(no subject)
Plourr has spent an unnerving night or two here, on the couch in the lobby of the hotel. There have been sounds. Clicks. Scrapes. Twice, a distant howl that brought her flying up, blaster in hand. The massive monitor on the reception desk makes noises, too, but always, by the time she gets there, the screen is dark.
She hasn't slept much.
She has, however, explored everything that there is to explore here. The hotel, the bar, the barber shop, the clinic, the convenience store, the closed off buildings (from the outside), the alleys. The wall. She has yet to find a hole in it. She has yet to get more than a meter or two off the ground trying to climb it; she has the bruises to prove that. Her hands are wrapped up, a few red spots bleeding through at her knuckles. She has yet to break through it, too.
The barber shop, at least, has supplies, and after the second day of red-orange stubble coming in, she raids it. She turns on the shaver for the first time in the shop, standing in front of the undamaged mirror, but she imagines flashes in the other mirror out of the corner of her eye, time and time again, and she eventually snaps off the shaver and ducks out of the barber shop, gritting her teeth.
Plourr leans against the back side of the bar, shaving her head. She has a bowl full of soapy water on the shelf in front of her, tucked in between two bottles of scotch, and a small, primitively-powered shaver in her hand. Brown braids snake across the bartop, where her vest and headpiece lie. The shaver whirrs quietly and she swears under her breath once or twice, but other than that the bar remains still and silent.
She watches the door in the mirror.
She hasn't slept much.
She has, however, explored everything that there is to explore here. The hotel, the bar, the barber shop, the clinic, the convenience store, the closed off buildings (from the outside), the alleys. The wall. She has yet to find a hole in it. She has yet to get more than a meter or two off the ground trying to climb it; she has the bruises to prove that. Her hands are wrapped up, a few red spots bleeding through at her knuckles. She has yet to break through it, too.
The barber shop, at least, has supplies, and after the second day of red-orange stubble coming in, she raids it. She turns on the shaver for the first time in the shop, standing in front of the undamaged mirror, but she imagines flashes in the other mirror out of the corner of her eye, time and time again, and she eventually snaps off the shaver and ducks out of the barber shop, gritting her teeth.
Plourr leans against the back side of the bar, shaving her head. She has a bowl full of soapy water on the shelf in front of her, tucked in between two bottles of scotch, and a small, primitively-powered shaver in her hand. Brown braids snake across the bartop, where her vest and headpiece lie. The shaver whirrs quietly and she swears under her breath once or twice, but other than that the bar remains still and silent.
She watches the door in the mirror.