On the second night of the event Mark
is crouched against the far wall of his room, waiting for the midnight broadcast. He knows instinctively that this will lead to nothing good, but the promise of seeing Cindy again--even another blurry silhouette--has overridden good sense.
He watches the broadcast quietly at first, mesmerized by the clear picture. His heart knots--purely metaphorically--at how thin she is, at her dirty feet and yellow eyes, but it doesn't frighten him anymore. This is what he's permitted, he'll accept it gladly.
That's before the muttering starts, cracked, coaxing voices asking her to slow down, don't be selfish
, share some ADAM sweetheart--Mark doesn't need to hear this. He surges to his feet and fumbles at the television controls to no avail, clenches armored fists and pounds on what should
be flimsy wood and electronics but most definitely is not. The broadcast continues. Mark makes a strangled, animal noise.
Onscreen a twisted figure drops from the ceiling, something sharp and glinting in either hand. Cindy shrieks, starts to run; the screen goes dark, and immediately shatters, yanked from the wall and thrown to the ground.
The sounds Mark makes as he takes his room apart are audible a few doors down in any direction: splintering wood; crash of broken class; metallic thuds and clangs. It'll be worst for his downstairs neighbor, whose ceiling might suffer some structural damage before Mark gets ahold of himself.
When he's done he stalks out into the hallway, tall and broad enough in his makeshift armor to fill the space. He leaves his door open, hanging awkwardly from one hinge.The cameras catch him on his way outside, but he won't respond to network calls. In fact, beyond the unavoidable heavy footsteps, he's eerily quiet.((Interested parties can intercept Mark in person or explore the open room after all the ruckus. Just specify for me in the response or subject line!))