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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. It's the lack of windows, she realized. Not being able to tell what time of day it is makes short work of anyone's sanity. 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.

With everyone now freed from their chains, the Typist turned her attention to the small purse hanging off her shoulder. She ran her fingers lightly over the soft brown leather, allowing herself a moment to wonder for the first time since awakening why she couldn't remember even her own name, let alone how she had gotten into this predicament. She hoped that maybe something in the purse would stir her memory, but found no revelations inside- only, to her immense relief, her pair of wire framed glasses. She lifted them to her eyes, and the gray haze surrounding her finally came into focus. The relief was tempered by revulsion as she was now able to see the grimy room in all its disgusting detail, and a quick scan of the cramped space revealed no apparent doors or windows. The typist was far past ready to move on from this oppressive room, and it seemed the others felt the same. Not wanting to spend a second longer here, she joined the men in their frantic search for an exit.

Where was the way out?

The Typist hesitantly wriggled her bare toes under the rug, almost immediately recoiling in disgust. This one was noticeably damp, and upon closer inspection, spotted with mold. She inhaled a shaky breath of stale air, and then plunged back in. The underside of the rug clung to her skin, cold and oily, but she had to go further. Reaching as far as she could stretch from her chains, the typist thought for a moment that she would find nothing-- and then, finally, the bottom of her foot brushed up against something small, something metal. Her heart leaping in her chest, she frantically grasped at it, grabbing hold of its rounded edge with her toes. She started to pull it out, ever so carefully, when she became aware of an alarming sensation:

Something was moving.

The typist yanked her foot back, but not before six swift legs scaled her ankle, and dashed up her leg. She flung the roach off in one violent jerk, and five more flooded out from under the rug, disappearing into the shadowy corners of the room. The sound of their chitinous legs scuttling atop the rugs rang cacophonously in her aching head, and her breaths were wheezing out between tightly clenched teeth. But she had the key.

Suddenly aware of the men in her company staring, the typist shuddered and feebly announced, "I found a key." Eager to be free of her chains, she wasted no time in reaffirming her grip on it, and slowly lifted her foot up to her cuffed hands. All those years at the office in front of a keyboard had not made her more flexible, and the muscles in her thigh bitterly protested as she stretched her leg up over her head-- but after a few moments of awkward maneuvering, she could just barely grasp the end of the rusted key. She angled it in the direction of the padlock, her wrist bent uncomfortably but her hand steady and firm, and with a twist and a soft click, the cuffs clattered to the ground.

The newly freed woman took a moment to rub her sore, tingling wrists, before turning to the old man next to her. She felt a pang of pity at his feeble escape attempt earlier, and hoped that all of their locks were the same. She approached the old man's cuffs with the rusty key.

The Typist observed the old man and the smoker in silent contempt. Neither the noisy thrashing nor the smoke were doing her splitting headache any favors. Why the younger man even had enough slack to his chains to light a cigarette, she couldn't begin to guess-- both herself and the old man were shackled tightly to the wall, hands hanging above their heads. Already beginning to lose feeling in her stiff arms, the typist scanned the room desperately for any sign of a way out of the chains. Alas, everything more than a few inches away from her face was a blur, and the typist remembered that she wasn't wearing her glasses. Hoping they were in her purse which, miraculously, was still hanging off her shoulder-- but realizing, with a twinge of panic, that it wouldn't matter if she couldn't free her hands-- the typist kicked off one of her black penny loafers and started to feel around blindly with her foot.

The carpets were repugnant. Even without her vision, the typist could tell she was allowing her skin to come into contact with a dozen different varieties of filth. But she kept going. The typist suspected that whoever had brought her here, they didn't want her to just die in this room. She had a feeling someone was trying to punish her.

There had to be a key.

The Typist

Physical strength: 1
Mental strength: 6
Emotional strength: 2
Motor skills: 6
Psychic strength: 1

x1 Purse (3 Inventory Slots)
x1 Pen
x1 SkinnyGal Oatmeal-Bar (Chocolate)
x1 Hydrex Mint Gum (Half)
x1 Bottle of Water (Half)
x2 Paper Napkins
hello! i am looking forward to this roleplay as it will be my first if i am accepted, do you know when those of us who applied will have applications accepted/rejected?
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