Philip claws at the tube faster than it can retract, leaving little but a very sharp burn in his throat to show for it. Christ, there's springing another event on you, and then there's this. Unimaginable nightmares, why can't they at least respect a man's need for personal space? He pushes against his confines, but already they give way on their own. Philip spills out onto the floor, entirely undignified. All right, guess that's it for the spa weekend.
He coughs, and half expects blood splattering his palm for greater dramatic effect. But there isn't. There is a number tattooed on his forearm that wasn't there before, and despite all the hours he clocked in at the bar last week he imagines that another drunk bet isn't to blame for this one. Although it probably means something very meaningful to somebody. Probably.
Once on his feet he looks around for the familiar closets, for whatever form they might be taking here. In this and that corner of his eyes Philip catches other people's faces, and not enough of them are familiar ones by far. That's the first time he feels the thin layer of dread underneath his disorientation. There was no announcement. There was not enough time. Something isn't right...
He exhales slowly. Some people move into an adjacent room, their confident steps creating a sharp and unpleasant contrast to his own perplexity. Philip decides to follow their pull all the same. Neither flesh-eating monsters nor existential doubts fight themselves all that well naked, and over there seems as good a place to start looking as any...
[ #2 ] Sickly Suite Part 3: Gone
The bottle crashes to the floor, and spills whiskey and glass at his feet. Bloody shame that'd have been, if his locker wasn't stuffed to the brim with those things. Missed one wedged between his clothes, that's all. Good thing the closets still know what he needs most, anyway. Philip snorts silently, and slips on whatever Wonderland wants them to wear for its latest costume party. He takes stock of his inventory then, because apparently the one with his number is all he's getting today, and--
And no gun. No weapon of any kind. Just that thing again, of course it's that thing, and no gun. He scowls, and extracts the notebook from underneath another stack of bottles. It's empty, not his, but it might come in handy, anyway. Because the network--
"So whose fault is space?" he types into his comm device, but it doesn't seem to want to transmit. An automated welcome and a whole lot of static, that's what he's getting out of this so far. Shaking his head Philip pockets the device, anyway. Leaves both books, thank you very much. (Alice in Wonderland? Did he really need that reminder?) He'll take one of those bottles though, just in case. Just for later, he reminds himself grudgingly, because this is starting to strike him as the sort of situation he should probably investigate a bit further before drinking its existence away entirely....
[ #3 ] Escape From New Yorkshire
Comforting as the permeating stench of whiskey might be, he should probably start looking around. He's dressed (for the occasion and little else) and about as ready as the situation will allow him to be. Asking around, see, that might be a plan too, but he's only so invested in going around silently with a 'Whose event is this?' note held up like a beggar looking for informative alms about the situation.
Instead the writing catches his eyes. 'Don't follow your tattoo numbers,' it suggests very helpfully, in as foreboding a colour as can be. Well, at least that settles things.
Philip leaves the locker room for the blue lifts, and follows his tattoo number to the forty-third floor.
[[ OTA, will match format! Here's my intro for some info on how Philip communicates & where he's just come from and still thinks he is. ]]
Philip (Penumbra) | OTA
Philip claws at the tube faster than it can retract, leaving little but a very sharp burn in his throat to show for it. Christ, there's springing another event on you, and then there's this. Unimaginable nightmares, why can't they at least respect a man's need for personal space? He pushes against his confines, but already they give way on their own. Philip spills out onto the floor, entirely undignified. All right, guess that's it for the spa weekend.
He coughs, and half expects blood splattering his palm for greater dramatic effect. But there isn't. There is a number tattooed on his forearm that wasn't there before, and despite all the hours he clocked in at the bar last week he imagines that another drunk bet isn't to blame for this one. Although it probably means something very meaningful to somebody. Probably.
Once on his feet he looks around for the familiar closets, for whatever form they might be taking here. In this and that corner of his eyes Philip catches other people's faces, and not enough of them are familiar ones by far. That's the first time he feels the thin layer of dread underneath his disorientation. There was no announcement. There was not enough time. Something isn't right...
He exhales slowly. Some people move into an adjacent room, their confident steps creating a sharp and unpleasant contrast to his own perplexity. Philip decides to follow their pull all the same. Neither flesh-eating monsters nor existential doubts fight themselves all that well naked, and over there seems as good a place to start looking as any...
[ #2 ] Sickly Suite Part 3: Gone
The bottle crashes to the floor, and spills whiskey and glass at his feet. Bloody shame that'd have been, if his locker wasn't stuffed to the brim with those things. Missed one wedged between his clothes, that's all. Good thing the closets still know what he needs most, anyway. Philip snorts silently, and slips on whatever Wonderland wants them to wear for its latest costume party. He takes stock of his inventory then, because apparently the one with his number is all he's getting today, and--
And no gun. No weapon of any kind. Just that thing again, of course it's that thing, and no gun. He scowls, and extracts the notebook from underneath another stack of bottles. It's empty, not his, but it might come in handy, anyway. Because the network--
"So whose fault is space?" he types into his comm device, but it doesn't seem to want to transmit. An automated welcome and a whole lot of static, that's what he's getting out of this so far. Shaking his head Philip pockets the device, anyway. Leaves both books, thank you very much. (Alice in Wonderland? Did he really need that reminder?) He'll take one of those bottles though, just in case. Just for later, he reminds himself grudgingly, because this is starting to strike him as the sort of situation he should probably investigate a bit further before drinking its existence away entirely....
[ #3 ] Escape From New Yorkshire
Comforting as the permeating stench of whiskey might be, he should probably start looking around. He's dressed (for the occasion and little else) and about as ready as the situation will allow him to be. Asking around, see, that might be a plan too, but he's only so invested in going around silently with a 'Whose event is this?' note held up like a beggar looking for informative alms about the situation.
Instead the writing catches his eyes. 'Don't follow your tattoo numbers,' it suggests very helpfully, in as foreboding a colour as can be. Well, at least that settles things.
Philip leaves the locker room for the blue lifts, and follows his tattoo number to the forty-third floor.
[[ OTA, will match format! Here's my intro for some info on how Philip communicates & where he's just come from
and still thinks he is. ]]