Sergeant Rick Doyle || 28 Weeks Later (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fuckthemission) wrote2012-03-14 05:06 pm
fuckthemission) wrote2012-03-14 05:06 pm
Entry tags:
01 | Action/Voice | I am trapped in a storybook I just know it.
[Action]
[Doyle doesn't wake up slowly; his eyes are open in an instant, and he's staring at a normal sky edged with canopy. It's a little awkward by the fact that he's on a bench in the middle of town. When he looks around and sees wings, and then sees some of you in medieval armor, clothes from the 1800's, or non-human creatures altogether? He lays there for a long while, not bothering to inspect why he's here. Because obviously, none of it's real.
Nope.
He laughs dryly at the air, shaking his head, because wow. Clearly the fire didn't kill him. He's just lying somewhere trapped in a horrifying fever dream before the gas gets to him.
Nope, nope, nope. Cannot deal with this right now. Too tired to budge, anyway. He takes the discarded magazine on the backrest and drapes it over his face, sighing as he folds his arms over his chest. For being a horrible hallucination, he sure feels half-naked and cold.]
I'm not here. Not here.
[He'll sit up after a while and eventually just... watch everyone. Especially those who don't look like they're from 21st century earth. No offense to you guys, he's just confused and trying to figure out how sane he is. And he'll either be set straight by someone who knows this place or he'll come to by himself, but he finally gets off his ass and goes to the clothing store. They were nice enough to let him wear his dogtags right when he woke up, at least. Hits up the bar, too, because.... because. When he speaks up to the weird ass journal he's got, he's only very slightly tipsy. Which is good, because you'll get less overwhelmed responses.]
[Voice]
So. It's really true, is it? The whole... 'other world' thing?
[A pause. He sloshes around the beer in his bottle, as his gaze flicks from the bar to the journal.]
I like it. This whole set-up, it's damn fine with me, good and bad points combined; a lot better than being stuck in my world where your own family and friends could turn around and gnaw your nose off. The longer I'm away from viruses and possible crazy apocalyptic bullshit, the better.
Just wish there was some way of checking in on the people who're still left behind. [Yep, 'left behind'. That's what it feels like, okay? Even if America was alright last he checked, there was a Code Red. Who knows what European countries were fucked. Hopefully the spread was contained well enough. Hopefully.]
Right. Anyway, I'm Sergeant Doyle; Rick Doyle. [Wait.] I guess the 'sergeant' part doesn't really matter anymore... But hey. Cheers, anyway.
[Now he's just got to settle mentally. He'll work on it. Until then, he's staying at the bar to get his head on straight and read through the journals.]
[Doyle doesn't wake up slowly; his eyes are open in an instant, and he's staring at a normal sky edged with canopy. It's a little awkward by the fact that he's on a bench in the middle of town. When he looks around and sees wings, and then sees some of you in medieval armor, clothes from the 1800's, or non-human creatures altogether? He lays there for a long while, not bothering to inspect why he's here. Because obviously, none of it's real.
Nope.
He laughs dryly at the air, shaking his head, because wow. Clearly the fire didn't kill him. He's just lying somewhere trapped in a horrifying fever dream before the gas gets to him.
Nope, nope, nope. Cannot deal with this right now. Too tired to budge, anyway. He takes the discarded magazine on the backrest and drapes it over his face, sighing as he folds his arms over his chest. For being a horrible hallucination, he sure feels half-naked and cold.]
I'm not here. Not here.
[He'll sit up after a while and eventually just... watch everyone. Especially those who don't look like they're from 21st century earth. No offense to you guys, he's just confused and trying to figure out how sane he is. And he'll either be set straight by someone who knows this place or he'll come to by himself, but he finally gets off his ass and goes to the clothing store. They were nice enough to let him wear his dogtags right when he woke up, at least. Hits up the bar, too, because.... because. When he speaks up to the weird ass journal he's got, he's only very slightly tipsy. Which is good, because you'll get less overwhelmed responses.]
[Voice]
So. It's really true, is it? The whole... 'other world' thing?
[A pause. He sloshes around the beer in his bottle, as his gaze flicks from the bar to the journal.]
I like it. This whole set-up, it's damn fine with me, good and bad points combined; a lot better than being stuck in my world where your own family and friends could turn around and gnaw your nose off. The longer I'm away from viruses and possible crazy apocalyptic bullshit, the better.
Just wish there was some way of checking in on the people who're still left behind. [Yep, 'left behind'. That's what it feels like, okay? Even if America was alright last he checked, there was a Code Red. Who knows what European countries were fucked. Hopefully the spread was contained well enough. Hopefully.]
Right. Anyway, I'm Sergeant Doyle; Rick Doyle. [Wait.] I guess the 'sergeant' part doesn't really matter anymore... But hey. Cheers, anyway.
[Now he's just got to settle mentally. He'll work on it. Until then, he's staying at the bar to get his head on straight and read through the journals.]
action;
[So he steps up onto his chair. FLAWLESS.]
action;
Fffflawless, flawless, you're a champion!
[How did this end up him standing on a chair, he's not sure, but he approves.]
action;
Taking notes? This takes study. [One foot on the table. This suddenly seems very high.]
action;
[true facts
please fall down so i can laugh at you
... without killing yourself please
i'll just smile like a troll behind my glass kthanks]
action;
WATCH THIS, MAN. He takes the step up and stands on the table. Wobbly, but upright. Because this is how he rolls.]
Applause--this is when you're suppose to applaud.
action;
He holds up his journal; got my jounalist swagger going.]
M'too busy recording this for later. In case people want to see your climb to glory. Just pretend I'm applaudin' my ass off for you.
action;
[...Now how in the honest hell does he get down.]
action;
Oh, what, no dance? No balancing act?
That's a pretty lame finale.
[Come on, go ahead. Step down. :D]
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[He manages to step down to his hair and then to the ground.] Like you. Let's see you do better.
action;
Ugh.]
Alright, alright. I won't do better, but it's all fair game.
[First, he stands up from his chair, hand slapped down on the surface, supporting his weight. Blink, blink, squint. He works his jaw.]
Robby, there are two of you... Am I really that fucked up today? It's been so long.
action;
Only one. Last time I checked, anyway--already that unstable?
[He is such a boss at holding his liquor. He knows.]
action; 1/2
Nnnnot even fair—I was tipsy 'fore you even walked in, Tonyboy.
[Even if it's entirely true. You could drink to the death and he'd be the fatality.]
action;
Where he lays and laugh-coughs.]
Well, shit, haha--you people and your superheroes...
[Wow, those last few rounds hit him hard, man.]
action;
Not falling on my ass is my real superpower. Just don't tell anyone. We're supposed to keep things like that secret. Or some shit.
[Secret identities, why bother.]
action;
I'm telling every-fuckin'-one. Writing it right in my journal; your arch-nemesises'll be shocked they didn't see it sooner.
action;
Dunno how he'd turn that against me, though. Can't really turn it into a disadvantage.
action;
My liver is so pissed off at me right now.]
What kinda' villains've you fought, again? I can't think of any.
action;
[Pffft, WATER. You nancy. He's back to a scotch. Gotta finish things the way they started.]
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[#swagger]
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You're a great fuckin' strategist.
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