(Untitled)

[walkingthegrid]

It had been an interesting week, being briefed on the functionality of the technology, talking to two therapists who both decided to bow out of the opportunity; it was dangerous, that sort of mentality-- and agreed upon that most couldn't handle what they might see. Blood and gore were his forte, only slightly less so than that of a killer.

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[nocharmingman]

He is sedated; not enough to be entirely out of his mine, but the dose was considerable, strong enough to have him walked in by two guards, head lolling forward drowsily, although his eyes remain upward, intent and snapping back and forth; the only indicator of his rebellion. His mouth opens when he catches sight of Charles-- gaze locking to the detective's with a whipcord suddenness; teeth clicking, his jaw moves-- eyes saying clearly in that vaguely European drawl, 'hello, darling,' and the smile twists his upper lip away from the jaggedness of those sharp teeth. He's half-present, more dulled than anything else by the sedatives they'd pumped into his arm; he'd initially snapped at them-- how dare they, these vulnerable bastards and their needles-- but now his reactions are muted, pupils dilated and focus half-lidded. They pull him onto the table alongside Charles', and he crosses his feet at the ankles in a kind of lazy incongruence-- too old world for the oddly futuristic setting; he is unaffected by the room-- metal is a familiar

[walkingthegrid]

Charles watched the predator turned captive as he was drawn in, not missing the sudden snap of his eyes or the way his mouth worked in that decidedly crooked way. He doesn't allow himself to be budged till he sees the killer, his prey and hunter, laid out on the metal slab like the dozens of bodies he had sent back to the mourge before him. A bittersweet sort of ironic image it paints, but not something he's allowed to bask in for long. All too soon there are hands at his sides, shoulders, hips; easing him down onto the chilled metal table and resting the back of his head against a small, cushioned brace curved to fit the round of his skull. He feels the IV push into his arm, puncturing a vein so easily through a small hole in the suit made for just this purpose. Then it only takes a few moments, mere seconds, before he can feel the sedatives begin to burn. The nameless cocktail of drugs they pumped into his bloodstream, burning like liquid fire though his every muscle, wrapping him up in a blanket of darkness as they laid the sheet

[walkingthegrid]

Looking up from his position on the floor he can see the rustle of illuminecent leaves. He's on a small patch of grass, under a tree that looks to be half made of glass. It still retained it's solid wooden center but the dozens of green, gold and bronze leaves are all finely crafted glass, chiming gently in a breeze he couldn't feel. Rolling onto his side Charles gave a hard cough, trying to remove the burning from his lungs; all the ink and blood he had sucked in during his struggle but all that spills forth out is water. Staggering to a stand he doesn't find himself in that unusual black latex suit they had put him under in or the lightly tailored business suit he usually wore to work. He's dressed in a simple pair of jeans, a tee shirt, the sort of thing he would never leave his house in

[nocharmingman]

The red door opens wide-- swinging forward on its hinges. Instead of an empty frame, revealing only the back wall, beyond the door lies a sweep of desert-- white sand and a stretch of blue sky; dunes sloping into each other for miles, until they hit jagged peaks. But the desert ends abruptly; sand stopping at stone-- a great blue Taj Mahal of dusty Indian paint, so saturated and so massive it could not have existed anywhere outside of a dream. A sanctuary; a monument to seclusion-- and a temple; vast and looming and colossal. The thing is a leviathan of stone and plaster, marble and sandstone. It rises up from between the dunes, elemental in its towering vanity. An unreal shade of azure, horribly familiar and consciously chosen; it's entirely incongruent-- the unreality of it a clear signal of the vision's falsity