Death Tally - 2
Oct. 26th, 2010 09:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ceasetoexist [He’s on fire. That’s the very first thought that goes through his head. He’s on fire, and he’s dying. Slowly. Painfully. It wasn’t like the first death he’d experienced here. That was relatively quick. Not painless. But there wasn’t the disorientation or feeling of drag like this.
And then, it ultimately catches up with him that he isn’t, in fact, burning. He’s back in bed. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s really hard to tell what’s up with his house at the moment, except for the fact that it’s been smashed to shit for the most part. But at least he’s alive. Alive and safe. For now, at least. Still, his brain is having a hard time fully locking on to that fact, and his body still feels like its burning. Though at least now it’s fading. Memory sure isn’t though.
He tries to move, to get up, to force his body to remember it’s still alive. And he can’t. Not really at least. His body just won’t permit it for some reason, and he doesn’t know why. So he just lays there. He will not cry. He will not cry. He will not.
A few minutes later after he finishes crying into his pillow, he finally gets enough control over his body again to move out of the bed. His first instinct is to check the window. Which he does, and immediately moves away when he sees the hazmats swarming the streets. He back pedals, tripping and falling to the ground as he just thinks about getting away from the window. It takes him a bit to right himself, once the shaking subsides.
He’s stuck. He could maybe try and use Josephine to get out but…probably not. And he’d just lead them to wherever he was going. There really wasn’t any escape. If he wanted anything, he’d probably have to use the phones.]
[Filtered from the Mayor/Grady/Drones/ect.]
[Pokey’s voice is unbelievably small. Shaken. Terrified. Pretty much any of the bluster, or agitation, or smarminess it usually contains has been utterly wiped away. In its place is the voice of a scared, helpless twelve year old.]
I don’t know who’s still out there. Or here. Whatever. I don’t care who you are, or what you think or do. Just talk with me. About something. Anything. Please.
[Filtered to Tak’s Communicator]
[This call goes out about a hour or two after the first. Hope you got that personal communicator you were talking about earlier on you, because Pokey’s going to be calling it, Tak. His voice, instead of being scared or little, is instead simply dead. The bluster and smarminess and all the factors that generally make Pokey sound like Pokey are gone, but so is pretty much anything else that could be in his voice. He’s just dead. And get ready for one of the funniest things you’ve ever heard, Tak.]
If you’re dead or hurt, I’m going to kill you.
And then, it ultimately catches up with him that he isn’t, in fact, burning. He’s back in bed. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s really hard to tell what’s up with his house at the moment, except for the fact that it’s been smashed to shit for the most part. But at least he’s alive. Alive and safe. For now, at least. Still, his brain is having a hard time fully locking on to that fact, and his body still feels like its burning. Though at least now it’s fading. Memory sure isn’t though.
He tries to move, to get up, to force his body to remember it’s still alive. And he can’t. Not really at least. His body just won’t permit it for some reason, and he doesn’t know why. So he just lays there. He will not cry. He will not cry. He will not.
A few minutes later after he finishes crying into his pillow, he finally gets enough control over his body again to move out of the bed. His first instinct is to check the window. Which he does, and immediately moves away when he sees the hazmats swarming the streets. He back pedals, tripping and falling to the ground as he just thinks about getting away from the window. It takes him a bit to right himself, once the shaking subsides.
He’s stuck. He could maybe try and use Josephine to get out but…probably not. And he’d just lead them to wherever he was going. There really wasn’t any escape. If he wanted anything, he’d probably have to use the phones.]
[Filtered from the Mayor/Grady/Drones/ect.]
[Pokey’s voice is unbelievably small. Shaken. Terrified. Pretty much any of the bluster, or agitation, or smarminess it usually contains has been utterly wiped away. In its place is the voice of a scared, helpless twelve year old.]
I don’t know who’s still out there. Or here. Whatever. I don’t care who you are, or what you think or do. Just talk with me. About something. Anything. Please.
[Filtered to Tak’s Communicator]
[This call goes out about a hour or two after the first. Hope you got that personal communicator you were talking about earlier on you, because Pokey’s going to be calling it, Tak. His voice, instead of being scared or little, is instead simply dead. The bluster and smarminess and all the factors that generally make Pokey sound like Pokey are gone, but so is pretty much anything else that could be in his voice. He’s just dead. And get ready for one of the funniest things you’ve ever heard, Tak.]
If you’re dead or hurt, I’m going to kill you.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-10-27 04:00 am (UTC)This place friggin' blows.
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Date: 2010-10-27 04:04 am (UTC)You in a safer place now?
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