Enoch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
warriorscribe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
snowblindrpg2015-07-05 12:18 am
warriorscribe) wrote in snowblindrpg2015-07-05 12:18 am
[network] @Enoch; No angels to turn back time [open] [Day 11/12] [eventual character death on 11]
Day 11, night
[The recording's field of vision is too low, moving oddly - the tablet has been tied to his stomach as he walks down the corridors of the school. He turns for brief moments sometimes, the camera lingering on deepening shadows, which ripple wildly as they pass out of sight, but he does not slow, or stop. There is a mechanical humming sound that he doesn't seem to react to, either.]
I can't control my legs. I can't keep myself from walking. Whatever force is at play here, they can ignore our free will, and they do not want us remaining here.
[There is a note of fear to his voice, but his tone is determined, and maybe defiant. He has found something, albeit indirectly. When he is forced out of the school, he begins to run, changing direction the moment he spots the shed and leaning into the run, going as fast as he can. The recording continues for the rest of the hour, a whole lot of bouncing and the sound of his heavy breathing as he pushes himself to his now all-too-human limits, but to no avail. His breath ragged after a run that would have been inconsequential less than two weeks ago, he reaches out to open the door of the storage shed and, it being locked, slams right into it instead, staggering back and landing in the snow, unable to keep himself upright.
After many long moments of trying to catch his breath, obviously dazed by hitting the door, he speaks again, but not to the network.]
Helel, what time is it?
[It is 8:05 PM, says a strong, masculine voice very close to the microphone, in the pleasant computer-neutral tone of a digital assistant with no assigned personality. He says something under his breath, the sound lost in the rapidly-intensifying wind.]
Well... [he says to the network again after a pause, still out of breath from his long run.] I suppose that...
[He begins half-crawling, half-dragging himself off to the side of the shed, sitting against its side, not curling up as he should to preserve himself, but sitting with his legs straight out, the camera given as unobstructed a view as he can give it. He knows he's not likely to survive anyway. The hard run was taxing enough on his insufficient diet and sleep that between exhaustion and runner's high, there is a hollowly mellow sort of acceptance where the fear of death might have been.]
...I do not think I would get very far, in my condition, if I tried to find shelter now. Would someone mind speaking with me tonight?
[Even after he died, if there was anyone still watching, there was something to see.]
Day 12, afternoon
[It's quiet. It's stifling. There's an aura of wrongness crowding in on the fog of unconsciousness, and he takes a sharp breath and it hurts, a stabbing pain that shoots through his chest and he sits bolt upright. He just barely misses hitting his head on the top of the compartment as the drawer slides open and he falls out, body bag and all, onto the hard floor with a thud and a grunt of pain. Fumbling with his surroundings, he finds the zipper and yanks it down so hard it breaks, leaving him to claw the hole he made open until he's crawled his way out, a naked heap on the floor panting for air and looking around wildly like a rabbit sensing a nearby fox.
Though his initial fear eases soon, the suffocating atmosphere does not let up, and Helel's artificial voice telling him he should leave doesn't help. He silences the tablet as soon as he is able and pulls his gathered clothes on, his hands' trembling calming slowly as, little by little, he is made less vulnerable. The feeling of familiar denim on his legs does a lot to ease his mind, and soon he's doing his best to shrug off the feeling of not being welcome here and searching for anything of use. It feels like the place is trying to get rid of him. That means something, right?
But when he comes across the bathroom, he doesn't even get to discover the sinks run. As he approaches them, movement from an unfamiliar source catches his eye, and he starts, turning to face...a face he doesn't know. He opens his mouth to offer a greeting instinctively, and realizes in the split second he sees the "other" open his mouth at the same time that he's facing a wall. A mirror.
And yet, there is nothing familiar about the face in front of him. He doesn't know his own face.
He has to get out of here.]
Helel, video, on me. I need to talk-... [There's a brief pause, on which he opens the door and the assistant obliges, starting the network feed on a shot from just below his face, which is visible because he didn't even put up either the hood of his raincoat or his cloak over it, in his hurry to leave. He raises the tablet as he quickly walks, clearly shaken. The funeral home quickly disappears into the background of snow behind him as he asks:]
Everyone...do I look-...do I look any different to any of you?
[He pauses, as he realizes that sounds ridiculous.]
I'm sorry, I'll reply - and explain - when I've found someplace safe.
[All responses will happen in the early evening.]
Day 12, night
[It's getting fairly late, too, but Enoch is not even remotely tired. He's wound up tight and frightened from everything, especially since he's now had the time to review the video he'd recorded the night before. He'd died. He'd died, he'd seen the camera's rise and fall with his breath cease and stay ceased until he was moved.
So much for his assumption those who were heard from again were merely said to have died. The obituary with his name on it was both chilling and darkly amusing, considering he'd been dead less than a day. Less than half a day, even.
So he returns to the network, with a math book open in front of him, the tablet was tied to his body again so anyone on the other end was looking on with him, as if they were beside him. He desperately needed that illusion right now. Additionally, there is a jar of formaldehyde next to the book.]
Hello, again. I'm sorry for abruptly leaving before, but I...well, I looked into a mirror in the place I woke, and [his throat tightens and the remainder of the explanation is audibly forced.] ...and I couldn't...I didn't know my own face until I moved. In any case, I...I found some things. What can anyone tell me about this book? Or this substance? Both are quite unfamiliar to me.
Please, I- I need something else to speak of and I can't sleep. I'm sorry for imposing on your courtesy once more.
[There's one more statement, barely audible and clearly not meant for the network.]
I'm...I feel so...
[The recording's field of vision is too low, moving oddly - the tablet has been tied to his stomach as he walks down the corridors of the school. He turns for brief moments sometimes, the camera lingering on deepening shadows, which ripple wildly as they pass out of sight, but he does not slow, or stop. There is a mechanical humming sound that he doesn't seem to react to, either.]
I can't control my legs. I can't keep myself from walking. Whatever force is at play here, they can ignore our free will, and they do not want us remaining here.
[There is a note of fear to his voice, but his tone is determined, and maybe defiant. He has found something, albeit indirectly. When he is forced out of the school, he begins to run, changing direction the moment he spots the shed and leaning into the run, going as fast as he can. The recording continues for the rest of the hour, a whole lot of bouncing and the sound of his heavy breathing as he pushes himself to his now all-too-human limits, but to no avail. His breath ragged after a run that would have been inconsequential less than two weeks ago, he reaches out to open the door of the storage shed and, it being locked, slams right into it instead, staggering back and landing in the snow, unable to keep himself upright.
After many long moments of trying to catch his breath, obviously dazed by hitting the door, he speaks again, but not to the network.]
Helel, what time is it?
[It is 8:05 PM, says a strong, masculine voice very close to the microphone, in the pleasant computer-neutral tone of a digital assistant with no assigned personality. He says something under his breath, the sound lost in the rapidly-intensifying wind.]
Well... [he says to the network again after a pause, still out of breath from his long run.] I suppose that...
[He begins half-crawling, half-dragging himself off to the side of the shed, sitting against its side, not curling up as he should to preserve himself, but sitting with his legs straight out, the camera given as unobstructed a view as he can give it. He knows he's not likely to survive anyway. The hard run was taxing enough on his insufficient diet and sleep that between exhaustion and runner's high, there is a hollowly mellow sort of acceptance where the fear of death might have been.]
...I do not think I would get very far, in my condition, if I tried to find shelter now. Would someone mind speaking with me tonight?
[Even after he died, if there was anyone still watching, there was something to see.]
Day 12, afternoon
[It's quiet. It's stifling. There's an aura of wrongness crowding in on the fog of unconsciousness, and he takes a sharp breath and it hurts, a stabbing pain that shoots through his chest and he sits bolt upright. He just barely misses hitting his head on the top of the compartment as the drawer slides open and he falls out, body bag and all, onto the hard floor with a thud and a grunt of pain. Fumbling with his surroundings, he finds the zipper and yanks it down so hard it breaks, leaving him to claw the hole he made open until he's crawled his way out, a naked heap on the floor panting for air and looking around wildly like a rabbit sensing a nearby fox.
Though his initial fear eases soon, the suffocating atmosphere does not let up, and Helel's artificial voice telling him he should leave doesn't help. He silences the tablet as soon as he is able and pulls his gathered clothes on, his hands' trembling calming slowly as, little by little, he is made less vulnerable. The feeling of familiar denim on his legs does a lot to ease his mind, and soon he's doing his best to shrug off the feeling of not being welcome here and searching for anything of use. It feels like the place is trying to get rid of him. That means something, right?
But when he comes across the bathroom, he doesn't even get to discover the sinks run. As he approaches them, movement from an unfamiliar source catches his eye, and he starts, turning to face...a face he doesn't know. He opens his mouth to offer a greeting instinctively, and realizes in the split second he sees the "other" open his mouth at the same time that he's facing a wall. A mirror.
And yet, there is nothing familiar about the face in front of him. He doesn't know his own face.
He has to get out of here.]
Helel, video, on me. I need to talk-... [There's a brief pause, on which he opens the door and the assistant obliges, starting the network feed on a shot from just below his face, which is visible because he didn't even put up either the hood of his raincoat or his cloak over it, in his hurry to leave. He raises the tablet as he quickly walks, clearly shaken. The funeral home quickly disappears into the background of snow behind him as he asks:]
Everyone...do I look-...do I look any different to any of you?
[He pauses, as he realizes that sounds ridiculous.]
I'm sorry, I'll reply - and explain - when I've found someplace safe.
[All responses will happen in the early evening.]
Day 12, night
[It's getting fairly late, too, but Enoch is not even remotely tired. He's wound up tight and frightened from everything, especially since he's now had the time to review the video he'd recorded the night before. He'd died. He'd died, he'd seen the camera's rise and fall with his breath cease and stay ceased until he was moved.
So much for his assumption those who were heard from again were merely said to have died. The obituary with his name on it was both chilling and darkly amusing, considering he'd been dead less than a day. Less than half a day, even.
So he returns to the network, with a math book open in front of him, the tablet was tied to his body again so anyone on the other end was looking on with him, as if they were beside him. He desperately needed that illusion right now. Additionally, there is a jar of formaldehyde next to the book.]
Hello, again. I'm sorry for abruptly leaving before, but I...well, I looked into a mirror in the place I woke, and [his throat tightens and the remainder of the explanation is audibly forced.] ...and I couldn't...I didn't know my own face until I moved. In any case, I...I found some things. What can anyone tell me about this book? Or this substance? Both are quite unfamiliar to me.
Please, I- I need something else to speak of and I can't sleep. I'm sorry for imposing on your courtesy once more.
[There's one more statement, barely audible and clearly not meant for the network.]
I'm...I feel so...
no subject
[If he sounds tired, he is. He's mentally worn down, but far too agitated to actually rest. There's the faint sound of him shifting on the floor to get more comfortable.]
I don't see why they would teach this to everyone anyway, it seems rather- [a pause, as if he's just noticed something.] ...oh, right.
[He reaches over and drags the jar of formaldehyde into view of the tablet.]
I found this in the place I woke, do you know what it is?
no subject
But, is that...formaldehyde? That's what it says on the label. Well, if he woke up in a morgue, that would make sense.]
Formaldehyde. It's used to preserve dead tissue. I'm assuming you woke up in a morgue, then?
no subject
[He pauses to think about how to word this.]
...They have those cold drawers. So why do they need something like this? And why is there so little of it if it's meant for bodies...?
[Preserving a body, that's nothing new. The desert could do that on its own incidentally. The Egyptians did it purposefully. So this was just some other way of handling the dead. Except it made no sense to him...]
no subject
[Dio almost sounds disturbingly casual when talking about this...]
There's no point in their doing this for us, I don't think. It's just to make the body look nice for the funeral and we couldn't be revived if if we were bled out and had our organs removed.
no subject
His view is hopelessly skewed by time, no matter which way you look at it. He listens intently, curious, as Dio explains how this society handled their dead.]
Mm...clearly not. I suppose there's no use for this, then? [He prods the jar of formaldehyde with a finger, watching its contents move as it rocks onto its edge. What a perfectly useless, if diverting, find.] I wonder if I could empty it and use the jar...
no subject
no subject
[He reaches for his backpack to put it away. Seriously, all fuel and no ignition...what is his luck?
But enough about him. He's got information and that's all he really wanted. He sets the tablet back down to face him and smiles, faint and a little tight, but not fake.]
Have you been faring well here, Dio? There must be some way I could help you in return...
no subject
[Though he's not going to let go of an offered favor that easily.]
I'm sure I'll think of something later for you.