'I bet this is Ivan's fault' [OPEN]
CHARACTERS: Gilbert and anyone who feels like getting punched in the face by a disgruntled Prussian.
SUMMARY: Gilbert arrives.
PLACE: Near the lift.
TIME: Gil sure as hell doesn't know. Possibly mid-afternoon?
WARNINGS: Language, and long sentences.
--
Gilbert lifts his head, slowly enough that the not-hangover that's almost-not splitting his head in half doesn't actually do so. The lights sting his eyes, but he ignores it, waiting for the spinning to stop. He can feel the floor beneath his feet vibrate slightly, and the slight vertigo that comes with lifts makes his headache worse. The pale Nation blinks, turning his gaze about the compartment, noting the painfully bare walls with detached distaste.
Suddenly, the wall, or door, or whatever the fuck it is, opens, and he is left staring down one corridor lit with the same obnoxious lights as the lift, and four others left in darkness. He steps out, and the doors close with a pneumatic hiss, leaving him in the single lit hallway. Gilbert starts moving down the hall, stumbling over his own feet and almost dropping the items in his hands when he tries to stare down one of the dark halls longer than necessary. Apart from a vague feeling of nostalgia, the rest of the trip in uneventful... until he arrives at the next lift and gets in, that is.
The doors shut behind him, and the sound triggers something in Gilbert. He jumps, shoulders tensing and feet planted as he blinks rapidly.
"Was...?" He murmurs, the words falling on empty space and metal walls. He looks down, the headache of the last trip in the past, staring at his possessions and then back around the chamber. "Wo... Wo sind ich? Ludwig? West?" The hand not holding a laptop falls to his side, where a firearm's sat for the most of the last century, yet is no longer there. Gilbert takes another assessment of his situation, feeling the lift's ascent slow to a halt and throwing himself onto the wall next to where he thinks the doors are, hopefully in the blind spot of anyone trying to ambush him when he gets out.
Bring it, asshats. he thinks, preparing for the worst.
SUMMARY: Gilbert arrives.
PLACE: Near the lift.
TIME: Gil sure as hell doesn't know. Possibly mid-afternoon?
WARNINGS: Language, and long sentences.
--
Gilbert lifts his head, slowly enough that the not-hangover that's almost-not splitting his head in half doesn't actually do so. The lights sting his eyes, but he ignores it, waiting for the spinning to stop. He can feel the floor beneath his feet vibrate slightly, and the slight vertigo that comes with lifts makes his headache worse. The pale Nation blinks, turning his gaze about the compartment, noting the painfully bare walls with detached distaste.
Suddenly, the wall, or door, or whatever the fuck it is, opens, and he is left staring down one corridor lit with the same obnoxious lights as the lift, and four others left in darkness. He steps out, and the doors close with a pneumatic hiss, leaving him in the single lit hallway. Gilbert starts moving down the hall, stumbling over his own feet and almost dropping the items in his hands when he tries to stare down one of the dark halls longer than necessary. Apart from a vague feeling of nostalgia, the rest of the trip in uneventful... until he arrives at the next lift and gets in, that is.
The doors shut behind him, and the sound triggers something in Gilbert. He jumps, shoulders tensing and feet planted as he blinks rapidly.
"Was...?" He murmurs, the words falling on empty space and metal walls. He looks down, the headache of the last trip in the past, staring at his possessions and then back around the chamber. "Wo... Wo sind ich? Ludwig? West?" The hand not holding a laptop falls to his side, where a firearm's sat for the most of the last century, yet is no longer there. Gilbert takes another assessment of his situation, feeling the lift's ascent slow to a halt and throwing himself onto the wall next to where he thinks the doors are, hopefully in the blind spot of anyone trying to ambush him when he gets out.
Bring it, asshats. he thinks, preparing for the worst.