[Jason doesn’t consider himself—in the traditional sense—particularly claustrophobic. Not really. Would make his line of work pretty difficult if he was. It's not even that enclosed a space, though the quickly rising water sure wants to change that sooner rather than later. Still, there are some exceptions. An insistent little itch of anxiety growing there, as he runs through the motions of finding himself an exit strategy and keeps coming up short. Clocking the inconsistent pace in the rise of the churning waves. (Wouldn’t that be poetic. First in fire, then in...well. Not quite the fabled ice. But maybe close enough for irony's sake.) He hopes the powers that be appreciate how aggravated he is by the symmetry.
The helpful foggy face in the window has vanished, hopefully to follow through on their makeshift pantomimed instructions. (Hopefully she’s a lot more there than the rest of his current company. The possibility of there being one last trick being played here isn't lost on him. Sitting sour in the back of his mind where the worst-case-scenarios are playing out.)
He’s perched himself on the top of a salvaged crate, balanced on the top of a heavy desk. Far enough out of reach of the water that he might even stand a chance if whatever is powering that desktop decides to try and fry the place for the next few minutes. He flips quickly through the laminated folder that had provided the eventual exit code (he thinks.) Like maybe there’s something here to decipher that the quarantine is all about.
Whatever is causing these hallucinations, probably, but he doesn’t remember being dosed with something. Gas? Something in the water? He's heard what everyone says about the badlands here, but beyond a certain amount of jaded Gothamite I'll-believe-it-when-I-see-it...the message on the computer seems like a pretty big red flag.
So: he takes the time for a little mid-escape sitrep. Symptoms? Visual hallucinations, oh yeah. Loss of time, a bit. Kind of cold—sure, he’s long past drenched. Pulse elevated, no fucking kidding. His nerves feel like they're sitting at the top of his skin. All high alert. But it's kind of been a while since he had a good sense of equilibrium there.
Floodwater laps up against his perch. The pale face of a blonde woman with his eyes and burns on her skin bobs up in the corner of his vision. His stomach turns, fury boiling low under his breath, but he very pointedly ignores it. (They always slip away before he can get a lock on them. And everything that’s bumped into him in the churning water has been decisively non organic. He’s checked.)
He's concentrating so intently on this that he almost doesn’t hear it when the door unlocks. But it's hard to miss the sudden rush of water that follows, sweeping past and lapping over the surface of the desk that's serving as the ground he's sitting on. He grabs for the binder before it can get swept up in the current, and hops to a precarious crouch on his crate.
Okay. Progress. Way to go, window-girl. One point in favor of her being, y'know. Real.]
(ง⪧‸⪦)ง
The helpful foggy face in the window has vanished, hopefully to follow through on their makeshift pantomimed instructions. (Hopefully she’s a lot more there than the rest of his current company. The possibility of there being one last trick being played here isn't lost on him. Sitting sour in the back of his mind where the worst-case-scenarios are playing out.)
He’s perched himself on the top of a salvaged crate, balanced on the top of a heavy desk. Far enough out of reach of the water that he might even stand a chance if whatever is powering that desktop decides to try and fry the place for the next few minutes. He flips quickly through the laminated folder that had provided the eventual exit code (he thinks.) Like maybe there’s something here to decipher that the quarantine is all about.
Whatever is causing these hallucinations, probably, but he doesn’t remember being dosed with something. Gas? Something in the water? He's heard what everyone says about the badlands here, but beyond a certain amount of jaded Gothamite I'll-believe-it-when-I-see-it...the message on the computer seems like a pretty big red flag.
So: he takes the time for a little mid-escape sitrep. Symptoms? Visual hallucinations, oh yeah. Loss of time, a bit. Kind of cold—sure, he’s long past drenched. Pulse elevated, no fucking kidding. His nerves feel like they're sitting at the top of his skin. All high alert. But it's kind of been a while since he had a good sense of equilibrium there.
Floodwater laps up against his perch. The pale face of a blonde woman with his eyes and burns on her skin bobs up in the corner of his vision. His stomach turns, fury boiling low under his breath, but he very pointedly ignores it. (They always slip away before he can get a lock on them. And everything that’s bumped into him in the churning water has been decisively non organic. He’s checked.)
He's concentrating so intently on this that he almost doesn’t hear it when the door unlocks. But it's hard to miss the sudden rush of water that follows, sweeping past and lapping over the surface of the desk that's serving as the ground he's sitting on. He grabs for the binder before it can get swept up in the current, and hops to a precarious crouch on his crate.
Okay. Progress. Way to go, window-girl. One point in favor of her being, y'know. Real.]