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

[trustharder]

[There is not!]

[goodforsomething]

[AWESOME you know me and verifying blood. Stan picks it up, holding it up for the others in the room to see.]

Hey Gabe, is this yours?

[notjustawriter]

[He looks at the knife for a long moment.]

Nope, I've never gotten anything like that out of the vending machine.

[goodforsomething]

Someone else must've dropped it.

[Though, as they've covered before, vending machine evidence doesn't really...help with identifying people much.

Stan rises, still holding the knife, to scan the rest of the area. Did they drop anything anywhere else?]

[trustharder]

[It looks like whomever this didn't make the most careful or graceful of exits - the books from the hallway seem to come from a small pile near the door that got knocked over at some point.]

[goodforsomething]

[Stan goes over to pick up one of the remaining books, glancing over the rest of the pile. What kind of books are they?]