Who: Chase and Cecilia What: The Anxious Adventures of Chase Hawthorne! ft. Cecilia! Where: The road into town/town When: Mid-morning
It had taken Chase a full hour to decide that he was willing to move from "his room" after his message had gone up. His watch had said 8:03am when he'd woken up, and 8:14am by the time he'd finished panicking long enough to notice the blinking light on the computer. He'd destroyed the camera again, as futile as it seemed after it's inexplicable regeneration. He'd even tried to throw it out the window, only to find it locked now. Other people were in the house, that much was obvious from the messages showing up on the screen. Other people in the same situation as himself. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. He hadn't known what to say, how to respond to anyone, but on some level he did know how he could help. The art program was basic, not that he'd had much experience with anything more than that on his own computer back home. When the map was finished he wasn't sure if it was legible enough to be understood, good enough to be used, but he at least felt as if he'd accomplished something important.
Then came the questions. After a while he'd simply walked away from the machine, checking the window one more time to find that it was unlatched this time. And out went the camera. He stood there for a moment, out at the roof he'd climbed over the day before, the same path he'd disappeared into. Were his belongings still in the library? He could get there again, he knew. He'd been the one to find them, to claim them. They were his now, the only things aside from what he was wearing that he could claim were so. Whoever was in charge obviously wanted him to stay, but he could at least bring what he wanted back, couldn't he? He'd feel better.
Necessity drew him toward the bathroom, and he found himself absolutely stunned by the interior for several moments before he began his hunt for cameras. None to be found. Was it too much to hope that whoever had thrown them in there had actually found a semblance of decency and given him privacy in that one space? Could he move his bedding in here?
He'd used the toilet and showered quickly, the wound in his thigh aching as the water hit it, even moreso after sliding his pants back on. It was bleeding again by the time he finished dressing, but he could do little with it without bandages. Upon exiting the bathroom, he eyed the window as if contemplating using it once more, but he didn't want to make his leg worse. That meant using the door.
He edged it open, glancing out into the hallway for the first time. The place looked larger on the inside than it had on the outside, for the few seconds he'd seen it. There was sound in the hall, voices, people in various rooms going about whatever it was they were doing, and he stepped quickly in the only direction available to him, until he saw the stairs. He felt tense as he descended, hoping that he could make it to the exit with no one noticing, or no one stopping him. Making it to the first floor, he could hear more voices now. A group had gathered in the room across the foyer, the smell of food permeating out of the doorway and causing his stomach to lurch with hunger. Part of him wanted to go in, to find something to take on the trip into town, but the idea of showing himself in front of so many people caused his whole body to cramp.
Instead, he headed out the front door as quietly as possible. It was strange seeing the road from this angle, having appeared on it out of the brush some ways down. He glanced back at the house, twice, before it disappeared behind a line of trees. About a quarter mile down the path he could see the spot where he'd emerged from the trees, his footprints still visible in the mud. He detoured into the brush not far from that area, glancing around at the ground with intent. This had been where he'd located his trusty stick, and he'd told the older man on the network. Why had he said that? It wasn't fair though, was it? It was one thing to be stuck in a place like this when you were young, when you could get around on your own, but for someone who needed help it felt plain evil. He wouldn't have to give it to the man in person, he could leave it somewhere, tell him where to get it.
As that thought crossed his mind he laid eyes on something suitable, reaching down for the stick that came up to his shoulder, prying off a few of the twigs that remained latching on in various places. He actually liked it better than the one he'd found the day before, but that stick had served him well. He couldn't abandon it, even if it was broken and too short to be used for walking now.