Concept
Floating through the hazy void of neurons waking up from an unexpected sleep, Jack noticed blinking through the thin skin of his eyelids.
Red. White. Red. White. What was this?
And why did his bed feel so stiff?
He was lying in an uncomfortable position, as if he was bunched up somehow. A mental check-up on his physique immediately told him that something was off about one of his legs. A weird aching in the left one, to be precise. It still seemed to function, although there was a definite dull stabbing whenever he tried to move it. And the lights in front of his face were unforgiving, constantly changing at a fast pace, bringing him closer and closer to consciousness until he eventually opened his eyes. Immediately he registered two things.
Firstly, he realized why his bed was so hard. It wasn't his bed, at all; rather, he was lying belly-down on the cool, smooth floor. Secondly, the origin of the light. There, just an inch or two away from his face, was the small, holographic rectangle projecting from the wristband he was issued upon stepping foot onto C-10. It was used to contact housekeeping, message other C-10 occupants, change the music stations in the fitness room, and other important and/or miscellaneous actions of the like - including keeping track of all vitals and physical statuses of the wearer. Switching from its red and white backgrounds, the screen alerted him:
The message provided a harsh contrast from the rest of his surroundings, which were all bathed in darkness save for what light reflected off their white surfaces from the hologram. Whatever the emotions or thoughts that were dancing around in Jack's mind, he became certain of yet another thing as he considered his environment; he was, for some currently unknown reason, inside the closet of the fitness room. It was home to unused equipment and a few broken ones, as well as a first-aid kit that has yet to be touched.
Try as he might, our Mr. Cunningham can't remember how or why he was stuffed into this familiar but usually irrelevant space. Or what had caused this injury that his wristband was so eagerly going on about.
Suddenly there was a scuffing noise from outside of the door. It continued, until it stopped, sounding as if it had halted right outside of the closet. And then -
Knock knock.
Red. White. Red. White. What was this?
And why did his bed feel so stiff?
He was lying in an uncomfortable position, as if he was bunched up somehow. A mental check-up on his physique immediately told him that something was off about one of his legs. A weird aching in the left one, to be precise. It still seemed to function, although there was a definite dull stabbing whenever he tried to move it. And the lights in front of his face were unforgiving, constantly changing at a fast pace, bringing him closer and closer to consciousness until he eventually opened his eyes. Immediately he registered two things.
Firstly, he realized why his bed was so hard. It wasn't his bed, at all; rather, he was lying belly-down on the cool, smooth floor. Secondly, the origin of the light. There, just an inch or two away from his face, was the small, holographic rectangle projecting from the wristband he was issued upon stepping foot onto C-10. It was used to contact housekeeping, message other C-10 occupants, change the music stations in the fitness room, and other important and/or miscellaneous actions of the like - including keeping track of all vitals and physical statuses of the wearer. Switching from its red and white backgrounds, the screen alerted him:
INJURY DETECTED
CONTACT MED BAY?
CONTACT MED BAY?
The message provided a harsh contrast from the rest of his surroundings, which were all bathed in darkness save for what light reflected off their white surfaces from the hologram. Whatever the emotions or thoughts that were dancing around in Jack's mind, he became certain of yet another thing as he considered his environment; he was, for some currently unknown reason, inside the closet of the fitness room. It was home to unused equipment and a few broken ones, as well as a first-aid kit that has yet to be touched.
Try as he might, our Mr. Cunningham can't remember how or why he was stuffed into this familiar but usually irrelevant space. Or what had caused this injury that his wristband was so eagerly going on about.
Suddenly there was a scuffing noise from outside of the door. It continued, until it stopped, sounding as if it had halted right outside of the closet. And then -
Knock knock.
