(Untitled)

[nowait_letme]

And then Chainsaw turns on the lights.

Tile floor. Tile walls. Tile ceiling, but nobody looks at that. (Can't be too careful about those arterial sprays.)

A plain metal table in the middle of the room.

Hung all along the walls, an assortment of anonymous black cases, plus other more identifiable instruments of pain.

[ooc: Uh, just in case:

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[pacifisting]

Euphemia feels sick when she enters the room on legs that she doesn't even feel are hers anymore.

This is Hell, she decides. It's the Pit, it's the Inferno, it's every bad place that people in Atia told her about, and it's all wrapped up into one, with the face of someone she thinks is a friend.

[nowait_letme]

He was a friend.

For the next eight hours, he's anything but.

Euphie walks to the centre of the room. She sits down on the table, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Chainsaw, whistling, shuts the door behind them and hits some switches. Two bright floodlights snap on over Euphie's head, illuminating her; everything else goes dark, until the only clue to Chainsaw's presence is that gratingly tuneless whistle.

[pacifisting]

Euphemia closes her eyes, and waits, trembling. There's nothing she can say, nothing she can do- she made the choice, didn't she?

[nowait_letme]

Yes. Yes she did.

She's gonna regret it pretty damn quick.

The whistling moves from wall to wall, pausing here or there, seemingly at random.

It's annoying, and it only gets more so with time. Chainsaw carefully cultivates a total inability to carry a tune in a bucket for use on just these occasions.

Eventually, Euphie lies back on the table, her eyes kept shut by control.

The sound of the chainsaw revving up echoes off floor, ceiling, and walls, reverberating in Euphemia's bones and the metal of the table.

It's really fucking loud.