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trash bin PART TWO
| the pygmalion. . . ???  OPENING PROGRAM . . . . . . . . . _PROGRAM CRASHED _PROGRAM REBOOT? >N >SCAN PROGRAM . . . _PROGRAM CRASHED . . . >EMERGENCY LEVEL . . . >EMERGENCY LEVEL . . . _EMERGENCY LEVEL LOADING LOADING. . . LOADING. . . LOADING TEXTURE-NIGHT-SKY, TEXTURE-FULL-MOON, TEXTURE-DIRT-PATH, TEXTURE-CAMPFIRE LOADING SOUND-CRICKETS, SOUND-GRAVEL, SOUND-WIND, SOUND-FIRE-CRACKLING UPLOADING USER UPLOADING USER UPLOADING USER UPLOAD SUCCESSFUL TRASH BIN It feels more like an electrical zap than dying. Dying might feel a little bit more like falling asleep, but this is harder, more painful. If you've ever been electrocuted, the feeling might seem familiar; the discovery you make when you open your eyes, too, is likely very familiar. It's the night sky. Stars twinkle, a fire cracks warmly. You sit up and observe the surrounding area, and it's like you've woken up in some sort of canyon. The fire burns brightly, the moon shines beautifully, the crickets sing, and it is ... peaceful. Mostly. You know you're dead. This must be, then, the after life? Or something like it, at least. The horizon stretches on forever, the dirt and gravel seemingly endless. The moon is so big and bright, it's like you could reach out and touch her. There's a shed not too far from the fire, only but a stone's throw away, as if someone else might have made it, and then went inside it. Approaching it, you can see the light glowing inside it through the dusty windows that are littered with fingerprints. A computer screen, so large and wide that it's baffling, sits, waiting. Turning knob reveals that the shed is unlocked, and stepping inside... it doesn't feel any different from the outside. A chair sits in the center of the room, a strange contraption strapped to the head of it. It looks like it would lower itself upon the head of whoever dares to sit on it, and wires from it's bottom curl up towards the machines attached to the screen. Several smaller desktop screens sit beneath the giant monitor. They, too, are hooked up to the machines scattered around the room, to the ominous one perched on top of the medical chair, and they blink, as if fighting to stay alive without use. Pressing the giant monitor on, it lights up, and displays, strangely enough... a security camera feed. You push the button. It switches to another room. Again, another room. Again, another room. So on and forth. You peeping tom! But no one can blame you, in the end. You might as well digitally haunt the rest of the ship until the game ends, and AL-2955 can clean out the trash bin. ...Right? rule book taken characters information cards |
no subject
[ Elizabeth flinches, the tear quickly closing in response to her emotional strain. Her shoulders defensively go up and she's quickly spitting out: ]
Fahrenheit! You know someone named Fahrenheit. You're on okay terms with some Minute Boys - or some such but you don't want them in the town... You-You have an art gallery, and -
[ She recalls the will, trying desperately to lead in and not get shot. ]
...Please remember, Hancock... you - you died... This isn't heaven or hell, it's something else. I need you to help me. Do you remember me?
no subject
[He taps his hat with his free hand, trying to think of a good test to be sure this isn't a Synth spy.]
Alright, those are all pretty damn easy quick facts about me. So how about a real hard one, something only my friends would know. So tell me - why am I called Hancock?
no subject
His question was thought of, as she keeps her hands up in a weak surrender. Even the damn thimble on her pinky trembled in nervousness. ]
Your vices - your vices...
[ She says, but it sounds like the wrong answer. ]
You let your vices control you to a point where you woke up alone and only the company of John Hancock, a fairly important political figure in both of our worlds.. [ Huh, that sounded weird. ] Those clothes.... that hat, that sash - that name means something to you. Freedom of choice...
[ Her breath was shaky and for a girl who could control reality, you never really get over the fact that a gun can do more damage. ]
Please... We were friends.
no subject
[He sighs and twirls his gun back around, no longer aiming it at her.]
Well, I guess that's the condensed version of it. [He takes the gun and pokes the corner of his trifold hat with the barrel, clearly unconcerned with his safety.] Okay, so either you have a very good spy network or you do actually know who I am. Let's not worry about that right now. You said I had "other responsibilities" right? I don't recall staking my name to anything other than Goodneighbor, so you're going to need to clue me in a little. Don't need a novel, just some facts.
no subject
[ Awkward side glance. ]
I was as well. We aren't in heaven or hell but some place where our essence is able to communicate with the living. But we must sacrifice. This, this is your cradle - an illusion perfect for you. If you give this up, we can make a difference and save those still alive - and possibly ourselves.
... I gave my cradle up already, which is why I'm here.
[ Elizabeths expression is a little pained, but she forces a smile. ]
Think of me as the worst spy you've ever seen but possibly the best motivator...?