![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
It's like a movie, it's a B-movie show
Jul. 28th, 2014 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
workisplay
[ Things had started simply- a visit to Inaba to see Rise and all of her friends. He liked her friends, hung out with them when he could. He'd actually been featured briefly on the local news for helping out with the face painting at a festival in town.
Rise had been furious with him, told him he was careless, though he never did find out why.
That was days ago. He doesn't know where he is or how he got there, and even though he keeps trying to tell himself that this place can't be real, part of him knows it must be. The air is thick with fog, and every passing day it gets harder to breathe, harder to think. He doesn't dare wander out of the room he's in, it seems to be the only safe place here. There are things in the hallways.
The building, he thinks, must be some kind of warehouse. It reminds him a little of JT's studio, only viewed through the lens of Sam Raimi or Ridley Scott. It's dark, dank, full of dismembered limbs, both human and non, masks of every size, shape and species and defunct mannequins in piles. There's liquid latex running down walls in fat, slimy globs and steam curling in the corners to mix with the fog. It would almost be cool, if not for the occasional casket. The occasional fire-ravaged American flag, drooping sadly from the ceiling.
He thinks that he must also be going crazy, because he keeps seeing someone who looks like him. A perfect doppelganger, if not for the bright yellow eyes and the hateful sneer on his face. His hand is hurting again, the old wound flaring up something awful. He can't move his fingers.
God damn it, he thought he was over this. ]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
