Posted on Tue Feb 20th, 2018 @ 3:31pm by Civilian John Doe
The second time through the gate John was sure footed, predicting the moment that he'd, "arrive," in the gate room. Truth be told however, his thoughts were not on the fantastical. His emotions and his mind were locked fixed on the aperture that his memory had opened.
"Write it down," he muttered, remembering what the Colonel had told him. If anything, the details were no longer there. He remembered bits and pieces, but really the memory catalogued emotion more than anything. He was angry, disturbed, and frustrated. Those three words would be the only measure of remembrance if he were to write it all down. "Hellfire," he pushed as he shuffled off his escort's hand from his shoulder.
John turned instinctively, noting the man balancing on the balls of his feet. "Are you going to follow me to my grave?"
"You need to calm down," said SDS man. He pressed forward a bit more and more and John felt his own balance shift more defensively as he backpedaled down the catwalk.
"Do not touch me," John said with a mild ferocity that bent the attention of the staff towards the situation. The two men tangled verbally as if the gate's platform were a stage, the audience enrapt by the scene. "By hell do not touch me."
"You need to...,"
"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!"
It was off at first, John felt that he wasn't quite in control, as if everything seemed to be formed in reflex action. He noted the SDS man going for some sort of restraint, the classic knee bent posture positioning him under to grab John by the wrist while his other worked on some sort of physical bridal. As the man's hand gripped John at the wrist, John's momentum swung forward, elbow locked as his other hand went underneath the grunt's arm pit, the outstretched arm an easement for finding leverage. In a moment of motion the SDS grunt was off his feet, flipping over sideways, his defying gravity moment aided with John's left foot as he sideways crossed the man's feet from under him. Another twist and the grunt swiftly turned to impact the metal grate of the catwalk on his belly a dry "umph," expelling his lips as his breath was taken by the collision and weight of his gear.
By the time it was all over, the blur of chaos and ferocity, John found himself holding the man's wrist at an awkward angle, the man's side arm in John's other hand found trace to aim at the back of the grunt's head. John's eyes were wide and scared. "What happened," he muttered, gaze glazing as if he just woke from a deep slumber. It was the last thought he had before pain erupted in his right shoulder interupting any connective cognizance with anything. The curtain call of an innocent pop from another's handgun, the bullet went in and out, striking through John's muscle and fatty tissue, the pain and shock causing him to drop the gun. It fell like a preamble, clattering to the catwalk before he too followed suit, his hand pressing the wound as he landed with his own thud.
A flurry of movement scattered. The gun was taken, the SDS man pulled from the situation as other guards descended on John. "What happened," he found himself muttering, his mind trying to recollect while the guardsmen pulled him from the ground; he hissed as his arm was manipulated, his shoulder moving as restraints locked around his wrists and his arms were place behind his back. John heard one call for medical while they shuffled him off. "What happened," John repeated, this time with some force? As John's gaze fell on the SDS man he had injured, medical staff attending, all of it flooded his mind. He grimaced, wincing back the pain as if he beheld a very bright light. "Jesus," he muttered, "is he ok?"
No one seemed to answer as John continued to be carried off. "No," he rambled, "I'm sorry. I tried to warn you, but you...,"
John trailed off, a voice stuttering off as his lips fell silent and his eyes locked on something that could not very well be. His brow furrowed and his eyes squinted. Standing not too far away from the catwalk, were in the incident had occurred, stood a figure, humanoid maybe, it was a mess of blurs, like someone took a sponge to a wet painting. But this one was alive, breathing, moving, the tendrils of whispered dark smoke funneling around like a wraith. "Do you see that," John stated huntingly, "do you see that?" They weren't listening and John was still bleeding everywhere. "No, do you see it..., let me go damn it. It's there! It's right there!" He looked at the two guardsmen, tried to struggle but their collective grip on him was too strong.
"You don't understand," John breathed before looking back at where the phantom was, or, rather, had been. It was gone like a figment of his imagination.
"What the hell is wrong with me," he thought.
Games move better with drama I always thought. I'll leave it open in case someone from medical wants to assess and treat Mr. Doe.
John would like to apologies for breaking NPC SDS Grunt Number 5's arm.