The Typist blinked a few times, feeling overwhelmed and somehow, even more disoriented at the revelation that they we were currently underground. Until now, the immediate shock, fear, and confusion of being chained to the wall and having no memory of getting there had distracted her from noticing what the stale air and floor made of soil had meant about their position. As this awareness settled in, the typist felt a painful tightening in her chest. This feeling of being trapped and confused was uncomfortably familiar. [i]It's the lack of windows,[/i] she realized. [i]Not being able to tell what time of day it is makes short work of anyone's sanity.[/i] But why did she know that? Alas, that was all the typist could conjure up from her murky memory. 

Trying to shake off this building anxiety, the typist surveyed the new room, eyes glancing over cans and boxes and sacks of whatnots. She didn't spare these a second thought. Her gaze stopped on the map. She wanted desperately to know where the hell she was in the world. More than that, she wanted to get out, now. The typist made a beeline for the map.

>Collect