was true. Remy heard the click of the doors unlocking, heard people start heading out into the hall soon after. That was his cue to get a move on as well, but he wasn't going into anything unprepared... not that there was very much preparing he could do
( ... )
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There. M25. Lunge made for the door. Moments later, barely a step away, the intercom came to life. Fuzzy sound, static mixed with-- was that breathing? She was still alive. Good. Another witness. Swiftly, Lunge transferred his knife to his pocket and began to type just as the Head Doctor began to speak.
And the subject of tonight's monologue (no, dialogue): hypocrisy? ... yes. That made sense. You're the one doing the 'right thing', aren't you? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but what other people don't understand is that you have to travel that road. You have to. A pause. But it was only as personal as he let it be, and Lunge forced himself to continue. But those 'methods' you've 'been forced to employ'... you enjoy them. You admit your hands are dirty, but you can't deny that you willingly bathe them in blood each night. What's your game, Martin Landel? To what end?And where did Jill fit in? The way the man had reacted, that wasn't the closing of a net; that was angry, the sound of a man literally ( ... )
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The intercom crackled to life. He anticipated Landel's nighttime announcements, the swings between pomposity and menace, but every new twist meant two things: the night was likely to be more difficult than usual, and it was likely to present valuable clues to unraveling their predicament. Tonight, Landel seemed to be embracing the role of torturer in a more personal sense than usual.
So that was Jill. Yet... there isn't any proof, only the suggestion and claim that he has her. We are meant to believe that he's striking her. Without seeing ( ... )
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