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

[goodforsomething]

[There is a moment of shocked silence. Then Stan clutches at his chest and bursts out loudly.]

........you son of a bitch! Give us all a goddamn heart attack, why don't ya? [HE IS SO RELIEVED]

[notjustawriter]

[God, he doesn't really know what the fuck to think right now.]

Sorry about that, Stan.

[goodforsomething]

You better be! Pull that again and I'll kill you myself.

[Stan sighs heavily, passing a hand over his face to help compose himself. He's too old to deal with this shit.]

Go get some water, kid, let the doc check ya out. We'll take care of...this. [whatever this is]