Gritting his teeth against the dull throb in his shoulder blade, Jr. gingerly sat up, boots scraping alongside shards of dirty glass and rubble for purchase. The unfamiliar surroundings gave him pause and he craned his neck, intently studying the wreckage of the building he was currently in, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on edge. He knew immediately that, wherever he was, it wasn’t anywhere in Freya’s District. Wary, he pushed himself onto his feet, careful to avoid nicking himself on the broken glass, and struggled to recall how it was he came to be here. He’d just finished his talk with Nakama—a queer, bittersweet pang seized his heart at that memory—and had left his room, heading for the stairwell…
Eyebrows shooting into his hairline, he whirled around. Sure enough, at the top of a partially-decayed set of stairs, there was a door, the same door he had seen in the House. He’d come through the door, lost his footing, and had fallen into what looked like a basement. But that didn’t explain what the hell this place was, or where the damn door had come from. Determined to find out, Jr. grabbed the warped end of the railing, intending to hoist himself up onto the first whole step (the fifth), when the door suddenly vanished.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He climbed up onto the fifth step anyway, walking up the ruined stairs with caution as it groaned and trembled beneath his meager weight. When he reached the first floor landing, he waved a hand through the space the door had recently occupied, not all-together that surprised to find it hadn’t just turned invisible. Figured. Sighing, he brought his right wrist up and tried to turn on the communicator in his bracelet. No dice.
The weight of his gun in his other hand was a small comfort. Listening carefully, he began to make his way slowly down the hall, keeping his back to the wall.
“No way this is still Asgard,” he remarked to himself as he came upon a blown-out window, eyeing the architecture of the surrounding buildings. “The dragon didn’t do this much damage.” Considering his options, the redhead glanced around before vaulting through the window into the street. This was beginning to feel like those old zombie apocalypse vids he and Mary used to watch; Jr. smiled nervously to himself and cocked the gun, just to be safe.
It was five minutes of aimless walking later, paranoia driving him up a wall, that he thought he heard something. Leveling his pistol before him, he edged around a building, body tense. The sight of two figures at the other end of the street should have been a comfort, but when he lowered the gun, it wasn’t out of reassurance. He stared at the boys blankly, eyes wide, and felt his chest tightening painfully. A dream, then. He was dreaming.
But when he holstered the gun, he knew it was real.
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Eyebrows shooting into his hairline, he whirled around. Sure enough, at the top of a partially-decayed set of stairs, there was a door, the same door he had seen in the House. He’d come through the door, lost his footing, and had fallen into what looked like a basement. But that didn’t explain what the hell this place was, or where the damn door had come from. Determined to find out, Jr. grabbed the warped end of the railing, intending to hoist himself up onto the first whole step (the fifth), when the door suddenly vanished.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He climbed up onto the fifth step anyway, walking up the ruined stairs with caution as it groaned and trembled beneath his meager weight. When he reached the first floor landing, he waved a hand through the space the door had recently occupied, not all-together that surprised to find it hadn’t just turned invisible. Figured. Sighing, he brought his right wrist up and tried to turn on the communicator in his bracelet. No dice.
The weight of his gun in his other hand was a small comfort. Listening carefully, he began to make his way slowly down the hall, keeping his back to the wall.
“No way this is still Asgard,” he remarked to himself as he came upon a blown-out window, eyeing the architecture of the surrounding buildings. “The dragon didn’t do this much damage.” Considering his options, the redhead glanced around before vaulting through the window into the street. This was beginning to feel like those old zombie apocalypse vids he and Mary used to watch; Jr. smiled nervously to himself and cocked the gun, just to be safe.
It was five minutes of aimless walking later, paranoia driving him up a wall, that he thought he heard something. Leveling his pistol before him, he edged around a building, body tense. The sight of two figures at the other end of the street should have been a comfort, but when he lowered the gun, it wasn’t out of reassurance. He stared at the boys blankly, eyes wide, and felt his chest tightening painfully. A dream, then. He was dreaming.
But when he holstered the gun, he knew it was real.