"Fuck this." The Musician says with a sigh, walking alongside the Laborer on his way to the boltcutters. Not quite so filled with resolve as his companion, the Musician sits down on the cot slowly, cracking his lower back with a twist and settling into a laying recline.

"I'm done. I'll stay here. I'm too old for this shit." He instinctively fishes a bottle-opener keychain from his right pocket and a small orange bottle of pills from his left. If the others were watching his face, they would see small tears welling up in his eyes. He sits up abruptly, unsatisfied with the comfort of the cot, and looks around the shelves, unscrewing his bottle and popping a pair of pills into his mouth before placing the little orange bottle back in his pocket. After a moment's search, he finds a sixpack of Logger's Lager and pulls one out, opening it with the bottle opener and washing down his pills before returning to lay on the cot, placing his beer on the floor. He turns over to face the wall, crossing his arms.

"I'll just die here, I think." He mutters, trying to nestle himself into a comfortable position.

He turns back around, reaching down and grabbing his Logger's Lager for another swig, when he is gripped by a sudden terror.

[b][color=black]"Take a load off, get comfortable."[/color][/b] A voice in his mind that is not his own says. He drops the bottle in his panic and it shatters against the hard floor. He lets out a yelp of terror, and attempts to push himself further back into the wall than his physical presence will allow.

"I'm freakin' out, man. I'm sorry." His tears are now more visible.

[b][color=black]"Let's crack a couple open, baby."[/color][/b]

"Jeez, I'm freakin' out. I don't think anybody should be drinking. Aw, Christ."

The Musician turns over in the cot again, trying to feebly wrap himself with the wool blanket and shut his eyes to the fear gripping him.
 
>Escape