1. Welcome to Wayward Pines [Well, there goes Kansas. That place was a whole heap of shit anyway. A tornado was best case scenario.
Brock opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital, and a distinct feeling of wrongness warred with a sense of forced complacency. He couldn't recall how he came to be in the hospital or the circumstances, but it seemed somehow unlikely that he would be transferred to Idaho of all places. Didn't New York or, you know, anywhere else have good medical care? Except Kansas; tornadoes for that crap-shoot of a place. He'd seen dumpsters with more of a wide ranged gene pool.
Yet, no matter how he felt the sheer wrongness, nothing filled in that wide ocean of blanks. That alone increased his sense of alarm as he reached out to grip the raised bed rails, assuring himself that they were physical and not some drug induced illusion cooked up in his brain. Then the nurses came in chattering and seemed to feel sorry for his plight, and that was just the last straw. He wanted no pity anywhere; this was his game, and he played it how he wanted. Something was wrong, and he intended to get answers. And pants.
Rumlow smoothly lifted himself from bed and hopped the railing, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. The nurses stopped trying to coddle him, and it was perhaps a good thing for them that there were no sharp pointy objects easily in his reach, and there was no need to root through the drawers of his room searching for one. He was military trained (that much stuck right).]
Where am I? What's going on here? I should be somewhere else, somewhere important. [Idaho was for red-neck family reunions and burying a body no one cared to find. But why the hell couldn't he recall more than that? Worse, why were the memories that seemed to encroach on his mind so familiar in how insidious they were.]
Out of my way, sweetheart. I'm on a schedule. [He advanced on the nurses, driving them from the room and into the open hallway of the hospital. He followed, looking up and down, finding the exits, the orderlies and anything that could be used as a weapon. He found all three, but it made no difference to him. He was marching out of this place, ass hanging out of his gown and he'd fight anyone that tried to stop him.]
3. Fourth of July [Ugh, town gathering pleasantries were something of a necessary usual, something to make everyone feel a sense of community, of belonging, of being fake. The truth of the matter was that Linda had it right regardless of how annoying she was and that complaining was about any good that managed to happen in this place. The fact that they were all being watched, listened to and probably tracked by some means only served to increase the sense of isolation for him. It put him in a position that felt very familiar and thus far more at ease.
Fourth of July had always been a big deal in his family, the loud and rowdy Italian patriots that only occasionally put their money where their mouths were. It was a day when his nonna had immigrated to America and God forbid anyone forget that. It was a new start on life, a chance to eat too many apples, get an ear tugged and cheeks pinched with the familiar scoldings of being far too thin. That had been when he had lived somewhere that wasn't this shit-hole, and his reason for moving here at all was about as much punishment as living here. Yeah, yeah, don't leave, always answer the phone.
Brock was doing his share of mingling with the cheapest and most despised beer that he could find, Coors Light (the Canadian version to boot). He was literally only here for the fireworks and to keep track of those of the city; people here tended to act very strangely. They either were living cardboard cut-outs or they quite frankly acted insane, like none of this was real. What was real and what wasn't still happened to be muddled up in his own brain fog, like he had been brain-panned badly by technician's kid on bring-your-child-to-work day.
Part of being a double agent was knowing when to play the part. Investigative work took time, and his reason for being here had to be among the insanity. It certainly wasn't near the fence or the forest. Nope, not at all. He certainly wouldn't be taking the opportunity that a gathering with loud noises and random bursts of colour to his advantage to investigate those areas which clearly had the smell of definitely hiding something but nothing to see here about it.
So when the fireworks started to light the night sky, he sipped his disgusting beer and then began to back out of the crowd under the guise of letting the kids and families have a better look.]
Independence Day... what a load of shit. There wasn't even apple pie.
4. What's Network Niceties?
So, what's going for child discipline these days? A stern talking to with an after thought of ass patting? I feel like there was merit to a good ol' rapping on the knuckles. Now we know why the youth have resorted to avocado on toast as some kind of legitimate breakfast choice.
Brock Rumlow | Marvel Cinematic Universe
[Well, there goes Kansas. That place was a whole heap of shit anyway. A tornado was best case scenario.
Brock opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital, and a distinct feeling of wrongness warred with a sense of forced complacency. He couldn't recall how he came to be in the hospital or the circumstances, but it seemed somehow unlikely that he would be transferred to Idaho of all places. Didn't New York or, you know, anywhere else have good medical care? Except Kansas; tornadoes for that crap-shoot of a place. He'd seen dumpsters with more of a wide ranged gene pool.
Yet, no matter how he felt the sheer wrongness, nothing filled in that wide ocean of blanks. That alone increased his sense of alarm as he reached out to grip the raised bed rails, assuring himself that they were physical and not some drug induced illusion cooked up in his brain. Then the nurses came in chattering and seemed to feel sorry for his plight, and that was just the last straw. He wanted no pity anywhere; this was his game, and he played it how he wanted. Something was wrong, and he intended to get answers. And pants.
Rumlow smoothly lifted himself from bed and hopped the railing, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. The nurses stopped trying to coddle him, and it was perhaps a good thing for them that there were no sharp pointy objects easily in his reach, and there was no need to root through the drawers of his room searching for one. He was military trained (that much stuck right).]
Where am I? What's going on here? I should be somewhere else, somewhere important. [Idaho was for red-neck family reunions and burying a body no one cared to find. But why the hell couldn't he recall more than that? Worse, why were the memories that seemed to encroach on his mind so familiar in how insidious they were.]
Out of my way, sweetheart. I'm on a schedule. [He advanced on the nurses, driving them from the room and into the open hallway of the hospital. He followed, looking up and down, finding the exits, the orderlies and anything that could be used as a weapon. He found all three, but it made no difference to him. He was marching out of this place, ass hanging out of his gown and he'd fight anyone that tried to stop him.]
3. Fourth of July
[Ugh, town gathering pleasantries were something of a necessary usual, something to make everyone feel a sense of community, of belonging, of being fake. The truth of the matter was that Linda had it right regardless of how annoying she was and that complaining was about any good that managed to happen in this place. The fact that they were all being watched, listened to and probably tracked by some means only served to increase the sense of isolation for him. It put him in a position that felt very familiar and thus far more at ease.
Fourth of July had always been a big deal in his family, the loud and rowdy Italian patriots that only occasionally put their money where their mouths were. It was a day when his nonna had immigrated to America and God forbid anyone forget that. It was a new start on life, a chance to eat too many apples, get an ear tugged and cheeks pinched with the familiar scoldings of being far too thin. That had been when he had lived somewhere that wasn't this shit-hole, and his reason for moving here at all was about as much punishment as living here. Yeah, yeah, don't leave, always answer the phone.
Brock was doing his share of mingling with the cheapest and most despised beer that he could find, Coors Light (the Canadian version to boot). He was literally only here for the fireworks and to keep track of those of the city; people here tended to act very strangely. They either were living cardboard cut-outs or they quite frankly acted insane, like none of this was real. What was real and what wasn't still happened to be muddled up in his own brain fog, like he had been brain-panned badly by technician's kid on bring-your-child-to-work day.
Part of being a double agent was knowing when to play the part. Investigative work took time, and his reason for being here had to be among the insanity. It certainly wasn't near the fence or the forest. Nope, not at all. He certainly wouldn't be taking the opportunity that a gathering with loud noises and random bursts of colour to his advantage to investigate those areas which clearly had the smell of definitely hiding something but nothing to see here about it.
So when the fireworks started to light the night sky, he sipped his disgusting beer and then began to back out of the crowd under the guise of letting the kids and families have a better look.]
Independence Day... what a load of shit. There wasn't even apple pie.
4. What's Network Niceties?
So, what's going for child discipline these days? A stern talking to with an after thought of ass patting? I feel like there was merit to a good ol' rapping on the knuckles. Now we know why the youth have resorted to avocado on toast as some kind of legitimate breakfast choice.