Damon Lawrence
Location:
Unknown - but aesthetically pleasing - hotel roomInteracting with:
Himself
As he was very often accustomed to at this stage in his life, Damon awoke in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a rather strange headache.
Well, headaches were usual, but not this one; it certainly hadn't come about from drinking or drugs; he knew those effects well enough to know the difference. Nor had it come from a concussion. It was a strange, fuzzy sort of thing that filled his ears, only passing once he had sat up from the bed with a groan, and rubbed the bleariness from his eyes. And once the fog passed, he realised just how odd his surroundings were... along with his apparent memory loss.
"Hell... I wasn't even partying. How did I go from getting an Indian to... here?" It was quite the predicament – not only that, but he had never received his tikka masala, and his stomach was paying the price for it. Ignoring the rumblings from his bowels for the moment, Damon got up from the bed, looking at the room properly. It was tastefully decorated; dark tones, decent wallpaper... there were hints from the 40's, 50's and 60's around the room, and yet, they all matched together perfectly well, despite the wild differences between the decades.
Noticing a slip of paper on the bedside table, Damon grasped it with a raised, quizzical eyebrow; if this was a kidnapping, they were going out of their way to make him comfortable. Decorations that matched his interests, comfortable bed... all he was missing was his curry.
The Grand Hotel and Casino of Saint Epipodius
Dear whatever individual(s),
Welcome to our not-so-humble establishment! Within your rooms you will find everything to make you feel at home, but don't get too comfortable! A meeting in regards to your current kidnappee status will begin at 8PM sharp, in the main foyer. Snacks will be available there, or at your room while you wait.
The note was short, to the point, and tastefully decorated with delicate swirls and a fancy, handwritten font in gold. Damon was now perfectly certain he
had been kidnapped, but the vague manner in which the note had addressed him gave him the impression he was not alone. Perhaps more people in other rooms? Ignoring yet another grumble in the depth of his stomach, Damon stifled a smile as he made his way to the door... any other person would be frightened, but what could he say? Was there anything more exciting than being taken by mysterious individuals – especially ones who were so blatant in the crime they had committed?
Except, he was stopped in his storming of the door when a familiar aroma hit his nose – sweet, spicy, and unmistakable from his favourite takeaway down the street. Turning on his heel, Damon's eyebrows raised once again; this time in surprise, and perhaps even disbelief. There, upon the table near the window, was a takeaway carton of curry. The exact same one he had been craving all day, the one he had just been thinking about...
And yet, it had not been there just ten seconds ago.
"I wonder..." He murmured, rocking slightly on his heels. Shrugging his shoulders – and deciding his day would likely be getting more odd as it progressed whether he liked it or not, Damon pointed at the table.
"I'm gasping for a smoke?" His tone was questioning, almost hopeful – because he was, in fact, missing his cigarettes. By the looks of the clock in the room – 7:55 – he'd lost a good five hours of his day. Either that, or he was in a different timezone. Either way one looked at it, that was far too long in his eyes to be without his daily intake of tobacco and nicotine.
And then all of a sudden, there they were. Not appearing with a poof or a pop, just suddenly... existing. A packet of Marlboros, his current favourite, and a matchbox next to it.
"Well then... not your usual kidnapping." Although not complaining, his curiosity spiked further; grabbing the newest magically appearing items (He gave the curry a forlorn sort of look before leaving it; didn't want to keep his mysterious kidnappers waiting, after all), he lit a cigarette before exiting his room.
Before him was your typical long hotel corridor; not decorated in the same style as he had admired, but in a neutral, somewhat bland modern style. There were more doors, a lack of natural light, and that usual quiet, eerie feeling one got in cramped spaces lit by fluorescents. At the far end was a wall, and the other, a lift. No alcoves, no stairs, no adjacent corridors. All there were was doors... and Damon had the distinct feeling he would find some comrades behind them.
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