J
Jessikka
Guest
Original poster
Too dark... Too deep. Lost somewhere in the expanses of sleep - trying desperately to crawl out. What happened last night? A wild party? Mm... No. A wild kidnapping. Oxygen. With this bag over the head, it's hard to breathe. They wouldn't let us die. Right?
How frustrating... Conscious but not awake. Can think but cannot hear, cannot move, cannot talk. Limp. Letting them do whatever. A sharp pain indicates that you were moving but it was hard to react to it. Can't.. Hold on... Falling back... To sleep.
While unconscious, the body of your character was moved all over the place - stuffed into a car, sent into a plane, flown to Maru, in Quetah, then back in a car, to drive for an hour or so. When the car stopped, the body was moved once again, feet dragging, unable to pick them up. A simple, kind looking laboratory sat, nestled by a hill. But they go right past it. They punch in a code and an inconspicuous desk moves and reveals a stairway to an old train line which would surely take them to their next destination.
It was a short ride.
Again, the dragging, how dull, by now it would have scuffed shoes and muddied trousers. The loud sound of metallic doors, or of creaking walls, the rattling of fences and sound of tortured bodies. A cacophony of terror and rage. The distinct sound of keys and a cell door opening, and suddenly they're let go. On the floor. A cold, concrete floor, with tall metal walls around them.
Cell 3. Welcome home.
How frustrating... Conscious but not awake. Can think but cannot hear, cannot move, cannot talk. Limp. Letting them do whatever. A sharp pain indicates that you were moving but it was hard to react to it. Can't.. Hold on... Falling back... To sleep.
While unconscious, the body of your character was moved all over the place - stuffed into a car, sent into a plane, flown to Maru, in Quetah, then back in a car, to drive for an hour or so. When the car stopped, the body was moved once again, feet dragging, unable to pick them up. A simple, kind looking laboratory sat, nestled by a hill. But they go right past it. They punch in a code and an inconspicuous desk moves and reveals a stairway to an old train line which would surely take them to their next destination.
It was a short ride.
Again, the dragging, how dull, by now it would have scuffed shoes and muddied trousers. The loud sound of metallic doors, or of creaking walls, the rattling of fences and sound of tortured bodies. A cacophony of terror and rage. The distinct sound of keys and a cell door opening, and suddenly they're let go. On the floor. A cold, concrete floor, with tall metal walls around them.
Cell 3. Welcome home.