Shinjiro Aragaki (荒垣 真次郎) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themortalhalf) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
compnetwork2012-10-22 06:46 pm
themortalhalf) wrote in compnetwork2012-10-22 06:46 pm
[Accidental Voice/Video ->Text; Backdated to Morning]
[The feed begins with noise.
It's sharp, sudden. No video, just the sound of something being roughly rummaged through, with no apparent concern about being quiet or subtle about the affair, before it's shoved away across some surface—falling. Hitting the floor. A box, maybe, with something in it.
Then, a voice: tense, frustrated, uneven, breathing rapid, shallow, and unsteady, words strained and laced with panic.]
Dammit.
Where did—
[More noise.
Then, abruptly, the video feed flickers to life. There's a glimpse of a hand touching the screen, shaking, before the device is quickly shoved away. It slides along the surface of an apparent desk, catching a brief glimpse of a ceiling as it tumbles onto the floor, landing not far away from a cardboard box and a beat-up looking radio. The room it lies in is one dimly lit—the only light provided is due to the streaks of sunlight peeking in from the gaps in the curtain and blind-covered window. Makes it hard to discern much in the way of detail, but it's enough to make out a bed shoved at an odd, jutting angle—nearly shoved up against the closet—with tangled covers. A sign of some sort in front of the long curtain that's covering (as anyone familiar with the layout of the apartments might deduce) the entrance to the balcony, and then, finally, an obscured half-view of the desk shoved against a door. There's more movement off camera, sounds of a drawer being pulled open and gone through, until, finally, there's a quieter sound—perhaps of a lid popping open and its contents retrieved— followed by a period of silence.
Not long afterward, Shinjiro finally steps into view, crossing the room and sliding slowly down onto his bed.]
Shit. Can't even—
[He looks down then, eyes settling on the COMP on the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, grimacing, before standing up again, movement unsteady, reaching down to swipe it up off the floor. If he notices the feed is still recording, he doesn't show it, and the feed, after a moment, cuts off.
Then, a few minutes later, a message:]
[Failed Filter/Private Message to the P3 cast]
i dont know where you all are but get back home and stay the hell inside
just do it alright
It's sharp, sudden. No video, just the sound of something being roughly rummaged through, with no apparent concern about being quiet or subtle about the affair, before it's shoved away across some surface—falling. Hitting the floor. A box, maybe, with something in it.
Then, a voice: tense, frustrated, uneven, breathing rapid, shallow, and unsteady, words strained and laced with panic.]
Dammit.
Where did—
[More noise.
Then, abruptly, the video feed flickers to life. There's a glimpse of a hand touching the screen, shaking, before the device is quickly shoved away. It slides along the surface of an apparent desk, catching a brief glimpse of a ceiling as it tumbles onto the floor, landing not far away from a cardboard box and a beat-up looking radio. The room it lies in is one dimly lit—the only light provided is due to the streaks of sunlight peeking in from the gaps in the curtain and blind-covered window. Makes it hard to discern much in the way of detail, but it's enough to make out a bed shoved at an odd, jutting angle—nearly shoved up against the closet—with tangled covers. A sign of some sort in front of the long curtain that's covering (as anyone familiar with the layout of the apartments might deduce) the entrance to the balcony, and then, finally, an obscured half-view of the desk shoved against a door. There's more movement off camera, sounds of a drawer being pulled open and gone through, until, finally, there's a quieter sound—perhaps of a lid popping open and its contents retrieved— followed by a period of silence.
Not long afterward, Shinjiro finally steps into view, crossing the room and sliding slowly down onto his bed.]
Shit. Can't even—
[He looks down then, eyes settling on the COMP on the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, grimacing, before standing up again, movement unsteady, reaching down to swipe it up off the floor. If he notices the feed is still recording, he doesn't show it, and the feed, after a moment, cuts off.
Then, a few minutes later, a message:]
[Failed Filter/Private Message to the P3 cast]
i dont know where you all are but get back home and stay the hell inside
just do it alright
[Voice]
You... haven't heard from Mitsuru?
[Well, shit, is what his mind says to that.
And now that he thinks about it, he hasn't heard from her either. Feels panic start to bubble to the surface again, because he's heard from everyone but her. And she wouldn't... not answer, would she, if she had the choice?]
[Voice]
[Mitsuru is nothing if not proactive.]
[Voice]
Go check on her first.
[Is what he says.
Because something's probably wrong.
That's what he doesn't say.
Because something is wrong.
(See? is what the voices in his head tell him. See?)
He wants to tell him to run, to take the stairs to her apartment three at a time and break down her goddamn door if he has to, because as far as his mind is concerned, they all have a death warrant with their name on. The numbers on their lifelines are counting down and he can't see them. But he keeps the urgency down to a quiet, unseen exclamation point that's doing all it's screaming with no voice, wrapped up mutely inside a period.]
Go now.
[Voice]
[Similarly concerned, he quickly cuts the connection and goes from zero to sixty in just about no time flat. You can bet he's taking those stairs at least three at a time, because considering all that's going on, he's suddenly exponentially more worried than he already was.]