|Repose Remembers (reposeremembers) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-04-18 09:17:00
|Entry tags:||tory wyler, zee larsen, ~plot: memories|
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing
Warning, this memory contains: A government cover up?
You've barely pulled on your coat, checking the pockets to make sure nothing has been stolen (pens are a hot commodity, even though there's a bloody cupboard full of them) when your manager is in the room. You turn to greet her, the few people who were in work before you do the same, but her face isn't one that welcomes joviality.
She looks at you, then at one of your colleagues, Dennis, who is currently sat at his microtome, already covered in thin slithers of wax.
"Come with me, please-"
You and Dennis look at each other, then around the room at everyone else, all of you wracking your brains to try and work out what it is the pair of you have done to warrant that expression.
Both of you walk down the small corridor behind her, like kids being taken to the principal. Two rooms down to the Ice Box. You feel a cold swoop in your stomach that's both fright and excitement, now wondering who or what it is that's going to be on the slab.
She pulls on a mask and gloves from the boxes beside the door- masks are usually neglected, you don't wear masks unless you know you've got a contaminant of sorts. But two more are taken, and you and Dennis dress up to the nines.
"Everything that happens in here stays between us," your manager whispers to you hurriedly. "If you breathe a word to anyone then you'll be out of here and straight to a secured facility-"
Dennis starts to laugh, but even without seeing her face you know it's not a joke. Both of you agree, nod, and after a long moment she opens the door.
Two people are standing in there in full haz-mat suits. A body is on the slab, but the strangers seem to be guarding it.
They look you both up and down.
"Everything that happens in here stays in this room," one of them, their deep voice indicating they're male, repeats. "Any breech and you will be taken seriously and you will be secured in a government facility until we have repaired any damage."
That sounds less funny.
You're both beckoned to stand around the table, the body still covered in it's white sheet. It's an odd shape, though, and you know Dennis has noted that, too. It's not what a cadaver normally looks like.
Your manager has gone to lean against the drawers, arms across her chest, protective and defensive.
The (confirmed) male stranger pulls back the sheet with no flourish or ceremony. Dennis takes a startled step backwards, making a sound of shock. You feel blood drain from you, seeming to settle in your feet if your lack of ability to move is anything to go by.
That's a fucking werewolf.