Eighth.

[trustharder]

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?

Comments

[isafraid]

[Speedwagon shouts in alarm! .... And then he just shouts.]

...Y-you're not dead?!

[notjustawriter]

Why would I be dead?

[isafraid]

Bloody hell, man...

[Gabriel, you have to give Speedwagon a chance to get his heart pumping again. Holy shit.]

Look at where you are! What is this?

[notjustawriter]

[Give him a bit to even process what the hell is going on right now.]

I was in here reading. I must have blacked out, I don't remember anything else.

[isafraid]

Blacked out, knocked out, is more like it!

[Those marks on his neck looked rather nasty... geeze.]

But... against all odds, we didn't find you dead today. [And he sounds pretty thankful for that.]