Depth Charge left the cafeteria feeling even emptier than when he had entered it, and not just because he had barely touched his plate. The idea that X could be around any corner, watching, waiting, and with him in this stick-man excuse for a body he'd be scrapped in an instant. The walk to the 'Sun Room' or whatever the female (a nurse, apparently) escorting him had called it, had been a long one. To be honest, he'd rather have taken a shower- perhaps out of some latent calling from his time spent at the bottom of an Earth lake- but that would have involved removing the flimsy garments he'd woken up in. They were hardly titanium plating, sure, but they were all he had. As if he needed to feel any more exposed.
Fortunately, the room was quieter than the cafeteria and large enough to give him room to think. It would be easier to try and get his thoughts together here- or at the very least, arrange them into something he could process over the thudding bass line of his own anxieties about X. He took a seat under a particularly archaic painting of docks and tried to focus. He failed.
The next ten minutes were spent pacing back and forth uncontrollably, unable to contain the desire, no, the need, to track X down. He'd left a message at the board on the back (http://community.livejournal.com/damned_bulletin/318066.html), but somehow he doubted it would produce anything worthwhile. Meanwhile, a creeping sense of disgust was building in the back of his mind- disgust, he realised, at himself. At his own inability to find X and kill him and, more disturbingly, to function without him.
His pace quickened anew. Somehow, he hoped that stamping out his frustration would help a little- it wasn't like there was anything else he could do. For now, at least.
no subject
Fortunately, the room was quieter than the cafeteria and large enough to give him room to think. It would be easier to try and get his thoughts together here- or at the very least, arrange them into something he could process over the thudding bass line of his own anxieties about X. He took a seat under a particularly archaic painting of docks and tried to focus. He failed.
The next ten minutes were spent pacing back and forth uncontrollably, unable to contain the desire, no, the need, to track X down. He'd left a message at the board on the back (http://community.livejournal.com/damned_bulletin/318066.html), but somehow he doubted it would produce anything worthwhile. Meanwhile, a creeping sense of disgust was building in the back of his mind- disgust, he realised, at himself. At his own inability to find X and kill him and, more disturbingly, to function without him.
His pace quickened anew. Somehow, he hoped that stamping out his frustration would help a little- it wasn't like there was anything else he could do. For now, at least.