No. It is. He turns left into a hallway, faced with an alley of mirrors that start to gain that same misty quality, just enough of a fog that he'd almost be seeing things. The lights are still bright, garish and happy, and there's an open spot with no fog. The path goes left.
The fog increases. It's actually visible, almost like it was last time when Roland dragged him out. There's the sound of footsteps, far ahead of him in the maze. The path goes left.
One light flickers. The mirrors are nearly opaque. Mista's reflection is tired, lagging, moving a half-beat behind everything he does. The path goes left.
Along the right side, a single line is lazily drawn through the fog; someone dragging their hand against the glass as they walk. The footsteps continue, but now there's a distant mumbling. Like someone singling along to music, but so quiet it just comes out closer to beatboxing. A vocal percussion, if you will. The path goes left.
The light flickers out. Fog gathers on the floor. Should he turn around and go back, right, right, right, the fog doesn't change. The mirrors don't change. The footsteps are following him now. Through the fog, he sees the sun, bright split into rainbows, burning, too bright, leave.
The path goes left, left, left, the fog doesn't change.
For the record, he's not actually trapped. He's just kind of spinning in place like a weirdo. Stop being weird Mista, you'll scare your friends.
no subject
Wait.
No. It is. He turns left into a hallway, faced with an alley of mirrors that start to gain that same misty quality, just enough of a fog that he'd almost be seeing things. The lights are still bright, garish and happy, and there's an open spot with no fog. The path goes left.
The fog increases. It's actually visible, almost like it was last time when Roland dragged him out. There's the sound of footsteps, far ahead of him in the maze. The path goes left.
One light flickers. The mirrors are nearly opaque. Mista's reflection is tired, lagging, moving a half-beat behind everything he does. The path goes left.
Along the right side, a single line is lazily drawn through the fog; someone dragging their hand against the glass as they walk. The footsteps continue, but now there's a distant mumbling. Like someone singling along to music, but so quiet it just comes out closer to beatboxing. A vocal percussion, if you will. The path goes left.
The light flickers out. Fog gathers on the floor. Should he turn around and go back, right, right, right, the fog doesn't change. The mirrors don't change. The footsteps are following him now. Through the fog, he sees the sun, bright split into rainbows, burning, too bright, leave.
The path goes left, left, left, the fog doesn't change.
For the record, he's not actually trapped. He's just kind of spinning in place like a weirdo. Stop being weird Mista, you'll scare your friends.