http://iamwinchester.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
iamwinchester.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxion2011-12-08 06:28 pm
iamwinchester.livejournal.com) wrote in ataraxion2011-12-08 06:28 pm
video; 001
[Of all the places Dean figured he’d wake up, submerged in a freaky Matrix-style pod filled with liquid wasn’t one of the top contenders. He’s woken up in far worse situations before and though that should be a comfort it’s not. All of this is supposed to be over...
What follows his rude re-entry into consciousness is a slick (literally) routine, old habits and what he knows mix, eyes, ears and hands checking out the entire medical bay. The scalpel he ends up with is more chance than anything and, though he’s got nowhere to stash it yet without risking serious injury, he keeps his grip on it tight. He has nothing else to go by aside from an itch inside his arm and it’s not until he twists it over to scratch that he reads the number tattooed into his skin. 124.
Another minute passes as he tries to figure out how stopping the apocalypse has anything to do with this, and he half considers the idea that he’s actually dead at least three times before the number and the lockers suddenly make sense. He finds 124 and opens it, stares inside at the weirdass Star Trek uniform and tries not to react to the keys he can see very clearly next to a lighter, a pack of beef jerky and his hunting knife. He’s not going to think about his baby, alone in a graveyard without him.
Once the uniform is grudgingly pulled on, his own belongings concealed in various places around his body, the device he doesn’t recognize is scooped up and flipped over twice in his hands, powered up and snorted at when it tells him to go to the blue lift. That ain’t happening anytime soon. Instead he’s messing around with every single button until he’s told he’s broadcasting to a network. Awesome.]
Who the hell’s in charge around here? And who wants to explain why I’ve got a number tattooed into my goddamn arm? I swear to that douche upstairs, if this has anythin’ to do with any of you feathery assholes I will kick your asses from here to... whatever.
I have no idea how I got here. I have a number in my arm and right now, for all I know, I’m in some kinda concentration camp for guys who the universe thought it hadn’t crapped on hard enough or long enough. Anybody with answers? I’ll trade you strips of my beef jerky for information. Maybe.
[The feed cuts out here, though anybody who’s anywhere close when he realizes where he is? Be prepared for expletives like you’ve never heard before.]
What follows his rude re-entry into consciousness is a slick (literally) routine, old habits and what he knows mix, eyes, ears and hands checking out the entire medical bay. The scalpel he ends up with is more chance than anything and, though he’s got nowhere to stash it yet without risking serious injury, he keeps his grip on it tight. He has nothing else to go by aside from an itch inside his arm and it’s not until he twists it over to scratch that he reads the number tattooed into his skin. 124.
Another minute passes as he tries to figure out how stopping the apocalypse has anything to do with this, and he half considers the idea that he’s actually dead at least three times before the number and the lockers suddenly make sense. He finds 124 and opens it, stares inside at the weirdass Star Trek uniform and tries not to react to the keys he can see very clearly next to a lighter, a pack of beef jerky and his hunting knife. He’s not going to think about his baby, alone in a graveyard without him.
Once the uniform is grudgingly pulled on, his own belongings concealed in various places around his body, the device he doesn’t recognize is scooped up and flipped over twice in his hands, powered up and snorted at when it tells him to go to the blue lift. That ain’t happening anytime soon. Instead he’s messing around with every single button until he’s told he’s broadcasting to a network. Awesome.]
Who the hell’s in charge around here? And who wants to explain why I’ve got a number tattooed into my goddamn arm? I swear to that douche upstairs, if this has anythin’ to do with any of you feathery assholes I will kick your asses from here to... whatever.
I have no idea how I got here. I have a number in my arm and right now, for all I know, I’m in some kinda concentration camp for guys who the universe thought it hadn’t crapped on hard enough or long enough. Anybody with answers? I’ll trade you strips of my beef jerky for information. Maybe.
[The feed cuts out here, though anybody who’s anywhere close when he realizes where he is? Be prepared for expletives like you’ve never heard before.]