Post by deel on Jan 27, 2007 20:20:45 GMT
OOC: Yes, I have an account named Arterial Clotting. Art, for short. He woke up in the middle of Malton, in a junkyard - this bit of story is my imagining what happened just before then. If Art has any notable adventures afterwards, I'll post them here.
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He had a little one room apartment in Malton, bed, hot plate, sink. Not much else. Little else had been needed. Just a bookshelf. It, and its contents, were the things he most valued.
Once. It had been a long time since he had bothered with them. They hadn't seemed important in a long time.
He had gone outside to investigate when the noise had started. The running and sirens. Then the naked man had run around. He hadn't seen the threat in a naked man. He hadn't run - he wanted to show people that just because a man was naked was no reason to be scared of him.
Then the man had bitten him.
He had gone back to his apartment. He had called emergency services. They were engaged. He had stopped breathing by the time they got to his call.
The blood had started to coagulate in his arteries when he awoke. He didn't know that, of course - all he knew was that he was stiff.
He stirred. He arose. Slowly. He looked around the room. There was no food in it.
He looked at the window. It wasn't food, so it didn't interest him.
He looked at the door. It wasn't food, so it didn't interest him. The knob tickled memory that connected with food, but the tickle was gone by the time he could focus on it.
Connections formed in his mind, but they would no longer stay, no longer cohere into patterns of thought. There was food. He was hungry.
But there was no food in the room he occupied. So he didn't go anywhere.
The noises outside got bits of his attention, but they weren't food either. Sirens. Shots.
If he had remained there long enough, he might have been permanently inert, his brain so atrophied that no stimulus would have gotten a response. But before that happened, the doorknob rattled.
He looked at it.
From beyond the door there were voices. "Locked. Bust it in?"
"Sure. Might be standing water, and gotta be shelter."
The door began to make noises. He looked at it.
The door opened with a noise like a shot. And beyond the doorway, he saw them.
Before, he would have known them to be a man and two women. But to his present sight they glowed with a kind of heavenly radiance - it was like the sun was shining past the doorway, rippling with life-giving heat, pouring power and wonder into the door like a sign. And he knew what the sign was.
It was food.
He stepped forward.
"Shit! Another one!" The man threw a gun at him. He didn't notice it, didn't gather that if they were down to throwing guns, they had no ammunition. No way to hurt him. Being hurt didn't even enter his mind. He wasn't quite to the point of calculating anything like self-preservation.
He wanted the food. He was very hungry.
He reached the door - the sun was receding, fading into the weirdly dirty background that was his world. Then a part of it fell away from the rest, wonderful food slipping on the debris that had coated the hallway floor until it crashed down at his feet.
He reached out towards it. It was wonderful, hooking his fingers into that beautiful light. It's very presence was an inexpressible comfort, and it seemed to actually flow up his arms to his mouth. He heard the screams, the bubbling gasps, the horrified pleas and astonished blasphemies, but they meant nothing to him. His brain couldn't interpret such sounds. His brain was tuned to a single set of stimuli.
The food coursed down his throat.
As he ate, his new-made metabolism altered, quickened. His brain was faintly restored; soon, with another meal or two, he would be thinking coherently again, though not nearly as well as he had before. Soon, his body would begin to harden, thicken. His hands would be heavy and his tooth enamel would take on an almost crystalline quality, despite the rot that would make its permanent home therein.
But he knew nothing of that. All he knew was that after a few bites, the light was gone. The matter that lay before him was like the rest of the world - mass, form, dirty substance from which the light had gone. Even when it began to move, there was no light of food to be found. Just something else.
But now the door was open. Now the way was clear.
His newly quickened mind perceived that if there was no food here, perhaps there was some elsewhere.
He arose, and his journey began.
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He had a little one room apartment in Malton, bed, hot plate, sink. Not much else. Little else had been needed. Just a bookshelf. It, and its contents, were the things he most valued.
Once. It had been a long time since he had bothered with them. They hadn't seemed important in a long time.
He had gone outside to investigate when the noise had started. The running and sirens. Then the naked man had run around. He hadn't seen the threat in a naked man. He hadn't run - he wanted to show people that just because a man was naked was no reason to be scared of him.
Then the man had bitten him.
He had gone back to his apartment. He had called emergency services. They were engaged. He had stopped breathing by the time they got to his call.
The blood had started to coagulate in his arteries when he awoke. He didn't know that, of course - all he knew was that he was stiff.
He stirred. He arose. Slowly. He looked around the room. There was no food in it.
He looked at the window. It wasn't food, so it didn't interest him.
He looked at the door. It wasn't food, so it didn't interest him. The knob tickled memory that connected with food, but the tickle was gone by the time he could focus on it.
Connections formed in his mind, but they would no longer stay, no longer cohere into patterns of thought. There was food. He was hungry.
But there was no food in the room he occupied. So he didn't go anywhere.
The noises outside got bits of his attention, but they weren't food either. Sirens. Shots.
If he had remained there long enough, he might have been permanently inert, his brain so atrophied that no stimulus would have gotten a response. But before that happened, the doorknob rattled.
He looked at it.
From beyond the door there were voices. "Locked. Bust it in?"
"Sure. Might be standing water, and gotta be shelter."
The door began to make noises. He looked at it.
The door opened with a noise like a shot. And beyond the doorway, he saw them.
Before, he would have known them to be a man and two women. But to his present sight they glowed with a kind of heavenly radiance - it was like the sun was shining past the doorway, rippling with life-giving heat, pouring power and wonder into the door like a sign. And he knew what the sign was.
It was food.
He stepped forward.
"Shit! Another one!" The man threw a gun at him. He didn't notice it, didn't gather that if they were down to throwing guns, they had no ammunition. No way to hurt him. Being hurt didn't even enter his mind. He wasn't quite to the point of calculating anything like self-preservation.
He wanted the food. He was very hungry.
He reached the door - the sun was receding, fading into the weirdly dirty background that was his world. Then a part of it fell away from the rest, wonderful food slipping on the debris that had coated the hallway floor until it crashed down at his feet.
He reached out towards it. It was wonderful, hooking his fingers into that beautiful light. It's very presence was an inexpressible comfort, and it seemed to actually flow up his arms to his mouth. He heard the screams, the bubbling gasps, the horrified pleas and astonished blasphemies, but they meant nothing to him. His brain couldn't interpret such sounds. His brain was tuned to a single set of stimuli.
The food coursed down his throat.
As he ate, his new-made metabolism altered, quickened. His brain was faintly restored; soon, with another meal or two, he would be thinking coherently again, though not nearly as well as he had before. Soon, his body would begin to harden, thicken. His hands would be heavy and his tooth enamel would take on an almost crystalline quality, despite the rot that would make its permanent home therein.
But he knew nothing of that. All he knew was that after a few bites, the light was gone. The matter that lay before him was like the rest of the world - mass, form, dirty substance from which the light had gone. Even when it began to move, there was no light of food to be found. Just something else.
But now the door was open. Now the way was clear.
His newly quickened mind perceived that if there was no food here, perhaps there was some elsewhere.
He arose, and his journey began.