The floor practically drops out from under them, it tilts so far backwards so suddenly. Prompto yelps as they slide and crash into the back wall--only it isn't a wall, precisely. There are spaces in it, hard and regular between the hard and regular bars, like--like a grate.
Or like, you know. Bars.
Their bodies hit the bars with a loud, metallic smash, and then, above-slash-ahead of them--that is, the direction from which they fell, the direction of the childhood room--another iron grate crashes shut, cutting them off from the illusion of safety.
They're in a cell, dark and grimy, floor still tilted at a crazy diagonal. The left "wall" of the cell is actually a pile of dismantled--or maybe a better phrase for it is viciously destroyed--tubing and machinery, all warped metal and broken glass dripping with... something. The floor is also littered with trash. Most of it seems to be photos.
Prompto voices only a squeaky whisper.]
Oh, son of a bitch.
[He rolls to his feet and scrambles up the sloped floor to block what's set up on the right wall--a cruciform contraption upon which someone is hanging.
Someone who looks an awful lot like Prompto, and who groans, alive.]
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The floor practically drops out from under them, it tilts so far backwards so suddenly. Prompto yelps as they slide and crash into the back wall--only it isn't a wall, precisely. There are spaces in it, hard and regular between the hard and regular bars, like--like a grate.
Or like, you know. Bars.
Their bodies hit the bars with a loud, metallic smash, and then, above-slash-ahead of them--that is, the direction from which they fell, the direction of the childhood room--another iron grate crashes shut, cutting them off from the illusion of safety.
They're in a cell, dark and grimy, floor still tilted at a crazy diagonal. The left "wall" of the cell is actually a pile of dismantled--or maybe a better phrase for it is viciously destroyed--tubing and machinery, all warped metal and broken glass dripping with... something. The floor is also littered with trash. Most of it seems to be photos.
Prompto voices only a squeaky whisper.]
Oh, son of a bitch.
[He rolls to his feet and scrambles up the sloped floor to block what's set up on the right wall--a cruciform contraption upon which someone is hanging.
Someone who looks an awful lot like Prompto, and who groans, alive.]