[ time jump 01: hour 01. / @yasxgamal ]
The jump is jarring. The sleek, clean surfaces and sharp edges of the lab -- content of which she quite frankly knows better than her kitchen cabinets, which is to say that she spends more time in the former than eluding towards hoarding utensils -- is replaced in the time it takes to blink with a dark, cavernous room packed with dancing bodies. Sunny stumbles backwards, the action seemingly commonplace given the sudden lingering scent of alcohol. Despite the loud music, she can hear her heartbeat drumming in her ears. It’s deafening. “Fuck,” is the only word that slips through the mesh of her otherwise buzzing mind, confusion bleeding slowly into clairty. She takes a deep breath, tears prickling along her lash line as the overwhelming realisation of their success begins to settle.
Someone jostles her without apology, their drunken movements haphazard as they pass by with a drink in hand. The bag on her shoulder slips, caught before her instruments hit the hard, no-doubt sticky, club floor -- and in an instant her priorities shift. Dark eyes scan the faces around her, their features obscured intermittently as strobe lighting flashes through the darkness. Sunny’s height betrays her as she attempts to search for familiarity in the crowd, slipping through them like a cat through long grass. The bright lights of the bar lures her in as she hopes it will the others, motionless until a recognisable profile comes into view. “Yasin,” she yells over the music, gripping his shoulder as she pulls him closer to evade the paths of the club-goers. Her delighted grin says a thousand words but there are some worth saying aloud. “We did it, Yas. I don’t know where we are-- or when exactly-- but we did it. The machine works.”
