quincy sparks ⚡️ [lincoln campbell] (carpentry) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2018-11-12 15:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, r * laura, r: quincy sparks |
WHO: Quincy Sparks
WHEN: November 12
WHERE: His workshop
SUMMARY: Quincy remembers HYDRA.
The room he woke up in was bright and cold, the bed underneath him too firm and the blanket itchy. He might have thought it was a prison, if not for the enormous glass wall separating him from tables full of computers. A man in a suit walked by but didn’t even spare him a glance. “Welcome back,” came a voice from the other side of the wall. It was familiar, but not one he knew well. As Lincoln talked to him - Mike, his name was - the pieces started to come together again: they’d gotten taken by HYDRA, they were in an undisclosed location with no one coming to get them. Lincoln knew what happened to people like him in HYDRA’s hands. It’d been burned into his mind from the moment he found out what he was. He knew what was going to happen. “So if we want out of here, we’ve gotta do it ourselves.” Equipment whirred on the other side of the glass, but still, no one paid them any attention. No one was listening. Except for Mike. A metal hatch in the ceiling opened up, revealing some sort of device -- but before Lincoln could get a good look, it emitted a pulse and he fell to the ground, unconscious. The small handheld sander in his hand was still on, slowly digging a deeper wedge into the piece of wood. Quincy blinked and shook his head, startled. He turned the tool off quickly, frowning at the notch he’d made in his design. His heart raced, threatening to gallop off and leave him behind. He was in his workshop, he told himself, not a small cell. Not a laboratory. He hadn’t seen anything at all since those last moments on the jet, far above Earth’s atmosphere. He didn’t know why he’d assumed that it was over, that even though he hadn’t seen every single moment of Lincoln’s life, death was a finality in the entire experience. That'd been wrong, of course, and he couldn't have felt more dense if he'd tried. There was so much more to see. He'd known that, and he'd let his guard down. He hadn’t expected any part of his job to draw more out, either, not when his life was so different from Lincoln’s. The only parts that overlapped were Violet (Daisy, he thought) and his alcoholism. He’d thought his job could be his safe haven, but maybe no place could be that for him. He leaned forward against the table, hanging his head slightly. A lock of hair fell into his sight line and he pushed it back. “Shit.” |