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damned_institute2010-05-22 09:11 pm
noifsandsorbubs.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2010-05-22 09:11 pm
Night 49: Pantry 1 - First Floor
[from here]
An average man in good shape can run about ten miles an hour. Logan was not aware of this, but that was how fast his bike was going. Something had caught his eye on the road ahead, and he'd slowed way down to avoid slamming into anything potentially huge; and then, as he was veering toward the side of the road to get a closer look, the feeling of standing on the edge of an abyss and looking down washed over him.
And then, at the speed of a flat-out run, he'd crashed.
He stayed where he was for a full ten seconds, half-buried in - what? Debris? Pieces of the bike? He definitely hadn't been going that fast, and damn it, the road had been empty. He shifted and sat up, and the debris, or whatever, shifted with him. It sounded suspiciously like aluminum cans.
Pitch black, clearly an indoor space, and - what the hell was crunchy under his hand?
Cereal.
It was a goddamn pantry. And his ribs hurt. He could've invented a small journal's worth of new and creative words for the situation and whoever thought it was funny to jerk people around like this, but instead he said: "You okay?"
An average man in good shape can run about ten miles an hour. Logan was not aware of this, but that was how fast his bike was going. Something had caught his eye on the road ahead, and he'd slowed way down to avoid slamming into anything potentially huge; and then, as he was veering toward the side of the road to get a closer look, the feeling of standing on the edge of an abyss and looking down washed over him.
And then, at the speed of a flat-out run, he'd crashed.
He stayed where he was for a full ten seconds, half-buried in - what? Debris? Pieces of the bike? He definitely hadn't been going that fast, and damn it, the road had been empty. He shifted and sat up, and the debris, or whatever, shifted with him. It sounded suspiciously like aluminum cans.
Pitch black, clearly an indoor space, and - what the hell was crunchy under his hand?
Cereal.
It was a goddamn pantry. And his ribs hurt. He could've invented a small journal's worth of new and creative words for the situation and whoever thought it was funny to jerk people around like this, but instead he said: "You okay?"
no subject
Grabbing a few packages of Oreos and snickerdoodles and a bag or two of chips, Matt tucked them safely into his arms; with his flashlight still lit and trained upward at the ceiling, he stepped around Mello, juggling his swag a bit as he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, yanking it open and stepping through. He made sure to brace himself, though it seemed likely that the teleportation had occurred primarily so they could see the place where Matt had died; Landel must've known that'd screw with them proper.