Experimenter|Specimen

[frozen_paradigm]

Characters: Vincent Valentine, Hojo, fellow Cage II people? (Use this as an op to threadhop etc?)
Location: Inside the cage, for once.
Time: I dunno. How long did they knock us out for D:
Rating: PG13 for playground taunting/violence/yomama insults.
Open/Closed: COMPLETELY OPEN. Jump in! Save me omg. Or. Y'know. Participate in the beatings,

Comments

[bulletshock]

Consciousness was that sort of thing, when put under so suddenly, with the body already pushing hard-- harder than ever remembered, to the brink to breaking down and falling apart... it was like a myth. Sleep could last forever. Low and in the comforting blackness that blanketed reality away from the realm of dreams.

Not that any dreaming was happening, thankfully.

Vincent Valentine was actually a rather pathetic sight without his layers. Without the usual measure of defenses and barriers. In white, compared to black and red and gold, he just seemed like some rail-thin, bony man with too-tangle hair pooled about him with some sickly pale completion. Half-curled on the floor, cheek pressed to the group as if to bury himself in it. Harmless was far from what he truly was.

And he was content to remain there, so tired, the breaches of wakefulness harsh glimmering of light out on that black, dreamless sleep.

Never mind the sounds or the smells. Never mind anything else.

All he wanted to do was sleep for a while.

[frozen_paradigm]

The conversation with Shelke finished, Hojo felt his nerves settle slowly into calmness. Interesting, again, what a defined goal could do - he needed to stay alive, so that she might do the same. Not that he felt any sort of attachment to the girl, but her presence and condition were good reasons to fight fate nonetheless, good reasons to look for holes in the net.

He inched himself to his feet, still using the wall as support, and examined his surroundings further. Thin fingers scraped the lock on the door; eyes scanned every crevase of the small room as well as the ceiling (they had taken his clothes but left him his glasses. How nice of them). The people sharing his cell had no weapons - not that he would have known how to use them, on reflection - and he thought briefly about waking someone before the inclination passed. No. As little noise as possible is definitely more beneficial here. The journal lay open where Shelke had cried (tear stains...? Lu- Ah, but that was hardly a good train of thought to pursue), and his message to

Apologies for the fail tag...

[bulletshock]

It's interesting what familiarity can do. The familiar way exhaustion could always crop up, a voice from somewhere long-lost, maybe even the elusive sensation of a texture. Possibly even a scent.

What was regrettable was the way the fog of sleep split and washes away, and Vincent was left a groaning, uncomfortable mess against the floor. He'd never felt like he'd wanted to thoroughly curl up in quite some time. Physically, he was sure he was fine. But he ached. Bone-deep and nerves agonizing for a while.

It took a while to realize because it was rather interestingly cold.

And that something did sound familiar, smell familiar, was familiar.

Blinking, Vincent tried to put it together, the cold freezing up even his mental processes.

I see no fail tag. B|

[frozen_paradigm]

Familiarity, yes- The shape of the dark man's form as he started to stir reminiscent of events years ago... but back then Valentine had been behind glass, and Hojo behind a flickering monitor. This was different. Difficult. Dangerous but what could the professor do?

Breathe. Air. Damn the gods- think! Valentine seemed physically frail, missing the gauntlet that had made his presence so formidable and so otherworldly, not to mention his usual array of firearms were also absent. Hojo knew of the man's abnormal strength (had been partly responsible for such, even), but given the circumstances perhaps Valentine would be weakened enough not to present an immediate threat.

At least not a fatal one.

But damnit, damnit, Hojo would rather not stay here and find out what the Turk was capable of! This time, his fists did contact the wood of the door - the first strike uncertain, the next one stronger, the third almost desperate.

"Come on," he muttered, in truth slightly derailed by fear, "Open the door...!"