FEAR: SCENARIO 2 Not a damn thing seems unusual or out of place. The street is an average street, the weather is typical, no one's chasing or shooting or acting threatening in any way. That in itself should be warning enough, but Seth is ever the optimist dressed in cynic's clothing.
When he turns the corner, and spies his brother, back turned, the only thing Seth feels is a mild sense of relief at tracking him down. There's no reason for any other reaction.
"Hey, Richie! I been looking everywhere, next time you gotta take a leak, you could try using the john instead of some dirty alley."
The figure turns toward him, and yep, it's Richie. Slicked back hair, ugly glasses, black suit. Nothing strange there. Nothing strange, that is, until the man fixes him with a suspicious scowl, one hand slipping under his jacket toward the gun Seth knows is hidden there.
"Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?"
HOPE: SCENARIO 3 "Hey, sweetheart! Almost finished here, you wanna call in the rugrat?"
Seth turns away from the stove, the movement bringing a rush of blood to his head as the room spins for just a second. The nausea he feels the next instant isn't from dizziness, though. It's from the sudden sensation that everything around him is wrong. The sunlit kitchen that looks out at the ocean, the cool linoleum under his bare feet, the sound of childish laughter and the slam of a screen door...
It's all wrong.
There are family pictures on the wall, a sports car in the driveway, a half-empty beer on the counter, sporting a smudge of lipstick on the rim. It feels great, perfect, exactly what he always wanted and never let himself believe he could have. Seth's eyes flick toward a photograph perched on one of those little decorative tables in the corner, the frame leaning a little crookedly against a vase of flowers. Three familiar faces: himself, in a loose white shirt with the collar open; Vanessa, dressed in a pale blue sundress and smiling; a little boy, dark-haired like his parents, clutching a toy train in his hands.
An overwhelming urge to smash that photo against the nearest surface wars with the desire to turn back around and pretend this moment of clarity never happened.
Seth Gecko | From Dusk Till Dawn: the series
Not a damn thing seems unusual or out of place. The street is an average street, the weather is typical, no one's chasing or shooting or acting threatening in any way. That in itself should be warning enough, but Seth is ever the optimist dressed in cynic's clothing.
When he turns the corner, and spies his brother, back turned, the only thing Seth feels is a mild sense of relief at tracking him down. There's no reason for any other reaction.
"Hey, Richie! I been looking everywhere, next time you gotta take a leak, you could try using the john instead of some dirty alley."
The figure turns toward him, and yep, it's Richie. Slicked back hair, ugly glasses, black suit. Nothing strange there. Nothing strange, that is, until the man fixes him with a suspicious scowl, one hand slipping under his jacket toward the gun Seth knows is hidden there.
"Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?"
HOPE: SCENARIO 3
"Hey, sweetheart! Almost finished here, you wanna call in the rugrat?"
Seth turns away from the stove, the movement bringing a rush of blood to his head as the room spins for just a second. The nausea he feels the next instant isn't from dizziness, though. It's from the sudden sensation that everything around him is wrong. The sunlit kitchen that looks out at the ocean, the cool linoleum under his bare feet, the sound of childish laughter and the slam of a screen door...
It's all wrong.
There are family pictures on the wall, a sports car in the driveway, a half-empty beer on the counter, sporting a smudge of lipstick on the rim. It feels great, perfect, exactly what he always wanted and never let himself believe he could have. Seth's eyes flick toward a photograph perched on one of those little decorative tables in the corner, the frame leaning a little crookedly against a vase of flowers. Three familiar faces: himself, in a loose white shirt with the collar open; Vanessa, dressed in a pale blue sundress and smiling; a little boy, dark-haired like his parents, clutching a toy train in his hands.
An overwhelming urge to smash that photo against the nearest surface wars with the desire to turn back around and pretend this moment of clarity never happened.
[ooc: Both scenarios are wide open!]