Pro-protocol — -
Protocol — -
The room was quiet, but not silent. There was a tenseness to the space, a proverbial elephant in the room that could be felt with every step inside, beginning with some distance down the hall.
It was impossible to ignore, just like any elephant.
Crossing the threshold into the room meant noticing the table that had been roughly cleared of its decorations. What beautiful pattern of wood was merely a backdrop to a horribly done monochrome painting. The ink bottle rests on its side, pouring leftovers onto the once clean floor. But what does a clean floor matter now anyroad? It doesn’t.
The table’s surface has been the canvas of a rather large bird with an eye too big for its face. Anyone who knows birds could tell this was not the proper eye, either. This has a telltale menacing look to the narrow band of pupil, much unlike the round one it should’ve had. But it didn’t. And that wasn’t the cause for the feeling in the air. It was just a painting made upon a table with spilled ink.
But even here the air crackled, threatening and long gone. There was no storm here, not anymore. Only the leftover spicy tastes of levin.
The only other thing of note in the room was a Raen curled up near the beds, half tucked into one. What visions of the future plagued her were only secrets, for nothing coherent could be made out. Only mutterings.
A communicator rested nearby but by even an amateur’s glance it was fried, useless for anything but a paperweight. Wounds dried and tacky, her head twitched rhythmically as dim cinnamon eyes closed. There was a fire in her head behind her eyes, another caught roiling in her chest, and there was only J to scream in her head as she waited for anyone to show up.
Proto-protocol 0.
Siren, initiating Protocol-l-l-l 0.
Siren, rebooting system. Standby-y-y-y.
P-p-p-pro-o-o-tocol-l-l-l 0-o-o-o.
Beneath the bird has been crudely written words.
PIGN HAS I
