WHO: Cato and Regina Mills (!dice) WHAT: Floating...and hating it. WHEN: Sunday afternoon WHERE: In the corridors WARNINGS: Cato. STATUS: Closed, Ongoing
Well, wasn't this just awesome. Cato actually couldn't think of superlatives strong enough for the train in this moment, and although every swearword he could think of was running laps in his brain, he was too tired to actually articulate any of them.
Yes. Tired.
For the past...who the fuck knew how many hours, he'd been trying to make his way from his room down to the kitchen to get something to eat. This should have been an easy thing, usually not even provoking Cato's rage. But that was before the train had decided to screw with gravity. Instead of this just being an easy walk to get some food, it had turned into an athletic contest to see how well he could pull himself and push himself from door to door, and how well his fingers could hold on to the tiniest fissures in the metal.
So far, he'd made it one car. And while he wasn't sure he'd ever been quite this angry before, he just couldn't summon the energy to bitch about it. And anyway, he hadn't run into anyone yet he could bitch about with. He wanted to just lay down and rest...but that would mean floating back...who the hell knew how far.
So he just kept going, trying to convince himself that the pain and the exhaustion was just making him stronger - that's what his trainers in Two would have said, anyway.