It's not as if Pope hasn't known some maddening things through the years. Hell, he is a maddening thing, but suddenly finding himself emerging from beneath the trestle that's his home and finding himself suddenly swept up in some agency and talks of needing his help and he's not sure what to make of it all.
But then they hand him a device and send him off with another to a stream. This he can handle, it's like home.
Foregoing the boots, he leaves his shoes on the banks and rolls up his jeans as he wades into the water.
"This is great," he says, even though he suspects from their expression they don't feel the same.
There's no hesitation, heading off further down the creek with a laugh and a splash as he finds himself in his element. So caught up he loses track of another, meandering deeper and deeper into the wilds until he finds himself at a river, wide and smooth and warm.
"Okay, I could really get used to this place," he sighs, shucking off his shirt and tossing it aside figuring why not take a swim?
( well read )
Years of being alone and Pope has read just about any book he can get his hands on. So the idea of showing off kind of excites him.
He should have known better.
Does being a monster make you a killer?
"What the hell? No." He rolls his eyes at that question. It goes on.
So why are you a monster?
"Fuck this," he mutters, moving to shut the computer off. "Whatever. I'm not." He types that answer.
Error. Why are you a monster?
He pushes back from the laptop with a clatter of his chair, shaking his head. "Fuck this shit."
( scratchmarks )
Pope loves trains. The sound of them. The speed of them. Even the sharp scent of metal and gears and oil. He loves it all.
Except for being inside of one.
He's already been pacing the trains they have, not finding much peace in the compartment. At nearly six and a half feet he feels trapped in the space.
Which is fitting as he starts finding scratch marks, moving to jerk on the door, wanting to be out of that room. Now. When he can't manage to open it, he bangs his fist against the door, a heavy pounding of more than his building and weight.
( fearful tunnel )
This is why Pope will never volunteer for a damn thing again. He should have known better. Once more everything seems fine as they move through the the mountains. There's memories here for him, things far removed but then don't the Appalachians always call to their own?
When the lights go out, he's not scared like he was before. He's pissed.
Moving to the windows as the tapping starts, leaning in close. His eyes seem to reflect light that isn't there as he taps back at the glass.
"You want to play? Bring it," he growls, his voice gruffer than it's been, his soft lilting Kentucky Appalachian accent deeper in that moment.
Pope Creek | oc
It's not as if Pope hasn't known some maddening things through the years. Hell, he is a maddening thing, but suddenly finding himself emerging from beneath the trestle that's his home and finding himself suddenly swept up in some agency and talks of needing his help and he's not sure what to make of it all.
But then they hand him a device and send him off with another to a stream. This he can handle, it's like home.
Foregoing the boots, he leaves his shoes on the banks and rolls up his jeans as he wades into the water.
"This is great," he says, even though he suspects from their expression they don't feel the same.
There's no hesitation, heading off further down the creek with a laugh and a splash as he finds himself in his element. So caught up he loses track of another, meandering deeper and deeper into the wilds until he finds himself at a river, wide and smooth and warm.
"Okay, I could really get used to this place," he sighs, shucking off his shirt and tossing it aside figuring why not take a swim?
( well read )
Years of being alone and Pope has read just about any book he can get his hands on. So the idea of showing off kind of excites him.
He should have known better.
Does being a monster make you a killer?
"What the hell? No." He rolls his eyes at that question. It goes on.
So why are you a monster?
"Fuck this," he mutters, moving to shut the computer off. "Whatever. I'm not." He types that answer.
Error.
Why are you a monster?
He pushes back from the laptop with a clatter of his chair, shaking his head. "Fuck this shit."
( scratchmarks )
Pope loves trains. The sound of them. The speed of them. Even the sharp scent of metal and gears and oil. He loves it all.
Except for being inside of one.
He's already been pacing the trains they have, not finding much peace in the compartment. At nearly six and a half feet he feels trapped in the space.
Which is fitting as he starts finding scratch marks, moving to jerk on the door, wanting to be out of that room. Now. When he can't manage to open it, he bangs his fist against the door, a heavy pounding of more than his building and weight.
( fearful tunnel )
This is why Pope will never volunteer for a damn thing again. He should have known better. Once more everything seems fine as they move through the the mountains. There's memories here for him, things far removed but then don't the Appalachians always call to their own?
When the lights go out, he's not scared like he was before. He's pissed.
Moving to the windows as the tapping starts, leaning in close. His eyes seem to reflect light that isn't there as he taps back at the glass.
"You want to play? Bring it," he growls, his voice gruffer than it's been, his soft lilting Kentucky Appalachian accent deeper in that moment.