@empxrical hi. sorry.
it's been a difficult few weeks. at first the solitude felt welcome, but maybe that was just the contrast to the terrifying shitshow that was their arrival. now the air's calmed and the fear has settled into... isolation? loneliness? things gordon once thought he was built to handle and he's just now realizing do affect him after all. only a little.
he sheds his outermost jacket, snow-damp and unnecessary indoors, by the door before his makes his way further in. “it's always so quiet in here,” he says, to himself but also to his dictaphone. “it's just... it's weird to think that warren is in here — down there. i'm not alone alone but i—i'm —” he stops speaking abruptly, inhaling again through his nose.
when he speaks again, his voice is little more than a whisper. “is that—is that coffee? i don't... i haven't made any in here. and i didn't hear the helicopter this morning.” his voice drops even quieter. “fuck. what do i — ?”
he peers around the corner into the little office-style kitchenette, letting out a breath once he sees that it's empty. good. although that means whoever is here could be anywhere. a stressed hum sounds in his throat before he inhales through his teeth. “what if it's the fucking maniac from the van? would they come in to make coffee?”
and he's fucking unarmed. shit. fuck. his hands are shaking, and he makes too much noise as he searches for something, anything. a dull table knife is better than nothing, right? “oh, i'm so dead," he mutters to himself. “i'm going to die here in this shithole, and no one's going to find me until — aaauuuugh.”
gordon makes his way through the building, moving as quietly as he's able to. he keeps the knife brandished in a white-knuckled grip, his hand visibly shaking. there's no sign of anyone upstairs, which means... they must be downstairs. with the cryo stuff. fuck. what do they know? or do they know? maybe they've left already and just wanted a reprieve from the snow, or the toilet, or...
he rounds a corner, running into something that shouldn't be around the corner — or someone he vaguely processes mid-yell (or scream, really. it's a scream.). “who—who the fuck are you?!” gordon stammers out as he staggers backwards to put some space between himself and the intruder, eyes wild with fear and a shaky hand holding the dull knife out like it will offer him any protection whatsoever.
