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redshiftrp2019-08-03 11:31 pm
sobloodyinspired) wrote in redshiftrp2019-08-03 11:31 pm
video; un: shuckitall
[It's obvious that, at least at first, the boy being filmed has no clue about it, nor that it's being sent anywhere else for anyone else to see. It would seem someone left the device somewhere, discarded and ignored.
There isn't much to be seen, the room he's in is mostly empty, besides a bed to sleep on and the like, mostly decked in chrome everywhere the eye could see. The angle is tilted, but the boy can be seen in nearly every area of the room that he paces around like an angry cat. He bangs on the door, demands to be let out, to no avail. Mutters to himself, nonsensical things--
All the while, he's clawing at his arms, fisting his hands in his hair, punching the wall until his knuckles bleed, but he doesn't seemed phased by any of it at all.
The feed stretches on for a good hour or so, maybe closer to two, before he takes notice of the device again. The camera gives a far-too-close shot of his face as he mutters intelligibly to himself, fussing with the-- well, he doesn't know what it is, but he's sure that flickery-man he'd seen earlier said he could talk on it, somehow. Not that he remembers any of the instructions. Or were there any instructions at all? He can't remember. There were rarely instructions when WICKED was involved, and if there were, they were hardly useful.
"Shuckin' thing... Dunno what'm s'posed to..."
He blinks as he inspects the screen a little closer, eyes squinted in concentration. Everything is hard to process still. They said they cured him-- or something. He doesn't buy it, he's still too jacked in the head to be all right. But... he thinks he's getting clearer, maybe. Or maybe he just wants it to be true.
He pulls the device away from his face and taps a finger on the screen. The young, dirty-blonde boy looks a bit worse for wear, a few scrapes and scratches littering the tops of his hands, one cut in particular on his cheek.
But most noticeable, any time he moves his hands in the right angle in the shot of the camera, are the thick, black veins that run across his arms and peek up from the collar of his shirt, running up his neck and toward his face. When he speaks, it's with a distinct accent.]
Oi, this thing on? Anyone out there? If WICKED is listenin', hear me out, yeah: I don't buy your klunk about a cure. It's never existed, an' I don't reckon it ever will. You're all a bunch of nasty buggers who need to sod right the shuck off, al'right? Every last one'a ya.
[He throws an offensive hand gesture toward the camera and there's a beat after that before he adds:] And let me outta this bloody metal box- cage- thing you lot've shoved me in!
There isn't much to be seen, the room he's in is mostly empty, besides a bed to sleep on and the like, mostly decked in chrome everywhere the eye could see. The angle is tilted, but the boy can be seen in nearly every area of the room that he paces around like an angry cat. He bangs on the door, demands to be let out, to no avail. Mutters to himself, nonsensical things--
"Kill me! I trusted you.""Shut up! Just do it!"
"Kill me or I kill you!""Do it before I become one of them!"
All the while, he's clawing at his arms, fisting his hands in his hair, punching the wall until his knuckles bleed, but he doesn't seemed phased by any of it at all.
The feed stretches on for a good hour or so, maybe closer to two, before he takes notice of the device again. The camera gives a far-too-close shot of his face as he mutters intelligibly to himself, fussing with the-- well, he doesn't know what it is, but he's sure that flickery-man he'd seen earlier said he could talk on it, somehow. Not that he remembers any of the instructions. Or were there any instructions at all? He can't remember. There were rarely instructions when WICKED was involved, and if there were, they were hardly useful.
"Shuckin' thing... Dunno what'm s'posed to..."
He blinks as he inspects the screen a little closer, eyes squinted in concentration. Everything is hard to process still. They said they cured him-- or something. He doesn't buy it, he's still too jacked in the head to be all right. But... he thinks he's getting clearer, maybe. Or maybe he just wants it to be true.
He pulls the device away from his face and taps a finger on the screen. The young, dirty-blonde boy looks a bit worse for wear, a few scrapes and scratches littering the tops of his hands, one cut in particular on his cheek.
But most noticeable, any time he moves his hands in the right angle in the shot of the camera, are the thick, black veins that run across his arms and peek up from the collar of his shirt, running up his neck and toward his face. When he speaks, it's with a distinct accent.]
Oi, this thing on? Anyone out there? If WICKED is listenin', hear me out, yeah: I don't buy your klunk about a cure. It's never existed, an' I don't reckon it ever will. You're all a bunch of nasty buggers who need to sod right the shuck off, al'right? Every last one'a ya.
[He throws an offensive hand gesture toward the camera and there's a beat after that before he adds:] And let me outta this bloody metal box- cage- thing you lot've shoved me in!
Video;
[He's still not super comfortable about discussing all of the details about his deadness in... uh. Detail. It's been a while, but it's still kinda traumatizing, y'know.]
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My God, man. That-- I'm sorry, that's horrible.
[Super horrible. And then he registers the rest of what this guy just said, and hooo buddy it's probably about to get even more horrible because this guy being locked up away from everyone else suddenly makes a lot of sense]
This... this virus. Do you still have it?
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He hesitates to reply, if only because he knows what he's about to say is most likely not something this dude's going to want to hear.]
Shit. Um. Listen, I don't think letting you out of there right now is a good idea. We'll- we'll get this figured out, though. You're not gonna be in there forever.
[He can't actually make a promise like that right now, he doesn't know enough about the situation. He also can't bring himself to say that there might be a possibility that this dude might just live in a box now. If that does end up being the case, Peter's gonna look like a lying asshole later. Shit man, there's just no winning.]
I know it's not much, but in the meantime we can keep in touch like this, or Hell, I can shout through the door if that's better.
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All the melancholy disappears the second Peter points out that letting him out isn't a great idea at the moment and his eyes flash, voice sharp.] Don't you think I know that? And don't bother with platitudes, mate. Pointless.
[His face scrunches up a bit.] No, I don't particularly want people shouting at me, thanks.
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UGH Peter dammit you made everything worse with your MOUTH again why are you like this. He looks very much like he would like to kick himself in the face, but he's gonna try to maybe make this not so horrible. Somehow. God he's so lost for what to do SOMEONE HELP THIS STUPID KID.]
Okay, fair. No shouting through the door.
How'd you end up in that room, anyway? Did the robots put you in there?
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No, no. That wouldn't have solved anything, and I don't think they would have bothered quarantining you if there wasn't some way to manage your condition.
[He's really not positive about that, but he definitely wants to believe that it's true. True in the "there's a chance that you'll be totally fine" way, not in the "robots will totally murder you if you're a friggen bio-hazard" way.]
Did they- did they do anything else? Take any blood samples or do any weird tests or anything?
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I don't think so... I didn't notice anything else besides the injection, anyway.
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[He's banking on the the space robots from the future knowing what they're doing. WOW he really hopes they know what they're doing because he pretty much just offered to off this dude if he asks for it. INSTANT REGRET.]
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All right. Fine. But I'm gonna hold you to it.
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Deal.
Just. Keep me updated.
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Good that.