Sangamon Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toxicspiderman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2009-07-19 04:15 pm
toxicspiderman) wrote in damned_institute2009-07-19 04:15 pm
Entry tags:
- akihiko,
- blue beetle,
- daphne,
- haseo,
- hk-47,
- junpei,
- kibitoshin,
- lelouch,
- leon (so2),
- lockdown,
- s.t.,
- spider,
- suzaku
Nightshift 42: Callahan's Grocer
S.T. was bored. Bored and feeling useless. He'd stomped around town, looking for a distraction from his own self-pitying funk, as the light had waned. Boredom and feigned anticipation had given way to dread. He'd circled back around to the grocery to see if there was anything less useless on the bulletin. No dice.
Then it happened. Everything changed, without the comfort of a closed door and an unchanging dormitory room. Usually it was like an elevator with a dinner service -- if the doors open on the same sight as you left, either it's a crap elevator or you're in a stockbroker's office tower. And if it were the latter, the food would need more unpronounceable French things.
This had no frame, no steady point of reference. The smell of rotting fruit, esters and alcohol, hit him first. Papers curled and became brittle. The ambient temperature dropped at least five degrees.
It was night, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was a ballpoint pen and a rack of rotting tomatoes. At least he hoped the tomatoes were on his side.
[for Spider Jerusalem, open to threadcrashing once we get going]
Then it happened. Everything changed, without the comfort of a closed door and an unchanging dormitory room. Usually it was like an elevator with a dinner service -- if the doors open on the same sight as you left, either it's a crap elevator or you're in a stockbroker's office tower. And if it were the latter, the food would need more unpronounceable French things.
This had no frame, no steady point of reference. The smell of rotting fruit, esters and alcohol, hit him first. Papers curled and became brittle. The ambient temperature dropped at least five degrees.
It was night, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was a ballpoint pen and a rack of rotting tomatoes. At least he hoped the tomatoes were on his side.
[for Spider Jerusalem, open to threadcrashing once we get going]
no subject
"I just hope there's a wash area or something," Lockdown stated. The blood on him was starting to smell bad and get more sticky as it dried. His goggles already had a few small splatters of the red vital fluid on them.
no subject
no subject
After nonchalantly disposing of another zombie, the bounty hunter asked, "You find anything yet?"
no subject
Wait. Not transparisteel. Glass. Breakable, shattering glass. That opened up some new options. HK ran for the door, bracing the length of pipe in his hands, smashing it straight through the glass, impacting with the zombie's head, then going through it as the zombie hit the wall behind it, the pipe thumping against the back of the meatbag's cranial case.
He then opened the door, stepped over the corpse, and went up the stairs, gleefully awaiting the next chance for carnage.
[To here (http://community.livejournal.com/damned/678762.html)]