trusthell | Eighth.

Eighth.

Seven in the morning comes and goes as it always does – namely, loudly and a little obnoxiously, given the usual blaring of the klaxons. Today marks almost a full eight weeks since the Survivors awakened in the Vault; more than enough time for people to get used to how things tend to work around here on Fridays, and yet not so long that there isn't any hope that maybe (maybe) this Friday will be better.

The first-floor corridor is generally quiet, in that it's free of blood; however, there are some scattered books in the hallway, near the library.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it isn't.

It might be good to make sure, though, right?

>Explore?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[What the fuck

what the fuck

Its surprising enough that Bruce gasps and stumbles back, almost hitting one of the nearby shelves. His eyes are wide in shock.]

Gabriel?

[Gabriel sits up, looking a little light-headed, doesn't trust himself to move from the chair. He nods.]

Yeah. It's still me.

[He rubs at the bruise around his throat gingerly.]

[Okay

okay

Gabriel isn't dead. That's good.

Time to reorganize himself.]

...let's get you somewhere to rest first. Then we'll talk what happened.

Uh, maybe you should check the, uh, strangling marks first, make sure it won't kill him later or something.

[Mouri looks rather spacey right now, somehow. He literally just saw someone who seemed dead sit up as if nothing happened.

He is quite relieved about it but damn, he is shocked]

If he's alive enough to speak and remember his own name, it'll be enough for now. He probably should be in another room where we all won't crowd around him, anyway.

[Bruce is still pretty shocked as well but at least he's recovering quickly.]