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sobloodyinspired) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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!
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