A You open your eyes to somebody knocking on the door.
You're lying flat on your back on a bed. ...A small children's bed, just wide enough for two, with a pair of small pillows at the headboard to accommodate each. It has clean white sheets. There's a larger bed right beside it, with larger pillows and orange sheets--empty, though.
And there's a door somewhere across the room, and the knocking persists, haphazard and impatient. A small boy's strangely familiar voice pipes up from behind it.
"Hey!! How long long're you gonna sleep?! Get up so we can play! Get up, already!" A huff. "The Dragos brought their babies over! They're really cute!! Hurry up!" The knocking finally stops, after this, and there's a clatter of light steps as the boy audibly roves off and away from the door, excitement evidently getting the better of his patience. Silence falls.
It's a very comfortable little room. Wooden floors and walls, wood tables and chairs, jars and flowers propped on shelves. To one side there's a woodstove, emanating a warmth that fills the small space; beyond that, a small dresser with a mirror hung over it. Not much else, in here. Truly, there's an almost spartan air of simple living about the place, greatly at odds with the ornamental dust of the castle.
A small set of stairs lead down to the door.
B You're standing in an elevator. It's small, and drab--gray metal-paneled walls, gray metal-paneled floor. The doors are sealed shut in front of you, and there's nothing labeled around it to indicate any floor numbers. But the elevator's definitely moving upwards; the hum of it vibrates all around, thick and oppressive, alongside the tug of gravity at your feet.
Lucas is standing next to you, the determined set of his features belied by the paleness of his face. Every line in his frame is strung tense and anxious. In one hand he's carrying a simple metal baseball bat, and his eyes are fixed forward, staring at the door.
"I wonder if this one will be the hundredth floor." When he does speak up his voice is barely audible over the elevator's hum. He seems to talk more to himself than anything. His eyes don't move from the doors.
And then, right on cue, a jarringly cheerful jingle rings in through some hidden speaker in the ceiling. A woman's voice, cool and calm: "Next stop, 100th floor."
Lucas hardly seems relieved to hear this, for some reason. His grim expression doesn't shift at all, in fact, until the humming ceases and the elevator bumps to a halt and the doors slide open, pale light filtering in from outside. Lucas steps out and pauses, waiting for you to follow.
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Date: 2016-03-16 11:20 pm (UTC)You open your eyes to somebody knocking on the door.
You're lying flat on your back on a bed. ...A small children's bed, just wide enough for two, with a pair of small pillows at the headboard to accommodate each. It has clean white sheets. There's a larger bed right beside it, with larger pillows and orange sheets--empty, though.
And there's a door somewhere across the room, and the knocking persists, haphazard and impatient. A small boy's strangely familiar voice pipes up from behind it.
"Hey!! How long long're you gonna sleep?! Get up so we can play! Get up, already!" A huff. "The Dragos brought their babies over! They're really cute!! Hurry up!" The knocking finally stops, after this, and there's a clatter of light steps as the boy audibly roves off and away from the door, excitement evidently getting the better of his patience. Silence falls.
It's a very comfortable little room. Wooden floors and walls, wood tables and chairs, jars and flowers propped on shelves. To one side there's a woodstove, emanating a warmth that fills the small space; beyond that, a small dresser with a mirror hung over it. Not much else, in here. Truly, there's an almost spartan air of simple living about the place, greatly at odds with the ornamental dust of the castle.
A small set of stairs lead down to the door.
B
You're standing in an elevator. It's small, and drab--gray metal-paneled walls, gray metal-paneled floor. The doors are sealed shut in front of you, and there's nothing labeled around it to indicate any floor numbers. But the elevator's definitely moving upwards; the hum of it vibrates all around, thick and oppressive, alongside the tug of gravity at your feet.
Lucas is standing next to you, the determined set of his features belied by the paleness of his face. Every line in his frame is strung tense and anxious. In one hand he's carrying a simple metal baseball bat, and his eyes are fixed forward, staring at the door.
"I wonder if this one will be the hundredth floor." When he does speak up his voice is barely audible over the elevator's hum. He seems to talk more to himself than anything. His eyes don't move from the doors.
And then, right on cue, a jarringly cheerful jingle rings in through some hidden speaker in the ceiling. A woman's voice, cool and calm: "Next stop, 100th floor."
Lucas hardly seems relieved to hear this, for some reason. His grim expression doesn't shift at all, in fact, until the humming ceases and the elevator bumps to a halt and the doors slide open, pale light filtering in from outside. Lucas steps out and pauses, waiting for you to follow.