The boogeyman side of it, anyway, or so Robby suspects. The warnings, cautions; the preparations to danger he's been given over and over. It's not the beasts or fight of monsters that've gotten the spotlight, but when you fall back into some horror movie set in a timey-wimey office, you get the gist of what's going on. Especially after that first maddening hour: That oppressive force, noises that can't quite be made out but that never have a notable source; a maze of corridors and rooms with nothing of note, nothing leading anywhere. Nowhere leading to a way out.
Shit, is what Robby thinks, over and over. Shit, shit. Shitshitshitshit.
A weapon would be nice, even without a tangible or seen force to put it against. Nobody's pulling out the karate moves and surviving in the thrillers, and all Robby manages to obtain in all of this is a long-forgotten stapler.
(He's not Jackie Chan. He'll get one throw or a lucky hit and then bail.)
So here he is, crushing said stapler in his grip; the sensation of being watched, known, the possibility of being found more maddening than ever. The writings on the wall are as taunting as they are worrying, a worry he keeps down, refuses to indulge. He'll get out, he has to -- even as the halls start to lose anything to differentiate them from the last, as his senses become more oppressed, less focused. The stench in his nostrils, the anxiety that presses against his ears, his shoulders stiff.
--And then he hears it. The sound of footsteps in a hurry, if not a run. Around the next corner, with a way forward clear ahead of him. Robby stops in his own rush, cursing without thought how well he hears his own feet come to a standstill, was he heard? -- and he contemplates dashing forward, or turning back and finding somewhere to hide.
But there was nowhere for a while the way he came, and going forward could give him a running start, but would it be enough? With not knowing what's down there, and what's coming his way as he stands here debating. Closing in, closer, closer -- Robby takes in a breath and readies himself, holding the make-do 'weapon' and with his legs ready to dash around whatever comes --
o-oh 😳 1/2
The boogeyman side of it, anyway, or so Robby suspects. The warnings, cautions; the preparations to danger he's been given over and over. It's not the beasts or fight of monsters that've gotten the spotlight, but when you fall back into some horror movie set in a timey-wimey office, you get the gist of what's going on. Especially after that first maddening hour: That oppressive force, noises that can't quite be made out but that never have a notable source; a maze of corridors and rooms with nothing of note, nothing leading anywhere. Nowhere leading to a way out.
Shit, is what Robby thinks, over and over. Shit, shit. Shitshitshitshit.
A weapon would be nice, even without a tangible or seen force to put it against. Nobody's pulling out the karate moves and surviving in the thrillers, and all Robby manages to obtain in all of this is a long-forgotten stapler.
(He's not Jackie Chan. He'll get one throw or a lucky hit and then bail.)
So here he is, crushing said stapler in his grip; the sensation of being watched, known, the possibility of being found more maddening than ever. The writings on the wall are as taunting as they are worrying, a worry he keeps down, refuses to indulge. He'll get out, he has to -- even as the halls start to lose anything to differentiate them from the last, as his senses become more oppressed, less focused. The stench in his nostrils, the anxiety that presses against his ears, his shoulders stiff.
--And then he hears it. The sound of footsteps in a hurry, if not a run. Around the next corner, with a way forward clear ahead of him. Robby stops in his own rush, cursing without thought how well he hears his own feet come to a standstill, was he heard? -- and he contemplates dashing forward, or turning back and finding somewhere to hide.
But there was nowhere for a while the way he came, and going forward could give him a running start, but would it be enough? With not knowing what's down there, and what's coming his way as he stands here debating. Closing in, closer, closer -- Robby takes in a breath and readies himself, holding the make-do 'weapon' and with his legs ready to dash around whatever comes --