[Starter for @wrongtrain ; Misplaced]
The very first thing that registers is the oppressive weight of a cold night pressing down behind his eyelids, chased by the fleeting dream of something sharp scratching along the back of his neck.ย
The full weight of the realization alone is enough to completely shake him from his half-aware state, sharp-tipped hands scratching against the filthy, roughly hewn stone ground. What little decent reflexes he has do nothing for himโ his bag isn't on his person, his pockets perfectly devoid of anything halfway useful, and he'd rather die with some of his dignity intact than try to set his jacket on fire for the light it could offer.
It takes a full minute for him to properly register the utter silence of the space, steel wool caught between his ears and scratching along his sluggish thoughts. The dark echos his own ragged breath back at him, each gasp torn and unsteady in the tepid air. It bites at every pulse, blood roaring in his ears through the cold and damp.
Maxwell clenches his teeth and forces his breath to slow, caught between his own hands like a horned rabbit. He is above panicking like some sort of half-wit idiot. God forbid he sounds like it too.
He's... intact, relatively speaking. Sane. Not even particularly hungry for what it's worth. It's not night, just... somewhere enclosed. His head throbs under the weight of his own thoughtsโ a touch to his temple comes away wet and tacky, but it's impossible to tell if it's from an injury or the mildew trying to soak into the poor threads of his pants.
He... doesn't remember much. Everything is a starburst blur of light and sound, voices shouting, the rumble of something incomprehensibly big. Maxwell is quite positive he's died again until his leg sings with a still-healing pain when he attempts to drag himself to his feet, hands fumbling against a slick, cold wall. It rattles slightly beneath his weight.
Whatever time he'd lost between his last clear memory and now had evidently done something to re-irritate the recent injury scored down the length of his leg, but its existence alone is telling enough. He's miraculously fled from the jaws of death, somehow. Maxwell certainly feels dead however, with the way his body from head to toe is slowly beginning to feel like one congealed bruise. It would probably have been kinder if he had. It feels filthy, wherever he is, andโ
Mid-thought something clicks heavily against his elbowโ the sound of something metal disengagingโ and his eyes are assaulted with a shock of light, the surface he'd been propping himself up on swinging out beneath his weight. He falls with it, just barely caught by the now identified door handle.
He's not sure where this is.ย
Some sort of... underground tunnel, odd-looking railroad tracks strung along the middle. It's completely and utterly unfamiliar in a way that he hasn't been faced with in a long time. The entryway thumps closed as his hands reflexively slip to the inner pocket of his coat beneath the glaring light, a neatly sewn secret.
The Codex is still there. The wash of relief that rolls over him shouldn't be nearly as intense as it was, but he permits himself a shaky sigh in the relative quiet of the tunnel-light, beyond the view of any onlookersโ he can't even feel the constant creeping gaze of Them, despite the heavy book pressed neatly against his heart.ย
It's just him, the lights, and the endless-seeming sprawl of the blue-lit walls.
...And, apparently, a sign on the door behind him. 'Employees Only'. Maxwell barely refrains from scoffing out loud. Real humorous. An employee, is he now? What happened to subtlety?
It doesn't budge when he tries the handle again. To be quite frank with himself, it's probably a miracle he didn't break his head open on the door frame the first time. It's a bit low.
Suppose that option is off the booksโ not that he's particularly eager to turn back around and gallivant off into places he can't see. Backups and contingencies are the name of the game these days, and he's been wiped clean.
Seems like Charlie's chosen to do some heavy remodeling. It would rankle at his sensibilities (What's wrong with what he made? It's perfectly fine!) had it been anyone but her threading their little claws through the foundations of his design. As it is, he can hardly find it in himself to feel those familiar strings of spite.
...Even if it is completely and utterly different in every aspect, no respect given to his work. The long expanse of tunnels shows no sign or form of his touch as a creator. Fluorescent blue lights hum overhead, blinking down at him like eyes embedded in the thick stone ceiling. Cold and unfeeling, the air frozen against his breath.
Maxwell grits out a hissing sigh through his teeth.
He... supposes there could possibly be some kind of merit in the idea of man-made horror... in some measure of the term. He must have just misjudged tastes somewhat.
With the option to turn back removed from his deck, Maxwell steels himself and picks one of the ends of the tunnel at random to start walking. It's a horribly awkward, shuffling sort of thing, but he hardly has an audience salivating to take another bite out of his leg just around the corner. There's little else to do but move forwardsโ either he'll eventually succumb, or he'll find himself some kind of answer, unpleasant or otherwise. Both options draw little more than dull apathy from his chest.
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
andulkaphoto
dededos
vaporwave
