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4/2/14
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4/2/14 20:18![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorrydontsuitmeThat sense of wonder he got when he opened the door to Room 815 and saw how damn nice it was sure ain't lasted like he thought it would. Even the little thrill in the pit of his stomach when he found a credit card thing with his name on it, strange as it was, didn't stick around.
Only took him to the next day to figure out what's goin' on here, and he don't like what he sees which is a lot of nothin'. No other people, not even that Kate chick. Just him, some damn luxury hotel he can't get out of, and a bunch of robots.
There's a casino, but it ain't no fun playin' alone. Even the slots are borin' as hell. The only place he can go to forget he's on his lonesome with no cons to run, no wool to pull over anyone's eyes, no thrill of the chase or the setup, is the same place he went in Oz: the bar. This time, ain't no ex-pat American drunk to talk him into or out of things. No talk about the Sox winnin' the series. Just him, some whiskey called Io Extreme, and some joke newspaper called the Asteroid Times. When he looked out his window last night it was another joke -- looked like Mars out there -- and that whole Twilight Zone thing him and Kate talked about seems more and more real all the time.
"Keep 'em comin'," he tells the bartender.
(Bartender's a robot. The thing pours another shot and looks over with its nondescript face.)
"Don't suppose you got any good jokes."
(Bartender rolls forward. The screen on its chest lights up with the words A duck walks into a bar...)
"Yeah. I heard that one. Put it on my bill."
He's startin' to figure he never survived whatever was goin' on back on Flight 815. That means this is some kind of hell. He used to think he didn't mind bein' all alone, but it's sure as hell gettin' on his nerves now.
More'n likely, it serves him right. He downs that shot and taps the bar for another.
Only took him to the next day to figure out what's goin' on here, and he don't like what he sees which is a lot of nothin'. No other people, not even that Kate chick. Just him, some damn luxury hotel he can't get out of, and a bunch of robots.
There's a casino, but it ain't no fun playin' alone. Even the slots are borin' as hell. The only place he can go to forget he's on his lonesome with no cons to run, no wool to pull over anyone's eyes, no thrill of the chase or the setup, is the same place he went in Oz: the bar. This time, ain't no ex-pat American drunk to talk him into or out of things. No talk about the Sox winnin' the series. Just him, some whiskey called Io Extreme, and some joke newspaper called the Asteroid Times. When he looked out his window last night it was another joke -- looked like Mars out there -- and that whole Twilight Zone thing him and Kate talked about seems more and more real all the time.
"Keep 'em comin'," he tells the bartender.
(Bartender's a robot. The thing pours another shot and looks over with its nondescript face.)
"Don't suppose you got any good jokes."
(Bartender rolls forward. The screen on its chest lights up with the words A duck walks into a bar...)
"Yeah. I heard that one. Put it on my bill."
He's startin' to figure he never survived whatever was goin' on back on Flight 815. That means this is some kind of hell. He used to think he didn't mind bein' all alone, but it's sure as hell gettin' on his nerves now.
More'n likely, it serves him right. He downs that shot and taps the bar for another.
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