It feels as if she's already spent hours in this grim little cell, alone with her thoughts. There's little else to distract her. The room is all but featureless; a narrow bench that might double as a cot is bolted to the walls in one corner, and in the corner opposite, there's a black, bowl-shaped thing mounted to the ceiling, like a bubble of pitch. The floor slopes subtly towards a central drain, the purposes of which she can guess. She tries not to look at it with limited success, and is careful not to step near it as she paces anxious circles around the room.
Iman is on her way. She might already be in the building. And all of ROMAC is waiting for her. What if she's already been taken?
No. No. They can't have captured her.
But what if they have?
This is all her fault. Or all on her account, which is the next worst thing.
Greta unfolds her arms enough to swipe at her cheeks. She can't quite stop the tears from falling, but she doesn't have to let them fall far. Whoever next comes through that door - Iman, hopefully, or Mr. Fring if not - she is determined not to be a complete mess. Keeping her head is all she can do, now.
None of the awful scenarios her imagination unhelpfully conjured up had included being suddenly plunged into darkness. Greta freezes in her tracks with a little, wordless cry, then flinches as light returns in the form of a too-bright, flashing strobe up near the ceiling.
The fire alarm. The fire alarm. It makes no sound but a faint, rhythmic ticking, but the light must mean something.
Iman hasn't been captured. She's arrived.
There are other alarms, too, she realizes. They sound distant and muffled through the cell door, but there's some kind of unearthly howling out in the hallway. She makes her way to the door, stumbling and letting out an aborted, horrified groan when she steps squarely atop that awful drain by accident. But then she's at the door, palms braced against it, one ear pressed to its cold, unfriendly surface. The muted wail of the alarms grows a little louder, and it's possible she won't be able to make out anything else if it has to compete with that, but she has to at least try to hear what's going on out there.
no subject
Iman is on her way. She might already be in the building. And all of ROMAC is waiting for her. What if she's already been taken?
No. No. They can't have captured her.
But what if they have?
This is all her fault. Or all on her account, which is the next worst thing.
Greta unfolds her arms enough to swipe at her cheeks. She can't quite stop the tears from falling, but she doesn't have to let them fall far. Whoever next comes through that door - Iman, hopefully, or Mr. Fring if not - she is determined not to be a complete mess. Keeping her head is all she can do, now.
None of the awful scenarios her imagination unhelpfully conjured up had included being suddenly plunged into darkness. Greta freezes in her tracks with a little, wordless cry, then flinches as light returns in the form of a too-bright, flashing strobe up near the ceiling.
The fire alarm. The fire alarm. It makes no sound but a faint, rhythmic ticking, but the light must mean something.
Iman hasn't been captured. She's arrived.
There are other alarms, too, she realizes. They sound distant and muffled through the cell door, but there's some kind of unearthly howling out in the hallway. She makes her way to the door, stumbling and letting out an aborted, horrified groan when she steps squarely atop that awful drain by accident. But then she's at the door, palms braced against it, one ear pressed to its cold, unfriendly surface. The muted wail of the alarms grows a little louder, and it's possible she won't be able to make out anything else if it has to compete with that, but she has to at least try to hear what's going on out there.