Oliver put on a faintly lopsided grin, more reflex then genuine, though the list of people who could distinguish between the two was vanishingly small. It faded, though, along with whatever he might have said in response, at the crackle of static and the message that followed. His gaze darted upwards, scanning the walls out of reflex in search of the intercom speaker. So the blackout was engineered, then. That explained the lack of guards. The elements of the mindgame, the strange, unfamiliar location, the initial absence of clear targets for blame, the ominous, disembodied voice, all were entirely too familiar for comfort. And this time, he was certain, there wasn't a friendly hand pulling those strings.
The high-pitched squeal of sound derailed his thoughts, disrupting both kneejerk anger at being played by some invisible hand and the uptick of analysis that had begun to engage the rest of his mind. Oliver staggered against the wall at the lance of pain it induced, knuckles scraping against the rough surface as he sought to brace himself against the feeling that his legs were going to go out from under him. Or maybe that the entire hallway would just invert itself for kicks. That would be an exciting twist.
The bare few moments the sound lasted seemed interminable, and it was several moments further before Oliver reacted beyond taking a few shallow, steadying breaths and reassuring himself that his ears hadn't actually started bleeding. Then his gaze skated towards Zevran, quick and assessing and sharp with automatic concern, before his attention turned outward to search the hall again. If the sound had been meant to do anything but cause them pain, he couldn't see any immediate sign of it. The walls weren't crumbling or bleeding, no one seemed to be turning on anyone else in sudden blind, homicidal rage, and nothing was on fire. Those had to be good signs.
Somehow, the thought didn't make him relax.
"Well," he muttered, falling instinctively into flippant tones that masked shaken nerves and the lingering sense of disorientation both. "Guess he figured the usual megalomaniacal villain speech could use a little more oomph."
no subject
The high-pitched squeal of sound derailed his thoughts, disrupting both kneejerk anger at being played by some invisible hand and the uptick of analysis that had begun to engage the rest of his mind. Oliver staggered against the wall at the lance of pain it induced, knuckles scraping against the rough surface as he sought to brace himself against the feeling that his legs were going to go out from under him. Or maybe that the entire hallway would just invert itself for kicks. That would be an exciting twist.
The bare few moments the sound lasted seemed interminable, and it was several moments further before Oliver reacted beyond taking a few shallow, steadying breaths and reassuring himself that his ears hadn't actually started bleeding. Then his gaze skated towards Zevran, quick and assessing and sharp with automatic concern, before his attention turned outward to search the hall again. If the sound had been meant to do anything but cause them pain, he couldn't see any immediate sign of it. The walls weren't crumbling or bleeding, no one seemed to be turning on anyone else in sudden blind, homicidal rage, and nothing was on fire. Those had to be good signs.
Somehow, the thought didn't make him relax.
"Well," he muttered, falling instinctively into flippant tones that masked shaken nerves and the lingering sense of disorientation both. "Guess he figured the usual megalomaniacal villain speech could use a little more oomph."