Who: Billy [Narrative] When: Morning, 8 a.m. Where: Mansion
This was it. This was a real situation that he was stuck in, and not some hazy alcohol dream that Tony was going to wake him up from any moment now. Forty-Eight hours of living it later, Billy was finally starting to accept the idea that he had to deal with this.
Granted, he wasn't entirely sure what this entailed. He hadn't earnestly ventured out of the room he'd spent the entire previous day stuck in; solely because he hadn't wanted to touch anything. It was sparsely furnished with no decoration, which echoed a certain eerie familiarity with his own apartment in St. Louis. What little time he had spent there was filled mostly with comfortable, minimalistic silence. He didn't like kitsch; he didn't like clutter, so it was similarly empty and barren space. He hadn't felt any particular attachment to it until he was rent from it and trapped here. Now this room mocked him, as if to point out how easily his emptiness could be pantomimed.
He growled and fought down the urge to put his fists and feet through every blank, white wall stoically staring at him.
The first order of business was to rise from the bed, where he had turned the sheets into a wrecked mess from fitful sleep. It was early; it felt early anyway. He usually had a pretty good sense of time, and sunlight wasn't yet glaring through the gaps of the curtains. Quickly, he pulled his sweatshirt and sweatpants back on, along with his socks and shoes. For now, he left his jacket and cap where he'd thrown them on the floor. Billy kept his steps slow and light as he crossed the room to try the door again. Still locked. He wasn't surprised, but he still wanted to spit.
The computer on the simple, white desk blinked at him insistently as it had been since he awoke in this strange place. He wasn't entirely sure if it was inattentiveness or its ugly cousin, willful ignorance, that had lead him to leave it undisturbed this long. He liked to think that maybe it was a sense of propriety instilled in him long ago. By now, what had been and continued to be a docile blink felt like a wailing alarm, and he settled his large body down onto the equally simple, white chair (with a moment of unease as he worried his bulk might break the spindly thing).
He read the message. He read it again. Like a square peg refusing to be rammed into a circle hole, the information just didn't seem to want to sink into his brain. Billy glowered at the screen, but it remained impassive to his feelings of discontent and merely offered him what appeared to be a test when he closed the message box. Billy's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Tony liked to remind him that he wasn't a sharp knife, he was a meat cleaver.
Hunger roiled in his gut; he hadn't eaten at all yesterday. It instilled a certain sense of urgency in him as he stared at the screen in abject horror. If today was anything like yesterday, he supposed he have to do this. He read the questions. He earnestly tried to think his way through them for roughly half the questions before he lost all hope and started going with his gut instinct. He wasn't a smart guy, he knew that. They might as well know it too, whoever they were. In his defense, it was hard to think with his stomach screaming for some kind of nutrition. After that, it directed him to the Network. With an inelegant hunt and peck, he poked out an entry.
what the fuck is going on
With that settled, he went and tried the door again. This time, miraculously and mercifully, it opened. Billy let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. Slowly, he peeked out into the hallway. There weren't any sounds. It didn't seem like anyone else was awake. He'd heard other people, other activity, the days preceding. He had avoided any potential interactions out of uncertainty. Now, without any other signs of life in his immediate vicinity, he felt safe enough to step out into the open.
It took him way longer than he would've admitted to find the kitchen. Trying to move quietly and stealthily through such an enormous place was taking a lot more time than he had the patience for. When he finally found it, he practically sobbed. A few furtive glances down nearby hallways later and he was rooting through the cabinets, pantries, and fridge to take anything he could eat quickly and without preparation. He wasn't a picky eater, but he was hungry.
It took him just as long, if not longer, to find his way back to "his" room.