[Ordinarily, Sokka would be fast asleep by now, preferring to spend his nights away from any potential monsters and prone to getting cranky without a full seven hours in bed. It had been difficult, at first, for him to sleep at all, memories of his world keeping him up too late - his dead world, he'd been told, gone. But lately he'd gotten into an almost comfortable rhythm, spending his days in the library, the cafeteria, and various other floors he knew were safe, always coming back to his dorm to sleep before it got too late.
Tonight though, from the moment the lights had gone out and the screeching, a screeching he had been hearing for a while now, had turned up an octave, Sokka had decided to stay up. Something was different. He hadn't strayed far from dorm 4-12 where he slept, lest he come across a monster, or else fall down the stairs (which was surely a possibility in this pitch blackness). He had his sword with him, and his boomerang ready in his shoulder bag, in case anything did decide to sneak up unexpectedly.
But nothing sneaks up on him except the computerised voice coming through the speakers and disturbing the silence. He stills where he stands, listening, trying to comprehend what it means. When the light finally returns, glowing red and strange, the first thing Sokka sees is the sword he's holding up in front of him. Or rather, what he thought was his sword. He reacts as though it's burning him, dropping it to the floor and falling away with wide eyes.
How? What happened?
Then he looks down. He sees his hands, his own "body", and all he can do is stare down at the orange liquid inside this wire frame that can't be him. He remembers, vaguely, being told that these bodies are only copies. That only his soul is real. He hadn't wanted to believe it, though. That couldn't be how this worked. It shouldn't be how this worked. It hadn't made sense. Yet here is the cold, hard evidence of it. This isn't his body.
It takes Sokka a few minutes to finally stand up on shaking legs. He checks his bag and his boomerang - both now made of the same film as his space sword. He hesitates, but ultimately decides to pick them both up anyway, before going over to retrieve his sword. They might still be useful. They might still work.
Slowly, he makes his way through the tower, not sure where he's going anymore, not sure what to do anymore. It's terrifying.]
Open
Tonight though, from the moment the lights had gone out and the screeching, a screeching he had been hearing for a while now, had turned up an octave, Sokka had decided to stay up. Something was different. He hadn't strayed far from dorm 4-12 where he slept, lest he come across a monster, or else fall down the stairs (which was surely a possibility in this pitch blackness). He had his sword with him, and his boomerang ready in his shoulder bag, in case anything did decide to sneak up unexpectedly.
But nothing sneaks up on him except the computerised voice coming through the speakers and disturbing the silence. He stills where he stands, listening, trying to comprehend what it means. When the light finally returns, glowing red and strange, the first thing Sokka sees is the sword he's holding up in front of him. Or rather, what he thought was his sword. He reacts as though it's burning him, dropping it to the floor and falling away with wide eyes.
How? What happened?
Then he looks down. He sees his hands, his own "body", and all he can do is stare down at the orange liquid inside this wire frame that can't be him. He remembers, vaguely, being told that these bodies are only copies. That only his soul is real. He hadn't wanted to believe it, though. That couldn't be how this worked. It shouldn't be how this worked. It hadn't made sense. Yet here is the cold, hard evidence of it. This isn't his body.
It takes Sokka a few minutes to finally stand up on shaking legs. He checks his bag and his boomerang - both now made of the same film as his space sword. He hesitates, but ultimately decides to pick them both up anyway, before going over to retrieve his sword. They might still be useful. They might still work.
Slowly, he makes his way through the tower, not sure where he's going anymore, not sure what to do anymore. It's terrifying.]