Ed nearly spins about in his haste for the stairs behind him. His stomach lurches and its meager contents pop and bubble their burning way back up. As his left toes grace the sandstone of the next landing, he has time to take in a queasy breath.
His spear clatters uselessly against the stone as he lunges for the sturdy wall and hurls. He turns away from the mess he made, pooling wetly below him, and by long habit brushes his flushed face against his right arm. The surprising softness reminds him that it's made of flesh now, and with a grimace, he brings up his hand. Although the gauntlet there is made of carbon, it's cool against his cheek.
The dumplings of the soup he had in the room couldn't agree with him in this place. No. Not at all. In an effort to get the organ in his middle to settle faster, he presses his left hand to his abdomen, and lets his fingers trace the ominous scar there: the one that is the living record of how close to death he once was.
"Thought it tasted off." He breathes ruefully, and listens to the echoing sound. Heartbeats later, he lifts his head. With skewed brows, he darts his eyes around, listening to the surrounding silence.
After all this time, perhaps months of being chained, poked, prodded, beat, and generally screamed at in a language he didn't know, could it be?
No creaking of doors. No pounding foot falls. No puffs of smoke. No knives or other large pointy things thrown at his skull or any other part of his body.
With Hawkeye looking so annoyed in the hall above he knows she would have drawn her favored weapon, but ..Not even a single muffled gunshot? He looks up and hates to admit how greatly he misses the often deadly, startling sound.
Was no one pursing him then?
He swallows down the bitter tasting spittle, and pushes himself more upright. He wobbles slightly each time he steps down, and uses the wall to guide him. At the next landing, he squints up at the glyph looking thing hanging above the door and scrubs his mind for the meaning.
The mysterious squiggle resembles box with a set of whiskers, and proves to be just beyond his grasp. He shakes his head and, as there are more stairs, continues on.
The world whirls at the next door, and the sign has three horizontal slashes that jiggle much if he looks away too quickly. He closes his eyes and leans his back against the wall. He sees more stairs heading down and staggers on.
His lungs seem to wheeze as he steps to next door, and two horizontal slashes swim before his gaze. He slaps his hand on the wall, willing it to stay still as he breathes. More stairs go down, and he darts his eyes back as he thinks.
Two. Then maybe..That was three? So the next is..
The world tilts oddly as he drags his shoulder heavily against the wall. He steps down to the next landing, and his right leg feels like it's made of rubber. There are no further stairs going down, and the door has a single horizontal scratch. He squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes deep.
"One" he says in relief and waits for the twirling sensation to stop. It takes forever. He lifts his head from the wall, not completely sure how it got there, and impatiently, cracks his lids open. He reaches a heavy hand for the knob, and as the door opens, squints against the shining white.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
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