The corridors are a contrast with him (or rather, he is the contrast= as he walks along them, away from the noise. Pushes it away from his mind with disgust, discomfort, anxiety. Like trying to peel off honey from your hands. It sticks stubbornly to it and the more you try to wash it out the harder it becomes to get off. So, he creates distance. Exploring the magnitude of the station for an exit sign. Steal a car-- a vehicle. Something to escape. It reminds me of the great halls in the military underground. Sterile. Cold.
When he turns the corner, he is not expecting someone else. It's quiet here, after all, and everyone else is noisy. Parker has no idea how to stop it or why it is happening. Part of him assures him it's fine. It's a natural thing. The instinct he has relayed on years after years however, tells him it is not fine. It is wrong. Enough to leave him angry. A buzzing in his chest. Tiring, this constant duality. A tug of war with yourself.
So he stops too, when the tall, broad man does. Keeps his eyes on him. Holds on to his bag, tighter. His jaw clenches. He doesn't move his eyes away from him. ]
If you say so. [ It feels more like a waking nightmare than anything else. He wishes he was back to sleep. Not here. He doesn't remember how he got here. A fuzzy memory (he was death, his eighth hour upon him, a fragment of a person, if that much.), something forgotten. A dark blank in his mind. His bones still ache. His organs still feel-- tender. ] Who the hell are you?
[ It is unkind, unfriendly and demanding. It is not tentative. Like some kind of idiotic dick measuring contest. Puffed out peacock. ]
no subject
The corridors are a contrast with him (or rather, he is the contrast= as he walks along them, away from the noise. Pushes it away from his mind with disgust, discomfort, anxiety. Like trying to peel off honey from your hands. It sticks stubbornly to it and the more you try to wash it out the harder it becomes to get off. So, he creates distance. Exploring the magnitude of the station for an exit sign. Steal a car-- a vehicle. Something to escape. It reminds me of the great halls in the military underground. Sterile. Cold.
When he turns the corner, he is not expecting someone else. It's quiet here, after all, and everyone else is noisy. Parker has no idea how to stop it or why it is happening. Part of him assures him it's fine. It's a natural thing. The instinct he has relayed on years after years however, tells him it is not fine. It is wrong. Enough to leave him angry. A buzzing in his chest. Tiring, this constant duality. A tug of war with yourself.
So he stops too, when the tall, broad man does. Keeps his eyes on him. Holds on to his bag, tighter. His jaw clenches. He doesn't move his eyes away from him. ]
If you say so. [ It feels more like a waking nightmare than anything else. He wishes he was back to sleep. Not here. He doesn't remember how he got here. A fuzzy memory (he was death, his eighth hour upon him, a fragment of a person, if that much.), something forgotten. A dark blank in his mind. His bones still ache. His organs still feel-- tender. ] Who the hell are you?
[ It is unkind, unfriendly and demanding. It is not tentative. Like some kind of idiotic dick measuring contest. Puffed out peacock. ]