His head pounded like a warp drive jump had gone wrong, his mouth tasted like he'd swallowed someone's post-gym-funked t-shirt, and he'd be damned if he could see anything other than streaks of light across his vision.
What in the eight moon cycles of Nalin was in that drink?
It'd only been one. It wasn't supposed to have even been that strong. The only thing Roan West knew for certain: he'd lost the card game. Vaguely, he recalled a taxi hover...he was reasonably certain he hadn't called for it himself. He wasn't waking up from a black-out on the floor of his fellow Protectors' den, either, hadn't bunked at the Academy, wasn't in any bed he recognized unless someone had thought dropping him in a cryo-pod would be funny. No...Serventus wouldn't have chucked me in the freezer like some common drunktank inmate. Too much class for that. And...taxi...so...where... He blinked some more, willing the sluggish thoughts to be more coherent, rich brown eyes unable to make sense of what definitely wasn't cryonics tech and what couldn't possibly be a high-profile transport unit.
Unsure how far he could push himself when it felt like moving would make the world spin, he began easy. Roan tested the sensations in his bare toes first, rolled too-heavy ankles slightly and both heard the overloud hush of familiar fabric and felt it slide over taut calves. That more than anything clued him in to the fact that this particular prank wasn't the brainchild of one of his fellow warriors--he was still wearing the cream and aqua meditation pants he'd begun the night with.
His shirt was gone.
That was unfortunate, as he'd had a few weapons tucked away that might help him jimmy the top off of the container he appeared to have bedded down in. Or been stashed in. That eerie addendum to his thought process made his skin crawl.
A shadow fell over the light and dimmed the glare, a figure, a person or android of some kind; soft susurrus sounds penetrated the translucent plas material overhead.
Well...that's certainly unusual.
It was also contributing to the queasy sensation of foreboding in his gut. A prank would be over by now, some loon or another giving up the game before it had fully played out. So if this wasn't a prank, then...Gingerly, he twisted his wrists where his hands lay flat over his abs. Found them as heavy as his ankles. Novae take it--what am I wearing? Black eyebrows went up and he slowly moved his hands out to the sides of the unit. Roan pressed his palms to the cool surface even as the voice overhead continued its soothing murmur. Rather than immediately confront the unknown, he noted the lack of an immediate threat and took a deep breath. Centering himself further, he registered a soft pad beneath his form, presently long black locks tangled in his stubble in such a way that he couldn't puff out a breath to blow them free, the press of his bun flattened against the crest of his head.
At least wherever he was, he wasn't bleeding, and his wits were finally starting to come together. Shapes and shadows were beginning to take form, track lighting overhead on a rail or embedded in the ceiling, a slim figure coming into focus, colors playing games with his head...
"Hello?" he ventured, "Who's out there?"
What in the eight moon cycles of Nalin was in that drink?
It'd only been one. It wasn't supposed to have even been that strong. The only thing Roan West knew for certain: he'd lost the card game. Vaguely, he recalled a taxi hover...he was reasonably certain he hadn't called for it himself. He wasn't waking up from a black-out on the floor of his fellow Protectors' den, either, hadn't bunked at the Academy, wasn't in any bed he recognized unless someone had thought dropping him in a cryo-pod would be funny. No...Serventus wouldn't have chucked me in the freezer like some common drunktank inmate. Too much class for that. And...taxi...so...where... He blinked some more, willing the sluggish thoughts to be more coherent, rich brown eyes unable to make sense of what definitely wasn't cryonics tech and what couldn't possibly be a high-profile transport unit.
Unsure how far he could push himself when it felt like moving would make the world spin, he began easy. Roan tested the sensations in his bare toes first, rolled too-heavy ankles slightly and both heard the overloud hush of familiar fabric and felt it slide over taut calves. That more than anything clued him in to the fact that this particular prank wasn't the brainchild of one of his fellow warriors--he was still wearing the cream and aqua meditation pants he'd begun the night with.
His shirt was gone.
That was unfortunate, as he'd had a few weapons tucked away that might help him jimmy the top off of the container he appeared to have bedded down in. Or been stashed in. That eerie addendum to his thought process made his skin crawl.
A shadow fell over the light and dimmed the glare, a figure, a person or android of some kind; soft susurrus sounds penetrated the translucent plas material overhead.
Well...that's certainly unusual.
It was also contributing to the queasy sensation of foreboding in his gut. A prank would be over by now, some loon or another giving up the game before it had fully played out. So if this wasn't a prank, then...Gingerly, he twisted his wrists where his hands lay flat over his abs. Found them as heavy as his ankles. Novae take it--what am I wearing? Black eyebrows went up and he slowly moved his hands out to the sides of the unit. Roan pressed his palms to the cool surface even as the voice overhead continued its soothing murmur. Rather than immediately confront the unknown, he noted the lack of an immediate threat and took a deep breath. Centering himself further, he registered a soft pad beneath his form, presently long black locks tangled in his stubble in such a way that he couldn't puff out a breath to blow them free, the press of his bun flattened against the crest of his head.
At least wherever he was, he wasn't bleeding, and his wits were finally starting to come together. Shapes and shadows were beginning to take form, track lighting overhead on a rail or embedded in the ceiling, a slim figure coming into focus, colors playing games with his head...
"Hello?" he ventured, "Who's out there?"
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
The following 3 users Like danixiewrites's post: megs, SolitareLee, Tindome
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