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etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
etrayamods) wrote in etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
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TDM 005
 ⏵ arrival ⏴ Arrival goes as anticipated. Characters awaken in a sterile hospital bed in a clean, white room to the hum of machines under the unnatural lighting common to well-kept institutions. Every bit was designed to be comforting and calming, even with the jarring undercurrent of this situation. The first face they see is Aurora's: her smile appears to be warm, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She might offer a quick explanation, or leave characters to figure it out for themselves depending on their approach. The door to the room swings open, revealing a hallway that stretches out ahead of them. There’s noise from outside and strong pumpkin spice scents coming from the lobby. Ah, muffins and tea. Grab one and head into the crisp, sunny fall morning ahead.  ⏵ potluck ⏴ Cutthroat Iron Etrayan Bake-Off As you step out of the arrival holding area into the main thoroughfare, the entire street has been turned into tents and chef stations to accommodate the activities of thirty people at once. There’s seats, trailers, and robots bustling about to make sure everyone is ready. A couple of cheerful robots in aprons and colorful sweaters approach and redirect you as you step towards the cooking area. There’s gas ranges, ovens, grills, blast chillers, mixers, and set walk-ins and pantries with just about every ingredient you can imagine. There are cameramen (also robots) patrolling the area to capture all your best moments and to broadcast them directly to your fellow citizens’ devices. Your instruction? “Make your signature dish. You have one hour, chef.” It can’t just be straightforward, can it? The land itself is held together with pure chaotic energy. If you’re lucky, all goes as planned. If you aren’t… well…
* All kittens disappear at the end. ** These however, stay.  ⏵ share a meal ⏴ As all the cooking concludes, you will be invited to plate your meal into one of many casserole dishes, regardless of what was made. A ladle will be tucked into the corner and placed on the table with a folded bit of cardstock declaring the chef’s name and the name of the dish. A helper camerabot will come around to each participant and ask for their thinking and their process. Even if you got away without having to cook, even looking towards the table of dishes will spur a helper bot to start making you a plate with one of everything. The helperbot will insist that it is rude to not at least try what their peers have made. In fact, if you are to fill out the score card for each person, you really must taste everything! The robots can’t try the food, so it’s up to you. The cards look like so. The grading system is opaque. Is it meant to be numbers? Stars? Letter grades? Well, you’re the judge. You figure it out. Chef: ___________ Dish:_____________ Judge:___________ Overall Rating:_______
 ⏵ tummy ache survivor ⏴ No matter how well your compatriots cooked or baked their dishes, there are… factors. You see that carrot? It’s really just condensed chaos in the shape of a carrot. No matter how powerful you are, these particular ingredients may not mesh with your being. …And even if it is truly a carrot, do all the chefs know the proper cooking temperature of chicken? Even chickens are aliens to many. (Optional) Roll a Die
Please direct all questions to our mod queries comment! |
no subject
The stranger's voice is neither welcome, nor unwelcome, though Will's eyes narrow a little as he tries to determine if this individual is real, or another
hallucinationincorporeal entity. Like the one who had originally greeted him.Taking in the tattered clothing hanging from the man's body, the scent of something dark in the air, Will comes down on the side of Carver being, flesh and blood. He won't say real because he hasn't decided what 'real' even means at the moment. ]
As small talk goes, [ he responds, in a very soft almost sing-song like voice ] I've heard worse conversational gambits.
[ Was that an answer to the question? Nope. Is he going to give Carver an answer to his question? Not definitively. If he's learned anything from Hannibal over the years, it is how to converse without ever admitting to anything. ]
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No, Carver thinks. That's all on him. ]
Is that what we're doing?
[ Small talk. Maybe this really is a dream. Or Hell. That's okay, Carver thinks. Sometimes, he sees ghosts in his corners. Sometimes, he hears their voices. Is this really so different? ]
Small talk.
[ It comes out in a drawl, the syllables pulled apart like taffy. Carver spreads his hands out wide, motion to draw the eye because if a stranger's watching his hands, then by God they aren't watching the rest of him. And he might need to close the distance between them fast. He might just need to bash this man's head into the wall and beat his skull in with his sap gloves.
Maybe.
Hard to say. But this is how it generally goes, isn't it? Everyone's an enemy now, everyone but the chosen, and maybe this isn't a dream but it feels like penance for his sins; chief among them that he didn't kill Dixon before it all went wrong. ]
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This was neither the time, nor the place. ]
I am looking for a clean shirt. You're the one ... [ and now it's Will's turn to tilt his head from side to side, imitating Winston. With the monster tucked back in its box, Will's imagination is itching to take the wheel. He quickly drops his gaze away from Carver before the inevitable starts to happen.
Something tells Will he'd like to stay out of this man's head. ]
I did not see anyone else in the room with me. [ The words are a statement, laced with a question. Like a subtle spice, enhancing the flavor of the main course. An invitation that Carver can take, to talk about whether he's also just arrived, or ignore. ]
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And it's true he doesn't have a gun, that his knife sheath is empty. But that doesn't mean as much as people think. He still has his belt. He still has the garrote sewn into the lining of his jacket. He still has his own goddamn hands. ]
Mhmm-hmm.
[ Careful, Carve, Shaw murmurs in his ear. Watch your corners, don't overcommit. And he hasn't been listening so well lately, has he? That cost them all.
He won't make that mistake again. ]
Question stands. What have you been up to?
[ Control the flow of conversation. Direct the narrative. Just like that, Carver thinks, because he needs information or at least an anchor, something that makes any bit of goddamn sense in this place. ]
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Will is consciously resisting the instinct to slip down the rabbit hole of profiling this man, but it's very hard. Despite his best efforts, things are seeping in from around the edges of his walls. Like murky water that refuses to be held at bay; no matter how watertight the vessel appears.
The other man is setting off alarm bells at every level of Will's conscious mind. His law abiding self is on alert for an attack. His monster is relishing the prospect. His monster can go sit in the corner. He's not going to start dancing when he doesn't know the territory. Experience and instinct tell him to de-escalate the situation. But that in no way involves giving Carver an actual answer.
Adopting a guileless expression, Will glances around and shrugs. ]
I am looking for a clean shirt. [ Hey. It is what he's been up to for the past thirty minutes or so. ]
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There's a chance this isn't real, Carver knows. He struggles with the real, sometimes. When the ghosts crowd up in his corners. But a fight?
That's pure. And that'd be real enough, wouldn't it? ]
You're just...interesting, aren't you? [ he drawls, eyes bright. Loud and aggressive to make people think he's slow, that he can't move fast on his feet, all sound and fury to distract and get them to overcommit to the first move. Carver so rarely strikes first. It's so much more fun to goad the enemy into doing that for him. ]
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Not particularly. [ He responds. It isn't false modesty. Will doesn't find himself interesting in the least. He just happens to reflect the self back towards interesting people. By Will's logic, if Carver is finding him interesting, it's a reflection of Carver's view of himself. ] I'm just a confused little man, looking for a clean shirt.
[ It is tempting to deploy his avoidance tactics, but he knows that won't work. Not against this type of psychology. Carver is like a cat, batting at a mouse, wanting it to move for the entertainment of the chase. It has nothing to do with Will as an individual. It appears to be raw instinct within the other man at this point.
'Which begs the question, what in life has instilled this in him' Nope, no. Not going down the rabbit hole. Just going to wait this out.
Will might be thinking of himself as the mouse in this scenario, but he also expects he's the more disciplined predator. To hyper focus like this, on a complete stranger, suggests a primal drive towards violence. The sort of drive that does not lend itself to anything other than a bezerker type rage when triggered. ]
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You can't negotiate with liars, men with no honor, strays from the road. No, sir. It ended the way it always ends. But this is something else. Something stranger. And it occurs to Carver that he doesn't know the rules here, in this place that smells like cleaning supplies instead of rot.
Not for the first time, he wonders if he's dead. If this is his brain's last hurrah, all cylinders firing strange and summoning up this place, this man, to teach him a lesson. But there's an angle that nags at him about this man, a twitchiness he recognizes from the old world but can't quite place. It's the way he answers questions without really answering them at all, a deflection so seamless it's almost textbook. There's dark, dried blood on his shirt but he doesn't move like he's wounded and that makes him a predator and it all adds up to something fucking interesting, doesn't it? A confused little man, he calls himself, but no, that's not right at all. This one's a liar but he's something below it, too. Something that survives.
Carver grins with his teeth. He wonders if he's finally lost his mind. If he's making connections that just aren't there. Always a possibility. Confirmation bias is a Hell of a drug. Regardless, these moments tend to end one way. ]
Do you think you're faster than me? [ he asks, quite honestly. He doubts it, but maybe. There's something curious about this one. Up close, Carver has a feeling he'd bite. ] Did you gut someone, hmm?
[ The splatter might be from a gut wound. He wonders. He has to fucking wonder, doesn't he? But you don't kill rotters by emptying their bowels, you do that to men you want to drop and that just says things, doesn't it? And he's been an interrogator almost as long as he's been a soldier; it's instinct to push for information. To dig in and pull for everything he could possibly reach. ]
cw: Psychological manipulation
Right now all Will wants is to de-escalate this situation and go back to looking for a clean shirt. He's tired, he's confused, his mind is chugging along the same thought process as Carver's own. That all of this around them, is the product of his vivid imagination's last hurrah as he drowns.
Except, this close, he can feel the heat radiating off the larger man's body. He can feel the breath of those words as they pass his cheeks, and his gut is responding to the very real threat the man poses in this moment. Will doesn't want another physical altercation. This place may have healed his wounds, but the exhaustion from taking down the Red Dragon still leaves his muscles aching; all the way down to his bones.
Very well.
As astute of a hunter as he is, Carver might notice the moment the change washes through Will's body language. He does not become physically threaten precisely, but that air of command that Pope and Shaw wrapped themselves in, like a cloak, cascades through Will. Dropping the shields he'd been trying to keep raised, against his imagination, Will studies Carver's dark eyes; slides behind them.
Physical stature, mannerisms, fitness; military training and combat experience. Wherever this man came from, not only was he highly trained, but he had fought in the brutal reality actual battle. Training meant nothing, it would never compare to an actual battle.
No longer traditional military; this man was too unstable. He would have been released from service due to no longer being psychologically fit for the job. Not unlike how Will himself had been denied agent status with the FBI due to his own mental instability.
Anger, so much anger. The sort that comes from an incomprehensible loss. Loss that has triggered all the aggression of a wounded animal in permeant fight mode to survive. Definitely no 'flight' in this one.
A weapon. Honed and well tested by true fire. So much stronger than the likes of a man like Brown. More broken than a man like Dolarhyde. Closer to Mason Verger, sadistic. But where Verger had been born sadistic, had indulged his cruelty from a place of spoiled comfort, this man's sadism had been forged into him through the fires of his struggle.
Live ammo.
The thing about a living, walking weapon, was you needed to respect its nature. Especially when it had you outmatched physically. You had to respect it, but a weapon struck where it was pointed.
Strategic, and effective second-in-command but neither a leader, nor a lone wolf.
Any tension Will had been carrying as a result of Carver's aggressive advancement, washed away from him. Not because he was cocky, or ignorant of the threat Carver posed. But because Will had experience with using a deft hand to direct human weapons, and because his instincts are screaming at him that this man will find ... familiarity in structure, and direction.
The current aggression was an expression of insecurity.
Will is cognizant that saying such a thing aloud would get him killed, and probably killed slowly. It would be foolish to ignore the cocky arrogance the man wore like armor. A cocky, arrogance, that Will expects is well founded in competence.
Very well. Carver needs a hand on the reins? Will isn't interested in web spinning, or in psychologically manipulating a victim of circumstance. But, if the bigger man isn't going to give him any other options?
Will smiles, an expression with neither humor or warmth. He doesn't bear his teeth, he doesn't need to, and when he speaks his voice is soft, diction precise, tones a lift an fall is an almost hypnotic sort of cadence. ]
We are both aware that you could snap me in half without an increase in your heart-rate. [ No lie there! Yes, Will is dangerous, but in raw physicality? He needs either surprise on his side, or Hannibal in the mix to kill as a pack. ]
You outclass me from your military training alone. Include the fact that you are blooded, tried and true to survive in a world gone mad? The primal rage burning within is without a doubt your strength.
I have no interest in being your enemy. You are a forged and honed weapon, but in this minute, you do not have an appropriate target. More importantly, you are without the hand that aims you.
Not a position that lends itself to survival when trapped in unfamiliar territory. Attacking, indiscriminately, is a waste of precious resource. I am not, your enemy, but this place is a threat to the both of us.
[ It is a risk, but if Will knows nothing else, he knows that any hint of retreat will trigger this man. Instead, he steps forward so he can speak in a softer voice, more towards Carver's ear in a manner that is designed to express solidarity, against a much bigger, external threat. ]
Rage is good. Anger is good. Cultivate both, they will be your power in this place that has left us both powerless.
But now is not the time for action.
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Carver cocks his head, eyes narrowed. That was always Pope's trick, he knows. Swinging brutal in a moment, in less than a moment. Going from calm and personable to apocalyptic even before the fires came, and skill like that doesn't come from nothing. You don't learn to size up an enemy and shift the axis of the world without first being tested. And this man knows, doesn't he? It's the calm analysis, the way he lays it out so cool and controlled that no oxygen remains for doubt. The way he calls it blooded like he understands the shape of the rituals if not their names.
He knows. And knowing can only come from two places. ]
You were in the Valley.
[ It's the simplest conclusion to draw. Carver did his time in the Valley of Death; he was blooded first and darkest in Korengal's dust and that was where Pope began with him, where all of it began. This man isn't a Reaper, no, isn't one of Carver's ghosts or a brother come to guide him out of the dark, but he knows the Valley's lessons; he must have been there even if Carver doesn't recall his face.
But then, lots of people endured Korengal's lessons. Not all of them were military.
Something settles in him. Tension bleeds away. Even so, Carver steps forward, until they're almost touching. His voice softens ever so slightly, his drawl fading away into something almost personable. ]
I won't kill you. Out of respect. [ The Valley was the first crucible, but not the last. And this man is not a Reaper, whatever else he is. ] But you come for me and I'll leave you swaying, we understand each other?
[ He doesn't smile. But he shifts to stand almost at attention. You don't strike an officer. You don't sass them, either. They've earned that respect. ]
cw: Reference to canon, implied suicide
He isn't entirely certain if Carver is talking about the Valley of Death, or if Carver is referring to an actual geographical location. But Will knows enough of what soldiers face, to recognize that the two might not be mutually exclusive. In which case, Carver is once again, correct in his assumption.
Will hasn't just walked the Valley of Death; he bought property there.
What's important in this moment, is the de-escalation of the situation. Will has been threatened so many times in his life, he does not take the words personally. Where Hannibal might have decided that Carver was being rude, Will is inclined to let this be settled between them here and now.
He gives a slight tip of his head, acknowledging the respect and offering respect in return. Sometimes, when you put predators in close quarters, the best you can hope for is mutual respect and civility. ]
Once you cross the threshold to the Valley, it marks you for eternity. [ Whisper soft words, and not a lie. He is speaking of the Valley of Death, not trying to claim any further kinship with Carver. ]
I have no reason, or gain, in coming for you. [ He says softly. Yes, yes, he listened to Aurora's explanation about why he's here, but quite honestly? Will's yet to decide whether or not his world is worth the fight. After all, his last clear memory was of being at peace with to the choice to self-select out of that world. ] But I hear your words.
[ The way he rolls the word here loads it with an expression of respect in return. Will genuinely does not see any benefit to antagonizing this man.
As Carver steps back, Will straightens. He does not step back, but he straightens his shoulders, respecting the larger man's space, while still adopting an air of authority. ]
I am going to find a clean shirt, and then see about familiarizing myself with ... [ what the hell should he call this place? Deciding he's too tired to come up with a good description, he makes a vague gesture with his hand.
His words are dual purpose. If Carver wishes to come along, share in the exploration of this unknown reality with someone in the same boat? Will's fine with that. If Carver wishes to go about his own exploration? That's also good.
But no way in HELL is Will turning his back on this man. That would just be stupid. ]
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[ Yea, though I walk through the valley... So goes the song, so goes the truth of it. But they did evil things there, didn't they? Evil, brutal things on evil, brutal orders where the only purity was in the blood that stained the ground. They found truth there; the truth of themselves, and what it meant to survive. Them versus us, the only war that's ever mattered. Us versus theirs. Carver watches the other man close, but doesn't go for his throat. It would be a matter of force and momentum to snap this man's neck, to bash his skull into the wall until he goes quiet, but there's no point in that.
Not just yet. This is the truth: they were marked, and they will never escape the stain. Your soul never gets to go back.
Carver inclines his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. Calm. A moment of respite, or at least an absence of violence. This is respect. This has been earned, if perhaps nothing else. ]
You injured?
[ He doesn't move like it. But the only other thing Carver can think to ask is the other man's name and that feels almost superfluous. ]
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Will protects himself through half-truths and certain point of view explanations. But in a genuine attempt to reciprocate the respect Carver is now showing, the smaller man gives a direct answer. One that acknowledges the fact that he had been in a serious fight before arriving here.
He has no plans to talk about Dolarhyde and what happened on the clifftop, but he is more inclined to disclose additional details, than he had been when Carver first asked. ]
Not any more. [ He turns his head slightly and nods towards where he'd woken up in the hospital bed. ] The medical facility was more than up to the task. Though I do wish they had shown at least a modicum of attention to my clothing.
[ For the record, and Carver may pick up on this, Will appreciates that question much more than the tedium of exchanging names. ]
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Not this one. ]
I was bleeding out, [ he says, rather blandly. ] Had a concussion, too. And now I don't.
[ Now, there's barely a mark on him. A little miracle. Or someone's trick. ]
Neat little trick.
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Is he aware it's happening in this moment? Hard to tell. If he is, it doesn't seem to worry him, as if he'd expect nothing less. Perhaps even finds it flattering.
But for now...]
Interesting. [ He says in a genuinely thoughtful tone. ] I wonder if our host has designed their selection process around those who appear to have no better options.
In most cases, it would be a built in mechanism to engender positive opinions of being kidnapped.
[ It isn't Will's intent to stir up Carver's already healthy reserves of paranoia. But it would be foolish, at least in these initial hours, to ignore that appears to be a curious coincidence. Will might not labor under the same level of distrust as Carver, but it is a big, glaring question.
Does anyone truly believe they were randomly chosen? ]
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[ This, too, is said rather blandly. Carver's had time to think, now that the paranoia's no longer coiled quite so tight around his spine. Some of the angles are familiar. An operation like this takes resources, takes planning. He doesn't understand the why or the how just yet, but he knows what it takes to control prisoners and some of this was taught to him a long time ago. Establish rhythms, remove control, rewrite the world to your own design.
The scale worries him. But he knows games. Pope taught him well. ]
No one's been restrained. That's a risk. They're confident we can't leave.
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Turning in a way that places him at Carver's shoulder, rather than putting his back to the man, Will begins to move back down the hallway. He still has a shirt to find. ]
I have not seen anything to suggest we can leave. [ Both a statement and an unspoken question; has Carver encountered anything to suggest any of them can nod politely and then 'nope' out? ]
There is little so dangerous as dangling hope before the hopeless. [ He continues in those soft tones. ] A deft touch can wield hope with greater effectiveness than the promise of brutal punishment. Hope, is powerful crowd control. They wouldn't need anyone restrained.
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No locks. No visible cameras, or guards. Whole lot of food and water left out in the open.
[ It's all said rather blandly. Containing large numbers of people is difficult without violence. ]
Gives the impression we can do whatever we want. That we'll be comfortable doing it. Would've been easier to keep us hungry. Hungry people will do whatever you want.
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By keeping contentment in the majority of the population, those who fight do not have the support of the whole. Keeps dissidents in a weaker position.
[ Will pauses next to a closet and opens the door. Eureka! Scrubs.
Not that a dull, green scrub top is going to be flattering, and Will isn't allowing himself to dwell on if/when this top was last washed. It isn't soaked in blood.
Without thinking, he ducks out of his shirt, exposing his torso for the couple of minutes it takes to get the scrub top sorted out. Long enough for Carver to see the scar that runs, practically from hip bone to hip bone, just under Will's navel.
To experienced eyes, the scar does not look fresh, suggesting it was a wound healed by this place. It's a scar that has been in place for years, long enough that Will doesn't appear to even be aware that it's on display in the moments before he gets re-dressed. ]
Crowd control is easier if you manipulate the majority into keeping control over the, minority. Maintain a position of benevolent authority. Keep your hands clean. If you start doling out punishments, you make yourself a target.
[ Sighing softly, Will looks around, shrugs and throws his old shirt into the closet and closes the door. ]
Whoever this Echo is, they aren't interested in making themselves a focal point. Hiding behind whatever 'Aurora' is, even though their message is made to sound dire.
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A blessing. Maybe God loves this one.
He listens silently. He's being taught, he realizes; part of him resents it the way he always resented it when officers condescended to him. But he moves past that bristling part and listens. It's an honor to be taught by a master. ]
Sure, [ he agrees after a moment. ] Divide and conquer. So, who's the majority here?
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which his idiot player forgot to mentionare less dramatic, easy to over look. Interesting only in that he has one on each shoulder, both covered now.In truth Will doesn't intend to come off as condescending, but he does tend to slide in that direction, whether he's conscious of it or not. ]
Good question. [ He says with direct honesty. ] You and Aurora are the only two 'beings' I've have interaction with since I woke up.
[ Glancing up the hallway towards what looks like it could be a door to the outside, Will sighs deeply. The sort of sigh that speaks to a bone deep exhaustion; mental in this case.
'So much for peaceful rest.' ]
'“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead”' [ He quotes Shakespeare in a quiet voice, as if an internal dialogue just happened to make it out past his lips.
He does shake himself free of wherever his thoughts have gone, and turns to Carver. ] Suppose we'd better go find answers.
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[ There are more. Otherwise this scheme doesn’t make much sense, does it? Carver inclines his head ever so slightly as the other man dresses himself. A survivor. Scarred, probably blooded. Maybe the commander would have spared this one. There were times in the beginning when Pope didn’t have them salt and burn all they came across. It wouldn’t be a sin to return to that now, would it? Just for a moment?
Besides. Shaw’s the commander now. God always loved her best.
Absently, Carver unhooks his belt and begins winding the leather around his forearm, the teeth pressed between his knuckles as a makeshift punch dagger. There’s no ending here that doesn’t involve a fight, so best to be prepared for that. He doesn’t know what the other man can do except survive. It might fall on Carver to do the killing. But then, he’s used to that. ]
Suppose we should, Hal, [ he agrees, in that same bland tone. They haven’t given names and perhaps won’t, but Carver knows his Shakespeare better than most people assume; it’ll do for now. ] You good with your hands?
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He watches as the larger man prepares a makeshift weapon. It is probably a wise course of action, but Will makes a mental note not to let Carver get behind him. The man seems to have walked himself back from the ledge of violence, but they haven't even exchanged names yet -Will's fault, he doesn't people well- and it would be foolish to blindly trust.
Will has a great deal of faith in his abilities, but he also knows that his ability to stay on the correct side of the line between self-confidence and hubris often fails. No, he'll just do his best to keep Carver beside, or in front of him.
The Harpy knife is still in his pocket, where it will stay for the moment. ]
If I have to be. [ He answers, in those soft tones. ] I can appreciate an over abundance of caution, but I try not lead with violence.
[ He is stronger with his mind. The physical fights he's been in were started by the other participant. Well. Except Cordell. Will was the one to initial introduce violence to that relationship.
Stepping to a door that has signage to indicate it is an exit, he adopts a traditional law enforcement position. It allows Will to open the door, while providing a clear path for Carver to ambush any threats.
Dear Carver. Please don't some random person walking with a latte. ]
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These things happen, the commander used to say.
He twitches, refocusing. There's a task in front of him now and the thought settles him the way nothing else has since Carver woke up here. ]
Then I'll handle it. [ He's used to that, anyway. He was a doorkicker long before he was trained as an interrogator. First in, hit hard, act as a battering ram for the rest of the team. Hal gets into position, opening the door, and Carver gives him a single nod before stepping through it neat and controlled as a dancer. Ready to kill whatever he finds on the other side.
For better or worse, there's nothing. He lowers his arm, scanning the area. ]
There's no dead here, [ he says after a moment. ] You notice that?
[ It's strange. Not even the smell of them in the distance. ]
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In the next microsecond of thought, Will processes the fact that Carver was looking for dead? Not only looking for dead, but appeared to have prepared himself to fight the dead.
Will's experience is that the dead usually do their fighting before they end up ... dead.
Before he speaks, Will also identifies that for whatever reason, Carver was expecting the dead. Speaking in a way that suggests such an encounter would have normal in the world Carver originated from.
...
Will has a headache. ]
Given our circumstances, [ he begins as he steps out through the door and starts to look around at the environment. ] I think we should be thankful that we don't have that as an added complication.
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