ℱᴏʀᴛᴇsᴄᴜᴇ (blackmagus) wrote in astorias, @ 2014-04-09 02:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | * bracket, * prose, bethmora fortescue, elizabeth comstock (au) |
Here we stand, worlds apart
CITIZEN(S): Bethmora Fortescue
LOCATION: Abactius Institute
DATE: Day 5 (9th - 11th)
OPEN/CLOSED: Open!
BRACKETS OR PROSE: Either! Starting with prose.
Things are a little fuzzier than usual. That's her first thought. Fuzzier than a night of hitting whatever alcohol she'd procured, be it scotch or vodka or whiskey, and waking up with the sun in her eyes. Although, the fact remains that she can't remember if it was the alcohol that's completely frazzled her. That would require memory of details. She seems to be missing the last few hours, at least.
And considering she's woken up in what looks like an abandoned building, well... that must have been a hell of a thing.
Bethmora Fortescue's first, vaguely panicky thought is for her cat, but Jazz is sitting just a few feet away, sniffing at something on the floor. He seems all right. But is she? Why does her arm hurt more than the rest of her? She clicks her tongue, recalling her black cat back to her lap, where he looks at her with judgmental green eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," the former intelligence agent sighs. "I don't know anything more than you."
She can be glad that she's at least dressed for the occasion, in her dark longcoat and FoH uniform, rather than being dropped in unknown territory in a dress. Been there, done that, she thinks, standing up and ensuring that her boots are laced properly. Jazz in her arms, she shifts him to sit, parrot-like, on her shoulder, glad she can still feel the gun in her coat pocket, should there be a need for it. There may very well be.
On edge, Fortescue begins to move forward into the adjacent hall — and down, into the rest of the building. As she walks, she lifts up her sleeve and finds the odd wound there, bleeding. The... is it a mark? Just what in the Gate's name is going on? She pulls out her handkerchief and wraps it around her upper arm tightly, trying to stop some of the blood flow.
"Hello?" she calls, against what her gut screams at her to do — remain silent. "Is anyone there?"