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;
But if it's a drinking competition you want? It's on.
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Tequila it is. [He'll call for a bottle and some shot glasses from the bartender.]
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nevermind that that bartender is prooobably Buffy in hindsight]Bringing out the big guns. I can appreciate that.
[We will have a hell of a time walking to our respective homes tonight. Just so you know. Hopefully Doyle won't wake up with his face smashed in your couch or floor, but he's had his past offenses.]
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Just want to give you a nice, proper Luceti welcome--and I can't think of a better way. [He fills both shot glasses skillfully.]
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--then by getting me stone-ass drunk and gracing me with an awful hangover the next morning?
[So he says, despite downing the shot glass. Whelp.]
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Precisely. [He throws back his as well--gnarly stuff. He remembers why he doesn't drink it too often. Good thing he's confident he can win this challenge.]
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Also, you'll regret this when we're both unable to walk in a straight line.]
You're the worst welcoming party ever.
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Nonsense! That's when things really get fun.]
I don't know, you could do worse. Could have gotten brought in by a ninja turtle or a talking pony.
[He refills their glasses.]
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Ninja Turtles? You sure you're not taking a trip back to the 80's? What were you then, 43? 44? [YES I JUST CALLED YOU OLD, IT WAS A BURN.]
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[And he throws back the shot.]
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[Two can play at that game. From tipsy to 'five shots and feeling slowly feeling unsure about my future morning'.]
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[This would be the perfect time for Piano Man to start playing.]
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In a way, it's a dream. How do we know it's even really happening?
[He reaches over and goes to pour his drink.]
We all go back sooner or later. Forget. So.
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It might as well be one. Y'know? One of those... uh, stupid black-out dreams. Can't even remember it the next morning.
[Eh. He couldn't complain, not in the scope of things.]
Might as well make it as nice as we can, anyway. Most people like comfy nice dreams, right? Keep it from crossing into nightmare territory, you can find a little temporary joy in the mess of it all.
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[And he's a very big fan of leaving on his own terms. It's not even the alcohol talking this time!]
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[He smirks down at his drink. He may or may not be contemplating if he should drink it or not. :|]
But I guess if y'can get people to keep their memories, s'not like they'll remember it to be disappointed...
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[He finds it disconcerting, to be honest.]
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Freedom was nice to have. Prisoner? Not so much. But he was trained to be a capable prisoner, at least.]
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