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visible_sarielEvery set of starship quarters are different, according to the personality of their owner if not to their layout.
But the lights in these quarters, whoever's they are, are low enough that those sorts of differences aren't visible. Not all that much is, to be honest.
The corridor beyond is dark too, matching the interior for gloom, and the door between rooms and hallway is wide open.
It's not closing.
But the lights in these quarters, whoever's they are, are low enough that those sorts of differences aren't visible. Not all that much is, to be honest.
The corridor beyond is dark too, matching the interior for gloom, and the door between rooms and hallway is wide open.
It's not closing.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 04:05 am (UTC)The Belgian snow is thrown into their faces, not muffling the rattle of gunfire in the air any more than it hides the unbroken rosary lying in a red-tinted drift at their feet.
A star looms larger than life on the Enterprise's viewscreen, and it's looming all the more with time.
A sword whistles through the air of Sherwood forest, and a figure without a face crows about capturing a prize for his lord.
The Milliways grounds are soaked with multicolored blood, and gravity and atmosphere are tangibly failing, air streaming away as the world tilts, lightens, drains away toward the end.
Alien language crackles through the darkness, a near-constant, ever-changing series of clickclickclick clickclickclick click clickclick, while a metal swing arm angles closer, the jagged-edged blade at its end brought into vivid relief by the blinding spotlight above the table.
A figure with too many limbs and no face at all blossoms out of nothing.
He's holding a longsword.
He's holding a blade with a jagged edge.
He's not holding anything at all.
one two following you
no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 04:15 am (UTC)There was too much at once, this could be another part of the dream. He turns on the light and stares up as he tries to focus on reality.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 04:32 am (UTC)There's a piece of old-fashioned paper clutched in her hand, and an equally antique pen rolling across her floor.
The paper contains a single freehand sketch of a circle crossed with an X. She knows that style of drawing.
It's her own.
The clocks in the bar proper read 3:33 A.M.