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Entrance post
Oct. 9th, 2010 08:18 am( When is it all going to be over? )
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.
The first thing she notices is that the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees: goosebumps prickle across her arms and belly as the cool air meets the thin sheen of sweat on her skin brought on by the Louisiana heat and humidity that has so strangely vanished; the second that the air is still with the sort of insulated quiet that comes from being inside a large building. The peepers have ceased their chirping, the hum of insects has cut off as if on cue.
Lowering the shotgun, she gives a curious, cursory glance to the computer which hums nearby, then turns her attention, every sense painfully focused, to the wooden door leading out. Her footfalls are as quiet as she can make them, but the room into which the door opens is nothing more than a lobby, holding nothing more than an elegantly fashioned desk, similar to the one she'd seen at the hotel in Dallas. Out of the corner of her eye she can see elevators, numbers lit and flickering, while to the other side she notes more doors, hears some faint background noise. The door swings shut behind her and she has an instant of consternation before her instincts take over, thankfully shutting out panic. All the adrenaline from the last few weeks and the knowledge that the wolves are coming for her floods her system - she's strung tight, her body singing like a taut wire and trembling with reaction.
What is this?
A glimmer from the desk catches her eye; leaning over it, she looks at the screen set into the wood with lifted eyebrows. Almost delicately, she sets the palm of her free hand on the cool glass, and jumps back in surprise when it begins to glow at her touch, forming words.
WELCOME TO OUTPOST 12, SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.
